nJ6K&3fc&M THE ROMANCE OF A PLAYWRIGHT BY VTE. HENRI DE BORNIER From the French BY MARY McMAHON NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO: ER BROTHERS, Printers to the Holy Apostolic See, Copyright, 1898, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS. CONTENTS. PART FIRST. CHAPTER PAGE I. The Opening of the Chase 7 II. Story of a Widow and a Widower, . . .16 III. The Drama of Six Periwigs 23 IV. A Playwright's Revenge, 33 V. " Pichegru Strangled!" . . . .56 PART SECOND. I." The Gaze was in the Tomb," ... 76 II. The Gypsies, 84 III. A Young Girl's Criticism of the Comedy, . . 97 IV. The Cleverest of Parisian Actresses, . . . 103 V. Preparations for the Special Scene, . . . in VI. A Theatrical Manager's Ruse 122 VII. The Real Victim, . . . . .131 VIII. The Cid's Error, ...... 144 IX. A Manager on Hot Coals, .... 157 X. The Letter "G" and "The Lake," . . 167 XI. The General Returns to the Campaign, . .181 XII. The Petit Local 198 XIII. The Last Sonnet 221 2224803 THE ROMANCE OF A PLAYWRIGHT. part Jfirst CHAPTER I. THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. PREFECTS are not always fortunate; their ambition is satisfied with occasional good luck. On the first Sunday of September, 1878, the Prefect of Tours considered himself very unfor- tunate. He and his neighboring colleagues had fixed upon that day for the opening of the chase ; on the morning of this day, so impa- tiently looked forward to, a gentle, persistent rain set in and continued till the following Sunday a week of a steady rain, unceasing and pertinacious, like the weary loquacity of a dull, prosy orator. This is why the Marquise de Rill^'s guests were not extravagantly cheerful 7 8 THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. on this afternoon of the second Sunday of Sep- tember, 1878. They had all driven over to the neighboring village to Mass in the morning, execrating all the way the miniature deluge which discolored and marred the beauty of the little twelfth- century church, with its sixteenth -century spire and doorway. They returned to Rille Castle in the same beautiful weather, but this half-hour drive scarcely sufficed to clear away the clouds from the brows of the disappointed huntsmen. Breakfast, however, brought an agreeable diver- sion. Guests are generally more cheerful and in better humor at breakfast after Mass ; they bring home better thoughts suggested by what they have seen and heard, and good thoughts always light up the countenance. Then, even among pious, reverent Christians, Mass fur- nishes subject for discussion. They could not fail to observe the unfashionable toilettes of the mayor's wife and daughters; that the schoolmaster sang out of tune, and the Domine, salvam fac Rempublicam grated painfully on their ears ; and the curb's sermon what a theme for comment ! Were there not direct allusions to THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. 9 this one and that one, indirect reproaches, les- sons addressed to whom they concerned ? Did not the good cure go a little too far in attack- ing worldly luxury so violently, and anathematiz- ing extravagant toilettes ? The cure" is a saint, but he is certainly rather severe. Breakfast over, the guests separate, some going to the drawing-room, others to play billiards ; for the rain still continues. It is a protecting rain to the hares and partridges ; the guests must re- sign themselves to their disappointment. The men smoke at their game of billiards, the ladies gather round the large table in the drawing- room; but, as it is Sunday, fancy-work is not allowed they cannot even knit for the poor. Reading being permitted, some one reads aloud the Gazette de France; the literary feuilleton meets with entire approval, the rare talents and exquisite grace and elegance of the author prove an inexhaustible theme. Then the conver- sation turns to Paris of former times ; here was cause for universal pleasure and approbation, but when everybody is of the same opinion conversation soon flags the men as well as the women being Loyalists, there was no 10 THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. opportunity for the least discussion. Oh, if they only had one small Republican to demol- ish! The rain still holds on, dismal as the counte- nances of the twelve or fifteen people who watch it fall. It formed a lake around the castle, it rained on the trees, and still more under the trees, and a member of the Institute hazarded this quotation from Virgil : " Bis pluii in sil- vio" * This erudite Latin citation only in- creased the general gloom. It was too much ! Suddenly the Marquise de Rille, breaking the oppressive silence, resumed the conversation. " My dear friends," said she in her sweet, clear voice, " you must admit that you are all fearfully bored." " Oh, madame ! Oh, aunt ! Oh, cousin !" they all exclaimed. " Yes, I see that you are tired and disap- pointed; it is my fault, for I have not provided entertainment enough for you. However, I shall try to do so now; wait a moment." So saying, she tripped lightly out of the room. Madame de Rille", despite her sixty years, * It rains twice in the woods. THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. it still retained her shapely figure; her pale, calm face was crowned with beautiful white hair, and her grave, handsome eyes sparkled with intel- ligence and kindly benevolence. She was a childless widow, but this did not prevent her loving tenderly rather a rare thing in this world a host of nieces, nephews, and cou- sins. She returned in a few moments, holding in her hand a small square box, which, with a mysterious air, she placed on the table. " What have you there ? what have you there?" asked the young women. " You will see, children." She then opened the box, the inside of which was a sort of chess-board, divided into numerous squares. "Examine it well, and then listen," said the marquise. " Nearly three years ago I saw a grand metrical drama played in Paris. The action was laid in the time of Charlemagne, and the piece opened with a scene which seemed to me very curious : the actors played ' The Game of Virtues.' This game, unknown to our contemporaries, even to the ladies, is very 12 THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. simple: The names of thirty-six virtues are written on a chess-board; one of the players throws a die at a venture on the board, and pledges himself to practise, during one or sev- eral days, the virtue designated by the throw of the die. They may even throw several times, and then there will be several virtues to prac- tise. I was seized with the desire to procure one of these chess-boards, and made search in all the. shops where antiques were sold. But 'The Game of Virtues' had become obsolete, and my search was in vain. I still held to my idea, however, and with the aid of my cabinet- maker I have manufactured one of these boxes. Look, on each of the thirty-six squares I have written, with my own hand, the name of a vir- tue. It is true, there are only three theological virtues, but, with the subdivisions, I succeeded in completing the necessary number of thirty- six. This, then, is 'The Game of Virtues,' and I propose that we make use of it to-day; it will certainly be more amusing than watching the rain fall." " Oh, yes !" all replied eagerly. " Well, then, let us begin. But to prevent THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. 13 confusion, there will be at first only two players, and I shall select them myself. Those, how- ever, who are not playing must watch, encour- age, and help the players in the practice of the virtue that falls to their lot. This being understood, I choose my charming cousin, Marie Poncette Morel, and my handsome nephew, Robert de Salemberry. Come for- ward, Poncette; come, Robert." A young woman and. a tall young man stepped out of the group. "Poncette," said the marquise, "take the' dice-box from the backgammon-table, put one of the dice in it (one is enough) ; now throw it on ' The Game of Virtues,' without looking." Poncette smilingly obeyed and threw the die as she was directed. The marquise carried the chess-board to the window, the better to read it, and returned, saying : " The virtue designated by your throw is : 'Avoid ridiculing your neighbor! ' " Had the marquise read aright ? Did she not cheat a little, or aid the venture by her perspi- cacity ? Who knows ? At all events, the com- pany exclaimed in chorus, with a laugh which 14 THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. seemed to say, " The reading of the cast is clever. " Poncette Morel blushed slightly, but soon recovered her self-possession, and said with a smile : " I shall find it difficult, but I'll try. How long must I practise this little virtue?" " Let us make it a fortnight," replied Ma- dame de Rille. " And each time that you fail in the practice of it, my dear child, you will give me five hundred francs for my poor. You are rich." " I fear ' I may not be at the end of the fort- night." " That is your affair. Now it is my nephew's turn, the great and celebrated poet, Robert de Salemberry. Throw the die, Robert." The marquise took the box to the light as before, and returned from the window, saying : " This is the virtue fate imposes on my dear nephew: 'Repair the injury that has been done.' " " Fate is mistaken this time; I have nothing to repair." " We shall see about that later, my handsome THE OPENING OF THE CHASE. 15 nephew. Take time to reflect upon it, to exam- ine carefully, and judge yourself conscientiously. For the present we shall occupy ourselves with my dear Poncette ; in a fortnight, when she has gone through this trial, difficult enough for her, I fear, we shall think of you, Robert. This is what is expected : From this moment, Marie Poncette Morel is to endeavor, God helping, under the eyes and in the judgment of her friends and relations, to practise the particular virtue allotted her." This is the way the Marquise de Rille^s guests in September, 1878, opened the chase of the virtues, which consoled them to a cer- tain extent for not being able to chase hare, deer, and partridge. CHAPTER II. STORY OF A WIDOW AND A WIDOWER. CHANCE, aided or corrected by the clever dowager, had struck home. Madame Marie Poncette Morel had but one fault, but she had a full complement of that one : it was a mania for ridiculing others. This cruel propensity in which she took pleasure was hers naturally and by edu- cation. It was her way of being cheerful and amusing. Yet she had reason enough to be sad. Madame Morel was the widow of a banker of Tours, who married her when she was only six- teen, partly for her pretty face, but chiefly for her handsome fortune ; and at eighteen she was the most unhappy of pretty women. Shame- fully deceived by her husband, she endured it at first, for she was proud and hid her sorrow ; but, unfortunately, this hidden chagrin soon changed into bitterness, which made her look upon all 16 STOR Y OF A WIDO W AND A WIDO WER. 1 7 men with a sort of contemptuous pity, believ- ing them all to be formed upon the model of the inconstant, volatile M. Morel. She was clever, and used her wits freely in ridiculing the foibles, faults, eccentricities, and even the misfortunes of that sex which, according to the grammar, is nobler than the feminine. She took special delight in the sufferings of certain married men, and their misfortunes were the occasion of her keenest witticisms. Although perfectly correct herself, she was most indulgent towards frivolous women, because of the annoyance they caused their husbands; not wishing to revenge herself on her own spouse, she would, at least, take revenge on those born under an evil star, and it seemed to her that M. Morel received a vague reflex, as it were, of the fatal planet. Her perfect sense of honor and her religious principles permitted her no other retaliation. M. Morel, however, ended his days better than he had lived; he was killed in the war of 1870. A widow at twenty, without pretending to display any more grief than she felt, Poncette determined to tempt fate no more, to remain a 2 1 8 5 TOR Y OF A WIDO W AND A WIDO WER. widow and to enjoy the pleasure expressed in the poet's verse : " Suave mart magno " * All that remained to her of her marriage was an invincible tendency to ridicule husbands, and, in her eyes, all men were husbands ; they have been, she would say, they are, or they will be ! Among those whom she most wilfully ill-treated was Baron Louis de Nolongue, a distant cousin of hers and also of her hostess, the charming dowager whom we have just depicted. Baron Louis de Nolongue had a painfully sad history, and a more merciful cousin would not have been so cruel as to laugh at it. An or- phan from his early youth, without guide or counsel, he made a very foolish outset in life. At nineteen he married a German several years his senior, and very much less unsophisticated. After a few months of married life, she longed for the windmills on the banks of the Spree, thinking, perhaps, that she would not find * ' ' Suave mari magno turban tibus sequora ventis, E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem." Lucretius '. , /. " 'Tis pleasant, when the seas are rough, to stand And see another's danger, safe at land." 5 TOR Y OF A IVIDO W AND A WIDO WER. 1 9 enough windmills in France upon which to throw all her caps.* There was a scandal, a lawsuit, a legal sepa- ration, and then one fine day the blond Gretchen died. Her husband was the only one who wept for her, for he did weep ! One of the mysteries of the masculine heart is this nervous sensibil- ity which seizes and overcomes it at the death of an unworthy wife, if the guilty one has ever been loved, were it but for a day. The tears Louis de Nolongue could not hide were recorded in heaven, but the world laughed at them. As to Ppncette, she laughed openly at his grief; it was the first cheerfulness she had shown since the conventional mourning of her widow- hood. Such frivolous women are not mourned very long. M. de Nolongue retained only the scar of the double wound inflicted by his marriage and the death of his unworthy spouse. There are fatalities in life. Three or four years later, Louis de Nolongue, whose heart was too tender to remain empty, fell in love again and with *A French proverb: "Jeter son bonnet par-dessus les moulins." To defy public opinion. [TRANSLATOR. 20 STOR Y OF A WIDO W AND A WIDO WER. whom? None other than his scoffing cousin, Poncette Morel. He asked her hand through Madame de Rille", but Poncette refused him very decidedly, preferring to remain a widow. She could not, however, miss such a splendid opportunity of venting her ironical sallies, which were like an explosion of fireworks; it would be impossible to relate all that she in- vented in the way of sharp epigrams, spiteful allusions, and petty innuendoes. Louis de No- longue felt all this keenly, but he suffered in silence, confiding his tribulation only to his cousin, Robert de Salemberry, who consoled him as best he could; unfortunately, for cer- tain sorrows there is no consolation. Poncette was not, however, malicious ; if she had had any idea of the torture she inflicted on her cousin, she certainly would have deprived herself of this small pleasure, for, strange as it may seem, she was really not bad at heart. Moreover, she was fully convinced from the first that chance, or Madame de Rille's clever- ness, had contrived by this " Game of Virtues " to teach her a lesson, and the laughter of her friends on this occasion made her feel that per- STOR Y OF A WIDO W AND A WIDO WER. 2 i haps the lesson was deserved ; but as she had no intention of enriching the poor in whom the marquise was interested, Poncette resolved to be on her guard and to restrain her habitual railleries. During the entire day she went about among the marquise's guests, making herself equally agreeable to both ladies and gentlemen, saying something pleasant to each in the most gracious tone and with the most winning smile. She continued in this charming mood at dinner and all through the evening. In vain were snares laid for her; they only afforded her an oppor- tunity of practising her new virtue. The con- versation was vainly turned on subjects likely to rouse her spirit of raillery; she withstood the almost irresistible temptations, giving seri- ous, well-considered replies to the most insidi- ous questions. When asked what she thought of the Marquis de X. 's prolonged stay in Paris, she answered, with apparent conviction : " M. de X. is having a work on political economy published, upon which he has labored for ten. years, with the aid and advice of one of the professors of the College of France." 2 2 STOR Y OF A WIDO W AND A WIDO WEK. Up to ten o'clock, the solemn hour at which they all separated, Poncette's brilliant triumph was deservedly admired by all. Just as she was about to leave the room she approached the marquise, and handing her a pocket-book said : " My dear cousin, there are five hundred francs. And now I am going to tell you the name of our friend M. de X. 's collaborator : she is called Eulalie Reseda Finemouche. Poli- chinelle told me this secret." And taking her malachite candlestick from the mantel, she fled from the room, and her merry laugh echoed through the long corridors of the Castle de Rille. " Never mind," said the marquise, accom- panying her guests as they separated for the night ; " the good seed is sown, and the soil is not too bad." CHAPTER III. THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. SEVERAL days after the scene just related, Louis de Nolongue sat smoking and chatting with his cousin Robert de Salemberry on the terrace of the pretty little cottage that Louis had recently built, within a short distance of Rille. He had a talent for building, and fre- quently indulged in his favorite occupation by constructing in various places small castles and country-houses, of which, however, he soon grew tired. This one, called Les Chartrettes, in memory of Gabrielle d' Estree, did honor to his taste and architectural knowledge. It was a perfect little jewel-case, a nest for a bride and groom; and lacked nothing but the pink arid white gowns fluttering in and out of the paths in the little park that ran down to the bank of the Lathan, the only river in this, it must be admitted, rather arid country. The thought of what it lacked, doubtless, 23 24 THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. occurred to Louis de Nolongue, for he said to his cousin : " I am very proud of my little house, but it is very lonely here." " That sigh is for the sprightly Poncette, is it not ?" "You know well it is." " Everybody knows it, and no one better than she. " " Oh, my friend, how can they be so beautiful, and yet so cruel ?" " Oh, yes ; those qualities go together." " She not only does not love me, but she ridicules me with a spitefulness that rends my heart." " But she has not, at least, within the last few days." 11 That is because of ' The Game of Virtues,' in which she is determined not to lose too much. But the term expires in about twelve days ; then she will take her revenge, and I know I shall pay for the past with usury. " " It will be your own fault then, my dear Louis." "Why so?" THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. 25 " You make such a feeble defence. You do not even try to defend yourself. You submit to be trampled upon by this scoffer, instead of answering her in the same vein ; yet you are no simpleton." " Answer her ! I contend with her ! I would rather attack a wild boar with a parlor-pis- tol." " You are mistaken ; by taking fair, direct aim, the smallest ball may be sent straight to the heart." " I doubt very much if she even has a heart." " A woman always has ; it is for us to touch it." " That is easy enough for you, thanks to your refined masculine beauty, your intellect, reputa- tion, and genius." " Do not speak of my genius !" " But every one speaks of it." " If it is spoken of a hundred years hence, I might tell you if there was reason for it," re- plied de Salem berry, smiling. " Let us talk of your affairs ; that is better. I repeat you are too timid with this malicious Poncette. I'll 26 THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. wager you have not told her that you love her." " I asked her hand through Madame de Rille." " You ought to ask her yourself." " That would be suicide. " "No, a duel." " With very unequal weapons !" " One never knows. Well, promise me one thing, my dear Louis : Poncette is coming with the other ladies to visit your country-seat; if she attacks you, promise me to defend your- self." "I'll try." " Courage, then, courage !" " You are right, Robert ; I will be coura- geous." " Good ! well, here they come ; be brave !" "Yes, yes; I begin to tremble already." Poncette arrived a little in advance of Ma- dame de Rille, who was accompanied by a num- ber of young ladies of the neighborhood. Louis went forward to meet her with that refined grace of which even his timidity could not rob him. The ladies had walked through the fields THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. 2? following the river, which flows clear and lim- pid under the tall willows, from the woods of Champ-chevrier. Nothing affects the mind and soul more agreeably than a walk on a bright, sunny day in the midst of the mysterious joys of nature, which awaken similar secret joys in mind and soul ; a gentle grace seems to rain upon us from heaven ; and if we meet a friend at the end of the road, the mutual greeting is apt to be both gracious and cordial. The meeting between Louis and his charming visitors on this occa- sion was most cordial and animated. None of the ladies had yet seen Les Chartrettes ; for, as the poet refuses to read his poems in fragments, so Louis' self-love prevented his exhibiting his work until entirely completed. Great was the enthusiastic admiration expressed by the ladies at sight of the little castle. " It is a Swiss chalet," said the marquise. " Larger than those at Interlaken, fortu- nately," added Poncette, clapping her hands ; "shall we hear the ' Ranz des Vaches, 1 cou- sin?" "Alas! no." 28 THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. " I'll play it for you on the piano, if there is one." " Yes, by all means." M. de Nolongue, followed by the ladies, as- cended the steps of the castle, and, opening the door, entered the vestibule, the walls of which were profusely ornamented with some thirty stag-horns. At sight of all these cynegetic trophies, Poncette, looking at the master of the house, exclaimed : " Oh ! oh ! oh ! " M. de Nolongue shuddered, but, as Poncette confined herself to these three exclamations, he breathed freely and led the way to the dining- room, where luncheon was served. The ladies did honor to the delicious cream and luscious peaches offered them, and moistened their lips in cups of foaming Vouvray, the native wine of Touraine and Anjou. Poncette, raising her glass, said, graciously : " To our good and loyal friend, the host of Les Chartrettes ! " The host, much flattered, returned thanks with emotion. " Now," resumed Poncette, " my dear cousin, THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. 29 you must gratify our curiosity by showing us every part of the castle." Louis did not wait to be asked a second time, but threw open all the doors, and the guests ad- mired the elegance of the drawing-room, the comfortable smoking-room, which also served as a library, and the billiard-room with its se- vere luxury, also several bedrooms on the first floor, apparently awaiting numerous guests. Having sufficiently admired everything, they returned to the drawing-room, but Poncette lingered behind, standing motionless before the only door that M. de Nolongue had not opened. She remembered that Louis at this point had turned aside and showed unusual eagerness to lead his visitors quickly past this door, which had neither lock nor key, nor the slightest indi- cation of any kind of knob. This puzzled Pon- cette, and she began to examine the mysterious door. "Could it be a blind door? " she asked herself ; no, for a ray of light underneath showed that there was a window opposite on the inside. By close scrutiny, Poncette discovered, not on the door itself, but at one side, hidden in a groove of the wainscoting, a small metal disc. 3 THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. She immediately recalled having noticed in her cousin's room a small copper key in a little onyx cup. Poncette was naturally curious ; on this occasion she was very indiscreet. Without a moment's reflection, she tripped lightly into Louis' room, and returned with the key in ques- tion. "This must be it," she said to herself, and quickly applied the key to the small disc. The door flew open, and Poncette was convulsed with laughter, for this was what she saw : On six knobs, or rather pegs, fastened to the wall, were spread out six blond periwigs, frizzed and curled exactly alike. " Louis is wearing the seventh," exclaimed Poncette ; " one for every day in the week, and no one suspected it." The periwigs were per- fect marvels. Poncette was again seized with a fit of nervous laughter, but stopped suddenly, for Louis de Nolongue had just entered the room. He closed the door behind him, his pale face betraying great agitation, and approached his cousin trembling. He feared that this dis- covery had ruined all his hopes, but, remember- ing Robert's advice, he thought that all might yet be gained. THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. 31 " Very well, " said he, in a suppressed tone of voice ; " yes, laugh, cousin, laugh at me ; it is true I have this misfortune, I am guilty of this folly; I am bald as Csesar, and I try to con- ceal it. I am absurd; you may laugh. I thought I had taken every precaution to pre- vent discovery, and you will laugh still more at this : I had them secretly brought from England, and believed no one would know any- thing about it. Now everybody will know it, for you could not resist the pleasure of telling, and I shall be more ridiculous than ever. But you will be happy ; yes, very happy ; you are so malicious. I know you; go! No, I am wrong; I insult you by speaking thus. Forgive me; pardon me ! " Louis fell on his knees before Poncette and seized both her hands. "Rise, cousin; I forgive you." " No, cousin ; I do not deserve to be for- given. I have something more still to re- proach myself with, and you will have very good reason to laugh this time. But I will tell you all. I love you, I love you, I love you ! madly, foolishly; but I love you. But what matters it ? I have suffered so much already, I 32 THE DRAMA OF SIX PERIWIGS. can suffer still more. Ah, if you knew how your ridicule and disdain are killing me ; but I love you despite it all. I love you tenderly; and why ? Perhaps because you also have suf- fered; and I sometimes hope that of our two sorrows we might perhaps make one happiness. Yes, it is absurd; I know it; but I have dreamed of it ; and see, I weep like a child at the thought that this dream has vanished forever. All is over for me ; you have thought me ridiculous, now you will consider me grotesque. Never- theless, Poncette, I love you from the very depths of my soul. Put no restraint upon your- self ; laugh, and make others laugh at my ex- pense. Tell all that you have just discovered; do not spare me, be more malicious than ever; betray my absurd secret ; have no remorse ; be- tray me ! " " Cousin," replied Poncette, " I am an honest woman, and would not betray my husband." A fortnight after this incident, Madame Marie Poncette Morel married the Baron Louis de Nolongue. CHAPTER IV. A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. THE day after this marriage, which was cele- brated with great pomp, the Marquise de Rille brought together at a wedding-feast the char- acters whom we have already met at her house during that memorable rainy week that inter- fered with the pleasures of the chase. Dinner was finished just at nightfall, and the marquise addressed the company thus : " My dear children," said she, smiling with a certain degree of pride, " you are all convinced, by a notable example, of the efficacy of ' The Game of Virtues.' Do you not think so, Madame de Nolongue ? " " Certainly," replied Poncette, with a slight blush. " Then let us continue this very useful experi- ment. It is now my nephew Robert de Salem- berry's turn. You know the game allotted to him a virtue difficult enough to practise: to 3 33 34 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. repair the injury that has been done. From this moment he ought to study this command seriously and practise it conscientiously. Begin, then, my dear nephew, without delay. We have given you a fortnight's respite; you have had time to reflect and to prepare your weapons for this conflict with yourself." " But, my dear aunt, I told you two weeks ago that I have nothing to repair, never having done an injury to anybody." Madame de Rille looked Robert full in the face for a moment in silence, and then said, deliberately : " Stephen de Fleurigny." " Oh ! as to that, " replied Robert, petulantly, " you know well that I was in the right." " So you say, my dear nephew, but one is apt to be a bad judge of his own case. Be that as it may, go, smoke your cigar in the park, and examine your conscience. Go, my dear poet, go ! " " With pleasure, my dear aunt, but my exami- nation of conscience is already made." " Make it again." " May I take Louis with me? " A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 35 " What ! separate a bride and groom of yes- terday? No, indeed. Moreover, Louis' pres- ence might interfere with your remorse, if you have any." " I shall not have any, my dear aunt." " Go and see, my dear." Let us follow Robert in his solitary walk, and profit by it to become better acquainted with the man who is to be the principal character in our story. While walking under the tall trees, gently stirred by the evening breeze, many memories involuntarily arose in the young man's mind. One of the most apparent and curious facts, phenomena, if you wish, of our epoch, in which there is so much that is curious, is cer- tainly the importance that writers have ac- quired. If there is a class of men who have profited largely by the extension of modern lib- erty, it is the class of great literary men, and sometimes even those of lesser merit. He who first made use of the term, "kings of thought," employed an ambitious, perhaps, but a perfectly true expression. They are, in fact, veritable kings; they have their court of enthusiastic 36 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. admirers, thurifers, chamberlains, chroniclers, historiographers. Like kings, they have their budget, for glory and reputation are of little value in these days without riches. The press, romance, the theatre, all enrich genius, and even simple talent, and the rights of the author have become as obvious a truth as, at least, many of the political charters. Against this royalty, de- fended by the formidable army of public opin- ion, nothing avails. While public opinion is with them, famous writers have nothing to fear; struggles, hatred, injustice, calumnies, prosecu- tion and exile but add to their strength, by multiplying the echoes that repeat their name to all people in all parts of the world. This royalty, like the others, falls or perishes only by its own faults. What, then, are these faults ? Rather would we break the pen that writes these lines, than ever diminish, outrage above all, grieve these masters, these sovereigns of human thought. But truth is not an outrage, to measure is not to diminish ; and it is per- mitted to do in the literary order as our fathers did in the political order: to write at the head A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 37 of a book these bold but respectful words, " Remonstrance to the King." This said, let us state and designate the rock upon which this literary royalty is apt to run. It is pride. Why should not the souls of these public favorites be imbued with pride ? A man must needs possess very superior virtue to re- main modest in the midst of this concert of eulogy, adulation, and hyperbole, and not be intoxicated by the captivating perfume of all the censers swung before him. As long as this pride is gratified, it is easy for him to appear smiling and amiable in his gold and azure nim- bus. If he is wounded, he suddenly becomes terrible. Such was the case with our hero. Robert de Salemberry seemed to have been born under the luckiest star. Descended from an ancient, noble family of Navarre, rich, hand- some, possessed of brilliant intellect and calm temperament, he realized to a wonderful degree Auguste Barbier's description of the type of the "artist with tranquil brow and hands of fire." Robert had but to enter the world to win it. At twenty he made his debut in a poem as strange as its title : "' All the Tombs." It was 38 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. a medley of epopee, elegy, lyrics, philosophy, and romance; at times melancholy, then sud- denly gay; abounding in faults of taste, au- dacious theories, inflammable ideas, excessive sentiment ; but such power and strength were apparent through the entire poem that a critic wrote of it, " There lurks a lion in this thicket," which described it well. The poem was signed simply with the name Salemberry, the author believing that this sonorous, mysterious name was made for fame ; and he was not mistaken. It won renown, restricted as yet to a circle of literary men. But Salemberry wanted some- thing better than this great public celebrity and he acquired it through romance and the drama. Salem berry's novels were no less faulty than his first poem, but they were happy faults; too many details and descriptions, too much useless analysis and subtlety, too much brushwood, as in the poem ; but here, also, the presence of the lion was felt. It was to the theatre especially that Salem- berry owed his celebrity. He was born for the drama; comedy and g'rand tragedy flowed A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 39 in his veins. Even in his comedies the tragic author was revealed. His plays met with brilliant success, and the poet tasted the inebriating joys of a daily renewed popular- ity. Strangely enough, after a brief period of vertigo, Salemberry himself recognized what his talent lacked. When his more or less sincere flatterers exclaimed, " Admirable ! sublime ! splendid ! a masterpiece !" the poet said to himself : " No, no ! I have not achieved a mas- terpiece yet, but I will accomplish one, and soon." An unexpected event prevented him, at least for a time, from carrying out his laudable design. A small newspaper, called TJie Viper, had recently been started, and it did not belie its name. Its self-imposed mission consisted in stinging all who came within its reach. Whether this was done through pure malice, or for revenge or pleasure, was unknown, but the fact that it would sting was evident. When a man was strong and healthy these stings were easily cured a few drops of alkali sufficed. Nevertheless, the memory of them remained, and also the fear of other and more serious 40 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. bites ; for, despite the proverb, " Kill the beast," the poison is not eradicated. The Viper one fine day stung our, up to that time, triumphant and indemnified hero. An anonymous article attacked de Salemberry's talent, and spoke rather slightingly even of his character. But there was nothing out- rageous in it for which he could demand an account ; the critic adroitly mingled eulogy with appreciation of the celebrated poet's works, and concluded with these words : " To those who will say his style is very dull, we would simply answer : Yes, but dulness from above." Salemberry was accustomed to much less acidulated praise ; he knew well that if this trenchant remark should spread and obtain credence, he would soon be classed among the most solemn and soporific pontiffs ; a flattering pontificate, but scarcely to be envied. Salem- berry could, however, have easily overlooked this disagreeable flattery, considering the criti- cism unjust and untrue, as it really was; but The Viper contained something more this per- fidious quotation : " The duchess pears are not A PLAYWRIGHT'S KEVENGE. 41 the least tender /" This was an allusion to an event in the private life of our hero. There was nothing to be said in the matter ; he could make no defence ; the remedy would have been worse than the evil. He wondered who could be the author of the article, but was unsuccess- ful in his efforts to discover. He was not aware that he had any enemies, and believed that his most intimate friends were ignorant of this se- cret of his early life. Moreover, the affair to which this phrase referred was now a thing of the past. His efforts to discover the author of this malicious attack were all the more fruit- less owing to the need of the great discretion to be used in the search. But the article in The Viper went farther than Salemberry supposed. One evening in the foyer of the theatre he had a box of can- died fruit which he offered to those about him. As he handed the box to a celebrated soubrette, he said gallantly : " The apple for you, as the most beautiful." "The pear for you," she replied archly. Salemberry blushed slightly, and she, per- ceiving it, added : 42 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. " Shall I be indiscreet, my dear, if I tell you the author of that article? But you know it perfectly well." " No, I assure you, I do not." " Play the innocent ! It is the secret of Europe and America." "The name, I beg of you." " Stephen de Fleurigny." "Nonsenfe! that is absurd; he is my most intimate friend." " Oh, very well then." " My dear child, you may say to Europe and America that it is the most unqualified calumny." " Very generous of you, my great poet ! " Salemberry made no further reply, and went away indignant, but thoughtful. He had known Stephen from early youth, and considered him his most faithful and de- voted friend. They met first at Rill, where Stephen lived with his mother and his little sister, Gilberte. As boys they attended the same college, and later continued their studies together at the same English university. In 1870 they enlisted in the same regiment of A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 43 Zouaves, and, finally, the similarity of their tastes in poetry and the arts united them still more closely. Aside from this, their natures were absolutely different : Robert was the lion, as described by the critic of whom we have already spoken; Stephen was the gazelle. Stephen de Fleurigny, with his fair hair, deep blue eyes, calm pale face, handsome figure, and hands of a prelate, seemed a living image of refined religious poetry. Among the poets of a generation that numbers many great and noble ones, Stephen held a place apart. His strong, clear odes had the grace of the Lombardy pop- lar, that murmurs so softly in the breeze. He wrote tender elegies, that all the women knew by heart like their mother tongue. His mar- vellously chaste sonnets resembled those Greek figures which seem to stretch forth their arms but to offer flowers in marble and alabaster urns. Stephen's fame was neither pronounced nor widespread, but he had discreet and faith- fully devoted admirers. It was not the ocean with its tempests and broad horizon, but a lake peacefully sheltered by green hills, and skimmed 44 A PLA Y WRIGH T' S RE VENGE. by fleet skiffs in which lovers sang while con- templating the twinkling stars. Stephen was satisfied with this quiet fame, and was loved all the more in the susceptible world in which he lived, that he sought neither the trumpeted suc- cess nor the material profit of a literary life. Robert de Salemberry thought of all this on leaving the theatre ; the accusation made against his friend had wounded him like a dagger- thrust. " It is impossible," said he aloud, regardless of the passers-by ; " it is impossible ! The world is decidedly base and cowardly to listen to and believe such monstrous things ; I will not even think of it." On reaching home Robert opened his desk, and taking out a package of Stephen's letters began to read them over. Stephen spoke rarely of himself in the letters, always of his friend, and in the most tenderly affectionate and broth- erly manner, mingling with the wisest counsels the profoundest esteem and admiration. He applauded each success achieved by Salemberry, and sounded his praises far and near with almost childlike pleasure. " What a valiant heart," said Robert to him- A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 45 self, as he read. " And this is the man they accuse. If I ever discover the propagator of this servants' gossip, I shall lengthen his ears, the better to cut them off." The concluding sentence of one of the letters attracted Robert's attention for some time : "My dear chum," wrote Stephen, "now that I have seriously lectured you on your poetry and prose, let me give you a bit of advice : be wiser than Solomon and David ; and if you have any secrets other than poetical ones, do not confide them to me, for you know I am very puri- tanical. Adieu, great brother, until we meet again." Robert examined carefully the date of this letter: October 17, 1872. " This is strange," thought he ; " the date coin- cides with that on which I committed my great- est folly. But Stephen knew nothing of it, nor did anybody else. If any one knew it, it was very evidently the editor of The Viper. Chance has served the rascal well ; chance being often a rascal himself." Robert continued and finished the reading of the letters with ever-increasing emotion. 4 6 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. " O earth !" he exclaimed, as he finished them, " a great poet had good reason to call you the throne of folly ! I would add, throne of calumny. Stephen is an angel of friend- ship." Though Robert went to bed and slept on this good thought, he was suddenly awakened by a feeling of sharp pain having dreamed that a viper had stung him to the heart, and that a voice called to him, " It is Stephen !" Robert could sleep no longer, and spent the long hours in thoughtful introspection; the habit of analysis that served him so well in writing a drama or romance clung to him when he wished to study himself. He began to rec- ognize with despair that a suspicion was insen- sibly creeping into his heart, and thrust it aside as he would brush away a buzzing fly ; but the importunate insect always returned. "What creatures we are!" he exclaimed; "that was a wicked thought I had just now." The dawn of a bright day restored his equa- nimity. " What the deuce did I dream last night ?" He went at an early hour to breakfast with A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 47 Stephen, who received him as usual, cordially and pleasantly. "It has rained for a week; I have need of light ; enter, young sun. " "The sun is old, Stephen." " It may be at eight in the evening, but not at eight in the morning ; it is only ten now. Rise and adorn with your rays the omelette with truffles that Mistress Tempete, my excel- lent cook, is making in your honor." " Always a gourmand, Stephen. " "Yes, Robert; like Andre Doria's cat, a gourmand, and always faithful. " " How do you know that Andre Doria's cat was faithful and a gourmand ? " " I guessed it while looking at the portrait of Andre Doria and his cat in the palace of Genoa. I am thinking seriously of writing a sonnet on this historical discovery, and of dedicating it to you. " As they went into the dining-room, Stephen, noticing that Robert seemed depressed, and wishing to divert him, continued while they enjoyed the truffle-omelette : " Do you know, Robert, there is something 48 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. lacking in modern poetry? We have had, or have, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Mus- set, Auguste Barbier, Coppee, Sully-Prudhomme, Victor de Laprade, Leconte de Lisle, Eugene Manuel, Louis Bouilhet, Soulary, Salemberry, etc. ; but we have neither Boileau nor Berchoux ; we have neither satire nor gastronomy. I do not aim at being a Boileau I leave that ambi- tion to one more cruel ; but I should like to be a Berchoux." " Modesty will be your ruin, Stephen." " As ambition is of others ; better modesty, it causes less suffering." " If you say that for my benefit, Stephen, you are quite right ; I am tormented by ambi- tion. " - "I can well believe it; it is limitless." " I contemplate writing a second poem mod- ern science, the great works and great inven- tions shall be the theme." " I approve ; and seriously, my dear Robert, that is your vocation. Os magna sonaturum to voice great things." " Well, after breakfast I shall give you a synopsis of my poem." A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 49 "Very good; Mistress Tempete, the coffee, the coffee, quickly !" When they had taken their coffee in the smoking-room, Stephen, installing himself in a large armchair, and rubbing his hands like a man preparing for a fray, said, with his sweet smile : " Now, friend Robert, we are going to de- molish that little poem. Begin, and prepare to be very modest, for I propose to do my duty and to be very severe. " Robert read the prologue and argument of the poem, which was formed on a grand scale of about two hundred verses. When he had finished reading, Stephen re- mained a moment in thoughtful silence, and then said, hesitatingly at first, like a hunts- man beating the thicket, but soon in a firmer tone: " The movement is certainly very fine, the style and ideas original, and there are some superb verses ; but there is one fault, and it is a serious fault." " What is it? " asked Robert, a little aston- ished. 4 5 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. " It is this a fault often acquired by writ- ing for the theatre : The audience seeing the play only as a whole, make you think of it only in that aspect. You are not careful ; you are even negligent about details; you are sat- isfied with the first word that occurs to you, provided it is high-sounding and harmonious; finally, you do not put in the fine lines with the pencil, old fellow; you paint with the brush; your style is affected and influenced by stage scenery; and this is a grave fault." " Ah ! 'I paint with the brush ; ' that is very severe, Stephen." " It is the truth." " It is the first time it has ever been said to me." "And I tell you it, that it may be .the last." " Oh, oh, doctor! " " Doctor, if you wish ; believe me, the doc- trine is good. The great masters " " Ah ! if you speak of the great masters " " It would be an insult to speak of lesser ones in connection with you. " "But, by Hercules! my good Stephen, a A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 5 1 poem is not a sonnet ; dabbling in paint is not very brilliant work; and Mieris does not, per- haps, equal Paul Veronese. " " Omit the perhaps. Mieris in no way equals you. Only remember that, if Veronese was timid at times, he was always scientific, and never forgot rhythm and harmony. " " I overlook them, then? " " You despise them ; that is what I am find- ing fault with. Read the poem again, verse by verse, and I shall prove it to you." " We must postpone that for some other time, my dear Stephen ; I have an appointment at the theatre." Robert rose, slightly agitated, and extended his hand to Stephen; then as he was leaving said: " By the way, Stephen, do you know what they say? " "All they say? That must be a great deal." " You know that article in The Viper in which I was so badly treated, that anonymous article? " " Well ? " " It is said that you wrote it, Stephen. " 52 A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. Stephen laughed outright in his usual frank manner, but Robert did not even smile. " What ! you laugh at this ? " "Why, certainly." " There is nothing in it to laugh at, however ; it is a very serious thing." " Serious for whom ? " " For you and for me ; and I demand of you " You demand of me Stephen grew deathly pale; he bit his lips, but controlled himself, and continued in a voice trembling with emotion : " You ask if I am the author? " " I ask you to deny it. " The blood now mounted to Stephen's tem- ples ; he trembled in every limb, and seizing a rare, fragile vase from the table he crushed it in his hand; then, looking his friend full in the face, he pointed to the door : " M. de Salemberry, leave my house. " " M. Stephen de Fleurigny, I bid you good morning. " Robert rose, moved slowly toward the door, turned and met Stephen's cold glance, then, A PLAYWRIGHT'S REVENGE. 53 bruskly thrusting aside the porter, departed. He returned to his home in a state of concen- trated rage difficult to describe. True, he suf- fered more from wounded pride than wounded friendship. In worldly friendships, but especially among literary people, there is always one who rules, who is master, and often despotic. Between two friends equality rarely exists ; the gentler, the better nature, yields, voluntarily or uncon- sciously, to the will of the other. A great man is not a friend in the affection he shows, and even feels ; there is a latent something that seems like reward for services. He pays for the admiration he receives by a smile or word, as a prince bestows honors and rank upon the brave soldiers who fight for him. What the great man really loves is the servant of his fame. Should the servant for an instant forget his role, the friend, the haughty master, reminds him of it at first gently, but soon very imperi- ously. But if the servant revolts, if the head that bowed so low, and was supposed to be accustomed to the shade, should suddenly as- sert itself and claim its share of the sun as if 54 A PLAYWRIGHTS REVENGE. this luminary had nothing better to do than to shine on anything obscure this would be treachery, the crime of high treason. Robert de Salemberry had all the pride of a great man, although he had not yet achieved that distinction ; his pride cried out like the lion suddenly wounded at night by the hunter. "He dared not deny it!" he exclaimed; " moreover, he could not. I disconcerted him so by my direct thrust he could not say no. The miserable, perfidious wretch ! He has always been jealous of me at heart, and I should have seen it had I not been so unsuspicious. The advice he gave me, his manner of criticising my works under pretext of watching over my fame, were but the outpouring of his jealousy and envy. It was so like him to use that ex- pression, 'You paint with the brush!' Now that I think of it, there were some such words in that infamous article: 'Dulness from above. ' It takes an intimate friend to polish that sort of diamond, to stamp aright these aphorisms which are afterward circulated in the world as medals. And that other perfidious sentence: 'The duchess' pears are not the least A PLA Y W RIG II T ' S RE VENGE. . 5 5 tender ! ' That was the most treacherous of all, and if I had the right but I have no cause for a duel. Nevertheless, the wretch must be pun- ished ; and I shall find some better means than a sword-thrust. This pun on the duchess pears is so ridiculously silly, it must surely have been made by that rosewater poet, that sonnet -maker." Robert contemptuously repeated these words, " Sonnet-maker, sonnet-maker ! " then suddenly burst into a strident laugh that was almost sav- age in its bitterness ; but his fierce gayety soon changed into a pensive mood. That same evening Robert de Salem berry called on Jacques Alengon, the manager of one of the large theatres. " Reserve the month of October for me," said Robert ; " I shall have a five-act play for you. " The manager answered with his blandest smile. The next day Robert started for Switzerland. Three months later he read his five-act play to the manager, who gave his opinion thus : " Bravo, dear master. There will be a sensa- ation in Landerneau. Seven thousand every evening, and a hundred performances. " CHAPTER V. " PICHEGRU * STRANGLED ! " THE rehearsals lasted only a month. It was a prose comedy, entitled " The Poisonous Fang " ; this was all the public knew of it. The manager, the actors, and employees of the theatre, and, of course, the author, kept the subject and details of the play a most pro- found secret. But a few discreet comments artfully spread abroad excited public curiosity. It was said to be a violent attack upon a well-known writer, upon whom the author of " The Poisonous Fang " wished to take re. venge. Nothing more was known of the play; con- sequently, on the evening of the first perform- ance, the audience, while waiting for the cur- tain to rise, were on the alert, for there seemed * Pichegru was a French general who conspired against Bonaparte ; he was arrested, but before his trial was found dead in his prison. 56 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 57 to be a smell of gunpowder in the air. All Paris had prepared itself for this occasion as for a cruel feast. Stephen, to whom a ticket for an orchestra- chair had been sent according to custom, was present at the first representation. He arrived in Paris the previous evening, and felt that he ought not to absent himself, especially as, on account of their quarrel, he had not seen Rob- ert for three months. The first act disappointed the evil expecta- tions of the public. It was simply a bright, gay scene, at the end of which one of the char- acters attracted particular attention, although he had very little to say or do ; he was a poet who wrote a sonnet in an album and withdrew in silence. " Look, look ! How much that character re- sembles Stephen de Fleurigny," remarked some of the spectators. " We shall see later what that means. " Between the acts this rumor ob- tained credence, and the curtain rose for the second time on a sea of faces showing eager expectations that were fully realized. The au- thor unmasked his batteries at once. It was a 58 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" simple scene, in which a poet read a sonnet to a pretty woman. Why will comic authors take every occasion to ridicule the writers of sonnets? Why should even a poor sonnet be more ridicu- lous than a bad ode or elegy? Boileau's tren- chant verse, " A Faultless Sonnet," is, in a measure, responsible for this. Orontes son- net in Moliere's " Misanthrope " is still more to blame to say nothing of Mascarille's in decrying this difficult style of poetry, in which equally as much strength as grace can be dis- played. But certain things, like certain men, are unfortunate. The fact is, in spite of the clever sonnet-writers of contemporary literature, the public is always ready to laugh when a son- net is mentioned, and to murmur almost invol- untarily, " A sonnet it's a sonnet ! " Robert de Salemberry knew this well, and he had distilled into this old but ever new scene his most subtle poison. It called forth loud bursts of laughter and shouts of approval from the audi- ence, the women taking part with the author against the character represented. Why was this ? We never dared think that French "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 59 women at times seem like descendants of the implacable Roman Vestals; first, because the Vestals left no direct posterity; and secondly, because French women are better than the Romans of all ages. Nevertheless, it dis- pleases a French woman to hear a ridiculous sonnet addressed to one of her sex. She, doubtless, says to herself, " Such a thing might just as likely happen to me ! " and she revenges herself for the injury which is not, but might be done to her. The women, therefore, dis- played their pearly teeth at the reading of the famous sonnet. By this time, all the audience, even those who did not know Stephen, recog- nized him in the character whom they all con- demned. Success was assured ; in the last act it as- sumed extraordinary proportions. Poor Stephen was torn to pieces like a martyr in the arena. The public became wild at sight of this gladia- torial exploit. Salemberry's name was shouted amidst loud bravos and applause as the cur- tain fell on this work of vengeance. Stephen passed out of the theatre between two lines of spectators, who watched him with 60 " PICHEGR U STRANGLED ! " malicious curiosity. His face was calm and grave, and when one of those peculiar friends with which one is sometimes afflicted asked him what he thought of the play, he answered in a tone tinged with sadness : " I fear Robert may be led by this suc- cess into a style that is not naturally his ; he is made for much nobler things." Meanwhile, Robert, in the greenroom, was receiving congratulations, hand-pressures, and embraces, with an indifference which astonished himself. He was triumphant, but he was not happy; the revenge of gratified pride is the most melancholy satisfaction. Robert held his head high, but to a close observer his absent manner and clouded brow portrayed a feeling of extreme dejection. The famous actress who took the leading character in his play, Madame Maria Orfano, was a woman of rare beauty and of great per- spicacity. She noticed the dark cloud on the poet's brow, and, leading him aside, said : " My dear friend, you are sad ; I am myself. Although I only did my duty in performing my part in your play, yet I feel quite remorse- "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 61 ful. Think well on this : you are sad ; you have forgotten the ancient Cato's maxim; I read it this morning in one of my son's school- books : " 'Friendship ought to be gradually sev- ered, not rent asunder ! ' " We shall meet this noble actress again in the course of this story. Robert made no reply, and left the theatre, wishing to be alone. About two in the morning, two men, passing under the arcade of the Rue de Rivoli, noticed a man walking rapidly, beating the air with his cane, and murmuring between his teeth in a bitter tone these enigmatical words : " Pichegru strangled !" One of the men said, laughing : " There goes a professor of history, repeating the lesson for to-morrow. He cannot be a Bonapartist, for he decides against Bonaparte in this obscure question. " The triumphant author awoke next morning no less melancholy than on the previous evening. The morning papers brought him reports of his victory, which was much more brilliant than he had supposed. In one of the accounts he noticed the following : 6s "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" " No one was ignorant of the real name of the sonnet-writer held up to immortal ridicule by our new Moliere. It was Stephen de Fleu- rigny, but lately his intimate friend. We shall not expatiate on the causes that led to this breach of friendship." Then the author of the article proceeded to enumerate them in some hundred and fifty lines. "This is exasperating!" exclaimed Robert; " they go too far. Stephen's offence was against me; I wished to call him to order; that was sufficient. It is unnecessary now to make a Trissotin* of me. These papers always go too far." The next paper he took up defended Stephen : " We regret," remarked the critic, "that a noble-hearted, talented man allowed himself to make such an unjust and passionate attack upon an old friend, who is himself a poet of high merit. This mars the work which has just received public applause." " This is ingenuous," exclaimed Robert, " but * The name of a conceited and by no means brilliant poet, in Moliere's " Les Femmes Savantes." "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 63 it is the purpose of the play that this gentleman criticises, and he considers me unjust. I shall get even with him some day. If Stephen is likely to have partisans, then I have not suffi- ciently abused him. After all, I have only done my duty in defending myself and punish- ing treachery; for he is, no doubt, the author of that anonymous article, and he ought to have acknowledged it. What, then, is there for M. Stephen to complain of? It is true he was ridiculed, and the celebrity he gained thereby he owes to me. The proverb is true, 'Ridicule does not kill.' I know people who have nothing but this to live on." Robert deceived himself; to do him justice, he was ignorant of the depth and extent of the injury he had just perpetrated. If he could have imagined or foreseen the fatal conse- quences of his act, his revenge would certainly have appeared odious to him and he would have renounced it. Stephen had been for several years in love with a young lady, Mile. Isabelle d'Acerac, whose father was one of the glorious heroes of the Franco-German war. The general would 64 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" have much preferred a soldier instead of a poet for a son-in-law, but Isabelle was of a different opinion. Stephen's Parisian reputation, his rare talent, the delicacy of his tender poems, and the grace of his timid love had won the young girl's heart. Moreover, she unconsciously took pleas- ure in the idea of bearing a name already in- vested with a charm and renown that the future would augment. She had visions of forming a salon where the illustrious men of the day would assemble, of gathering about her works of art, and celebrities, and, perhaps, of giving tone to and setting the fashion in the literary world. This was a very legitimate and pardonable am- bition, and one which did not denote a vulgar mind. General d'Acerac was a widower with one son. He could not resist his only daughter, Isabelle, when she declared that she would marry no one but Stephen. The alliance, moreover, was in every way honorable, and the marriage was decided upon, although not formally an- nounced. The engagement remained a secret between Stephen, the general, and his daugh- ter. "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 65 Stephen loved Isabelle with a rare, profound love. The noble poet's exalted ideals made him place a very high value on his heart ; dis- daining all sentimental, foolish attachments, he felt that when he once loved it should be for all time. This mystic dreamer was effeminately prudish, and admired those mysterious-hearted widows who looked upon second marriage as a lowering of their nature. Meeting Isabelle just as she was budding into womanhood, the fiery darts of her sparkling eyes penetrated to the depths of his soul, and awoke a love which was never extinguished. A few days after the first representation of " The Poisonous Fang," General d'Acerac called upon Stephen. " My friend," said the general, with military bruskness, " I'll be your second." "My second!" replied Stephen; "my second against whom ? " " Against Robert de Salemberry, of course ! " " But, general, I have not the slightest inten- tion of fighting a duel with Robert." " Nevertheless, you must." "Why should I?" 5 66 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" " Because he has grievously insulted you : because he has covered you with ridicule." "That is true." " Well, a good sword-thrust " " Pardon, my dear general ; be good enough to listen to my reasons. While I might take every precaution to spare my adversary, one never knows how far the point of a sword may reach." " Very true." " I might kill Robert ; and I do not wish to take that risk. First, because my religious as well as my philosophic principles forbid my righting a duel ; and, finally, because I know no law that condemns a man to death for writing a malicious comedy." " Well, what reasons ! " " They are very just ones, I assure you." " But it will be said that you are afraid to fight." " I proved during the war that I was no cow- ard; and public opinion, the what will they say ? of the gossips, slander of any kind, or from whatever source, affect me no more than servants' gossip." "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 67 " But I am concerned in this. I do not wish the man whose name my daughter will bear to be scoffed at in the papers. If you do not challenge him, I will; and M. Robert de Sa- lemberry shall find at least one of the family to call him to account. If I am killed, it will not be very pleasant for you, my boy ; and it will be said, 'There is a gentleman who, unlike the Cid, allowed his father-in-law to be killed in his place. ' " " For that very reason, general, I beg you to do nothing in the matter. " " Very well, then ; I shall give you three days for reflection." " I do not need to reflect." " But you need to go to a fencing-academy." " I have still less need of that." "Yes, I know your skill is admirable; but I cannot understand you ; and I warn you that your conduct will be equally incomprehensible to my daughter." " Do you think so ? " " I am sure of it ; and if you doubt it, you have only to discuss the subject with her briefly, and, as she admires poets, she will say 68 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" to you : ' Come forth a victor from a combat of which Chimcne is the prize.' Think over this, my dear Stephen ; and be assured that I am obliged to take the course I am pursuing. So, good-evening." General d'Acerac left Stephen, singing as he went away : " Let us guard the safety of the Empire." The following week the general gave a ball for his daughter's young friends, which Stephen failed not to attend. After one of the qua- drilles, the young poet approached Isabelle, and, drawing her aside, said in a low voice : " You know, Mile. Isabelle, that your father exacts of me a duel with Robert? " " Yes, I know." " And what do you think of it? " "What do I think ?" Isabelle hesitated a few moments, then con- tinued : "You wish to know what I think of it?" " Certainly." "Very well, you shall know. Follow me." They withdrew to the conservatory adjoining the drawing-room, at the lower end of which a "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 69 quantity of rare plants were so arranged as to form an angular space ; this was furnished with easy-chairs, and at the farther end of the room, behind the flowers, hung Eastern tapestry. " Go behind these curtains, M. de Fleurigny, and wait." Stephen obeyed. Isabelle soon returned, followed by several young girls, whom she seated in the angle sheltered by the plants. " Young ladies," she began, in a grave tone, " I have something very serious about which I wish to consult you." " Oh, how solemn ! " exclaimed Pauline de Meillan. " You know," continued Isabelle, " that there existed in France, from the twelfth to the four- teenth century, a singular sort of tribunal called the Court of Love. Matrons and maidens of high birth assembled to decide certain difficult ques- tions the import of which the name of the tribunal sufficiently explains. Their judgment was always respected by the lords of that epoch more chivalrous than ours. Laura de Noves, immortalized by Petrarch, her aunt Phanette, the Countess de Champagne, the 70 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" Countess de Flandre, and the Queen, Elenore de Guyenne, took part in this tribunal, which, unfortunately, no longer exists. n " It would have too much to do," murmured Pauline. " I want you, my dear, clever friends, to re-establish, for this evening, this noble insti- tution." The curiosity of her young friends being aroused, they all responded enthusiastically to her request. " This, then, is the question, the problem that I beg of you to solve : May a young lady honorably wed a man who, when insulted, re- fuses to fight a duel with the man who insults him? Weigh and examine the subject thor- oughly, then give your opinion." "One moment," said Pauline; "let me carefully reflect while finishing my sorbet. Well, I have concluded my reflections." "Already?" said Mile. Judith, a fair, rosy- cheeked English girl, who kept raising her sparkling eyes to heaven, from time to time, while pondering over the question. " My dear Isabelle," replied Pauline, "Judith "PICHEGRV STRANGLED!" 71 is mistaken if she thinks this question requires long deliberation. But there are details and circumstances which must be known before we pronounce judgment. For example, what was the nature of the insult ? " " It was a public insult." " An overt act ? " "No." " In words or writing? " " Both in word and writing." " Then, in my opinion, the person insulted ought to demand reparation at the point of the sword. And here, my friends, is an example : It is said everywhere that Stephen de Fleurigny is to fight a duel with Robert de Salemberry. And he certainly should, for there never was such an outrageous insult." " Oh, yes ! " exclaimed Mile. Judith ; " how interesting! I sympathize deeply with him, and I sincerely hope he may be the victor." " But suppose the insulted person of whom we speak does not act as, no doubt, M. Stephen de Fleurigny would under such circumstances ?" " In that case, he would be lacking in honor." " Then, I put the question again : May a 72 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" young lady honorably wed a man who, when outrageously insulted, refuses to fight a duel ? Let us put it to the vote. Answer in suc- cession, yes, or no. What do you say, Pau- line?" "No." " And you, Judith ? " " I refrain from giving my opinion from religious motives." "And you, Theresa?" "No." " And you, Marianne ? " "No." " You, Elizabeth ? " "No." " You, Clarissa? " "No." "But you, yourself, Isabelle?" Isabelle, after a moment's silence, answered slowly : "No." "One opinion withheld and six noes," said Pauline. " The question is solved, and now to the dance." The young girls returned to the drawing- "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 73 room. A few moments later, Stephen made his escape from the house through the conservatory, unobserved. Early the next morning Stephen appeared at the French Fencing Academy, where he met Fernan d'Orviedo, one of the most expert swordsmen in Paris, to whom he proposed a trial at fencing. Stephen parried with such skill, Fernan never succeeded in touching him. Finally, impatiently advancing, he attempted a double disengagement, but Stephen deftly de- fended himself by a downward parry, warded off the thrust, and, taking direct aim, fairly touched Fenian's breast. " Hit ! " exclaimed Fernan ; " you are in ex- cellent trim. Salemberry will need to look out for himself." Stephen made no reply, but pressing Fernan's hand left the fencing-hall. Passing on his way home the church of St. Roch, he hesitated a second before the door, then with bowed head ascended the steps, hesitating again before opening the door, and finally entered. That same evening General d'Acerac received the following letter : 74 "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!' " GENERAL : " I relinquish an alliance which was very dear to me. I relinquish it resolutely, but with a broken heart. God must be considered before man. Accept, general, with the expression of my sincere regret, the homage of my re- spectful attachment. " STEPHEN DE FLEURIGNY." The following month Stephen went with his mother and his sister Gilberte to Italy. A short time afterward Isabelle married Pauline's broth- er, Lieutenant Paul de Meillan, one of her fa- ther's ordnance officers. " The Poisonous Fang " was in its sixtieth representation, and soon reached its hundredth. But this success, like all others, ended in time. Salemberry's high order of intellect made him fully comprehend that after so much notoriety he owed the pub- lic something better than a work of satirical allusion. He well knew that this was in no way the genial work that had been the dream of his youth and the noble ambition of his desires. He therefore set about finding a subject worthy of the genius he felt surging within him. "PICHEGRU STRANGLED!" 75 He searched a long time, so long that he was still in pursuit of a magnificent ideal at the time this story opens, three years after the tri- umph he gained by the successful representation of " The Poisonous Fang." So far his efforts were in vain. This vigor- ous poet, though still young, seemed suddenly to have become sterile; this was the natural result of the false step he had taken, for rail- lery and ridicule are to the mind what vice is to the heart. The first nail, once driven, says Alfred de Musset, is drawn out, if ever, only after protracted and terrible efforts. The habit of irony is fatal to great thoughts ; a too free indulgence in ridicule intimidates and makes one fear that just restribution here below, that revenge of justice, which sooner or later smites a man with the very weapons he has forged. While smoking his cigar in the park at Ma- dame de Rille's, Robert recalled the details of this affair, and, though not saddened by them, he was pensive and preoccupied. part Seconb. CHAPTER I. "THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." " WELL, my dear nephew, have you made your examination of conscience ? " " Yes, my dear aunt, and my conscience is tranquil." " It must be very easily quieted." " No ; I assure you I have nothing with which to reproach myself." " What, Robert ! Did you not paint poor Stephen in the most grotesque character, vil- ify him, drag his name in the dust? " " I did it only in legitimate defence." " It was the dove, then, that attacked the hawk ? " "Yes, aunt." " You may say this, and you believe it, I hope ; but are you not deceiving yourself ? " "THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB" 77 " No ; I have proof of it the silence of the offender when questioned." " What does that prove ? That he did not deign to defend himself against such an accu- sation." " That was an added insult." " And his mother and sister, whom you smote with the same blow ? " "Justice strikes blindly." " Blindness is not her best quality. There are those two poor women who have exiled themselves with your victim ; they have now been three years in Rome with Stephen, and I have no one to play whist with me." " I'll play whist with you." " You know nothing of the game, but Ma- dame de Fleurigny and Gilberte play remark- ably well." "They will return." " It would be curious if you should be here when they arrive. I should like to see how you would face them." " With the countenance of a man who has done his duty." "What about 'The Game of Virtues,' and 7 8 " THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." the duty it imposes on you, of repairing the injury done? For, admitting your good faith, you acted no less through anger and spite." " No, I did justice." " Like a paladin, did you not ? Like the Chevalier Roland, or the Cid ? " " Precisely, my dear aunt." The drawing-room door opened, and a servant announced : " Madame and Mile, de Fleurigny." " Tableau !" exclaimed Poncette. " What ! is it you, Madame de Fleurigny," cried the marquise ; " and you, dear Gilberte ; have you fallen from heaven ?" " Yes, from Rome," answered the mother. "And Stephen? " " He remains there." " Now," continued the marquise, " I can have my game of whist. First, let me present you ; but it is not necessary; you knoweverybody here. Robert, my handsome nephew, will you kindly prepare the card-table and the accessories, as you cal 1 them ? That belongs to your province as dra- matic author. First come and make your bow to these ladies, and try to resemble Bressant." "THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." 79 Robert, slightly embarrassed, bowed pro- foundly. Madame de Fleurigny returned his salutation coldly, Gilberte with indifference. The young man then arranged everything for the whist-party. " Gilberte and I will play against Poncette and Madame de Fleurigny. Robert, take this chair by me, and try to profit by our playing to learn the game, for if there is a bungler at cards it is you. " The game began. Robert, seated a little in shadow behind the marquise, faced Gil- berte, upon whom fell the light of the green lamp-shade. He could not help looking at her, and the thought came suddenly to his mind : " It is astonishing how much she resembles Stephen ! " Robert had not seen Gilberte since what he in bitter irony called Stephen's " flight into Egypt," more than three years before. Gilberte was only sixteen when she left Rille to go to Rome. She was then quite a child, and Robert always looked upon her as such, talking to her as a brother would to a younger sister, and he So " THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." considered her rather ugly, with her long face and thin shoulders. This Gilberte bore little resemblance to the Gilberte of former days. She was now twenty, tall and graceful, and her rather elongated, oval face harmonised with the breadth of her pure, noble brow, crowned with a rich diadem of blond hair. But the most no- ticeable trait was the concentrated, steadfast expression of her long-lashed, deep blue eyes, that seemed as if fixed on some object visible only to herself. Robert remembered that Ste- phen's eyes had that same mysterious fixed ex- pression, and the resemblance to her brother in look and feature was so perfect Robert could easily imagine that the image of his vanquished enemy was before him. Once, Gilberte, laying her cards on the table raised her head, and open- ing wide her eyes looked directly at Robert without seeming to see him. The young poet, feeling himself grow red and pale by turns under her unchanging gaze, rose to escape the unpleas- ant constraint, but Madame de Rille soon called him back, and a shudder went through him as he again met that same impassable gaze. Robert, like all poets, knew by heart certain " THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." 81 favorite verses, that he often, almost uncon- sciously, repeated to himself in a low tone, thus marking the train of his thoughts, as the soldier in marching keeps step by humming a well- known refrain. Under Gilberte's strange glance, a line from one of his favorite poems passed rapidly through his mind ; that terrible poem, " The Legend of the Ages" : " The gaze was in the tomb, and looked upon Cain ! " Robert had never better understood the depths of its meaning. Fortunately for him, for he was very ill at ease, the whist-party soon ended, and Madame de Rille's friends withdrew. Robert accompanied M. and Mme. de No- longue, who returned on foot to their cottage, Les Chartrettes. " What ails you, my dear cousin ? " Louis asked on the way; "you look so sad and troubled." "Well he might," added Madame de No- longue ; " he has seen something worse than the devil; he met an accusing angel." 6 82 " THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." " What do you mean, my pretty cousin?" " I mean that Stephen resembles his sister too much ever to have been capable of commit- ting the deed of which you accused him and for which you so cruelly avenged yourself." " He committed it, nevertheless." " I do not believe he did anything of the kind, and I hope to convince you of it, my dear cousin. 'The Game of Virtues,' restored to favor by the marquise, has succeeded too admi- rably with me not to have similar success with you. 'Repair the injury that was done' this is to be your task, and I shall help you in this difficult undertaking. Louis and I leave to-morrow for Paris; send us a letter of introduction to your great actress, Maria Or- fano." " Why do you want this letter? " " You will know later." " You intend to play some trick on me." " How suspicious you are, sir judge ! Send us the letter, and you will have no cause to repent it.' " " Well, I will, cousin." " Good ! and, while waiting to hear from us, "THE GAZE WAS IN THE TOMB." 83 meditate upon and practise 'The Game of Vir- tues. ' ' As Robert was returning to the castle he saw Gilberte and her mother some distance down the road, on their way to the village. On reach- ing home he went at once to his room, and before going to bed he chanced to pick up a collection of poems from various authors ; on opening the volume his glance fell upon the famous verse : " The gaze was in the tomb . . . He threw down the book impatiently, but he was unable to sleep until far into the night CHAPTER II. THE GYPSIES. THE days following this visit Robert devoted to the chase, and, as Madame de Fleurigny and her daughter came to Madame de Rille's only during her nephew's absence, Robert did not see Gilberte again till the day on which the following dramatic incident unexpectedly oc- curred. On the property belonging to the Rille" es- tate there was a vast tract of land covered with bare pines and remote from any habitation ; the wildest piece of country to be seen in Touraine. It was inhabited solely by a tribe of gypsies whose origin was unknown. Whether they came from Spain, Italy, or Hungary was un- certain, but it was thought they probably were from Spain. The tribe numbered about a hun- dred men, women, and children. They lived here in defiance of police and keepers, who 84 THE GYPSIES. 85 scarcely dared venture on these wild lands, disdainfully ignored by the officers of the Reg- istry. There was nothing to steal and no one to rob ; therefore the gypsies lived by the chase, fishing, and poaching. Robert often hunted in this neighborhood, abounding in game, the almost complete soli- tude of which was very pleasant to him. One day, going through the woods, a black hare started just at his feet, but the underbrush being very thick Robert was obliged to fire at random ; it was evident by the excitement and barking of his dog that he had wounded the animal, but it had still strength enough to run, and Robert saw it in the distance making a last effort to reach the heath ; but the poor beast did not go far before the dog fell upon it. Suddenly several men sprang up from behind the bushes, one of whom seized the hare, and, followed by his companions, started for the pine forest that bordered the opposite side of the land. Robert's dog tried to regain possession of his prey, but one of the gypsies struck the dog a blow with a stick that sent it back howl- ing to his master. Robert was furious, and ran 86 THE GYPSIES. after the land pirates, whom he overtook on a narrow path, a few steps from the entrance of the wood. Here he found himself in a clear- ing, surrounded by several wretched wooden huts. Some twenty dark, savage-looking men and women, hideous in their rags, stood about in menacing attitudes, but Robert was brave. "Give me that hare," he demanded in a firm voice, addressing the chief of the band. "It is mine; I found it." " But I shot it, and it is mine. Give it to me at once ! " Robert advanced aggressively towards his ad- versary, but in an instant twenty clubs, knives, and hammers were raised over his head. He retreated a few steps, and quickly placing his back against the trunk of a tree he kept the rascals at a distance for a time by rapidly twirl- ing his empty gun. " Make way with the Christian ! " howled all the band. '"' Kill him, kill him ! " cried a woman who had stealthily crept up behind the young man, and now sprang furiously upon him. It seemed all over with Robert. THE GYPSIES. 87 " Stop, Catalina ! Stop, Gualterio ! " The bandits desisted, recognizing Gilberte's voice, who, with her mother, had just come upon the scene. " Oh, it is the good young lady who cured Pelagia ! " " If I have saved your daughter, Catalina, do me a like favor: protect this young man." At a sign from Catalina way was made for Robert to pass. "Take your game," said Gualterio. " You may have it," answered Robert. Passing Gilberte, Robert, bowing as he would in a drawing-room, said simply : " Thank you. " " Go, M. de Salemberry ; if you remain the disturbance may be renewed. Catalina, take me to your daughter; she still needs care." Gilberte went towards one of the miserable huts, but turned as she was about to enter, and Robert, who looked back at the same moment, met her eyes quietly fixed upon him. The Marquise de Rille seemed much amused by the tragic account Robert gave her of his adventure on his return to the castle. 88 THE GYPSIES. " This was especially arranged for you, my handsome nephew; but it is rather reversing things. Ariosto would not understand it ; An- gelica rescues Roger, in this case. The paladin ought to feel rather humiliated." " He does, a little, aunt." " Yes, but that ought not prevent his being grateful. We shall go together to-morrow to thank Angelica." " I fear a cool reception. " " Have no fear ; a heroine never receives her proteg6 coldly. You will offer her a life- saving medal, and all will go well. You must have looked foolish enough, and she must have been superb, subduing those savages by her commanding voice and manner. " " She was calm and natural, that was all." " I'll explain this affair to you, my brave nephew. You have not been much in this part of the country of late years, or you would have known that before they went to Italy, three years ago, Madame de Fleurigny, Gil- berte, and Stephen were in the habit of sup- plying these poor gypsies, who came near kill- ing you, gratuitously with medicine, and almost THE GYPSIES. 89 obliged them to use their remedies. As soon as they heard that one of these rascals had broken an arm or leg, our two infirmarians went at once to their aid, accompanied by Stephen, who is something of a surgeon ; which you ought to be also, Robert, for you like to break bones, in a literary sense, though it is better to reset them. Gilberte's specialty was curing the fe- vers that were very prevalent among the women and children of the tribe. She was always very successful, owing to the use of quinine, and I recommend it to you if you ever have fever. I see that these ladies since their return have resumed their role of travelling hospital fortu- nately for you. This is the explanation of your adventure. " " Evidently I owe my life to Gilberte." " Your life, perhaps ; but in any case you would not have escaped without, at least, some serious injury or ridiculous scar. But I am mistaken; in you nothing could ever appear ridiculous ; you would write a poem on it ; a poet can afford to be maimed and resemble Cervantes, or blind Milton's blindness added much to his fame." 9 THE GYPSIES. " You are ridiculing me, my dear aunt." " Because I am so happy to see you with two eyes and both arms. But, seriously, my dear, we must make that visit to-morrow to Madame de Fleurigny." This visit, Robert felt, would be a trying ordeal, but he resigned himself to it bravely, wondering all the while if he could with pro- priety escape it. Madame de Fleurigny's home at Rill6 was most attractive. The house, built of red brick framed in gray stone, seemed to smile a gra- cious welcome under its green tile roof. On the small stream that flowed through the gar- den a flock of ducks swam in single file ; in the tall acacia-trees the pigeons chattered seri- ously of their affairs, and the church belfry threw its long shadow across the emerald-green sward. Madame de Fleurigny was busily occu- pied preparing a baby's basket for a future elector, when the Marquise de Rille and her nephew, M. de Salemberry, were announced. She rose quickly, contrary to her usually grave manner, and, running to meet the marquise, seized both her hands. THE GYPSIES. 91 " Oh, my dear friend, your arrival is as timely as Marshal McMahon's at Magenta; I am quite bewildered in the midst of all this lace and trimming, and you will extricate me from my difficulties. Good-morning, M. de Salem- berry; you will advise me also. Let us be seated." " Madame," said Robert, advancing, " I wish to say ' "That baby-clothes are not easy to make, which I know better than you." " No, madame ; but I do not know how to explain to you " " That this cap is too large and this dress too narrow ? Say no more ; I agree with you. But you, my dear marquise, will understand that it is easy enough to make a large cap smaller ; the problem is to increase the width of a narrow dress." " We shall try to solve it." " But I see that your nephew is not much interested in the solution. Take a turn in the garden, M. de Salemberry, and if you meet Gilberte let her know that your aunt is here." 92 THE GYPSIES. Robert went out without having been able to finish his speech. He did not meet Gilberte in the garden, but on looking further he caught sight of her in a little summer-house. The young girl was seated at a rustic wooden table, reading; she seemed deeply absorbed in her book, on the margin of which she from time to time wrote hastily with a gold pencil that glis- tened in her white ringers. At the sound of Robert's footstep on the gravel, she turned, slightly startled, and, quickly closing her book, extended her hand with prompt cordiality to her visitor. Her eyes had the same mysterious impassibility, but a kind smile played gently on her lips. Robert, still more embarrassed in the daughter's presence than he had been in her mother's, again attempted the long-prepared speech : " Mile, de Fleurigny, I wish to say to you " " I, too, have something to say to you, M. de Salem berry." " I do not know how to explain to you, Mile, de Fleurigny " THE GYPSIES. 93 " Exactly ; I also have an explanation to make to you, M. de Salemberry; I shall make mine first, with your permission." Robert bowed, much astonished and more embarrassed than ever. " M. de Salemberry, I have a serious re- proach to make." Robert trembled. " Yes, you are more impetuous and imprudent than I could have supposed. Yesterday, for a miserable hare, you abused those poor wretches who intended you no harm." " What, no harm ! But for you, Mile, de Fleu- rigny, they would have killed me." " Not at all, M. de Salemberry ; they had no such intention. This is what I want to explain to you : these fearless gypsies wanted to test your courage ; they have a mania for frighten- ing people ; but they did not succeed with you, and after you left their chief said to me, in his picturesque language : ' Your friend's blood was up, but he kept his head.' The gypsy chief was right ; you were in no danger yesterday, but another time your impetuosity may cost you very dear." " You are generous, Mile, de Fleurigny, and 94 THE GYPSIES. I perfectly understand the feeling of deli- cacy " Delicacy, generosity ! I do not understand. Now let us talk of something else, please." Robert closed his eyes to keep back the tears that trembled on the lids. " Come, let us talk of something else, I beg of you." Robert, regaining his self-possession, said : " I interrupted the reading in which you seemed so much interested, Mile, de Fleurigny." " Yes, M. de Salemberry, very much." " If I dared if you would not think me too indiscreet I should like to ask what the book is? " Gilberte blushed, but made no reply. " I see I have been very indiscreet ; such familiar curiosity is, I admit, allowable and pardonable only in a friend." Gilberte reflected a few moments, then said suddenly : " M. de Salemberry, I have no reason to hide what I do, think, or read. You asked me what this book is ; do you repeat the ques- tion? " THE GYPSIES. 95 " Yes, Mile, de Fleurigny." " You really wish to know then ? " "I really do." " In that case, take and read it." She handed him the volume, bound in rough leather; Robert opened it and read the title- page: "The Poisonous Fang: A Comedy in Five Acts, by Robert de Salemberry." " Fate is cruel," murmured Robert, in a hol- low voice. He felt the book trembling in his hand, lowered his eyes under Gilberte's search- ing gaze, and, to cover his increasing embarrass- ment, he began turning over the leaves. " Are you looking at the notes written there? " asked Gilberte. " I dare not allow myself to look at them." " Why not ? You have a great desire to, I imagine." "That is true." " Well, then " She hesitated a moment. " Very well, M. de Salemberry ; take the book; I give it to you. And now let us join my mother in the drawing-room." Madame de Rille was taking leave of her 96 THE GYPSIES. friend when Gilberte and Robert joined them. As he was leaving them he noticed a portrait on an easel in a corner of the room : one of G. Saint- Pierre's masterpieces. It was difficult to distinguish the picture, almost hidden in shadow, and Robert went towards it to get a better view; but Gilberte, seeing his object, placed herself between him and the portrait. "No," she said in a low voice; "it is Ste- phen." Robert drew back trembling, but made no reply. Gilberte's gaze was no longer cold and impenetrable; subdued lightning flashed from her eyes as they followed Robert's retreating figure. CHAPTER III. A YOUNG GIRL'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY. As soon as he was alone in his room, Robert hastened to open the volume Gilberte had given him, feeling more misgiving than on the even- ing of the first representation of the play. It was not the murmurs of the orchestra, nor the whispers of the parquet that he now had to dread, but the candid judgment of a child. " Doubtless, she cannot be impartial," he said to himself ; " she must defend her brother in- dignantly and with bitterness against the satir- ical work. It is very natural that she should look upon me as a monster, and tell me so un- sparingly. This promises to be interesting. A young girl's criticism of the theatre the dove in the role of the hawk, cooing ferociously, is quite a new study. I'll submit myself fearlessly to her little claws, for the sake of the amusement it will afford me. " 7 97 9 A GIRL'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY. He did well to laugh in anticipation, for what he saw on opening the book was not reassuring. On the first page, the fly-leaf, he found the fol- lowing : " I must carefully re-read this comedy, this 'Poisonous Fang,' this abominable attack upon our poor Stephen. My mother weeps every time she speaks of it. Stephen never speaks of it, but I know well that when he is so very sad it is in consequence of this detestable comedy. " Is it really possible that Robert could have had such a malicious intention ? No, no ; I cannot believe it ; he dearly loved Stephen, who returned his love so generously; and he was always so good to me when I was a little child, and as I grew up. " Oh ! if I could prove that Robert is not to blame, and that my mother, Stephen, and all the others are mistaken. If I could reconcile them, how happy I should be ! " " Poor child ! she has courage ; why has not her brother? " At the end of the first scene Gilberte had written ; A G/A'L'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY. 99 " How difficult it is to judge; I cannot fail to see how fine, how beautiful all this is ; but it seems to me too fine and beautiful. I must be very foolish, for everybody else judges it very differently. The essential point is, that there is, so far, nothing against Stephen ; abso- lutely nothing." ' Beware of what follows," thought Robert, as he resumed the reading of the notes ; he found the following on the margin of the fifth scene : " Ah, here is the poet. This will bear care- ful examination. It is nothing he writes verses in an album that is not a crime, it is merely sentimental ; moreover, this poet does not re- semble Stephen, who has a horror of such sentimentality. I remember a couplet of his : " ' On that instrument of torture Adorned with the name of album.' This is not Stephen, so far, at least." " She judges kindly here, but the second act ! the second act ! " On the margin of the famous scene of the sonnet, Gilberte's writing had become more nervous, and her comments showed more agi- tation : ioo A GIRL'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY. "Yes, yes; this is meant for Stephen there are words and many things that designate him. This sonnet is evidently a parody on Stephen's sonnets. Let me read further : I must not be too quick to condemn. I must see if there are no excuses, no extenuating circumstances to which Robert might appeal. He certainly was in the wrong yes, gravely in the wrong and he feels it, too ; for one of the players, to ex- culpate the author, alludes to Orontc s sonnet. I shall read the 'Misanthrope' again to com- pare it Gilberte's notes stopped here, but were re. sumed on the following page : " I have read the 'Misanthrope.' I dare not write what I think all this is too much for a young girl. If I dared, I would confess that, in my opinion, it is not Orontc who is ridicu- lous it is Alccstc s peevish humor that makes me laugh. As to the sonnet, I also confess that I do not now find it so ridiculous it was, no doubt, the way in which it was read at the theatre that made it appear so I see very well that Moliere also intended to ridicule Oronte I am completely bewildered " A GIRL'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY- 101 Later on Gilberte had written in very large letters : " The truth is, if I am not mistaken, comic authors seek everywhere their prey ; they live only upon what they kill ; and they kill with a sneer. Comedy is by nature decidedly inhu- man. If there is any excuse for Robert, it is that he has followed bad example, even at the expense of a friend. However, so far I see nothing abominable, as my mother calls it. There is evidence of fickleness of mind, but not of hardheartedness. I can understand that friendship might resent it, but not die of it; I shall write to Stephen." "She certainly is an angel of forgiveness," thought Robert. It seems that the forgiveness, even of an angel, has its limits; for, on the last page of the following act, Gilberte's pencil had written only these words : " My mother was right ; I shall read no more. " The young girl did not keep her word, for at the end of the play Robert found an entire page, written evidently much later than the others : 102 A GIRL'S CRITICISM OF THE COMEDY. " I have had a good cry, which has somewhat restored my composure. When the play ap- peared three years ago, I did not seize all its meaning, or appreciate all its venom oh, no ! I understand now what Stephen must have suf- fered. And the guilty one, I am sure he ought to have suffered also like all inhuman beings. I was right all satirists are inhuman. But I hope they suffer for it. God is just. Who would have believed that Robert would delib- erately, coolly, patiently, day by day, write such things as these. He awoke and went to sleep with these thoughts. It is horrible to think of it ! My mother and Stephen are too forgiving. I hate him ! " Robert let the book fall. " She does not know, then, that Stephen was the first offender ; I wish she knew it. No, she would not believe me ; and why should I cause her another pang ? She saved my life, and shall I sadden hers ? Never, never ! " Let us leave Robert in the midst of his gloomy reflections, and start for Paris. CHAPTER IV. THE CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. THIS fine eulogy has been deservedly pro- nounced upon at least a dozen actresses. The one who deserved it most was Maria Orfano, and this compliment was the minimum of the praise bestowed upon her, for as we have already said she was as good as she was intelligent. Her goodness of heart was accompanied by a play- ful archness, always on the alert. M. and Mme. de Nolongue brought her, one morning, Robert's letter. She received them cordially, and while reading the letters scanned them both with the corner of her eye. The result of the examination was favorable, for, assuming her most gracious smile, she said : " Monsieur and madame, I am at your ser- vice. This letter of M. de Salemberry's was not at all necessary. What can I do for you ? " 103 104 CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. " I assure you, madame, the matter is a very delicate one." "'We love to be flattered for our intelli- gence. ' Do you bring me a sonnet, M. de Nolongue ? " " Fortunately, no, madame ; although this is a question of one the famous sonnet of 'The Poisonous Fang.' " " Ah, yes ; explain, please ; let us come to the point." This " let us come to the point" disconcerted M. de Nolongue, and he found it convenient to throw the burden of explanation on his wife. " My dear Poncette, explain the affair your- self to Madame Orfano." "Willingly," replied Poncette. " Your name is Poncette, madame ? " " But through no fault of mine ; it is the Christian name borne by all the women of our family for several generations." " Parents have singular ideas. Let us pro- ceed." " This is what brings us to you, madame. You know 'The Poisonous Fang' better than CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. 105 any one else; for our cousin's comedy owes to you " The greatest part of its success that is agreed. Continue." " You know this unfortunate play (unfortu- nate in this sense only) was an attack upon a clever poet " Stephen de Fleurigny. That is, I am in- deed sorry to say, true ; and I took upon my- self to reproach the author for it : which proves that I had courage." " And a great deal of heart." " If you wish." " Then, madame, my husband and I hope to have you as an ally in our project." " What project? " "We are fully persuaded that Robeit was mistaken, and most unjust, in revenging himself so cruelly on Stephen. We think that the ar- ticle in The Viper, which caused the rupture of their friendship, was not Stephen's, and that he allowed himself, for some unknown reason, to be accused of writing it." " That is my opinion, also," said the actress, in a grave tone. io6 CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. " But, madame, our conviction does not suf- fice," replied Madame de Nolongue. "The only means of showing Salemberry his mistake is to discover the real author of the article, and we have come to Paris for that purpose." " It certainly was a mistake to name you Poncette, madame, for you are not descended from that Pontius Pilate who washed his hands of innocent blood. What measures do you in- tend to take to discover this anonymous author ?" " We know none ; therefore we rely upon you to help us." " Upon me? " "Yes, on your goodness your cleverness." Madame Orfano reflected a moment ; then with a sweet smile, and in her rich, mellow voice, exclaimed : "But 'that will require a special scene,' as said the eminent . " " You would do it so well." " I am not so sure ; but, to please you, I shall try; for you are good people. Let us see. First of all, have you the article from The Vipef with you ? " " No, but I shall send it to you." CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. 107 "This evening; do not forget." The beautiful actress again reflected a mo- ment, and then said : " Do me the honor, M. le Baron, to dine with me next Sunday. I do not invite madame, you understand." " I accept with great pleasure, madame." " I shall invite, for the same day, all the edi- torial staff of The Viper, with a few of my other journalist friends, and and we shall see. Un- til Sunday, then." As M. and Mme. de Nolongue were about to take leave, the actress approached him and said, " Baron, come a little nearer the win- dow." Baron de Nolongue obeyed, and Maria Orfano looked at him a moment, in the strong light : " I suspected it," pointing to Louis' curled locks ; " I thought so. That came from the house of William Thomson, London." M. de Nolongue blushed crimson. " I told you so, Louis," said Foncette, ex- citedly ; " it is very evident. " " Madame is right, M. de Nolongue, and be- cause I like you I am going to give you good loS CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. advice : throw that thing into the fire. You are ungrateful to fate. Just think of it ! Nature has done for you what she does for very few peo- ple ; she has given you the means of appearing grave, serious, profoundly thoughtful, without effort, and you thwart nature. You do not know how many people owe their fortune to the absence of that vain ornament that caused Absalom's death." Assured by the actress' kindly smile, Louis ventured to say : " My wife is of your opinion, madame, and I should be glad to submit to your and her good judgment, if it were possible." "Why, is it impossible? " " Oh, no ! But my vanity made me conceal, and I thought I had succeeded in hiding, this favor of nature; if I were suddenly to make such a public avowal, I should subject myself to retrospective ridicule, for everybody knows that one does not become bald in a single night." " No," murmured the actress, under her breath, " but sometimes in a single day ! " " What are you saying so softly, madame ? " " That I have found a means of saving the CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. 109 situation, which will give you confidence in my ability in the affair of The Viper." "And what is this means, madame? " " I want to surprise you with it. Read the papers very early to-morrow morning, and act in accordance. Good-by; do not forget my dinner on Sunday, nor the morning papers. You are good people." M. and Mme. de Nolongue went away very much puzzled. All the next morning's papers contained the following, which evidently had been communicated to them by the Prefecture of Police : " The fire yesterday in the Faubourg Saint- Antoine gave rise to a most dramatic incident. A six-year-old child had taken refuge on a roof that had just caught fire, when a brave citizen, the Baron de Nolongue, seizing a ladder, rushed to the little one's rescue and carried it through the flames. The child escaped quite scathless; her valiant deliverer was not seriously injured, but his luxuriant hair was entirely consumed as he ran through the flames. The learned Dr. X. declares that the Baron Louis de Nolongue will be bald to the end of his days. The no CLEVEREST OF PARISIAN ACTRESSES. memory of his noble deed will be his best consolation." Louis de Nolongue and his wife understood the meaning of this article, and he could no longer resist complying with her wishes. More- over, it brought him good fortune, and, antici- pating events, we give here the result of this adventure. The baron's bravery made quite a sensation. A learned man recalled in one of the principal papers the Latin poem written by a monk in honor of Charles the Bald, each word of which began with C : " Carmina, clarisonse, clavis cantate, camenre." The young baron's heroism made him very popular, and a few months later he was elected deputy from his district. Baron Louis de No- longue is to-day the handsomest bald-head in the Chamber of Deputies. CHAPTER V. PREPARATIONS FOR THE SPECIAL SCENE. MARIA ORFANO, while awaiting her guests, sat in the large drawing-room of her handsome house in the Rue de la Paix, attentively reading the famous article in The Viper that the Baron de Nolongue had sent her. So deeply was she absorbed, she seemed to be learning it by heart. " I am determined to succeed in this affair. The thing amuses me ; it is delightful to punish the author of an evil deed by doing a good one. But I shall find it difficult, for whoever wrote this article ought to be wary of the police, and poachers do not like to let themselves be trapped; but chance aids the vigilant police." The celebrated actress' guests arrived promptly. As all the others were acquaint- ances, Maria Orfano had only the Baron Louis de Nolongue to present. Louis was well- known from the account given of the fire in H2 PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. the Faubourg Saint - Antoine, and the late hero's baldness was admired by the fifteen journalists on the faith of the daily papers. Thus is fame acquired- As this assemblage of fifteen, consisting of journalists, dramatic authors, novelists, and poets sat at table, they, truth to tell, in nowise differed in appearance from a reunion of no- taries, brokers, deputies, millionaires, or engi- neers. The managing editor of The Viper, fac- ing the hostess, presided with a dignity the president of the Senate might envy, and the editor of The Court Calendar was as solemn as the Procureur- General of the Court of Appeals. It was the fault of the white cravats ; the habit makes the monk. This solemnity did not enter into the ac- tress' plans. After the soup and one or two courses, seeing that her choice Madeira did not succeed in making her guests unbend, she took up the conversation. " Gentlemen, illustrious representatives of the source of literary news, you think you are, or at least call yourselves, Republicans, but you are in reality the officials of the future mon- PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. 113 archy. I have known chamberlains under the Empire less majestic than you. This is antic- ipating the future too much ; take advantage of the Republic while it exists, and be hilarious and triumphant. Are you Republicans ? Yes, or no ? " "Yes," answered several voices. " Then why are you so solemn ? Why these prudent glances, these discreet expressions? Are you, perchance, candidates for the French Academy? " " No, no ! " exclaimed all the guests. " Thank you, gentlemen ; I see I have touched a responsive chord. My dear president, call upon one of these orators for a speech." " I obey, my dear Celimene. I propose that the brilliant writer for The Viper, Pierre Robes, give us a speech. Mount the rostrum, my good friend." " If my chief will give me a subject ; I speak or write only under orders." " Very well ; you have just finished a com- edy. Tell us of your first appearance on the stage." "None of that; if the plot of the piece H4 PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. should evaporate, it would make our neighbors sneeze." " Metaphor aside, you fear the plagiarists ; you flatter yourself, but I understand. Let us try another subject. Why do you call yourself Pierre Robes ? That is an uncommon name." " It is, in fact, a pseudonym." "And why did you choose it?" " Because I was refused the baccalaureate degree." " Tell us about it," said Mana, very gra- ciously. " It is a melancholy memory, dear madame, but I shall comply with your request in a mo- ment. This salmon-trout will fortify me for the task." The actress in the meantime carefully stud- ied the young writer. Pierre Robes was a pale, bilious-looking bachelor of thirty; his hair was thin on brow and temple, his eyes small but full of fire; he had distended nostrils, and a cynical expression at the corners of his mouth. When he had finished his trout, he continued : " This is the story, madame. When I was seventeen my father wished me to obtain the PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL. SCENE. 115 degree of bachelor of arts. I presented myself, accordingly, to the Faculty of Paris. I had al- ready a leaning towards literature, but I was as ignorant as that trout before he was caught. However, I did not make such a poor show in Greek and Latin, but I was perfectly at sea in French history, and I floundered shamefully among the Valois. The professor, losing all patience, said: 'Let us see if you can do any better with the French Revolution. Do you know the name of the man who had Danton guillotined?' I had no idea who it was, but the pupil behind me whispered, 'Robespierre.' Not to appear too ignorant, I would not repeat the name just as he whispered it, and I answered, ' Pierre Robes ! ' A shout of laughter rang through the room, and I was rejected." " And this gave you the idea of taking " " Not so fast. I left France and went every- where to seek my fortune under my own name. I traversed the shores of Italy, Russia, and America; but the sea is rough, so I returned to France five years ago and plunged into jour- nalism. My father forbade my signing our name to my articles." u6 PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. "Why?" "Provincial prejudice; he feared the family name might be compromised by what I wrote." " What is this name ? " " Lebon." " Like the Sergeant in 'Tartufe.' " " You have no idea how near you are to facts; my father is a sergeant." "Then," said Maria Orfano, laughing, "you are perhaps descended from the Sergeant in 'Tartufe' ?" " That has never been proved. In short, I know not why I took this pseudonym, except that the remembrance of my ignominious failure to obtain a baccalaureate amused me ; and now my name is Pierre Robes, and those who think that I do not do credit to it would do well not to say so." " No one would say it, my dear sir ; no one. And the comedy of which we were just now speaking will, no doubt, add new lustre to the name." " One never knows, madame." Not wishing to let the conversation flag, she kept up the dialogue with the writer, with PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. 117 her bright eyes all the while steadily fixed upon him. " Speaking of comedy, M, Pierre Robes, I shall give you a point : Salemberry promises us a new play for next winter." "The deuce!" " That annoys you ? " " No, but it makes me anxious for him." " I do not understand." " Oh, yes ! after the immense success of 'The Poisonous Fang ' the public will be very exact- ing. With all due respect to de Salemberry, were I in his place I should hereafter write only poems, metrical dramas, or tragedies." " Perhaps you are right. So you admire de Salemberry's poems and dramas very much? " " I am not afraid of them ; I look up to them, but I could no more rise to their height than I could mount the obelisk." " If the obelisk were to fall, would you be very sorry? " " I could measure it more conveniently, that is all." Maria Orfano, feeling that Pierre Robes' inquisition had lasted long enough, turned to n8 PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. the other guests and addressed a few remarks consecutively to each one, thus making the con- versation very animated. At dessert, the actress again addressed the writer : " You do not take fruit, M. Robes ? You make a mistake ' TJie duchess' pears are not the least tender ! ' >: And she emphasized the phrase with her loveliest smile. " Where have I read that phrase? " asked the journalist in reply. "Ah, yes, I remember; in an article in The Viper, four years ago. It made sensation enough, did that same article." " Yes, indeed, and I have never been able to discover the author," said the director of The Viper. " The reader, short of copy, took it at random from the box of manuscript and printed it to fill a space. No, I am mistaken ; he found it on the form, all printed. But no one ever knew who gave it to the compositor. I remem- ber, now, charging Pierre Robes, who had just taken a place on the paper, to inquire into the subject; do you remember it, Robes? " " Perfectly; but all my efforts were* in vain." PREPARA TIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. I i 9 " You are acting very shrewdly, my dear M. Robes," said the actress, rising. As they entered the drawing-room, where coffee was served, Maria Orfano made a sign to Baron Louis de Nolongue, drew him a little aside, and, glancing toward Pierre Robes, said : "There is the author of the article." ''Is it possible? How have you made ' " Nothing simpler; I made him talk a great deal, as you may have noticed. I am accus- tomed to commit parts to memory, so I learned this famous article almost by heart, you see. Then I have been much in the society of jour- nalists and writers, and I long ago observed that they speak very much as they write. The construction of the phrase is the same; the source of ideas, opinions, and sentiments is the same. My suspicions were aroused by M. Robes' first words, and that remark about the obelisk convinced me without anything else. That is all for the present; 'continued in our next number.' " The actress approached Pierre Robes and said : 120 PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. " Your story interests me deeply, my dear M. Robes, and I should like to be of service to you." " Madame," said the journalist, all smiles and bowing profoundly. " For what theatre is your comedy intended ? " " I should like to offer it to Jacques Alen- gon " " My manager? " " Yes, but I do not know him, and you know " I shall give you a letter; you will send it to him to-morrow with your manuscript, and you will go to see him the next day at noon. Do not forget. " " I shall be very sure to be there on time." " Is there a part for me in your play? " " Oh, yes." " That may serve to influence Jacques' deci- sion. But I must warn you that he is not a man easy to manage. You must do everything he may ask you that is, if you are desirous of having your play acted." " Desirous ! as I am of retaining life. " " Good; I see you have no taste for suicide; PREPARATIONS FOR SPECIAL SCENE. 121 so much the better. I pledge myself to see this through." The charming woman, looking after Robes as he left, said to herself, smiling with inward joy : " I was not sure that the scene could be made, but it is made." CHAPTER VI. A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. JACQUES ALENCON received Maria Orfano in his private office ; at five minutes to twelve she arose to take leave of her manager. " Well, you promise me to do all that, my dear manager? " " Yes, my charming star ; I like to serve good people." "'Being one myself,' you might add, as in 'The King Amuses Himself.' You, at least, understand perfectly? " " That is a courteous question." " I mean, do you remember all the points ? " " Yes, oh, yes ! Stephen Salemberry the mother, the sister the husband with the wig The Viper the journalist. What an excel- lent title for a fable : 'The Viper and the Jour- nalist ' ! " 122 A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. 123 "Do not jest, but attend to our affairs; you promise me again " " You distrust me? " " Always." " In this instance you will be mistaken." " It is twelve. I escape by the door to the left ; our man enters by the door on the right. You remain standing in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace. Very good stage-set- ting. An revoir," she called back, disappearing at left, as she said. Jacques Alengon was a refined, handsome, distinguished-looking man of about sixty, charming as a man of the world, but fierce as a manager. His ferocity, however, was only a mask which he assumed at will when it was necessary; he could with equal facility as- sume the mask of amiability, as well as that of impassiveness. He chose the latter in which to receive Pierre Robes. " Be seated, sir, and let us discuss this matter seriously. What do you think of your play? " " What do I think of my play ? But it seems to me that it is you who " 124 A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. " You are mistaken, sir ; I think it very im- portant to know an author's opinion of his work ; when I may believe, a priori, that he is a writer of considerable merit." " Really, sir, I think if you had found it very bad you would have told me so at once." " I do not decide things so quickly. No, M. Robes, a piece may not be bad, yet despite that it may not be good. These very cases are the most troublesome to a manager." " Is this the case with my comedy? " " I admit that it is not bad, and at times I am inclined to think, too, that perhaps it is rather good. " " Then you will have it played ? " " Your piece, as it is now, would be a good deal of an undertaking, quite a troublesome affair." " It is only three short acts ! " " There are no short acts ; in fact, all three are twice too long." " It is not bad to have abundant material." "When the material is solid." " Is mine ? " "Things are tested by use." A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. 125 " Finally, sir, do you intend to have my piece played ? " " I do, and I do not ; it may be, and it may not be played." " What a sphinx you are ! " " That is my profession." " In short, what do we decide ? " " That you will reduce your work to half its present dimensions ; that done, you will bring it to me. ' " I understand, and I thank you, for you seem to be interested in me." " Am I wrong? " " No, I am not a bad sort of a devil, after all." " Then you may be made an angel." " With difficulty. I am a queer body." " A queer body who has many skeletons." "They are well buried; that is enough," re- plied Pierre Robes, laughing. As he rose to leave, Jacques Alenc,on accompanied him to the door, and, scrutinizing him closely with his penetrating eye, said, in a serious tone : " By the way, M. Robes, I have a favor to ask of you. " 126 A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. " Speak, prince ; your highness " " My highness, for very particular reasons, wishes to know the author of an unsigned article." " That may be ascertained. What day did the article appear? " " Four years ago." " The deuce ! And in what paper? " "In The Viper:' " We are getting warm. The subject of the article? " " A rather disparaging depreciation of Robert de Salemberry's works." "Ah, yes; I know the article." " It is the name of the author that I want to know." "What for?" " To tell it to M. de Salemberry, and thus prove that he made a mistake in attacking such a good, loyal fellow as Stephen de Fleurigny." Pierre Robes was silent a moment, then said : " If I succeed in discovering the name you are seeking, I should much prefer to tell it to Salemberry myself." "There is no objection to that. When you A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. 127 have discovered it you will write and tell it to Salemberry." " And then ? " " Then, you will bring me Robert de Salem- berry 's answer, and at the same time your revised comedy." " And you will then decide in favor of my comedy ? " " Probably." "An revoir, then; I go to commence my search." " Do not unearth too many skeletons, young man; one will be sufficient for me, but soon." Pierre Robes went away quite perplexed, thoughtfully murmuring to himself: "A sword-thrust is a very disagreeable thing granted; but it is a very gratifying thing to have a grand piece played. It will be difficult to cope with these good little comrades. This Jacques Alengon is a sly dog; what a minister of foreign affairs he would make ; I am determined to fathom this idea. And Maria Orfano, what an artful creature no matter. But this prospective sword-thrust bah ! " When Robes reached his modest apartment, 128 A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. he sharpened his finest quill, and in a firm hand wrote the following letter to Robert de Salem- berry : " Illustrious Master. " SIR : I am about to render you a service at my own risk and peril. For reasons entirely personal, I have been most anxious to discover the author of an article that appeared several years ago in The Viper, in which your talents and character were not treated with the deference they deserve. I have succeeded in this quest. " The author in question is one of my most intimate friends. You may not have forgotten the journey and visit you made to Florence about five years ago, where you received a most flattering reception from the Duke and Duchess of X. Well, my friend had some cause of complaint against the duke, but especially against the duchess. With your leave, I shall not press this point. " My friend, whom you do not know, and who, moreover, has, since then, changed his name, conceived a feeling of hatred for you, that I do not attempt to justify. The desire A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. 129 to revenge himself was the motive that impelled him to commit this injustice; hence this de- plorable article, for which he now blushes, and that double-meaning phrase, ' the ducliess pears,' which was meant to wound you by wounding another. " This was not the only wrong my friend perpetrated. Public rumor accused M. Stephen de Fleurigny of having written this doubly culpable article. My friend did nothing to contradict this false accusation perhaps even helped to spread it. " In now making this tardy acknowledgment of his long- concealed double offence, my friend understands that he must accept the conse- quences. " Unfortunately, his state of health will not permit him to fight a duel, but I have decided to be his substitute, and I am at your disposi- tion. " Assuming, then, that the offender is none other than Pierre Robes, " Accept, illustrious sir, etc., " PIERRE ROBES, " Editor of The Viper. " 9 13 A THEATRICAL MANAGER'S RUSE. Two days later, Pierre Robes received the following reply : " SIR : The service you have rendered me in showing me the truth makes me forget all else. I must decline your offer to act as substitute for your friend ; if he ends better than he began, he will have a narrow escape. " Believe me, sir, with the very divers sen- timents with which you inspire me, " ROBERT DE SALEMBERRY. " Pierre Robes showed this letter to Jacques Alengon. The manager and the actress kept their piomise, the writer's piece was played, and had even a certain amount of success. Literary success is sometimes blind, like victory and military fame. CHAPTER VII. THE REAL VICTIM. IT would be difficult to depict Robert de Salemberry's overwhelming despair. Every word of Pierre Robes' letter went to his heart like a knife. Let us not make our hero seem better than he was ; his pride was what suffered most in this affair. " Well, I was deceived ; I made a serious mistake in laying the offence to the charge of one who was not at all to blame. My logic misled me into striking a false blow. My judgment was at fault and swerved from the path of justice. I knew not why Stephen re- fused to defend himself, but I ought to have guessed. Believing that I was punishing treachery, I committed a great wrong. There are two men in the world who knew it. Stephen may despise me, Pierre Robes must laugh ; he 13- THE REAL VICTIM. has made me a laughing-stock. He is the wretch who made me rush into this attack upon an innocent man. Hercules wages war on a pigmy ; it has been a very stupid affair. Why are such things permitted ? Sagacity and in- fallibility should always accompany ability and intelligence. What am I to do now ? What can I do? My aunt builded better than she thought with her 'Game of Virtues ': 'Repair the injury that has been done.' One might believe that she had prescience. It is strange that she, as well as M. and Mme. de Nolongue and Maria Orfano in Paris, everybody in fact, judged more justly than I. It is humiliat- ing. Of what avail are talents, knowledge of the human heart, reputation, fame? Oh, that dreadful comedy ! that hideous title, ' The Poisonous Fang/ that I thought so much of, and considered so good ! What misery it all is now ! " Robert, rinding at hand a copy of his play, shuddered at sight of it and threw the book aside. " I cannot remain quiet with these thoughts ; I must act. First, I shall go find my aunt ; she will give me good advice. " THE REAL VICTIM, 133 Robert hurried down from his room in the castle tower, but was told that Madame de Rille had just gone to pay a visit to Mme. and Mile. de Fleurigny. " With Stephen's mother and sister. I should have been there long ago. " " What is the matter, my illustrious nephew ? " exclaimed the marquise, as Robert entered Ma- dame de Fleurigny's drawing-room. " Have you had another fight with the gypsies ? You are as pale " Mile, de Fleurigny," said Robert, "will you kindly read this letter to these ladies ? I have not the courage to do it myself. " Gilberte read Pierre Robes' letter slowly, in a tremulous voice in which joy and surprise were mingled. A prolonged silence followed the reading of the letter, during which Robert waited with downcast eyes ; no one dared utter a word. Finally, the Marquise de Rille said : " Nephew, I ask pardon for you from Madame de Fleurigny, her daughter, and from her ab- sent son, Stephen. As for you, be your own judge." 134 THE REAL VICTIM. " I have already judged and condemned myself, aunt. " " That is not enough ; you must now repair the injury you inflicted." " I am ready to do all in my power. " " What do you intend to do? " " First, I shall write to the papers ; pub- licly acknowledge that I was mistaken, and that I attacked the best and noblest of friends. " " Pardon me, M. de Salemberry," inter- rupted Gilbcrte, " but that would be publish- ing that the odiously ridiculous character placed by you upon the stage was really intended to represent Stephen. That would only establish the fact and aggravate the injury." "That is true, Mile, de Fleurighy; what can 1 do then ? " " Nothing, sir." " You are mistaken, my child ; if M. de Salemberry has no objection, that letter, at least, might be sent to Stephen. " " I was going to beg you to do so, madame ; only allow me to add a line to the letter. " Robert, taking a pen from the table, wrote THE REAL VICTIM, 135 at the end of the last page : "Will you ever forgive me, Stephen? " "Very well, M. de Salemberry; I shall write to my son." " While you are writing, mother, allow me a few moments' private conversation with M. Robert." " Do as you wish, my child; you are always right." Gilberte led Robert to her favorite summer- house in the garden. " You must know all, M. de Salemberry, but I have no right to speak before your aunt of a secret known only to my mother, Stephen, and to me. " The young girl hesitated an instant, the habitual, fixed expression of her eyes was replaced by a sudden flash, and she continued in a trembling voice : " You think, no doubt, M. de Salemberry, that your attack upon Stephen merely wounded his self-love, and lessened his reputation as a poet; that would have been nothing, for, after all, these things retrieve themselves and are soon forgotten. You inflicted a much more ir- reparable injury upon my brother. He loved, I3 6 THE REAL VICTIM. and was to marry a young lady, Isabel le d' Acerac, daughter of the general. When your piece was played, her father went to Stephen and insisted upon his challenging you, which my brother re- fused to do ; and yet you know how brave Ste- phen is ; but you know how good he is also, and that he does not agree with the world on cer- tain subjects. He is a saint ! The engagement was broken and Isabelle married another. " "Oh, just Heaven!" exclaimed Robert; "if I had known. " Tears welled to the young man's eyes. " It astonishes me to see tears in your eyes, sir; I considered you hard-hearted yes, very hard-hearted. I have seen my dear, noble brother weep before I saw your tears. He would not add to my mother's suffering by grieving before her, but he told me of his ten- der love for Isabelle, and his sobs and despair- ing anguish broke my heart. Ah ! may you suffer thus some day, for you deserve it. And while he wept, you were enjoying your horri- ble triumph, listening to the public sneers and laughter ; hearing the noble name of your friend vilified, bandied from mouth to mouth, and THE REAL VICTIM. 137 those malicious people calling him 'that poor Stephen. ' This was pleasant to you, and you had even a baser gratification from it ; you made money by your perfidious, vindictive work; yes, in the evening you counted your money, the gold and the bank-notes the cashier brought you from the theatre, and said, 'This is good; friends are lucrative. ' " " Oh, Mile, de Fleurigny ! " exclaimed Rob- ert, pale with emotion. " What I say wounds you ; so much the bet- ter. I am not gentle and ready to forgive, like my brother. No ; in his place I should have done as the general wished. I should have challenged you I should have killed you I should have silenced your ironical, disdainful lips forever. And the other day, in the woods, when those men were about to pound you to death with their stones, hatchets, and hammers, I was on the point of letting them do it. I did save you ; I told you that I did not, but it is true I saved you. Why? I know not, ex- cept it seemed to me that Stephen was there and called to me, ' Save him ! save him ! ' But I cannot always be generous like him; I have I3 8 THE REAL VICTIM. all this in my heart, and I must cast it in your face. Now, go ; before the world, I shall be- have towards you as a well-bred young girl should towards a clever man ; but you know how I feel at heart. Good-morning, sir; leave me. " " Mile, de Fleurigny, you are more cruel than I have been," replied Robert, as he turned to go. That same evening Gilberte received an en- velope bearing the stamp of the Bureau for the Relief of the Poor, and containing a copy of a paper on file at that office : " Received of M. de Salemberry the sum of 1 10,000 francs, the entire receipts from his rights in the comedy, 'The Poisonous Fang.' According to the intention of the donor, this sum will be distributed among the poor of Paris. " COMMISSIONER OF PUBLIC RELIEF. "PARIS, Decembers, 1875." The date of this receipt coincided with the last representation of " The Poisonous Fang," three years before. " Ah," thought Gilberte, " I, too, have been hard and unjust, but in this only." THE REAL VICTIM. 139 The hardness and injustice of which Gilberte accused herself was of benefit to Robert in his present state of mind. What he took most to heart, what completely overwhelmed him, was the dreadful reproach of having gained money, ac- quired fortune, filled his coffers with the profits of his iniquitous work. Nothing helps us to comprehend the wrong we do others like a sim- ilar wrong done to us. The shock, while wound- ing us, teaches us in return a useful lesson. " I appreciate now what Stephen must have suffered when I accused him to his face so cruelly and unjustly. I understand how it was that he could not defend himself; I could find no answer to Gilberte's bitter reproaches yester- day, and if I had not found the proof of my in- nocence on that point she would still believe that I had Judas' thirty pieces of silver in my pocket. Her reproaches, nevertheless, came home to me, went straight to my heart, and cut me to the quick. Ah, poor Stephen ! my poor Stephen ! And that young girl whom he loved, from whom he was separated by my criminal deed for it was a crime before God. What agony he must have endured ! It seems to me T40 THE REAL VICTIM. that I can see and hear him when he contem- plated, in mournful despair, his dream of happi- ness fading away forever. Oh, how gladly I would give my fame, my fortune, and my life to redeem one of those tears. I recall now all our friendship, the care he took of my growing reputation, his loving, earnest counsel. And his cry at Mars-la-Tour, when he threw himself between me and that Uhlan's sword 'It might better be I ; you have genius. ' It did not, how- ever, prevent his piercing the Uhlan's head with a ball from his revolver. And I forgot all that, and yielded to a vile suspicion, to newspaper and drawing-room gossip, and made this hero, this friend weep like a child. Oh, stupid, vil- lainous pride, well might I blush for it ! Poor Stephen, what will he say when he receives this letter ? If the wound has healed it will reopen, and he will curse me again, and justly." Stephen's answer came promptly: "ROME, October 25, 1879. " MY DEAR ROBERT : " I forgave you long ago, or, rather, I have never blamed any one but myself for your mis- THE REAL VICTIM. 14* take. Through a feeling of excessive dignity I would not defend myself against your accusa- tion ; I was wrong, hence came all the trouble. Do not further reproach yourself; I shall tell you some day, soon I hope, how you have been the maker of my future happiness. I received with yours a letter from my dear Gilberte. It seems to me that the scene she made with you was rather too theatrical for a young girl. I shall scold her for it. :< On your part, do not hold this too much against her. I have always dreaded this meet- ing for you both. You have no sister, and you do not know how tenderly these little souls love their big brothers. I know one in the highest social circles, who made a vow to enter a con- vent if her elder brother returned from the war ; she is now a Carmelite. " Gilberte will never become a Carmelite, but you have had sufficient proof that she does not lack strength of character. Console yourself by saying, 'I have seen the wrath of the Lamb,' as the Scripture says.* I shall not finish my * " Abscondite nos a facie sedentis super thronum et ab ira Agni." Apocalypse, vi. 16. 142 THE REAL VICTIM. letter without reproaching you very seriously. You no longer work, you are doing nothing. Why? " I can guess why, my dear Robert, or rather I am quite sure I know. You no longer do anything because your last work turned you from your true course, from your natural bent. You were not made for this jeering, satirical role. The success you achieved is your punish- ment. You were the lion who went to the monkeys in the mountain, and on returning the 'large-headed seigneur' made grimaces at the passers-by ; a very bad habit, and difficult to correct. What a pity ! he was so noble, proud, and handsome ! This is why I seek a quarrel with the lion. You will become again that lion that I loved, and shall always love, my dear Robert ; it is your duty. I knew you to have the highest ambition, the ambition to give to France works elevating to mind and soul, of which she has so much need. You have labored to amuse the Philistines ; work rather to create the great and powerful, and to win their applause. Yes, my dear friend, work for France, give her sub- lime intellectual food ; should she disdain it, it THE REAL VICTIM. 1 43 will not be your fault, and she will return to it sooner or later. " I impose upon you as a penance to arouse your genius, and I say to you as the Master said to Peter : ' Due in altum ! ' * " I have finished my little sermon, dear Rob- ert ; be thankful that I did not put it into a sonnet, at which you would be inclined to laugh. Forgive this little piece of mischievous pleas- antry, which is only a playful evidence of my friendship for you. " With a loving embrace, " STEPHEN DE FLEURIGNY. " Robert involuntarily pressed Stephen's letter to his lips. " Yes, I will do your bidding, your wish shall be mine ; I will be what I ought to be, and I shall owe it all to you. Oh ! what a noble, generous heart; how readily he forgets, how well he knows how to comfort! But I will not forget, I will never forget ; my irrep- arable mistake will be ever before my eyes and my heart will always be tortured with bit- ter, undying remorse. I am the real victim myself." * Launch out into the deep. CHAPTER VIII. THE CID'S ERROR. ROBERT did not see Gilberte again for sev- eral days. The fever of work had again seized him, and he shut himself up in his turret-room, coming down only to join his aunt at table, when he chatted a few moments with her, then returned to renew his work. One day after breakfast he said quite joyfully to the good marquise; "'I have finished the first act ; I shall read it to you if you wish." " What first act ? " " The first act of my drama." "What drama? " " The Cid's Error." "What is 'The Cid's Error?'" " You will see." " Let us see, then, at once." Although the marquise often chided her nephew, she was very proud of him, and her 144 THE CID'S ERROR. MS self-love was flattered when Robert made her the confidant of his labors. " Go, get us your manuscript and let us begin." Robert complied, but just as he began to read, Mme. and Mile, de Fleurigny were an- nounced. " You come very opportunely, my dear friends. Robert is going to read me the first act of his new work. Stay, and we three shall form a small tribunal, enthusiastic, if there is occasion, but very severe if necessary." " You do us too much honor," said Madame de Fleurigny, not without a slight touch of bitterness. " Since chance seems to favor my secret de- sire," interrupted Robert, " I earnestly pray you to be good enough to listen to this new work. I assure you the honor is to me alone." " What do you think, Gilberte ? " Gilberte turned upon Robert that sphinx-like gaze of which we have already spoken, and said deliberately : " Let us stay, mother. Robert began to read. The plot of his drama 146 THE CID'S ERROR. was very simple. The Cid in his youth was chosen to arbitrate in a quarrel between two kings. He had cause of complaint against one of them, the memory of which so influenced his judgment that, notwithstanding his great equity, he condemned the king whom he believed to have wronged him. The king thus condemned, despoiled of his kingdom, died in exile. Mean- time, the son of the vanquished prince pro- claimed, and offered to prove, his father's in- nocence. At the end of the first act of the drama, he came to ask the Cid to revoke the unjust edict. The Cid, after mature reflection, acknowledges his error and pledges himself to repair it. The allusions were very transparent; the Cid was de Salemberry himself; and it was very evident that the unjustly condemned king was Stephen. Robert's three auditors recog- nized them at once, and their interest was in- tensely excited from the first moment. The poet read with extraordinary power and fervor. His voice gave the resonance of a clarion to the verses, which were superb in their movement, like the noble bearing of the herald-at-arms who, in olden times, announced THE CID'S ERROR. 147 the opening of the lists. Familiar scenes, at times almost comic, were introduced with dra- matic effect. Robert had discovered the point at which the sublime and the familiar meet, which is the dream, the ambition, and often the despair of writers. The work was, conse- quently, vigorously bold, strong, and incisive. The young prince's plaint before the Cid, as well as the Cid's monologue, drew silent tears from the women's eyes. As the reading ended the marquise ex- claimed : " I recognize in this my noble Robert. I am no judge of these things, but I appreciate their beauty; tears are an unmistakable tribute to excellence. " " That is very true, my dear," added Madame de Fleurigny; "my heart thrilled through it all." "And you, Mile, de Fleurigny?" ventured Robert. " Oh, sir, I shall be more severe, perhaps. I shall tell you what I think on our way to the village." " I submit to your judgment in advance." 148 THE CID'S ERROR. "That is a mistake, M. de Salemberry. I am sincere, but not infallible." The three ladies, accompanied by Robert walked along the road to Rille, the mother and the aunt a little in advance. Gilberte, deep in thought, seemed scarcely conscious of Robert's presence at her side. " Well, Mile, de Fleurigny, the culprit awaits his sentence." Gilberte blushed slightly, and, with apparent effort rousing herself from her long revery ? said : " I made a very imprudent promise. I am only a young girl, little versed in the great questions of art and literature ; my opinion has no value except to myself. I feel also that it is very easy to misjudge, and then " She stopped suddenly, lightly touching the branch of a tree with the end of her parasol. " And then You are laughing at me." " Laughing at you, Mile, de Fleurigny ! I laugh at you ! You know too well that could not be." " Well," continued Gilberte earnestly, " not- THE CID'S ERROR. 149 withstanding my ignorance, incompetence, if you like it better I have a passion for litera- ture; I adore Corneille." And she added, smiling : " Like a princess of the Fronde, while listen- ing to you I naturally thought of my old friend Corneille, and I said to myself as you were reading that first act, how would Corneille have rendered such a scene? That was very preten- tious, was it not?" " No, but it is very flattering to me to be compared to Corneille." " Precisely. I compared the young prince's plaint, which I confess brought tears to my eyes, to the plaints and sorrows of Chimene; and I said to myself, pardon my presumption, that your drama would be much more touching if, instead of a son, you had given a daughter to the king unjustly condemned by the Cid." " Why so, Mile, de Fleurigny ? " " Because a son could revenge himself, and a daughter could only make plaint." " I admit that; I agree with you." " Then this young man, this soldier, would necessarily co - operate with the Cid in the 15 THE CID'S ERROR. reparation of his error . . . and I should rather that the Cid would bear the entire burden. " " That is very true, very just. You are per- fectly right. Why did I not think of this? The king shall have a daughter, that is decided. However, wait. I shall leave him a son also, a brother and sister. The sister will love her brother as ' " If you wish, M. de Salemberry," replied Gilberte impetuously. " I beg of you not to hesitate if you have any further criticism to make, for you will be doing me a great service." " Really ? Well, then, I think that the Cid allowed himself to be very easily deceived." " Oh, I do not believe that, Mile, de Fleu- rigny." "Then I shall not insist upon it; you have, doubtless, your own reasons." " Is that meant to be epigrammatic? " " No, something better." " Continue, please. I see you still ha^e something to reprehend." " Yes, M. de Salemberry, but I dare not say THE CID'S ERROR. 151 " Do, I beg of you." " Well, then, it seems to me that the Cid did not recognize his error soon enough ; he resisted the light, and there was too much humiliated pride in his chagrin; if he does not deplore his error with adequate bitterness, he will not make sufficient reparation." " I yield this point. I shall modify the mon- ologue. Is that all ? " " That is all." " I thank you from the depths of my heart, Mile, de Fleurigny. But how did you acquire such penetration, such a rare sense of justice, and such quick, unerring judgment? " " I do not possess all these qualities, M. de Salemberry, but if I did I should owe them to my favorite poet, who is, as I have told you, Corneille, and after Corneille " At this moment they were just entering the drawing-room of the little house at Rille; Gil- berte led Robert to her brother's portrait, and, standing in front of it, finished her sentence : " After Corneille, to Stephen. " " I saw that at once; while listening to you I almost thought it. was he that was speaking." IS 2 THE CID'S ERROR. Gilberte, whose eyes suddenly assumed their mysterious gravity, added in a low voice : " The other day, when you wished to look at this portrait, I prevented you, rather bruskly, if I remember. Now, I permit you to look at Stephen," she said gravely, as she walked slowly away. When taking his leave, Robert said to her, almost beseechingly : " You have been generously kind and helpful to me, Mile, de Fleurigny ; will you not continue your goodness and allow me, while pursuing my labors, to claim for my work your advice, just as you have given it to-day ? " Gilberte turned her gaze upon Stephen's por- trait, then, looking at Robert, said : " Yes, M. de Salemberry." Robert, usually so ready to chat with his aunt, did not address a word to her on the way from the village to the castle. The good marquise noticed this, but respected his revery, and when they reached home said to him, smiling : " Yes, Robert, I am of your opinion." "The Cid's Error" progressed rapidly after this excellent beginning. Robert set to work THE CID'S ERROR. 153 again and gave himself up to it with a sort of desperation, and with a feeling of satisfaction that he had not experienced for a long time. Every week he assembled his small audience and read to them what he had written. The marquise and Mme. de Fleurigny were content to admire, but Gilberte continued her role of censor and adviser. A noble woman displays in her judgment of intellectual works the same tact she shows in her intercourse with the world; she quickly recoils from all that shocks her delicacy and rectitude ; her instinct warns her even before her reason; her purity loves and seeks that which it resembles, and she guides herself in the serene heights of thought like the swan over the azure depths. Such a woman was Gilberte. In this inter- change of ideas, she, as well as Robert, gained much. He acquired greater accuracy, and more sustained loftiness of sentiment and ex- pression. She was brought in touch with the noblest problems of the human heart, enjoyed the exquisite pleasure of watching the budding and growth of a new work, and of contemplating 154 THE CID'S EKKOX. poetry all aglow in its descent from regions to which the vulgar never attain. Gilberte one day received a letter from her brother, of which the following are a few extracts : " DEAR, PRECIOUS SISTER : "What you tell me about 'The Cid's Error' interests me intensely. Robert is here on his own ground, and if he fails it will be at least a noble ruin. Whatever the success may be, his mind and soul will be again attuned to higher things; all else is of little importance. " So you give him advice, my little Sevigne, and you want to know if I approve. Certainly. If my formidable friend seeks to repair the in- jury he has done, let us aid him in his efforts, that he may be spared any unexpected suffering, for you see that when a fault is not repaired it must be expiated. " This is the general idea of his drama (I was going to say of your drama), if I have under- stood it aright. However, he should not insist too much upon the expiation imposed upon the Cid; he is so exalted a character in history THE CID'S ERROR. 155 and legend, it would be wrong to disparage him. " Think over this, for I have misgivings about it ; but Robert will carry away my doubts in the lion's skin. . . . " What you add about his receipts as author of ' The Poisonous Fang ' having been given to the poor gives me pleasure. You ask if you ought to apologize for the unjust reproaches you made him on this subject. I do not think it necessary he understands you. " You would like very much to know what I am doing in Rome, and why I remain here so long. This is still a secret, but in a little while you will know all, and you, as well as mother, will be very happy. "Adieu, till we meet again, my good, noble Gilberte. I hold you and mother to my heart, once so severely wounded, but now completely healed. STEPHEN." " The Cid's Error" was finished in two months, and Robert started for Paris, where the rehearsals were soon to begin. Madame de Rille promised to be present at the first IS 6 THE CID'S ERROR. representation, to which she looked forward with great pleasure. " If I dared, Mile. Gilberte," said Robert, " I should ask you to come to see my play." " Perhaps I may, M. de Salemberry ; I shall consult Stephen." CHAPTER IX. A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. THERE are always people to be found willing to fill the most dangerous and laborious posi- tions; to be bailiffs, policemen, physicians, firemen on locomotives, ministers of finance, to make ascensions in balloons, to venture into private drawing-rooms, to listen to Wagner's operas. There are those who will enter the tiger's cage and even the lion's den. These last are the theatrical managers, the most heroic of all. A theatrical manager is a tyrant and a slave ; he preys upon others and is preyed upon in turn ; he is obliged to wage furious war with actors and actresses, scene-shifters, machin- ists, decorators, prompters, newspaper-men, sub- scribers, with the public, but above all with the authors. He can scarcely be said to live by this terrible way of practising his profession, 157 158 A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. yet if he did not carry it on in this manner it would be the death of him. Jacques Alenc,on was the most courageous and the most unfortunate of these voluntary martyrs. The setting of each new piece was an incessant and complicated torture to him. Nevertheless, he threw himself body and soul into the work, with an apparent composure which increased his inward suffering. His trouble began with the necessity of judging the piece itself ; he had knowledge, experience, and quick perception, but these three excellent qual- ities only added to his natural and acquired per- plexity, making him see and feel all the defects, which he carefully weighed and balanced with the good qualities. This is the delicate, cruel operation, the refinement of petty injustice that theatrical managers have to endure : The pro- logue is not clear ; the second scene but a repe- tition of the first ; there is a story that may create a laugh, but the effect of the last scene is grand perhaps for nothing is certain. Then the struggle with the actors to obtain from them, by flattering their self-love, the best their talent is capable of, adroitly suggesting what A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. 159 they should do, while seeming to let them have the merit of it ; saying to them, for example : " It seemed to me yesterday that you were remarkably graceful and your intonation was excellent," which was nothing less than the truth. Finally, the difficulty of preventing one from producing an effect at the expense of an- other, " from drawing the covering away from her, " as they say in theatrical slang. These are not trifling difficulties, and even a diplomatic manager finds it no easy task always to over- come them. Jacques Alengon possessed this great art, but he paid dearly for it. What he really enjoyed was planning and setting the scenes, arranging the groups to form beautiful tableaux, superin- tending the designing of the costumes to make them harmonize. He was perfect master of this secondary but most important part of a very special science. After these efforts and long struggles, ac- companied by feverish activity and insomnia, he finds himself face to face with the unknown with an alea, chance; for success or failure hangs upon a trifle. 160 A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. Such were Jacques Alenc/m's thoughts the morning of the first representation of " The Cid's Error," which he thoroughly appreciated and even admired, as much as a manager may seem to admire. But he would have tossed up on its success. His anxiety, however, betrayed itself in spite of him, and before the curtain rose he walked about the stage as if treading on hot coals. As to Robert de Salemberry, despite a cer- tain feeling of interest, he was calm and con- fident. Seated in a proscenium box behind Mesdames de Rille and de Fleurigny and Mile. Gilberte, he heard the signal for the raising of the curtain with less fear than curiosity, as if he were about to witness and judge the work of another. The audience seemed unusually eager. The evening of a first representation the author cal- culates upon a dozen devoted friends convinced of his talent, and twelve hundred secret or avowed enemies. After the pronounced and prolonged success of " The Poisonous Fang," it was very natural that the public should be on the alert, and, if they had not expressly deter- A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. 161 mined to destroy their recent idol, they would reflect before putting him on a higher pedestal. The first scene of "The Cid's Error" pro- duced a grand effect; the brilliant, sonorous verses were received with great applause. The second scene, which was piquantly comic, de- lighted the audience ; the role of the cowardly, famished valet caused frank shouts of laughter; it was too successful. The following scene, which was purely tragic, was not understood. The audience had taken a false scent, and they missed the gayety of the preceding scene. The entrance of the Cid failed in effect; the simple, familiar language in which the poet clothed his speech bewildered the spectators, who supposed that this also was a comic role ; and when the grand old Campeador expressed himself in nobler language they were surprised and dis- concerted. Nevertheless, the end of this first act, full of fervor and beauty, was vigorously applauded. Success was possible. Robert went behind the curtain, where he met the manager, who stood nervously tap- ping with his cane on the rests of the stage scenery, it 1 62 A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. " Are you satisfied ? " asked the poet. " I shall answer you after the last act." " But it really seems to me " " Yes, yes ; but the shark does not seem much inclined to nibble at the bait." " It will nibble at it in the second act." " Provided it does not upset the boat." " We have safety- buoys. " "A pitiful resource in a stormy sea." In the actors' gallery Robert was surrounded by a crowd of the three kinds of friends de- scribed by the morose philosopher : those who love, those who do not love, and those who hate. They congratulated him, pressed his hand, and embraced him, but the friends of the third category did not seem disturbed. One of them said to his companion as they went out : " We did well to congratulate him after the first act." " You fear, then, that the others " " My dear, when one is in the house he feels very quickly if it is likely to fall." " You make me fear for our poor friend." " Fraud ! " A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. 163 " You saw the rehearsal as well as I ; do you think that the second act may be hissed? " " Gourmand ! " It was not hissed ; on the contrary, one mag- nificent scene created a sort of enthusiasm, but the rest was coldly received. There was ap- plause also when the curtain fell. "Well?" said the man who had just been speaking to his companion. " Well, he has exhausted his stock of the sublime." The effect of the third act was mournful. It was evident that the crowd did not grasp the poet's meaning. A few brilliant passages relieved the torpor, but the piece was con- demned. " There is no more danger," said the amiable confrere of whom we have already spoken, " there is no more danger, we may applaud" ; and he raised his hands while applauding, that Robert might see him. In the public corridor an epigram, something like this, was circulated, the author of which was unknown : 164 'A' MANAGER ON HOT COALS. " Unjust throughout the drama is. To earn his daily bread The prince becomes a pencil-peddler in the play ; His daughter loses heaven, as the author lost his head ; And the chief fault of the Cid is that the public has to pay." The last two acts were listened to with pity. No one hissed, for great talent always com- mands respect, but a gentle drowsiness reigned from the orchestra to the front boxes ; the fair spectators showed all their pearly teeth between their rosy lips, but not in smiles. The author's name was mentioned in the midst of the cla- queurs applause, the actors were called and given an ovation, as was but just, but it was cruel to the poet. "Withdraw the play at once," said Salem- berry to Jacques Alenc,on. " Thank you, my dear sir, but you know When you bring me another tragedy, I shall call in the police." Robert accompanied the ladies to the hand- some house in the Rue de Bac, where Madame de Fleurigny and her daughter were Madame de Rille's guests. As he took leave of them Gilberte held out her hand to him, saying : A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. 165 "You are depressed, are you not, M. de Salemberry ? " " No, Mile, de Fleurigny, I am almost happy. Stephen is revenged." Robert was not so happy as he said he was. The next morning's papers were more cruel than the public. "The Cid's Error" expiated the success of " The Poisonous Fang." Most of the critics decided that the chivalrous and histori- cal drama had received its death-blow this time. Two or three of the more considerate judges protested against the public verdict; a week afterward it was no longer thought of. The day after the disaster, Robert de Salem- berry met one of his friends on the Boulevard. " My dear fellow," said his friend, " the pub- lic was wrong there are admirable things in that piece ; if you will allow me, in ten years I shall rearrange the play and it will have an immense success." " How, I pray you ? " Robert soon after this secured a delightful revenge. He published the second part of his grand poem, and the manner of its reception ought to have consoled the poet; but there is 1 66 A MANAGER ON HOT COALS. no consolation for an unsuccessful play. Such varied experiences of humiliating disappoint- ment and gratified pride must tell upon the finest mind and the strongest constitution. Robert fell ill, and the physicians ordered the rest and quiet of home life. He returned to his aunt at Rille, where he again met Madame de Fleurigny and Gilberte. CHAPTER X. THE LETTER " G " AND " THE LAKE." THE last months of winter were very dreary to our wounded hero, who, though triumphant, still felt the moral wound he had received. These favorites of fortune can ill endure the sudden rigors of fate. Robert was seized with a sort of feverish dejection and profound melan- choly, accompanied by mental and physical prostration. Disgust and weariness of life were slowly consuming his strong nature. The fail- ure of his play, in wounding his self-love, touched the most secret and noblest depths of his heart ; before this catastrophe he cherished the hope of presenting his work as a retraction of his offence against Stephen ; he would have liked to have dedicated to him his successful drama, but there is no homage in the dedication of an unsuccessful play. His hopes in this respect were sadly frustrated. 167 1 68 THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." Besides, he believed it had lessened him in Gilberte's estimation; he compared himself to a blind lion he once saw in an Algerian village, serving as a plaything for the Arab children. In addition to all this, the painful experience at the theatre had a terrible effect upon the poet physically. At decisive moments, in the instant when the battle may be lost or won, the pulsation of the heart is momentarily sus- pended, and thus it contracts the germs of future hypertrophy. This hypertrophy of the heart was what Robert was threatened with. The illness was long and painful, and absolute rest was advised. But the imagination cannot rest like the body, and the unhappy poet had constantly in his mind the remembrance of those last few months, especially that fatal representation, and the dull eyes of that large, cold audience were always before him. As may be imagined, every care was lavished upon him. His aunt, as well as Madame de Fleurigny and Gilberte, surrounded him with the most tactful and most ingenious attentions. Gilberte was celebrated in the country for her THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." 169 skill as a nurse, and this was not an occasion to refuse to exercise it. Nature aiding, the phys- ical malady was soon conquered, but the moral ailment was more obstinate. With restored health Robert experienced only the painful weariness and anguish of bitter memories. His heart was healed, but empty. One day while alone in the drawing-room. lying on a couch, he vainly sought to banish these gloomy ideas by watching the bright March sun pouring in through the wide-open door. " What beautiful weather," he said to him- self, " but what is it to me ? Valentine de Milan was right : ' ' Rien ne mest plus, plus ne mest rien. ' " * Suddenly Gilberte appeared in the warm, brilliant sunbeams that streamed through the door. She had just returned from the park, animated by her brisk walk, and on entering the room went directly toward Robert with head erect, smiling, and radiant as the aureole of sunbeams that surrounded her. * " I am of interest to no one, and nothing is of interest to me." 170 THE LETTER " G" AND " THE LAKE." Robert, rising, eagerly started forward to meet her, but staggered and was obliged to lean his trembling hands against the wall for sup- port. " What is the matter ? " she asked. " Oh, nothing, nothing." " How pale you are. Do you still suffer? " "No, no. I am quite well, quite." And he closed his eyes to retain the thought of this heavenly vision. It was almost heaven to him, for he was in love. " I am looking for your aunt and my mother. Where are they? " " Down there, on the bank of the pond. " " I am going to join them, and shall bring them back to you." " May I not accompany you, Mile. Gilberte? " " No ; the March sun is still dangerous for you. Sit there a little in the shade, like a prudent invalid, and wait for us." Robert watched her as she went away, and his whole soul accompanied her. " Yes, I love her, it is true. I love her. O my God, how good thou art ! How long I have THE LE TTER " G " AND " THE LAKE. " 171 loved her, I know not ; whether it is within the last instant or for years. What matters it? I love her, I shall tell her mother and my aunt, and I shall declare my love to her, and we shall be married. But first I must write to Stephen." Suddenly the young man's brow became clouded. " Write to Stephen, her brother, whom I so basely outraged, and ask for the hand of his sister ! Is it what he or she would be likely to wish ? I remember the dreadful things she said to me that day, and even then, yes, on that very day I began to love her. How beautiful she was, as the lightning-flashes of her eyes lit up her brow. But I cannot hope to marry her; I was the cause of Stephen's losing the one he loved, and shall I say to him now: 'Give me your sister ' ? Impossible ! " Yes, it is impossible for the present ; but later things will arrange themselves. Time is the accomplice of those who really love. I will work, now my heart is all aflame ; I will work to become illustrious among the illustrious ; I will heap poems upon dramas, Pelion upon 172 THE LETTER " G" AND " THE LAKE." Ossa, and scale the heights of genius! And then I shall say to her : 'It is for you that I have done all this ; I have made the world re- sound with my name, that I might offer it to you!' And I am sure that then grant it, O my God I am sure on that day she will not reject me." Robert, with his poetic imagination, set to work to form his plan of conduct. " Of course, I shall say nothing of this to her, or to any one. I shall talk to her as to all other women, simply and naturally, that she may suspect nothing. I shall envelop her in imperceptible tenderness. I shall give her name to a star and contemplate it in mute ado- ration, and the star will know nought of it." Robert kept his word, and devised for him- self the choicest pleasures. This highly wrought temperament loved like a child, found the most exquisite happiness in the veriest trifles ; with a childishness of heart he found mysterious pleasure in artless, timorous atten- tions ; little triumphs of concealed love in sub- lime efforts to pick up, unobserved, a glove that had fallen. THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." 173 Our poet obtained two of these triumphs that made him forget the success of his finest works : One day when Robert was sitting beside Gilberte on a bench in the park, not far from the porch where her mother and his aunt sat chatting, an irresistible desire came to his mind to make the young girl write her Christian name, Gilberte, in the sand, with the end of her parasol. This is the first idea of lovers. Madame Swetchine says : " To write in pencil is to speak in a low voice." To write one's name in the sand is equal to speaking in a low voice or to signing a note of exchange on the future with- out knowing the nature of the note. This is why Robert longed to see Gilberte's name written by herself in the golden sands. But how accomplish this thing, so easy or so difficult according as occasion offers? There are many ways, but Robert knew of only one : he must appeal solely to her imagination. This is what this great poet, this composer of dramas, this inventor of grandiose scenes, considered the best way to effect the object of his desires. 174 THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." After a long, silent meditation, he suddenly said to Gilberte : " Mile, de Fleurigny, I should not like to be called Gontran ! " " Why not ? " asked the young girl, much astonished. " Because the name Gontran begins with a G." "Well, what misfortune is there in that?" " The misfortune is that the letter G is very difficult to write." " Why the letter G more than all the others ? " " Because it is very complicated, and has rather an odd appearance. In fact, I have never been able to write it correctly, so as to look well." " That astonishes me, M. de Salemberry, for there is nothing simpler." " I should like to see a proof of u." " You shall see." And with the end of her white parasol Gil- berte wrote the letter G in the fine sand. " See ! " " You are right, Mile, de Fleurigny, you are right. But there is another letter in the name 777/1 LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." 175 Gontran which I have still greater difficulty in writing ; that is the letter o; my o looks like a. It is not as easy to write as the letter /, for example." " You are mistaken again, M. de Salemberry ; the letter i is very difficult." " I should not have thought so." " Certainly. The letter i has a straight stroke which requires the most careful attention, and it is quite an art to place the dot at the exact required distance. Look." The young girl again wrote, with the end of her parasol tracing the letter i in the sand. "You certainly have done it most per- fectly." She smiled, and, without further remark, finished writing her name, "Gilberte." Then she reassumed that profound, impenetrable ex- pression that Robert knew so well, but which she had abandoned of late. " Now, M. de Salemberry, could you tell me why you were so bent upon making me write my name here in the sand ? " "I, Mile, de Fleurigny," answered Robert, blushing like a schoolboy. " Do you think I 176 THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." was bent upon it ? Not at all, not at all ; it was chance." " The explanation is very clear, sir." Another of Robert's fancies was to make Gilberte sing "The Lake," by Lamartine. Poets, as a rule, are not particularly fond of music, unless they happen to be in love with the musician. Women made a poor exchange in giving up the lute, the guitar, and, above all, the harp, for the piano. We should not like to make ene- mies among the fair sex, but we humbly confess that the prettiest woman in the world when playing the piano resembles a type-setter pick- ing out the letters from the different compart- ments of his case. . But to a heart deeply enamoured the woman loved is always beautiful, even when playing the piano; which does not prevent our regretting the time when the blond or brunette musician, standing beside a grand harp with golden strings, resembled one of Ossian's heroines. One evening while Madame de Fleurignyand Madame de Rille were receiving a visit from a rich farmer in the little reception-room, Gil- THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." i?7 berte remained alone with Robert in the draw- ing-room, and seated herself at the piano to entertain him. She played moderately well, be it said to her credit, but she had an admirable voice, one of those mellow voices which seem as though bathed in heavenly dew in passing through the soul. She had just sung " The Valley," by Lamar- tine, which in Gounod's exquisite music glides like a gentle river flowing through the cool, shady meadows. To hear " The Valley" sung by one we love is very pleasant, but there is something better; that is "The Lake." Every verse of " The Lake" has made hun- dreds of marriages ; a number of them ought to make millions. " Regarde : je vien seul m'asseoir sur cette pierre Oil tu la vis s'asseoir." " Oil tu la -vis sasseoir" has married at least two thousand English maidens. " Ainsi le vent jetait 1'ecume de tes ondes Sur ses pieds adores." These two lines have made still greater legit- imate havoc. I 78 THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." As to the concluding strophe of the last verse " Tout disc : Us ont aime," no further comment is necessary. Robert said to himself: '"The Valley' will certainly suggest to her the idea of 'The Lake' " ; but not at all. Gilberte went with a bound to " Gastibelza," music by Monpou. Robert held a grudge against Victor Hugo for this. " I must have 'The Lake,' " he thought. But after "Gastibelza" Gilberte tried a romance by Massenet. " I must have 'The Lake/ and I will." And Robert employed this primitively diplo- matic means : " Mile, de Fleurigny, have you read the com- mentaries written by Lamartine himself, on 'The Meditations ' ? " " No, M. de Salemberry." " Well, this is what Lamartine says a pr-opos of 'The Lake': 'Of the thousand attempts made to add the plaintive melody of music to the sighing of these strophes, one only has succeeded. Niedermeyer has touchingly trans- lated this ode into music, and I have seen THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." 179 tears flow when this romance was sung ; never- theless, I have always thought that poe- try and music, when combined, mar each other. ' That is rather disdainful ; do you not think so? " "Somewhat, I think." " Have you there this romance of Nieder- meyer's? " "Oh, yes." But Gilberte began to sing an old romance of Loi'sa Puget's. There was no further ques- tion of "The Lake," and Robert was in des- pair. The next day, at the same hour, in the same room, the marquise said to Gilberte : " My dear child, a little music for the poor prisoner." Gilberte went to the piano, and, looking archly at Robert in a way not at all habitual to her, she began in a most marvellously sweet voice : " Ainsi toujours pousses vers de nouveaux rivages." It was " The Lake. " "She has studied it since yesterday; her I So THE LETTER "G" AND " THE LAKE." self-love prompted that," thought Robert, who believed that he understood young girls' hearts. Robert lived for several months upon such childish pleasures. May God deign to grant similar happiness to the greatest men of this world, if they deserve it ! CHAPTER XI. THE GENERAL RETURNS TO THE CAMPAIGN. ROBERT had some unhappy hours also. He was called upon to fulfil a difficult diplomatic mission against which his heart rebelled. Gil- berte had been invited to wedding-festivities at a neighboring castle. It was an occasion of the greatest importance, and her mother asked Madame de Rille to come and preside at Gil- berte's toilette. Robert accompanied his aunt to the house, and, while the ladies were collaborating over this piece of worldly vanity, the young girl's toilette, he remained alone in the drawing- room. It was not unpleasant to him to see Gilberte going to a dinner in full ball-dress, but he did not like the idea of seeing her only for a moment, and then not again for the rest of the day and evening; he had just then a number of important things to say to her, and 181 1 82 THE GENERAL RETURNS. he had formed an ingenious plan to secure a repetition of " The Lake. " And this festivity comes and upsets everything. " I am wrong," thought Robert, " I am wrong; it is good for a young girl to have amusement occasionally ; she leads the life of the cloister here. I must not be selfish and exacting; I am very glad she is going to have a little diversion I am very glad. " Gilberte entered the room all in white, wear- ing a necklace of pearls, a white rose in her golden hair, carrying a white fan in her hand. Robert was dazzled, but at heart he was furi- ous. He noticed that her dress, which was cut too low according to his opinion, exposed to view the rosy mother-of-pearl like beauty of her delicate shoulders, and a multitude of tragic ideas crossed his mind. "The present fashions are silly and indecent. A young girl ought not to wear such a low- necked dress, and in the province, too. That is well enough in Paris, for Paris sets the fash- ion ; very soon there will be no province. It is the fault of the newspapers, that are paid by the dressmakers and milliners. It is the fault THE GEN-ERAL RETURNS. 183 of the Empire that puts these ideas of luxury into women's heads. Will nothing change them? Governments imitate one another; it is not worth while to have a Republic. " Notwithstanding these social and political reflections, Robert's countenance cleared a little when he saw Gilberte throw over her shoul- ders an opera-cloak which completely enveloped her ; the swansdown border encircled the young girl's pensive face like a jewel-casket. The parting smile Gilberte bestowed upon Robert as she drove off with her mother in the carriage was jealously treasured by him, but did not pre- vent his asking his aunt, when he returned to the house, a number of singular questions, such as : " Will there be any officers at this wedding- reception ? " " Probably, my dear nephew. General d' Ace- rac, who commands the division at Tours, is invited with all his staff." " Really, aunt, this is why military men do not learn their profession. " During the evening of this unlucky day Robert's thoughts became more and more melancholy. He ought not, however, be too 184 THE GENERAL' RETURNS. much blamed for this. It is not particularly pleasant to know that the young girl we love is at a ball, to think of her enjoying a feast in which we have no part, through all the phases of which we follow her with anxious interest, and with jealousy all the more poignant that she knows nothing of it. " During dinner all goes well ; there is some- thing unavoidably grave and solemn in a wed- ding-feast. Conversation is left to the serious members of the company, and generally glides into politics. But after dinner there is the ball, with the quadrilles, the mazurka, the waltz, and that infamous cotillon ! Gilberte is sure to be surrounded; she does not waltz; no, cer- tainly not ; but the quadrille is allowed. I should really like to know why the quadrille is allowed ? As to the cotillon, that invention of the evil one, it is the staff officer's triumph. And the cotillon always begins very late, when the night air is coolest and pours in through the windows left open by imprudent people; there is the real danger. Gilberte may return with pleurisy, and she will suffer cruelly and perhaps may die of it. " THE GENERAL RETURNS. 185 These were some of the gloomy thoughts that surged like waves through Robert's brain. Madame de Rille noticed his preoccupation, and about nine o'clock in the evening said to him, smiling : " You are rather Ossianesque,* my dear nephew ; would you like to hear some music, by way of diversion? Shall I sing 'The Lake ' for you? " " 'The Lake' ! I shall be delighted, dear aunt." Madame de Rille's voice was still fresh, and she sang with much taste and feeling. But neither the words nor the music touched Robert's heart. To him " The Lake" was Gil- berte. He praised his aunt's singing, however, and, earnestly thanking her, retired to his own room. The next morning, at a very early hour, he went to inquire for Madame de Fleurigny and her daughter. Gilberte was already in the garden, her coun- tenance showing no signs of fatigue, her eyes * Ossian is a legendary hero, chiefly known from Mac- pherson's " Poems of Ossian." These poems are rather of a gloomy character; hence the word " Ossianesque. " 1 86 THE GENERAL RETURNS. bright and smiling, and her voice full and musi- cal as ever; there was no fear of pleurisy. " You come to inquire for my mother, M. de Salemberry ? Thank you ; she is sleeping like one of the blessed." "And you, Mile, de Fleurigny? " ".Oh, I am, as you see, much less fatigued than I thought I should be." " And what of the ball, this famous ball ? " "Well, I enjoyed myself." " Indeed," said Robert, with a very dissatis- fied air. " Yes, and then I was dreadfully bored. " "Dreadfully? really, Mile, de Fleurigny ?" " Yes, the cotillon was interminable. " " You had to leave before the end ? " " I wanted to very much, but it was impossi- ble; I'll not be inveigled into it again." " I am distressed to hear that you were so bored, Mile. Gilberte." He was radiant. This was a red-letter day tor our hero. She was bored at a ball ! He hurried home to tell this piece of news to Madame de Rille, who asked him coldly : THE GENERAL RETURNS. 187 " Do you believe that, my dear nephew ? " " Certainly, aunt." "Then youth has changed very much. In my time we were never bored at a ball." " Possibly, but Gilberte is a person " " Superior, no doubt ; thank you for the com- pliment you pay me." " I only meant to say that worldly pleasures have no attraction for her nothing more. " " If that is the case, I am almost sorry. Love of pleasure should be natural at her age. If a young girl is too serious she is apt, sooner or later, to take things very tragically. " " What a paradox, aunt. " " Reflect upon it, my dear nephew, and you will see that it is founded on truth." " I shall, my dear aunt." He did not reflect upon it at all, contenting himself with the thought of Gilberte's being bored at a ball when he was not present. This conviction sufficed his happiness for several days. Gilberte seemed drawn nearer to him by thus withdrawing herself from worldly pleas- ures, and he, forgetting the realities of life, slept in this sweet dream as the eagles are 1 88 THE GENERAL RETURNS. said to sleep hovering in the sun's rays in mid-air. The awakening from such dreams is some- times terrible. One day Robert received a most unexpected visit from General d'Acerac. The general charged upon the young poet as he formerly attacked and carried by storm the Malakoff Tower. " M. de Salemberry, you were the cause of my daughter Isabelle's not marrying Stephen de Fleurigny. " " General, you recall a memory very painful to me." " I admire you. But as for him, I confess, between ourselves, that in Stephen's place I should have run you through the body as I would a rabbit ; but he is a philosopher. Let that pass. I have a son as well as a daughter. Alexander saw Mile, de Fleurigny at a ball last wetk, and he insists upon my asking her in marriage for him. " " Mile. Gilberte ! " exclaimed Robert. " Exactly. Let us proceed to facts. These are my son's circumstances : a captain of cui- THE GENERAL RETURNS. 189 rassiers, twenty-nine years of age, black hair, smooth face, delicate, firm hands, five feet eight (old measure), a slight scar on the left cheek, and a kind heart. You will want to know, of course, what fortune he has ? " " No, general, I do not care to know that. " " I shall tell you, all the same. At my death Alexander will have in my right the sword that I broke in the body of a Prussian officer at Borny. That is something. Besides, he has now already in right of his poor mother an income of 100,000 francs. As Mile, de Fleu- rigny has only a small fortune, this will suit very well. " " But, general," stammered Robert, " I do not see how I can serve you in this affair. " " You can serve me by making my request known to Madame de Fleurigny and her daugh- ter. " " I, general ! " " Exactly. Your aunt, Madame de Rille", I am told, is an intimate friend of Madame de Fleurigny's ; and it is said that you, sir, have a great influence over Mile. Gilberte's mind since the appearance of that last drama of yours, 'The 19 THE GENERAL RETURNS. Cid's Error,' which, in spite of public opinion, is a fine play, but understood only by military men like myself. " " That is sufficient honor for me, general. " " In short, and seriously, M. de Salem berry, you and I owe some reparation to the de Fleu- rigny family. Through your fault I refused to give my daughter to that good Stephen ; I shall not refuse to give my son to the daughter, if she will . have him. It is my duty, and it is yours to aid me in accomplishing it. " " Very well, general," replied Robert in a quavering voice, " I shall execute the commis- sion with which you charge me. " " Exactly. I shall expect your answer to- morrow. " "You shall have it, general." " You understand it all, do you not ? The sword in the Prussian's body, 100,000 francs income, five feet eight, and a kind heart. Do not forget his name Alexander." " I shall forget nothing, general. " "Exactly." And with this, his habitual rejoinder, the general left Robert to his sad reflections, which THE GENERAL RETURNS, 191 almost overwhelmed him. The blood surged so violently through his heart he really feared he would die. A thunderbolt had shattered his dream, but the dreamer did not die of the shock. "That will be later," he said to himself; "now I have but one thing to do, obey the general's orders. He is right, it is my duty. Moreover, if I do not do it the general will seek some other intermediary that is all. And what would be thought of my refusal ? What right have I to refuse ? It is quite enough to have wrecked the brother's happiness without now interfering with the sister's. After all, this marriage will, no doubt, bring her happi- ness and good fortune. Yes, happiness with another. If I wished, however, I could pre- vent her accepting this offer. I could explain to her that she could not, ought not, to enter a family from which her brother was almost driven. This is a reason against, as well as for, the marriage; it is, in one sense, a repara- tion, as the general says, but, on the other hand, it is a new affront to Stephen. They are very willing to have his sister, but they would not 192 THE GENERAL RETURNS. have him. I could tell her this and a hundred other things. Marrying an army officer is really very hazardous, and prudent mothers would much rather keep their daughters than expose them to such an uncertain future. What would become of Madame de Fleurigny deprived of her daughter? She would have been a mother to me. But the real reason is that I love Gilberte, and I do not wish her to marry another. I think only of myself, and that makes love cowardly ; but what of her hap- piness ? She, perhaps, will love this brave, handsome young man, who is also rich and noble, and could not see her without loving her. Suppose she should marry some one else, who would prove unworthy of her and make her unhappy one never knows what may happen. Then this would be my own fault. Shall I be the sister's executioner as well as the brother's ? That must not be! I will do my duty; I will go and tell her all, and say, such is the man who offers himself to you. She will accept him, of course, and I shall advise her to do so, if necessary. I sought to repair the injury I in- flicted and I did not succeed, but God now sends THE GENERAL RETURNS. 1 93 me this means of reparation. It will be happi- ness for her, but death to me. Oh, yes ! and I hope and feel assured that death will not long be delayed." A quarter of an hour later Robert was with Gilberte. In a calm voice, but with a pale countenance, he repeated all that the general had just said to him. Gilberte listened in silence, fastening upon him that vague, fixed look of which we have so often spoken ; then, leading him up to Stephen's portrait, she said slowly : " In the name of your friend Stephen, M. de Salemberry, what do you advise me ? " " In Stephen's name, Mile, de Fleurigny, I advise you to marry M. d'Acerac." And Robert's face became livid. " I will not marry M. d'Ace'rac nor any one else." " Why, Mile. Gilberte ? " " Because you love me, Robert, and because I love you." " O Gilberte, I shall die of joy ! " " Stay, Robert. I love you, but I will never marry you. Listen to me, and you will then 13 194 THE GENERAL RETURNS. see that I am right. I have always loved you. I cannot remember the time when I did not love you. I know not why I love you, and I have never sought to discover. I only know that when you were here I was happy ; when you spoke to us of poetry and art I watched you, listened to you, and my soul revelled as in a feast. Once only I was alarmed about you. You had climbed to the top of that old stone gate of which our village is so proud, you know; it can be seen from here. Suddenly you be- came dizzy. 'He is going to fall,' cried Stephen, running to your assistance. And I thought I should have died. I discovered on that day that I loved you. Do you doubt it, Robert? " "No, Gilberte; unfortunately, no." " It is true ; if you had known how I loved you, you would not have done what you did to Stephen. When I heard it, when my mother, weeping bitterly, told me that dreadful thing, when Stephen, pale as you are this moment, told me of his life's happiness wrecked forever, of his love disdained on account of your wicked deed, it seemed as though the earth opened THE GENERAL RETURNS. 1 95 under my feet, and that I was about to be swal- lowed up in an abyss. How bitterly I execrated you that day! On my knees, with tears of rage, I begged God to avenge my brother, and to punish you ; and I loved you through it all. But I was ashamed of it, and I felt, with horri- ble despair, that what I resented most in your wicked act was the suffering it caused me. Must I confess it ? I almost blamed Stephen to justify you. I said to myself, 'He ought not to have been too proud to give you proof of his innocence; he should have foreseen and pre- vented all this.' Yes, I censured that gentle martyr, my brother. This is to me, Robert, the most grievous part of your unworthy deed. You have made my soul blush, but I am also to blame, and I must make expiation." " You, Gilberte ! " " Yes, Robert, both of us I, as well as you ; we were both to blame. Let us unite in ex- piating our fault. Stephen wept over his shat- tered love; we will weep over the ruin of ours." " I bow submissively to the justice of my richly deserved misery. But you, Gilberte ? " 196 THE GENERAL RETURNS. " Do not seek to dissuade me, Robert ; you will not succeed; my resolution is taken." " Will nothing move you, Gilberte ? If you really loved me " " It is because I love you that I am going away." " Going away ! " " Yes, I start to-morrow for Rome with my mother, where we shall join Stephen, whose prolonged absence astonishes us and makes us anxious." " And when will you return, Gilberte ? " " I do not know." " When you have conquered your love for me ? " " Never, then ! " " Never ! " " Yes, Robert, never ! You see how neces- sary it is that I should go. Adieu," she added, holding out to him a cold, trembling hand. That same evening General d' Acerac received the answer he was awaiting : "Mv DEAR GENERAL: " I have not succeeded in the mission you did THE GENERAL RETURNS. 197 me the honor to confide to me. Mile, de Fleu- rigny does not wish to leave her mother. " Accept, my dear general, etc., "MARQUIS ROBERT DE SALEMBERRY." The general answered immediately : " SIR: " I thank you for having fulfilled the mission I asked you to accept. I hold you in no way responsible for its failure. Nevertheless, it seems to me that a dramatic author ought to succeed better in questions of marriage. Alex- ander is in despair, but he is a man and will soon console himself; exactly. " Receive, sir, etc., "GENERAL COUNT D'ACERAC." Gilberte and her mother left Rille the next morning. CHAPTER XII. THE PETIT LOCAL. THE most terrible trials are not those crush- ing sorrows that overwhelm and kill at a single blow; they are those the bitterness of which is not felt at first, but are borne in upon us gradually, and dishearten and unman us. Robert did not, at first, fully realize the extent of his misfortune. These were the thoughts that predominated the agitation of his heart and soul : " She divined that I loved her, and she loves me ; she knows that we love each other, the rest will adjust itself. Gilberte's exaltation, doubtless, will not last. Now she can take only one view of things ; later, soon, she will see the other side. Hers is a deeply poetic soul, rather tragically poetic. She is too fond of Corneille, and has read 'The Cid' too much. She, like Chimene, coquettes with love and duty, and throws herself heroically THE PETIT LOCAL. 199 into the rdle of sacrifice ; but, like Chimene, she requires but one word from the king who orders her to forgive Rodrigues." Robert forgot that we are living in a republic. The next day he strolled to the village, and went to Gilberte's house, the door of which the gardener opened for him. " Well, Father Fulcran, the ladies went off yesterday? " " Yes, sir." " How did Madame de Fleurigny seem ? " " She seemed happy and very much pleased, sir. As she entered the carriage she said to Mile. Gilberte, 'We shall soon see Stephen again, my darling.' " " And what did Mile. Gilberte say ? " " Nothing, sir. I am mistaken she talked a little apart with Catalina, the wife of that gypsy, you know, a race of savages, and I caught, in passing, a few words of what she was saying to her: 'Above all, if M. Robert comes to hunt in the Lande.' I did not hear the rest, but I saw that Mile. Gilberte slipped several gold pieces into Catalina's hand, which was money badly placed, with all respect to 200 THE PETIT LOCAL. you, sir. Finally, just as they were leaving, I took the liberty of saying to the young lady, 'I hope you return soon, Mile. Gilberte?' ' Soon ! no, oh, no ! ' she replied, and a tear rolled down her cheek, and I thought, there is a brave girl who loves her country well." " Thank you, Fulcran, thank you. " Robert remained alone in the deserted house. Who has not experienced the sadness that pervades the empty house that yesterday was filled with the voices, footsteps, friendly glances, and sweet presence of those who are gone ? As she sat there near the window, in the large tapestry -covered arm-chair, her dress fall- ing in graceful folds over the old oaken foot- stool, she might have been taken for one of the chatelaines in Geste's ballads. She was em- broidering a piece of fancywork, her figure erect, her head bent slightly forward, stopping occasionally to listen as the old clock in the neighboring church-tower struck the hour ; she had a way of listening to the striking of the clock unlike. other women. When she rose, the sound of her footsteps as she glided over the THE PETIT LOCAL. 201 inlaid floor, and the rustle of her gown, as with a quick, almost impatient movement she closed or opened the window-curtains, were like sweet music. These are the things that cling to the memory. The little drawing-room seems like a great desert when she is no longer there; how cold and bare the house is without her ; it may be better in the garden, but there it is still more lonely. The rustic grotto, where she loved to read, looks reproachfully at the intruder who dares to come without her. The little rivulet weeps for her, the turtle-doves do not recognize her former companion, and fly away as she has fled. " I am to blame for all that has happened," thought Robert. " It was I who drove her from her home ; she preferred exile to my presence, and there she is now exposed to all the dangers of a journey fatigue, illness, fever, perhaps death ! " Robert buried his face in his hands, and shuddered at this idea. Leaving the garden he passed through the house, his heart full of forebodings. This poignant anxiety lasted several days, 202 THE PETIT LOCAL. but it was, fortunately, relieved by Gilberte's letter to Madame de Rille : "ROME, November i/th. " MADAME LA MARQUISE : " I shall write you only a very short letter to- day. We have scarcely been an hour in Rome, and we have just seen our dear Stephen. Mother and I enjoyed the journey very much ; we were not in the least fatigued. The rail- roads are too much maligned. Stephen received us with his usual tenderness, which you so well know. There is an indescribable something about him, a particularly happy air, which must come from something more than the pleasure of seeing us. I scent a mystery; we shall see. Begging you to give our kind regards to M. Robert, I am, with love and respect, dear madame la marquise, " GlLBERTE DE FLEURIGNY. " P. S. Caution M. Robert to be very care- ful if he goes hunting in the neighborhood of the gypsies." Gilberte's letter, showing that she was per- THE PETIT LOCAL. 203 fectly well, dispelled all Robert's fears. It con- tained, moreover, a sentence upon which our poet constructed a romance. What could be this mys- tery about Stephen, of which Gilberte speaks ? " If it were a marriage, if Stephen had finally found a beautiful Roman to console him ! Yes, that is it, it must be that ! Then there is hope for me ; if Stephen is happy, Gilberte will no longer have any reason for persisting in her re- fusal, in her terrible resolution. Certainly, that is it." With these thoughts Robert's imagination bounded to the most radiant horizon. But, unfortunately, the following extract from Gil- berte's second letter diminished his enthusiastic hopes : " Yes, madame la marquise, we have dis- covered Stephen's secret. There is' nothing sentimental about the mystery. Every day Cardinal Beppo comes for Stephen and takes him to the Vatican, where His Holiness receives him in private audience. I asked my brother to what he owed such rare honor, and this is what he told me : " Stephen has undertaken to write a history 204 THE PETIT LOCAL. of the first centuries of the Church. The Pope is deeply interested in this great work, and Stephen goes every day to the Vatican to con- fer with him on the subject. I confess that I imagined, not something better, but some- thing quite different. The fact is, Stephen will never forget what you know as well as we. He will never marry, any more than his sister." Gilberte had underlined these last words. " It evidently was for me," thought Robert, "and not for my aunt, that she underlined that last phrase; she wished to remind me of her unalterable resolution. This dispels my dream of happiness. 'Any more than his sister ! ' ' And yet Robert continued to hope ; it seemed to him impossible that Stephen's good advice, for he now knew how generous he was, could fail, with absence and separation, to have a bet- ter influence on the young girl's mind. Hope in the heart of a lover is like the roots of the oak, the depth of which exceeds the height of its branches. Robert always repeated to himself after his reveries : " Nothing is lost, life is long." One morning Robert while walking in the park met the postman, who gave him the mar- THE PETIT LOCAL. 205 quise's mail. On one of the letters, bearing the Naples stamp, he recognized Madame de Fleu- rigny's handwriting. Lovers have intuitions. " Gilberte is ill ! " exclaimed Robert to him- self, as he ran breathlessly to the castle. " Read this quickly, aunt. Gilberte is ill." He was not mistaken. This was the letter: " NAPLES, November 28th. "DEAR, KIND FRIEND: " I am very anxious about Gilberte. She caught the marsh-fever at Rome, and we brought her away without a moment's delay. The physicians here have as yet given no opinion. Pray for my poor child. " Your desperate friend, " VlCTORINE DE FLEUR1GNY. " " She will die ! Gilberte is dying, is perhaps dead already ! Oh ! aunt, you do not know that I love her, and that she loves me. If she dies I will kill myself." " If I had only known ! Come, my child, let us have recourse to God," said the marquise, and she went with her nephew to the little church at Rille. 206 THE PETIT LOCAL. Robert was religious in mind and heart, but literary life, especially his theatrical works,'had made him an indifferent Christian. When in the country he went to Mass for the sake of good example and to please his aunt. In Paris he went only to nuptial and requiem Masses. " That is always so much loss to the devil," he would say laughingly to his friends. He did not laugh now. He went directly to the Blessed Virgin's altar, and, joining his hands, fell upon his knees, and poured forth a cry of lover and poet, in which the prayers of his childhood, recalled in fragments, were min- gled with formulas and phrases of theatrical literature; but it was all spontaneous, simple, and sincere. " Obtain, good Mother of Sorrows, that Gil- berte may not die. Queen of Angels, obtain for me the life of this good angel. Consoler of the Afflicted, remember the night of Golgotha, and the arms of that tree dyed in the blood of thy Son. I love Gilberte and she loves me; let her not be taken from me, or take me with her. I have been proud and wicked ; I will be good and humble now, and do all the good I can in THE PETIT LOCAL. 207 the world ; I take thy white veil, thy holy aureole, and the smile of the infant God whom thy hands hold out to those who weep, as silent witnesses of my vow. Restore Gilberte to me, O my Mother!" Robert rose from his prayer more calm, and returned with his aunt to the castle. In the evening all his anguish revived, poetic mem- ories mingled with his personal sorrow; Gil- berte dying in Graziclla s country recalled to his mind " The Coral Fisher," Lamartine's beauti- fully pathetic poem on " La Fille d'Ischia" : " In her first tear she drowned her heart ! " Gilberte also had drowned her heart in her first tear, and, since it was he who had caused that tear to flow, God should punish him, not Gilberte. No sleep came to Robert's relief that night. Such sleepless nights fully expiate evil deeds. At early dawn he hurried to the post-office for the mail. There were no letters, only a tele- gram : " Gilberte is saved ; there is no danger now. "IscHiA, December ist. STEPHEN," 208 THE PETIT LOCAL. Robert wept like a child, and returned, al- most crazed with joy, to bring the good news to his aunt. These illusive hopes, deceptive fears, bitter memories, and dreams of happiness, alternated repeatedly in Robert's heart since Gilberte's departure and illness, as if an invisible hand had doled out to him equal measures of hope and fear. Early in March a son and heir was born to M. and Mme. de Nolongue, and Robert was godfather to this pink and white prodigy. The intelligence shown by this new citizen, when only a week old, was doubtless due to heredity; a deputy's son ought to prove his patriotism by manifesting his intelligence at an early age. The first and strongest mark of intelligence he gave was his authoritative man- ner of asking for a drink, nor was he satisfied with the sugared water with which the fre- quenters of the Palais-Bourbon quench their thirst. A gesture sufficed, but it was so imper- ative that his mother never could resist the THE PETIT LOCAL. 209 eloquent appeals, which were as much admired by the godfather as by the parents. But history must not be falsified; the deputy's son acquired faults as he grew, and became gradually less angelic. For example, when he had completely gorged himself in sat- isfying his appetite, his gray eyes sparkling and his small face crimson with satisfaction, he showed his fist, revealing the future orator; he was already a good interrupter, for when his parents and godfather were chatting quietly to- gether, while watching him smiling in his nurse's arms, he would suddenly interrupt these long conversations, of which he understood nothing, by bawling like one possessed. This was intolerable. A call to order did not suffice, even censure was of no avail ; then Louis de Nolongue, recalling the strict rules of the Chamber of Deputies, would cry out : " Au petit local, an petit local ! " * The/6-/// local was the silk and lace-trimmed *A room near the senate-chamber to which, formerly, unruly members were banished when they interrupted the proceedings. The room still exists, though the custom has passed into disuse. [TRANSLATOR. 14 210 THE PETIT LOCAL. cradle, a dainty nest that had been prepared for the arrival of the little bird, to which the mother carried the noisy interrupter. Under its influence the cries ceased as if by magic, and the offender immediately fell asleep. Here it was that he showed to best advantage ; the fond parents and the godfather gazed upon him with admiration and delight, and it would be difficult to say which admired the most. The father's pride was a pleasure to behold, and, although Robert shared his cousin's happiness, yet he could not help envying it a little. Poets are very fond of children. Great poets are made for the double paternity of men and thoughts ; they have a peculiar ambition, a secret pride in transmitting their genius to posterity. Robert had long cherished this proud ambi- tion, and the sweet dream of seeing it realized ; but he now felt convinced that his fond dream had forever vanished, and each day added to the bitterness of his regret. In spite of the envy aroused by his visits, he went regularly to watch his godson sleeping in his pretty cradle, the petit local, and chose the time when he could be alone with the prisoner. THE PETIT LOCAL. 21 1 That charming domestic picture, a sleeping child, is generally very soothing to a man. It was not so with Robert ; the sight of this little rosy angel increased his envy, and he felt him- self becoming more and more sad and desolate. Then he thought of Gilberte, who like him adored children, loved to fondle and caress them, and knew so well how to care for them, but who was never to know the august joy of motherhood, for, on account of his revengeful pride, she had condemned herself to forego this happiness. This idea pursued Robert remorsefully; he tried in vain to escape it ; the implacable goad was in the flesh, and he himself turned the iron in the wound with a sort of savage delight. " I am destined to martyrize all who love me, the sister even more than the brother. There is a fatality about me that makes every- thing I touch crumble. My own life has been a failure, and I have wrecked the lives of others. Were I to go away, to disappear, if the hand of death we're mercifully laid upon me, it would only be removing an evil thing. Who knows what harm I may yet do? My hands are full 212 THE PETIT LOCAL. of tempests, and the dark forger of evil works in my breast. I have made Gilberte suffer, and I shall cause her still more suffering. If a ball from a poacher's gun should pierce my skull in a lonely path, the poacher would render me a service as well as others." This idea of death, this thirst for a bloody expiation crept gradually into Robert's mind and took complete possession of his imagina- tion. Poets, dreamers, those whose minds are ill at ease, have a feverish curiosity about the unknown. They are homesick for that land to which the soul must one day go ; and when at night they eagerly contemplate the starry fir- mament, each star is a magnet attracting them thither. Robert had too noble, too religious a soul to think of suicide. Moreover, it would be a cause of reproach to him, as he would con- sider it an additional crime to leave Gilberte such a horrible memory. No, he dreamed of a noble, glorious death, in some great battle in de- fence of the country, on the bridge of a man-of- war, shattered by bombs, or some battlefield in Alsace or Lorraine, riddled with bullets. But the sombre Angel of War has long since taken THE PETIT LOCAL. 213 flight, doubtless for too long a time. Those who wish to die must await God's good time. Robert was anxious to die ; he did not wish to kill himself, but he might expose himself to death, did timely occasion offer. A de- spatch from Langeais brought frightful news to the inhabitants of Rille. The Loire had over- flowed its banks, the dikes were broken above Langeais, and all the country was under water. Robert only took time to saddle his horse and rode off at a gallop. At Langeais the scene was terrifying. The raging flood swept far out of sight, bearing on its seething waves the wreck of ruined towns and villages. Below Langeais a little hamlet was almost submerged beneath the foaming waters, and from the high ground and the castle towers, the inhabitants, who had taken refuge on the roofs of the houses, could be seen wav- ing their arms in despair. To attempt to save them seemed useless and foolhardy, even to the most venturous sailor and the most fearless life saver; but Robert sprang into a boat, unfastened the moorings, and launched out into the torrent 214 THE PETIT LOCAL. " He is lost ! " cried the crowd ; but with great skill, strength, and extraordinary coolness he guided the boat towards the village, which he soon reached, borne on by the current. Dex- terously catching the rope thrown to him from a window, he collected the frightened people in his small craft, and launched out again into the stream. The current, fortunately, carried the boat towards the nearest shore, and drove it upon the bank so rapidly and with such force that it stuck fast in the sand. The violent shock threw a child from its mother's arms into the water, and it was carried off on a wave. Robert im- mediately plunged into the flood, crying out " For Gilberte ! " and swam desperately towards the child, which was disappearing. After a frantic struggle he succeeded in reaching the shore with his burden, where he fell, completely exhausted, and lay with closed eyes, perfectly unconscious and apparently lifeless. But death would not claim him. In a few minutes Robert was restored to consciousness, and in the evening he returned to Rill6 castle. This thrilling incident, notwithstanding the satisfaction derived from a well-accomplished THE PETIT LOCAL. 215 duty, only increased Robert's depression. When he was so near death it had seemed so sweet to him, that his regret at having missed it was greater than his desire for it had been, and he sank into the deepest melancholy, dwelling for long hours on the vision that appeared to his excited imagination, as with closed eyes he lay awaiting death. He believed that he saw Gil- berte lean over him and press her lips to his brow. This memory clung to him in his continually feverish state, and he still longed for death, that he might see Gilberte once more, and again feel upon his brow the caressing touch of those adored lips. The mind cannot long resist the baneful effect of dwelling on the same thoughts, feel- ings, and desires. Robert's relatives and friends became alarmed at the change in his habits, and often thought that the mournful sadness of his countenance and his fixed gaze showed vague signs of insanity. One day, alone in his study, he sat mechani- cally holding a book open on his knee, staring steadily at an angle of the wall, deeply buried 2i6 THE PETIT LOCAL. in thought, and so absorbed in his profound meditation that he did not hear the door open, and only turned his head when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. It was a young priest who had entered, and with outstretched arms said to him, smilingly : " Well, Robert, welcome your future pas- tor ! " " Stephen !" They folded each other in an affectionate embrace, and then Stephen continued, in a graver tone : " Listen to me, Robert. I wrote you, if you remember, that perhaps I should owe my hap- piness to you, and I was not mistaken. My heart was broken at one time, and the frag- ments were of no use in the world, but God was willing to accept them. I was not made for the storms of human passions, and I took refuge in great peace of soul. Thanks to you, I am a priest. You alone could expiate the fault you committed, and which you have now sufficiently deplored ; the victim only could re- pair it. For three years I studied to improve my mind, and consulted my heart to learn if I THE PETIT LOCAL. 217 should be worthy of this new mission. The Sovereign Pontiff deigned to consider me wor- thy, and was good enough to shorten for me the time of probation, which is rarely done. What Gilberte confided to my mother and to me finally decided me to take this step. " " Gilberte ! Oh, Stephen, do you know then " " All that you have suffered for each other. I reproved her for her excessive severity, and I strongly disapproved of her inflexible resolution. I have not yet been able to overcome her scru- ples sufficiently to make her promise to be your wife, but if she has not said yes, she has not, at least, said no. Take courage, then, and let time do its work. You show the effect of the terri- ble blow you have experienced. I pity you from the bottom of my heart, and I long to assuage your present suffering. I bless you for the anguish you caused me in days gone by, since it has given me to God. " Then Stephen, affectionately embracing Rob- ert, continued in a familiar tone, his noble face beaming with the pleasant smile habitual to him : 2i8 THE PETIT LOCAL. " My great, illustrious friend, I shall de- nounce you to Gilberte. " " Why, Stephen why? " " You have not even asked where she is. " " I had not the courage, dear Stephen, but where is she ? " " Have you had no suspicion, my poor fellow ? She is here, downstairs in the drawing-room with my mother and your aunt." " Let us go down at once. But I am afraid. You will defend me, will you not, Stephen ? " At sight of Gilberte Robert seemed to re- cover himself completely. He suddenly felt all his strength of mind restored, all his genius awaken with the love that shone in his eyes and throbbed in his heart. After an interchange of cordial greetings with the mother and daughter, Robert was suddenly seized with an irresistible desire to show them his godson. " Mile. Gilberte," said he, with a smile that had been rare of late, " will you do me a favor will you come with me to Les Chartrettes to see the petit local of my godson, Prosper de No- longue ? " THE PETIT LOCAL. 219 " What is t\iQ petit local?" " You will see. " They all set out together for Les Chartrettes. On the way fresh anxiety took possession of Robert's mind as to how he should persuade her to say yes. When they arrived they found that Master Prosper de Nolongue had just been indulging in the noisiest of interruptions, and had been put in the petit local ; Gilberte was amused at Robert's explanation of the affair. The baby was in a deep sleep; his little breast rose and fell under the folds of its dainty dress, his hands clutched an ivory rattle, the bells of which were as silent as he, the soft lashes cast a light shadow on the delicate pink cheeks, his parted lips showing his rose-lined mouth. They all gazed upon this masterpiece with that respect due to a work of art, no one venturing to speak for fear of disturbing his slumber ; but all eyes said plainly, " How beau- tiful ! " Robert, observing the softening influence this lovely spectacle of a sleeping angel had on Gilberte, determined to avail himself of it, and, 220 THE PETIT LOCAL. throwing his whole soul into his pleading eyes, he raised them in mute appeal to hers. Gil- berte returned his gaze, her heart responded to his yearning glances, and she softly murmured, "Yes." CHAPTER XIII. THE LAST SONNET. THE marriage was celebrated in the little church at Rille. Stephen claimed the right of giving Gilberte and Robert the nuptial bless- ing. Only the relatives and most intimate friends were invited; but they reckoned with- out the Paris papers. Pierre Robes, always fully informed of everything, gave the signal by an article in The Viper a very respectful article, however, showing no little emotion. The other papers not wishing to be outdone, there appeared about sixty articles full of singu- lar and contradictory details. The railroad organized a marriage-train, and Robert was surprised to find all the Mite of Paris in the little church at Rille". This did not, how- ever, disturb him very much, for the bride was fair to see, and he did not object to her being seen. 222 THE LAST SONNET. Stephen, in the presence of this unexpected audience, escaped, by the simplicity of his bear- ing and manner, a situation which might have been embarrassing. He spoke to the young bride and groom as a priest very seriously, and as a brother with a tenderness and affec- tion that brought tears to the eyes of even the reporters, who are not usually given to weeping. The wedding-breakfast was given by the good Marquise de Rille at the castle. Since his return Stephen had felt that the best way of showing Robert that he had for- gotten the past was by casually referring to it. With this intention he occasionally reminded Robert of what he called their " illustrious quar- rel," and he finally succeeded in making Robert join with him in laughing at it, by quietly teas- ing him from time to time about that celebrated "Poisonous Fang," "the spirit of which amounts to no more than the title," he would pleasantly add; so that after a while Robert rather relished the kindly epigrams of his in- tended victim, and finally came to the conclu- sion that he himself was decidedly the victim THE LAST SONNET. 223 now; in which opinion Gilberte to a certain extent agreed with him. At the end of the repast Stephen rose, smiling, and made the following little speech : " My dear brother-in-law Robert, you shall not escape even on this occasion. This is a son- net ; I have written many of them in my youth- ful days ; history relates that they did not all meet with your approbation. This one will be my last : " 'Tis the last sonnet I shall ever write, And for my recompense my friend shall say What merit in my verse for who, I pray, May better tell or with a clearer sight ? As late I wandered in the crescent light And lessening shadows of the morning gray, And heard the wild bird's music by the way, No tear, I said, nor shadow from the night. Should cloud the splendor of a day so bright In promise and fulfilment. May the best Of all things wait thce. Journey forth, I pray, Genius and grace in happy union blest, To the far portals of the endless day, With fame and bliss unclouded, and have rest." Stephen, seeing that the tears in Robert's eyes were about to overflow, said : 224 THE LAST SONNET. " Well, Robert, what do you think of my last sonnet ? If you think it poor, do not, at least, say so in public. " " Stephen, you always were a tease," answered Robert, smiling. About ten o'clock the Marquise de Rille took Robert aside, and said in a mysterious manner : " My dear nephew, I have a present to make you, to say nothing of my fortune." " What present, my dear aunt ? " " I give you the 'Game of Virtues,' to which, you know, you, to a certain extent, owe your happiness. " " I accept, but I do not see it in the drawing- room as usual. Where is it, my dear aunt; where has it been put ? " The marquise, with that merry smile habitual to her on occasions of this kind, said : " Where is 'The Game of Virtues' ? Can you not guess where it has been put ? " " No, cruel aunt !" " What sublime simplicity ! In your room. " THE LAST SONNET. 225 All the characters of this story are equally happy, although unequally deserving. Louis de Nolongue, now the happy father of twins, continues to pity his predecessor, the late M. Morel, who had no children. Pierre Robes, while continuing as journalist, still makes repeated theatrical ventures ; one of his plays is hissed every three months, but this does not prevent the managers asking him for others. This is done as a medical precaution, so to speak. Robes' plays turn the bad humor of the public on him alone ; they are played for the same reason that we have ourselves vaccinated and re-vaccinated to carry off the bad humors. The manager of The Viper is senator ; he has changed the name of his paper, which is now called The Antidote. Unfortunately, The Anti- dote has a very small circulation. Maria Orfano, the great, noble actress, has given up the stage. She left France to marry a Russian Sebastopol's revenge. Jacques Alencon is Minister of Fine Arts, which gives him an opportunity of adequately tormenting his former confreres, the theatrical managers. 15 226 THE LAST SONNET. 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