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 
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 given up the stage. She left France to marry 
 a Russian Sebastopol's revenge. 
 
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 which gives him an opportunity of adequately 
 tormenting his former confreres, the theatrical 
 managers. 
 15
 
 226 THE LAST SONNET. 
 
 Finally, the Marquise- de Rille is godmother 
 to Gilberte's first-born, and she heroically de- 
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 may follow.
 
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