M 
 
 i 
 

 
 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 JP* 
 
 

 
 *l"r
 
 A BLOT OF INK.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 RENE BAZ1N, 
 
 BY 
 
 Q 
 
 PAUL M. FRANCKE. 
 
 CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: 
 
 LONDON, PARIS 4- MELBOURNE. 
 
 1892. 
 [ALL KIGIITS EES
 
 B31T3.3
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 
 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23. That is all I have to 
 record of the first twenty-three years of my life. 
 Simple enumeration is enough : it hits off their 
 family likeness and family monotony. 
 
 I lost my parents very young. I can scarcely 
 recall their features : and I should keep no me- 
 mories of La Chatre, our home, had I not been 
 brought up quite close to it. It was sold, however, 
 and lost, like the rest, to me. Yes, fate is hard, 
 sometimes. 1 was born at La Chatre : the 
 college of La Chatre swallowed up eighteen years 
 of me. Our head master used to remark that 
 college is a second home ; whereby I have always 
 fancied he did some injustice to the first. 
 
 My schooldays were hardly over Avhen my 
 uncle and guardian, M. Brutus Mouillard, 
 solicitor, of Bourges, packed me oft' to Paris to 
 
 13
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 go through my law course. I took three years 
 over it. At the end of that time, just eighteen 
 months back, 1 became a licentiate, and " in the 
 said capacity " as my uncle would say took 
 an oath that transformed me into a probation- 
 ary barrister. Every Monday, regularly, I go 
 and sign my name among many others on an 
 attendance-list, and thereby, it appears, I am 
 establishing a claim upon the confidence of the 
 widow and the orphan. 
 
 In the intervals of my legal studies I have 
 succeeded in taking my Arts Degree. At present 
 I am seeking that of Doctor of Law. My examina- 
 tions have been passed meritoriously, but without 
 brilliance ; my tastes run too much after letters. 
 My professor, M. Flainaran, once told me the 
 truth of the matter. " Law, young man, is a 
 jealous mistress : she allows no divided affection." 
 Are my affections divided ? I think not, and 
 I certainly do not confess any such thing to 
 M. Mouillard, who has not yet forgotten what 
 he calls " that freak " of a Degree in Arts. He 
 builds some hopes upon me, and, in return, it 
 is natural that I should build a few upon him. 
 
 Really, that is all my past: a couple of 
 certificates. A third diploma in prospect and 
 an uncle to leave me his money that is my
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 future. Can anything more commonplace be 
 imagined ? 
 
 I may add that I never felt any temptation 
 at all to put these things on record until to-day, 
 the 10th of December, 1884. Nothing had ever 
 happened to me : my history was a blank. I 
 might have died thus. But who can foresee 
 life's sudden transformations? Who can fore- 
 tell that the skein, hitherto so tranquilly un- 
 wound, will not suddenly become tangled ? 
 This afternoon a serious adventure befell me. 
 It agitated me at the time, and it agitates me 
 still more upon reflection. A voice within me 
 whispers that this cause will have a series of 
 effects, that I am on the threshold of an epoch, 
 or, as the novelists say, a crisis in my existence. 
 It has struck me that I owe it to myself to 
 write my Memoirs, and that is why I have 
 just purchased this brown memorandum -book 
 in the Odeon Arcade. I intend to make a 
 detailed and particular entry of the event, and, 
 as time goes on, of its consequences, if any 
 should happen to flow from it. 
 
 " Flow from it " is just the phrase : for it has 
 to do with a blot of ink. 
 
 My blot of ink is hardly dry. It is a big one. 
 too; of abnormal shape; and altogether monstrous, 
 B 2
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 whether one considers it from the physical side 
 or studies it in its moral bearings. It is very 
 much more than an accident : it has something 
 of the nature of an outrage. It was at the 
 National Library that I perpetrated it, and 
 upon But I must not anticipate. 
 
 I often go and work in the National Library ; 
 not in the big hall, but in that reserved for 
 literary men who have a claim, and are provided 
 with a ticket, to use it. I never enter it without 
 a gentle thrill in which respect is mingled with 
 satisfied vanity. For not everyone who chooses 
 can walk in. I must pass before the office of the 
 porter, who retains my umbrella, before I make 
 my way to the solemn beadle who sits just 
 inside the doorway a double precaution, at- 
 testing the majesty of the place. The beadle 
 knows me. He no longer demands rny ticket. 
 To be sure, I am not yet one of those old ac- 
 quaintances on whom he smiles : but I am no 
 longer reckoned among those novices whose 
 passport he exacts. An inclination of his head 
 makes me free of the temple, and says as 
 plainly as words, " You are one of us, albeit a 
 trifle young. Walk in, sir." 
 
 And in I walk, and admire on each occasion 
 the vast proportions of the interior, the severe
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 decoration of the walls, traced with broad foliated 
 pattern and Avainscoted with books of reference 
 as high as hand can reach ; the dread tribunal 
 of librarians and keepers in session down yonder, 
 on a kind of judgment-seat, at the end of the 
 avenue whose carpet deadens all footsteps ; and 
 behind again, that holy of holies where work the 
 doubly privileged the men, I imagine, who are 
 members of two or three Academies. To right 
 and left of this avenue are rows of tables 
 and arm-chairs, where scatters, as caprice has 
 chosen and habit consecrated, the learned popu- 
 lation of the library. Men form the large 
 majority. Viewed from the rear as they bend 
 over their work they suggest reflections on 
 the ravages wrought by study upon hair-clad 
 cuticles. For every hirsute Southerner whose 
 locks turn grey without dropping off, heavens, 
 what a regiment of bald heads! Yisitors who 
 look in through the glass doors see only this 
 aspect of devastation. It gives a wrong impres- 
 sion. Here and there, at haphazard, you may 
 find a few women among these men. George 
 Sand used to coine here. I don't know the 
 names of these successors of hers, nor their 
 business ; I have merely observed that they dress 
 in sober colours, and that each carries a number
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 of shawls and a thick veil. You feel that love 
 is far from their thoughts. They have left it 
 outside, perhaps, with their umbrellas. 
 
 Several of these learned folk lift their 
 heads as I pass, and follow me with the dulled 
 eye of the student, an eye still occupied with the 
 written thought and inattentive to what it looks 
 on. Then, suddenly, remorse seizes them for 
 their distraction, they are annoyed with me, a 
 gloomy impatience kindles in their look, and 
 each plunges anew into his open volume. But I 
 have had time to guess their secret ejaculations : 
 " / am studying the Origin of Trade Guilds ! " 
 " /, the Reign of Louis the Twelfth ! " " /, the 
 Latin Dialects ! " " /, the Civil Status of Women 
 under Tiberius \" " I am elaborating a new trans- 
 lation of Horace ! " " / am fulminating a seventh 
 article, for the Gazette of Atheism and Anarchy, 
 on the Russian Serfs!" And each one seems 
 to add, "But what is thy business here, strip- 
 ling ? What canst thou write at thy age ? Why 
 troublest thou the peace of these hallowed 
 precincts ? " My business, sirs ? Alas ! it is 
 the thesis for my doctor's degree. My uncle 
 and venerated guardian, M. Brutus Mouillard, 
 solicitor, of Bourges, is urging me to finish it, 
 demands my return to the country, grows
 
 .1 BLOT OF INK. 
 
 impatient over the slow toil of composition. 
 " Have done with theories," he writes, " and 
 get to business! If you 'must strive for this 
 degree, well and good ; but Avhat possessed you 
 to choose such a subject ? " 
 
 I must own that the subject of my thesis 
 in Roman law has been artistically chosen with a 
 view to prolonging my stay in Paris : " On the 
 Latini Juniani." Yes, gentle reader, a new 
 subject, almost incapable of elucidation, having 
 no connection not the remotest with the 
 exercise of any profession Avhatsoever, entirely 
 devoid of practical utility. The trouble it gives 
 me is beyond conception. 
 
 It is true that I intersperse my researches 
 Avith some more attractive studies, and one or 
 two visits to the shoAvs, and more than an 
 occasional evening at the theatre. My uncle 
 knows nothing of this. To keep him soothed 
 I am careful to get my reader's ticket reneAved 
 every month, and every month to send him the 
 ticket just out of date, signed by M. Leopold 
 Delisle. He has a box full of them ; and in the 
 simplicity of his heart M. Mouillard has a lurk- 
 ing respect for this nepheAv, this modern young 
 anchorite, Avho spends his days at the National 
 Library, his nights Avith Gaius, Avholly absorbed
 
 A KLOT OF INK. 
 
 in the Junian Latins and indifferent to what- 
 soever does not concern the Junian Latins in 
 this Paris which my uncle still calls the Modern 
 Babylon. 
 
 I came down this morning in the most indus- 
 trious mood, when the misfortune befell. Close 
 by the sanctum where the librarians sit are 
 two desks where you write down the list of 
 the books you want. I was doing so at the 
 right-hand desk, on which abuts the first row 
 of tables. Hence all the mischief. Had I written 
 at the left-hand one, nothing would have hap- 
 pened. But no : I had just set down as legibly 
 as possible the title, author, and size of a certain 
 work on Roman Antiquities, when in replacing 
 the penholder, which is attached there by a 
 small brass chain, some inattentivcness, some 
 want of care, my ill-luck in short, led me to set it 
 down in unstable equilibrium on the edge of 
 the desk. It tumbled I heard the little chain 
 rattle it tumbled further then stopped short. 
 The mischief was done. The sudden jerk, as 
 it pulled up, had detached an enormous drop 
 of ink from the point of the pen, and that 
 
 drop Ah ! I can see him yet, as he rose 
 
 from the shadow of the desk, that small, white- 
 haired man, so thin and so very angry !
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Clumsy idiot ! To blot an Early Text ! " 
 I leant over and looked. Upon the page of a 
 folio, close to an illuminated capital, the black 
 drop had flattened itself' Around the original 
 sphere had been shed splashes of all conceivable 
 shapes rays, rockets, dotted lines, arrow-heads, 
 all the freakish impromptu of chaos. In a 
 moment, owing to the slope, the channels had 
 drained into one, and by this time a black 
 rivulet was crawling downwards to the margin- 
 One or two readers near had risen, and eyed 
 me like examining magistrates. I waited for an 
 outbreak, motionless, dazed, muttering words that 
 did not mend the case at all. " What a pity ! 
 
 I am so sorry ! If I had only known " The 
 
 student of the Early Text stood motionless as I. 
 Together we watched the ink trickle. Suddenly, 
 summoning his wits together, he burrowed with 
 feverish haste in his morocco writing-case, pulled 
 out a sheet of blotting-paper and began to soak 
 up the ink with the carefulness of a Sister of 
 Mercy stanching a wound. I seized the oppor- 
 tunity to withdraw discreetly to the third row of 
 tables, where the attendant had just deposited 
 my books. Fear is so unreasoning. Very likely 
 by saying no more about it, by making off and 
 hiding my head in my hands, like a man crushed
 
 10 A BLOT O/' INK. 
 
 by the weight of his remorse, I might disarm 
 this wrath. I tried to think so. But I knew 
 well enough that there was more to come. I 
 had hardly taken my seat when, looking up, I 
 could see between my fingers the little man 
 standing up and gesticulating beside one of the 
 keepers. At one moment he rapped the damn- 
 ing page with his forefinger; the next, he turned 
 sideways and flung out a hand towards me ; 'and 
 I divined, without hearing a word, all the bitter- 
 ness of his invective. The keeper seemed to take 
 it seriously. I felt myself blushing. "There 
 must be," thought I, " some law against ink- 
 stains, some decree, some regulation, something 
 drawn up for the protection of Early Texts. 
 And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since it 
 has been enacted by the learned : expulsion, no 
 doubt, besides a fine an enormous fine. They 
 are getting ready over there to fleece me. That 
 book of reference they are consulting is of course 
 the catalogue of the sale where this treasure was 
 purchased. I shall have to replace the Early 
 Text. 0, Uncle Mouillard ! " 
 
 I sat there abandoned to my sad reflections 
 when one of the attendants, whom I had not 
 seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder. 
 
 " The keeper wishes to speak to you."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 11 
 
 I rose up and went. The terrible reader had 
 gone back to his seat. 
 
 " It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the 
 folio just now ? " 
 
 " It was, sir." 
 
 " You did not do so on purpose ? " 
 
 " Most certainly not, sir ! I am indeed sorry 
 for the accident." 
 
 "You ought to be. The volume is almost 
 unique; and the blot, too, for that matter. I 
 never saw such a blot ! Will you, please, leave 
 me your Christian name, surname, profession, 
 and address ? " 
 
 I wrote down, " Fabien Jean Jacques Mouil- 
 lard, barrister, 91, Rue de Rennes." 
 
 " Is that all ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is all for the present. But I 
 warn you that M. Charnot is exceedingly annoyed. 
 It might be as well to offer him some apology." 
 
 " M. Charnot ? " 
 
 "Yes. It is M. Charnot, of the Institute, 
 who was reading the Early Text." 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! " I ejaculated as I 
 went back to my seat ; " this must be the 
 man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day ! 
 M. Flamaran belongs to the Academy of 
 Moral and Political Science, the other to the
 
 12 A JJLOT OF INK. 
 
 Institute of Inscriptions and the lielles Lettrcs. 
 Charnot ? Yes, I have those two syllables 
 in my ear. The very last time I saw M. 
 Flamaran he let fall a 'rny good friend 
 Charnot, of the " Inscriptions." ' They are 
 friends. And I am in a pretty situation : 
 threatened with I don't know what by the 
 Library, for the keeper told me positively that 
 ' this was all for the present ' but not for the 
 future : threatened to be disgraced in my 
 tutor's eyes : and all because this learned man's 
 temper is upset. 
 
 " I must apologise. Let me see, what could 
 I say to M. Charnot ? As a matter of fact, it's 
 to the Early Text that I ought to apologise. I 
 have spilt no ink over M. Charnot. He is spot- 
 less, collar and cuffs : the blot, the splashes, all 
 fell on the Text. I will say to him, ' Sir, I am 
 exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so 
 unfortunately in your learned studies.' ' Learned 
 studies' will tickle his vanity, and ought to go 
 far to appease him." 
 
 I was on the point of rising. M. Charnot 
 anticipated me. 
 
 Grief is not always keenest when most 
 recent. As he approached I saw he was more 
 irritated and upset than at the moment of the
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 13 
 
 accident. Above his pinched, clean-shaven chin 
 his lips shot out with an angry twitch. The 
 portfolio shook under his arm. He flung me a 
 look full of tragedy and went on his way. 
 
 Well, well ; go your way, Monsieur Charnot ! 
 One doesn't offer apologies to a man in his 
 wrath. You shall have them by-and-by, when 
 we meet again that is to say, if we ever meet 
 again. 
 
 December 28th, 1884. 
 
 This afternoon I paid M. Flamaran a visit. I 
 had been thinking about it for the last week, as 
 I wanted him to help my Junian Lathis out of 
 a mess. I am acquiring a passion for that 
 interesting class of freedrnen. And really it's 
 only natural. These Junian Latins were poor 
 slaves whose liberation was not recognised by 
 the strict and ancient laws of Rome, because 
 their masters chose to liberate them otherwise 
 than by " vindicta," " census," or " testamentum." 
 On this account they lost their privileges, poor 
 victims of the legislative intolerance of the 
 haughty city. You see, it begins to be touching, 
 already. Then came on the scene Junius Nor- 
 banus, consul by rank, and a true democrat, who 
 brought in a law, carried it, and gave them
 
 14 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 their freedom. In exchange, they gave him 
 immortality. Henceforward, did a slave obtain 
 a few kind words from his master over his 
 wine ? he was a Junian Latin. Was he de- 
 scribed as " filius meus " in a public document ? 
 Junian Latin. Did he wear the cap of liberty, 
 the pileus, at his master's funeral ? Junian 
 Latin. Did he disembowel his master's corpse? 
 Junian Latin, once more, for his trouble. 
 
 What a fine fellow this Norbanus must have 
 been ! What an eye for everything, down to the 
 details of a funeral procession, in which he could 
 find an excuse for emancipation ! and that, too, 
 in the midst of the wars of Marius and Sylla in 
 which he took part. I can picture him seated 
 before his tent, the evening after a battle. Pen- 
 sive, he reclines upon his shield as he watches 
 the slave who is grinding notches out of his 
 sword. His eyes fill with tears, and he murmurs, 
 "When peace is made, my faithful Stychus, I 
 shall have a pleasant surprise for you. You 
 shall hear talk of the Lex Junia Norbana, I 
 promise you ! " 
 
 Is not this a worthy subject for picture or 
 statue in a competition for the " Prix de 
 Rome " ? 
 
 A man so careful of details must have
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 15 
 
 assigned a special dress to these special freedmen 
 of his creation; for at Rome even freedom had its 
 livery. What was this dress ? Was there one 
 at all ? No authority that I know of throws any 
 light on the subject. Still one hope remains : 
 M. Flamaran. He knows so many things, he 
 might even know this. 
 
 M. Flamaran comes from the south Marseilles 
 I think. He is not a specialist hi Roman law ; 
 but he is encyclopaedic, which comes to the same 
 thing. He became known while still young, and 
 deservedly : few lawyers are so clear, so safe, so 
 lucid. He is an excellent lecturer, and his 
 opinions are in demand. Yet he owes much of 
 his fame to the works which he has not written. 
 Our fathers, in their day, used to whisper to one 
 another in the corridors of the Law School, 
 ' Have you heard the news ? Flamaran is going 
 to bring out the second volume of his great work." 
 ' He means to publish his lectures." " He 
 has in the press a treatise which will revolution- 
 ise the law of mortgages : he has been working 
 twenty years at it ; a masterpiece, I assure you." 
 Day follows day ; no book appears, no treatise is 
 published, and all the while M. Flamaran grows 
 in reputation. Strange phenomenon ! like the 
 aloe in the Botanical Gardens. The blossoming
 
 16 A BLOT OF /A A'. 
 
 of the aloe is an event. " Only think ! " says the 
 gaping public, " a flower .which has taken twenty 
 springs, twenty summers, twenty autumns, and 
 twenty winters to make up its mind to open ! " 
 And meanwhile the roses bloom unnoticed by 
 the town. But M. Flamaran's case is still more 
 strange. Every year it is whispered that he is 
 about to bloom afresh ; he never does bloom ; 
 and his reputation flourishes none the less. 
 People make lists of the books he might have 
 written. Lucky author ! 
 
 M. Flamaran is a professor of the old school, 
 stern, and at examinations a terror to the can- 
 didates. Clad in cap and gown, he would reject 
 his own son. Nothing will serve. Recommenda- 
 tions defeat their object. An unquestioned 
 Roumanian ancestry, an extraction indisputably 
 Japanese, find no more favour in his eyes than 
 an assumed stammer, a sham deafness, or a con- 
 valescent pallor put on for the occasion. East 
 and west are alike in his sight. The retired 
 registrar, the pensioned usher aspiring late in 
 life to some petty magistrature, are powerless to 
 touch his heart. For him in vain does the 
 youthful volunteer allow his uniform to peep 
 out beneath his student's gown; he will not 
 profit by the patriotic indulgence he counted on
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 17 
 
 inspiring. His sayings in the examination room 
 are famous, and amongst them are some ghastly 
 pleasantries. Here is one, addressed to a victim, 
 " And you, sir, are a law student, while our 
 farmers are short of hands ! " 
 
 In my case his good-will was won under 
 circumstances which I shall never forget. I was 
 in for my first examination. We were discussing, 
 or rather I was allowing him to lecture on, the 
 law of wardship, and nodding my assent to his 
 learned elucidations. Suddenly he broke off 
 and asked, "How many opinions have been 
 formulated upon this subject ? " 
 
 " Two, sir." 
 
 " One is absurd. Which ? Take care, sir, 
 how you give the wrong answer ! " 
 
 I considered for three agonising seconds, and 
 hazarded a guess. " The first, sir." I had 
 guessed right. We were friends. At bottom 
 the professor is a capital fellow ; kindly so long 
 as the dignity of the Code is not in question, 
 or the extent of one's legal knowledge; pro- 
 verbially upright and honourable in his private 
 life. 
 
 At home he may be seen at his window 
 tending his canaries, which, he says, is no change 
 of occupation. To get to his house I have only
 
 18 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 to go by my favourite road through the Luxem- 
 bourg. I am soon at his door. 
 
 " M. Flamaran at home ? " 
 
 The old servant who opened the door eyed 
 me solemnly. So many young freshmen come 
 and pester her master under the pretext of pay- 
 ing their respects. Their respects indeed ! 
 They would bore him to death if he had to see 
 them all The old woman inferred, probably 
 from my moustache, that I had taken at least 
 my bachelor's degree. 
 
 " I think he is." 
 
 He was very much at home in his overheated 
 study, where he sat wrapped up in a dressing- 
 gown and keeping one eye shut to strengthen 
 the other. 
 
 After a moment's hesitation he recognised 
 me, and held out his hand. 
 
 " Ah ! my Junian Latin ! How are you 
 getting on ? " 
 
 " I am all right, sir ; it's my Junian Latins 
 who are not getting on." 
 
 " You don't say so ? We must look into that. 
 But before we begin I forget where you come 
 from. I like to know where people come from." 
 
 " From La Chatre. But I spend my vaca- 
 tions at Bourges with my Uncle Mouillard."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 19 
 
 " Yes, yes, Mouillart with, a t, isn't it ? " 
 
 " No, with a d." 
 
 " I asked, you know, because I once knew a 
 General Mouillart who had been through the 
 Crimea, a charming man. But he cannot have 
 been a relation, for his name ended with a t." 
 
 My good tutor spoke with a delightful sim- 
 plicity, evidently wishing to be pleasant and to 
 show some interest in me. 
 
 " Are you married, young man ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; but I have no conscientious objec- 
 tions." 
 
 " Marry young. Marriage is the salvation of 
 young men. There must be plenty of pretty 
 heiresses in Bourges." 
 
 " Heiresses, yes. As to their looks, at this 
 distance " 
 
 " Yes, I understand, at this distance of course 
 you can't tell. You should do as I did ; make 
 inquiries, go and see. I went all the way to 
 Forez myself to look for my wife." 
 
 " Madame Flamaran comes from Forez ? " 
 
 " Just so ; I stayed there a fortnight, fourteen 
 days exactly, in the middle of term-time, and 
 brought back Sidonie. Bourges is a nice town." 
 
 " Yes, in summer." 
 
 "Plenty of trees. I remember a grand 
 c 2
 
 20 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 action I won there. One of niy learned col- 
 leagues was against me. We had both written 
 opinions, diametrically opposed of course. But 
 I beat him my word, yes ! " 
 
 " I dare say." 
 
 " My boy, there was nothing left of him ! Bo 
 you know the case ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A magnificent case! My notes must be 
 somewhere about ; I will get them out for you." 
 
 The good man beamed. Evidently he had 
 not had a talk all day, and felt he must expand 
 and let himself out to somebody. I appeared in 
 the nick of time, and caught the full gush of his 
 friendliness. He rose, went to a bookcase, ran his 
 eye along a shelf, took down a volume, and began 
 in a low tone " ' Co-operation is the mighty 
 lever upon which an effete society relies to ex- 
 tricate itself from its swaddling clothes and 
 take a loftier flight.' Tut tut What stuff is 
 this ? I beg your pardon. I was reading from 
 a work on moral philosophy. Where the deuce 
 is my opinion ? " 
 
 He found it and, text in hand, began a long 
 account of the action, with names, dates, moments 
 of excitement, and many quotations in extenso. 
 
 "Yes, my young friend, 218,000 francs did I
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 21 
 
 win in that action for M. Prebois, of Bourges ; 
 you know Prebois, the manufacturer ? " 
 
 " By name." 
 
 At last he put the note-book back on its 
 shelf, and deigned to remember that I had 
 come about the Junian Lathis. 
 
 " In which of the authorities do you find a 
 difficulty ? " 
 
 " My difficulty lies in the want of authorities, 
 sir. I want to find out if the Junian Latins had 
 not a special dress." 
 
 " To be sure." He scratched his head. " Gaius 
 says nothing on the point?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Papinian ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Justinian ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then I see only one resource." 
 
 What is that ? " 
 
 "Go and see Charnot." 
 
 I felt myself growing pale, and stammered 
 with a piteous look 
 
 " M. Charnot, of the Acad " 
 
 " The Academy of Inscriptions : an intimate 
 friend of mine, who will welcome you like a son, 
 for he has none himself, poor man ! "
 
 22 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "But perhaps the question is hardly import- 
 ant enough for me to trouble him like this " 
 
 " Hey ? Not important enough ? All new 
 questions are important. Charnot specialises on 
 coins. Coins and costume are all one. I will 
 write to tell him you are coming." 
 
 " I beg, sir . . . " 
 
 " Nonsense ; I'll write him this very evening. 
 He will be delighted to see you. I know him 
 well, you understand. He is like me ; he likes 
 industrious young men." 
 
 M. Flamaran held out his hand. 
 
 " Good-bye, young man. Marry as soon as 
 ever you've taken your degree." 
 
 I did not recover from the shock till I was 
 halfway across the Luxembourg Gardens, near 
 the Tennis Court, when I sat down, overcome. 
 See what comes of enthusiasm and going to call 
 on your tutor ! Ah, three-and-twenty, when 
 will you learn wisdom ? 
 
 9.0 p.m. 
 
 I have made up my mind. I will go and see 
 M. Charnot. But before that I will go to his 
 publisher's and find out something about this 
 famous man's works, of which I know nothing 
 whatever.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 23 
 
 December 31st. 
 
 He lives in the Rue de 1'Universite. 
 
 I have called. I have seen him. I owe 
 this to an accident, to the servant's forgetting 
 her orders. As I entered, on the stroke of five, 
 he was spinning a spiral twist of paper beneath 
 the lamp-light to amuse his daughter he a 
 member of the Institute, she a girl of eighteen. 
 So that is how these big- wigs employ their leisure 
 moments ! 
 
 The library where I found them was full of 
 book-cases open book-cases, book-cases with 
 glass doors, tall book-cases, dwarf book-cases, 
 book-cases standing on legs, book-cases standing 
 on the floor, of statuettes yellow with smoke, ot 
 desks crowded with paper-weights, paper-knives, 
 pens and inkstands of " artistic " patterns. He 
 was seated at the table, with his back to the fire, 
 his arm lifted, and a hairpin between his finger 
 and thumb the pivot round which his paper 
 twist was spinning briskly. Across the table 
 stood his daughter, leaning forward with her 
 chin on her hands and her white teeth showing 
 as she laughed for laughing's sake, to give play 
 to her young spirits and gladden her old father's 
 heart as he gazed on her, enchanted. 
 
 I must confess it made a pretty picture : and
 
 A JJLOT OF INK. 
 
 M. Charnot at that moment was extremely un- 
 like the M. Charnot who had confronted me 
 from behind the desk. 
 
 I was not left long to contemplate. 
 
 The moment I lifted the portiere the girl 
 jumped up briskly and regarded me with a 
 touch of haughtiness, meant, I think, to hide a 
 slight confusion. To compare small things with 
 great, Diana must have worn something of that 
 look at sight of Action. M. Charnot did not 
 rise, but hearing somebody enter, turned half- 
 round in his arm-chair while his eyes, still dazzled 
 with the lamplight, sought the intruder in the 
 partial shadow of the room. 
 
 I felt myself doubly uneasy in the presence 
 of this reader of the Early Text and of this 
 laughing girl 
 
 " Sir," I began, " I owed you an apology 
 
 He recognised me. The girl moved a step. 
 
 " Stay, Jeanne, stay. We shall not. take 
 long. This gentleman has come to offer an 
 apology." 
 
 This was a cruel beginning. 
 
 She thought so, too, perhaps, and withdrew 
 discreetly into a dim corner, near the book-case 
 at the end of the room. 
 
 " I have felt deep regret, sir, for that accident
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 25 
 
 the other day I set down the penholder clum- 
 sily, in equilibrium unstable equilibrium 
 besides, I had no notion there was a reader 
 behind the desk. Of course, if I had been 
 aware, I should 1 should have acted differ- 
 ently." 
 
 M. Charnot allowed rne to flounder on with 
 the contemplative satisfaction of an angler who 
 has got a roach at the end of his line. He 
 seemed to find me so very stupid, that as a 
 matter of fact I became stupid. And then, there 
 was no answer not a word. Silence, alas ! is 
 not only the reproof of kings. It does pretty 
 well for everybody. I stumbled on two or three 
 more phrases quite as flatly infelicitous, and he 
 received them with the same faint smile and the 
 same silence. 
 
 To escape from my embarrassment 
 
 " Sir," I said, " I came also to ask for a piece 
 of information." 
 
 " I am at your service, sir." 
 
 " M. Flamaran has probably written to you 
 on the matter ? " 
 
 " Flamaran ? " 
 
 " Yes, three days ago." 
 
 " I have received no letter ; have I, Jeanne ? " 
 
 "No, father."
 
 26 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " This is not the first time that my excellent 
 colleague has promised to write a letter and has 
 not written it. Never mind, sir : you are suffi- 
 ciently introduced." 
 
 " Sir, I am about to take my doctor's degree." 
 
 " In arts ? " 
 
 " No, in law ; but I have a bachelor's degree 
 in arts." 
 
 " You will follow it up with a degree in 
 medicine, no doubt ? " 
 
 " Really, sir 
 
 " Why not, since you are collecting these 
 things ? You have, then, a bent towards litera- 
 ture ? " 
 
 " So I have been told." 
 
 " A pronounced inclination hey ? to scrib- 
 ble verse." 
 
 "Ah, yes!" 
 
 " The old story : the family driving a lad 
 into law ; his heart leaning towards letters ; the 
 Digest open on the table, and the drawers stuffed 
 with verses ! Isn't that so ? " 
 
 I bowed. He glanced towards his daughter. 
 
 " Well, sir, I confess to you that I don't 
 understand don't understand at all this be- 
 haviour of yours. Why not follow your natural 
 bent ? You youngsters nowadays I mean no
 
 A BLOT OF IKK. 27 
 
 offence you youngsters have no longer any mind 
 of your own. Take my case : I was seventeen 
 when I began to take an interest in numismatics. 
 My family destined me for the Stamp-Office; 
 yes, sir, the Stamp-Office. I had against me 
 two grandfathers, two grandmothers, my father, 
 my mother, and six uncles all furious. I held 
 out, and that has led me to the Institute. Hey, 
 Jeanne ? " 
 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne had returned to the 
 table, to where she was standing when I entered, 
 and seemed, after a moment, to busy herself in 
 arranging the books scattered in disarray on the 
 green cloth. But she had a secret object to 
 regain possession of the paper spiral that lay 
 there neglected, its pin sticking up beside the 
 lamp-stand. Her light hand, hovering hither 
 and thither, had by a series of cunning man- 
 oeuvres, got the offending object behind a pile of 
 duodecimos, and was now drawing it stealthily 
 among the ink-stands and paper-weights. 
 
 M. Charnot interrupted this little stratagem. 
 
 She answered very prettily, with a slight toss 
 of the head 
 
 " But, father, not everybody can be hi the 
 Institute." 
 
 "Far from it, Jeanne. This gentleman, for
 
 28 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 instance, devotes himself to one method of 
 inking parchment that will never make him my 
 colleague. Doctor of Laws and Master of Arts, 
 I presume, sir, you are going to be a notary ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, an advocate." 
 
 " I was sure of it. Jeanne, my dear, in 
 country families it is a standing dilemma : if 
 not a notary, then an advocate; if not an ad- 
 vocate, then a notary." 
 
 M. Charnot spoke with an exasperating half- 
 smile. I ought to have laughed, to be sure. 
 I ought to have shown sense enough at any rate 
 to hold my tongue and not to answer the gibes 
 of this vindictive man of learning. Instead, I was 
 stupid enough to be nettled and to lose my head. 
 
 " Well," I retorted, " I must have a paying 
 profession. That one or another what does it 
 matter? It's not everybody can belong to the 
 Institute, as your daughter remarked ; it's not 
 everybody can afford himself the luxury of 
 publishing at his own expense works that sell 
 twenty-seven copies or so." 
 
 I expected a thunderbolt, an explosion. Not 
 a bit of it. M. Charnot smiled outright with an 
 air of extreme geniality. 
 
 " I perceive, sir, that you are given to gossip- 
 ing with the booksellers."
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 29 
 
 " Why yes, sir, now and then." 
 
 " It's a very pretty trait, at your age, to be 
 already so strong in bibliography. You will 
 permit me, nevertheless, to add something to 
 your present stock of notions. A big sale is one 
 thing to look at, but not the right thing. 
 Twenty-seven copies of a book, when read by 
 twenty-seven men of intelligence, outweigh a 
 popular success. Would you believe it that one 
 of my friends has had no more than eight copies 
 printed of a mathematical treatise ? Three of 
 these he has given away. The five others are 
 still unsold. And that man, sir, is the first 
 mathematician in France ! " 
 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne had taken it differently. 
 With lifted chin and reddened cheek she shot 
 this sentence at me from the edge of a lip dis- 
 dainfully puckered : 
 
 "There are such things as 'successes of 
 esteem,' sir ! " 
 
 Alas ! I knew that well, and I had no need of 
 this additional lesson to teach me the rudeness 
 of my remark, to make me feel that I was a 
 brute, an idiot, hopelessly lost in the opinion of 
 M. Charnot and his daughter. It was cruel all 
 the same. Nothing was left for me but to hurry 
 my departure. I got up to go.
 
 30 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "But," said M. Charnot in the smoothest 
 of tones, " I do not think we have yet discussed 
 the question which brought you here." 
 
 " I should hesitate, sir, to trespass further on 
 your time." 
 
 "Never mind that. Your question con- 
 cerns . . . ? " 
 
 " The costume of the Latini Juniani." 
 
 " Difficult to answer, like most questions of 
 dress. Have you read the work, in seventeen 
 volumes, by the German Friedchenhausen ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You must have read, at any rate, Smith, the 
 Englishman, on Ancient Costume ? " 
 
 " Nor that either. I only know Italian." 
 
 " Well, then, look through two or three 
 treatises on Numismatics, the Thesaurus Morel- 
 lianus, or the Prcvstantiora Numismata of 
 Valliant, or Banduri, or Pembroke, or Pellerin. 
 You may chance upon a scent." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, sir." 
 
 He saw me to the door. 
 
 As I turned to go I noticed that his daughter 
 was standing motionless still, with the face of 
 an angry Diana. She held between her fingers 
 the recovered spiral 
 
 I found myself in the street.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 31 
 
 I could not have been more clumsy, more 
 ill-bred, or more unfortunate. I had come to 
 make an apology and had given further offence. 
 Just like my luck ! And the daughter too 
 I had hurt her feelings. Still she had stood up 
 for me ; she had said to her father, " Not every 
 one can attain to the Institute," evidently mean- 
 ing, "Why are you torturing this poor young 
 man ? He is bashful and ill at ease. I feel 
 sorry for him." Sorry yes ; no doubt she felt 
 sorry for me at first. But then, I came out 
 with that impertinence about the twenty-seven 
 copies, and by this time she hates me beyond 
 a doubt. Yes, she hates me. It is too painful 
 to think of. Mademoiselle Charnot will prob- 
 ably remain but a stranger to me, a fugitive ap- 
 parition in my path of life ; yet her anger lies 
 heavy upon me, and the thought of those dis- 
 dainful lips pursues me. 
 
 I have rarely been more thoroughly disgusted 
 with myself and all about me. I needed some- 
 thing to divert me, to distract me, to make me 
 forget, and so I set off for home by the longest 
 way, going down the Rue de Beaune to the 
 Seine. 
 
 I declare we get some perfect winter days in 
 Paris. Just now, the folks who sit indoors believe
 
 82 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 that the sun is down and have lit their lamps : but 
 outside, the sky a pale rain-washed blue-^is 
 streaked with broad rays of rose-pink. It is 
 freezing, and the frost has sprinkled diamonds 
 everywhere, on the trees, the roofs, the parapets, 
 even on the cabmen's hats, that gather each a 
 sparkling cockade as they pass along through 
 the mist. The river is running in waves, white- 
 capped here and there. On the penny steamers 
 no one but the helmsman is visible. But what 
 a crowd on the Pont de Carrousel ! Fur cuffs and 
 collars pass and repass on the pavements; the 
 roadway trembles beneath the endless line of 
 Batignolles-Clichy omnibuses and other vehicles. 
 Everyone seems in a hurry. The pedestrians are 
 brisk, the drivers dexterous. Two lines of traffic 
 meet, mingle without jostling, divide again into 
 fresh lines and are gone like a column of smoke. 
 Although slips are common in this crowd, its 
 intelligent agility is all its own. Every face is 
 ruddy, and almost all are young. The number of 
 young men, young maidens, young wives, is be- 
 yond belief. Where are the aged ? At home, 
 no doubt, by the chimney-corner. All the city's 
 youth is out of doors. Its step is animated ; 
 that is the way of it. It is wide-eyed, and 
 in its eyes is the sparkle of life. The looks
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 33 
 
 of the young are always full of the future; 
 they are sure of life. Each has settled his 
 position, his career, his dreaui of common- 
 place well-being. They are all alike : and 
 they might all be judges, so serious they 
 appear about it. They walk in couples, bolt 
 upright, looking neither right nor left, talking- 
 little as they hurry along towards the old 
 Louvre, and are soon swallowed out of sight 
 in the gathering mist through which the gas- 
 lights glimmer faintly. 
 
 They are all on their way to dine on the 
 right bank. 
 
 I am going to dine on the left bank, at 
 Carre's, where one sees many odd customers. 
 Farewell, river ! Good night, old Charnot ! 
 Blessings on you, Mademoiselle Jeanne ! 
 
 8.0 p.m. 
 
 I am back in my study. It is very cold; 
 Madame Menin, iny housekeeper, has let the 
 fire out. Hullo ! she has left her duster, too, 
 lying on the manuscript of my essay. 
 
 Is it an omen, a presage of that dust which 
 awaits my still unfinished work? Who can 
 fathom Fortune's ironic humour ? 
 
 8 o'clock. . . . Counsellor Mouillard has 
 
 D
 
 34 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 finished his pleadings and must be sitting down 
 to a game of whist with Counsellors Horlet and 
 Hublette, of the Court of Bourgcs. They wait 
 for me to make up the four. Perish the awful 
 prospect ! 
 
 And M. Charnot ? He, I suppose, is still 
 spinning the paper spiral. How easily serious 
 people are amused ! Perhaps / am a serious 
 person. The least thing amuses me. By the 
 way, is Mdlle. Jeanne fair or dark ? Let me 
 try to recollect. Why, fair, of course. I re- 
 member the glint of gold in the little curls 
 about her temples, as she stood by the lamp. 
 A pleasant face too : not exactly classic, but 
 rosy and frank ; and then she has that anima- 
 tion which so many pretty women lack. 
 
 Madame Menin has forgotten something 
 else. She has forgotten to shut my window. 
 She has designs upon my life ! 
 
 I have just shut the window. The night is 
 calm, its stars twinkling through a haze. The 
 year ends mournfully. 
 
 I remember at school once waking suddenly 
 on such a night as this, to find the moonlight 
 streaming into my eyes. At such a moment 
 it is always a little hard to collect one's scat- 
 tered senses, and take in the midnight world
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 35 
 
 around, so imhomely, so absolutely still. First 
 I cast my eyes along the two rows of beds 
 that stretched away down the dormitory two 
 parallel lines in long perspective ; my comrades 
 huddled under their blankets in shapeless masses, 
 grey or white according as they lay near or 
 far from the windows ; the smoky glimmer 
 of the oil lamp half-way down the room ; and 
 right at the end, in the deeper shadows, the 
 enclosure of yellow curtains surrounding the 
 usher's bed. 
 
 Not a sound about me ; all was still. But 
 without, my ear, excited and almost feverishly 
 awake, caught the sound of a strange call, 
 very sweet, again and again repeated fugitive 
 notes breathing appeal, tender and troubled. 
 Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no 
 more than a phantom of sound ; now they came 
 near, passed over my head, and faded again into 
 the distance. The moon's clear rays invited me 
 to clear up the mystery. I sprang from my bed, 
 and ran in iny nightshirt to open the window. 
 It was about eleven o'clock. Together the keen 
 night air and the moonlight wrapped me round, 
 thrilling me with delight. The large courtyard 
 lay deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked 
 railings. Here and there a grain of sand 
 D 2
 
 36 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 sparkled. I raised rny eyes, and from one con- 
 stellation to the other I sought the deep blue 
 of Heaven in vain ; not a shadow upon it, not 
 one dark wing outlined. Yet all the while 
 the same sad and gentle cry wandered and 
 was lost in air, the chant of an invisible soul 
 which seemed in want of me, and had perhaps 
 awakened me. 
 
 The thought came upon me that it was the 
 soul of my mother calling to me my mother, 
 whose voice was soft and very musical. 
 
 " I am caring for thee," said the voice. " I 
 am caring for thee ; I can see thee," it said, " I 
 can see thee. I love thee ! I love thee ! " 
 
 "Reveal thyself!" I called back. "Oh, 
 mother, reveal thyself ! " And I strove fever- 
 ishly to catch sight of her, following the voice 
 as it swept around in circles ; and seeing no- 
 thing, I burst into tears. 
 
 All at once I was roughly seized by the ear. 
 
 " What are you doing here, you young imp ? 
 Are you mad ? The wind is blowing right on to 
 my bed. Five hundred lines ! " 
 
 The usher, in night-dress and slippers, was 
 rolling his angry eyes on me. 
 
 " Yes sir, certainly sir ! But don't you hear 
 her ? "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 37 
 
 " Who is it ? " 
 
 " My mother." 
 
 He looked to see if I were awake ; cocked his 
 head to one side and listened ; then shut the 
 window angrily and went off shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 " It's only the plovers flying about the 
 moon," said he. " Five hundred lines ! " 
 
 I did my five hundred lines. They taught 
 me that dreaming was illegal and dangerous, 
 but they neither convinced nor cured me. 
 
 I still believe that there are scattered up and 
 down in nature voices which speak, but which 
 few hear ; just as there are millions of flowers 
 which bloom unseen by man. It's sad for those 
 who catch a hint of it. Perforce they come back 
 and seek the hidden springs. They waste their 
 youth and vigour upon empty dreams, and in 
 return for the fleeting glimpses they have en- 
 joyed, for the perfect phrase half caught and 
 lost again, will have given up the intercourse of 
 their kind, and even friendship itself. Yes, it's 
 sad for the schoolboys who open their windows 
 to gaze at the moon, and never drop the habit ! 
 They will find themselves, all too soon, solitaries 
 in the midst of life, desolate as I am desolate to- 
 night, beside my dead fire.
 
 38 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 No friend will come to knock ut my door ; 
 not one. I have a few comrades to Avhom I give 
 that name. We do not loathe one another. At 
 need they would help me. But we seldom meet. 
 What should they do here ? Dreamers make 
 no confidences ; they shrivel up into themselves 
 and are caught away on the four winds of 
 heaven. Politics drive them crazy; gossip fails 
 to interest them ; the sorrows which they create 
 have no remedy save the joys which they in- 
 vent; they are only natural when alone, and 
 only talk well to themselves. 
 
 The only man who can put up with this 
 moody contrariety of mine is Sylvestre Lampron. 
 He is nearly twenty years older than I. That 
 explains his forbearance. Besides, between an 
 artist like him and a dreamer like myself there 
 is only the difference of handiwork. He trans- 
 lates his dreams : I waste mine ; but both 
 dream. Dear old Lampron ! Kindly stalwart 
 heart ! He has Avithstood that hardening of the 
 moral and physical fibre which comes over so 
 many men as they near their fortieth year. He 
 shows a brave front to work and to life. He is 
 cheerful, and with the manly cheerfulness of a 
 noble heart resigned to life's disillusions. 
 
 When I enter his home, I nearly always find
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 39 
 
 him sitting before a small ground-glass window 
 in the corner of his studio, bent over some en- 
 graving. I have leave to enter at all hours. He 
 is free not to stir from his work. " Good day," 
 he calls out, without raising his head, without 
 knowing for certain who has come in : and goes 
 on with the engraving he has in hand. I settle 
 down at the end of the room on the sofa with 
 the faded cover, and, until Lampron deigns to 
 grant me audience, I am free to sleep, or smoke, 
 or turn over the wonderful drawings that lean 
 against the walls. Among them are treasures 
 beyond price; for Lampron is a genius whose 
 only mistake is to live and act with modesty, so 
 that as yet people only say that he has "im- 
 mense talent." No painter or engraver of repute 
 and he is both has served a more conscien- 
 tious apprenticeship, or sets greater store on 
 thoroughness in his art. His drawing is correct 
 beyond reproach a little stiff, like the early 
 painters'. You can guess from his works his 
 partiality for the old masters Perugino, Fra 
 Angelico, Botticelli, Mernling, Holbein who, 
 though not the masters in fashion, will always 
 be masters in vigour of outline, directness, in 
 simple grace, and genuine feeling. He has copied 
 in oils, water colours, pen, or pencil, nearly all
 
 40 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the pictures of these masters in the Louvre, in 
 Germany, in Holland, and especially in Italy, 
 where he lived for many years. With tastes 
 such as his came the habit, or rather the fixed 
 determination, never to paint or engrave any 
 but sacred subjects. Puft's and cliques are his 
 abomination. His ideal is the archaic rendered 
 by modern methods. An artist of this type can 
 but obtain the half-grudging esteem of his own 
 profession, and of the few critics who really 
 understand something about art. Gladly, and 
 with absolute disdain, he leaves to others the 
 applause of the mob, the gilded patronage of 
 American purchasers, and the right to wear lace 
 cuff's. In short, in an age when the artist is 
 often half a manufacturer and half a charlatan, 
 he is an artist only. 
 
 Now and then he is rich, but never for 
 long. Half of his earnings goes in alms ; half 
 into the pockets of his mendicant brethren. 
 They hear the gold jingle almost before it is 
 counted, and run with outstretched palms. 
 Each is in the depths of misfortune ; on the 
 eve of re-ascending the fatal slope ; lost, unless 
 the helpful hand of Lampron will provide, saved 
 if he will lend wherewithal to buy a block of 
 marble, to pay a model, to dine that evening.
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 41 
 
 He lends I should say gives : the words mean 
 the same in many societies. Of all that he has 
 gained, fame alone remains, and even this he 
 tries to do without modest, retiring, shun- 
 ning all entertainments. I believe he would 
 often be without the wherewithal to live were 
 it not for his mother, whom he supports, and 
 who does him the kindness to need something 
 to live on. Madame Lampron does not hoard : 
 she only fills the place of those dams of cut 
 turf which the peasants build in the channels 
 of the Berry in spring ; the water passes over 
 them, beneath them, even through them, but 
 still a little is left for the great droughts. 
 
 I love my friend Lampron, though fully 
 aware of his superiority. His energy sets me 
 up, his advice fortifies me, he peoples for me the 
 vast solitude of Paris. 
 
 Suppose I go to see him ? A lonely watch 
 to-night would be gloomier than usual. The 
 death of the year brings gloomy thoughts ; the 
 31st of December, St. Sylvester's day St. Syl- 
 vester ! Why that's his birthday ! Ungrateful 
 friend to give no thought to it ! Quick ! my 
 coat, my stick, my hat, and let me run to 
 see these two early birds before they seek their 
 roost.
 
 42 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 1 1 p.m. 
 
 When I entered the studio, Lampron was 
 so deep in his work that he did not hear me. 
 The large room, lit only in one corner, looked 
 weird enough. Around me and among the 
 medley of pictures and casts, the piles of can- 
 vases stacked against the wall, the eye en- 
 countered but a series of cinder-grey tints and 
 undetermined outlines casting long amorphous 
 shadows half-way across the ceiling. A draped 
 lay-figure leaning against a door seemed to 
 listen to the whistling of the wind outside ; an 
 immense glass bay opened upon the night. 
 There was nothing alive in this part of the 
 room, nothing alight except a few rare glints 
 upon the gold of the frames, and the blades 
 of two crossed swords. Only in a corner, 
 right at the far end, at a distance exaggerated 
 by the shadows, sat Lampron engraving, soli- 
 tary, motionless, beneath the light of a lamp. 
 His back was towards me. The lamp's rays 
 threw a strong light on his delicate hand, on 
 the workmanlike pose of his head, which it 
 surrounded with a nimbus, and on a painting 
 a woman's head which he was copying. He 
 looked superb like that, and I thought how 
 doubly tempted Rembrandt would have been
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 43 
 
 by the deep significance as well as by the 
 chiaro-oscuro of this interior. 
 
 I stamped my foot. Lampron started, and 
 turned half round, puckering up his eyes as he 
 peered into the darkness. 
 
 " Ah, it's you," said he. He rose up and 
 came quickly towards me, as if to prevent ine 
 from approaching the table. 
 
 " You don't want me to look ? " 
 
 He hesitated a moment. 
 
 " After all, why not ? " he answered. 
 
 The copper plate was scarcely marked with 
 a few touches of the needle. He turned the 
 reflector so as to throw all its rays upon the 
 painting. 
 
 " Oh, Lampron, what a charming head ! " 
 
 It was indeed a lovely head ; an Italian girl, 
 three-quarter face, painted after the manner 
 of Leonardo, with firm but delicate touches 
 and lights and shades of infinite subtlety, and 
 possessing, like all that master's portraits of 
 women, a straightforward look that responds to 
 the gazer's, but which he seeks to interrogate in 
 vain. The hair, brown with golden lights, was 
 dressed in smooth plaits above the temples. 
 The neck, a somewhat long one, emerged from 
 a dark robe broadly indicated.
 
 44 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " I do not know this, Sylvestre ? " 
 
 " No, it's an old thing." 
 
 ' A portrait, of course ? " 
 
 " My first." 
 
 " You never did better ; line, colour, life, you 
 have got them all." 
 
 " You need not tell me that. In one's young 
 days, look you, there are moments of real inspira- 
 tion, when someone whispers in the ear and 
 guides the hand ; a lightness of touch, the happy 
 audacity of the beginner, a wealth of daring 
 never met with again. Would you believe that 
 I have tried ten times to reproduce that in 
 etching without success ? " 
 
 " Why do you try ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is the question. Why ? It's a bit 
 foolish." 
 
 " You would never find such a model again ; 
 that's one reason." 
 
 " Ah, no, you are right. I should never find 
 her again." 
 
 " An Italian of rank ? a princess, eh ? " 
 
 " Something like it." 
 
 " What has become of her ? " 
 
 " Ah, no doubt what becomes of all prin- 
 cesses. Fabien, my young friend, you who still 
 see life through fairy tales, doubtless you imagine
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 45 
 
 her happy in her lot wealthy, spoiled, flattered, 
 talking with disdainful lips at nightfall, on the 
 terrace of her villa among the great pines, of the 
 barbarian from across the Alps who painted her 
 portrait tAventy years since ; and, in the same 
 sentence, of her last new gown from Paris ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see her so, still beautiful." 
 
 " You are good at guessing, Fabien. She is 
 dead, my friend, and that ideal beauty is now a 
 fe\v white bones at the bottom of a grave." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " 
 
 Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which 
 was not usual with him. He was contemplating 
 his work with such genuine sadness that I was 
 awed. I divined that in his past, of which I 
 knew but little, Lampron kept a sorrow buried 
 that I had all unwillingly revived. 
 
 " My friend," said I, " let that be ; I come to 
 wish you many happy returns." 
 
 " Many happy returns ? Ah, yes, my poor 
 mother wished me that this morning ; then I set 
 to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you 
 came. She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I for- 
 got to pass a bit of this evening with her. Let 
 us go and find her." 
 
 " With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I too have 
 forgotten something."
 
 46 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I have brought no flowers." 
 
 " Never mind, she has plenty ; strong-scented 
 flowers of the south, a whole basket full, enough 
 to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, 
 which you will. It is a yearly attention from an 
 unhappy creditor." 
 
 " Debtor, you mean." 
 
 " I mean what I say, a creditor." 
 
 He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted 
 and ran along the walls like huge spiders, the 
 crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw 
 us a lofty glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pen- 
 sive and sank back into shadow. At the door 
 I took the draped lay -figure in my arms. 
 "Excuse me," I said as I moved it and we 
 left the studio for Madame Lampron's little 
 sitting-room. 
 
 She was seated near a small round table, 
 knitting socks, her feet on a hot-water bottle. 
 Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed 
 upon us. She stuck her needles in under the 
 black lace cap she always wore, and drew them 
 out again almost immediately. 
 
 " It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouil- 
 lard," said she, " to drag him from his work." 
 
 " Saint Sylvestre's Day, too. It is fearful !
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 47 
 
 Love of his art has changed your son's nature 
 Madame Lampion," 
 
 She gave him a tender look, as on entering 
 the room he bent over the fire and shook out his 
 half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he 
 never failed to do the moment he entered his 
 mother's room. 
 
 " Dear child ! " said she. 
 
 Then turning to me : 
 
 "You are a good friend, Monsieur Fabien. 
 Never have we celebrated a St. Sylvestre without 
 you since you came to Paris." 
 
 " Yet this evening, madame, I have failed 
 in my traditions : I have no flowers. But Syl- 
 vestre tells me that you have just received 
 flowers from the south, from an unfortunate 
 creditor." 
 
 My words produced an unusual effect upon 
 her. She, who never stopped knitting to talk or 
 to listen, laid down her work upon her knees, 
 and fixed her eyes upon me filled with anxiety. 
 
 " Has he told you ? " 
 
 Lampron, who was poking the fire, his slip- 
 pered feet stretched out towards the hearth 
 turned his head. 
 
 " No, mother, I merely told him that we 
 had received a basket of flowers. Not much to
 
 48 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 confide. Yet why should he not know all ? Surely 
 he is our friend enough to know all. He should 
 have known it long since, were it not cruel to share 
 between three a burden that two can well bear." 
 
 She made no answer, and began again to 
 twist the wool between her needles, but nerv- 
 ously and as if her thoughts were sad. 
 
 To change the conversation I told them the 
 story of my twofold mishap at the National 
 Library and at Monsieur Charnot's. I tried to 
 be funny, and fancied I succeeded. The old lady 
 smiled faintly. Lampron remained grave, and 
 tossed his head impatiently. I summed my 
 story up thus : 
 
 " Nett gain, two enemies, one of them 
 charming." 
 
 " Oh, enemies ! " said Sylvestre, " they spring 
 up like weeds. One cannot prevent them, and 
 big sorrows do not come from them. Still, 
 beware of charming enemies." 
 
 " She hates me, I swear. If you could have 
 seen her ! " 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Me ? She is nothing to me." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 He put the question gravely, without looking 
 in my face, as he twisted a paper spill.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 49 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 "What's the matter with you to-day, mis- 
 anthrope ? I assure you that she is absolutely 
 indifferent to me. But even were it otherwise, 
 Sylvestre, what wrong would it be ? " 
 
 " Wrong ? No wrong at all ; but I should be 
 anxious for you ; I should be afraid. See here, 
 my friend. I know you well. You are a born 
 man of letters, a dreamer, an artist in your way. 
 You have to help you on entering the redoubt- 
 able lists of love neither foresight, nor a cool 
 head, nor determination. You are guided solely 
 by your impressions : by them you rise or fall. 
 You are no more than a child." 
 
 " I quite agree. What next ? " 
 
 " What next ? " He had risen, and was 
 speaking with unusual vehemence. "I once 
 knew someone like you, whose first passion, rash, 
 but deep as yours would be, broke his heart for 
 ever. The heart, my friend, is apt to break, and 
 cannot be mended like china." 
 
 Lampron's mother interrupted him again, 
 and almost reproachfully. 
 
 " He came to wish you a happy birthday, my 
 child." 
 
 " One day, mother, is as good as another to 
 listen to good advice. Besides I am only talking 
 E
 
 50 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 of one of my friends. Tis but a short story, 
 Fabien, and instructive. I will give it you in very 
 few words. My friend was very young and enthu- 
 siastic. He was on his way through the galleries 
 of Italy, brush in hand, his heart full of the 
 ceaseless song of youth in holiday. The world 
 had never played him false, nor baulked him. 
 He made the future bend to the fancy of his 
 dreams. He seldom descended among common 
 men from that sublimer air where the con- 
 templation of endless masterpieces kept his 
 spirit as on wings. He admired, copied, filled 
 his soul with the glowing beauty of Italian 
 landscape and Italian art. But one day, without 
 reflection, without knowledge, without foresight, 
 he was rash enough to fall in love with a girl of 
 noble birth whose portrait he was painting ; to 
 speak to her and to win her love. He thought 
 then, in the silly innocence of his youth, that 
 art abridges all distance and love effaces it. 
 Crueller nonsense was never uttered, my poor 
 Fabien. He soon found this ; he tried to struggle 
 against the parents' denial, against himself, against 
 her, powerless in all alike, beaten on every point 
 
 .... The end was Do you care to learn the 
 
 end ? The girl was carried off, struck down by 
 a brief illness, soon dead ; the man, hurled out of
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 51 
 
 heaven, bruised, a fugitive also, is still so weak 
 in presence of his sorrow that even after these 
 long years he cannot think of it without weep- 
 ing." 
 
 Lampron actually was weeping, he who was 
 so seldom moved. Down his brown beard, 
 tinged already with grey, a tear was trickling. I 
 noticed that Madame Lampron was stooping 
 lower and lower over her needles. He went 
 on 
 
 " I have kept the portrait, the one you saw, 
 Fabien. They would like to have it over yonder. 
 They are old folk by now. Every year they 
 ask me for this relic of our common sorrow ; 
 every year they send me, about this time, a 
 basket of white flowers, chiefly lilacs, the dead 
 girl's flower, and their meaning is, ' Give up 
 to us what is left of her, the masterpiece 
 built up of your youth and hers.' But I am 
 selfish, Fabien. I, like them, am jealous of 
 all the sorrows this portrait recalls to me, and 
 I deny them. . . . Come, mother, where are the 
 flowers ? I have promised Fabien to show them 
 to him." 
 
 But his old mother could not answer. Having 
 no doubt bewept this sorrow too often to find 
 fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with 
 E 2
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 restless compassion. He, beside the window, was 
 hunting among the chairs and lounges crowded 
 in this corner of the little sitting-room. 
 
 He took up and brought us a box of white 
 deal. " See," said he, " 'tis my wedding bou- 
 quet." And he emptied it on the table. Parma 
 violets, lilacs, white camellias and moss rolled 
 out in slightly faded bunches, spreading a sweet 
 smell in which there breathed already a vague 
 scent of death and corruption. A violet fell on to 
 my knees. I picked it up. 
 
 He looked for a moment at the bunches that 
 heaped the table to overflowing. 
 
 " I keep none," said he ; "I have too many 
 reminders without them. Cursed flowers ! " 
 
 With one motion of his arm he swept them all 
 up and cast them upon the coals in the hearth. 
 They shrivelled, crackled, grew limp and dis- 
 coloured, and vanished in smoke. 
 
 " Now I am going back to my etching. Good- 
 bye, Fabien. Good-night, mother." 
 
 Without turning his head, he left the room 
 and went back to his studio. 
 
 I made a movement to follow him and bring 
 him back. 
 
 Madame Lampron stopped me. " I will go 
 myself," said she " later on much later."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 53 
 
 We sat awhile in silence. When she saw ine 
 somewhat recovered from the shock of my 
 feelings she went on : 
 
 " You have never seen him like this, but 
 I have seen it often. It is so hard ! I knew 
 her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he 
 never hid a thing from me. You can judge from 
 her portrait if hers was not the face to attract 
 an artist like Sylvestre. I saw at once that it 
 was a trial, in which I could do nothing. They 
 were very great people ; different from us, you 
 know." 
 
 " They refused to let them marry ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Sylvestre did not ask ; they never 
 had the opportunity of refusing. No, no ; it 
 was I. I said to him : " Sylvestre, this can never 
 be never ! " He was convinced, against his will. 
 Then she spoke to her parents on her own 
 account, They carried her off. and there was 
 an end of it." 
 
 " He never saw her again ? " 
 
 " Never ; he would not have wished it ; and 
 then she lived a very little time. I went back 
 there two years later, when they wanted to buy 
 the picture. We were still living in Italy. That 
 was one of the hardest hours of my life. I was 
 afraid of their reproaches, and I did not feel
 
 64 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 sure of myself. But no, they suffered for their 
 daughter as I for my son, and that brought us 
 together. Still I did not give up the portrait ; 
 Sylvestre set too great store by it. He insists 
 on keeping it, feeding his eyes on it, reopening his 
 wound day by day. Poor child. Forget all this, 
 Monsieur Fabien : you can do nothing to help. 
 Be true to your youth, and tell us next time of 
 Monsieur Charnot and Mademoiselle Jeanne." 
 
 Dear Madame Lampron ! I tried to console 
 her ; but as I never knew my mother, I could 
 find but little to say. All the same, she thanked 
 me and assured me I had done her good. 
 
 January 1st, 1885. 
 
 The first of January ! When one is not yet 
 an uncle and no longer a godson, if one is in 
 no Government employ and goes out very little, 
 the number of one's calls on New Year's day 
 is limited. I shall make five or six this afternoon. 
 Jt will be " Not at home " in each case : and that 
 will be all my compliments of the season. 
 
 No, I am wrong. I have been wished the 
 compliments of the season. My porter's wife 
 came up just now, wreathed in smiles. 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard, I wish you a happy new 
 year, good health, and Heaven to end your days."
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 55 
 
 She had just said the same to the tenants 
 on the first, second, and third floors. My 
 answer was the same as theirs. I slipped into 
 her palm (with a " Many thanks " of which 
 she took no notice) a piece of gold, which brought 
 another smile, a curtsey, and she is gone. 
 
 This smile comes only once a year ; it is not 
 reproduced at any other period, but is a dividend 
 payable in one instalment. This, and a iear on 
 All Souls' day, when she has been to place a 
 bunch of chrysanthemums on her baby's grave, 
 are the only manifestations of sensibility that I 
 have discovered in her. From the second of 
 January to the second of November she is a 
 human creature tied to a bell-rope, with an 
 immovably stolid face and a monosyllabic 
 vocabulary in which politer terms occur but 
 sparsely. 
 
 This morning, contrary to her habits, she 
 has brought up my post, two letters ; one from 
 my Uncle Mouillard (an answer), and the other 
 I don't recognise the other. Let's open it 
 first : big envelope, ill- written address, Paris 
 postmark. Hullo ! a smaller envelope inside, 
 and on it 
 
 Antoine et Marie Plumet.
 
 56 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 Poor souls ! they have no visiting cards : 
 but kind hearts are more than pasteboard. 
 
 Ten months ago little Madame Plumet, then 
 still unmarried, was in a terrible pother. I 
 remember our tirst meeting, on a March day, at 
 the corner of the Rue du Quatre-Septembre 
 and the Rue Richelieu. I was walking quickly 
 along with a bundle of papers under my arm, on 
 my way back to the office where I was head 
 clerk. All of a sudden a dressmaker's errand 
 girl set down her great oilcloth-covered box 
 right in my way. I nearly went head-first over 
 it, and was preparing to walk round it, when the 
 little woman, red with haste and blushes, ad- 
 dressed me. " Excuse me, sir, are you a lawyer ? " 
 
 " No, mademoiselle, not yet." 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, you know some lawyers ? " 
 
 " To be sure I do ; my master to begin with, 
 Counsellor Boule. He is quite close, if you care 
 to follow me." 
 
 " I am in a terrible hu.-ry, but I can spare 
 a minute or two. Thank you very much, sir." 
 
 And thus I found myself escorted by a small 
 dressmaker and a box of fashions. I remember 
 that I walked a little ahead for fear of being 
 seen in such company by a fellow clerk, which 
 would have damaged my reputation.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 57 
 
 We got to the office. Down went the box 
 again. The little dressmaker told me that she 
 was engaged to Monsieur Pluinet, frame-maker. 
 She told her tale very clearly ; a little money 
 put by, you see, out of ten years' wages ; one 
 may be careful and yet be taken in ; and, 
 alas ! all has been lent to a cousin in the cabinet- 
 making trade, who wanted to set up shop ; and 
 now he refuses to pay up. The dowry is in 
 danger, and the marriage in suspense. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, mademoiselle ; we will 
 summons this scoundrel cabinet-maker, and get a 
 judgment against him ; we shall not let him go 
 until he has disgorged, and you shall be Madame 
 Plumet." 
 
 We kept our word. Less than two months 
 later thanks to my efforts the dowry was re- 
 covered ; the banns were put up ; and the little 
 dressmaker paid a second visit to the office, this 
 time with Monsieur Plumet, who was even more 
 embarrassed than she. 
 
 " See, Antoine! this is Monsieur Mouillard, who 
 undertook our case ! Thank you again and again, 
 Monsieur Mouillard, you really have been too 
 kind ! What do I owe you for your trouble ? " 
 
 "You must ask my master what his fees 
 come to, mademoiselle."
 
 68 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Yes, but you ? What can I do for you ? " 
 
 The whole office, from the messenger to the 
 clerk who came next to me, had their eyes upon 
 me. I rose to the occasion, and in my uncle's 
 best manner I replied 
 
 " Be happy, mademoiselle, and remember me." 
 
 We laughed over it for a week. 
 
 She has done better, she has remembered it 
 after eight months. But she has not given her 
 address. That is a pity. I should have liked to 
 see them both again. These young married folk 
 are like the birds ; you hear their song, but that 
 does not tell you the whereabouts of their nest. 
 
 Now, uncle, it's your turn. 
 
 Here it is again, your unfailing letter, antici- 
 pated like the return of the comets, but less 
 difficult to analyse than the weird substance of 
 which comets are composed. Every year I write 
 to you on December 28th, and you answer me 
 on the 31st in time for your letter to reach me 
 on New Year's morning. You are punctual, 
 dear uncle ; you are even attentive ; there is 
 something affectionate in this precision. But I do 
 not know why your letters leave me unmoved. 
 The eighteen to twenty-five lines of which each 
 is composed are from your head, rather than 
 your heart. Why do you not tell me of my
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 59 
 
 parents, whom you knew ; of your daily life ; of 
 your old servant Madeleine who nursed me as a 
 baby ; of the Angora cat almost as old as she ; 
 of the big garden, so green, so enticing, which 
 you trim with so much care, and which rewards 
 your attention with such luxuriance. It would be 
 so nice, dear uncle, to be a shade more intimate. 
 Ah, well ! let us see what he writes : 
 
 " BOURGES, December 31st, 1884. 
 
 "My DEAR NEPHEW, The approach of the new 
 year does not find me with the same sentiments with 
 which it leaves you. I make up my yearly accounts 
 from July 31st, so the advent of the 31st of December 
 finds me as indifferent as that of any other day of the 
 said month. Your repinings appear to me the expres- 
 sions of a dreamer. 
 
 " It would, however, not be amiss if you made a start 
 in practical life. You come of a family not addicted to 
 dreaming. Three Mouillards have, if I may so say, 
 adorned the legal profession at Bourges. You will be 
 the fourth. 
 
 " As soon as you have taken your doctor's degree 
 which I presume should not be long I shall expect 
 you, the very next day, or the day after that at the 
 furthest ; and I shall place you under my supervision. 
 
 "The practice is not falling off, I can assure you. In 
 spite of age, I still possess good eyes and good teeth, the 
 chief qualifications for a lawyer. You will find every- 
 thing ready and in order here. 
 
 " I am obliged to you for your good wishes, which I 
 entirely reciprocate. 
 
 " Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 " BRUTUS MOUILLARD. 
 
 " P.S. The Lorinet family have been to see me. 
 Mademoiselle Berthe is really quite pretty. They have 
 just inherited 751,351 francs. 
 
 " I was employed by them in an action relating thereto."
 
 60 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Yes, my dear uncle, you were employed, 
 according to the formula, " in virtue of these and 
 subsequent engagements," and among the " sub- 
 sequent engagements " you are kind enough to 
 reckon one between Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet, 
 spinster, of no occupation, and Monsieur Fabien 
 Mouillard, lawyer. " Fabien Mouillard, lawyer " 
 that I may perhaps endure, but " Fabien Mouil- 
 lard, son-in-law of Lorinet," never! One pays 
 too dear for these rich wives. Mademoiselle 
 Berthe is half a foot taller than I, who am 
 moderately tall, and she has breadth in propor- 
 tion. Moreover, I have heard that her wit is not 
 in proportion. I saw her when she was seventeen, 
 in a short dress of staring blue ; she was very thin 
 then, and was escorted by a brother, squeezed 
 inside a schoolboy's suit ; they were out for their 
 first walk alone, both red-faced, flurried, shuffling 
 along the sidewalks of Bourges. That was enough. 
 For me she will always wear that look, that dress, 
 that clumsy gait. Recollections, my good uncle, 
 are not unlike instantaneous photographs ; and 
 this one is a distinct negative to your designs. 
 
 March 3rd. 
 
 The year is getting on. My essay is growing. 
 The Junian Latin emerges from the fogs of Tiber.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 61 
 
 I have had to return to the National Library. 
 My first visits were not made without trepida- 
 tion. I fancied that the beadle was colder, and 
 that the keepers were shadowing me like a 
 political suspect. I thought it wise to change 
 my side, so now I make out my list of books at 
 the left-hand desk and occupy a seat on the left 
 side of the room. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot remains faithful to his 
 post beneath the right-hand inkstand. 
 
 I have been watching him. He is usually 
 one of the first to arrive, with nimble, almost 
 springy, step. His hair, which he wears rather 
 long, is always carefully parted in the middle, 
 and he is always freshly shaven. His habit 
 of filling the pockets of his frock coat with 
 bundles of notes has made that garment swell 
 out at the top into the shape of a basket. He 
 puts on a pair of spectacles mounted in very 
 thin gold, and reads determinedly, very few 
 books it is true, but they are all bound in vellum, 
 and that fixes their date. In his way of turning 
 the leaves there is something pontifical. He 
 seems popular with the servants. Some of the 
 keepers worship him. He has very good 
 manners towards everyone. Me he avoids. 
 Still I meet him, sometimes in the cloak-room,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 oftener in the Rue Richelieu on his way to the 
 Seine. He stops, and so do I, near the Fontaine 
 Moliere, to buy chestnuts. We have this taste 
 in common. He buys two sous' worth, I buy one: 
 thus the distinctions of rank are preserved. If 
 he arrives after me, I allow him the first turn to 
 be served ; if he is before me, I await niy turn 
 with a patience which betokens respect. Yet he 
 never seems to notice it. Once or twice, certainly, 
 I fancied I caught a smile at the corners of his 
 mouth, and a sly twinkle in the corners of his 
 eyes ; but these old scholars smile so austerely. 
 
 He must have guessed that I want to meet 
 him. For I cannot deny it. I am looking out 
 for an opportunity to repair my clumsy mistake 
 and show myself in a less unfavourable light 
 than I did at that ill-starred visit. And she is 
 the reason why I haunt his path ! 
 
 Ever since Monsieur Mouillard threatened 
 me with Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet, the 
 graceful outlines of Mademoiselle Jeanne have 
 haunted me with a persistence to which I 
 have no objection. 
 
 It is not because I love her. It does not 
 go as far as that. I am leaving her and 
 leaving Paris for ever in a few months. No ; 
 the height of my desire is to see her again in
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 63 
 
 the street, at the theatre, no matter where, to 
 show her by my behaviour, and, if possible, by 
 my words that I am sorry for the past, and im- 
 plore her forgiveness. Then there will no longer 
 be a gulf betwixt her and me, I shall be able 
 to meet her without confusion, to invoke her 
 image to put to flight that of Mademoiselle 
 Lorinet without the vision of those disdainful 
 lips to dash me. She will be for me at 
 once the type of Parisian grace and of filial 
 affection. I will carry off her image to the 
 country like the remembered perfume of some 
 rare flower ; and if ever I sing Hymen Hymencee ! 
 it shall be with one who recalls her face to me. 
 
 I do not think my feelings overpass these 
 bounds. Yet I am not quite sure. I watch 
 for her with a keenness and determination which 
 surprise me, and the disappointment which 
 follows a fruitless search is a shade too lively 
 to accord with cool reason. 
 
 After all, perhaps my reason is not cool. 
 
 Let me see, I will make up the account of 
 my ventures. 
 
 One January afternoon I walked up and 
 down the Rue de 1'Universite eight times in 
 succession, from No. 1 to No. 107, and from 
 No. 107 to No. 1. Jeanne did not come out,
 
 64 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 in spite of the brilliancy of the clear winter 
 day. 
 
 On the 19th of the same month I went to 
 see Andromaque, although the classic writers, 
 whom I swear by, are not the writers I most 
 care to hear. I renewed this attempt on the 
 27th. Neither on the first nor on the second 
 occasion did I see Mademoiselle Charnot. 
 
 And yet if the Institute does not escort its 
 daughters in shoals to applaud Andromaque, 
 where on earth does it take them ? 
 
 Perhaps nowhere. 
 
 Every time I cross the Tuileries Gardens 1 
 run my eyes over the groups scattered among 
 the chestnut trees. I see children playing and 
 falling about ; nursemaids who leave them cry- 
 ing ; mothers who pick them up again ; a vagrant 
 guardsman. No Jeanne. 
 
 To wind up, yesterday I spent five hours 
 at the Bon Marche\ 
 
 The spring show was on, one of the great 
 occasions of the year ; and I presumed, not without 
 an apparent foundation of reason, that no young 
 and pretty Parisian could fail to be there. When 
 I arrived, about one o'clock, the crowd already 
 filled the vast bazaar. It was not easy to stand 
 against certain currents that set towards the
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 65 
 
 departments consecrated to spring novelties. 
 Adrift like a floating spar I was swept away 
 and driven ashore ainid the baby-linen. There 
 it flung me high and dry among the shop-girls, 
 who laughed at the spectacle of an undergradu- 
 ate shipwrecked among the necessaries of baby- 
 hood. I felt shy, and attaching myself to the 
 fortunes of an Englishwoman, who worked her 
 elbows with the vigour of her nation, I was borne 
 round some twenty counters. At last, wearied, 
 mazed, dusty as with a long summer walk, I 
 took refuge in the reading-room. 
 
 " Poor simpleton ! " I said to myself, " you are 
 too early ; you might have known that. She 
 cannot come with her father before the 
 National Library closes. Even supposing they 
 take an omnibus they will not get here before 
 a quarter past four." 
 
 I had to find something to fill up the some- 
 what long interval which separated me from 
 that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my 
 uncle Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the 
 address alone. I had not shown such penman- 
 ship since I was nine years old. When the 
 last flourish was completed I looked for a paper ; 
 they were all engaged. The directory was free. 
 I took it, and opened it at Ch. I discovered that 
 F
 
 66 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 there were many Charnots in Paris without 
 counting mine : Charnot, grocer ; Charnot, up- 
 holsterer ; Charnot, surgical bandage-maker. I 
 built up a whole family-tree for the member 
 of the Institute, choosing of course those persons 
 of the name who appeared most worthy to adorn 
 its branches. Of what followed I retain but 
 a vague recollection. I only remember that I 
 felt twice as if some inquisitive stranger were 
 looking over my shoulder. The third time I 
 Avoke up with a start. 
 
 " Sir," said a shopwalker, with the utmost 
 politeness, " a gentleman has been waiting three- 
 quarters of an hour for the directory. Would 
 you kindly hand it to him if you have quite 
 finished with it ? " 
 
 It was a quarter to six. I sidl waited a little 
 while, and then I left, having wasted my day. 
 
 Oh, Jeanne ! where do you hide yourself? 
 Must I, to meet you, attend mass at St. Germain 
 des Pres ? Are you one of those early birds 
 who, before the world is up, are out in the 
 Champs Elyse"es catching the first rays of the 
 morning and the country breeze before it is lost 
 in the smoke of Paris ? Are you attending 
 lectures at the Sorbonne ? Are you learning 
 to sing ? and, if so, who is your teacher ?
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 67 
 
 You sing, Jeanne, of course. You remind 
 me of a bird. You have all the quick and easy 
 graces of the sky-lark. Why should you not 
 have the sky-lark's voice ? 
 
 Fabien, you are dropping into poetry ! 
 
 April '3rd. 
 
 For a month and more I have written 
 nothing in this brown note-book. But to-day 
 there is plenty to put down, and worth the 
 trouble too. 
 
 Let me begin with the first shock. This 
 morning, my head crammed with passages from 
 Latin authors, I leaned my brow against the 
 pane of my window which looks on the garden. 
 The garden is not mine, of course, since I live on 
 the fourth floor ; but I have a look out on to the 
 big weeping willow in the centre, the sanded 
 path which runs round it, and the four walls 
 lined with borders, one of which separates it 
 from the huge premises of the Carmelites. It is 
 an almost deserted garden. The first-floor 
 tenant scarcely ever walks there. His son, a 
 schoolboy of seventeen, was there this morning. 
 He stood two feet from the street wall, motion- 
 less, with head thrown back, whistling a 
 monotonous air, which seemed to me like a 
 F 2
 
 68 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 signal. Before him, however, was nothing but the 
 moss on the old wall gleaming with golden lights. 
 People do not whistle to amuse stones nor yet 
 moss. Further off, on the other side of the street, 
 the windows of the opposite houses stretched 
 away in long straight lines, the majority stand- 
 ing open. I thought to myself, " The bird is 
 somewhere there. Some small Abigail will look 
 out in a moment with her white cap." 
 
 The suspicion was stupid and ill-natured. 
 How rash are our lightest judgments ! All at 
 once the schoolboy took one step forward, swept 
 his hand quickly along the moss as if he were 
 trying to catch a fly, and ran off to his mother 
 triumphant, delighted, beside himself, with an 
 innocent grey lizard on the tips of his fingers. 
 
 " I've got him ! I've got him ! He was 
 basking in the sun and I charmed him ! " 
 
 " Basking in the sun ! " this was a revela- 
 tion to me. I flung up the window. Yes, 
 it was true. Warmth and light lay everywhere : 
 on the roofs still glistening with last night's 
 showers : across the sky, whose gay blue pro- 
 claimed that winter was done. I looked down- 
 wards and saw what I had not seen before : 
 the willow bursting into bud, the hepatica 
 in flower at the foot of the camellias, which
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 69 
 
 had ceased to bloom, the pear-trees in the 
 Carmelites' garden dusted with red as the sap 
 rose within them, and upon the dead trunk of a 
 fig-tree a blackbird, escaped from the Luxem- 
 bourg, who, on tiptoe, with throat outstretched, 
 drunk with delight, answered some far-off' call 
 that the wind brought to him, singing as if in 
 woodland depths the rapturous song of the 
 year's new birth. Then, oh ! then I could 
 contain myself no longer. I ran down the stairs 
 four at a bound, cursing Paris and the Junian 
 Latins who had been cheating me of the spring. 
 What ? live there cut off from the world which 
 was created for me, tread an artificial earth of 
 stone or asphalte, live with a horizon of chimneys, 
 only see the sky chopped into irregular strips by 
 house-roofs, smirched with smoke, and allow this 
 exquisite spring to fleet by without drinking 
 in her bountiful delight, without renewing in her 
 youthfulness our youth, always a little staled 
 and overcast by winter ! No, that cannot be ; 
 I mean to see the spring. 
 
 And I have seen it, in truth, though cut and 
 tied into bouquets, for my aimless steps led me 
 to the Place St. Sulpice, where the flower- sellers 
 were. There were flowers in plenty, but very 
 few people ; it was already late. None the less
 
 70 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 did I enjoy the sight of all the plants arranged 
 by height and kind, from the double hyacinths, 
 dear to hall porters, to the first carnations, 
 scarcely in bud, whose pink or white tips just 
 peeped from their green sheaths ; then the 
 bouquets, bundles of the same kinds and same 
 shades of flowers wrapped up in paper, lilies of 
 the valley, lilacs, forget-me-nots, mignonette 
 that, being grown under glass, has guarded its 
 honey from the bees to scent the air here. 
 Everyone had a look of welcome for those exiles. 
 The girls smiled at them without knowing why. 
 The cabdrivers in line along the kerb seemed 
 to enjoy their neighbourhood. I heard one of 
 them, with a face like a half-ripened strawberry, 
 red, with a white nose, say to a comrade, 
 " Hello, Francis ! that smells good, don't it ! " 
 
 I was walking slowly along, looking into 
 every stall, and when I came to the end I 
 turned right about face. 
 
 Great heavens ! Not ten feet off ! Monsieur 
 Flamaran, Monsieur Charnot, and Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne ! 
 
 They had stopped before one of the stalls 
 which I had just left. Monsieur Flamaran was 
 carrying under his arm a pot of cineraria, which 
 made his stomach a perfect bower. Monsieur
 
 A BLOT Of INK. 71 
 
 diarnot was stooping down, examining a superb 
 pink carnation. Jeanne was hovering jindecided 
 between twenty bunches of flowers, bending her 
 pretty head in its spring hat over each in turn. 
 
 " Which, father ? " 
 
 " Whichever you like ; but make up your 
 mind soon : Flamaran is waiting." 
 
 A moment more, and the elective affinities 
 carried the day. 
 
 " This bunch of mignonette," she said. 
 
 I would have wagered on it. She was bound 
 to choose the mignonette a fair, well-bred, 
 graceful plant like herself. Others choose their 
 camellias and their hyacinths ; Jeanne must 
 have something more refined. 
 
 She put down her money, caught up the 
 bunch, looked at it for a moment, and held it 
 close to her breast as a mother might her child, 
 while all its golden locks drooped over her arm. 
 Then off she ran after her father, who had only 
 changed one carnation for another. They went 
 on towards St. Sulpice Monsieur Flamaran on 
 the right, Monsieur Charnot in the middle, 
 Jeanne on the left. She brushed past with- 
 out seeing me. I followed them at a distance. 
 All three were laughing. At what ? I can 
 guess : she because she was eighteen, they for
 
 72 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 joy to be with her. At the end of the market- 
 place they turned to the left, followed the 
 railings of the church, and bent their steps 
 towards the Rue St. Sulpice, doubtless to take 
 home Monsieur Flamaran, whose cineraria 
 blazed ainid the crowd. I was about to turn in 
 the same direction when an omnibus of the 
 Batignolles-Clichy line stopped my way. In 
 an instant I was overwhelmed by the Hood 
 of passengers which it poured on to the pave- 
 ments. 
 
 " Hullo, you here ! How goes it ? What are 
 you staring at ? My top hat ? Observe it 
 well, my dear felloAv, the latest invention of 
 Leon : the patent ventilating anti-sudorific and 
 evaporating hat ! " 
 
 It was Larive who had just climbed down 
 from the knife-board. 
 
 Everyone knows Larive, head clerk in Ma- 
 chin's office. He is to be seen everywhere, a 
 tall, fair man, with little close- trimmed whiskers, 
 and moustache carefully twisted. He is always 
 perfectly dressed, always in a high hat and new 
 gloves, full of ah 1 the new stories, which he 
 tells as his own. If you believe him, he is at 
 home in all the ministries, whatever party is 
 in power; he has cards for every ball, and
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 73 
 
 tickets for every first night. With all that he 
 never misses a funeral, is a good lawyer, and 
 as solemn when in court as a dozen old 
 bonzes. 
 
 " Come, Fabien, will you answer ? What are 
 you staring at ? " 
 
 He turned his head. 
 
 " Oh, I see, pretty Mademoiselle Charnot." 
 
 " You know her ? " . 
 
 " Of course I do, and her father too. A 
 pretty little thing ! " 
 
 I blushed with pleasure. He went on : 
 
 " Yes, a very pretty little thing ; but wants 
 style dances poorly." 
 
 " An admirable defect." 
 
 " A little big, too, for her eyes.'' 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " 
 
 " Her eyes are a little too small, you under- 
 stand me ? " 
 
 " What matter that if they are bright and 
 loving ? " 
 
 " No matter at all to me ; but it seems to 
 have some effect on you. Might you be re- 
 lated ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Or connected by marriage ? " 
 
 " No."
 
 74 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " So much the better eh, ray boy ? And 
 how's uncle ? Still going strong ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and longing to snatch me from this 
 Babylon." 
 
 " You mean to succeed him ? " 
 
 " As long hence as possible." 
 
 " I had heard you were not enthusiastic. A 
 small practice, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Not exactly. A matter of a thousand a 
 year ! " 
 
 " Clear profit ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's good enough. But in the country, 
 my poor fellow, in the country ! " 
 
 " It would be the death of you, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " In forty-eight hours." 
 
 " However did you manage to be born there, 
 Larive ? I'm surprised at you." 
 
 " So am I. I often think about it. Good- 
 bye. I must be off." 
 
 I caught him by the hand which he held out 
 to me. 
 
 " Larive, tell me where you have met Made- 
 moiselle Charnot ? " 
 
 " Oh, come I see it's serious. My dear 
 fellow, I am so sorry I did not tell you she was 
 perfection. If I had only known ! "
 
 A BLOT OF INK, 75 
 
 " That's not what I asked you. Where have 
 you seen her ? " 
 
 " In society, of course. Where do you expect 
 me to see young girls except in society ? My 
 dear Fabien ! " 
 
 He went off laughing. When he was about 
 ten yards off he turned, and making a speaking- 
 trumpet of his hands he shouted through them, 
 
 " She's perfection ! " 
 
 Larive is decidedly an ass. His jokes strike 
 you as funny at first; but there's nothing in 
 him, he's a mere hawker of stale buffooneries ; 
 there's nothing but selfishness under his jesting 
 exterior. I have no belief in him. Yet he is an 
 old school friend ; the only one of my twenty- 
 eight classmates whose acquaintance I have kept 
 up. Four are dead, twenty-three others are 
 scattered about in obscure country places ; lost 
 for want of news, as they say at the private 
 inquiry offices. Larive makes up the twenty- 
 eight. I used to admire him, when we were low 
 down in the school, because of his long trousers, 
 his lofty contempt of discipline, and his pre- 
 cocious intimacy with tobacco. I preferred him 
 to the good, well-behaved boys. Whenever we 
 had leave out I used to buy gum arabic at the 
 druggist's in La Chatre, and break it up with a
 
 76 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 small hammer at the far end of my room, 
 away from prying eyes. I used there to dis- 
 tribute it into three bags ticketed respectively : 
 " large pieces," " middle-sized pieces," " small 
 pieces." When I returned to school with the 
 three bags in my pocket, I would draw out one 
 or the other to offer them to my friends, accord- 
 ing to the importance of the occasion, or the de- 
 grees of friendship. Larive always had the big 
 bits, and plenty of them. Yet he was none the 
 more grateful to me, and even did not mind 
 chaffing me about these petty attentions by 
 which he was the gainer. He used to make fun 
 of everything, and I used to look up to him. 
 He still makes fun of everything; but for me 
 the age of gum arabic is past, and my faith hi 
 Larive is gone. 
 
 If he thinks he is going to disparage this 
 charming girl in my eyes by telling me that she 
 is a bad dancer, he is wrong. A lot of good it is 
 to have a wife who dances well ! She does not 
 dance in her own house, nor with her husband 
 from the wardrobe to the cradle, but at others' 
 houses, and with other men. Besides, a young 
 girl who dances much has a lot of nonsense 
 talked to her. She may acquire a taste for 
 Larive's buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 77 
 
 tongue. In that case what welcome can she 
 give to simple, timid affection ? She Avill only 
 laugh at it. But you would not laugh, Jeanne, 
 were I to teh 1 you that I loved you. No, I am 
 quite convinced that you would not laugh. And 
 if you loved me, Jeanne, we should not go into 
 society. That would just suit me. I should 
 protect you, yet not hide you. We should have 
 felicity at home instead of running after it to 
 balls and crushes where it is never to be found. 
 You could not help being aware of the fascina- 
 tion you exert ; but you would not squander it 
 on a lot of dancers, and bring home only the 
 last remnants of your good spirits, with the last 
 remnants of your train. Jeanne, I am delighted 
 to hear that you dance badly. 
 
 Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither 
 away ? You are letting your imagination run 
 away with you again. A hint from it, and off 
 you go. Come, do use your reason a little. 
 You have seen this young lady again, that is 
 true. You admired her; that was for the 
 second time. But she, whom you so calmly 
 speak of as " Jeanne," as if she were something 
 to you, never even noticed you. You know 
 nothing about her but what you suspect from 
 her maiden grace and a dozen words from her
 
 78 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 lips. You do not know whether she is free, nor 
 how she would welcome the notions you enter- 
 tain if you gave them utterance, yet here you 
 are saying, " We would go here," " We would do 
 this and that." Keep to the singular, my poor 
 fellow. The plural is far away, very far away, if 
 not entirely beyond your reach. 
 
 April 27th. 
 
 The end of April. Students pack and be 
 off! The first warm breezes burst the buds. 
 Meudon is smiling, Clamart breaks into song, 
 the air in the valley of Chevreuse is heavy 
 with violets : the willows shower their catkins on 
 the banks of the Yvette, and further yet, over 
 yonder beneath the green domes of the forest of 
 Fontainebleau, the deer prick their ears at the 
 sound of the first riding parties. Off with you ! 
 Flowers line the pathways, the moors are pink 
 with bloom, the undergrowth teems with darting 
 wings. All the town troops out to see the 
 country in its gala dress. The very poorest have 
 a favourite nook, a recollection of the bygone 
 year to be revived and renewed ; a sheltered 
 corner that invited skep, a glade where the 
 shade was grateful, a spot beside the river's brink 
 where the fish used to bite. Each one says,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 79 
 
 " Don't you remember ? " Each one seeks his 
 nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still 
 hold together ? What havoc has been made by 
 the w r inter's winds, and the rain, and the frost ? 
 Will it welcome us, as of old ? 
 
 I, too, said to Lampron, " Don't you re- 
 member ? " for we too have our nest, and 
 summer days that smile to us in memory. He 
 was in the mood for work, and hesitated. I 
 added, in a whisper, "The Blackbird's Pool!" 
 He smiled, and off we went. 
 
 Again, as of old, our destination was Saint- 
 Germain, not the town, nor the Italian palace, 
 nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so 
 wide over the Seme, the country dotted with 
 villas, to Montmartre blue in the distance; 
 not these, but the forest. " Our forest " we caU 
 it : for we know all its young shoots, all its giant 
 trees, all its paths where poachers and young 
 lovers hide. With my eyes shut I could find 
 the Blackbird's Pool, the way to which was first 
 shown us by a deer. 
 
 Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a 
 pool no, not a pool (the word is incorrect), nor 
 yet a pond but a fountain hollowed out by the 
 upheaval of a giant oak. Since the death of this 
 monarch the birches which its branches kept
 
 80 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 apart have never closed together, and the foun- 
 tain forms the centre of a little clearing where 
 the moss is thick at all seasons and starred in 
 August with wild pinks. The water, though 
 deep, is deliciously clear. At a depth of more 
 than six feet you can distinguish the dead leaves 
 at the bottom, the grass, the twigs, and here and 
 there a stone's iridescent outline. They all lie 
 asleep there, the waste of seasons gone by, 
 soon to be covered by others in their turn. 
 From time to time out of the depths of these 
 submerged thickets an eft darts up. He 
 comes circling up, quivering his yellow-banded 
 tail, snatches a mouthful of air, and goes down 
 again head-first. Save for these alarms the pool 
 is untroubled. It is guarded from the winds 
 by a juniper that an eglantine has chosen for its 
 guardian, and crowns each year with a wreath of 
 roses. Each year, too, a blackbird makes his 
 nest here. We keep his secret. He knows we 
 shall not disturb him. And when I come back 
 to this little nook in the woods, which custom 
 has endeared to us, merely by looking in the 
 water I feel my very heart refreshed. 
 
 " What a spot to sleep in ! " cried Lampron. 
 " Keep sentry, Fabien ; I am going to take a 
 nap."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 81 
 
 We had walked fast. It was very hot. He 
 took off his coat, rolled it into a pillow, and 
 placed it beneath his head as he lay down on 
 the grass. I stretched myself prone on a 
 velvety carpet of moss, and gave myself up to a 
 profound investigation of the one square foot 
 of ground which lay beneath my eyes. The 
 number of blades of grass was prodigious. A 
 few, already awned. stood above their fellows, 
 waving like palms meadow grass, fescue, fox- 
 tail, brome-grass each slender stalk crowned 
 with a tuft. Others were budding, only half 
 unfolded, amid the darker mass of spongy moss 
 which gave them sustenance. Amid the number- 
 less shafts thus raised towards heaven a thousand 
 paths criss-crossed, each full of obstacles chips 
 of bark, juniper berries, birch-nuts, tangled roots, 
 hills raised by burrowing insects, ravines formed 
 by the draining off of the rains. Ants and beetles 
 bustled along them, pressing up hill and down 
 to some mysterious goal. Above them a cunning 
 red spider was tying a blade of grass to an 
 orchid leaf, the pillars it had chosen for its 
 future web; and when the wind shook the 
 leaves and the sun pierced through to this spot 
 I saw the delicate roof already mapped out. 
 
 I do not know how long my contemplation 
 G
 
 82 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 lasted. The woods were still. Save for a swarm 
 of gnats which hummed in a minor key around 
 the sleeping Lampron, nothing stirred, not a leaf 
 even. All nature was silent as it drank in the 
 brimming sunshine. 
 
 A murmur of distant voices stole on my ear. 
 I rose, and crept through the birches and hazels 
 to the edge of the glade. 
 
 At the top of the slope, on the green margin 
 of the glade, shaded by the tall trees, two pedes- 
 trians were slowly advancing. At the distance 
 they still were I could distinguish very little 
 except that the man wore a frock-coat, and that 
 the girl was dressed in grey, and was young, to 
 judge by the suppleness of her walk. Neverthe- 
 less I felt at once that it was she. 
 
 I hid as they came near, and saw her pass on 
 her father's arm, chatting in low tones, full of joy 
 to have escaped from the Rue de I'Universite'. 
 She was looking before her with wide opened 
 eyes. M. Charnot kept his eyes on his daughter, 
 more interested in her than in all the wealth of 
 spring. He kept well to the right of the path as 
 the sun ate away the edge of the shadows ; and 
 asked from time to time 
 
 " Tired ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 83 
 
 " As soon as you are tired, my dear, we will 
 sit down. I am not walking too fast ? " 
 
 She answered " no " again, and laughed, and 
 they went on. 
 
 Soon they left the avenue and were lost in 
 a green alley. Then a sudden twilight seemed 
 to have closed down on me, an infinite sadness 
 swelled in my heart. I closed my eyes, and 
 God forgive my weakness, but the tears came. 
 
 " Hullo ! What part do you intend me to 
 play in all this ? " said Lampron behind me. 
 
 " ' What part ? ' " 
 
 " Yes. It's an odd notion to invite me to 
 your trysting place." 
 
 " Trysting place ? I haven't one." 
 
 " You mean to tell me, perhaps, that you 
 came here by chance ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And chanced upon the very moment and 
 the spot where she was passing ? " 
 
 " Do you want a proof ? That young lady is 
 Mademoiselle Charnot." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, sir, I have never said another word to 
 
 her since my one visit to her father; I have 
 
 only seen her once, for a moment, in the street. 
 
 You see there can be no question of trysting 
 
 G 2
 
 84 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 places in this case. I was wondering when you 
 came. It is luck, or a friendly providence that 
 has used the beauty of the sunlight, the breeze, 
 and all the sweets of April to bring her, as it 
 brought us, to the forest." 
 
 " And that is what fetched the tears ? " 
 
 " Well, no." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " My full-grown baby, I will tell you. You 
 are in love with her ! " 
 
 " Indeed, Sylvestre, I believe you're right. I 
 confess it frankly to you as to my best friend. 
 It is an old story already ; as old, perhaps, as the 
 day I first met her. At first her image would 
 rise in my imagination, and I took pleasure in 
 contemplating it. Soon this phantom ceased 
 to satisfy ; I longed to see her in person. I 
 sought her in the streets, the shops, the theatre. 
 I still blinded myself, and pretended that I only 
 wanted to ask her pardon, so as to remove, before 
 I left Paris, the unpleasant impression I had 
 made at our first meeting. But now, Sylvestre, 
 all these false reasons have disappeared, and the 
 true one is clear. I love her ! " 
 
 " Not a doubt of it, my friend, not a doubt 
 of it. I have been through it myself."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 85 
 
 He was silent, and his eyes wandered away to 
 the far-off woods, perhaps back to those distant 
 memories of his. A shadow rested on his strong 
 face, but only for an instant. He shook off 
 his depression, and his old smile came back as 
 he said 
 
 " It's serious, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, very serious." 
 
 " I'm not surprised : she is a very pretty 
 girl." 
 
 " Isn't she lovely ? " 
 
 " Better than that, my friend : she is good. 
 "What do you know about her ? " 
 
 " Only that she is a bad dancer." 
 
 " That's something, to be sure." 
 
 " But it isn't all." 
 
 " Well, no. But never mind, find out the 
 rest, speak to her, declare your passion, ask for 
 her hand, and marry her." 
 
 " Good heavens, Sylvestre, you are going 
 ahead ! " 
 
 " My dear fellow, that is the best and wisest 
 plan ; these vague idylls ought to be hurried on, 
 either to a painless separation or an honourable 
 end in wedlock. In your place I should begin 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Why not to-day ? "
 
 86 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Let's catch them up, and see her again at 
 least." 
 
 He began to laugh. 
 
 " Run after young girls at my age ! Well, 
 well, it was my advice. Come along ! " 
 
 \Ve crossed the avenue, and plunged into the 
 forest. 
 
 Lampron formerly acquired a reputation for 
 tireless agility among the fox-hunters of the 
 Roman Campagna. He still deserves it. In 
 twenty strides he left me behind. I saw him 
 jumping over the heather, knocking off with 
 his cane the young shoots on the oaks, or 
 turning his head to look at me as I struggled 
 after, torn by brambles and pricked by gorse. 
 A startled pheasant brought him to a halt. 
 The bird got up under his feet and rose into 
 the full light. 
 
 " There's a beauty !" said he. " Look out, we 
 must be more careful ; we are scaring the game. 
 We ought to come upon the path they took, 
 about sixty yards on." 
 
 Five minutes later Tie was signalling to me 
 from behind the trunk of a great beech. 
 
 " Here they are." 
 
 Jeanne and Monsieur Charnot were seated on
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 87 
 
 a fallen trunk beside the path, which here was 
 almost lost beneath the green boughs. Their 
 backs were towards us. The old man, with his 
 shoulders bent and his gold-knobbed cane stuck 
 into the ground beside him, was reading out of 
 a book which we could not see, while Jeanne, 
 attentive, motionless, her face half turned to- 
 wards him, was listening. Her profile was 
 outlined against a strip of clear sky. The 
 deep silence of the wood wrapped us round, 
 and we could hear the old scholar's voice; 
 it just reached us. 
 
 " Straightway the godlike Odysseus ad- 
 dressed her with honeyed words beguiling : ' Be 
 thou goddess or mortal, queen, I kneel 
 before thee ! If thou art one of the deities who 
 dwell in boundless heaven, by thy loveliness 
 and stature and grace I guess thee to be Artemis, 
 daughter of high Zeus. But if thou art a mortal 
 dwelling upon earth, thrice blessed then thy father 
 and thy queenly mother, thrice blessed thy 
 brethren ! Surely their souls ever swell with 
 gladness because of thee, when they see a maiden 
 so lovely step into the circle of the dance. But 
 far the most blessed of all is he who shall prevail 
 on thee with presents and lead thee to his 
 home ! ' "
 
 88 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 I turned to Larapron, who had stopped a few 
 steps in front of me, a little to the right. He 
 had got out his sketch-book and was drawing 
 hurriedly. Presently he forgot all prudence, 
 and came forth from the shelter of a beech to 
 get nearer to his model. In vain I made sign 
 upon sign, and tried to remind him that we were 
 not there to paint or sketch. It was no use ; 
 the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting 
 down at the required distance on a gnarled root, 
 right in the open, he went on with his work 
 with no thought but for his art. 
 
 The inevitable happened. Growing impatient 
 over some difficulty in his sketch, Lampron 
 shuffled his feet ; a twig broke, some leaves rustled 
 Jeanne turned round and saw me looking 
 at her, Lampron sketching her. 
 
 What are the feelings of a young girl who in 
 the middle of a forest suddenly discovers that 
 two pairs of eyes are busy with her ? A little 
 fright at first ; then when the idea of robbers 
 is dismissed, and a second glance has shown 
 her that it is her beauty, not her life, they want 
 a touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, 
 not unmixed with confusion. 
 
 This is exactly what we thought we saw. At 
 first she drew back slightly, with brows knitted,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 89 
 
 on the verge of an exclamation ; then her brows 
 unbent, and the pleasure of finding herself 
 admired, confusion at being taken unawares, 
 the desire of appearing at ease, all showed at 
 once on her rosy cheeks, and in her faintly 
 troubled smile. 
 
 I bowed. Sylvestre pulled off his cap. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot never stirred. 
 
 " Another squirrel ? " he said. 
 
 " Two this time, I think, father," she answered 
 in a low voice. 
 
 He went on reading. 
 
 " ' My guest,' made answer the fair Nausicaa, 
 ' for I call thee so since thou seemest not base 
 nor foolish, It is Zeus himself that giveth weal to 
 men ' " 
 
 Jeanne was no longer listening. She was 
 thinking. Of what ? Of several things perhaps, 
 but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed 
 it by the movement of her sunshade, which 
 was nervously tracing figures in the turf. I 
 signalled to Lampron. We retired backwards. 
 Yet it was in vain; the charm was broken, the 
 peace had been disturbed. 
 
 She gave two coughs musical little coughs, 
 produced at will. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot broke off his reading.
 
 90 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " You are cold, Jeanne ? " 
 
 " Why, no, father." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you're cold. Why did you not 
 say so before ? Lord, Lord, these children ! 
 Always the same think of nothing ! " 
 
 He rose without delay, put his book in his 
 pocket, buttoned up his coat, and leaning on his 
 stick glanced up a moment at the tree-tops. Then 
 side by side they disappeared down the path, 
 Jeanne stepping briskly, upright and supple, 
 between the young branches which soon con- 
 cealed her. 
 
 Still Lampron continued to watch the turn- 
 ing in the path down which she had vanished. 
 
 " What are you thinking about ? " said I. 
 
 He stroked his beard, where lurked a few 
 grey hairs. 
 
 " I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves 
 us in this same way, at the time when we love 
 it most, Avith a faint smile, and without a word 
 to tell us whither. Mine played me this trick." 
 
 " What a good idea of yours to sketch them 
 both. Let me see the sketch." 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " It can scarcely be called a sketch : it's a 
 mere scratch."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 91 
 
 " Show it all the same." 
 
 " My good Fabien, you ought to know that 
 when I am obstinate I have my reasons, like 
 Balaam's ass. You will not see my sketch-book 
 to-day, nor to-morrow, nor the day after." 
 
 I answered with foolish warmth. 
 
 " Please yourself ; I don't care." 
 
 Really I was very much annoyed, and I was 
 rather cool with Lampron when we parted on 
 the platform. 
 
 What has come to the fellow ? To refuse to 
 show me a sketch he had made before my eyes, 
 and a sketch of Jeanne, too ! 
 
 April 28/i, 9 a.m. 
 
 Hide your sketches, Sylvestre ; stuff them 
 away in your portfolios, or your pockets ; I care 
 little, for I bear Jeanne's image in my heart, 
 and can see it when I will, and I love her, I 
 love her, I love her ! 
 
 What is to become of her and of me I cannot 
 tell. I hope without knowing what, or why, or 
 when, and hope alone is comforting. 
 
 9 p.m. 
 
 This afternoon, at two o'clock, I met Lam- 
 pron in the Boulevard St. Michel. He was
 
 92 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 walking fast with a portfolio under his arm. I 
 went up to him. He looked annoyed, and hardly 
 seemed pleased when I offered to accompany 
 him. I grew red and angry. 
 
 " Oh, very well," I said ; " good-bye then, 
 since you don't care to be seen -with me." 
 
 He pondered a moment. 
 
 " Oh, come along if you like ; I am going to 
 my frame-maker's." 
 
 " A picture ? " 
 
 " Something of the kind." 
 
 " And that's all the mystery ! Yesterday 
 it was a sketch I mustn't look at : to-day it's 
 a picture. It is not nice of you, Sylvestre ; no, 
 decidedly it is not nice." 
 
 He gave me a look of friendly compassion. 
 
 " Poor little chap ! " said he. 
 
 Then in his usual clear, strong voice : 
 
 " I am in a great hurry ; but come if you like. 
 I had rather it were four days later : but as it 
 is, never mind; it is never too soon to be happy." 
 
 When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it 
 is no use to ask him questions. I gave myself 
 up to meditating on the words, " It is never 
 too soon to be happy." 
 
 We went down the Boulevard, past the beer- 
 shops. There is distinction in my friend's
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 93 
 
 walk : he is not to be confused with the crowd 
 through which he passes. You can tell, from 
 the simple seriousness of the man, his indifference 
 to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, 
 that he is a stout and noble soul. Among the 
 passers-by he is a somebody. I heard from a 
 group of students seated before a cafe the fol- 
 lowing words, which Sylvestre did not seem 
 to notice: 
 
 "Look, do you see the taller of those two 
 there ? That's Sylvestre Lampron." 
 
 " Prix du Salon two years ago ? " 
 
 " A great gun, you know." 
 
 " He looks it." 
 
 " To the left," said Lampron. 
 
 We turned to the left, and found ourselves in 
 the Rue Hautefeuille, before a shabby house, 
 within the porch of which hung notices of apart- 
 ments to let ; this was the frame-maker's. The 
 passage was dark, the walls chipped by the in- 
 numerable removals of furniture they had wit- 
 nessed. We went upstairs. On the fourth floor 
 a smell of glue and sour paste on the landing 
 announced the tenant's profession. To make 
 quite certain, there was a card nailed to the door 
 with " Plumet, Frame-maker" 
 
 " Plumet ? A newly-married couple ? "
 
 94 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 But already Madame Plumet is at the door. 
 It is the same little woman who came to Boule's 
 office. She recognises me in the dim light of 
 the staircase. 
 
 " What, Monsieur Lampron, do you know 
 Monsieur Mouillard ? " 
 
 " As you apparently do, too, Madame Plu- 
 met." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I know him well ; he won my 
 action, you know." 
 
 " Ah, to be sure against the cabinet-maker. 
 Is your husband in ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, in the workshop. Plumet ! " 
 
 Through the half-opened door giving access 
 to an inner room we could see in the midst of 
 his moulders, gilders, burnishers, and framers 
 a little dark man with a beard, who looked up 
 and hurriedly undid the strings of his working 
 apron. 
 
 " Coining, Marie ! " 
 
 Little Madame Plumet was a trifle upset at 
 having to receive us in undress, before she had 
 tidied up her rooms. I could see it by her 
 blushes and by the instinctive movement which 
 she made to smooth her disordered curls. 
 
 The husband had scarcely answered her call 
 before she left us and went off to the end of the
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 05 
 
 room, into the obscure recesses of an alcove over- 
 crowded with furniture. There she bent over an 
 oblong object, which I could not quite see at 
 first, and rocked it with her hand. 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard," said she, looking up 
 to me : " Monsieur Mouillard, this is my son, 
 Pierre ! " 
 
 What tender pride in those words, and the 
 smile which accompanied them ! With a finger 
 she drew one of the curtains aside. Under the 
 blue muslin, betAveen the pillow and the white 
 coverlet, I discovered two little black eyes and 
 a tuft of golden hair. 
 
 " Isn't he a little rogue ! " she Avent on, and 
 began to caress the waking baby. 
 
 Meanwhile Sylvestre had been talking to 
 Plumet at the other end of the room. 
 
 " Out of the question," said the frame-maker 
 "we are up to our knees in arrears; twenty 
 orders waiting." 
 
 " I ask you to oblige me as a friend." 
 
 " I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lam- 
 pron ; but, if I made you a promise, I should 
 not be able to keep it." 
 
 " What a pity ! All was so well arranged, 
 too. The sketch was to have been hung with my 
 two engravings. Poor Fabien ! I was saving
 
 96 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 up a surprise for you. Come and look 
 here." 
 
 I went across. Sylvestre opened his port- 
 folio. 
 
 " Do you recognise it ? " 
 
 At once I recognised them. Monsieur Char- 
 not's back ; Jeanne's profile, exactly like her ; a 
 forest nook ; the parasol on the ground ; the 
 cane stuck into the grass : a bit of genre, perfect 
 in truth and execution. 
 
 " When did you do that ? " 
 
 " Last night." 
 
 " And you want to exhibit it ?" 
 
 " At the Salon." 
 
 " But, Sylvestre, it is too late to send in to 
 the Salon. The Ides of March are long past." 
 
 " Yes, for that very reason I have had the 
 devil of a time, intriguing all the morning. 
 With a large picture I should never have suc- 
 ceeded ; but with a bit of a sketch, six inches 
 by nine 
 
 " Bribery of officials then ? " 
 
 " Followed by substitution, which is strictly 
 forbidden. I happened to have hung there be- 
 tween two engravings a little sketch of under- 
 woods not unlike this; one comes down, the 
 other is hung instead a little bit of jobbery
 
 A BLOT Of INK. 97 
 
 of which I am still ashamed. I risked it all 
 for you, in the hope that she would come and 
 recognise the subject." 
 
 " Of course she will recognise it, and under- 
 stand ; how on earth could she help it ? My 
 dear Sylvestre, how can I thank you ? " 
 
 I seized my friend's hand and begged 
 his forgiveness for my foolish haste of 
 speech. 
 
 He, too, was a little touched, and overcome 
 by the pleasure his surprise had given me. 
 
 " Look here, Plumet," he said to the frame- 
 maker, who had taken the sketch over to the 
 light, and was studying it with a professional 
 eye. "This young man has even a greater 
 interest than I in the matter. He is a suitor 
 for the lady's hand, and you can be very useful 
 to him. If you do not frame the picture his 
 happiness is blighted." 
 
 The frame-maker shook his head. 
 
 " Let's see, Antoine," said a coaxing little 
 voice, and Madame Plumet left the cradle to 
 come to our aid. 
 
 I considered our cause as won. Plumet 
 repeated in vain, as he pulled his beard, that it 
 was impossible ; she declared it was not. He 
 made a move for his workshop ; she pulled him 
 
 H
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 back by the sleeve, made him laugh and give 
 his consent. 
 
 " Antoine," she insisted, " we owe our marriage 
 to Monsieur Mouillard ; you must at least pay 
 what you owe." 
 
 I was delighted. Still, a doubt seized me. 
 
 " Sylvestre," I said to Lampron, who already 
 had his hand upon the door-handle, " do you 
 really think she will come ? " 
 
 " I hope so ; but I will not answer for it. To 
 make certain, someone must send word to her : 
 ' Mademoiselle Jeanne, your portrait is at the 
 Salon.' If you know anyone who would not 
 mind taking this message to the Rue de 
 1'Universite 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't." 
 
 " Come on then, and trust to luck." 
 
 " Rue de 1'Universite did you say ? " broke in 
 little Madame Pluinet, who certainly took the 
 liveliest interest in my cause. 
 
 "Yes; why?" 
 
 " Because I have a friend in the neighbour- 
 hood, and perhaps " 
 
 I risked giving her the number and name 
 under the seal of secrecy ; and it was a good 
 thing I did so. 
 
 In three minutes she had concocted a plan.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 99 
 
 It was like this : her friend lived near the \ otel 
 in the Rue de 1'Universite, a porter's wife of 
 advanced years, and quite safe : by means of her 
 it might be possible to hint to Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne that her portrait, or something like it, 
 was to be seen at the Salon discreetly, of course, 
 and as if it were the merest piece of news. 
 
 What a plucky, clever little woman it is ! 
 Surely I was inspired when I did her that 
 service. I never thought I should be repaid. 
 And here I am repaid both capital and interest. 
 
 Yet I hesitated still. She snatched my consent. 
 
 " No, no," said she, " leave me to act. I 
 promise you, Monsieur Mouillard, that she shall 
 hear of it, and you, Monsieur Lampron, that the 
 picture shall be framed." 
 
 She showed us to the top of the stairs, did 
 little Madame Plumet ; pleased at having won 
 over her husband, at having shown herself so 
 cunning, and at being employed in a conspiracy 
 of love. In the street Lampron shook me by 
 the hand. " Good-bye, my friend," he said ; 
 "happy men don't need company. Four days 
 hence, at noon, I shall come to fetch you, 
 and we will pay our first visit to the 
 Salon together." 
 
 Yes, I was a happy man ! I walked fast, 
 H 2
 
 100 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 without seeing anything, my eyes lost in day 
 dreams, my ears listening to celestial harmonies 
 I seemed to wear a halo. It abashed me some- 
 what: for there is something insolent in pro- 
 claiming on the housetops, " Look up at me, my 
 heart is full, Jeanne is going to love me ! " 
 Decidedly my brain was affected. 
 
 Near the fountain in the Luxembourg, in front 
 of the old palace where the Senate sits, two 
 little girls were playing. One pushed the other, 
 who fell down crying, " Naughty Jeanne, naughty 
 girl ! " I rushed to pick her up, and kissed her 
 before the eyes of her stupefied nurse, saying, 
 "No, mademoiselle, she is the most charming 
 girl in the world ! " 
 
 And Monsieur Legrand ! I still blush when 
 I think of my conversation with Monsieur Le- 
 grand. He was standing in a dignified attitude 
 at the door of his shop: "Italian Warehouse; 
 Dressed Provisions ; Specialty in Colonial Pro- 
 duce!' He and I are upon good terms : I buy 
 oranges, liquorice from him, and rum when I 
 want to make punch. But there are distinctions. 
 Well, to-day I called him " Dear Monsieur 
 Legrand " ; I addressed him, though I had 
 nothing to buy ; I asked after his business ; 
 I remarked to him, " What a heavenly day,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 101 
 
 Monsieur Legrand ! We really have got fine 
 weather at last ! " 
 
 He looked up to the top of the street, and 
 looked down again at me, but refrained from 
 differing, out of respect. 
 
 And, as a matter of fact, I noticed afterwards 
 that there was a most unpleasant drizzle. 
 
 To wind up with, just now as I was coming 
 home after dinner, I passed a workman and his 
 family in the Rue Bonaparte, and the man 
 pointed after me, saying 
 
 " Look ! there goes a poet." 
 
 He was right. In me the lawyer's clerk is in 
 abeyance, the lawyer of to-morrow has disap- 
 peared, only the poet is left that is to say, the 
 essence of youth freed from the parasitic growths 
 of everyday life. I feel it roused and stirring. 
 How sweet life is, and what wonderful instru- 
 ments we are, that Hope can make us thus 
 vibrate by a touch of her little finger ! 
 
 May 1st. 
 
 These four days have seemed as if they would 
 never end ! especially the last. But now it wants 
 only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, if 
 Lampron is not late 
 
 JRat-a-tat-tat /
 
 102 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 "It is twelve o'clock, my friend, are you 
 coming ? " 
 
 It was Lampron. 
 
 For the last hour I had had my hat on my 
 head, my stick between my legs, and had been 
 turning over my essay with gloved hands. He 
 laughed at me. I don't care. We walked, for 
 the day was clear and warm. All the world was 
 out and about. Who can stay indoors on May 
 Day ? As we neared the Chamber of Deputies, 
 perambulators full of babies in white capes came 
 pouring from all the neighbouring streets, and 
 made their resplendent way towards the Tuileries. 
 Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleased 
 with the hanging of his pictures, and his plan of 
 campaign against Mademoiselle Jeanne. 
 
 " She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and 
 perhaps is there already. Who can tell ? " 
 
 " Oh, cease your humbug ! Yes, very possibly 
 she is there before us. I have had a feeling that 
 she would be for these last four days." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " 
 
 " I have pictured her a score of times ascend- 
 ing the staircase on her father's arm. We are at 
 the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble, clear-cut 
 profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 103 
 
 which frame it with their embroidered flowers ; 
 one would say some maiden of bygone days 
 had come to life, and stepped down from her 
 tapestried panel." 
 
 " Gentlemen ! " said Lampron, with a sweep 
 of his arm which took in the whole of the Place 
 de la Concorde, "allow me to present to you the in- 
 tending successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, 
 of Bourges. Every inch of him a man of business !" 
 
 We were getting near. Crowds were on their 
 way to the exhibition from all sides, women in 
 spring frocks, many of the men in white waist- 
 coats, one hand in pocket, gaily nourishing their 
 canes with the other, as much as to say, " Look 
 at me well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine 
 weather." The turnstiles were crowded, but at 
 last we got through. We made but one step 
 across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture 
 where antique gods in every posture formed a 
 mythological circle round the modern busts in the 
 central walk. There was no loitering here, for my 
 heart was elseAvhere. We cast a look at an old 
 wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonoured by the 
 crowd, and started up the staircase no Jeanne 
 to lead the way. We came to the first room of 
 paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a man who 
 feels at home,
 
 104 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch ? Let's 
 hurry to it." 
 
 But he dragged me with him around several 
 rooms. 
 
 Have you ever experienced the intoxication 
 of colour which seizes the uninitiated at the 
 door of a picture-gallery ? So many staring 
 hues impinge upon the eyes, so many ideas take 
 confused shape and struggle together in the 
 brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain 
 harassed. It hovers undecided like an insect in 
 a meadow full of flowers. The buzzing remarks 
 of the crowd add to the feeling of intoxication. 
 They distract one's attention before it can settle 
 anywhere, and carry it off to where some group 
 is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, 
 an immense canvas, or an outrage on taste ; 
 twenty men on a gallows against a yellow sky 
 with twenty crows hovering over them ; or an 
 aged antediluvian, some mighty hunter, com- 
 pletely nude and with no property beyond a 
 loaded club. One turns away, and the struggle 
 begins again between the eye attracted by a 
 hundred subjects, and the brain which would 
 prefer to study one. 
 
 With Lampron this danger has no existence : 
 he takes in a room at a glance. He has the.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 105 
 
 sportsman's eye which, in a covey of partridges, 
 marks down its bird at a glance. He never 
 hesitates. " That is the thing to make for," he 
 says ; " come along ; " and we make for it. He 
 plants himself right in front of the picture, with 
 both hands in his overcoat pockets, and his chin 
 sunk in his collar ; says nothing, but is quite 
 happy developing an idea which has occurred to 
 him on his way to it ; comparing the picture 
 before him with some former work by the same 
 artist which he remembers. His whole soul is 
 concentrated on the picture. And when he con- 
 siders that I have understood and penetrated 
 the meaning of the work, he gives his opinion in 
 few words, but always the right ones, summing 
 up a long sequence of ideas which I must have 
 shared with him, since I see exactly as he does. 
 
 In this way we halted before the Martyrdom 
 of St. Denis by Bonnat, the two Adorations by 
 Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier's, some other 
 landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits. 
 
 At last we left the oil paintings. 
 
 In the open gallery, which runs round the 
 inside of the huge oblong and looks on the court, 
 the water-colours, engravings, and drawings 
 slumbered, neglected. Lampron went straight 
 to his works. I should have awarded them the
 
 106 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 mddaille d'honneur : an etching of a man's head, 
 a large engraving of the Virgin and Infant Jesus 
 from the Salon Carre" at the Louvre ; and the 
 draAving which represents 
 
 " Great Heavens ! Sylvestre, she's perfectly 
 lovely ; she Avill make a great mistake if she does 
 not come and see herself ! " 
 
 " She will come, my dear sir ; but I shall not 
 be there to see her." 
 
 " Are you going ? " 
 
 " I leave you to stalk your game ; be patient, 
 and do not forget to come and tell me the news 
 this evening." 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 And Lampron vanished. 
 
 The drawing was hung about midway between 
 two doorways draped with curtains, that opened 
 into the big galleries. I leaned against the wood- 
 work of one of them, and waited. On my left 
 stretched a solitude seldom troubled by the few 
 visitors who risk themselves in the realms of pen 
 arid pencil. These, too, only came to get fresh 
 air, or to look down on the many-coloured crowd 
 moving among the white statues below. 
 
 To my right, on the contrary, the battling 
 currents of the crowd kept passing and rcpassing, 
 the provincial element easily distinguished by
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 107 
 
 its jaded demeanour. Stout, exhausted matrons, 
 breathless fathers of families, crowded the sofas, 
 raising discouraged glances to the walls, whilst 
 around them turned and tripped, untiring as at 
 a dance, legions of Parisiennes, at ease on their 
 high heels, equally attentive to the pictures, 
 their own carriage, and their neighbours' gowns. 
 
 peaceful functionaries, you whose business 
 it is to keep an eye upon this ferment ! unless 
 the ceaseless flux of these human phenomena lull 
 you to a trance, what a quantity of silly speeches 
 you must hear ! I picked up twenty in as 
 many minutes. 
 
 Suddenly there came a sound of little footsteps 
 in the gallery. Two little girls had just come in, 
 two sisters doubtless, for both had the same black 
 eyes, pink dresses, and white feathers in their 
 hats. Hesitating with outstretched necks, like 
 fawns on the border of a glade, they seemed 
 disappointed at the unexpected length of the 
 gallery. They looked at each other and whis- 
 pered. Then both smiled, and, turning their 
 backs on each other, they set off, one to the 
 right, the other to the left, to examine the draw- 
 ings which covered the walls. They made a 
 rapid examination, with which art had obviously 
 little to do ; they were looking for something,
 
 108 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 and I thought it might be for Jeanne's portrait. 
 And so it turned out ; the one on my side soon 
 came to a stop, pointed a finger to the Avail, and 
 gave a little cry. The other ran up ; they clapped 
 their hands. 
 
 "Bravo, bravo !"* 
 
 Then off they ran again through the further 
 door. 
 
 I guessed what they were going to do. 
 
 I trembled from head to foot, and hid myself 
 further behind the curtains. 
 
 Not a minute elapsed before they were back, 
 not two this time, but three, and the third was 
 Jeanne, whom they were pulling along between 
 them. 
 
 They brought her up to Larnpron's sketch, 
 and curtsied neatly to her. 
 
 Jeanne bent down, smiled, and seemed 
 pleased. Then, a doubt seizing her, she turned 
 her head and saw me. The smile died away; 
 she blushed, a tear seemed ready to start to her 
 eyes. Oh, rapture ! Jeanne, you are touched ; 
 Jeanne, you understand. 
 
 A deep joy surged across my soul, so deep 
 that I have never felt its like. 
 
 Alas ! at that instant someone called, 
 " Jeanne ! "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 109 
 
 She stood up, took the two little girls by 
 the hand, and was gone. 
 
 Far better had it been had I too fled, carrying 
 with me that dream of delight ! 
 
 But no, I leaned forward to look after them. 
 In the doorway beyond I saw Monsieur Charnot. 
 A young man was with him, who spoke to 
 Jeanne. She answered him. Three words 
 reached me : 
 
 " It's nothing, George." 
 
 The devil ! She loves another ; 
 
 May 2nd. 
 
 In what a state of mind did I set out this 
 morning to face my examiners ! Downhearted, 
 worn out by a night of misery, indifferent to 
 all that might befall me, whether for good or 
 for evil. 
 
 I considered myself, and indeed I was, very 
 wretched, but I never thought that I should 
 return more wretched than I went. 
 
 It was lovely weather when at half-past eleven 
 I started for the Law School with an annotated 
 copy of my essay under my arm, thinking more 
 of the regrets for the past and plans for the 
 future, with which I had wrestled all night, than 
 of the ordeal I was about to undergo. I met in
 
 110 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the Luxembourg the little girl whom I had kissed 
 the week before. She stopped her hoop and 
 stood in my way, staring with wide opened eyes 
 and a coaxing, cunning look, which meant, " I 
 know you, I do ! " I passed by without noticing. 
 She pouted her lip, and I saw that she was 
 thinking, " What's the matter with him ? " 
 
 What's the matter? My poor little golden 
 locks, when you are grown a fair woman I trust, 
 you may know as little of it as you do to-day. 
 
 I went up the Rue Soufflot, and entered the 
 stuffy courtyard on the stroke of noon. 
 
 The morning lectures were over. Beneath 
 the arcades a few scattered students were walking 
 
 O 
 
 up and down. I avoided them for fear of meet- 
 ing a friend and having to talk. Several pro- 
 fessors carne running from their lunch, rather 
 red in the face, at the summons of the secretary. 
 These were my examiners. 
 
 It was time to get into costume; for the 
 candidate, like the criminal, has his costume. 
 The old usher, who has dressed me up I don't 
 know how many times in his hired gowns, saw 
 that I was downcast, and thought I must be 
 suffering from examination fever, a peculiar 
 malady, which is like what a young soldier 
 feels the first time he is under fire.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. Ill 
 
 "We were alone in the dark robing-room ; he 
 walked round me, brushing and encouraging 
 me ; doctors of law have a prescriptive right to 
 this touch of the brush. 
 
 " It will be all right, Monsieur Mouillard, 
 never fear. No one has been refused a degree 
 this morning." 
 
 " I am not afraid, Michu." 
 
 " When I say ' no one/ there was one refused 
 you never heard the like. Just imagine a little 
 to the right, please, Monsieur Mouillard imagine, 
 I say, a candidate who knew absolutely nothing. 
 That is nothing extraordinary. But this fellow, 
 after the examination was over, recommended 
 himself to mercy. ' Have compassion on me, 
 gentlemen,' he said, ' I only want to be a magis- 
 trate ! ' . Capital, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " You don't seem to think so. You don't 
 look like laughing this morning." 
 
 'No, Michu, everyone has his bothers, you 
 know." 
 
 " I said to myself as I looked at you just now, 
 Monsieur Mouillard has some bother. Button 
 up all the way, if you please, for a doctor's essay ; 
 if you please. It's a heart-ache, I dare swear." 
 
 " Something of the kind."
 
 112 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and went be- 
 fore me, struggling with an asthmatic chuckle, 
 until we came to the room set apart for the 
 examination. 
 
 It was the smallest and darkest of all, and 
 borrowed its light from a street which had little 
 enough to spare, and spared as little as it could. 
 On the left against' the wall is a raised desk for 
 the candidate. At the end, on a platform before 
 a bookcase, sit the six examiners in red robes, 
 capes with three bands of ermine, and gold-laced 
 caps. Between the candidate's desk and the 
 door is a little enclosure for spectators, of whom 
 there were about thirty when I entered. 
 
 My performance, which had a chance of being 
 brilliant, was only so-so. 
 
 The three first examiners had read my essay, 
 especially Monsieur Flamaran, who knew it well 
 and had enjoyed its novel and audacious pro- 
 positions. He pursed up his mouth preparatory 
 to putting the first question, like an epicure 
 sucking a ripe fruit. And when at length he 
 opened it, amid the general silence, it was to 
 carry the discussion at once up to such heights 
 of abstraction that a good number of the audi- 
 ence, not understanding a word of it, stealthily 
 made for the door.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 113 
 
 Each successive answer put fresh spirit into 
 him. 
 
 " Very good," he murmured, " very good ; let 
 us carry it a step further. Now supposing " 
 
 And the demon of logic at his heels, we both 
 went off like inspired lunatics into a world of 
 hypotheses where never man had set foot. He 
 was examining no longer ; he was inventing and 
 intoxicating himself with deductions. No one 
 was right or wrong. We were reasoning about 
 chimseras, he radiant, I cool, before his gently 
 tickled colleagues. I never realised till then 
 what imagination a jurist's head could contain. 
 
 Perspiring freely, he set down a white mark, 
 having exceeded by ten minutes the recognised 
 time for examination. 
 
 The second examiner was less enthusiastic. 
 He made very few suppositions, and devoted all 
 his art to convicting me of a contradiction 
 between page 17 and page 79. He kept repeat- 
 ing, "It's a serious matter, sir, very serious." 
 But, nevertheless, he bestowed a second white 
 mark on me. I only got half white from the 
 third. The rest of the examination was taken 
 up in matters extraneous to the subject of my 
 essay, a commonplace trial of strength, in which 
 I replied with threadbare arguments to outworn 
 I
 
 114 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 objections. And then it ended. Two hours had 
 passed. 
 
 I left the room while the examiners made up 
 their minds. 
 
 A few friends came up to me. 
 
 " Congratulations, old man : I bet on six 
 whites." 
 
 " Hullo, Larive" ! I never noticed you." 
 
 " I quite believe you : you didn't notice any- 
 body; you still look bewildered. Is it the 
 emotion inseparable from " 
 
 " I dare say." 
 
 " The candidate is requested to return to the 
 examination room ! " said the usher. 
 
 And old Michu added in a whisper, "You 
 have passed. I told you so. You won't forget 
 old Michu, sir." 
 
 Monsieur Flamaran conferred my degree with 
 a paternal smile, and a few kind words for " this 
 conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a diffi- 
 cult subject." 
 
 I bowed to the examiners. Lariv6 was wait- 
 ing for me in the courtyard, and seized me by 
 the arm. 
 
 " Uncle Mouillard will be pleased ! " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Better pleased than you."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 115 
 
 " That's very likely." 
 
 " He might easily be that. Upon my word I 
 can't understand you. These two years you have 
 been working like a gang of niggers for your 
 degree, and now you have got it you don't seem to 
 care a bit. You have won a smile from Flamaran 
 and do not consider yourself a spoilt child of 
 Fortune ! What more did you want ? Did you 
 expect that Mademoiselle Charnot would come 
 in person 
 
 " Look here, Larive 
 
 " to look on at your examination, and 
 
 applaud your answers with her neatly gloved 
 hands? Surely you know, my dear fellow, that 
 that is no longer possible, and that she is going 
 to be married." 
 
 " Going to be married ! " 
 
 " Don't pretend you didn't know it." 
 
 " I have suspected as much since yesterday : 
 I met her at the Salon, and saw a young man 
 with her." 
 
 " Fan- ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tall?" 
 
 " Rather." 
 
 " Good looking ? " 
 
 H'm well " 
 
 I 2
 
 116 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Dufilleul, old chap, friend DufilleuL Don't 
 you know Dufilleul ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Oh yes you do a bit of a stock-jobber, 
 great at ecarte, studied law in our year, and is 
 always to be seen at the Opera with little Tigra 
 of the Bouffes." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " 
 
 " You pity her ? " 
 
 " It's too awful ! " 
 
 " What is ? " 
 
 " To see an unhappy child married to a rake 
 who 
 
 " She will not be the first." 
 
 " A gambler ! " 
 
 " Yes, there is that, to be sure." 
 
 " A fool, as it seems, who, in exchange for her 
 beauty, grace, and youth, can only offer an assort- 
 ment of damaged goods! Yes, I do pity girls 
 duped thus, deceived and sacrificed by the very 
 purity that makes them believe in that of 
 others." 
 
 " You've some queer notions ! It's the way 
 of the world. If the innocent victims were only 
 to marry males of equal innocence, under the 
 guardianship of virtuous parents, the days of this 
 world would be numbered, my boy. I assure
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 117 
 
 you that Dufilleul is a good match, handsome 
 for one thing 
 
 " That's worth a lot ! " 
 
 " Rich." 
 
 " The deuce he is ! " 
 
 " And then a name which can be divided ! " 
 
 " Divided ? " 
 
 "With all the ease in the world. A very 
 rare quality. At his marriage he describes him- 
 self as Monsieur du Filleul. A year later he is 
 Baron du Filleul. At the death of his father, an 
 old cad, he becomes Comte du Filleul. If the 
 young wife is pretty, and knows how to cajole 
 her husband, she may even become a Marquise." 
 
 " Ugh ! " 
 
 " You are out of spirits, my poor fellow ; I 
 will stand you an absinthe, the only beverage 
 which will suit the bitterness of your heart." 
 
 " No, I shall go home." 
 
 " Good-bye, then. You don't take your 
 degree cheerfully." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 He spun round on his heels and went down 
 the Boulevard St. Michel. 
 
 So all is over for ever between her and me, 
 and, saddest of all, she is even more to be pitied 
 than I. Poor girl ! I loved her deeply, but I
 
 118 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 did it awkwardly, as I do everything, and missed 
 my chance of speaking. The mute declaration 
 which I risked, or rather which a friend risked 
 for me, found her already engaged to this beast 
 who has brought more skill to the task, who has 
 made no blots at the National Library, who has 
 dared all when he had everything to dread 
 
 I have allowed myself to be taken by her 
 maiden witchery. All the fault, all the folly is 
 mine. She has given me no encouragement, no 
 sign of liking me. If she smiled at St. Germain 
 it was because she was surprised and flattered. 
 If she came near to tears at the Salon it was 
 because she pitied me. I have not the shadow 
 of a reproach to make her. 
 
 That is all I shall ever get from her, a tear, 
 a smile. That's all : never mind, I will contrive 
 to live on it. She has been my first love, and 
 I will keep her a place in my heart from which 
 no other shall drive her. I will now set to work 
 to shut this poor heart which did so wrong to 
 open .... I thought to be happy to-night, and 
 I am full of sorrow. Henceforward I think I 
 shall understand Sylvestre better. Our sorrows 
 will bring us nearer. I will go to see him at 
 once, and will tell him so. 
 
 But first I must write to my uncle to tell
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 119 
 
 him that his nephew is a Doctor of Law. All 
 the rest, my plans, my whole future, can be put 
 off till to-morrow, or the day after, unless I get 
 disgusted at the very thought of a future and 
 decide to conjugate my life in the present in- 
 dicative only. That is what I feel inclined to do, 
 
 May 4>th. 
 
 Lampron has gone to the country to pass a 
 fortnight in an out-of-the-way place with an old 
 relative, where he goes into hiding when he 
 wants to finish an engraving. 
 
 But Madame Lampron was at home. After 
 a little hesitation I told her all, and I am glad I 
 did so. She found in her simple womanly heart 
 just the counsel that I needed. One feels that 
 she is used to giving consolation. She possesses 
 the secret of that feminine deftness which is the 
 great set-off to feminine weakness. Weak ? Yes, 
 women perhaps are weak, yet less weak than we, 
 the strong sex, for they can raise us to our feet. 
 She called me " My dear Monsieur Fabien," and 
 there was balm in the very way she said the 
 words. I used to think she wanted refinement : 
 she does not ; she only lacks reading, and lack 
 of reading may go with the most delicate and 
 lofty feelings. No one ever taught her certain
 
 120 A BLOT OF /A K. 
 
 turns of expression which she used. "If your 
 mother was alive," said she, "this is what she 
 would say." And then she spoke to me of God, 
 who alone can determinate man's trials, either 
 by the end He ordains, or the resignation He 
 inspires. I felt myself carried with her into the 
 regions where our sorrows shrink to insigni- 
 ficance as the horizon broadens around them. 
 And I remember she uttered this fine thought, 
 " See how my son has suffered ! It makes one 
 believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the elect of the 
 earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones 
 that crown the building are more deeply cut 
 than their fellows." 
 
 I returned from Madame Lampron's softened, 
 calmer, wiser. 
 
 May 5th. 
 
 A letter from Monsieur Mouillard breathing 
 tire and fury. Were I not so low-spirited I 
 could laugh at it. 
 
 He would have liked me, after taking my 
 degree at two in the afternoon, to take the train 
 for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, 
 his practice, and provincial bliss awaited me. 
 Monsieur Mouillard's friends had due notice, and 
 Avould have come to meet me at the station. In
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 121 
 
 short, I am an ungrateful wretch. At least I 
 might have fixed the hour of my imminent 
 arrival, for I cannot want to stop in Paris with 
 nothing there to detain me. But no, not a sign ; 
 not a word of returning: simply the announcement 
 that I have passed. This goes beyond the bounds 
 of mere folly and carelessness. Monsieur Mouil- 
 lard, his most elementary notions of life shaken 
 to their foundations, concludes in these words, 
 " Fabien, I have long suspected it : some creature 
 has you in bondage. I am coming to break the 
 
 bonds! "BRUTUS MOUILLARD." 
 
 I know him well ; he will be here to-morrow. 
 
 May 6th. 
 No uncle as yet. 
 
 May Tth. 
 No more uncle than yesterday. 
 
 May 8th. 
 
 Total eclipse continues. No news of Monsieur 
 Mouillard. This is very strange. 
 
 May 9th. 
 
 This evening at seven o'clock, just as I was 
 going out to dine, I saw, a few yards away, a
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 tall broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of 
 lank white hair, a long neck throttled in a white 
 neckcloth, a frock coat flapping about a pair of 
 attenuated legs. I lifted up my voice. 
 
 "Uncle!" 
 
 He opened his arms to me and I fell into 
 them. His first remark was 
 
 " I trust, at least, that you have not yet dined." 
 
 " No, uncle." 
 
 "ToFoyot's, then!" 
 
 When you expect to meet a man in his 
 wrath and get an invitation to dinner, you 
 feel almost as if you had been taken in. 
 You are heated, your arguments at your fingers' 
 ends, your stock of petulance ready for immedi- 
 ate use : and all have to be stored in bond. 
 
 When I had recovered from my surprise, I 
 said 
 
 " I expected you sooner, from your letter." 
 
 " Your suppositions were correct. I have 
 been two days here, at the Grand Hotel. I went 
 there on account of the dining room, for my 
 friend Hublette (you remember Hublette at 
 Bourges), told me : ' Mouillard, you must see 
 that room before you retire from business.' " 
 
 " I should have gone to see you there, uncle, 
 if I had known it."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 123 
 
 "You would not have found me. Business 
 before pleasure, Fabien. I had to see three 
 barristers and five solicitors. You know that 
 business of that kind cannot wait. I saw them. 
 Business over, I can indulge my feelings. Here I 
 am. Does Foyot suit you ? " 
 
 " Certainly, uncle." 
 
 " Come on then, nephew, quick march ! Paris 
 makes one feel quite young again ! " 
 
 And really Uncle Mouillard did look quite 
 young, almost as young as he looked provincial. 
 His tall figure, and the countrified cut of his 
 coat made all who passed him turn to stare, 
 accustomed as Parisians are to curiosities. He 
 tapped the wood pavement with his stick, 
 admired the effects of Wallace's philanthropy, 
 stopped before the enamelled street-signs, and 
 grew enthusiastic over the traffic in the Rue 
 de Yaugirard. 
 
 The dinner was capital just the kind a 
 generous uncle would give to a blameless nephew. 
 Monsieur Mouillard, who has a long standing 
 affection for Chambertin, ordered two bottles to 
 begin with. He drank the whole of one and 
 half of the other, eating in proportion, and 
 talked unceasingly and positively at the top of 
 his voice, as his wont was. He told me the story
 
 124 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 of two of his best actions this year, a judicial 
 separation my uncle is very strong in judicial 
 separations and the abduction of a minor. At 
 first I looked out for personal allusions. But no, 
 he told the story from pure love of his art, with- 
 out omitting an interlocutory judgment, or a 
 judgment reserved, just as he would have told 
 the story of Helen and Paris, if he had been 
 employed in that well-known case. Not a word 
 about myself. I waited, yet nothing came but 
 the successive steps in the action. 
 
 After the ice, Monsieur Mouillard called for 
 a cigar. 
 
 " Waiter, what cigars have you got ? " 
 
 " Londres, conchas, regalias, ca^adores, parta- 
 gas, esceptionales Which would you like, sir ? 
 
 " D the name ! a big one that will take 
 
 some time to smoke." 
 
 fimile displayed at the bottom of a box an 
 object closely resembling a distaff with a straw 
 through the middle, doubtless some relic of the 
 last International Exhibition, abandoned by all, 
 like the Great Eastern, on account of its dimen- 
 sions. My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber 
 mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lit it, and 
 under the pretext that you must always first get 
 the tobacco to burn evenly, went out trailing
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 125 
 
 behind him a cloud of smoke as of a gunboat 
 at full speed. 
 
 We "did" the arcades round the Odeon, 
 where my uncle spent an eternity thumbing the 
 books for sale. He took them all up one after 
 the other, from the poetry of the decadents to 
 the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at the 
 author's name, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 always ended by turning to me with 
 
 " You know that writer ? " 
 
 " Why yes, uncle." 
 
 " He must be quite a new author ; I can't 
 recall that name." 
 
 Monsieur MouiUard forgot that it was forty- 
 five years since he had last visited the bookstalls 
 under the Odeon. 
 
 He thought he was a student again, loafing 
 along the arcades after dinner, eager for novelty, 
 careless of draughts. Little by little he lost 
 himself in dim reveries. His cigar never left his 
 lips. The ash grew longer and longer yet, a 
 lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the tip, 
 dotted with little black specks, and connected 
 with the cigar by a thin red band which alter- 
 nately glowed and faded as he drew his breath. 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard was so lost in thought, 
 and the ash was getting so long, that a young
 
 126 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 student of the age that knows no mercy was 
 struck by these twin phenomena. I saw him 
 nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and 
 doffing his hat accost my uncle. 
 
 " Might I trouble you for a light, sir ! " 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned 
 slowly round, and bent two terrible eyes upon 
 the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry 
 gesture, and held out the ignited end at arm's 
 length. 
 
 " Wjth pleasure, sir ! " 
 
 Then he replaced the last book he had taken 
 up a copy of Musset and called me. 
 
 " Come, Fabien." 
 
 Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de 
 Medicis along the railings of the Luxembourg. 
 
 I felt the crisis approaching. My uncle has 
 a pet saying, " When a thing is not clear to me, 
 I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret." 
 
 The ferret began to work. 
 
 "Now, Fabien, about these bonds I men- 
 tioned ? Did I guess right ? " 
 
 " Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage." 
 
 " Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my 
 boy ; but we must break your bonds." 
 
 " They are broken." 
 
 " How long ago ? "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 127 
 
 " Some days ago." 
 
 " On your honour ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's quite right. You'd have done better 
 to have kept out of bondage. But there, you 
 took your uncle's advice : you saw the abyss, 
 and drew back from it. Quite right of you." 
 
 " Uncle, I will not deceive you. Your letter 
 arrived after the event. The cause of the rup- 
 ture was quite apart from that." 
 
 " And the cause was ? " 
 
 " The sudden shattering of my illusions." 
 
 "Men still get illusions about these creatures?" 
 
 " She was a perfect creature, and worthy of 
 all respect." 
 
 " Come, come ! " 
 
 " I must ask you to believe me. I thought 
 her affections free." 
 
 " And she was ? " 
 
 " Engaged." 
 
 " Really now, that's very funny ! " 
 
 " I did not find it funny, uncle. I suffered 
 bitterly, I assure you." 
 
 " I dare say, I dare say. The illusions you 
 spoke of -anyhow it's all over now ? " 
 
 " Quite over." 
 
 "Well, that being the case, Fabien, I am
 
 128 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 ready to help you. Confess frankly to me. How 
 much is required ? " 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 " Yes, you want something, I dare say, to 
 close the incident. You know what I mean, eh ? 
 to purchase what I might call the veil of ob- 
 livion. How much ? " 
 
 " Why, nothing at all, uncle." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Fabien ; I've got the money 
 with me." 
 
 " You have quite mistaken the case, uncle ; 
 there is no question of money. I must tell you 
 again that the young lady is of the highest 
 respectability." 
 
 My uncle stared. 
 
 "I assure you, uncle. I am speaking of 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot." 
 
 " I dare say ! " 
 
 " The daughter of a member of the Insti- 
 tute." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 My uncle gave a jump and stood still. 
 
 "Yes, of Mademoiselle Charnot, whom I was 
 in love with and wanted to marry. Do you 
 understand ? " 
 
 He leaned against the railing and folded his 
 arms.
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 129 
 
 " Marry ! Well, I never ! A woman you 
 
 wanted to marry ? " 
 
 " Why yes ; what's the matter ? " 
 
 " To marry ! How could I have imagined 
 such a thing ? Here were matters of the utmost 
 importance going on, and I knew nothing about 
 them. Marry ! You might be announcing your 
 
 engagement to me at this moment if you'd 
 
 still, you are quite sure she is engaged ? " 
 
 " Lariv told me so." 
 
 " Who's Larive ? " 
 
 " A friend of mine." 
 
 " Oh, so you have only heard it through a 
 friend ? " 
 
 " Yes, uncle. Do you really think there may 
 still be hope, that I still have a chance ? " 
 
 " No, no ; not the slightest. She is sure to 
 be engaged, very much engaged. I tell you I 
 am glad of it. The Mouillards do not come to 
 Paris for their wives, Fabien we do not want a 
 Parisienne to carry on the traditions of the 
 family, and the practice. A Parisienne ! I 
 shudder at the thought of it. Fabien, you will 
 leave Paris with me to-morrow. That's under- 
 stood." 
 
 " Certainly not, uncle." 
 
 " Your reasons ? "
 
 130 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Because I cannot leave my friends without 
 saying good-bye, and because I have need to 
 reflect before definitely binding myself to the 
 legal profession." 
 
 " To reflect ! You want to reflect before 
 taking over a family practice, which has been 
 destined for you since you were an infant, in 
 view of which you have been Avorking for five 
 years, and which I have nursed for you, I, your 
 uncle, as if you had been my son ? " 
 
 " Yes, uncle." , 
 
 " Don't be an ass ! You can reflect at Bourges 
 quite as well as here. Your object in staying 
 here is to see her again." 
 
 " It is not." 
 
 " To wander like a troubled spirit up and 
 down her street. By the way, which is her 
 street ? " 
 
 " Rue de I'UniversiteY' 
 
 My uncle took out his pocket-book and made 
 a note, "Charnot, Rue de 1' University." Then 
 all his features expanded. He gave a snort, 
 which I understood, for I had often heard it in 
 court at Bourges, where it meant : " There is no 
 escape now. Old Mouillard has cornered his man." 
 
 My uncle replaced his pencil in its case, and 
 his note-book hi his pocket, and merely added :
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 131 
 
 " Fabien, you're not yourself to-night. We'll 
 talk of the matter another time. Five, six, 
 seven, eight, nine, ten." He was counting on 
 his fingers. "These return tickets are very 
 convenient ; I need not leave before to-morrow 
 evening. And, what's more, you'll go with me, 
 my boy." 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard talked only on indifferent 
 subjects during our brief walk from the Rue 
 Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. 
 There he shook me by the hand, and sprang 
 nimbly into the first 'bus. A lady in black, with 
 veil tightly drawn over a little turned-up nose, 
 seeing my uncle burst in like a bomb, and make 
 for the seat beside her, hurriedly drew in the 
 folds of her dress, which were spread over the 
 seat. My uncle noticed her action, and, fearing 
 he had been rude, bent over towards her with an 
 affable expression. "Do not disturb yourself, 
 madame. I am not going ah 1 the way to 
 Batignolles ; no further indeed than the Boule- 
 vards. I shall inconvenience you for a few 
 moments only, a very few moments, madame." I 
 had time to remark that the lady, after giving her 
 neighbour a glance of Juno-like disdain, turned 
 her back upon him, and proceeded to study the 
 straps hanging from the roof. 
 j 2
 
 132 A BLOT OF- INK. 
 
 The break was taken off, the conductor 
 whistled, the three horses, their hoofs hammering 
 the pavement, strained for an instant amid 
 showers of sparks, and the long vehicle vanished 
 down the Rue de Vaugirard, bearing with it 
 Brutus and his fortunes. 
 
 May Wth. 
 
 It is an awful fate to be the nephew of 
 Monsieur Mouillard ! 1 always knew he was 
 obstinate, capable alike of guile and daring, but 
 I little imagined what his intentions were when 
 he left me ! 
 
 My refusal to start, and my prayer for a 
 respite before embarking in his practice, drove 
 him wild. He lost his head, and swore to drag 
 me off, per fas et nefas. He has mentally 
 begun a new action Mouillard v. Mouillard, 
 and is already tackling the brief; which is as 
 much as to say that he is fierce, unbridled, 
 heartless, and without remorse. 
 
 Some might have bent. I preferred to 
 break. 
 
 We are strangers for life. I have just seen 
 him to the landing of my staircase. 
 
 He came here about a quarter of an hour 
 ago, proud, and, I may say, swaggering, as he
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 133 
 
 does over his learned friends when he has found 
 a flaAv in one of their pleadings. 
 
 " Well, nephew ? " 
 
 "Well, uncle?" 
 
 " I've got some news for you." 
 
 " Indeed ? " 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard banged his hat down 
 furiously upon my table. 
 
 " Yes, you know my maxim : when anything 
 does not seem quite clear to me " 
 
 " You ferret it out." 
 
 " Quite so ; I have always found it answer. 
 Your business did not seem clear to me. Was 
 Mademoiselle Charnot engaged, or was she not ? 
 To what extent had she encouraged your atten- 
 tions ? You would never have told me the story 
 correctly, and I should never have known. That 
 being so, I put my maxim into practice, and 
 went to see her father." 
 
 " You did that ! " 
 
 " Certainly I did." 
 
 " You have been to see Monsieur Charnot ! " 
 
 " In the Rue de 1'Universite. Wasn't it the 
 simplest thing to do ? Besides, I was not sorry 
 to make the acquaintance of a member of the 
 Institute. And I must admit that he behaved 
 very nicely to me, not a bit stuck up."
 
 184 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " And you told him ? " 
 
 " My name to begin with : Brutus Mouillard. 
 He reflected a bit, just a moment, and recalled 
 your appearance: a shy youth, a bachelor of 
 arts, wearing an eye-glass." 
 
 " Was that all his description ? " 
 
 "Yes, he remembered seeing you at the 
 National Library, and once at his house. I said 
 to him, ' That is my nepheAv, Monsieur Charnot.' 
 He replied, 'I congratulate you, sir; he seems 
 a youth of parts.' ' That he is, but his heart is 
 very inflammable.' ' At his age, sir, who is not 
 liable to take fire ? ' That was how we began. 
 Your friend Monsieur Charnot has a pretty wit. 
 I did not want to be behindhand with him, so I 
 answered, ' Well, sir, he caught fire in your 
 house.' He started with fright and looked all 
 round the room. I was vastly amused. Then 
 we came to explanations. I put the case before 
 him, that you were in love with his daughter, 
 without my consent, but with perfectly honour- 
 able intentions ; that I had guessed it from your 
 letters, from your unpardonable neglect of your 
 duties to your family ; and that I had hurried 
 hither from Bourges to take in the situation. 
 With that I concluded, and waited for him to 
 develop. There are occasions when you must
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 135 
 
 let people develop. I could not jump down his 
 throat with, 'Sir, would you kindly tell me 
 whether your daughter is engaged or not ? ' You 
 follow me ? He thought no doubt I had come 
 to ask for his daughter's hand, and passing one 
 hand over his forehead he replied, ' Sir, I feel 
 greatly flattered by your proposal, and I should 
 certainly give it my serious attention, were it not 
 that my daughter's hand is already sought by 
 the son of an old schoolfellow of mine ; which 
 circumstance, as you will readily understand, 
 does not permit of my entertaining an offer 
 which otherwise should have received the most 
 mature consideration.' I had learned what I 
 came for without risking anything. Well, 
 I didn't conceal from him that, as far as I 
 \vas concerned, I would rather you took 
 your wife from the country than that you 
 brought home the most charming Parisienne; 
 and that the Mouillards from father to son 
 had always taken their wives from Bourges. 
 He entered perfectly into my sentiments, 
 and we parted the best of friends. Now, my 
 boy, the facts are ascertained : Mademoiselle 
 Charnot is another's; you must get your 
 mourning over and start with me to-night. To- 
 morrow morning we shall be in Bourges. and
 
 186 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 you'll soon be laughing over your Parisian 
 delusions, I warrant you ! " 
 
 I had heard my uncle out without inter- 
 rupting him ; though wrath, astonishment, and 
 my habitual respect for Monsieur Mouillard were 
 struggling for the mastery within me. I needed 
 all my stock of self-restraint to answer with ap- 
 parent calm : 
 
 " Yesterday, uncle, I had not made up my 
 mind ; to-day I have." 
 
 " You are coming ? " 
 
 " I am not. Your action in this matter, 
 uncle I do not know if you are aware of it 
 has been perfectly unheard-of. I cannot acknow- 
 ledge your right to act thus. It puts between 
 you and me two hundred miles of rail, and that 
 for ever. Do you understand me? You have 
 taken the liberty of disclosing a secret which 
 was not yours to tell ; you have revealed a 
 passion which, as it was hopeless, ought not to 
 have been further mentioned, and certainly not 
 exposed to such humiliation. You went to see 
 Monsieur Charnot without reflecting whether you 
 were not bringing trouble into his household ; 
 without reflecting, further, whether such conduct 
 as yours, which may perhaps be usual among 
 your business acquaintances, was likely to succeed
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 137 
 
 with me. Perhaps you thought it would. You 
 have merely completed an experiment, begun 
 long ago, which proves that we do not under- 
 stand life in the same way, and that it will be 
 better for both of us if I continue to live in 
 Paris, and you continue to live at Bourges." 
 
 " Ha ! that's how you take it, young man, is 
 it ? You refuse to come ? you try to bully me ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Consider carefully before you let me leave 
 here alone. You know the amount of your for- 
 tune 1,400 francs a year, which means poverty 
 in Paris." 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " Well, then, attend to what I am about to say. 
 For years past I have been saving my practice 
 for you that is, an honourable and lucrative 
 position all ready for you to step into. But I 
 am tired at length of your fads and your fancies. 
 If you do not take up your quarters at Bourges 
 within a fortnight from now, the Mouillard prac- 
 tice will change its name within three weeks ! " 
 My uncle sniffed with emotion as he looked at 
 me, expecting to see me totter beneath his 
 threats. I made no answer for a moment ; but 
 a thought which had been harassing me from the 
 beginning of our interview compelled me to say:
 
 188 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " I have only one thing to ask you, Monsieur 
 Mouillard." 
 
 " Further respite, I suppose ? Time to reflect 
 and fool me again ? No, a hundred times no ! I've 
 had enough of you ; a fortnight, not a day more ! " 
 
 " No, sir ; I do not ask for respite." 
 
 " So much the better, for I should refuse it. 
 What do you want ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard, I trust that Jeanne was 
 not present at the interview, that she heard none 
 of it, that she was not forced to blush " 
 
 My uncle sprang to his feet, seized his gloves, 
 which lay spread out on the table, bundled them 
 up, flung them passionately into his hat, clapped 
 the whole on his head, and made for the door 
 with angry strides. 
 
 I followed him ; he never looked back, never 
 made answer to my " Good-bye, uncle." But, at 
 the sixth step, just before turning the corner, he 
 raised his stick, gave the banisters a blow fit to 
 break them, and went on his way downstairs 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " Damnation ! " 
 
 May 20th. 
 
 And so we have parted with an oath, my 
 uncle and I ! That is how I have broken
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 139 
 
 with the only relative I possess. It is now ten 
 days since then. I now have five left in 
 which to mend the broken thread of the family 
 tradition, and become a lawyer. But nothing 
 points to such conversion. On the contrary, I 
 feel relieved of a heavy weight, pleased to be 
 free, to have no profession. I feel the thrill of 
 pleasure that a fugitive from justice feels on 
 clearing the frontier. Perhaps I was meant for 
 a different course of life than the one I was 
 forced to follow. As a child I was brought up to 
 worship the Mouillard practice, with the fixed 
 idea that this profession alone could suit me ; 
 heir-apparent to a lawyer's stool born to it, 
 brought up to it, without any idea, at any rate 
 for a long time, that I could possibly free myself 
 from the traditions of the law's sacred jargon. 
 
 I have quite got over that now. The courts, 
 where I have been a frequent spectator, seem to 
 me full of talented men who fine down and 
 belittle their talents in the practice of law. 
 Nothing uses up the nobler virtues more quickly 
 than a practice at the bar. Generosity, enthusi- 
 asm, sensibility, true and ready sympathy all 
 are taken, leaving the man, in many instances, 
 nothing but a skilful actor who apes all the 
 emotions while feeling none. And the comedy
 
 140 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 is none the less repugnant to me because it is 
 played through with a solemn face, and the 
 actors are richly recompensed. 
 
 Lainpron is not like this. He has given play 
 to all the noble qualities of his nature. I envy 
 him. I admire his disinterestedness, his broad 
 views of life, his faith hi good in spite of evil, 
 his belief in poetry in spite of prose, his unspoiled 
 capacity for receiving new impressions and 
 illusions a capacity which, amid the crowds 
 that grow old in mind before they are old in 
 body, keeps him still young and boyish. I 
 think I might have been devoted to his pro- 
 fession, or to literature, or to anything but law. 
 
 We shall see. For the present I have taken 
 a plunge into the unknown. My time is all 
 my own, my freedom is absolute, and I am 
 enjoying it. 
 
 I have hidden nothing from Lampron. As 
 my friend he is pleased, I can see, at a resolve 
 Avhich keeps me in Paris ; but his prudence 
 cries out upon it. 
 
 " It is easy enough to refuse a position," he 
 said ; " harder to find another in its place. What 
 do you intend to do ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " My dear fellow, you seem to be trusting to
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 141 
 
 luck. At sixteen that might be permissible, at. 
 twenty-four it's a mistake." 
 
 " So much the worse, for I shall make the 
 
 mistake. If I have to live on little, well, you've 
 
 tried that before now; I shall only be following 
 you." 
 
 " That's true ; I have known want, and even 
 now it attacks me sometimes ; it's like the 
 influenza, which does not leave its victims all 
 at once ; but it is hard, I can tell you, to do 
 without the necessaries of life ; as for its 
 luxuries " 
 
 "Oh, of course, no one can do without its 
 luxuries." 
 
 " You are incorrigible," he answered, with a 
 laugh. Then he said no more. Lampron's 
 silence is the only argument which struggles 
 in my heart in favour of the Mouillard practice. 
 Who can guess from what quarter the wind 
 will blow ? 
 
 June 5fh. 
 
 The die is cast ; I will not be a lawyer. 
 The tradition of the Mouillards is broken for 
 good, Sylvestre is defeated for good, and I am 
 free for good and quite uncertain of my future. 
 
 I have written my uncle a calm, polite, and 
 clearly worded letter to confirm my decision.
 
 142 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 He has not answered it, nor did I expect an 
 answer. 
 
 I expected, however, that he would be avenged 
 by some slight regret on my part, by one of those 
 faint mists that so often arise and hang about 
 our firmest resolutions. But no such mist has 
 arisen. 
 
 Still, Law has had her revenge. Abandoned 
 at Bourges, she has recaptured me at Paris, 
 for a time. I realised that it was impossible for 
 me to live on an income of 1,400 francs. The 
 friends whom I discreetly questioned, on behalf 
 of an unnamed acquaintance, as to the means 
 of earning money, gave me various answers. 
 Here is a fairly complete list of their expedi- 
 ents. 
 
 "If your friend is at all clever, he should 
 write a novel." 
 
 "If he is not, there is the catalogue of the 
 National Library ; ten hours of indexing a day." 
 
 " If he has ambition, let him become a wine- 
 merchant." 
 
 " No ; ' Old Clo,' and get his hats gratis." 
 
 " If he is very plain, and has no voice, he 
 can sing in the chorus at the opera" 
 
 " Shorthand writer in the Senate is a peaceful 
 occupation."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 143 
 
 "Teacher of Volapiik is the profession of 
 the future." 
 
 " Try ' Hallo, are you there ? ' in the 
 telephones." 
 
 " Wants to earn money ? Advise him first 
 not to lose any ! " 
 
 The most sensible one, who guessed the 
 name of the acquaintance I was interested in, 
 said : 
 
 " You have been a managing clerk ; go back 
 to it." 
 
 And as the situation chanced to be vacant, I 
 went back to my old master. I took my old 
 seat and den as managing clerk between the 
 outer office and Counsellor Boule's glass cage. 
 I correct the drafts of the inferior clerks ; I see 
 the clients and instruct them how to proceed. 
 They often take me for the Counsellor himself. 
 I go to the Courts nearly every day, and hang, 
 about chief clerks' and judges' chambers ; and 
 go to the theatre once a week with the " paper " 
 supplied to the office. 
 
 Do I call this a profession ? No, merely a 
 stop-gap which allows me to live and wait for 
 something to turn up. I sometimes have 
 forebodings that I shall go on like this for ever, 
 waiting for something which will never turn
 
 144 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 up ; that this temporary occupation may become 
 only too permanent 
 
 There is an old clerk in the office who has 
 never had any other occupation, whose appear- 
 ance is a kind of warning to me. He has a red 
 face the effect of the office stove I think 
 straight white hair, the expression, when spoken 
 to, of a startled sheep, gentle, astonished, slightly 
 flurried. His attenuated back is rounded off 
 with a stoop between the neck and shoulders. 
 He can hardly keep his hands from shaking. 
 His signature is a work of art. He can stick at 
 his desk for six hours without stirring. While 
 we lunch at a restaurant, he consumes at the 
 office some nondescript provisions which ' he 
 brings in the morning in a paper bag. On 
 Sundays he fishes for a change ; his rod takes the 
 place of his pen, and his tin of worms serves 
 instead of inkstand. 
 
 He and I have already one point of resem- 
 blance. The old clerk was once crossed in love 
 with a flower-girl, one Mademoiselle Elodie. He 
 has told me this one tragedy of his life. In days 
 gone by I used to think this thirty-year-old love 
 story dull and commonplace: to-day I under- 
 stand Monsieur Jupille ; I relish him even. He 
 and I have become sympathetic. I no longer
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 make him move from his seat by the fire when I 
 want to ask him a question : I go to him. On 
 Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him 
 out from the crowd intent upon the capture of 
 tittlebats, because he is seated upon his pocket- 
 handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a 
 talk. 
 
 " Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille ? " 
 
 " Hardly at all." 
 
 " Sport is not what it used to be ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have 
 seen it thirty years ago ! " 
 
 This date is always cropping up with him. 
 Have we not ah 1 our own date, a few months, 
 a few days, perhaps a single hour of full-hearted 
 joy, for which half our lite has been a prepara- 
 tion, and of which the other half must be a 
 remembrance ? 
 
 June 5tk. 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard, here is an application 
 for leave to sign judgment in a fresh matter." 
 " Very well, give it me." 
 "To the President of the Civil Court, Mon- 
 sieur Plumet of 27 Rue Hauteville, in the city of 
 Paris, by Counsellor Boule his advocate craves 
 
 leave " 
 
 K
 
 146 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 It was a proceeding against a refractory 
 debtor, the commonest thing in the world. 
 
 " Monsieur Massinot ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Who brought these papers ? " 
 
 "A very pretty little woman brought them 
 this morning while you were out, sir." 
 
 " Monsieur Massinot, whether she was pretty 
 or not, it is no business of yours to criticise the 
 looks of the clients." 
 
 "I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur 
 Mouillard." 
 
 " You have not offended me, but you have 
 no business to talk of a 'pretty' client. That 
 epithet is not allowed in a pleading, that's all. 
 The lady is coining back, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Little Madame Plumet soon called again, 
 tricked out from head to foot in the latest 
 fashion. She was a little flurried on entering a 
 room mil of jocular clerks. Escorted by Massinot, 
 both of them with their eyes fixed on the ground, 
 she reached my office. I closed the door after 
 her. She recognised me. 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard ! What a pleasant 
 surprise ! " 
 
 She held out her hand to me so frankly and
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 147 
 
 gracefully, that I gave her mine, and felt sure 
 from the firm, expressive way in which she 
 clasped it, that Madame Plumet was really 
 pleased to see me. Her ruddy cheeks and bright 
 eyes recalled my first impression of her, the 
 little dressmaker running from the workshop to 
 the office, full of her love for Monsieur Plumet 
 and her grievances against the wicked cabinet- 
 maker. 
 
 " What, you are back again with Counsellor 
 Boule ? I am surprised ! " 
 
 " So am I, Madame Plumet, very much sur- 
 prised. But such is life ! How is Master Pierre 
 progressing ? " 
 
 "Not quite so well, poor darling, since I 
 weaned him. I had to wean him, Monsieur 
 Mouillard, because I have gone back to my old 
 trade." 
 
 " Dressmaking ? " 
 
 " Yes, on my own account this time. I have 
 taken the flat opposite to ours, on the same floor. 
 Plumet makes frames, while I make dresses. I 
 have already three work-girls, and enough 
 customers to give me a start. I do not charge 
 them very dear to begin with. One of my first 
 customers was a very nice young lady you know 
 who ! I have not talked to her of you, but I 
 K 2
 
 148 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 have often wanted to. By the way, Monsieur 
 Mouillard, did I do my errand well ? " 
 
 " What errand ? " 
 
 " The important one, about the portrait at 
 the Salon." 
 
 " Oh yes, very well indeed. I must thank you." 
 
 " She came ? " 
 
 " Yes, with her father." 
 
 " She must have been pleased ! The drawing 
 was so pretty. Plurnet, who is not much of a 
 talker, is never tired of praising it. I tell you, 
 he and I did not spare ourselves. He made a 
 bit of a fuss before he would take the order ; he 
 was in a hurry such a hurry : but when he saw 
 that I was bent on it he gave in. And it is not 
 the first time he has given in. Plumet is a good 
 soul, Monsieur Mouillard. When you know him 
 better you will see what a good soul he is. Well, 
 Avhile he was cutting out the frame, I went to 
 the porter's wife. What a business it was ! I 
 am glad my errand was successful ! " 
 
 " It was too good of you, Madame Plumet ; 
 but it was useless, alas ! she is to marry 
 another." 
 
 " Marry another ? Impossible ! " 
 
 I thought Madame Plumet was going to 
 faint. Had she heard that her son Pierre had
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 149 
 
 the croup, she could not have been more upset. 
 Her bosom heaved, she clasped her hands and 
 gazed at me with sorrowful compassion. 
 
 " Poor Monsieur Mouillard ! " 
 
 And two tears, two real tears, coursed down 
 Madame Plumet's cheeks. I should have liked 
 to catch them. They were the only tears that 
 had been shed for me by a living soul since my 
 mother died. 
 
 I had to tell her all, every word, down to my 
 rival's name. When she heard that it was Baron 
 Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds. She 
 exclaimed that the Baron was an awful man 5 
 that she knew all sorts of things about him ! 
 Know him ? she should think so ! that such a 
 union was impossible, that it could never take 
 place, that Pluniet, she knew, would agree with 
 her 
 
 " Madame Plumet," I said, " we have strayed 
 some distance from the business which brought 
 you here. Let us return to your affairs : mine 
 are hopeless, and you cannot remedy them." 
 
 She got up trembling, her eyes red and her 
 feelings a little hurt. 
 
 " My action ? Oh no ! I can't attend to it 
 to-day. I've no heart to talk about my business. 
 What you've told me has made me too unhappy.
 
 150 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Another day, Monsieur Mouillard, another 
 day." 
 
 She left me with a look of mystery, and a 
 pressure of the hand which seemed to say: 
 " Rely on me ! " 
 
 Poor woman ! 
 
 June 10th. 
 
 In the train. We have passed the fortifica- 
 tions. The stuccoed houses of the suburbs, 
 the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in 
 the debatable land round Paris are so many 
 points of sunshine in the far distance. The 
 train is going at full speed. The fields of green 
 or gold are being unrolled like ribbons before my 
 eyes. Now and again a metallic sound and a 
 glimpse of columns and advertisements show that 
 we are rushing through a station in a whirlwind of 
 dust. A flash of light across our path is a tribu- 
 tary of the river. I am off, well on my way, and 
 no one can stop me not Lampron, nor Counsellor 
 Boule, nor yet Plumet. The dream of years is 
 about to be realised. I am going to see Italy 
 merely a corner of it : but what a pleasure even 
 that is, and what unlooked-for luck ! 
 
 A few days ago, Counsellor Boule called me 
 into his office.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 151 
 
 "Monsieur Mouillard, you speak Italian 
 fluently, don't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Would you like a trip at a client's expense ? " 
 
 " With pleasure, wherever you like." 
 
 "To Italy?" 
 
 " With very great pleasure." 
 
 "I thought so, and gave your name to the 
 court without asking your consent. It's a com- 
 mission to examine documents at Milan, to prove 
 some copies of deeds and other papers, put in by 
 a supposititious Italian heir to establish his rights 
 to a rather large property. You remember the 
 case of Zampini against Veldon and others ? " 
 
 " Quite well." 
 
 " It is Zampini's copies of the deeds on which 
 he bases his claim, which you will have to com- 
 pare with the originals, with the help of a clerk 
 from the Record Office and a sworn translator. 
 You can go by Switzerland or by the Corniche 
 route, as you please. You will be allowed 600 
 francs and a fortnight's holiday. Does that suit 
 you?" 
 
 " I should think so ! " 
 
 " Then pack up and be off'. You must be at 
 Milan by the morning of the 18th." 
 
 I ran to tell the news to Lampron, filled with
 
 162 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 surprise and not a little emotion at the mention 
 of Italy. And here I am flying along in the 
 Lyons express, without a regret for Paris. All 
 my heart leaps forward towards Switzerland, 
 where I shall be to-morrow. I have chosen this 
 green route to take me to the land of blue skies. 
 Up to the last moment I feared that some obstacle 
 would arise, that the ill luck which dogs my 
 footsteps would keep me back, and I am quite 
 surprised that it has let me off. True, I nearly 
 lost the train, and the horse of cab No. 7382 
 must have been a retired racer to make up for 
 the loss of time caused by Monsieur Plumet. 
 
 Counsellor Boule sent nie on a business 
 errand an hour before I started. On my way 
 back, just as I was crossing the Place de 1'Opera 
 in the aforesaid cab, a voice hailed me : 
 
 " Monsieur Mouillard ! " 
 
 I looked first to the right and then to the 
 left, till, on a refuge, I caught sight of Monsieur 
 Plumet struggling to attract my attention. I 
 stopped the cab, and a smile of satisfaction 
 spread over Monsieur Plumet's countenance. He 
 stepped off the refuge. I opened the cab-door. 
 But a brougham passed, and the horse pushed 
 me back into the cab with his nose. I opened 
 the door a second time ; another brougham came
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 153 
 
 by ; then a third ; finally two serried lines of traffic 
 cut me off' from Monsieur Plumet, who kept 
 shouting something to me which the noise of 
 the wheels and the crowd prevented me from 
 hearing. I signalled my despair to Monsieur 
 Plumet. He rose on tiptoe. I could not hear 
 any better. 
 
 Five minutes lost ! Impossible to wait any 
 longer ! Besides, who could tell that it was not 
 a trap to prevent my departure, though in 
 friendly guise ? I shuddered at the thought and 
 shouted 
 
 "Gare de Lyon, cabby, as fast as you can 
 drive ! " 
 
 My orders were obeyed. We got to the 
 station to find the train made up and ready to 
 start, and I was the last to take a ticket. 
 
 I suppose Monsieur Plumet managed to 
 escape from his refuge. 
 
 Geneva. On my arrival I found keeping order 
 on the way outside the station the drollest 
 policeman that ever stepped out of a comic 
 opera. At home we should have had to protect 
 him from the boys ; here he protects others. 
 Well, it shows that I am really abroad. 
 
 I have only two hours to spare in this town.
 
 164 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 What shall I go and see ? The country ; that is 
 always beautiful, whereas many so-called " sights " 
 are not. I will make for the shores of the lake, 
 for the spot where the Rh6ne leaves it, to flow 
 towards France. The Rh6ne, which is so muddy 
 at Avignon, is clean here ; deep and clear as a 
 creek of the sea. It rushes along in a narrow 
 blue torrent compressed between a quay and a 
 line of houses. 
 
 The river draws me after it. We leave the 
 town together, and I am soon in the midst of 
 those market-gardens where the infant Topfier 
 lost himself, and, overtaken by nightfall, fell to 
 making his famous analysis of fear. The big 
 pumping- wheels still overtop the willows, and cast 
 their shadows over the lettuce-fields. In the 
 distance rise slopes of woodland, on Sundays the 
 haunt of holiday-makers. The Rhone leaps and 
 eddies, singing over its gravel beds. Two trout- 
 fishers are taxing all their strength to pull a boat 
 up-stream beneath the shelter of the bank 
 
 Perhaps I was wrong in not waiting to hear 
 what Monsieur Plumet had to tell me. He is 
 not the kind of man to gesticulate wildly without 
 good reason. 
 
 On the lake. The boat is gaining the open 
 water, and Geneva already lies far behind. Not a
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 155 
 
 ripple on the blue water that shades into deep 
 blue behind us. Ahead the scene melts into a 
 milky haze. A little boat, with idle sails em- 
 broidered with sunlight, vanishes into it. On 
 the right rise the mountains of Savoy, dotted 
 with forests, veiled in clouds which cast their 
 shadows on the broken slopes. The contrast is 
 happy, and I cannot help admiring Leman's lovely 
 smile at the foot of these rugged mountains. 
 
 At the bend in the banks near St. Maurice- 
 en- Valais, the wind catches us, quite a squall 
 The lake becomes a sea. At the first roll an 
 Englishwoman becomes sea-sick. She casts an 
 expiring glance upon Chillon, the ancient towers 
 of which are being lashed by the foam. Her 
 husband does not think it worth his while to 
 cease reading his guide-book or focussing his 
 field-glass for so trifling a matter. 
 
 On the diligence. I am crossing the Simplon 
 at daybreak, with rose-pink glaciers on every 
 side. We are trotting down the Italian slope. 
 How I have longed for the sight of Italy! 
 Scarcely had the diligence put on the break, and 
 begun boAvling down the mountain side, before I 
 discovered a change on the face of all things. 
 The sky turned to a brighter blue. At the very 
 first glance I seemed to see the dust of long
 
 166 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 summers on the leaves of the firs, six thousand 
 feet above the sea, in the virgin atmosphere of 
 the mountain tops ; and I was very near taking 
 the creaking of my loosely fixed seat for the 
 southern melody of the first grasshopper. 
 
 Baveno. No one could be mistaken ; this 
 shaven, obsequious, suavely jovial Innkeeper is a 
 Neapolitan. He takes his stand in his mosaic- 
 paved hall, and is at the service of all who wish 
 for information about Lago Maggiore, the list of 
 its sights ; in a word, the programme of the piece. 
 
 Isola Bella, Isola Madre. Yes, they are 
 scraped clean, carefully tended, pretty, all a-blow- 
 ing and a-growing ; but unreal The palm-trees 
 are unhomely, the tropical plants seem to stand 
 behind footlights. Restore them to their homes, 
 or give me back Leman, so simply grand. 
 
 Menaggio. After the sky-blue of Maggiore 
 and the vivid green of Lugano, comes the 
 violet-blue of Como, with its luminous landscape, 
 its banks covered with olives, Roman ruins and 
 modern villas. Never have I felt the air so 
 clear. Here for the first time I said to myself: 
 " This is where I would choose to dwell." I have
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 157 
 
 even selected my house ; it peeps out from a 
 mass of pomegranates, evergreens, and citrons, 
 on a peninsula around which the water swells 
 with gentle murmur, and whence the view is 
 perfect across lake, mountain, and sky. 
 
 A nightingale is singing, and I cannot help re- 
 flecting that his fellows here are put to death in 
 thousands. Yes, the reapers celebrated in poems 
 and lithographs are desperate bird-catchers. At 
 the season of migration they capture thousands 
 of these weary travellers with snares or limed 
 twigs; on Maggiore alone sixty thousand meet 
 their end. We have but those they choose to 
 leave us to charm our summer nights. 
 
 Perhaps they will kill my nightingale in the 
 Carmelite garden. The idea fills me with indig- 
 nation. Then my thoughts run back to my 
 rooms in the Rue de Rennes, and I see Madame 
 Menin dusting with dejected mien my slumber- 
 ing furniture; Lampron at work, his mother 
 knitting ; the old clerk growing sleepy with the 
 heat and lifting his pen as he fancies he has got 
 a bite ; Madame Plumet amid her covey of 
 work-girls, and Monsieur Plumet blowing away 
 with impatient breath the gold-dust which the 
 gum has failed to fix on the mouldings of a 
 newly finished frame.
 
 158 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Monsieur Plumet is pensive. He is burdened 
 with a secret. I am convinced I did wrong in 
 not waiting longer on the Place de 1'Opera 
 
 Milan. At last I am in Milan, an ancient 
 city, but full of ideas and energy, my destin- 
 ation, and the cradle of the excellent Porfirio 
 Zampini, suspected forger. The examination 
 of documents does not begin till the day after 
 to-morrow, so I am making the best of the tune 
 in seeing the sights. 
 
 There are four sights to see at Milan if you are 
 a musician, and three if you are not : the Duomo, 
 vulgo cathedral ; The Marriage of the Virgin, by 
 Raphael ; The Last Supper, by Leonardo ; and, if 
 it suit your tastes, a performance at La Scala. 
 
 I began with the Duomo, and on leaving 
 it I got the news which still worries rne, 
 
 But first of all I must make a confession. 
 When I ascended through the tropical heat to 
 the marble roof of the cathedral, I expected so 
 much that I was disappointed. Surprise goes 
 for so much in what we admire. Neither this 
 mountain of marble, nor the lacework and pin- 
 nacles which adorn the enormous mass, nor the 
 amazing number of statues, nor the sight of men 
 smaller than Hies on the Piazza del Duomo, nor
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 159 
 
 the vast stretch of flat country which spreads 
 for miles on every side of the city : none of these 
 sights fanned the spark of enthusiasm within me 
 which has often glowed for much less. No, what 
 pleased me was something quite different, a 
 detail not noticed in the guide-books, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 I had come down from the roof and was wan- 
 dering in the vast nave from pillar to pillar, when 
 I found myself beneath the lantern. I raised my 
 eyes, but the flood of golden light compelled me 
 to close them. The sunlight passing through 
 the yellow glass of the windows overhead en- 
 circled the mighty vault of the lantern with a 
 fiery crown, and played around the walls of its 
 cage in rays which, growing fainter as they fell, 
 flooded the floor with their expiring flames, a 
 mysterious day-spring, a diffused glory, through 
 which litany and sacred chant winged their way 
 up towards the Infinite. 
 
 I left the Cathedral, tired out, dazed with 
 weariness and sunlight, and fell asleep in a chair 
 as soon as I got back to my room, on the fifth 
 floor of the Albergo dell' Agnello. 
 
 I had been asleep for about an hour, per- 
 haps, when I thought I heard a voice near me 
 repeating " Illustre Signore ! "
 
 160 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 I did not wake. The voice continued with a 
 murmur of sibilants 
 
 " Illiistriasimo Signore ! " 
 
 This drew rne from my sleep, for the human 
 ear is very susceptible to superlatives. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " A letter for your Lordship. As it is marked 
 ' immediate/ I thought I might take the liberty 
 of disturbing your Lordship's slumbers." 
 
 " You did quite right, Tomaso." 
 
 " You owe me eight sous, Sir, which I paid 
 for the postage." 
 
 " There's half a franc, keep the change/' 
 
 He retired calling me Monsieur le Comte : and 
 all for two sous fatherland of Brutus ! The 
 letter was from Lampron, who had forgotten to 
 put a stamp on it, 
 
 "MYDEAR FRIEND, Madame Plumet,to whom 
 I believe you have given no instructions so to do, 
 is at present busying herself considerably about 
 your affairs. I felt I ought to warn you, because she 
 is all heart and no brains, and I have often seen 
 before the trouble into which an over-zealous friend 
 may get one, especially if the friend be a woman. 
 
 "I fear some serious indiscretion has been 
 committed, for the following reasons.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 161 
 
 " Yesterday evening Monsieur Plumet came to 
 see me, and stood pulling furiously at his beard, 
 which I know from experience is his way of 
 showing that the world is not going round the 
 right way for him. By means of questions, I 
 succeeded, after some difficulty, in dragging from 
 him about half what he had got to tell me. The 
 only thing which he made quite clear was his 
 distress on finding that Madame Plurnet was a 
 woman whom it was hard to silence or to con- 
 vince by argument. 
 
 " It appears that she has gone back to her old 
 trade of dressmaking, and that one of her first 
 customers God knows how she got there was 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot. 
 
 " Well, last Monday Mademoiselle Jeanne was 
 selecting a hat. She was blithe as dawn, while 
 the dressmaker was gloomy as night. 
 
 " ' Is your little boy ill, Madame Plumet ? ' 
 
 " ' No, Mademoiselle/ 
 
 " ' You look so sad.' 
 
 "Then, according to her husband's words, 
 Madame Plumet took her courage in her two 
 hands, and looking her pretty customer hi the 
 face, said, 
 
 " ' Mademoiselle, why are you marrying ? ' 
 
 " ' What a funny question ! Why, because I am 
 
 L
 
 102 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 old enough ; because I have had an offer ; because 
 all young girls get married, or else they go into 
 convents, or become old maids. Well, Madame 
 Plumct, I have never felt a religious vocation, 
 and I never expected to become an old maid. 
 Why do you ask such a question ? ' 
 
 " ' Because, Mademoiselle, married life may bo 
 very happy, but it may be quite the reverse ! ' 
 
 " After giving expression to this excellent 
 aphorism, Madame Plumet, unable to contain 
 herself any longer, burst into tears. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had been laughing 
 before, was now amazed and presently grew 
 rather anxious. 
 
 "Still, her pride kept her from asking any 
 further questions, and Madame Plumet was too 
 much frightened to add a word to her answer. But 
 they will meet again the day after to-morrow, 
 on account of the hat, as before. 
 
 " Here the story grew confused, and I under- 
 stood no more of it. 
 
 " Clearly there is more behind this. Monsieur 
 Plumet would never have gone out of his way 
 merely to inform me that his wife had given him 
 a taste of her tongue, nor would he have looked 
 so upset about it. But you know the fellow's 
 way ; whenever it's important for him to make
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 163 
 
 himself clear he loses what little power of speech 
 he has, becomes worse than dumb unintelli- 
 gible. He sputtered inconsequent ejaculations 
 at me in this fashion : 
 
 " ' To think of it, to-morrow perhaps ! And 
 you know what a business ! Oh, damnation ! 
 Anyhow, that must not be ! Ah ! Monsieur 
 Lampron, how women do talk ! ' 
 
 " And with this Monsieur Plumet left me. 
 
 " I must confess, old fellow, that I am not burn- 
 ing with desire to get mixed up in this mess, or to 
 go and ask Madame Plumet for the explanation 
 which her husband was unable to give me. I 
 shall bide my time. If anything turns up 
 to-morrow, they are sure to tell me, and I will 
 write you word. 
 
 " My mother sends you her love, and begs you 
 to wrap up warmly in the evening : she says the 
 twilight is the winter of hot climates. 
 
 " The dear woman has been a little out of sorts 
 for the last two days. To-day she is keeping 
 her bed. I trust it is nothing but a cold. Your 
 
 affectionate friend, 
 
 SYLVESTRE LAMPRON." 
 
 Milan, June ISth. 
 
 The examination of documents began this 
 morning. I never thought we should have such 
 L 2
 
 164 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 a heap to examine, nor papers of such a length. 
 The first sitting passed almost entirely in classi- 
 fying, in examining signatures, in skirmishes of 
 all kinds around this main body. 
 
 My colleagues and I are working in a room 
 in the municipal Palace del Marino, a vast 
 deserted building used, I believe, as a storehouse. 
 Our leathern arm-chairs and the table on which 
 the documents are arranged occupy the middle 
 of the room. Along the walls are several cup- 
 boards, nests of registers and rats ; a few pictures 
 with their faces to the wall ; some carved wood 
 scutcheons, half a dozen flag-staffs, and a tri- 
 umphal arch in cardboard, now taken to pieces and 
 rotting, gloomy apparatus of bygone festivals. 
 
 The persons taking part in the examination 
 besides the three Frenchmen, are, hi the first 
 place, a little Italian judge, with a mean face, 
 wrinkled like a winter apple, whose eyelids always 
 seem heavy with sleep ; secondly, a clerk, shining 
 with fat, his dress, hair, and countenance expres- 
 sive of restrained jollity, as he dreams voluptuous 
 dreams of the cool drinks he means to absorb 
 through a straw as soon as the hour of deliverance 
 has sounded from the frightful cuckoo clock, a relic 
 of the French occupation, which ticks at the end 
 of the room ; thirdly, a creature whose position
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 165 
 
 is difficult to determine I think he must be 
 employed in some registry : he is here as a mere 
 manual labourer. This third person gives me 
 the idea of being very much interested in the 
 fortunes of Signore Porfirio Zampini, for on each 
 occasion, when his duties required him to bring 
 us documents, he Avhispered in my ear 
 
 "If you only knew, my lord, what a man 
 Zampini is ! what a noble heart, what a paladin ! " 
 
 Take notice that this " paladin " is a macaroni- 
 seller, strongly suspected of trying to hoodwink 
 the French courts. 
 
 Amid the awful heat which penetrated the 
 windows, the doors, even the sun-baked walls, we 
 had to listen to, read, and compare documents. 
 Gnats of a ferocious kind, hatched by thousands 
 in the hangings of this hot-house, flew around our 
 perspiring heads. Their buzzing got the upper- 
 hand at intervals when the clerk's voice grew 
 weary and, diminishing in volume, threatened to 
 fade away into snores. The little judge rapped 
 on the table with his paper-knife and urged the 
 reader afresh upon his wild career. My colleague 
 from the Record Office showed no sign of lassi- 
 tude. Motionless, attentive, classing the smallest 
 papers in his orderly mind, he did not even feel 
 the gnats swooping upon the veins in his hands,
 
 166 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 stinging them, sucking them, and flying off red 
 and distended with his blood. 
 
 I sat, both literally and in metaphor, on 
 hot coals. Just as I came into the room, the 
 man from the Record Office handed me a letter 
 which had arrived at the hotel while I was out 
 at lunch. It was a letter from Lampron, in a 
 large, bulky envelope. Clearly something im- 
 portant must have happened. My fate, perhaps, 
 was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew 
 it not ! I tried to get it out of my inside pocket 
 several times, for to me it was a far more inter- 
 esting document than any that concerned Zam- 
 pini's action. I pined to open it furtively and 
 read at least the first few lines. A moment 
 would have sufficed for me to get at the point 
 of this long communication. But at every at- 
 tempt the judge's eyes turned slowly upon me 
 betAveen their half-closed lids, and made me desist. 
 No a thousand times no ! This smooth-tongued, 
 wily Italian shall have no excuse for proving that 
 the French, who have already such a reputation 
 for frivolity, are a nation without a conscience, 
 incapable of fulfilling the missions with which 
 they are charged 
 
 And yet .... there came a moment when 
 he turned his back and began to sort a fresh
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 167 
 
 bundle with the man of records. Here was an 
 unlooked-for opportunity. I cut open the 
 envelope, unfolded the letter, and found eight 
 pages ! Still I began: 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND. In spite of my anxiety 
 about my mother, and the care her illness de- 
 mands (to-day it is found to be undoubted 
 congestion of the lungs), I feel bound to tell you 
 the story of what has happened in the Hue 
 Hautefeuille, as it is very important " 
 
 " Excuse me, Monsieur Mou-li-ard/' said the 
 little judge, half turning towards me, " does the 
 paper you have there happen to be number 27, 
 which we are looking for ? " 
 
 "" Oh dear, no : it's a private letter." 
 
 " A private letter ? I ask pardon for interrupt- 
 ing you." 
 
 He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes to show 
 his pity for such frivolity, and turned away again 
 contented, while the other members of the 
 Zampini Commission looked at me with interest. 
 
 The letter was important. So much the 
 worse, I must finish it : 
 
 " I will try to reconstruct the scene for you, 
 from the details which I have gathered.
 
 168 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "The time is a quarter to ten in the morning. 
 There is a knock at Monsieur Plurnet's door. 
 The door opposite is opened halfway and 
 Madame Plumet looks out. She withdraws in a 
 hurry, ' with her heart in her mouth,' as she says; 
 the plot she has formed is about to succeed or 
 fail : the critical moment is at hand : the visitor is 
 her enemy, your rival Dufilleul. 
 
 "He is full of self-confidence and comes in 
 plump and flourishing, with light gloves, and a 
 terrier at his heels. 
 
 " ' My portrait framed, Plumet ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, my lord yes, to be sure.' 
 
 "'Let's see it.' 
 
 "I have seen the famous portrait : a miniature 
 of the newly created Baron, in fresh butter I 
 think, done cheap by some poor girl who gains 
 her living by colouring photographs. It is in- 
 tended for Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouftes. A 
 delicate attention from Dufilleul, isn't it ? While 
 J eanne in her innocence is dreaming of the words 
 of love he has ventured to utter to her, and cherishes 
 but one thought, one image, in her heart, he is ex- 
 erting his ingenuity to perpetuate the recollection 
 of that image's adventures elsewhere. 
 
 "He is pleased with the elaborate and costly 
 frame which Plumet has made for him.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 169 
 
 " ' Very nice. How much ? ' 
 
 " ' One hundred and twenty francs.' 
 
 " ' Six louis ? very dear.' 
 
 "'That's my price for this kind of work, my 
 lord ; I am very busy just now, my lord.' 
 
 " ' Well, let it be this once. I don't often have 
 a picture framed : to tell the truth, I don't care 
 for pictures.' 
 
 "Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in 
 the vile portrait which he holds outstretched in 
 his right hand, while his left hand feels in his 
 purse. Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very 
 unhappy, and very nervous. He evidently wants 
 to get his customer off the premises. 
 
 " The rustling of a dress is heard on the stair- 
 case. Plumet turns pale and, glancing at the half- 
 opened door, through which the terrier is pushing 
 its nose, steps forward to close it. It is too late. 
 
 " Someone has noiselessly opened it, and on 
 the threshold stands Mademoiselle Jeanne in 
 walking-dress, looking, Avith bright eyes and her 
 most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps 
 back in a fright, and Dufilleul, who has not yet 
 seen her. 
 
 " ' Well sir, and so I've caught you ! ' 
 
 " Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches 
 the portrait to his waistcoat.
 
 170 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " 'Mademoiselle No, really, you have come 
 
 " ' To see Madame Plumet. What wrong is 
 there in that ? ' 
 
 " ' None whatever of course not.' 
 
 " ' Not the least in the world, eh ? Ha, ha ! 
 What a trifle flurries you. Come now, collect 
 yourself. There is nothing to be frightened at. 
 As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his 
 muzzle out ; I guessed he was not alone, so I 
 left my maid with Madame Plumet, and came in 
 at the right-hand door instead of the left. Do 
 you think it improper ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh no, Mademoiselle.' 
 
 " ' However, I am inquisitive, and I should 
 like to see what you are hiding there.' 
 
 " ' It's a portrait.' 
 
 " 'Hand it to me.' 
 
 "'With pleasure; unfortunately it's only a 
 portrait of myself.' 
 
 " ' Why unfortunately ? On the contrary, it 
 flatters you the nose is not so long as the 
 original : what do you say, Monsieur Plumet ? ' 
 
 " ' Do you think it good ? ' 
 
 " ' Very.' 
 
 " 'How do you like the frame ? 
 
 " ' It's very pretty.'
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 171 
 
 "'Then I make you a present of it, Mademoi- 
 selle.' 
 
 " ' Why ! wasn't it intended for me ? ' 
 
 " ' I mean well ! to tell the truth, it wasn't ; 
 it's a wedding present, a souvenir there's noth- 
 ing extraordinary in that, is there ? ' 
 
 " ' Nothing whatever. You can tell me whom 
 it's for, I suppose ? ' 
 
 " 'Don't you think that you are pushing your 
 curiosity too far ? ' 
 
 " ' Well, really ! ' 
 
 "'Yes, I mean it.' 
 
 "'Since you make such a secret of it, I shall 
 ask Monsieur Plumet to tell me. Monsieur 
 Plumet, for whom is this portrait ? ' 
 
 " Plumet, pale as death, fumbled at his work- 
 man's cap like a naughty child. 
 
 " 'Why, you see, Mademoiselle, I am only a 
 poor framemaker." 
 
 " ' Very well ! I shall go to Madame Plumet, 
 who is sure to know, and will not mind telling 
 me.' 
 
 "Madame Plumet, who must have been listen- 
 ing at the door, came in at that moment, trem- 
 bling like a leaf, and prepared to dare all. 
 
 " ' I beg you won't, Mademoiselle,' broke in 
 Dufilleul ; ' there is no secret. I only wanted to
 
 172 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 tease you. The portrait is for a friend of mine 
 who lives at Fontainebleau.' 
 
 " ' His name ? ' 
 
 " ' Gonin, he's a solicitor.' 
 
 " ' It was time you told me. How wretched 
 you both looked. Another time tell me straight 
 out, and frankly, anything you have no reason 
 to conceal. Promise you won't do like this again.' 
 
 " ' I promise.' 
 
 " ' Then, let's make peace.' 
 
 " She held out her hand to him. Before he 
 could grasp it, Madame Plumet broke in : 
 
 " ' Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I cannot have 
 you deceived like this in iny house. Mademoi- 
 selle, it is not true ! ' 
 
 " ' What is not true, Madame ? ' 
 
 " ' That this portrait is for Monsieur Gonin, or 
 anybody else at Fontainebleau.' 
 
 "Mademoiselle Charnot dreAv back in surprise. 
 
 " ' For whom, then ? ' 
 
 " ' An actress.' 
 
 " ' Take care what you are saying, Madame.' 
 
 " ' For Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.' 
 
 "'Lies!' cried Dufilleul. 'Prove it, woman; 
 prove your story, please ! ' 
 
 " ' Look at the back,' answered Madame 
 Plumet quietly.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 173 
 
 " Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had not put down 
 the miniature, turned it over, read what was on the 
 back, grew deathly pale, and handed it to her lover. 
 
 " ' What does it say ? ' said Dufilleul, stooping 
 over it. 
 
 " It said : ' From Monsieur le Baron D 
 
 to Mademoiselle T , Boulevard Haussmanru 
 
 To be delivered on Thursday.' 
 
 " ' You can see at once, Mademoiselle, that this 
 is not my writing. It's an abominable conspiracy. 
 Monsieur Plumet, I call upon you to give your 
 wife the lie. She has written what is false, 
 confess it ! ' 
 
 
 
 " The framemaker hid his head in his hands 
 and made no reply. 
 
 " 'What, Pluinet,have you nothing to say for 
 me?' 
 
 "Mademoiselle Charnot was leaving the room. 
 
 " ' Where are you going, Mademoiselle ? Stay, 
 you will soon see that they lie ! ' 
 
 "She was already half-way across the landing 
 when Dufilleul caught her and seized her by the 
 hand. 
 
 " ' Stay, Jeanne, stay ! ' 
 
 " ' Let me go, sir ! ' 
 
 "'No, hear me first: this is some horrible 
 mistake. I swear '
 
 171 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " At this moment a high-pitched voice was 
 heard on the staircase. 
 
 " ' Well, George, how much longer are you 
 going to keep me ? ' 
 
 " Dufilleul suddenly lost countenance and 
 dropped Mademoiselle Charnot's hand. 
 
 " The young girl bent over the banisters, and 
 saw at the bottom of the staircase, exactly 
 underneath her, a woman looking up with head 
 thrown back and mouth still half-opened. Their 
 eyes met. Jeanne at once turned away her gaze. 
 
 " Then turning to Madame Plumet, who 
 leaned motionless against the wall 
 
 " ' Come Madame/ she said, ' we must go and 
 choose a hat.' And she closed the dressmaker's 
 door behind her. 
 
 "This, my friend, is the true account of what 
 happened in the Rue Hautefeuille. I learned 
 the details from Madame Plumet in person, who 
 could not contain herself for joy as she described 
 the success of her conspiracy and how her little 
 hand had guided old Dame Fortune's. For, as 
 you will doubtless have guessed, the meeting 
 between Jeanne and her lover, so dreaded by the 
 framemaker, had been arranged by Madame 
 Plumet unknown to all, and the damning 
 inscription was also in her handwriting.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 175 
 
 " I need not add that Mademoiselle Charnot, 
 upset by the scene, had a momentary attack of 
 faintness. However, she soon regained her .usual 
 firm and dignified demeanour, which seems to 
 show that she is a woman of energy. 
 
 "But the interest of the story does not cease 
 here. I think the engagement is definitely at 
 an end. An engagement is always a difficult 
 thing to renew, and after the publicity which 
 attended the rupture of this one, I do not see 
 how they can make it up again. One thing I 
 feel sure of is, that Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot 
 will never change her name to Madame 
 Dufilleul. 
 
 "Do not, however, exaggerate your own 
 chances. They will be less than you think 
 for some time yet. I do not believe that a 
 young girl who has thus been wounded and 
 deceived can forget all at once. There is even 
 the possibility of her never forgetting of living 
 with her sorrow, preferring certain peace of 
 mind, and the simple joys of filial devotion, 
 to all those dreams of married life by which 
 so many simple-hearted girls have been cruelly 
 taken in. 
 
 " In any case do not think of returning yet, 
 for I. know you are capable of any imprudence.
 
 170 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Stay where you are, examine your documents, 
 and wait. 
 
 " My mother and I are passing through a bitter 
 trial She is ill, I may say seriously ill. I 
 would sooner bear the illness than my present 
 anxiety. Your friend, 
 
 " SYLVESTRE LAMPRON. 
 
 " P.S. Just as I was about to fasten up this 
 letter, I got a note from Madame Plumet to tell 
 me that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot 
 have left Paris. She does not know where they 
 have gone." 
 
 I became completely absorbed over this letter. 
 Some passages I read a second time ; and the 
 state of agitation into which it threw me did not 
 at once pass away. I remained for an indefinite 
 time without a notion of what was going on 
 around me, entirely wrapped up in the past or 
 the future. 
 
 The Italian attendant brought me back to 
 the present with a jerk of his elbow. He 
 was replacing the last register in the huge 
 drawers of the table. He and I were alone. My 
 colleagues had left, and our first sitting had 
 come to an end without my assistance, though
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 177 
 
 before my eyes. They could not have gone far, 
 so, somewhat ashamed of my want of attention, 
 I put on my hat, and went to find them and 
 apologise. The little attendant caught me by 
 the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at the 
 letter which I was slipping into my pocket- 
 book. 
 
 " E d'una donna ? " he asked. 
 
 " What's that to you ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it : a letter from a man would 
 never take so long to read ; and, per Bacco, you 
 were a time about it ! Oh, le donne, illustre 
 signore, le donne ! " 
 
 " That's enough, thank you." 
 
 I made for the door, but he threw himself 
 nimbly in my way, grimacing, raising his eye- 
 brows, one finger on his ribs. " Listen, my 
 lord, I can see you are a true scholar, a man 
 whom fame alone can tempt. I could get your 
 lordship such beautiful manuscripts Italian, 
 Latin, German manuscripts that have never 
 been edited, my noble lord !" 
 
 " Stolen, too ! " I replied and pushed past him. 
 
 I went out, and on the neighbouring 
 
 square, amicably seated at the same table, under 
 
 the awning of a cafe, I found my French 
 
 colleagues and the Italian judge. At a table a 
 
 M
 
 178 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 little apart, the clerk was sucking something 
 through a straw. And they all laughed as they 
 saw me making my way towards them through 
 the still scorching glare of the sun. 
 
 Milan, June 25f//. 
 
 Our mission was concluded to-day. Zampini 
 is just a low comedian. Brought face to face with 
 facts he could not escape from, he confessed that 
 he had intended to "have a lark" with the 
 French heirs by claiming to be the rightful 
 heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of 
 relationship to establish his claim. 
 
 We explained to him that this little "lark" 
 was a fraudulent act which exposed him at least 
 to the consequence of having to pay the costs of 
 the action. He accepted our opinion in the 
 politest manner possible. I believe he is hope- 
 lessly insolvent. He will pay the usher in 
 macaroni, and the barrister in jests. 
 
 My colleagues, the record man and the 
 translator, leave Milan to-morrow. I shall go 
 with them. 
 
 Milan, June 2Gth. 
 
 I have just had another letter from Sylvestre. 
 My poor friend is very miserable; his mother
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 179 
 
 is dead a saint if there ever was one. I was 
 very deeply touched by the news, although I 
 knew this lovable woman very slightly too 
 slightly indeed, not having been a son, or 
 related in any way to her, but merely a 
 passing stranger who found his way within the 
 horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within 
 which she spread abroad the treasures of her 
 tenderness and wisdom. How terribly her son 
 must feel her loss ! 
 
 He described in his letter her last moments, 
 and the calmness with which she met death, 
 and added : " One thing, which perhaps you will 
 not understand, is the remorse which is mingled 
 with my sorrow. I lived with her for forty 
 years, and have some right to be called ' a good 
 son.' But, when I compare the proofs of affection 
 I gave her with those she gave me, the sacrifices 
 I made for her with those she made for me; 
 when I think of the egoism which found its 
 way into our common life, on which I founded 
 my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness 
 and sympathy with which she repaid a few 
 walks on my arm, a few kind words, and of her 
 really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the 
 same roof with me I feel that I was ungrateful, 
 and not worthy of the happiness I enjoyed. I 
 M 2
 
 180 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 ana tortured by the thought that it is impossible 
 for me to repair all my neglect, to pay a debt 
 the greatness of which I now recognise for the 
 first time. She is gone. All is over. My 
 prayers alone can reach her, can tell her that I 
 loved her, that I worshipped her, that I might 
 have been capable of doing all that I have left 
 undone for her. 
 
 " Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I 
 lost ! I mean, at least, to fulfil her last wishes, 
 and it is on account of one of them that I am 
 writing to you. 
 
 " You know that my mother was never quite 
 pleased at my keeping at home the portrait of 
 her who was my first and only love. She would 
 have preferred that my eyes did not recall so 
 often to my heart the recollection of my long- 
 past sorrows. I withstood her. On her death- 
 bed she begged me to give up the picture to 
 those who ought to have had it long ago. ' As 
 long as I was here to comfort you in the sorrows 
 which the sight of it revived in you,' she said, 
 ' I did not press this upon you : but soon you 
 will be left alone, with no one to raise you up 
 when your spirits fail you. They have often 
 begged you to give up the picture to them. The 
 time is come for you to grant their prayers.'
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 181 
 
 " I promised. 
 
 " And now, dear friend, help me to keep my 
 promise. I do not want to write to them. My 
 hand would tremble, and they would tremble 
 when they saw my writing. Go and see them. 
 
 "They live about nine miles from Milan, 
 on the Monza road, but beyond that town, close 
 to the village of Desio. The villa is called 
 Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be 
 hidden among poplars, and its groves were 
 famous for their shade. You must send in your 
 card to the old lady of the house together 
 with mine. They will receive you. Then you 
 must break the news to them as you think best, 
 that, in accordance with the dying wish of 
 Sylvestre Lainpron's mother, the portrait of 
 Raffaella is to be given in perpetuity to the 
 Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand. 
 
 " You may even tell them that it is on its way. 
 I have just arranged with Plumet about packing 
 it. He is a good workman, as you know. To- 
 morrow all will be ready, and my home an 
 absolute void. 
 
 " I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I 
 count upon you to alleviate to some extent the 
 hardships of this method of consolation. 
 
 " SYLVESTRE LAMPRON."
 
 182 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 When I got Larnpron's letter, at ten in the 
 morning, I went at once to see the landlord of 
 the Albergo dell' Agnello. 
 
 " You can get me a carriage for Desio, can't 
 .you?" 
 
 " Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to 
 Desio ? That is quite right. It is much more 
 picturesque than going by train. A little way 
 beyond Monza. Monza, sir, is one of our richest 
 jewels ; you will see there " 
 
 " Yes," said I, repeating my Btedeker as accur- 
 ately as he, " the Villa Reale, and the Iron Crown 
 of the Emperors of the West." 
 
 " Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built " 
 
 " by Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, 
 
 A.D. 595, restored in the sixteenth century. I 
 know ; I only asked you if you could get me a 
 decent carriage." 
 
 " A matchless one ! At half past three, when 
 the heat is less intense, your lordship will find 
 the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of 
 time to get to Desio before sunset, and be back 
 in time for supper." 
 
 At the appointed time I received notice. My 
 host had more than kept his word, for the horses 
 sped through Milan at a trot which they did not 
 relinquish when we got into the Como road,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 183 
 
 ainid the flat and fertile country which is called 
 the Garden of Italy. 
 
 After an hour and a half, including a brief 
 halt at Monza, the coachman drew up his horses 
 before the first house in Desio, an inn. 
 
 It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner 
 of the main street and of a road which branched 
 off into the country. In front of it a few plane- 
 trees trained into an arbour formed an arch of 
 shade. A few feet of vine clambered about 
 their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves 
 and the heavy bunches of grapes which hung 
 here and there. The shutters were closed, and 
 the little house seemed to have been lulled to 
 sleep by the heat and light of the atmosphere 
 and the buzzing of the gnats. 
 
 " Oh, go in ; they'll wake up all right," said 
 the coachman, who had divined my thoughts. 
 
 Then, without waiting for my answer, like a 
 man familiar with the customs of the country, 
 he took his horses down the road to the stable. 
 
 I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were 
 buzzing like a whirlwind beneath the plane-trees; 
 a frightened white hen ran cackling from her 
 nest in the dust. No one appeared. I opened 
 the door : still nobody was to be seen. Inside I 
 found a passage, with rooms to right and left and a
 
 184 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 wooden staircase at the end. The house, having 
 been kept well closed, was cool and fresh. As I 
 stood on the threshold striving to accustom my 
 eyes to the darkness of the interior, I heard the 
 sound of voices to my right : 
 
 " Picturesque as you please, but the journey 
 has been a failure ! Those people are no better 
 than savages ; introductions, distinctions, and I 
 may say even fame, had no effect upon them ! " 
 
 "Do you think they have even read your 
 letters ? " 
 
 " That would be still worse, to refuse to read 
 letters addressed to them ! No, I tell you, there's 
 no excuse." 
 
 " They have suffered great trouble, I hear, 
 and that is some excuse for them, father." 
 
 " No, my dear, there is no possible excuse for 
 their keeping hidden treasures of such scientific 
 interest. I do not consider that even an Italian 
 nobleman, were he orphan from his cradle, and 
 thrice a widower, has any right to keep locked 
 up from the investigation of scholars an un- 
 equalled collection of Roman Ases, and a very 
 presentable show of medallions and medals 
 properly so-called. Are you aware that this 
 boorish patrician has in his possession the 
 eight types of medal of the gens Atilia?"
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 185 
 
 * Really ? " 
 
 " I am certain of it, and he has the thirty- 
 seven of the gens Cassia, one hundred and 
 eighteen to one hundred and twenty- one of the 
 gens Cornelia, the eleven Farsuleia, and dozens 
 of Numitoria, Pompeia and Scribonia, all in 
 perfect condition, as if fresh from the die. Besides 
 these, he has some large medals of the greatest 
 rarity: the Marcus Aurelius with his son on the 
 reverse side, Theodora bearing the globe, and 
 above all the Annia Faustina with Heliogabalus 
 on the reverse side, an incomparable treasure, of 
 which there is only one other example, and that 
 an imperfect one, in the world a marvel which 
 I would give a day of my life to see ; yes, my 
 dear, a day of my life ! " 
 
 Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn 
 as this ! I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly 
 to the right-hand door. 
 
 In the darkened room, lit only by a few rays 
 that were filtered between the slats of the shut- 
 ters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung to a 
 nail above her head ; one arm rested on a 
 wretched white wood table ; her head was bent 
 forward in mournful resignation. On the other 
 side of the table, her father was leaning back in 
 his chair against the whitewashed wall, with
 
 186 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 folded arms, heightened colour, and every sign 
 of extreme disgust. Both rose as I entered, 
 Jeanne first, Monsieur Charnot after her. They 
 were astounded at seeing me. 
 
 I was no less astounded than they. 
 
 We stood and stared at each other for some 
 time, to make sure that we were not dreaming. 
 Monsieur Charnot was the first to break the 
 silence. He did not seem altogether pleased 
 at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, 
 whose face had grown very red and yet rather 
 chilling, 
 
 " Jeanne, put your hat on : it is time to go to 
 the station." Then he addressed me 
 
 "We are going to leave you the room to 
 yourself, sir; and since the most extraordinary 
 coincidence" he emphasised the words "has 
 brought you to this damnable village, I hope 
 you will enjoy your visit." 
 
 " Have you been here long, sir ? " 
 
 "Two hours, sir, two mortal hours in this 
 inn, fried by the sun, bored to death, murdered 
 piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want of 
 hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lom- 
 bardy." 
 
 " Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to 
 be seen, and that is why I came in here ; I had
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 187 
 
 no idea that I should have the honour of meet- 
 ing you." 
 
 " Good God ! I'm not complaining of him ! 
 He's asleep in his barn over there. You can 
 wake him up ; he doesn't mind showing himself ; 
 he even makes himself agreeable when he has 
 finished his siesta." 
 
 " I only want to ask him one question which 
 perhaps you could answer, sir, and then I need 
 not wake him up. Could you tell me the way to 
 the Villa Dannegianti ? " 
 
 Monsieur Charnot walked up to me, looked 
 me right in the eyes, shrugged his shoulders, 
 and burst out laughing. 
 
 " The Villa Dannegianti ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Then you may as well turn round and go 
 home again." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because there's no admission." 
 
 " But I have a letter of introduction." 
 
 " I had two, sir, without counting the initials 
 after my name, which are worth something, 
 and have opened the doors of more than one 
 foreign collection for me ; yet they denied me
 
 188 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 admission ! Think of it ! The porter of that 
 insolent family denied me admission ! Do you 
 expect to succeed after that ? " 
 
 " I do, sir." 
 
 " My words seemed to him the height of pre- 
 sumption. 
 
 " Come Jeanne," he said, " let us leave this 
 gentleman to his youthful illusions. They will 
 soon be shattered very soon." 
 
 He bowed with an ironical smile and made 
 for the door. 
 
 At this moment Jeanne dropped her sun- 
 shade. I picked it up for her. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she said. 
 
 Of course these words were no more than 
 ordinarily polite. She would have said the 
 same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude 
 or her look displayed any emotion which might 
 put a value on this common form of speech. But 
 it was her voice, that music I so often dream of ! 
 Had it spoken insults, I should have found it 
 sweet. It inspired me with the sudden resolution 
 of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting 
 if possible another hour near her to whose side 
 an unexpected stroke of fortune had brought 
 me. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot had already left the room :
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 189 
 
 his rotund shadow rested on the wall of the 
 passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand. 
 
 " Sir," said I, " I am very sorry that you are 
 obliged to return already to Milan. I am quite 
 certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, 
 and it would have given ine pleasure to repair 
 a mistake which is clearly due only to the 
 stupidity of the servants." 
 
 He stopped ; the stroke had told. 
 
 " It is certainly quite possible that they never 
 looked at my card or my letters. But allow me 
 to ask, since my card did not reach the host, 
 what secret you possess to enable yours to get 
 to him ? " 
 
 " No secret at all, still less any merit of my 
 own. I am the bearer of news of great import- 
 ance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely 
 private nature. They will be obliged to see me. 
 My first care, when I had fulfilled my mission, 
 would have been to mention your name. You 
 would have been able to go over the house, and 
 inspect a collection of medals which, I have 
 heard, is a very fine one." 
 
 " Unique, sir ! " 
 
 " Unfortunately you are going away, and 
 to-morrow I have to leave Milan myself, for 
 Paris."
 
 190 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " You have been some time in Italy then ? 
 
 " Nearly a fortnight." 
 
 Monsieur Charnot gave his daughter a mean- 
 ing look, and suddenly became more friendly. 
 
 " I thought you had just come. We have 
 not been here so long," he added ; " My daughter 
 has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor 
 advised us to travel for change of air. Paris 
 is not healthy in this very hot weather. 
 
 He looked hard at me to see if his fib had 
 taken me in. I replied with an air of the utmost 
 conviction, " That is putting it mildly. Paris, 
 in July, is uninhabitable." 
 
 " That's it, sir, uninhabitable ; we were com- 
 pelled to leave it. We soon made up our minds, 
 and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned 
 our steps towards the home of the classics, to 
 Italy, the museum of Europe. And you really 
 think, sir, that by means of your good offices we 
 should have been admitted to the villa." 
 
 " Yes sir, but owing entirely to the missive 
 with which I am entrusted." 
 
 Monsieur Charnot hesitated. He was prob- 
 ably thinking of the blot of ink, and certainly 
 of Monsieur Mouillard's visit. But he doubt- 
 less reflected that Jeanne knew nothing of the 
 old lawyer's proceedings, that we were far from
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 191 
 
 Paris, that the opportunity was not to be lost; 
 and in the end his passion for numismatics 
 conquered at once his resentment as a book- 
 worm and his scruples as a father. 
 
 " There is a later train at ten minutes to 
 eight, father," said Jeanne. 
 
 " Well, dear, do you care to try your luck 
 again, and return to the assault of that Annia 
 Faustina ? " 
 
 " As you please, father." 
 
 We left the inn together by the by-road 
 down the hill. I could not believe my eyes. 
 This old man with refined features who walked 
 on my left, leaning on his malacca cane, was 
 Monsieur Charnot. The same man who received 
 me so discourteously the day after I made my 
 blot was now relying on me to introduce him to an 
 Italian nobleman ; on me, a lawyer's clerk I led 
 him on with confidence, and both of us carried 
 away by our divers hopes, he dreaming of medals, 
 I of the reopened horizon full of possibilities, 
 we conversed on indifferent subjects with a 
 freedom hitherto unknown between us. And 
 this charming Parisienne, whose presence I 
 divined rather than saw, whom I dared not look 
 in the face, who stepped along by her father s 
 side, light of foot, her eyes seeking the depths of
 
 192 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 heaven, her ear attentive though her thoughts 
 were elsewhere, catching her Parisian sunshade 
 in the hawthorns of Desio, was Jeanne, Jeanne 
 of the flower-market, Jeanne whom Lampron 
 sketched in the woods of St. Germain ! It did 
 not seem possible. 
 
 Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the 
 gates of the Villa Dannegianti, which is hardly a 
 mile from the inn. 
 
 I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent 
 Italian porter was beginning to refuse me 
 admission, with the same words and gestures 
 which he had so often used. But I explained, in 
 my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the ordinary 
 kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he 
 ran a serious risk if he did not immediately 
 hand my card and my letter Lampron's 
 card hi an envelope to the Countess Danne- 
 gianti. From his stony glare I could not tell 
 whether I had produced any impression, nor 
 even whether he had understood. He turned 
 on his heel with his keys in one hand and 
 the letter in the other, and went on his way 
 through the shady avenue, rolling his broad 
 back from side to side, attired in a jacket which 
 might have fitted in front, but was all too short 
 behind.
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 193 
 
 The shady precincts of which Lampron 
 wrote did not seem to have been pruned. The 
 park was cool and green. At the end of the avenue 
 of plane-trees, alternating with secular haw- 
 thorns cut into pyramids, we could see the square 
 mass of the villa just peeping over the immense 
 clumps of trees. Beyond it the tops and naked 
 trunks of a group of umbrella pines stood 
 silhouetted against the sky. 
 
 The porter returned, solemn and impassive. 
 He opened the gate without a word. We all 
 passed through Monsieur Charnot somewhat 
 uneasy at entering under false pretences, as I 
 guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his 
 head. Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed 
 down a fold which the wind had raised in 
 her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, 
 pushed back a hair-pin which her fair tresses 
 had dragged out of its place, all in quick, deft 
 and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preen- 
 ing its feathers. 
 
 We reached the terrace, and arranged that 
 Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot should wait 
 in an alley close at hand till I got them per- 
 mission to visit the collections. 
 
 I entered the house, and following a lackey, 
 crossed a large mosaic-paved hall, divided by 
 N
 
 194 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 columns of rare marbles into panels filled with 
 mediocre frescoes on a very large scale. At the 
 end of this hall was the Countess's room, which 
 formed a striking contrast, being small, panelled 
 with wood, and filled with devotional knick- 
 knacks that gave it the look of a chapel. 
 
 As I entered an old lady half rose from 
 an arm-chair, which she could have used as a 
 house : the chair was so large, and she was so 
 small. At first I could only distinguish two 
 bright, anxious eyes. She looked at me like 
 a prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by 
 telling her of the death of Lampron's mother. 
 Her only answer was an attentive nod. She 
 guessed something else was coming and stood 
 on guard, so to speak. I went on and told her 
 that the portrait of her daughter was on its way 
 to her. Then she forgot everything, her age, 
 her rank, and the mournful reserve which had 
 hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart 
 alone spoke within her ; a ray of light had come 
 to brighten the incurable gloom which was 
 killing her ; she rushed towards me and fell into 
 my arms, and I felt against my heart her poor 
 aged body shaking with sobs. She thanked me 
 in a flood of words which I did not catch. Then 
 she drew back and gazed at me, seeking to read
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 195 
 
 in my eyes some emotion responsive to her own, 
 and her eyes, red and swollen and feverishly bright, 
 questioned me more clearly than her words. 
 
 " How good are you, sir ! and how generous 
 is he ! What life does he lead ? Has he ever 
 lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth 
 here ? Men forget more quickly, happily for 
 them I had given up all hope of obtaining the 
 portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which 
 meant, " Restore to us all that is left of our 
 dead Raffaella." Perhaps it was unkind. I did 
 reproach myself at times for it. But I was her 
 mother, you know ; the mother of that peerless 
 girl ! And the portrait is so good, so like j 
 He has never altered it ? tell me ; never 
 retouched it ? Time has not marred the life- 
 like colouring ? I shall now have the mourn- 
 ful consolation I have so long desired; I shall 
 always have before me the counterpart of my 
 lost darling, and will gaze upon that face which 
 none could depict save he who loved her; for, 
 dreadful though it be to think of, the image of 
 the best beloved will change and fade away even 
 in a mother's heart, and at times I doubt whether 
 my old memory is still faithful, and recalls all 
 her grace and beauty as clearly as it used to do 
 when the wound was fresh in my heart and my 
 N 2
 
 1% A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 eyes were still tilled with the loveliness of her. 
 Oh, sir, sir ! to think that I shall see that face 
 once more ! " 
 
 She left me as quickly as she had come, and 
 went to open a door on the left, into an adjoining 
 room, whose red hangings threw a ruddy glow 
 upon the polished floor. 
 
 " Cristoforo!" she cried, "Cristoforo! come 
 and see a French gentleman who brings us great 
 news. The portrait of our Raffaella, Cristoforo, 
 the portrait we have so long desired, is at last to 
 be given to us ! " 
 
 I heard a chair moved, and a slow footstep. 
 Cristoforo appeared, with white hair and black 
 moustache, his tall figure buttoned up in an old- 
 fashioned frock-coat, the petrified, mummified 
 remains of a once handsome man. He walked 
 up to me, took both my hands and shook them 
 ceremoniously. His face showed no traces of 
 emotion: his eyes were dry, and he had not a 
 word to say. Did he understand ? I really do 
 not know. He seemed to think the affair was 
 an ordinary introduction. As I looked at him 
 his wife's words came back to me, " Men forget 
 sooner." She gazed at him as if she would put 
 blood into his veins, where it had long ceased 
 to flow.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 197 
 
 " Cristoforo, I know this will be a great joy 
 to you, and you will join with me in thanking 
 Monsieur Lampron for his generosity. You, 
 sir, will express to him all the Count's gratitude 
 and my own, and also the sympathy we feel for 
 him in his recent loss. We will write to him, 
 too. Is Monsieur Lampron rich ? " 
 
 " I had forgotten to tell you, Madame, that 
 my friend will accept nothing but thanks." 
 
 "Ah, that is truly noble of him, is it not, 
 Cristoforo ? " 
 
 All the answer the old count made was to 
 take my hands and shake them again. 
 
 I used the opportunity to put forward my 
 request on behalf of Monsieur Charnot. He 
 listened attentively. 
 
 "I will give orders. You shall see every- 
 thing, everything." 
 
 Then, considering our interview at an end, he 
 bowed and withdrew to his own apartments. 
 
 I looked for the Countess Dannegianti. She 
 had sunk into her great arm-chair, and was 
 weeping hot. tears. 
 
 Ten minutes later, Monsieur Charnot and 
 Jeanne entered with me into the jealously 
 guarded museum. 
 
 Museum was the only name to give to a
 
 198 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 collection of such artistic value, occupying as it 
 did the whole of the ground floor to the right of 
 the hall Two rooms ran parallel to one another, 
 tilled with pictures, medals and engravings, and 
 were connected by a narrow gallery devoted to 
 sculpture. 
 
 Scarcely was the door opened when Monsieur 
 Charnot cast his eyes in search of the famous 
 medals. There they were in the middle of the 
 room in two rows of cases. He was deeply 
 moved. I thought he was going to make a raid 
 upon them attracted after his kind by the " auri 
 sacra fames," by the yellow gleam of those an- 
 cient coins, the names, family, obverse and re- 
 verse of which he knew by heart. But I little 
 understood the enthusiast. 
 
 He drew out his handkerchief and spectacles, 
 and while he was wiping the glasses he gave 
 a rapid and impatient glance at the works that 
 adorned the walls. None of them could charm 
 the numismatist's heart. After he had enjoyed 
 the pleasure of tasting how feeble in comparison 
 were the charms of a Titian or a Veronese, then 
 only did Monsieur Charnot walk step by step to 
 the first case and bend reverently over it. 
 
 Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy 
 of such disdain. The pictures were few in num-
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 199 
 
 ber, but all signed with great names, most of 
 them Italian, a few Dutch, Flemish, or German. 
 I began to work systematically through thern^ 
 pleased at the absence of a catalogue and the 
 small number of inscriptions on the frames. To 
 be your own guide doubles your pleasure : you can 
 get your impression of a picture entirely at first 
 hand; you are filled with admiration without 
 anyone having told you that you are bound to 
 go into ecstasies. You can work out for yourself 
 from a picture, by induction and comparison, 
 its subject, its school, and its author, unless it 
 proclaims in every stroke of the brush, " I am 
 a Hobbema," " a Perugino," or " a Giotto." 
 
 I was somewhat distracted, however, by the 
 voice of the old numismatist, as he peered 
 into the cases, and constrained his daughter 
 to share in the exuberance of his learned 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " Jeanne, look at this : crowned head of 
 Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the reverse; in perfect 
 condition, isn't it ? See, an Italian as Iguvium 
 Umbrice, which my friend Pousselot has sought 
 these thirty years ! Oh, my dear, this is import- 
 ant : Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus, 
 both as children, a rare example yet not as rare 
 as Jeanne, you must engrave this gold medal
 
 200 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 in your heart, it is priceless : head of Augustus 
 with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse. You 
 ought to take an interest in her, Diana the fair 
 huntress. This collection is heavenly! Wait 
 a minute; we shall soon come to the Annia 
 Faustina." 
 
 Jeanne made no objections, but smiled softly 
 upon the Cleopatra, the Umbrian as, and the fair 
 huntress. 
 
 Little by little her father's enthusiasm ex- 
 panded over the vast collection of treasures. He 
 took out his pocket-book and began to make 
 notes. Jeanne raised her eyes to the walls, took 
 one glance, then a second, and, not being called 
 back to the medals, stepped softly up to the 
 picture I had begun at. 
 
 She went quickly from one to the other, 
 having evidently no more than a child's un- 
 tutored liking for pictures. As I, on the contrary 
 was getting on very slowly, she was bound to 
 overtake me. You may be sure I took no steps 
 to prevent it, and so in a very short time we 
 were both standing before the same picture, a 
 portrait by Holbein the younger. A subject of 
 conversation was ready to hand. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said I, "do you like this 
 Holbein ? "
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 201 
 
 " You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman 
 is exceedingly plain." 
 
 " Yes, but the painting is exquisite. See how 
 powerful is the drawing of the head, how clear 
 and deep the colours remain after more than 
 three hundred years. What a good likeness it 
 must have been ! The subject tells his own story : 
 he must have been a nobleman of the court of 
 Henry VIII, a Protestant in favour with the 
 king, wily but illiterate, and wishing from the 
 bottom of his heart that he were back with 
 the companions of his youth at home in his 
 country house, hunting and drinking at his 
 ease. It is really the study of a man's character. 
 Look at this Rubens beside it, a mere mass of 
 flesh scarcely held together by a spirit, a style 
 that is exuberantly material, all colour, and 
 no expression. Here you have spirituality on 
 one side and materialism on the other, uncon- 
 scious, perhaps, but unmistakable. Compare, 
 again, with these two pictures this little drawing, 
 doubtless by rerugino, just a sketch of an 
 angel for an Annunciation ; notice the purity of 
 outline, the ideal atmosphere in which the 
 painter lives and with which he impregnates his 
 work. You see he comes of a school of poets 
 and mystics, gifted with a second sight which
 
 202 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 enabled them to beautify this world and raise 
 themselves above it." 
 
 I was pleased with my little lecture, and so 
 was Jeanne. I could tell it by her surprised ex- 
 pression, and by the looks she cast towards her 
 father, who was still taking notes, to see if she 
 might go on with her first lesson in art. 
 
 He smiled in a friendly way, which meant : 
 
 " I'm very happy here, my dear, thank you : 
 Va piano, va sano." 
 
 This was as good as permission. We went 
 on our way, saluting, as we passed, Tintoret and 
 Titian, Veronese and Andrea Solari, old Cimabue, 
 and a few early paintings of angular virgins on 
 golden backgrounds. 
 
 Jeanne was no longer bored. 
 
 "And is this," she would say, "another 
 Venetian, or a Lombard, or a Florentine ? " 
 
 We soon completed the round of the first 
 room, and made our way into the gallery beyond, 
 devoted to sculpture. The marble gods and 
 goddesses, the lovely fragments of frieze or 
 cornice from the excavations at Rome, Pompeii, 
 or in Greece, had but a moderate interest for 
 Mademoiselle Charnot. She never gave more 
 than one glance to each statue, to some none 
 at all.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 203 
 
 We soon caine to tho end of the gallery, and 
 the door which gave access to the second room 
 of paintings. 
 
 Suddenly Jeanne gave an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 " What's that ? " she said. 
 
 Beneath the large and lofty window, fanned on 
 the outside by leafy branches, a wooden panel, 
 bearing an inscription, stood upright against the 
 wall The words were painted in black on a 
 white ground, and arranged with considerable 
 skill after the style of the classic epitaphs which 
 the Italians still cultivate. 
 
 I drew aside the folds of a curtain, and read : 
 
 A te Rafaella Dannegianti Che Nata da 
 venti anni, e poco piu Avesti esperienza 
 piena Delle illusions ei dolori di questo 
 mondo E il giorno 6 gennaio Come angelo 
 che anela al suo cielo Serena e contenta te ne 
 volasti a Dio 11 clero di Desio Gl'impiegati e 
 gli artisti della Eccma casa Dannegianti 
 Queste solenni esequie. 
 
 " It is one of those funeral inscriptions, Made- 
 moiselle, such as people hang up in this part of 
 the country upon the church doors on the day of 
 the funeral. It means :
 
 204 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 "To thee Raff'aella Dannegianti who, aged 
 twenty years and few months after having fully 
 experienced the sorrows and illusions of this 
 world on January 6th like an angel longing 
 for its heavenly home didst wing thy way to 
 God in peace and happiness the clergy of Desio 
 and the labourers and artificers of the noble 
 house of Dannegianti tender these last solemn 
 offices." 
 
 " This Raffaella, then, was the Count's 
 daughter ? " 
 
 " His only child, a girl lovely and gracious 
 beyond rivalry." 
 
 " Oh, of course, beyond rivalry. Are not all 
 only daughters lovely and perfect when once they 
 are dead ? " she replied with a bitter smile. 
 " They have their legend, their cult, and usually 
 a flattering portrait. I am surprised that 
 Raffaella's is not here. I imagine her portrait 
 as representing a tall girl, with long, well-arched 
 eyebrows and brown eyes " 
 
 " Greenish brown." 
 
 " Green, if you prefer it ; a small nose, cherry 
 lips, and a mass of light brown hair." 
 
 " Golden brown would be more correct." 
 
 " Have you seen it then ? Is there one ? "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 205 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle, and it lacks no per- 
 fection that you could imagine, not even that 
 smile of happy youth which was a falsehood ere 
 the paint had yet dried on the canvas. Here, 
 before this relic, which recalls it to my thoughts, 
 I must confess that I am touched." 
 
 She looked at me in astonishment. 
 
 " Where is the portrait ? Not here ?" 
 
 " No it is at Paris, in my friend Lampron's 
 studio." 
 
 oh ! " She blushed slightly. 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a master- 
 piece and sad reminder. The story is very 
 simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind 
 my telling it to you to you if to no other 
 before these relics of the past. When Lampron 
 was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love 
 with this young girl, whose portrait he was 
 painting. He loved her, perhaps without con- 
 fessing it to himself, certainly without avowing 
 it to her. Such is the way of timid and humble 
 men of heart, men whose love is nearly always 
 misconstrued when it ceases to be unnoticed. 
 My friend risked the happiness of his life, 
 fearlessly, without calculation and lost it. A 
 day came when Raffaella Dannegianti was 
 carried off by her parents, who shuddered at
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the thought of her stooping to a painter, even 
 though he were a genius." 
 
 "So she died?" 
 
 " A year later. He never got over it. Even 
 while I speak to you, he hi his loneliness is 
 pondering and weeping over these very lines 
 which you have just read without a suspicion of 
 the depth of their bitterness." 
 
 " He has known bereavement," said she ; " I 
 pity him with all my heart." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She repeated the 
 words, whose meaning was now clear to her, " A 
 te Rafaella." Then she knelt down softly before 
 the mournful inscription. I saw her bow her 
 head. Jeanne was praying. 
 
 It was touching to see the young girl, whom 
 chance had placed before this simple testimony 
 of a sorrow now long past, deeply moved by the 
 sad tale of love, filled with gentle pity for the 
 dead Raftaella, her fellow in youth and beauty 
 and perhaps in destiny, finding in her heart the 
 tender impulse to kneel without a word, as if 
 beside the grave of a friend. The daylight's 
 last rays streaming in through the window 
 illumined her bowed head. 
 
 I drew back, with a touch of awo. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot appeared.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 20? 
 
 He went up to his daughter and tapped her 
 on the shoulder. She rose with a blush. 
 
 " What are you doing there ? " he said. 
 
 Then he adjusted his glasses and read the 
 Italian inscription. 
 
 " You really take unnecessary trouble in 
 kneeling down to decipher a thing like that. 
 You can see at once that it's a modern panel, 
 and of no value. Sir," he added, turning to 
 me, " I do not know what your plans are, but 
 unless you intend to sleep at Desio, we must be 
 off, for the night is falling." 
 
 We left the villa. 
 
 Out of doors it was still light, but with the 
 afterglow. The sun was down and out of sight, 
 but the earth was still enveloped as it were in a 
 haze of luminous dust. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot pulled out his watch. 
 
 " Seven minutes past eight. What time 
 does the last train start, Jeanne ? " 
 
 " At ten minutes to eight." 
 
 " Confusion ! we are stuck up in Desio ! The 
 mere thought of passing the night in that inn 
 gives me the creeps. I see no way out of it 
 unless Monsieur Mouillard can get us one of the 
 Count's state coaches. There isn't a carriage to 
 be got in this infernal village ! "
 
 208 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " There is mine, sir, which luckily holds four, 
 and is quite at your service." 
 
 " Upon my word, I am very much obliged to 
 you. The drive by moonlight will be quite 
 romantic." 
 
 He drew near to Jeanne and whispered hi 
 her ear, 
 
 " Are you sure you've wraps enough ? a 
 shawl, or a cape, or some kind of pelisse ? " 
 
 She gave a merry nod of assent 
 
 " Don't worry yourself, father ; I am prepared 
 for all emergencies." 
 
 At half-past eight we left Desio together, and 
 I silently blessed the host of the Albergo dell' 
 Agnello, who had assured me that the carriage- 
 road was " so much more picturesque." I found 
 it so, indeed. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot and Jeanne faced the 
 horses. I sat opposite to Monsieur Charnot, who 
 was in the best of spirits after all the medals he 
 had seen. Comfortably settled in the cushions, 
 careless of the accidents of the road, with graphic 
 and untiring forefinger, he undertook to describe 
 his travels in Greece, whither he had been sent 
 on some learned enterprise by the Minister of 
 Education, and had carried an imagination 
 already prepossessed and dazzled with Homeric
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 209 
 
 visions. He told his story well and with detail, 
 combining the recollections of the scholar with 
 the impressions of an artist. The pediment of 
 the Parthenon, the oleanders of the Ilissus, the 
 stream " that runs in rain-time," the naked 
 peak of Parnassus, the green slopes of Helicon, 
 the blue gulf of Argos, the pine forest beside 
 Alpheus, where the ancients worshipped " Death 
 the Gentle," all of them passed in recount upon 
 his learned lips. 
 
 I must acknowledge, to my shame, that I did 
 not listen to all he said, but, in a favourite way 
 I have, reserved some of my own freedom of 
 thought, while I gave him complete freedom of 
 speech. And I am bound to say he did not 
 abuse it, but consented to pause at the frontiers 
 of Thessaly. Then followed silence. I gave him 
 room to stretch. Soon, lulled by the motion of 
 the carriage, the stream of reminiscence ran 
 more slowly then ran dry. Monsieur Charnot 
 slept. 
 
 We bowled at a good pace, without jolting, 
 over the white road. A warm mist rose around 
 us laden with the smell of vegetation, ripe corn 
 and clover from the overheated earth and the 
 neighbouring fields which had drunk their full 
 of sunlight. Now and again a breath of fresh air 
 o
 
 210 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 was blown to us from the mountains. As the 
 darkness deepened the country grew to look like 
 a vast chess-board, with dark and light squares 
 of grass and corn land, melting at no great 
 distance into a colourless and unbroken horizon. 
 But as night blotted out the earth, the heaven 
 lit up its stars. Never have I seen them so 
 lustrous nor in such number. Jeanne reclined 
 with her eyes upturned towards those limitless 
 fields of prayer and vision : and their radiance, 
 benignly gentle, rested on her face. Was she 
 tired or downcast, or merely dreaming ? I knew 
 not. But there was something so singularly 
 poetic in her look and attitude that she seemed 
 to me to epitomise in herself all the beauty of 
 the night. 
 
 I was afraid to speak. Her father's sleep, 
 and our consequent isolation, made me ill at 
 ease. She, too, seemed so careless of my 
 presence, so far away in dreamland, that I had 
 to await opportunity, or rather her leave, to recall 
 her from it. 
 
 Finally she broke the silence herself. A 
 little beyond Monza she drew closer her shawl, 
 that the night wind had ruffled, and bent over 
 towards me. 
 
 " You must excuse my father ; he is rather
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 211 
 
 tired this evening, for he has been on his feet 
 since five o'clock." 
 
 " The day has been so hot, too, Mademoiselle, 
 and the medals ' came not in single spies, but in 
 battalions:' he has a right to sleep after the 
 battle." 
 
 " Dear old father ! You gave him a real treat, 
 for which he will always be obliged to you." 
 
 " I trust that the recollection of to-day will 
 efface that of the blot of ink for which I am 
 still filled with remorse." 
 
 " Remorse is rather a big word." 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse; 
 for I wounded the feelings of a gentleman who 
 has every claim on my respect. I have never 
 dared to speak of this before. But if you would 
 be kind enough to tell Monsieur Charnot how 
 sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of 
 a big burden." 
 
 I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment 
 with a look of attention not previously granted 
 to me. She seemed pleased. 
 
 " With all my heart," she said. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Was this Raffaella, whose story you have 
 told me, worthy of your friend's long regret ? " 
 
 " I must believe so." 
 o 2
 
 212 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " It is a very touching story. Are you very 
 fond of Monsieur Lainpron ? " 
 
 " Beyond expression, Mademoiselle ; he is so 
 open-hearted, so true a friend, he has the soul of 
 the artist and the seer. I am sure you would 
 rate him very highly if you knew him." 
 
 "But I do know him, at least by his works. 
 Where am I to be seen now, by the way ? What 
 has become of my portrait ? " 
 
 " It's at Larnpron's house, in his mother's 
 room, where Monsieur Charnot can go and see 
 it if he likes." 
 
 " My father does not know of its existence," 
 she said, with a glance at the slumbering man 
 of learning. 
 
 " Has he not seen it ? " 
 
 " No, he would have made so much ado about 
 nothing. So Monsieur Lainpron has kept the 
 sketch? I thought it had been sold long 
 
 " Sold ! You did not think he would sell it ! " 
 " Why not ? Every artist has the right to 
 
 sell his works." 
 
 " Not work of that kind." 
 
 " Just as much as any other kind." 
 
 " No, he could not have done that. He would 
 
 no more sell it than he would sell the portrait of
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 213 
 
 Raffaella Dannegianti. They are two similar 
 relics, two precious reminiscences." 
 
 Mademoiselle Charnot turned without a reply 
 to look at the country which was flying past us 
 in the darkness. 
 
 I could just see her profile, and the nervous 
 movement of her eyelids. 
 
 As she made no attempt to speak, her silence 
 emboldened me. 
 
 " Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics ; yet 
 sometimes in my hours of madness as to-day, 
 for instance, here, with you near me I dare to 
 think that I might be less unfortunate than my 
 friend that his dream is gone for ever but that 
 mine might return to me if you were willing." 
 
 She quickly turned towards me, and, in the 
 darkness I saw her eyes fixed on mine. 
 
 Did the darkness deceive me as to the 
 meaning of this mute response ? was I the victim 
 of a fresh delusion ? I fancied that Jeanne 
 looked sad ; that perhaps she was thinking of 
 the oaths sworn only to be broken by her former 
 lover ; but that she was not quite displeased. 
 
 However, it only lasted for a second. When 
 she spoke, it was in a higher key : 
 
 " Don't you think the breeze is very fresh this 
 evening ? "
 
 214 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 A long-drawn sigh came from the back part 
 of the carriage. Monsieur Charnot was waking 
 up. 
 
 He wanted to prove that he had only been 
 meditating. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, it's a charming evening," ho 
 replied ; " these Italian nights certainly keep up 
 their reputation." 
 
 Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and 
 Monsieur Charnot shook hands with me before the 
 door of his hotel. 
 
 " Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this 
 delightful drive home ! I hope we shall meet 
 again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is 
 there anything I can do for you there ?" 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. 
 I watched her mount the first few steps of the 
 staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from 
 the glare of the gas-lights, and the other holding 
 up her wraps, which had come unfolded and were 
 falling around her. 
 
 Milan, June 27, Before daybreak. 
 He asked me if there was anything he could 
 do for me at Florence. There is something, but 
 he would refuse to do it : for I want him to inform
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 215 
 
 his charming daughter that my thoughts are all 
 of her; that I have spent the night recalling 
 yesterday's trip now the roads of Desio and the 
 galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. 
 Monsieur Charnot only figured hi my dreams as 
 sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue, 
 and to be pouring forth a string of well turned 
 speeches which I should never have ready at 
 real need. If I could only see her again now 
 that all my plans are weighed and thought out 
 and combined ! ReaUy it is hard that one cannot 
 live one's life over twice at least certain passages 
 
 in it this episode, for instance 
 
 What is her opinion of me ? When her eyes 
 fixed themselves on mine I thought I could 
 read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch 
 of surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her 
 answer ? She is going off to Florence bearing 
 with her the answer on which my life depends. 
 They are leaving by the early express. Shall I 
 take it, too ? Florence, Rome, Naples Why 
 not ? Italy is free to all, and particularly to 
 lovers. I will toss my cap over the mill for the 
 second time. I will get money from somewhere. 
 If I am not allowed to show myself, I will look 
 on from a distance, hidden in the crowd. At a 
 pinch I will disguise myself guide at Pompeii,
 
 216 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 lazarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in 
 the bunch of fresh flowers offered her by a 
 peasant at the door of her hotel And at least 
 I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, 
 the glints of gold about her temples, and the 
 pleasure of knowing that she is near even when 
 I do not see her. 
 
 On second thoughts, no: I will not go to 
 Florence. As I always distrust first impulses, 
 which so often run reason to a standstill, I had 
 recourse to a favourite device of mine. I asked 
 myself: What would Lampron advise ? And at 
 once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face, 
 and heard his answer : " Come back, my dear 
 boy." 
 
 Paris, July 2nd. 
 
 When you arrive by night, and from the 
 windows of the flying train, as it whirls past the 
 streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in 
 red steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps 
 criss-crossing in every direction, the sight is 
 weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy 
 it the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where 
 strings upon strings of coloured lanterns 
 brighten the night above a moving throng, 
 passing, repassing, and raising a cloud of dust
 
 A BLOT OF INK 217 
 
 that reddens in the glow of expiring Bengal 
 lights. 
 
 Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for 
 the great city is in truth lit up for its nightly 
 revel. Till one in the morning it is alight and 
 riotous with the stir and swing of life. 
 
 But the dawn is bleak enough. 
 
 That delicious hour which puts a spirit of 
 joy into green field and hedgerow is awful to 
 look upon in Paris. You leave the train half- 
 frozen to find the porters red-eyed from their 
 watch. The Customs officials, in a kind of 
 stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk. 
 You get outside the station to find a few scattered 
 cabs, their drivers asleep inside, then* lamps 
 blinking in the mist. 
 
 " Cabby, are you disengaged ? " " Depends 
 where you want to go." " 91, Rue de Rennes." 
 " Jump in ! " 
 
 The blank streets stretch out interminably, 
 grey and silent ; the shops on either hand are 
 shuttered ; in the squares you will only find a 
 dog or a scavenger ; theatre bills flap in rags 
 around the kiosques, the wind sweeps their 
 tattered fragments along the asphalte in yester- 
 day's dust, with here and there a bunch of faded 
 flowers. The Seine washes around its tethered
 
 218 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 boats; two great-coated policemen patrol the 
 bank and wake the echoes with their tramp. The 
 fountains have ceased to play, and their basins 
 are dry. The air is chilly, and sick with evil 
 odours. The whole drive is like a bad dream. 
 
 Such was my drive from the Gare de Lyon 
 to my rooms. When I was once at home, 
 installed in my own domains, this unpleasant 
 impression gradually wore off. There was 
 friendliness in my sticks of furniture. I 
 examined those silent witnesses, my chair, my 
 table, and my books. What had happened 
 while I was away? Apparently nothing im- 
 portant. The furniture had a light coating of 
 dust, which showed that no one had touched it, 
 not even Madame Menin. It was funny, but I 
 wanted to see Madame Menin. A sound, and I 
 heard my opposite neighbour getting to work. 
 He is a hydrographer, and engraves maps for a 
 neighbouring publisher. I never could get up 
 as early as he. ... The willow seemed to have 
 made great progress during the summer. ... I 
 flung up the window and said " Good morning ! " 
 to the wall-flowers, to the old wall of the 
 Carmelites, and the old black tower. Then the 
 sparrows began. What o'clock could it be? 
 They came all together with a rush ; chirping,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 219 
 
 the hungry thieves ; wheeling about, skirting the 
 walls. in their flight, quick as lightning, borne 
 on their pointed wings. They had seen the 
 sun, day had broken ! 
 
 And almost immediately I heard a cart pass, 
 and a hawker crying, 
 
 " Ground-SEL ! Groundsel for your dickey- 
 birds!" 
 
 To think that there are people who get up 
 at that unearthly hour to buy groundsel for 
 their canaries ! I looked to see if anyone had 
 called in my absence ; their cards ought to be on 
 my table. There were two there : " Monsieur 
 Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor of 
 Bourbonnoux-lez-Bourges, deputy-magistrate ; " 
 " Madame Lorinet, nte Poupard." 
 
 I was surprised not to find a third card 
 "Berthe Lorinet, of no occupation, anxious to 
 change her name." Berthe will be difficult to 
 get rid of. I presume she didn't dare to leave a 
 card on a young man: it wouldn't have been 
 proper. But I have no doubt she was here. I 
 scent a trick of my uncle's, one of those Atlantic 
 cables he takes for spider's threads and makes 
 his snares of. The Lorinet family have been here 
 with the twofold intention of taking news of me 
 to " my dear good uncle," and discreetly recalling
 
 220 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 to my forgetful heart the charms of Berthe of 
 the big feet. 
 
 " Good morning, Monsieur Mouillard ! " 
 
 " Hallo ! Madame Menin ! Good morning, 
 Madame Menin ! " 
 
 " So you are back at last, sir ! How brown 
 you have got, quite sunburnt. You are quite 
 well, I hope, sir ? " 
 
 " Very well, thank you; has any one been here 
 in my absence ? " 
 
 " I was going to tell you, sir ; the plumber 
 has been here, because the tap of your cistern 
 came oft' in my hand. It wasn't my fault ; there 
 had been a heavy rain that morning. So 
 
 " Never mind, it's only a tap to pay for. We 
 won't say any more about it. But did anyone 
 come to see me ? " 
 
 " Ah, let me see, yes. A big gentleman 
 rather red-faced, with his wife, a fat bowerly 
 lady, with a small voice : a fine woman, rather 
 in my style, and their daughter but perhaps 
 you know her, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe 
 her. You told them that I was away, and they 
 said they were very sorry." 
 
 " Especially the lady. She puffed and panted 
 and sighed : ' Dear Monsieur Mouillard ! How
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 221 
 
 unlucky we are, Madame Menin ; we have just 
 come to Paris as he has gone to Italy. My 
 husband and I would have liked so much to see 
 him ! You may think it fanciful, but I should 
 like above all things to look round his rooms. A 
 student's rooms must be so interesting. Stay 
 there, Berthe, my child.' I told them there was 
 nothing very interesting, and that their daughter 
 might just as well come in too, and then I showed 
 them everything." 
 
 " They didn't stay long, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Quite long enough. They were an age look- 
 ing at your photograph album. I suppose they 
 haven't got such things where they come from. 
 Madame Lorinet couldn't tear herself a way from it. 
 ' Nothing but men,' she said ; ' have you noticed 
 that, Jules ? ' ' Well, madame, I said, ' that's just 
 how it is here ; except for me, and I don't count, 
 only gentlemen come here. I've kept house for 
 bachelors where well, there are not many. 
 
 " That will do, Madame Menin ; that will do. 
 I know you always think too highly of me. 
 Hasn't Lampron been here ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; the day before yesterday. He was 
 going off for a fortnight or three weeks into the 
 country to paint a portrait of some priest, a 
 bishop, I think."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 July 15th. 
 
 " Midi, roi des et6s ." I know by heart that 
 poein by " M. le Comte de 1'Isle," as my Uncle 
 Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my 
 ears every day as I walk back from lunch to 
 the office I have left an hour before. Merciful 
 heaven, how hot it is ! I am just back from 
 a hot climate, but it was nothing compared to 
 Paris in July. The asphalte melts underfoot ; the 
 wood pavement is simmering in a viscous mess of 
 tar ; the ideal is forced to descend again and again 
 to iced lager beer; the walls beat back the heat in 
 your face ; the dust in the public gardens, ground 
 to atoms beneath the tread of many feet, rises in 
 clouds from under the watercart to fall, a little 
 further on, in white showers upon the passers-by. 
 I wonder that, as a finishing stroke, the cannon in 
 the Palais Royal does not detonate all day long. 
 
 To complete my misery, all my acquaintances 
 are out of town : the Boule family is bathing 
 at Trouville ; the second clerk has not returned 
 from his holiday ; the fourth only waited for my 
 arrival to get away himself; Lampron detained 
 by my Lord Bishop and the forest shades, gives 
 no sign of his existence ; even Monsieur and 
 Madame Plumet have locked up their flat and 
 taken the train for Barbizon.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 223 
 
 Thus it happens that the old clerk Jupille 
 and I have been thrown together. I enjoy 
 his talk He is a simple-hearted, honourable 
 man, with a philosophy that I am sure cannot 
 be in the least German, because I can under- 
 stand it. I have gradually told him all my 
 secrets. I felt the need of a confidant, for I was 
 stifling, metaphorically as well as literally. Now 
 when he hands me a deed, instead of saying 
 " All right," as I used to, I say " Take a chair, 
 Monsieur Jupille " ; I shut the door and we talk. 
 The clerks think we're talking law, but the 
 clerks are mistaken. 
 
 Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me : 
 
 "I have come down by the Rue de 1'Universite. 
 They will soon be back." 
 
 " How did you learn that ? " 
 
 " I saw a man carrying coals into the house, 
 and asked for whom they were, that's all." 
 
 Again, we had a talk, just now, which shows 
 what progress I have made in the old clerk's 
 heart. He had just submitted a draft to me. I 
 had read it through and grunted my approval, 
 yet Monsieur Jupille did not go. 
 
 " Anything further, Monsieur Jupille ? " 
 
 "Something to ask of you to do me a kind- 
 ness, or rather, an honour."
 
 224 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Let's hear what it is." 
 
 " This weather, Monsieur Monillard, is very 
 good for fishing, though rather warm." 
 
 " Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille ! " 
 
 " It is not too warm. It was much hotter 
 than this in 1844 ; yet the fish bit, I can tell you ! 
 Anyhow, will you join us next Sunday in a 
 fishing expedition ? I say ' us,' because one of 
 your friends is coming, a great amateur of the 
 rod, who honours me with his friendship too." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 " A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. 
 You will be surprised. Is it settled then next 
 Sunday ? " 
 
 " Where shall I meet you ? " 
 
 " Hush, the office boy is listening. That boy 
 is too sharp ; I'll tell you some other time." 
 
 "As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept 
 the invitation unconditionally." 
 
 " I am so glad you will come, Monsieur 
 Mouillard. I only wish we could have a little 
 storm between this and then." 
 
 He spoke the truth ; his satisfaction was 
 manifest, for I have never seen him rub the tip 
 of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so 
 often as he did that afternoon, which was with 
 him the sign of exuberant joy, all his gestures
 
 225 
 
 having subdued themselves long since to the 
 limits of his desk. 
 
 July 20th. 
 
 I have seen Lampron once more. He bears 
 his sorrow bravely. We spoke for a few 
 moments of his mother. I spoke some praise of 
 that humble soul for the good she had done me, 
 which led him to enlarge upon her virtues. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " if you had only seen more of 
 her ! My dear fellow, if I am an honest man ; if I 
 have passed without failing through the trials of 
 my life and my profession ; if I have placed my 
 ideal beyond worldly success ; in a word, if I am 
 worth anything in heart or brain, it is to her 
 I owe it. We had never been parted before ; 
 this is our first separation, and it is the final one. 
 I was not prepared for it." 
 
 Then he changed the subject brusquely : 
 
 " What about your love affair ? " 
 
 " Fresher than ever." 
 
 " Did it survive half-an-hour's conversation ? " 
 
 "It grew the stronger for it." 
 
 " Does she still detest you ? " 
 
 I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and 
 our conversation in the carriage, without omitting 
 a detail.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 He listened in silence. At the end he said : 
 
 " My dear Fabien, there must be no delay. 
 She must hear your proposal within a week." 
 
 " Within a week ! Who's to make it for 
 me?" 
 
 "Whoever you like. That's your business. 
 I have been making inquiries while you were 
 away ; she seems a suitable match for you. Be- 
 sides, your present position is ridiculous ; you are 
 without a profession ; you have quarrelled, for no 
 reason, with your only relative: you must get 
 out of the situation with credit, and marriage 
 will compel you to do so." 
 
 July 21st. 
 
 Monsieur Jupille had written to tell me 
 where I was to meet him on the Sunday, giving 
 me the most minute directions. I might take 
 the tram to Massy, or to Bievres. However, I 
 preferred to take the train to Sceaux and walk 
 from there, leaving Chatenay on my left, strik- 
 ing across the woods of Verrieres towards the 
 line of forts, coming out between Igny and 
 Amblainvilliers, and finally reaching a spot where 
 the Bievre broadens out between two wooded 
 banks into a pool as clear as a spring and as full 
 of fish as a stew-pond.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 227 
 
 " Above all things, tell nobody where it is ! " 
 begged Jupille. " It is our secret ; I discovered 
 it myself." 
 
 When I left Sceaux to meet Jupille, who had 
 started before daybreak, the sun was already 
 high. There was not a cloud nor a breath of 
 wind ; the sway of summer lay over all things. 
 But, though the heat was broiling, the walk 
 was lovely. All about me was alive with voice 
 or perfume. Clouds of linnets fluttered among 
 the branches, golden beetles crawled upon the 
 grass, thousands of tiny whirring wings beat 
 the air flies, gnats, gadflies, bees, all chorussing 
 the life-giving warmth of the day and the sun- 
 shine that bathed and penetrated all nature. I 
 halted from time to time in the parched glades 
 to seek my way, and again pushed onward 
 through the forest paths overarched with heavy- 
 scented leafage, onward over the slippery moss, 
 up towards the heights below which the Bievre 
 stole into view. 
 
 There it lay, at my feet, gliding between banks 
 of verdure which seemed a season younger than 
 the grass I stood on. I began to descend the 
 slope, knowing that Monsieur Jupille was await- 
 ing me somewhere in the valley. I broke into a 
 run. I heard the murmur of water in the 
 p 2
 
 228 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 hollows, and caught glimpses of forget-me-not 
 tufts in low-lying grassy corners. All at once a 
 rod outlined itself against the sky, between two 
 trees. It was he, the old clerk. He nodded to 
 me and laid down his line. 
 
 " I thought you were never coming." 
 
 "That shows you don't know me. Any 
 sport ? " 
 
 " Not so loud ! Yes, capital sport. I'll bait 
 a line for you." 
 
 " And where is your friend, Monsieur Ju- 
 pille?" 
 
 " There he is." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " Staring you in the face; can't you see him ? " 
 
 Upon my word, I could see nobody ; until he 
 directed my gaze with his fishing-rod, when I 
 perceived, ten yards away, a large back-view of 
 white trouser, and brown, unbuckled waistcoat, a 
 straw hat which seemed to conceal a head, and a 
 pair of shirt-sleeves dangling over the water. 
 
 This mass was motionless. 
 
 " He must have got a bite," said Jupille, 
 " else he would have been here before now. Go 
 and see him." 
 
 Not knowing whom I was about to address, 
 I gave a warning cough as I came near him.
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 229 
 
 The unknown drew a loud breath, like a 
 man who wakes with a start. 
 
 " That you, JupiP.e ? " he said turning a little 
 way ; " are you out ( i bait ? " 
 
 " No, my dear tutor, it is I." 
 
 " Monsieur MouiUard, at last ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Flamaran ! Jupille told the 
 truth when he said I should be surprised. Are 
 you fond of fishing ? " 
 
 " It's a passion with me. One must keep 
 one or two for one's old age, young man." 
 
 " You've been having sport, I hear." 
 
 " Well, this morning, between eight and nine, 
 there were a few nibbles; but since then the 
 sport has been very poor. However, I'm very 
 glad to see you again, Mouillard. That essay of 
 yours was an extremely good one." 
 
 The eminent professor had risen, displaying 
 a face still red from his having slept with his 
 head on his chest, but beaming with goodwill. 
 He grasped my hand with heartiness and vigour. 
 
 " Here's rod and line for you, Monsieur 
 Mouillard, all ready baited," broke in Jupille. 
 "If you'll come with me I'll show you a good 
 place." 
 
 "No, no, Jupille, I'm going to keep him," 
 answered Monsieur Flamaran; " I haven't uttered
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 a syllable for three hours. I must let myself 
 out a little. We will fish side by side, and 
 chat." 
 
 " As you please, Monsieur Flamaran ; but I 
 don't call that fishing." 
 
 He handed me the implement, and sadly 
 went his way. 
 
 Monsieur Flamaran and I sat down together 
 on the bank, our feet resting on the soft sand 
 strewn with dead branches. Before us spread 
 the little pool I have mentioned, a slight widening 
 of the stream of the Bievre, once a watering- 
 place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, 
 massed the trees' shadow close around their 
 trunks. The unbroken surface of the water 
 reflected its rays back in our eyes. The current 
 was barely indicated by the gentle oscillation of 
 a few water-lily leaves. Two big blue dragon- 
 flies poised and quivered upon our floats, and not 
 a fish seemed to care to disturb them. 
 
 " Well," said Monsieur Flamaran, " so you 
 are still managing clerk to Counsellor Boule ? " 
 
 " For the time." 
 
 " Do you like it ? " 
 
 " Not particularly." 
 
 " What are you waiting for ? " 
 
 " For something to turn up."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 231 
 
 " And carry you back to Italy, I suppose ?" 
 " Then you know I have just been there ? " 
 "I know all about it. Charnot told me of 
 your meeting, and your romantic drive by moon- 
 light. By the way, he's come back with a bad 
 cold ; did you know that ? " 
 
 I assumed an air of sympathy : 
 " Poor man ! When did he get back ? " 
 " The day before yesterday. Of course I was 
 the first to hear of it, and we spent yesterday 
 evening together. It may surprise you, 
 Mouillard, and you may think I exaggerate, but 
 I think Jeanne has come back prettier than she 
 went." 
 
 " Do you really think so ? " 
 " I reaUy do. That southern sun look out 
 my dear Mouillard, your line is half out of 
 water has brought back her roses (they're 
 brighter than ever, I declare), and the good 
 spirits she had lost, too, poor girl. She is cheer- 
 ful again now, as she used to be. I was very 
 anxious about her at one time. You know her 
 sad story ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The fellow was a scoundrel, my dear Mouil- 
 lard, a regular scoundrel ! I never was in favour 
 of the match, myself. Charnot let himself be
 
 232 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 drawn into it by an old college friend. I told 
 him over and over again, ' It's Jeanne's dowry 
 he's after, Charnot I'm convinced of it. He'll 
 treat Jeanne badly and make her miserable, 
 mark my words.' But I wasted my breath : he 
 wouldn't listen to a word. Anyhow, it's quite 
 off', now. But it was no slight shock, I can tell 
 you ; and it gave me great pain to witness the 
 poor child's sufferings." 
 
 " You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Ma- 
 in aran ! " 
 
 " It's not that, Mouillard : but I have known 
 Jeanne ever since she was born. I watched her 
 grow up, and I loved her when she was still a 
 little mite : she's as good as my adoptive 
 daughter. You understand me when I say 
 adoptive. I do not mean that there exists 
 between us that legal bond in imitation of nature 
 which is permitted by our codes, adoptio 
 imitatur naturam; not that, but that I love her 
 like a daughter Sidonie never having presented 
 me with a daughter, nor with a son either, for 
 that matter." 
 
 A cry from Jupille interrupted Monsieur 
 Flamaran : 
 
 " Can't you hear it rattling ! ' : 
 
 The good man was tearing to us, waving his
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 233 
 
 arms like a madman, the folds of his trousers 
 flapping about his thin legs like banners in the 
 breeze. 
 
 We leapt to our feet, and my first idea, an 
 absurd one enough, was that a rattlesnake was 
 hurrying through the grass to our attack. 
 
 I was very far from the truth. The matter 
 reaUy was a new line, invented by Monsieur 
 Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary 
 one, and rigged up with a float like a raft, 
 carrying a little clapper. The fish rang then* 
 own knell as they took the hook. 
 
 " It's rattling like mad ! " cried Jupille, " and 
 you don't stir ! I couldn't have thought it of 
 you, Monsieur Flamaran ! " 
 
 He ran past us, brandishing a landing-net as 
 a warrior his lance : he might have been a youth 
 of twenty-five. We followed, less keen and also 
 less confident than he. He was right, though ; 
 when he drew up his line, the float of Avhich was 
 disappearing in jerks, carrying the bell along 
 with it beneath the water, he brought out a fair- 
 sized jack, which he declared to be a giant. 
 
 He let it run for some time, to tire it, and to 
 prolong the pleasure of playing it. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he cried, " it is cutting my 
 finger off!"
 
 234 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 A stroke with the landing-net laid the 
 monster at our feet, its strength all spent. It 
 weighed rather under four pounds. Jupille swore 
 to six. 
 
 My learned tutor and I sat down again side 
 by side, but the thread of our conversation had 
 been broken past mending. I tried to talk of 
 her, but Monsieur Flamaran insisted on talking 
 of me, of Bourges, of his election as professor, 
 and of the radically distinct characteristics by 
 which you can tell the bite of a gudgeon from 
 that of a stickleback. 
 
 The latter part of his lecture was, however, 
 purely theoretical, for he got up two hours 
 before sunset without having hooked a fish. 
 
 " A good day, all the same," he said. " It's a 
 good place, and the fish were biting this morn- 
 ing. We'll come here again some day, Jupille ; 
 with an east wind you ought to catch any 
 quantity of gudgeon." He kept pace beside 
 me on our way home, but wearied, no doubt, 
 with long sitting, with the heat, and the glare 
 from the water, fell into a reverie, from which 
 the accidents of the walk were unable to rouse 
 him. 
 
 Jupille trotted before us, carrying his rod in 
 one hand, a luncheon-basket and a fish-bag in
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 235 
 
 the other. He turned round and gave us a look 
 at each cross-road, smiled beneath his heavy 
 moustache, and went on faster than before. I 
 felt sure that something out of the way was 
 going to happen, and that the silent quill- 
 driver was tasting a quiet joke. 
 
 I had not guessed the whole truth. 
 
 At a turn of the road Monsieur Flamaran 
 suddenly pulled up, looked all around him, and 
 drew a deep breath. 
 
 " Hullo, Jupille ! My good sir, where are you 
 taking us ? If I can believe my eyes, this is the 
 Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, 
 and we are two miles from the station and the 
 seven o'clock train ! " 
 
 There was no denying it. A donkey emerged 
 from the wood, hung with tassels and* bells, 
 carrying in its panniers two little girls, whose 
 parents toiled behind, goad in hand. The 
 woods had become shrubberies, through which 
 peeped the thatched roofs of rustic summer- 
 houses, mazes, artificial waterfalls, grottoes and 
 ruins; all the dread handiwork of the rustic 
 decorator burst superabundant upon our sight, 
 with shy odours of beer and cooking. Broken 
 bottles strewed the paths ; the bushes all looked 
 weary, harassed, and overworked; a confused
 
 236 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 murmur of voices and crackers floated towards 
 us upon the breeze. I knew full well from these 
 signs that we were nearing " ROBINSON CRUSOE," 
 the land of rustic . inns. And sure enough here 
 they all were, " THE OLD ROBINSON," " THE NEW 
 ROBINSON," "THE REAL ORIGINAL ROBINSON," 
 " THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON," " ROBINSON'S 
 CHESTNUT GROVE," " ROBINSON'S PARADISE," 
 each unique and each authentic. All alike have 
 thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies 
 lit with petroleum lamps, tinsel stars, summer- 
 houses, arrangements for open-air illumination, 
 and highly coloured advertisements in which 
 are set forth all the component elements of a 
 " ROBINSON," such as shooting-galleries, bowling- 
 alleys, swings, private arbours, Munich beer, and 
 dinner in a tree. 
 
 " JupiUe ! " exclaimed Monsieur Flamaran, 
 " you have shipwrecked us ! This is Crusoe's 
 land : and what the dickens do you mean by 
 it?" 
 
 The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and 
 Avearing that hangdog look which he always 
 assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor 
 Boule, pulled a face as long as his arm, went up 
 to Monsieur Flamaran and whispered a word in 
 his ear.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 237 
 
 " Upon my word ! Really, Jupille, what are 
 you thinking of? And I a professor, too! Thirty 
 years ago it would have been excusable, but 
 to-day Besides, Sidonie expects me home to 
 dinner " 
 
 He stopped for a moment, undecided, look- 
 ing at his watch. 
 
 Jupille, who was eyeing him intently, saw his 
 distinguished friend gradually relax his frown 
 and burst into a hearty laugh. 
 
 " By Jove ! it's madness at my age, but I 
 don't care. We'll renew our youth for an hour 
 or so. My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered 
 dinner for us here. Had I been consulted I 
 should have chosen any other place. Yet what's 
 to be done ? Hunger, friendship, and the fact 
 that I can't catch the train combine to silence 
 my scruples. What do you say ? " 
 
 " That we are in for it, now." 
 
 " So be it then." And led by Jupille, still 
 carrying his catch, we entered THE ONLY 
 GENUINE ROBINSON. 
 
 Monsieur Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, 
 cast inquiring glances on the clearings in the 
 shrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter 
 behind the trees. 
 
 " You have engaged chestnut No. 3,
 
 238 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 gentlemen," said the proprietor. " Up these 
 stairs, please." 
 
 We ascended a staircase winding around the 
 trunk. Chestnut No. 3 is a fine old tree, a 
 little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting 
 a platform surrounded by a balustrade, six 
 rotten wooden pillars, and a thatched roof 
 shaped like a cocked hat to shelter the whole. 
 All the neighbouring trees contain similar con- 
 structions, which look from a little way off like 
 enormous nests. They are greatly in demand at 
 the dinner-hour ; you dine thirty feet up in the 
 air, and your food is brought up by a rope and 
 pulley. 
 
 When Monsieur Flamaran appeared on the 
 platform he took off his hat, and leaned with 
 both hands on the railing to give a look round. 
 The attitude suggested a public speaker. His 
 big grey head was conspicuous in the light of 
 the setting sun. 
 
 " He's going to make a speech ! " cried a 
 voice. 
 
 " 'Bet you he isn't," replied another. 
 
 " This was the signal. A rustling was heard 
 among the leaves, and numbers of inquisitive 
 faces peeped out from all corners of the garden. 
 A general rattling of glasses announced that
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 239 
 
 whole parties were leaving the tables to see what 
 was up. The very waiters stopped to stare at 
 chestnut No. 3. Crusoe, to a man, was staring 
 up at Flamaran without in the least knowing 
 why. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said a voice from an arbour, 
 " Professor Flamaran will now deliver his lec- 
 ture." 
 
 A chorus of shouts and laughter rose around 
 our tree. 
 
 " Hi, old boy, wait till we're gone ! " " Ladies, 
 he will discourse to you on the law of husband 
 and wife ! " " No, on the foreclosure of mort- 
 gages ! " " No, on the payment of debts ! " 
 " Oh, you naughty old man ! You ought to be 
 shut up ! " 
 
 Monsieur Flamaran, though somewhat put 
 out of countenance for the moment, was seized 
 with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an 
 arm to show that he was about to speak. He 
 opened his broad mouth with a smile of fatherly 
 humour, and the groves, attentive, heard him 
 thunder forth these words : 
 
 "Young people, I promise to give you all 
 white marks if you let me dine in peace ! " 
 
 The last words were lost in a roar of applause. 
 " Three cheers for old Flamaran ! "
 
 240 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Three cheers were given, followed by clapping 
 of hands from various quarters, then all was 
 silence, and no one took any further notice of 
 our tree. 
 
 Monsieur Flamaran left the railing and un- 
 folded his napkin. 
 
 " You may be sure of my white marks, young 
 men," he said, as he sat down. 
 
 He was delighted at his success as an orator, 
 and laughed gaily. Jupille, on the other hand, 
 was as pale as if he had been in a street riot, and 
 seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. 
 
 " It's all right, Jupille : it's all right, man ! A 
 little ready wit is all you need, dash my wig ! " 
 
 The old clerk gradually regained his com- 
 posure, and the dinner grew very merry. 
 Monsieur Flamaran's spirits, raised by this little 
 incident, never flagged. He had a story for every 
 glass of wine, and told them all with a quiet 
 humour of his own. 
 
 Towards the end of dinner, by the time the 
 waiter came to offer us "almonds and raisins, 
 pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy 
 cherries," we had got upon the subject of Sidonie, 
 the pearl of Forez. Monsieur Flamaran narrated 
 to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day 
 depicted to him a young girl at Montbrison, of
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 241 
 
 fresh and pleasing appearance, a good house- 
 keeper, and of excellent family : and how he, 
 Monsieur Flamaran had forthwith started off 
 to find her, had recognised her before she was 
 pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first 
 sight, and was not long in obtaining her affec- 
 tion in return. The marriage had taken .place 
 at St.-Galmier. 
 
 "Yes, my dear Mouillard," he added, as if 
 pointing a moral, " thirty years ago last May 
 I became a happy man ; when do you think of 
 following my example ? " 
 
 At this point, Jupille suddenly found 
 himself one too many, and vanished down the 
 corkscrew stair. 
 
 " We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges," 
 Monsieur Flamaran went on. "Apparently 
 that's aU off?" 
 
 "Quite off." 
 
 " You were within your rights ; but now, why 
 not a Parisienne ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, why not ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way 
 against Parisiennes ? " 
 
 " I ? Not the least." 
 
 " I used to be, but I've got over it now. They 
 have a charm of their own, a certain style of 
 Q
 
 242 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 dressing, walking, and laughing which you don't 
 find beyond the fortifications. For a long time 
 I used to think that these qualities stood them 
 in lieu of virtues. That was a slander ; there are 
 plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue : 
 I even know a few who are angels." 
 
 At this point, Monsieur Flamaran looked me 
 straight in the eyes, and, as I made no reply, he 
 added : 
 
 " I know one, at least : Jeanne Charnot Are 
 you listening ? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Flamaran." 
 
 " Isn't she a paragon ? " 
 
 "She is." 
 
 " As sensible as she is tender-hearted ?" 
 
 " So I believe." 
 
 " And as clever as she is sensible ? " 
 
 " That is my opinion." 
 
 "Well then, young man, if that's your 
 opinion excuse my burning my boats, all my 
 boats if that's your opinion, I don't understand 
 why Do you suppose she's got no money ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about her means." 
 
 " Don't make any mistake ; she's a rich 
 woman. Do you think you're too young to 
 marry ? " 
 
 "No."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 243 
 
 " Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound 
 by that unfortunate engagement ? " 
 
 " I trust she's not." 
 
 " I'm quite sure she's not. She is free, I tell 
 you, as free as you. Well, why don't you love 
 her ? " 
 
 " But I do love her, Monsieur Flaniaran ! " 
 
 " Why then, I congratulate you, my boy ! " 
 
 He leaned across the table, and gave me a 
 hearty grasp of the hand. He was so agitated 
 that he could not speak choking with joyful 
 emotion, as if he had been Jeanne's father, or 
 mine. 
 
 After a minute or so, he drew himself up in 
 his chair, reached out. put a hand on each of my 
 shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I 
 might fly away. 
 
 " So you love her, you love her Good 
 gracious, what a business I've had to get you to 
 say so ! You are quite right to love her, of 
 course, of course I could not have understood 
 your doing otherwise; but I must say this, my 
 boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attrac- 
 tions, you know what will happen." 
 
 " Yes, I ought to ask for her at once." 
 
 " To be sure you ought." 
 
 " Alas ! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there 
 Q 2
 
 244 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 that I can send on such a mission for me ? You 
 know that I am an orphan." 
 
 " But you've an uncle." 
 
 " We have quarrelled." 
 
 " You might make it up again, on an occasion 
 like this." 
 
 " Out of the question : we quarrelled on her 
 account ; my uncle hates' Parisiennes." 
 
 " Damn it all, then ! send a friend, a friend 
 will do under the circumstances." 
 
 " There's Lampron." 
 
 " The painter ? " 
 
 " Yes, but he doesn't know Monsieur Charnot. 
 It would only be one stranger pleading for 
 another. My chances would be small. What I 
 want " 
 
 " Is a friend of both parties, isn't it ? 
 
 Well, what am I ? " 
 
 " The very man ! " 
 
 "Very well. I undertake to ask for her 
 hand ! I shall ask for the hand of the charming 
 Jeanne for both of us : for you, who will make 
 her happy ; and for myself, who will not entirely 
 lose her if she marries one of my pupils, one of 
 my favourite graduates my friend, Fabien 
 Mouillard. And I won't be refused, no, damme 
 I won't!"
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 245 
 
 He brought down his fist upon the table with 
 a tremendous blow which made the glasses ring 
 and the decanters stagger. 
 
 " Coming !" cried a waiter, from below, think- 
 ing he was summoned. 
 
 " All right, my good fellow ! " shouted Mon- 
 sieur Flamaran, leaning over the railings. 
 " Don't trouble. I don't want anything." 
 
 He turned again towards me, still filled with 
 emotion, but somewhat calmer than he had 
 been. 
 
 " Now," said he, " let us talk, and do you tell 
 me all." 
 
 And we began a long and altogether delight- 
 ful talk. 
 
 A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed 
 than this professor let loose from school and 
 giving his heart a holiday a simple, tender 
 heart, preserved beneath the science of the law 
 like a grape in saw-dust. Now he would smile 
 as I sang Jeanne's praises ; now he would sit and 
 listen to my objections with a truculent air, 
 tightening his lips till they broke forth in 
 vehement denial " What ! You dare to say ! 
 Young man, what are you afraid of?" His 
 overflowing kindness discharged itself in the 
 sincerest and solemnest asseverations.
 
 246 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us ; 
 we were both far away in that Utopia where mind 
 penetrates mind, heart understands heart. We 
 heard neither the squeaking of a swing beneath 
 us, nor the shouts of laughter along the pro- 
 menades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a 
 neighbouring pavilion. Our eyes, raised to 
 heaven, failed to see the night descending upon 
 us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its 
 firstling stars. Now and again a warm breath 
 passed over us, blown from the woods : I tasted 
 its strangely sweet perfume ; I saw in glimpses 
 the flying vision of a huge dark tulip, striped 
 with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist bank 
 of a dyke, and I asked myself whether a 
 mysterious flower had really opened in the 
 night, or whether it was but a new feeling, 
 slowly budding, unfolding, blossoming within my 
 heart. 
 
 July 22nd. 
 
 At two o'clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre 
 to tell him all the great events of yesterday. We 
 sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow 
 of the movable curtain which divides the studio, 
 as it were, into two rooms, among the lay- 
 figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 247 
 
 Lampron likes this chiaro-oscuro. It rests his 
 eyes. 
 
 Someone knocked at the door. 
 
 " Stay where you are," said Sylvestre ; " it's a 
 customer come for the background of an engrav- 
 ing. I'll be with you in two minutes. Come 
 in ! " As he was speaking he drew the curtain in 
 front of me, and through the thin stuff I could 
 see him going towards the door, which had just 
 opened. 
 
 " Monsieur Lampron ? " 
 
 " I am he, sir." 
 
 " You don't recognise me, sir ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " I'm surprised at that." 
 
 " Why so, sir ? I have never seen you." 
 
 " You have taken my portrait !" 
 
 " Really ! " 
 
 I was watching Lampron, who was plainly 
 angered at this abrupt introduction. He left 
 the chair which he had begun to push forward, 
 let it stand in the middle of the studio, and went 
 and sat down on his engraving-stool in the 
 corner, with a somewhat haughty look and a 
 defiant smile lurking behind his beard. He 
 rested his elbow on the table and began to drum 
 with his fingers.
 
 248 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " What I have had the honour to inform 
 you is the simple truth, sir. I am Monsieur 
 Charnot, of the Institute." 
 
 Larapron gave a glance in my direction, and 
 his frown melted away. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir ; I only know you by your 
 back. If you had shown me that side of you I 
 might perhaps have recognised " 
 
 " I've not come here to listen to your jokes, 
 sir ; and I should have come sooner to demand an 
 explanation, but that it was only this morning I 
 heard of what I consider a deplorable abuse of 
 your talents. But picture-shows are not in my 
 line. I did not see myself there. My friend 
 Flamaran had to tell me that I was to be seen at 
 the last Salon, together with my daughter, sitting 
 on a tree-trunk in the forest of St. -Germain. Is 
 it true, sir, that you drew me sitting on a 
 trunk ? " 
 
 " Quite true." 
 
 " That's a trifle too rustic for a man who 
 does not go outside of Paris three times a year. 
 And my daughter you drew in profile, a good 
 likeness, I believe." 
 
 " It was as like as I could make it." 
 
 " Then you confess that you drew both my 
 daughter and myself ? "
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 249 
 
 " Yes I do, sir." 
 
 " It may not be so easy for you to explain by 
 what right you did so ; I await your explanation, 
 sir." 
 
 " I might very well give you no explanation 
 whatever," replied Lampron, who was beginning 
 to lose patience. " I might also reply that I no 
 more needed to ask your permission to sketch 
 you than to ask that of the beeches, oaks, elms, 
 and willows. I might tell you that you formed 
 part of the landscape, that every artist who 
 sketches a bit of underwood has the right to 
 stick a figure in " 
 
 " A figure, sir ! do you call me a figure ? " 
 
 " A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. 
 Well, I might give you this reason, which is quite 
 good enough for you, but it is not the real one. 
 I prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You 
 have a very beautiful daughter, sir." 
 
 Monsieur Charnot made his customary 
 bow. 
 
 " One of my friends is in love with her. He 
 is shy, and dares not tell his love. We met 
 you by chance in the wood, and I was seized 
 with the idea of making a sketch of Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake it, and 
 then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing
 
 260 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 it and guessing its meaning. I trusted she 
 would recall to her mind, not nryself, for my 
 youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is 
 of the age and build of a lover. If this was a 
 crime, sir, I am ready to take all the blame for 
 it upon myself, for I alone committed it." 
 
 " It certainly was criminal, sir : criminal in 
 you at any rate you who are a man of weight, 
 respected for your talent and your character 
 to aid and abet in a frivolous love aft'air." 
 
 " It was the deepest and most honourable 
 sentiment, sir." 
 
 " A blaze of straw ! " 
 
 " Nothing of the sort ! " 
 
 " Don't tell me, sir ! Your friend's a mere 
 boy." 
 
 " So much the better for him, sir, and for her 
 too ! If you want a man of middle-age for your 
 son-in-law, just try one and see what they are 
 worth. You may be sorry that you ever refused 
 this boy, who, it is true, is only twenty-four, has 
 little money, no decided calling, nor yet that 
 gift of self-confidence which does instead of 
 merit for so many people ; but who is a brave 
 and noble soul, sir, whom I can answer for as for 
 myself. Go, sir, you will find your daughter 
 great names, fat purses, gold lace, long beards,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 251 
 
 swelling waistbands, reputations, pretentions 
 justified or not, everything, in short, in which 
 he is poor ; but him you will never find again ! 
 That's all I have to tell you." 
 
 Lampron had become animated and spoke 
 with heat. There was the slightest flash of 
 anger in his eyes. 
 
 I saw Monsieur Charnot get up, approach 
 him, and hold out his hand. 
 
 " I did not wish you to say anything else, sir ; 
 that is quite enough for me. Flamaran asked 
 my daughter's hand for your friend only this 
 morning. Flamaran loses no time when charged 
 with a commission. He, too, told me much 
 that was good of your friend. I also questioned 
 Counsellor Boule. But however flattering the 
 characters they might give him, I still needed 
 another, that of a man who had lived in com- 
 plete intimacy with Monsieur Mouillard, and I 
 could find no one but you." 
 
 Lampron stared astonished at this little, thin- 
 lipped man who had just changed his tone and 
 manner so unexpectedly. 
 
 " Well, sir," he answered, " you might have 
 got his character from me with less trouble ; 
 there was no need to make a scene." 
 
 " Excuse me. You say I should have got his
 
 252 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 character ; that is exactly what I did not want : 
 characters are always good. What I wanted 
 was a cry from the heart of a friend outraged 
 and brought to bay. That is what I got, and it 
 satisfies me. I am much obliged to you, sir, and 
 beg you will excuse my conduct." 
 
 "But, sir, since we are talking sense at 
 present, allow me to put you a question in my 
 turn. I am not in the habit of going round the 
 point. Is my friend's proposal likely to be 
 accepted or not?" 
 
 " Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters 
 I have decided for the future to leave my 
 daughter entirely free. Although my happiness 
 is at stake almost as entirely as hers, I shall not 
 say a word save to advise. In accordance with 
 this resolve I communicated Flamaran's proposal 
 to her." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I expected she would refuse it." 
 
 " But she said ' Yes ' ? " 
 
 " She did not say ' No ' ; if she had, you can 
 guess that I should not be here." 
 
 At this reply I quite lost my head, and was 
 very near tearing aside the curtain, and bursting 
 forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude. 
 
 But Monsieur Charnot added,
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 253 
 
 "Don't be too sure, though. There are 
 certain serious and, perhaps, insurmountable 
 obstacles. I must speak to my daughter again. 
 I will let your friend know of our final decision 
 as soon as I can. Good-bye, sir." 
 
 Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard 
 their steps grow distant in the passage. A 
 moment later Sylvestre returned and held out 
 both hands to me, saying, 
 
 " Well, are you happy now ? " 
 
 " Of course I am, to a certain extent." 
 
 " ' To a certain extent ' ! Why she loves you ! " 
 
 " But the obstacles, Sylvestre ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " Perhaps insurmountable those were his 
 words." 
 
 " Why obstacles are the salt of all our joys. 
 What a lot you young men want before you can 
 be called happy ! You ask Life for certainties, 
 as if she had any to give you ! " 
 
 And he began to discuss my fears, but could 
 not quite disperse them, for neither of us could 
 guess what the obstacles could be. 
 
 August 2nd. 
 
 After ten days of waiting, during which I 
 have employed Lampron and Monsieur Flamaran
 
 254 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 to intercede for me, turn and turn about ; ten 
 days passed in hovering between mortal anguish 
 and extravagant hopes, during which I have 
 formed, destroyed, taken up again and aban- 
 doned more plans than I ever made in all my 
 life before, yesterday, at five o'clock, I got a note 
 from Monsieur Charnot, begging me to call upon 
 him the same evening. 
 
 I went there in a state of nervous collapse. 
 He received me in his study, as he had done 
 seven months before, at our first interview, but 
 with a more solemn politeness ; and I noticed 
 that the paper-knife, which he had taken up from 
 the table as he resumed his seat, shook between 
 his fingers. I sat in the same chair in which I 
 had felt so ill at ease. To tell the truth, I felt 
 very much the same yesterday. Monsieur 
 Charnot doubtless noticed it, and wished to 
 reassure me. 
 
 "Sir," said he, "I receive you as a friend. 
 Whatever may be the result of our interview, 
 you may be assured of my esteem. Therefore 
 do not fear to answer me frankly." 
 
 He put me several questions as to my family, 
 my tastes, and my acquaintance in Paris. Then 
 he requested me to tell the simple story of my 
 boyhood and my youth, my recollections of iny
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 255 
 
 home, of the college at La Chatre, of my holidays 
 at Bourges, and of my student life. 
 
 He listened, without interruption, playing 
 with the ivory paper-knife. When I reached 
 the date (it was only last December !) when I saw 
 Jeanne for the first time : 
 
 " That's enough," said he, " I know or guess 
 the rest. Young man, I promised you an answer ; 
 this is it " 
 
 For the moment, I ceased to breathe : my 
 very heart seemed to stop beating. 
 
 " My daughter," went on Monsieur Charnot, 
 " has at this moment several proposals of 
 marriage to choose from. You see I hide nothing 
 from you. I have left her time to reflect; 
 she has weighed and compared them ah 1 , and 
 communicated to me yesterday the result 
 of her reflections. To richer and more brilliant 
 matches she prefers an honest man who loves 
 her for herself: and you, sir, are that honest 
 man." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you, sir ! " I cried. 
 
 " Wait a moment, there are two conditions." 
 
 " Were there ten, I would accept them 
 without question ! " 
 
 " Don't hurry. You will see : one is my 
 daughter's, the other conies from both of us."
 
 256 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " You want ine to have some profession, 
 perhaps ? " 
 
 " No, that's not it. Clearly iny son-in-law 
 will never sit idle. Besides, I have some views 
 on that subject, which I'll tell you later, if I 
 have the chance. No, the first condition exacted 
 by my daughter, and dictated by a feeling which 
 is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never 
 to leave Paris." 
 
 " That I swear to, sir, with all the pleasure in 
 life!" 
 
 " Really ? I feared you had some ties." 
 
 " Not one." 
 
 " Or dislike for Paris." 
 
 "No, sir; only a preference for Paris, with 
 freedom to indulge it. Your second con- 
 dition ? " 
 
 " The second, to which my daughter and I 
 both attach importance, is that you should make 
 your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me 
 you have quarrelled." 
 
 " That is so." 
 
 " I hope it's not a serious difference. A mere 
 cloud, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Unfortunately not. My uncle is very 
 positive 
 
 " But at the same time his heart's in the right
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 257 
 
 place, as far as I could judge from what I saw of 
 him, in June, I think it was." 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You don't mind taking the first step ? " 
 " I will take as many as may be needed." 
 " I felt sure you would. You cannot remain 
 on bad terms with your father's brother, the only 
 relative you have left. In our eyes this recon- 
 ciliation is a duty, a necessity. You should 
 desire it as much arid more than we do." 
 
 " I will use every effort, sir, I promise you." 
 " And in that case you will succeed, I make 
 no doubt." 
 
 Monsieur Charnot, who had grown very pale, 
 held out his hand to me, and tried hard to 
 smile. 
 
 " I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite 
 
 at one, and that the hour has come " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, but rose and 
 went to open a door between two book-cases at 
 the end of the room. 
 
 " Jeanne ! " he said, " Monsieur Fabien accepts 
 the two conditions, my dear." 
 
 And I saw Jeanne come smiling towards me, 
 
 And I who had risen trembling, I who up 
 
 till then had lost my head at the mere thought 
 
 of seeing her, I who had many a time asked 
 
 R
 
 258 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 myself in terror what I should say on meeting 
 her, if ever she were mine, I felt myself suddenly 
 bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank 
 her, to express my joy. 
 
 My happiness, however, was evident, and I 
 might have spared my words. 
 
 For the first half-hour all three of us talked 
 together. 
 
 Then Monsieur Charnot pushed back his 
 arm-chair, and we two were left to ourselves. 
 
 He had taken up a newspaper, but I am 
 pretty sure he held it upside down. In any 
 case he must have been reading between the 
 lines, for he did not turn the page the whole 
 evening. 
 
 He often cast a glance over the top of the 
 paper, folded in four, to where we were sitting : 
 and from us his eyes travelled to a pretty 
 miniature of Jeanne as a child, which hung over 
 the mantel-piece. 
 
 What comparisons, what memories, what 
 regrets, what hopes were struggling in his mind ? 
 I know not, but I know he sighed, and had not 
 we been there, I believe he would have wept 
 
 To me Jeanne showed herself simple as a 
 child, wise and thoughtful as a woman. A new 
 feeling was growing every instant within me, of
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 259 
 
 perfect rest of heart : the certainty of happiness 
 for all my life to come. 
 
 Yes, my happiness travelled beyond the 
 present, as I looked into the future and saw a 
 long series of days passed by her side; and while 
 she spoke to me, tranquil, confident, and happy 
 too, I thought I saw the great wings of my 
 dream closing over and enfolding us. 
 
 We spoke in murmurs. The open window 
 let in the warm evening air and the confused 
 roar of the city. 
 
 "I am to be your friend and counsellor?" 
 said she. 
 
 " Always." 
 
 " You promise that you will ask my advice 
 in all things, and that we shall act in concert ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 "If this very first evening I ask you for a 
 proof of this you won't be angry ? " 
 
 " On the contrary." 
 
 " Well, from what you have told me of your 
 uncle, you seem to have accepted the second 
 condition, of making up your quarrel, rather 
 lightly." 
 
 " I have only promised to do my best." 
 
 " Yes, but my father counts upon your 
 success. How do you intend to act ? " 
 R 2
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " I haven't yet considered." 
 
 " That's just what I foresaw, and I thought 
 it would perhaps be a good thing if we con- 
 sidered it together." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I am listening ; compose the 
 plan of campaign, and I will criticise it." 
 
 Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and 
 assumed a thoughtful look. 
 
 " Suppose you wrote to him." 
 
 "There is every chance that he would not 
 answer." 
 
 " Reply paid ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you are laughing ; you are 
 no counsellor any longer." 
 
 " Yes, I am. Let's be serious. Suppose you 
 go and see him." 
 
 "That's a better idea. He may perhaps 
 receive me." 
 
 " In that case you'll capture him. If you can 
 only get a man to listen " 
 
 " Not him, Mademoiselle. He will listen, and 
 you know what his answer will be ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " This, or something like it : ' My worthy 
 nephew, you have come to tell me two things, 
 have you not ? Firstly, that you are about to 
 marry a Parisienne ; secondly, that you renounce
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 261 
 
 for ever the family practice. You merely confirm 
 and aggravate our difference. You have taken 
 a step further backwards. It was not worth 
 while your coming out of your way to tell me 
 this, and you can return as soon as you please.' " 
 
 " You surprise me. There must be some 
 way of getting at him, if he is really good- 
 hearted, as you say. If I could see your uncle 
 I should soon find out a way." 
 
 " If you could see him ? Yes, that would be 
 the best way of all ; it couldn't help succeeding. 
 He imagines you as a flighty Parisienne ; he is 
 afraid of you ; he is more angry with me for 
 loving you than for refusing to carry on his 
 practice. If he could only see you, he would 
 soon forgive me." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 
 " I'm sure of it." 
 
 " Do you think that if I were to look him in 
 the face, as I now look at you, and to say to him : 
 'Monsieur Mouillard, will you not consent to 
 my becoming your niece ? ' do you think that 
 then he would give in ? " 
 
 " Alas ! Mademoiselle, why cannot it be 
 tried ? " 
 
 " It certainly is difficult, but I won't say 
 it cannot."
 
 262 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 We explained, or rather Jeanne explained, 
 the case to Monsieur Charnot, who is assuredly 
 her earliest and most complete conquest. At 
 first he cried out against the idea. He said it 
 was entirely my business, a family matter in 
 which he had no right to interfere. She insisted. 
 She carried his scruples by storm. She boldly 
 proposed a trip to Bourges, and a visit to 
 Monsieur Mouillard. She overflowed with 
 reasons, some of them rather weak, but all so 
 prettily urged ! A trip to Bourges would be 
 delightful something so novel and refreshing ! 
 Had Monsieur Charnot complained on the 
 previous evening, or had he not, of having to 
 stop in Paris in the heat of August ? Yes, ho 
 had complained, and quite right too; for his 
 colleagues did not hesitate to leave their work 
 and rush off to the country. Then she cited 
 examples, one off to the Vosges, another at 
 Arcachon, yet another at Deauville. And she 
 reminded him, too, that a certain old lady, one 
 of his old friends of the Faubourg St.-Germain, 
 lived only a few miles out of Bourges, and had 
 invited him to come and see her, she didn't 
 know how many times, and that lie had promised 
 and promised and never kept his word. Now he 
 could take the opportunity of going on from
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 263 
 
 Bourges to her chateau. Finally, as Monsieur 
 Charnot continued to urge the singularity of 
 such behaviour, she replied : 
 
 "My dear ftither! not at all; in visiting 
 Monsieur Mouillard you will be only fulfilling a 
 social duty." 
 
 " How so, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " He paid you a visit, and you will be 
 returning it ! " 
 
 Monsieur Charnot tossed his head, like a 
 father who, though he may not be convinced, 
 yet admits that he is beaten. 
 
 As for me, Jeanne, I'm beginning to believe 
 in the fairies again. 
 
 August 3rd. 
 
 I have made another visit to the Rue de 
 1'Universite. They have decided to make the 
 trip. I leave for Bourges to-morrow, a day 
 in advance of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Char- 
 not, who will arrive on the following morning. 
 
 I am sent on first to fulfil two duties ; to 
 engage comfortable rooms at the hotel first floor 
 with southern aspect, and then to see my uncle 
 and prepare him for his visitors. 
 
 I am to prepare him without ruffling him.
 
 264 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Jeanne has sketched my plan of campaign. I am 
 to be the most affectionate of nephews, though he 
 show himself the crustiest of uncles ; to prevent 
 him from recurring to the past, to speak soberly of 
 the present, to confess that Mademoiselle Charnot 
 is aware of my feelings for her, and shows her- 
 self not entirely insensible to them ; but I am to 
 avoid giving details, and must put off a full 
 explanation until later, when we can study the 
 situation together. Monsieur Mouillard cannot 
 fail to be appeased by such deference, and to 
 observe a truce while I hint at the possibility of 
 a family council. Then, if these first advances 
 are well received, I am to tell him that Monsieur 
 Charnot is actually travelling in the neighbour- 
 hood, and, without giving it as certain, I may 
 add that if he stops at Bourges he may like to 
 return my uncle's visit. 
 
 There my r6le ends. Jeanne and Monsieur 
 Charnot will do the rest. It is with Jeanne, by 
 the light of her eyes and her smile, that Mon- 
 sieur Mouillard is " to study the situation ; " he 
 will have to struggle against the redoubtable 
 arguments of her youth and beauty. Poor man ! 
 
 Jeanne is full of confidence. Her father, who 
 has learned his lesson from her, feels sure that 
 my uncle will give in. Even I, who cannot
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 entirely share this optimism, feel that I incline 
 to the side of hope. 
 
 When I reached home, the porter handed me 
 two cards from Larive. On the first I read : 
 
 CH. LARIV, 
 
 Managing Clerk. 
 
 P.P.C. 
 
 The second, on glazed cardboard, announced, 
 likewise in initials, another piece of news : 
 
 CH. LARIV. 
 
 Formerly Managing Clerk, 
 
 P.F.P.M. 
 
 So the Parisian who swore he could not 
 exist two days in the country is leaving Paris. 
 That was fated. He is going to be married ; I'm 
 sure I don't object. The only consequence to me 
 is that we shall never meet again, and I shall 
 not weep over that. 
 
 Bourges, Aiujust 4<th. 
 
 If you have ever been in Bourges, you may 
 have seen the little Rue Sous-les-Ceps, the Cours
 
 266 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 du Bat d' Argent, and de la Fleur-de-lys, the Rues 
 de la Mere-de-Dieu, des Verts-Galants, Man- 
 secret, du Moulin-le-Roi, the Quai Messire- 
 Jacques, and other streets whose ancient names, 
 preserved by a praiseworthy sentiment or in- 
 stinctive conservatism, betoken an ancient city 
 still inhabited by old-fashioned people, by which 
 I mean people attached to the soil, strongly 
 marked with the stamp of the provincial in 
 manners as in language ; people who under- 
 stand all that a name is to a street its honour, 
 its spouse if you will, from which it must not 
 be divorced. 
 
 My uncle Mouillard, most devoted and faith- 
 ful citizen of Bourges, naturally lives in one of 
 these old streets, the Rue du Four, within the 
 shadow of the cathedral, beneath the swing of 
 its chimes. 
 
 Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at 
 Bourges I was pulling the deer's foot which 
 hangs, depilated with long use, beside his door. 
 It was five o'clock, and I knew for certain that 
 he would not be at home. When the courts 
 rise, one of the clerks carries back his papers 
 to the office, while he moves slowly off, his 
 coat-tails flapping in the breeze, either to visit a 
 few friends and clients, respectable dames who
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 267 
 
 were his partners in the dance hi the year 1840, 
 or more often to take a " constitutional " along 
 the banks of the Berry canal, where, in the 
 poplar shade, files of little grey donkeys are 
 towing string upon string of big barges. 
 
 So I was sure not to meet him. 
 
 Madeleine opened the door to me, and started 
 as if shot. 
 
 " Monsieur Fabien ! " 
 
 "Myself, Madeleine. My uncle's not at 
 home ? " 
 
 " No sir. Do you really mean to come in, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " The master's so changed since his visit to 
 Paris, Monsieur Fabien ! " 
 
 Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding 
 up her apron, the other hanging down, and 
 gazed at me with reproachful anxiety. 
 
 " I must come in, Madeleine. I've a secret to 
 tell you." 
 
 She made no answer, but turned round and 
 walked before me into the house. 
 
 It was not thus that I used to be wel- 
 comed in days gone by ! Then Madeleine used 
 to meet me at the station. She used to kiss 
 me, and tell me how well I looked, promising
 
 268 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had 
 invented for me. Scarcely would I set foot 
 in the hall before my uncle, who had given up 
 his evening walk for my sake, would run out of 
 his study, heart and necktie alike out of their 
 usual order at seeing me me, a poor, awkward, 
 gaping schoolboy. To-day that is ancient history. 
 To-day I am afraid to meet my uncle, and Made- 
 leine is afraid to let me in. 
 
 She told me not a word of it, but I easily 
 guessed that floods of tears had streamed from 
 her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale 
 as wax. Her face is quite transparent, and looks 
 as if a tiny lamp were lighting it from within. 
 There are strong feelings, too, beneath that im- 
 passive mask. Madeleine comes from Bayonne, 
 and has Spanish blood in her. I have heard 
 that she was lovely as a girl of twenty. With 
 age her features have grown austere. She looks 
 like a widow who is a widow indeed, and her 
 heart is that of a grandmother. 
 
 She glided before me in her slippers to that 
 realm of peace and silence, her kitchen. I 
 followed her in. Two things that never found 
 entrance there are dust and noise. A lonely 
 goldfinch hangs in a wicker cage from the rafters, 
 and utters from time to time a little shrill call
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 269 
 
 His note and the metallic tick-tick of Made- 
 leine's clock alone enliven the silent flight of 
 time. She sat down in the low chair where she 
 knits after dinner. 
 
 " Madeleine, I am going to be married ; did 
 you know it ? " 
 
 She slowly shook her head. 
 
 " Yes, in Paris, Monsieur Fabien ; that's what 
 makes the master so unhappy." 
 
 " You will soon see her whom I have chosen, 
 Madeleine." 
 
 " I do not think so, Monsieur Fabien." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you will ; and you will see that it 
 is my uncle who is in the wrong." 
 
 " I have not often known him in the wrong." 
 
 "Anyhow, that's got nothing to do with it 
 My marriage is decided upon, and ah 1 I want is 
 to get my uncle's consent to it. Do you under- 
 stand ? I want to make friends with him." 
 
 Madeleine shook her head again. 
 
 " You won't succeed." 
 
 " My dear Madeleine ! " 
 
 " No, Monsieur Fabien, you won't succeed." 
 
 " He must be very much changed, then ! " 
 
 " So much that you could hardly believe 
 it ; so much that I can hardly keep myself 
 from changing too. He, who had such a good
 
 270 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 appetite, now has nothing but fads. It's no good 
 my cooking him dainties, or buying him early 
 vegetables : he never notices them, but looks out 
 of the window as I come in at the door with a 
 surprise for him. In the evening he often 
 forgets to go out in the garden, and sits at table, 
 his elbows on his rumpled napkin, his head 
 between his hands, and what he thinks of then he 
 keeps to himself. If I try to talk of you and I 
 have tried, Monsieur Fabien he gets up in a 
 rage, and forbids me to open my mouth on the 
 subject. The house is not cheerful, Monsieur 
 Fabien. Everyone notices how he has changed ; 
 Monsieur Lorinet and his lady never enter the 
 doors ; Monsieur Hublette and Monsieur Horlet 
 come and play dummy, looking all the time as if 
 they had come for a funeral, thinking it will 
 please the master. Even the clients say that the 
 master treats them like dogs, and that he ought 
 to sell his practice." 
 " Then it isn't sold ? " 
 
 " Not yet, but I think it will be before long." 
 " Listen to me, Madeleine ; you have always 
 been good and devoted to me ; I am sure you 
 still are fond of me ; do me one last service. You 
 must manage to put me up here, without my 
 uncle knowing it."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 271 
 
 " Without his knowing it, Monsieur Fabien ! " 
 
 " Yes, say in the library ; he never goes in 
 there. From there I can study him, and watch 
 him, without his seeing me, since he is so 
 irritable and so easily upset, and as soon as you 
 see an opportunity I shall make use of it. A 
 sign from you, and down I come." 
 
 " Really! Monsieur Fabien " 
 
 " It must be done, Madeleine ; I must manage 
 to speak to him before ten o'clock to-morrow 
 morning, for my bride is coming." 
 
 " The Parisienne ? She coming here ! " 
 
 " Yes, with her father, by the train which 
 gets in at six minutes past nine to-morrow." 
 
 " Good God, is it possible ? " 
 
 " To see you, Madeleine ; to see my uncle, to 
 make my peace with him. Isn't it nice of 
 her?" 
 
 " Nice ? Monsieur Fabien ! I tremble to 
 think of what will happen. All the same, I 
 shall be glad to have a sight of your young lady, 
 of course." 
 
 And so we settled that Madeleine was not 
 to say a word to my uncle about my being in 
 Bourges, within a few feet of him. If she perceived 
 any break in the gloom which enveloped Monsieur 
 Mouillard, she was to let me know; if I were
 
 272 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 obliged to put oft' iny interview to the morrow, 
 and to pass the night on the sofa-bed in the 
 library, she was to bring me something to eat, a 
 rug, and " the pillow you used to use hi your 
 holidays when you were a boy." 
 
 I was installed then in the big library on the 
 first floor, adjoining the drawing-room, its other 
 door opening on to the passage opposite Mon- 
 sieur Mouillard's door, and its two large windows 
 on the garden. What a look of good antique 
 middle-class comfort there was about it, from 
 the floor of bees- waxed oak, with its inequalities 
 of level, to the four bookcases with glass doors, 
 surmounted with four bronzed busts: Herodotus, 
 Homer, Socrates and Marmontel ! Nothing had 
 been moved ; the books were still in the places 
 I had known them for twenty years; Voltaire 
 beside Rousseau, the Dictionary of Useful 
 Knowledge and Rollin's Ancient History, the 
 slim, well-bound octavos of The Meditations of 
 St. Ignatius side by side with an enormous 
 quarto on veterinary surgery. 
 
 The savage arrows, said to be poisoned, which 
 always used to frighten me so much, were still 
 arranged like a peacock's tail over the mantel- 
 shelf, each end of which was adorned by the 
 same familiar lumps of white coral The musical
 
 A BLOT Of INK. 273 
 
 box which I was not allowed to touch till I was 
 eighteen still stood in the left-hand corner, and 
 on the writing-table, near the little blotting-book 
 that held the note-paper, rose, still majestic, still 
 turning obedient to the touch within its gradu- 
 ated belts, the terrestrial globe " on which are 
 marked the three voyages of Captain Cook, both 
 outward and homeward." Ah, Captain, how often 
 we sailed those voyages together ! What grand 
 headway we made as Ave scoured the tropics 
 in the heel of the trade wind, our ship thread- 
 ing archipelagoes whose virgin forests stared at 
 us in wonder, all their strange flowers opening 
 towards us, seeking to allure us and put us to 
 sleep with their dangerous perfumes. But we 
 always guessed the snare, we saw the points of 
 the assegais gleaming amid the tall grasses; 
 you gave the word in your full, deep voice, and 
 our way lay infinite before us ; we followed it, 
 always on the track of new lands, new dis- 
 coveries, until we reached the fatal isle of 
 Owhyhee, the spot where this terrestrial globe 
 is spotted with a tear, for I wept over you, my 
 Captain, at the age when tears unlock them- 
 selves and flow from a heart filled with 
 enchantment ! 
 
 Seven o'clock sounded from the cathedral ; 
 s
 
 274 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the garden door slammed-to : it was my uncle 
 returning. 
 
 I saw him coming down the winding path, 
 hat in hand, with bowed head. He did not stop 
 before his graftings ; he passed the clump of 
 petunias without giving them that all-embracing 
 glance I know so well, the glance of the rewarded 
 gardener. He gave no word of encouragement 
 to the Chinese duck who waddled down the path 
 in front of him. 
 
 Madeleine was right. The time was not ripe 
 for reconciliation ; and more, it would need a 
 great deal of sun to ripen it. Oh, Jeanne, if 
 only you were here ! 
 
 " Anyone called while I've been out ? " 
 
 This, by the way, is the old formula to which 
 my uncle has always been faithful. I heard 
 Madeleine answer, with a quaver in her voice, 
 
 " No, nobody for you, sir." 
 
 " Someone for you, then ? A lover, perhaps, 
 my faithful Madeleine ? The world is so foolish 
 nowadays that even you might take it into your 
 head to get married and leave me. Come, serve 
 my dinner quickly, and if the gentleman 
 with the decoration calls you know who I 
 mean ?" 
 
 " The tall, thin gentleman."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 275 
 
 " Yes. Show him into the drawing-room." 
 " A gentleman by himself into the drawing- 
 room ? No, sir, no. The floor was only waxed 
 yesterday, and the furniture's not yet in order." 
 " All right, all right. I'll see him in here." 
 My uncle went into the dining-room under- 
 neath me, and for twenty minutes I heard 
 nothing more of him, save the tinkle of his wine- 
 glass as he struck on it to summon Madeleine. 
 
 He had scarcely finished dinner when there 
 came a ring at the street door. Someone asked 
 for Monsieur Mouillard the gentleman with the 
 decoration, I suppose, for Madeleine showed him 
 in, and I could tell by the noise of his chair that 
 my uncle had risen to receive his visitor. 
 
 They sat down and entered into conversation. 
 An indistinct murmur reached me through the 
 ceiling. Occasionally a clearer sound struck my 
 ear, and I thought I knew that voice so like a 
 flute. It was no doubt an utter delusion, 
 still it beset me there in the silence of the 
 library, haunting my thoughts as they wandered 
 restlessly in search of occupation. I tried to recol- 
 lect all the men with fluty voices that I had ever 
 met in Bourges, a cornfactor from the Place 
 St.-Jean, Rollet the sacristan, a fat manufacturer 
 who used to get my uncle to draw up petitions 
 s 2
 
 276 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 for him claiming relief from taxation. I hunted 
 feverishly in my memory as the light died away 
 from the windows, and the towers of St. Stephen's 
 gradually lost the glowing aureole conferred on 
 them by the setting sun. 
 
 After about an hour the conversation grew 
 heated. My uncle coughed, the flute became 
 shrill. I caught these fragments of their 
 dialogue. 
 
 " No, sir ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " 
 
 " But the law, sir ? " 
 
 " Is as" I tell you, sir." 
 
 " But this is tyranny ! " 
 
 " Then our business is at an end, sir." 
 
 Apparently it was not, though ; for the 
 conversation gradually sank down the scale 
 to a monotonous murmur. A second hour 
 passed, and yet a third. What could this 
 interminable visit portend ? 
 
 It was near eleven o'clock. A ray from the 
 rising moon shone between the trees in the 
 garden. A big black cat crept across the lawn 
 shaking its wet paws. In the darkness it looked 
 like a tiger. In my mind's eye I saw Made- 
 leine sitting with her eyes fixed on her dead 
 hearth, telling her beads, her thoughts running
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 277 
 
 with mine : " It's years since Monsieur Mouillard 
 was up at such an hour." Still she waited : for 
 never had any hand but hers shot the bolt of the 
 street door ; the house would not be shut if shut 
 by any other than her. 
 
 At last the dining-room door opened. 
 " Let me show you a light ; take care of the 
 stairs." 
 
 Then followed the " Good-nights " of two 
 weary voices, the squeaking of the big key turn- 
 ing in the lock, a light footstep dying away in the 
 distance, and my uncle's heavy tread as he went 
 up to his bedroom. The business was over. 
 
 How slowly niy uncle went upstairs ! The 
 burden of sorrow was no metaphor in his case. 
 He, who used to be as active as a boy, could now 
 scarce support his own weight. 
 
 He crossed the landing and went into his 
 room. I thought of following him ; only a few 
 feet lay between us. No doubt it was late, but 
 his excited state might have predisposed him in 
 my favour. Suddenly I heard a sigh then a sob. 
 He was weeping ; I determined to risk all and 
 rush to his assistance. 
 
 But just as I was about to leave the library a 
 dress rustled against the wall, though I had 
 heard no sound of footsteps preceding it. At
 
 278 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 the same instant a little bit of paper was slipped 
 in under the door a letter from the silent 
 Madeleine. I unfolded the paper and saw the 
 following words written across from one corner 
 to the other, with a contempt for French spelling 
 which was thoroughly Spanish, 
 
 " Ni allais pat ceux soire." 
 
 Very well, Madeleine, since that's your 
 advice, I'll refrain. 
 
 I lay down to sleep on the sofa. Yet 
 I was very sorry for the delay. I hated 
 to let the night go by without being recon- 
 ciled to the poor old man, or without having 
 attempted it at least. He was evidently very 
 wretched to be affected to tears, for I had never 
 known him to weep, even on occasions when 
 my own tears had flowed freely. Yet I followed 
 my old and faithful friend's advice, for I knew 
 that she had the peace of the household as much 
 at heart as I ; but I felt that I should seek long 
 and vainly before I could discover what this 
 latest trouble was, and what part I had in it. 
 
 Bourges, August 5th. 
 
 I woke up at seven ; my first thought was for 
 Monsieur Mouillard. Where could he be' ? I
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 279 
 
 listened, but could hear no sound. I went to 
 the window ; the office-boy was lying flat on the 
 lawn, feeding the goldfish in the fountain. This 
 proved beyond doubt that my uncle was not in. 
 
 I went downstairs to the ;..tchen. 
 
 " Well Madeleine, he's gone out ? " 
 
 " He went at six o'clock, Monsieur Fabien." 
 
 " Why didn't you wake me ? " 
 
 " How could I guess ? Never, never does 
 he go out before breakfast. I have never seen 
 him like this before, not even when his wife 
 died." 
 
 " What can be the matter with him ? " 
 
 " I think it's the sale of the practice. He said 
 to me last night, at the foot of the staircase : ' I 
 am a broken-hearted man, Madeleine, a broken- 
 hearted man. I might have got over it, but 
 that monster of ingratitude, that cannibal 
 saving your presence, Monsieur Fabien would 
 not have it so. If I had him here I don't know 
 what I should do to him.' " 
 
 " Didn't he tell you what he'd do to the 
 cannibal ? " 
 
 " No. So I slipped a little note under your 
 door when I went upstairs." 
 
 " Yes. I arn much obliged to you for it. Is 
 he any calmer this morning ? "
 
 280 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 "He doesn't look angry any longer, only I 
 noticed that he had been crying." 
 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
 " I don't know at all. Besides you might as 
 well try to catch up with a deer as with him." 
 
 " That's true. I'd better wait for him. When 
 will he be in ? " 
 
 " Not before ten. I can tell you that it's not 
 once a year that he goes out like this in the 
 morning." 
 
 " But, Madeleine, Jeanne will be here by ten ! " 
 
 " Oh, is Jeanne her name ? " 
 
 " Yes. Monsieur Charnot will be here, too. 
 And my uncle, whom I was to have prepared for 
 their visit, will know nothing about it, nor even 
 that I slept last night beneath his roof." 
 
 " To tell the truth, Monsieur Fabien, I don't 
 think you've managed well. Still, there is Dame 
 Fortune, who often doesn't put in her word till 
 the last moment." 
 
 " Entreat her for me, Madeleine, my dear." 
 
 But Dame Fortune was deaf to prayers. My 
 uncle did not return, and I could find no fresh 
 expedient. As I made my way, vexed and 
 unhappy, to the station, I still kept asking 
 myself the question which I had been turning 
 over in vain for the last hour :
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 281 
 
 " I have said nothing to Monsieur Mouillard. 
 Had I better say anything now to Monsieur 
 Charnot ? " 
 
 My fears redoubled when I saw Jeanne and 
 Monsieur Charnot at the windows of the train, as 
 it swept past me into the station. 
 
 A minute later she stepped on to the platform, 
 dressed all in grey, with roses in her cheeks, and 
 a pair of gull's wings in her hat. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot shook me by the hand, 
 thoroughly delighted at having escaped from the 
 train and being able to shake himself and tread 
 once more the solid earth. He asked after my 
 uncle, and when I replied that he was in first- 
 rate health, he went to get his luggage. 
 
 " Well ! " said Jeanne. " Is all arranged ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, nothing is." 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 " Not even that. I have been watching for a 
 favourable opportunity without finding one. 
 Yesterday evening he was busy with a visitor ; 
 this morning he went out at six. He doesn't 
 even know that I'm in Botirges." 
 
 " And yet you were in his house ? " 
 
 " I slept on a sofa in his library." 
 
 She gave me a look which was as much as to 
 say, "My poor boy, how very unpractical you are!"
 
 282 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Go on doing nothing," she said ; " that's 
 the best you can do. If my father didn't think 
 he was expected he would beat a retreat at 
 once." 
 
 At this instant, Monsieur Charnot came back 
 to us, having seen his two trunks and a hat-box 
 placed on top of the omnibus of the Hdtel de 
 France. 
 
 " That's where you've got rooms for us ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " It is now twelve minutes past nine ; tell 
 Monsieur Mouillard that we shall call upon him 
 at ten o'clock precisely." 
 
 I went a few steps with them, and saw them 
 into the omnibus, which was whirled off at a 
 fast trot by its two steeds. 
 
 When I had lost them from my sight I cast 
 a look around me, and observed three people 
 standing in line beneath the awning, and gazing 
 upon me with interest. I recognised Monsieur, 
 Madame, and Mademoiselle Lorinet. They were 
 all smiling with the same look of contemptuous 
 mockery. I bowed. The man alone returned 
 my salute by raising his hat. By some strange 
 freak of fate Berthe was again wearing a blue 
 dress. 
 
 I went back in the direction of the Rue du
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 283 
 
 Four, happy, though at my wits' end, forming 
 projects that were mutually destructive ; now 
 expatiating in the seventh heaven, now loading 
 myself with the most appalling curses. I slipped 
 along the streets, concealed beneath my umbrella, 
 for the rain was falling ; a great storm-cloud had 
 burst over Bourges, and I blessed the rain which 
 gave me a chance to hide my face. 
 
 From the banks of the Voizelle to the old 
 quarter, around the cathedral, is a pretty long 
 Avalk. When I turned from the Hue Moyenne, 
 the " Boulevard des Italiens " of Bourges, into the 
 Rue du Four, a blazing sun was drying the rain 
 on the roofs, and the cuckoo-clock at Monsieur 
 Festuquet's (a neighbour of my uncle's) was 
 striking the hour of meeting. 
 
 I had not been three minutes at the garden- 
 door, a key to which had been given me by 
 Madeleine, when Monsieur Charnot appeared 
 with Jeanne on his arm. 
 
 " To think that I've forgotten my goloshes, 
 which I never fail to take with me to the 
 country ! " 
 
 " The country, father ? " said Jeanne, " why 
 Bourges is a city ! " 
 
 " To be sure to be sure," answered Monsieur 
 Charnot, who feared he had hurt my feelings.
 
 284 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 He put on his glasses and began to study the 
 old houses around him. 
 
 " Yes, a city ; really quite a city." 
 
 I do not remember what commonplace 1 
 stammered out. 
 
 Little did I care for Monsieur Charnot's 
 goloshes or the honour of Bourges. at that 
 moment ! The other side of the wall, a few feet 
 off, I felt the presence of Monsieur Mouillard. 
 I reflected that I should have to open the door 
 and launch the academician, without preface, 
 into the presence of the lawyer, stake my life's 
 happiness, perhaps, on my uncle's first impres- 
 sions, play at any rate the decisive move in the 
 game which had been so disastrously opened. 
 
 Jeanne, though she did her best to hide it, 
 was extremely nervous. I felt her hand tremble 
 in mine as I took it. 
 
 " Trust in God," she whispered, and aloud, 
 "Open the door." 
 
 I turned the key in the lock. I had arranged 
 that Madeleine should at once go to Monsieur 
 Mouillard and tell him that there were some 
 strangers waiting in the garden. But either she 
 was not on the lookout, or she did not at once 
 perceive us, and we had to wait a few minutes 
 at the bottom of the lawn before anyone came.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 285 
 
 I hid myself behind the nut-trees whose 
 leafage concealed the wall 
 
 Monsieur Charnot was evidently pleased with 
 the view before him, and turned from side to 
 side, gently smacking his lips like an epicure. 
 And, in truth, my uncle's garden was perfection. 
 The leaves, washed by the rain, were glistening in 
 the fulness of their verdure, great drops were 
 falling from the trees with a silvery tinkle ; the 
 petunias in the beds were opening all their 
 petals and wrapping us in their scent ; the birds, 
 who had been mute while the shower lasted, 
 were now fluttering, twittering, and singing 
 beneath the branches. I was like one bewitched, 
 and thought these very birds were discussing us. 
 The greenfinch said : 
 
 " Old Mouillard, look ! Here's Princess 
 Golden-locks at your garden-gate." 
 
 The tomtit said : 
 
 " Look out, old man, or she'll outwit you ! " 
 
 The blackbird said : 
 
 " I have heard tell of her from my grand- 
 father, who lived in the Champs Elysees. She 
 was much admired there." 
 
 The swallow said : 
 
 " Jeanne will have your heart in the time it 
 takes me to fly round the lawn."
 
 286 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 The rook, who was a bit of a lawyer, came 
 swooping down from the Cathedral tower, 
 crying : 
 
 " Caw, caw, caw ! Let her show cause 
 cause cause ! " 
 
 And all took up the chorus : 
 
 "If you had our eyes, Monsieur Mouillard, 
 you would see her looking at your study ; if you 
 had our ears you would hear her sigh ; if you 
 had our wings you would fly to Jeanne." 
 
 No doubt it was this umvonted concert which 
 attracted Madeleine's attention. We saw her 
 making her way, stiffly and slowly, towards the 
 study, which stood in the corner of the garden. 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard's tall figure appeared on 
 the threshold, filling up the entire doorway. 
 
 " In the garden, did you say ? Whatever is 
 your idea in showing clients into the garden ? 
 Why did you let them in ? " 
 
 " I didn't let them in ; they came in of them- 
 selves." 
 
 " Then the door can't have been shut. 
 Nothing is shut here. I'll have them coming in 
 next by the drawing-room chimney. What sort 
 of people are they ? " 
 
 " There's a gentleman and a young lady 
 whom I don't know."
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 287 
 
 "A young lady whom you don't know a 
 judicial separation I'll warrant it's indecent, 
 upon my word it is. To think that there are 
 people who come to me about judicial separations 
 and bring their young ladies with them ! " 
 
 As Madeleine fled before the storm and found 
 shelter in her kitchen, my uncle smoothed back 
 his white hair with both his hands a surviving 
 touch of personal vanity and started down the 
 walk around the grass-plot. 
 
 I effaced myself behind the nut-trees. 
 Monsieur Charnot, thinking I was just behind 
 him, stepped forward with an airy nonchalance. 
 
 My uncle came down the path with a dis- 
 tracted air, like a man overwhelmed with 
 business, only too pleased to snatch a moment's 
 leisure between the parting and the coming 
 client. He always loved to pass for being over- 
 whelmed with work. 
 
 On his way he flipped a rose-bud covered with 
 blight, kicked off a snail which was crawling on the 
 path ; then, half-way down the path, he suddenly 
 raised his head and gave a look at his disturber. 
 
 His bent brows grew smooth, his eyes round 
 with the stress of surprise. 
 
 "Is it possible ? Monsieur Charnot, of the 
 Institute ! "
 
 288 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " The same, Monsieur Mouiilard." 
 
 " And this is Mademoiselle Jeanne ? " 
 
 " Just so ; she has come with me to repay 
 your kind visit." 
 
 " Really, that's too good of you, much too 
 good, to come such a way to see me ! " 
 
 " On the contrary, the most natural thing in 
 the world, considering what the young people 
 are about." 
 
 " Oh ! is your daughter about to be married ? " 
 
 " Certainly, that's the idea," said Monsieur 
 Charnot with a laugh. 
 
 " I congratulate you, Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 " I have brought her here to introduce her to 
 you, Monsieur Mouiilard, as is only right." 
 
 " Right ? Excuse me, no." 
 
 " Indeed it is." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir. Politeness is all very well 
 in its way, but frankness is better. I went to 
 Paris chiefly to get certain information which 
 you were good enough to give me. But really it 
 was not worth your while to come from Paris to 
 Bourges to thank me, and to bring your daughter 
 too." 
 
 " Excuse me in my turn ! There are limits 
 to modesty, Monsieur Mouiilard, and as my 
 daughter is to marry your nephew, and as my
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 289 
 
 daughter was in Bourges, it was only natural 
 that I should introduce her to you." 
 
 " Sir, I have no longer a nephew." 
 
 " He is here." 
 
 " And I never asked for your daughter." 
 
 "No, but you have received your nephew 
 beneath your roof, and consequently " 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Fabien has been in your house 
 since yesterday ; he told you we were 
 coming." 
 
 " No, I have not seen him ; I never should 
 have received him ! I tell you I no longer have 
 a nephew ! I am a broken man, a a a " 
 
 His speech failed him, his face became 
 purple, he staggered and fell heavily, first in a 
 sitting posture, then on his back, and lay motion- 
 less on the sanded path. 
 
 I rushed to the rescue. 
 
 When I got up to him, Jeanne had already 
 returned from the little fountain with her 
 handkerchief dripping, and was bathing his 
 temples with fresh water. She was the only one 
 who kept her wits about her. Madeleine had 
 raised her master's head and was wailing aloud. 
 
 " Alas !" she said, " it's that dreadful colic he 
 had ten years ago which has got him again. 
 T
 
 290 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Dear heart ! how ill he was ! I remember how it 
 came on, just like this, in the garden." 
 
 I interrupted her lamentations by saying : 
 
 " Monsieur Charnot, I think wo had better 
 take Monsieur Mouillard up to bed." 
 
 " Then why don't you do it ? " shouted the 
 numismatist, who had completely lost his temper. 
 " I didn't come here to carry an ambulance ; but 
 since I must, do you take his head." 
 
 I took his head, Madeleine walked in front, 
 Jeanne behind. My uncle's vast proportions 
 swayed between Monsieur Charnot and myself. 
 Monsieur Charnot, who had skilfully gathered 
 up the legs, looked like a hired pall-bearer. 
 
 As we met with some difficulty in getting up 
 stairs, Monsieur Charnot said with clenched 
 teeth : 
 
 " You've managed this trip nicely, Monsieur 
 Fabien ; I congratulate you sincerely ! " 
 
 I saw that he intended to treat me to several 
 variations on this theme. 
 
 But there was no time for talk. A moment 
 later my uncle was laid still unconscious 
 upon his bed, and Jeanne and Madeleine were 
 preparing a mustard-plaster together, in perfect 
 harmony. Monsieur Charnot and I waited in 
 silence for the doctor whom we had sent the
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 291 
 
 office-boy to fetch. Monsieur Charnot studied 
 alternately my deceased aunt's wreath of orange 
 blossoms, preserved under a glass in the centre 
 of the chimney-piece, and a painting of fruit 
 and flowers for which it would have been hard 
 to find a buyer at an auction. Our wait for the 
 doctor lasted for ten long minutes. We were 
 very anxious, for Monsieur Mouillard showed 
 no sign of returning consciousness. Gradually, 
 however, the remedies began to act upon him. 
 The eyelids fluttered feebly; and just as the 
 doctor opened the door, my uncle opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 We rushed to his bedside. 
 
 " My old friend," said the doctor, " you have 
 at any rate had plenty of people to look after 
 you. Let me feel your pulse rather weak ; 
 your tongue ? say a word or two." 
 
 " A shock rather sudden " said my uncle. 
 
 The doctor, following the direction of the 
 invalid's eyes, which were fixed on Jeanne, up- 
 right at the foot of the bed, bowed to the young 
 girl, whom he had not at first noticed ; turned to 
 me, who blushed like an idiot ; then looked again 
 at my uncle, only to see two big tears running 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 " Yes, I understand ; a pretty stiff shock, 
 T 2
 
 292 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 eh ? At our age we should only be stirred by 
 our recollections, emotions of bygone days, some- 
 thing we're used to ; but our children take care 
 to provide us with fresh ones, eh ? " 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard's breast heaved. 
 
 " Come, my dear fellow," proceeded the doctor ; 
 "I give you leave to give your future niece one 
 kiss, and that in my presence, that I may be 
 quite sure that you don't abuse the licence. 
 After that you must be left quite alone; no more 
 excitement ; perfect rest." 
 
 Jeanne came forward and raised the invalid's 
 head. 
 
 " Will you give me a kiss, uncle ? " 
 
 She offered him her rosy cheek. 
 
 " With all my heart," said my uncle as he 
 kissed her ; " good girl dear girl ! " 
 
 Then he melted into tears, and hid his face 
 in his pillow. 
 
 " And now he must be left alone," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 He came down himself in a moment, and 
 gave us an encouraging account of the patient. 
 
 Scarcely had the street door closed behind 
 him when we heard the lawyer's powerful voice 
 thundering down the stairs. 
 
 " Charnot ! "
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 293 
 
 The old numismatist flew up the flight of 
 stairs. 
 
 " Did you call me, sir ? " 
 
 "Yes, to invite you to dinner. I couldn't 
 say the words just now, but it was in my mind." 
 
 " It is very kind of you, but we leave at nine 
 o'clock." 
 
 " I dine at seven ; that's plenty of time." 
 
 " It will tire you overmuch." 
 
 " Tire me ? Why, don't you think I dine 
 every day ? " 
 
 " I promise to come and inquire after you 
 before leaving." 
 
 " I can tell you at once that I am all right 
 again. No, no, it shah 1 never be said that you 
 came ah 1 the way from Paris to Bourges only to 
 see me faint. I count upon you and Made- 
 moiselle Jeanne." 
 
 " On all three of us ? " 
 
 " That makes three, with me ; yes, sir." 
 
 " Excuse me, four." 
 
 " I hope the fourth will have the sense to go 
 and dine elsewhere." 
 
 " Come, come, Monsieur Mouillard ; your 
 nephew, your ward " 
 
 " I ceased to be his guardian four years ago, 
 and his uncle three weeks ago."
 
 294 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 " He longs to put an end to this ill-feel- 
 ing " 
 
 "Allow me to rest a little," said Monsieur 
 Mouillard, " in order that I may be in a better 
 condition to receive my guests." 
 
 He lay down again, and showed clearly his 
 intention of saying not another word on the 
 subject. 
 
 During the conversation between Monsieur 
 Charnot and my uncle, to which we had listened 
 from the foot of the staircase, Jeanne, who had 
 a moment before been rejoicing over the com- 
 pleteness of the victory which she thought she 
 had achieved, grew quite down-hearted. 
 
 " I thought he had forgiven you when he 
 kissed me," she said. " What can we do now ? 
 Can't you help us, Madeleine ? " 
 
 Mideleine, whose heart was beginning to 
 warm to Jeanne, sought vainly for an expedient, 
 and shook her head. 
 
 " Ought he to go and see his uncle ? " asked 
 Jeanne. 
 
 " No," said Madeleine. 
 
 " Well, suppose you write to him, Fabien ? " 
 
 Madeleine nodded approval, and drew from 
 the depths of her cupboard a little glass ink- 
 stand, a rusty penholder, and a sheet of paper, at
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 295 
 
 the top of which was a dove with a twig in its 
 beak. 
 
 "Myc:)iisin at Romorantin died just before 
 last New Year's Day," she explained ; " so I had 
 one sheet more than I needed." 
 
 I sat down at the kitchen table with Jeanne 
 leaning over me, reading as I wrote. Madeleine 
 stood upright and attentive beside the clock, 
 forgetting all about her kitchen fire as she 
 watched us with her black eyes. 
 
 This is what I wrote beneath the dove : 
 
 " MY DEAR UNCLE, I left Paris with the intention 
 of putting an end to the misunderstanding between us, 
 which has lasted only too long, and which has given me 
 more pain than you can guess. I had no possible 
 opportunity of speaking to you between five o'clock 
 yesterday afternoon, when I arrived here, and ten o'clock 
 this morning. If I had been able to speak with you, you 
 would not have refused to restore me to your affection, 
 which, I confess, I ought to have respected more than I 
 have done. You would have given your consent to my 
 union, on which depends your own happiness, my dear 
 uncle, and that of your nephew, 
 
 " FABIEN." 
 
 " Rather too formal," said Jeanne. " Now let 
 me try." 
 
 And the enchantress addod, with ready pen : 
 
 " It is I, Monsieur Mouillard, who am chiefly in need 
 of forgiveness. Mine is the greater fault by far. You 
 forbade Monsieur Fabien to love me, and I took no 
 steps to prevent his doing so. Even yesterday, when he 
 came to your house, it was my doing. I had assured
 
 296 A SLOT OF INK. 
 
 him that your kind heart would not be proof against his 
 loving confession. 
 
 " Was I really wrong in that ? 
 
 " The words that you spoke just now have led me 
 to hope that I was not. 
 
 " But if I was wrong, visit your anger on me alone. 
 Forgive your nephew, invite him to dinner instead of us, 
 ind let me depart, regretting only that I was not judged 
 worthy of calling you uncle, which would have been so 
 pleasant and easy a name to speak. 
 
 "JEANNE." 
 
 I read the two letters over aloud. Madeleine 
 broke into sobs as she listened. 
 
 A smile flickered about the corners of Jeanne's 
 mouth. 
 
 We left the house, committing to Madeleine 
 the task of choosing a favourable moment 
 to hand Monsieur Mouillard our joint 
 entreaty. 
 
 And here I may as well confess that from 
 the instant we got out of the house, all through 
 breakfast at the hotel, and for a quarter of an 
 hour after it, Monsieur Charnot treated me, 
 in his best style, to the very hottest talking- 
 to that I had experienced since my earliest youth. 
 He ended with these words : " If you have not 
 made your peace with your uncle by 9.51 this 
 evening, sir, I withdraw my consent, and we shall 
 return to Paris." 
 
 I strove in vain to shake his decision. J eanne
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 297 
 
 made a little face at me, which warned me I was 
 on the wrong tack. 
 
 " Very well," I said to her, " I leave the matter 
 in your hands." 
 
 "And I leave it in the hands of God," she 
 answered. "Be a man. If troubles await us, 
 hope will at any rate steal us a happy hour or 
 two." 
 
 We were just then in front of the gardens of 
 the Archbishop's palace, so Monsieur Charnot 
 walked in. The current of his reflections was 
 soon diverted by the freshness of the air, the 
 groups of children playing round their mothers 
 (whom he studied ethnologically and with refer- 
 ence to the racial divisions of ancient Gaul), by 
 the beauty of the landscape its foreground of 
 flowers, the Place St.-Michel beyond, and further 
 yet, above the barrack-roofs, the line of poplars 
 lining the Auron. He ceased to be a father-in- 
 law, and became a tourist again. 
 
 Jeanne stepped with airy grace among the 
 groups of strollers, and the murmurs which 
 followed her path, though often envious? 
 sounded none the less sweetly in my ears for 
 that. I wanted to meet Mademoiselle Lorinet. 
 
 After we had seen the gardens, we had to 
 visit the Place Seraucourt, the Cours Chanzy,
 
 293 A BLOT OF 1XK. 
 
 the Cathedral, Saint-Pierre-le-Giiillard, and the 
 
 house of Jacques-Coeur. It was six o'clock by 
 
 the time we got back to the Hotel de France. 
 A letter was waiting for us in the small and 
 
 ineptly furnished entrance-hall. It was addressed 
 
 to Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot. 
 
 I recognised at once the ornate hand of 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard, and grew as white as the 
 
 envelope. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot cried excitedly : 
 " Read it, Jeanne. Read it, can't you ! " 
 Jeanne alone of us three kept a brave face. 
 She read : 
 
 "My DEAR CHILD, I treated you perhaps with 
 undue familiarity this morning, at a moment when I 
 was not quite myself. Nevertheless, now that I have 
 regained my senses, I do not withdraw the expressions 
 of which I made use : I love you with all my heart ; 
 you are a dear girl. 
 
 " You will not get an old stager like me to give up his 
 prejudices against the capital. Let it suffice that I nave 
 surrendered to a Parisienne. My niece, 1 forgive him 
 for your sake. 
 
 " Come this evening, all three of you. 
 
 " I have several things to tell you, and several ques- 
 tions to ask you. My news is not all good. But I trust 
 that all regrets will be overwhelmed in the gladness 
 you will bring to my old heart. 
 
 " BRUTUS MOUILLARD." 
 
 When we rang at Monsieur Mouillard's door, 
 it was opened to us by Baptiste, the office-boy, 
 who waits at table on grand occasions.
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 299 
 
 My uncle received UB in the big drawing- 
 room, in full dress, with his Avhitest cravat and 
 his most camphorous frock-coat : " not a moth 
 in ten years," is Madeleine's boast concerning 
 this garment. 
 
 He saluted us all solemnly, without his 
 usual effusiveness ; bearing himself with simple 
 and touching dignity. Strong emotion, which 
 excites most natures, only served to restrain his. 
 He said not a word of the past, nor of our 
 marriage. This, the decisive engagement, opened 
 with polite formalities. 
 
 I have often noticed this phenomenon : people 
 met to " have it out " usually begin by saying 
 nothing at all. 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard offered his arm to 
 Jeanne, to escort her to the dining-room. 
 Jeanne was in high spirits. She asked him 
 question after question about Bourges, its 
 dances, fashions, manufactures, even about the 
 procedure of its courts. 
 
 " I am sure you know that well, uncle," she 
 said. 
 
 "Uncle" smiled at each question, his face 
 lit up with a glow like that upon a chimney- 
 piece when someone is blowing the fire. He 
 answered her questions, but presently fell into a
 
 300 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 state of dejection, which even his desire to do 
 honour to his guests could not entirely conceal 
 His thoughts betrayed themselves in the looks 
 he kept casting upon me, no longer of anger, but 
 of suffering, almost pleading, affection. 
 
 Monsieur Charnot, who was rather tired, and 
 also absorbed in Madeleine's feats of cookery, 
 cast disjected remarks and ejaculations into the 
 gaps in the conversation. 
 
 I knew my uncle well enough to feel sure 
 that the end of the dinner would be quite unlike 
 the beginning. 
 
 I was right. During dessert, just as the 
 academician was singing the praises of a native 
 delicacy " la forestine," my uncle, who had been 
 revolving a few drops of some notable growth of 
 Medoc in his glass for the last minute or two, 
 stopped suddenly, and put down his glass on the 
 table. 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Charnot," said he, "I 
 have a painful confession to make to you." 
 
 " Eh ? What ? My dear sir, if it's painful to 
 you, don't make it." 
 
 "Fabien," my uncle went on, "has behaved 
 badly to me on certain occasions. But I say no 
 more of it. His faults are forgotten. But I have 
 not behaved to him altogether as I should."
 
 A SLOT OF INK. 301 
 
 " You, uncle ? " 
 
 " Alas ! It is so, my dear child. My practice, 
 the family practice, which I faithfully promised 
 your father to keep for you " 
 
 " You've sold it ? " 
 
 My uncle buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " Last night, my poor child, only last night." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " I was weak ; I listened to the prompting of 
 anger ; I have compromised your future. Fabien, 
 forgive me in your turn." 
 
 He rose from the table, and came and put a 
 trembling hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " No, uncle, you've not compromised any- 
 thing, and I've nothing to forgive you." 
 
 " You wouldn't take the practice if I could 
 still offer it to you ? " 
 
 " No, uncle." 
 
 " Upon your word ? " 
 
 " Upon my word ! " 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard drew himself up beam- 
 ing : 
 
 " Ah ! Thank you for that speech, Fabien ; 
 you've relieved me of a great weight." 
 
 With one corner of his napkin he wiped away 
 two tears, which having arisen in time of war 
 continued to flow in time of peace.
 
 302 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " If Mademoiselle Jeanne, in addition to all 
 her other perfections, brings you fortune, Fabien, 
 if your future is assured 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Mouillard," broke in 
 the academician with ill-concealed satisfaction, 
 " my colleagues call me rich. They slander me. 
 Works on numismatics do not make a man rich. 
 Monsieur Fabien, who made some investigations 
 into the subject, can prove it to you. No ; I 
 possess no more than an honourable competence, 
 which does not give me everything, but lets me 
 lack nothing." 
 
 " Aiirea mediocritas /" exclaimed my uncle, 
 delighted with his quotation ; " Oh, that Horace ! 
 What a fellow he was ! " 
 
 " He was indeed. Well, as I was saying, our 
 daily bread is assured ; but that's no reason why 
 my son-in-law should vegetate in idleness which 
 I do not consider my due, even at my age." 
 
 " Quite right." 
 
 " So he must work." 
 
 " But what's he to work at ? " 
 
 " There are other professions besides the 
 law, Monsieur Mouillard. I have studied 
 Fabien. His temperament is somewhat way- 
 ward. With special training he might have be- 
 come an artist. Lacking that early moulding into
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 303 
 
 shape, he will never be anything more than a 
 dreamer." 
 
 " I should not have expressed it so well, but 
 I have often thought the same.". 
 
 " With a temperament like your nephew's," 
 continued Monsieur Charnot, " the best he can 
 do is to enter upon a career in which the ideal 
 has some part, not a predominant, but a suffi- 
 cient part, something between prose and poetry." 
 
 " Let him be a notary then ? " 
 
 " No, that's wholly prose ; he shall be a 
 librarian." 
 
 " A librarian ? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Mouillard ; there are a few 
 little libraries in Paris, which are as quiet as 
 groves, and in which places are to be got which 
 are as snug as nests. I have some influence in 
 official circles, and that can do no harm, you 
 know." 
 
 " Quite so." 
 
 " We will put our Fabien into one of those 
 nests, where he will be protected against idleness 
 by the little he will do, and against revolutions 
 by the little he will be. It's a charming pro- 
 fession ; the very smell of books is improving : 
 merely by breathing it you live an intellectual 
 life,"
 
 301 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " An intellectual life ! " exclaimed my uncle 
 with enthusiasm. " Yes, an intellectual life ! " 
 
 " And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, 
 looking through them, preserving them as far as 
 possible from worms and readers don't you 
 think that's an enviable lot ? " 
 
 " Yes, more so than mine has been, or my 
 successor's will be." 
 
 " By the way, uncle, you haven't told us who 
 your successor is to be." 
 
 " Haven't I really ? Why, you know him ; 
 it's your friend Larive." 
 
 " Oh ! That explains a great deal." 
 
 " He's a young man who takes life seriously." 
 
 " Very seriously, uncle. Isn't he going to be 
 married ? " 
 
 " Why yes, to a rich wife." 
 
 " To whom ? " 
 
 " My dear boy, he is picking up all your 
 leavings ; he's going to marry Mademoiselle 
 Lorinet." 
 
 He was always enterprising ! But, uncle, it 
 wasn't with him you were engaged yesterday 
 evening ? " 
 
 " Why not, pray ? " 
 
 " You told Madeleine to admit a gentleman 
 with a decoration."
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 305 
 
 " He has one." 
 
 " Good heavens ! What is it ? " 
 
 " The Nicham Iftikar,* if it please you." 
 
 "It doesn't displease me, uncle, and surprises 
 me still less. Larive will die with his breast 
 more thickly plastered with decorations than an 
 Oddfellow's : he will be a member of all the 
 learned societies in the department, respected 
 and respectable, the more rigidly provincial 
 for having been outrageously Parisian. Mothers 
 will confide their anxieties to him, and fathers 
 their interests ; but when his old acquaintances 
 pass this way, they will take the liberty of 
 smiling in his face." 
 
 " What, jealous ? Are you jealous of his bit 
 of ribbon ?" 
 
 " No, uncle, I regret nothing : not even 
 Larive's good fortune." 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard fixed his eyes on the 
 cloth, and began again after a moment's silence : 
 
 " I, Fabien, do regret some things. It will be 
 mournful at times, growing old alone here. Yet, 
 after all, it will be some consolation to me to 
 think that you others are satisfied with life ; to 
 welcome you here for your holidays." 
 
 *A Tunisian order, which can be obtained for a very moderate 
 m. 
 
 U
 
 306 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " You can do better than that," said Monsieur 
 Charnot. " Come and grow old among us. Your 
 years will be the lighter to bear, Monsieur 
 Mouillard. Doubtless we must always bear 
 them, and they weigh upon us and bend our 
 backs. But youth, which carries its own 
 burden so lightly, can always give us a little 
 help in bearing ours." 
 
 I looked to hear my uncle break out with 
 loud objections. 
 
 " It's a fine night," he said simply ; " let us 
 go into the garden, and do you decide whether I 
 can leave roses like mine." 
 
 Monsieur Mouillard took us into the garden, 
 pleased with himself, with me, with Jeanne, 
 with everybody, and with the weather. 
 
 It was too dark to see the roses, but we 
 could smell them as we passed. I had taken 
 Jeanne's arm in mine, and we went on in front, 
 in the cool dusk, choosing all the little winding 
 paths. 
 
 The birds were all asleep. But the grass- 
 hoppers, crickets, and all manner of creeping 
 things hidden in the grass, or in the moss on the 
 trees, were singing and chattering in their stead. 
 
 Behind us, at some distance in fact, as far 
 oft' as we could manage the gravel crackled
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 307 
 
 beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and 
 in a murmur we could catch occasional scraps 
 of sentences : 
 
 " A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur 
 Charnot. . . ." 
 
 " A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur 
 Mouillard. . . ." 
 
 Paris, September 18th. 
 
 We are married. We are just back from 
 the church. We have said good-bye to all our 
 friends, not without a quick touch or two of sad- 
 ness, as quickly swallowed up in the joy which 
 for the first time in the history of my heart is 
 surging there at full tide, and widening to 
 a limitless horizon. In the two hours which 
 I have to spare before starting for Italy, I am 
 writing the last words in this brown diary, which 
 I do not intend to take with me. 
 
 Jeanne, my own Jeanne, is leaning upon me 
 and reading over my shoulder, which distracts 
 the flow of my recollections. 
 
 There were crowds at the church. The 
 papers had put us down among the fashionable 
 marriages of the week. The Institute, the 
 army, men of letters, public officials, had come 
 out of respect for Monsieur Charnot ; lawyers of
 
 308 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 Bourges and Paris had come out of respect for 
 my uncle. But the happiest, the most radiant, 
 next to ourselves were the people who came 
 only for Jeanne's sake and mine : Sylvestre 
 Lainpron, painter in ordinary to Mademoiselle 
 Charnot, bringing his pretty sketch as a wedding 
 present ; Monsieur Flamaran and Sidonie ; 
 Jupille, who wept as he used to " thirty years 
 ago ; " and Monsieur and Madame Plumet, who 
 took it in turns to carry their white-robed 
 infant. 
 
 Jeanne and I certainly shook hands with a 
 good many people, but not with nearly as many 
 as Monsieur Mouillard. Clean-shaven, his cravat 
 tied with exquisite care, he spun round in the 
 crowd like a top, always dragging with him 
 someone who was to introduce him to someone 
 else. " One should make acquaintances immedi- 
 ately on arrival," he kept saying. 
 
 Yes, Uncle Mouillard has just arrived in 
 Paris ; he has settled down near us on the Quai 
 Malaquais, in a pretty set of rooms which 
 Jeanne chose for him. He thinks them perfect 
 because she thought they would do. The tastes 
 and interest of old student days have suddenly 
 re-awakened within him, and will not be put 
 to sleep again. He already knows the omnibus
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 309 
 
 and tramway lines better than I do ; he talks of 
 Bourges as if it were twenty years since he left it : 
 " When I used to li ve in the country, Fabien " 
 
 My father-in-law has found in him a whole- 
 hearted admirer, perhaps even a future pupil in 
 numismatics. Their friendship makes me think 
 of that 
 
 [" You don't mind, Jeanne ? " 
 
 " Of course not, my dear ; the brown diary is 
 for our two selves alone."] 
 
 of that of the town mouse and the country 
 
 mouse. Just now, on then* way back to the 
 house, they had a conversation by turns pathetic 
 and jovial, in which their different temperaments 
 met in the same feeling, but at opposite ends 
 of the scale of its shades. 
 
 I caught this fragment of their talk : 
 
 " My dear Charnot, can you guess what I'm 
 thinking about ? " 
 
 " No, I haven't the least idea." 
 
 " I think it's very queer." 
 
 " What's queer ? " 
 
 " To see a librarian begin his career with a 
 blot of ink. For you cannot deny that Fabien's 
 marriage and situation, and my return to the 
 capital, are all due to that. It must have 
 been sympathetic ink eh ? "
 
 310 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 " Felix culpa, as you say, Monsieur Mouillard. 
 There are some blunders that are lucky; but 
 you can't tell which they are, and that's never 
 any excuse for committing them." 
 
 I could scarcely get hold of Lanipron for a 
 moment in the crowd he so dislikes. He was 
 more uncouth and more devoted than ever. 
 
 " Well, are you happy ? " he said. 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " When you're less happy, come and see 
 me." 
 
 " We shall always be just as happy as we are 
 now," said Jeanne. 
 
 And I think she is right. 
 
 Lampron smiled. 
 
 " Yes, I am quite happy, Sylvestre, and I owe 
 my happiness to you, to her, and to others. I 
 have done nothing myself to deserve happiness 
 beyond letting myself drift on the current of 
 life. Whenever I tried to row a stroke, the boat 
 nearly upset. Everything that others tried to do 
 for me succeeded. I can't get over it. Just 
 think of it }'ourself. I owed my introduction 
 to Jeanne to Monsieur Flamaran, who drove me 
 to call on her father, his friend ; you courted 
 her for me by painting her portrait; Madame 
 Pluinet told her you had done so, and also
 
 A BLOT OF INK. 311 
 
 removed the obstacle in my path. I met her in 
 Italy, thanks entirely to you; and you clinched 
 the proposal which had been begun by Flamaran. 
 To crown all, the very situation I wanted has 
 been obtained for me by my father-in-law. 
 What have I had to do ? I have loved, sorrowed, 
 and suffered, nothing more ; and now I tremble at 
 the thought that I owe my happiness to every- 
 one I know except myself." 
 
 " Cease to tremble, my friend ; don't be sur- 
 prised at it, and don't alter your system in the 
 least. Your happiness is your due : what matter 
 how God chooses to grant it ? Suppose it's an 
 income for life paid to you by your relations, 
 your friends, the world in general, and the 
 natural order of things ? Well, draw your 
 dividends, and don't bother about where they 
 come from." 
 
 Since Lampron said so, and he is a philo- 
 sopher, I think I had better follow his advice. 
 If you don't mind, Jeanne, I will cherish no 
 ambition beyond your love, and refrain from 
 running after any increase in wealth or reputa- 
 tion which might prove a decrease in happiness. 
 If you agree, Jeanne, we will see little of society, 
 and much of our friends ; we will not open our 
 windows wide enough for Love, who is winged,
 
 312 A BLOT OF INK. 
 
 to fly out of them. If such is your pleasure, 
 Jeanne, you shall direct the household of your 
 own sweet will I should say, of your sweet 
 wisdom ; you shall be queen in all matters of 
 domestic economy ; you shall rule our goings out 
 and our comings in, our visits, our travels. I shall 
 leave you to guide me, as a child, along the joyous 
 path in which I follow your footsteps. 
 
 I am looking up at Jeanne. 
 
 She has not said " No." 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 illustrated, 3Fine-<|Ut, anil other Volumes. 
 
 Abbeys and Churches of England and Wales, The: Descriptive, 
 
 Historical, Pictorial. Series II. 2is. 
 A Blot of Ink. Translated by Q and PAUL FRANCKE. 53. 
 A Book of Absurdities. With 12 Full-Page Funny Pictures, as. 6d. 
 Adventure, The World of. Fully Illustrated. In Three Vols. gs.each. 
 Africa and its Explorers, The Story of. By DR. ROBERT BROWN. 
 
 F.L.S. Illustrated. Vols. I., II. and III., 73. 6d. each. 
 Agrarian Tenures. By the Rt. Hon. G. SHAW-LEFEVRE, M.P. IDS. 6d. 
 Allon, Henry, D.D., Pastor and Teacher. By the Rev. W. HARDY 
 
 HARWOOD. 6s. 
 
 Arabian Nights Entertainments, Cassell's Pictorial. IDS. 6d. 
 Architectural Drawing. By R. PHENE SFIERS. Illustrated. 103. 6d. 
 Art, The Magazine of. Yearly Vol. With 14 Photogravures or Etchings, 
 
 a Series of Full page Plates, and about 400 Illustrations. 2is. 
 Artistic Anatomy. By Prof. M. DUVAL. Cheap Edition. 35. 6d. 
 Astronomy, The Dawn of. A Study of the Temple Worship and 
 
 Mythology of the Ancient Egyptians. By Prof. J. NORMAN LOCKYER. 
 
 C.B., F.R.S., &c. Illustrated, ais. 
 Atlas, The Universal. A New and Complete General Atlas of the 
 
 World, with 117 Pages of Maps, in Colours, and a Complete Index to 
 
 about 125,000 Names. Cloth, gilt edges, 363. ; or half-morocco, gilt 
 
 edges, 425. 
 Awkward Squads, The ; and Other Ulster Stories. By SHAN F. 
 
 BULLOCK. 53. 
 
 Bashkirtseff, Marie, The Journal of. Cheap Edition. 75. 6d. 
 Bashkirtseff, Marie, The Letters of. 73. 6d. 
 Beetles, Butterflies, Moths, and Other Insects. By A. W. KAPPEL, 
 
 F.E.S., and W. EGMONT KIRBY. With 12 Coloured Plates. 33. 6d. 
 " Belle Sauvage " Library, The. Cloth, as. each. 
 
 The Fortunes of 
 
 Nigel. 
 
 Guy Maimering. 
 Shirley. 
 Contugsby. 
 Mary Barton. 
 Tile Antiquary. 
 Nicholas Nickleby.* 
 Jane Eyre. 
 Wuthering Heights. 
 The Prairie. 
 Night and Morning. 
 Keuilworth. 
 Ingoldsby Legends. 
 Tower of London. 
 The Pioneers. 
 Charles O'M alley. 
 Barnaby Hudge. 
 Cakes and Ale. 
 The King's Own. 
 People I have Met. 
 The Pathfinder. 
 Evelina 
 
 Scott's Poems. 
 Last of the Barons. 
 Adventures of Mr. 
 Ivanhoe. (.Ledbury. 
 Oliver Twist. 
 Selections from Hood's 
 
 Works. 
 Longfellow's Prose 
 
 Works. 
 
 Sense and Sensibility. 
 Lytton's Plays. 
 
 Eugene Aram. 
 
 Jack Hinton. 
 
 Foe's Works. 
 
 Old Mortality. 
 
 The Hour and the Man. 
 
 Handy Andy. 
 
 Scarlet Letter. 
 
 Pickwiok.* 
 
 Last of the Mohicans 
 
 Pride and Prejudice. 
 
 Yellowplush Papers. 
 
 Tales of the Borders. 
 
 Last Days of f almyra. 
 
 Washington Irving's 
 
 Sketch-Book. 
 The Talisman. 
 Rienzi. 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop. 
 Heart of Midlothian. 
 Last pays of Pompeii. 
 American Humour. 
 Sketches by Boz. 
 Macaulay's Lays and 
 
 .Essays. 
 
 Tales, Poems, and 
 
 Sketches. Bret Harte. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit.* 
 The Prince of the 
 
 House of David. 
 Sheridan's Plays. 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin. 
 Deerslayer. 
 Rome and the Early 
 
 Christians. 
 
 The Trials of Mar- 
 garet Lyndsay. 
 Harry Lorrequer. 
 * Bouks marked thus are in 2 Vols. 
 
 Biographical Dictionary, Cassell's New. 75. 6d. 
 Birds' Nests, Eggs, and Egg-Collecting. By R. KEARTON. Illus- 
 trated with 16 Coloured Plates. 55. 
 Breech-Loader, The, and How to Use It. By W. W. GREENER. 
 
 Illustrated. New and enlarged edition, as 6d. 
 British Ballads. With Several Hundred Original Illustrations. Complete 
 
 in Two Vols., cloth, 155. Half morocco, price on application. 
 British Battles on Land and Sea. By JAMES GRANT. With about 
 600 Illustrations. Four Vols., 410, l IDS.; Library Edition, 3. 
 
 50. 1.95
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 Butterflies and Moths, European. With 61 Coloured Plates. 353. 
 Campaigns of Curiosity. By ELIZABETH L. BANKS. Illustrated, a-. 
 Canaries and Cage-Birds, The Illustrated Book of. With 56 Fac- 
 simile Coloured Plates, 353. Half-morocco, a 53. 
 Capture of the " Estrella," The. A Tale of the Slave Trade. By 
 
 COMMANDER CLAUDE HARDING, R.N. 53. 
 Cassell, John. By G HOI.DEN PIKE. With Portrait, is. 
 Cassell's Family Magazine. Yearly Vol. Illustrated. 93. 
 Cathedrals, Abbeys, and Churches of England and Wales. 
 
 Descriptive, Historical, Pictorial. Popular Edition. Two Vols. 255. 
 Catriona. A Sequel to " Kidnapped." By ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. 6s. 
 Cats and Kittens. By HENRIETTE RONNER. With Portrait and 13 
 
 Full-page Photogravure Plates and numerous Illustrations. 3 as. 
 Chums. The Illustrated Paper for Boys. Yearly Volume, 8s. 
 Cities of the World. Four Vols. Illustrated. 73. 6d. each. 
 Civil Service, Guide to Employment in the. Entirely New Edition. 
 
 Paper, Is. Cloth, is. 6d. 
 Clinical Manuals for Practitioners and Students of Medicine. A 
 
 List of Volumes forwarded post free on application to the Publishers. 
 Colour. By Prof. A. H. CHURCH. With Coloured Plates. 35. 6d. 
 Columbus, The Career of. By CHARLES ELTON, Q.C. ios. 6d. 
 Commons and Forests, English. By the Rt. Hon. G. SHAW-LEFEVKE, 
 
 M.P. With Maps. ios 6d. 
 
 Cookery, A Year's. By PHYLLIS BROWNE. 35. 6d. 
 Cookery Book, Cassell's New Universal. _ By LIZZIE HERITAGE. 
 
 With 12 Coloured Plates and other Illustrations. Strongly bound in 
 
 Half-leather. 1,344 pages. 6s. 
 
 Cookery, Cassell's Shilling. noM Thousand, is. 
 Cookery, Vegetarian. By A. G. PAYNE, is. 6d. 
 Cooking by Gas, The Art of. By MARIE J. SUGG. Illustrated, as. 
 Cottage Gardening, Poultry, Bees, Allotments, Etc. Edited by 
 
 W. ROBINSON. Illustrated. Half-yearly Volumes, I., II., and 111. 
 
 Cloth, as. 6d. each. Vol. IV., 35. 
 Count Cavour and Madame de Circourt. Translated by A. J. 
 
 BUTLER. Cloth gilt, ios. 6d. 
 Countries of the World, The. By ROBERT BROWN, M.A., Ph.D., &c. 
 
 Complete in Six Vols., with about 750 Illustrations. 410, 78. 6d. each. 
 Cyclopaedia, Cassell's Concise. Brought down to the latest date. With 
 
 about 600 Illustrations. Cheap Edition, ys. 6d. 
 Cyclopaedia, Cassell's Miniature. Containing 30,000 subjects. Cloth, 
 
 as. 6d. ; half-roxburgh, 43. 
 Defoe, Daniel, The Life of. By THOMAS WRIGHT. With 1 6 Full page 
 
 Illustrations. Cloth gilt, ais. 
 
 Delectable Duchy, The. Stories, Studies, and Sketches. By Q. 6s. 
 Dick Whittington, A Modern. By JAMES PAYN. In One Vol., 6s. 
 Diet and Cookery for Common Ailments. By a Fellow of the Royal 
 
 College of Physicians, and PHYLLIS BROWNE. 53. 
 Dog, Illustrated Book of the. By VERO SHAW, B.A. With 28 Coloured 
 
 Plates. Cloth bevelled, 353. ; half-morocco, 455. 
 Domestic Dictionary, The. Illustrated. CIvth, 75. 6d. 
 Dore Bible, The. With 200 Full-page Illustrations by DOKE. 155. 
 Dore Don Quixote, The. With about 400 Illu-trations by GUSTAVE 
 
 DORE. Ckeaft Edition Bevelled boards, gilt edges, ios. 6d. 
 Dore Gallery, The. With 250 Illustrations by DORE. 410, 425. 
 Dore's Dante's Inferno. Illustrated by GUSTAVE DORE. With Preface 
 
 by A. J. BUTLER. Cloth gilt or buckram, ys. 6d. 
 Dora's Dante's Purgatory and Paradise. Illustrated by GUSTAVE 
 
 DORE. Cheap Edition. 75. 6d.- 
 Dore's Milton's Paradise Lost. Illustrated by DORE. 410, ais. Popular 
 
 Edition. Cloth gilt or buckram gilt, 75. 6d.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 Dorset, Old. Chapters in the History of the County. By H. J. MOULE, 
 
 M.A. IDS. 6d. 
 Dressmaking, Modern, The Elements of. By JEANNETTE E. DAVIS. 
 
 Illustrated. 2s. 
 Earth, Our, and its Story. By Dr. ROBERT BROWN, F.L.S. With 
 
 Coloured Plates and numerous Wood Engravings. Three Vols. gs. each. 
 Edinburgh, Old and New. With 600 Illustrations. Three Vols. gs. each. 
 Egypt: Descriptive, Historical, and Picturesque. By Prof. G. EBERS. 
 
 With 800 Original Engravings. Popular Edition. In Two Vols. 425. 
 Electric Current, The. How Produced and How Used. By R. 
 
 MULLINEUX WALMSLEY, D.Sc., etc. Illustrated, zos. 6d. 
 Electricity in the Service of Man. Illustrated. New and Revised 
 
 Edition. IDS. 6d. 
 
 Electricity, Practical. By Prof. W. E. AYRTON. 73. 6d. 
 Encyclopaedic Dictionary, The. In Fourteen Divisional Vols., ios.6d. 
 
 each ; or Seven Vols., half-morocco, 2is. each ; half-russia, 253. 
 England, Cassell's Illustrated History of. With 2,000 Illustrations. 
 
 Ten Vols., gs. each. Revised Edition. Vols. I. to VII. gs. each. 
 English Dictionary, Cassell's. Giving definitions of more than 100,000 
 
 Words and Phrases. Superior Edition, 53. Ckcaft Edition, 35. 6d. 
 English History, The Dictionary of. Cheap Edition, xos. 6d. 
 English Literature, Library of. By Prof. HENRY MORLEY. Complete 
 
 in Five Vols., 75. 6d. each. 
 
 English Literature, Motley's First Sketch of. Revised Edition. 73. 6d. 
 English Literature, The Story of. By ANNA BUCKLAND. 33. 6d. 
 English Writers. By Prof. HENRY MORLEY. Vols. I. to XI. 53. each. 
 Etiquette of Good Society. New Edition. Edited and Revised by 
 
 LADY COLIN CAMPBELL, is. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 European Pictures of the Year. Reproductions of Continental Pictures 
 
 of 1894. Paper covers, 2S. 6d. Cloth, 45. 
 
 Fairway Island. By HORACE HUTCHINSON. Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 Family Physician, The. By Eminent PHYSICIANS and SURGEONS. 
 
 New and Revised Edition. Cloth, 2is. ; Roxburgh, 253. 
 Fiction, Cassell's Popular Library of. 35. 6d. each. 
 
 THE MEDICINE LADY. By L. T. 
 
 MEADE. 
 OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH. By 
 
 FRANK BARRhTT. 
 
 THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER. By 
 
 Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 
 "LA BELLA" AND OTHERS. By 
 EGERTON CASTLE. 
 
 LEONA. By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
 
 FOURTEEN TO ONE, ETC. By ELIZA- 
 BETH STUART PHELPS. 
 
 FATHER STAFFORD. By ANTHONY 
 HOPE. 
 
 DR. DUM^NY'S WIFE. By MAURUS 
 
 JdKAI. 
 
 Field Naturalist's Handbook, The. By the Revs. J. G. WOOD and 
 
 THEODORE WOOD. Cheap Edition. 2s. 6d. 
 
 Figuier's Popular Scientific Works. With Several Hundred Illustra- 
 tions in each. Newly Revised and Corrected. 33. 6d. each. 
 THE HUMAN RACE. MAMMALIA. OCEAN WORLD. 
 
 THE INSECT WORLD. REPTILES AND BIRDS. 
 
 WORLD BEFORE THE DELUGE. THE VEGETABLE WORLD. 
 
 Flora's Feast. A Masque of Flowers. Penned and Pictured by WALTER 
 
 CRANE. With 40 Pages in Colours. 53. 
 Football, The Rugby Union Game. Edited by REV. F. MARSHALL. 
 
 Illustrated. New and Enlarged Edition. 7s. 6d. 
 Franco-German War, Cassell's History of the. New Issue. Vol. I. 
 
 Containing about 250 Illustrations, gs. 
 Fraser, John Drummond. By PHILALETHES. A Story of Jesuit 
 
 Intrigue in the Church of England. Cheap Edition, is. 6d. 
 Free Lance in a Far Land, A. By HERBERT OMPTON. 6s. 
 Garden Flowers, Familiar. By SHIRLEY HILBEKD. With Coloured 
 
 Plates by F. E. HULME, F.L.S. Complete in Five Series. I2s.6d.each. 
 Gardening, Cassell's Popular. Illustrated. Four Vols. 53. each. 
 Gazetteer of Great Britain and Ireland, Cassell's. Illustrated. 
 
 Vol. I. 73. 6d.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company 1 } Publications. 
 
 Gladstone, William Ewart, The People's Life of. Illustrated, is 
 Gleanings from Popular Authors. Two Vols. With Original Illus- 
 trations. 410, QS. each. Two Vols. in One, 153. 
 Gulliver's Travels. With 88 Engravings by MORTEN. Cheap Edition. 
 
 Cloth, 38. 6d. ; cloth gilt, 53. 
 Gun and its Development, The. By W. W. GREENER. With 500 
 
 Illustrations. IDS. 6d. 
 Heavens, The Story of the. By Sir ROBERT STAWELL BALL, LL.D., 
 
 F.R.S., F.R.A.S. With Coloured Plates. Popular Edition. I2s.6d. 
 Heroes of Britain in Peace and War. With 300 Original Illus- 
 trations. Two Vols., 35. 6d. each ; or One Vol., ys. 6d. 
 Highway of Sorrow, The. By HESBA STRETTON and ***. 6s. 
 Hispaniola Plate (1683-1893). By JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON. 6s. 
 Historic Houses of the United Kingdom. Profusely Illustrated. IDS. 6d. 
 History, A Foot-note to. Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa. By 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. 6s. 
 Home Life of the Ancient Greeks, The. Translated by ALICE 
 
 ZIMMERN. Illustrated, 73. 6d. 
 Horse, The Book of the. By SAMUEL SIDNEY. With 17 Full-page 
 
 Collotype Plates of Celebrated Horses of the Day, and numerous 
 
 other Illustrations. Cloth, 155. 
 Houphton, Lord : The Life, Letters, and Friendships of Richard 
 
 Monckton Milnes, First Lord Houghton. By Sir WEMYSS 
 
 REID. In Two Vols., with Two Portraits. 323. 
 Household, Cassell's Book of the. Complete in Four Vols. 53. each. 
 
 Four Vols. in Two, half morocco, 253. 
 
 Hygiene and Public Health. By B. ARTHUR WHITELEGGE, M.D. 73. 6d. 
 India, Cassell's History of. By JAMES GRANT. With about 400 
 
 Illustrations. Two Vols., gs. each. One Vol., 153. 
 In-door Amusements, Card Games, and Fireside Fun, Cassell's 
 
 Book of. Cheap Edition, as. 
 Into the Unknown: A Romance of South Africa. By LAWRENCE 
 
 FLETCHER. Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 Iron Pirate, The. A Plain Tale of Strange Happenings on the Sea. By 
 
 MAX PEMBERTON. Illustrated. 53. 
 
 Island Nights' Entertainments. By R. L. STEVENSON. Illustrated. 6s. 
 Kennel Guide, The Practical. By Dr. GORDON STABLES, is. 
 King's Diary, A. By PERCY WHITE. Cloth, is. 4d. 
 King's Hussar, A. Edited by HERBERT COMPTON. 6s. 
 Ladies' Physician, The. By a London Physician. 6s. 
 Lady Biddy Fane, The Admirable. By FRANK BARRETT. New 
 
 Edition. With 12 Full-page Illustrations. 6s. 
 Lady's Dressing-room, The. Translated from the French of BARONESS 
 
 STAFFE by LADY COLIN CAMPBELL. 33. 6d. 
 Letters, the Highway of, and its Echoes of Famous Footsteps. 
 
 By THOMAS ARCHER. Illustrated. IDS. 6d. 
 Letts's Diaries and other Time-saving Publications published 
 
 exclusively by CASSKLL & COMPANY. (A list free on application.) 
 Liquor Traffic, Popular Control of the. By Dr. E. R. L. GOULD. 
 
 With an Introduction by the Rt. Hon. J. CHAMBERLAIN, M.P. is. 
 'Lisbeth. A Novel. By LESLIE KBITH. One Vol. 6s. 
 List, ye Landsmen! By W. CLARK RUSSELL. One Vol. 6s. 
 Little Minister, The. By J. M. BARRIE. Illustrated Edition. 6s. 
 Little Squire, The. By Mrs. HENRY DE LA PASTURE. 35. 6d. 
 LlollandllafT Legends, The. By Louis LLOLLANDLLAFF. is. ; cloth, as. 
 Lobengula, Three Years With, and Experiences in South Africa. 
 
 By J. COOPER-CHADWICK. 33. 6d. 
 
 Locomotive Engine, The Biography of a. By HENRY FRITH. 35. 6d. 
 Loftus, Lord Augustus, The Diplomatic Reminiscences of. First 
 
 and Second Series. Two Vols., each with Portrait, jas. each Series.
 
 Selections from Cassell <f Company's Publications. 
 
 London, Greater. By EDWARD WALFORD. Two Vols. With about 
 
 400 Illustrations, gs. each. 
 London, Old and New. Six Vols., each containing about 200 
 
 Illustrations and Maps. Cloth, gs. each. 
 Lost on Du Corrig ; or, 'Twixt Earth and Ocean. By STANDISH 
 
 O'GRADY. With 8 Full-page Illustrations. 55. 
 Man in Black, The. By STANLEY WEYMAN. With 12 Full-page 
 
 Illustrations. 35. 6d. 
 
 Medicine, Manuals for Students of. (A List fonuara'ed foost free.) 
 Modern Europe, A History of. By C. A. FYFFE, M.A. Complete in 
 
 Three Vols., with full-page Illustrations, js. 6d. each. 
 Mount Desolation. An Australian Romance. By W. CARLTON DAWE. 
 
 Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 Music, Illustrated History of. By EMIL NAUMANN. Edited by the 
 
 Rev. Sir F. A. GORE OUSELEY, Bart. Illustrated. Two Vols. 315. 6d. 
 National Library, Cassell's. In Volumes. Paper covers, 3d. ; cloth, 
 
 6d, (j4 Complete List of the Volumes post free on application.) 
 Natural History, Cassell's Concise. By E. PERCEVAL WRIGHT, 
 
 M.A., M.D., F.L.S. With several Hundred Illustrations. JS. 6d. 
 Natural History, Cassell's New. Edited by Prof. P. MARTIN 
 
 DUNCAN, M.B., F.R.S., F.G.S. Complete in Six Vols. With about 
 
 2,000 Illustrations. Cloth, gs. each. 
 
 Nature's Wonder Workers. By KATE R. LOVELL. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 New England Boyhood, A. By EDWARD E. HALB. 33. 6d. 
 Nursing for the Home and for the Hospital, A Handbook of. 
 
 By CATHERINE J. WOOD. Cheap Edition, is. 6d. ; cloth, as. 
 Nursing of Sick Children, A Handbook for the. By CATHERINE 
 
 J. WOOD. as. 6d. 
 
 O'Driscoll's Weird, and other Stories. By A. WERNER. 55. 
 Ohio, The New. A Story of East and West. By EDWARD E. HALE. 6s. 
 Oil Painting, A Manual of. By the Hon. JOHN COLLIER, as. 6d. 
 Our Own Country. Six Vols. With 1,200 Illustrations. 73. 6d. each. 
 Painting, The English School of. Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 Painting, Practical Guides to. With Coloured Plates : 
 
 MARINE PAINTING. 53. 
 ANIMAL PAINTING. 53. 
 CHINA PAINTING. 53. 
 FIGURE PAINTING. 73. 6d. 
 ELEMENTARY FLOWER PAINT- 
 ING. 33. 
 
 WATER-COLOUR PAINTING. 53. 
 
 NEUTRAL TINT. 55. 
 
 SEPIA, in Two Vols., 33. each ; or 
 
 in One Vol., 53. 
 FLOWERS, AND How TO PAINT 
 
 THEM. 53. 
 
 Paris, Old and New. A Narrative of its History, its People, and its 
 
 Places. By H. SUTHERLAND EDWARDS. Profusely Illustrated. 
 
 Complete in Two Vols., gs. each; or gilt edges, 103. 6d. each. 
 Patent Laws of all Countries, Gleanings from. By W. LLOYD 
 
 WISE. Vol. I. Price is. 6d. 
 Peoples of the World, The. In Six Vols. By Dr. ROBERT BROWN. 
 
 Illustrated. 73. 6d. each. 
 
 Perfect Gentleman, The. By the Rev. A. SMYTHE-PALMER, D.D. 33. 6d. 
 Photography for Amateurs. By T. C. HEPWORTH. Enlarged and 
 
 Revised Edition. Illustrated, is. ; or cloth, is. 6d. 
 Picturesque America. Complete in Four Vols., with 48 Exquisite Steel 
 
 Plates and about 800 Original Wood Engravings. a 2s. each. 
 
 Popular Edition. Vol. I., i8s. 
 Picturesque Canada. With 600 Original Illustrations. Two Vols. 6 6s. 
 
 the Set. 
 Picturesque Europe. Complete in Five Vols. Each containing 
 
 13 Exquisite Steel Plates, from Original Drawings, and nearly 200 
 
 Original Illustrations. Cloth, ai; half-morocco, 31 IDS. ; morocco 
 
 gilt, 52 IDS. POPULAR EDITION. In Five Vols., i8s. each. 
 Picturesque Mediterranean, The. With Magnificent Original Illustrations 
 
 by the leading Artists of the Day. Complete in Two Vols. 2 as. each.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 Pigeon Keeper, The Practical. By LEWIS WRIGHT. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 
 Pigeons, The Book of. By ROBERT FULTON. Edited and Arranged by 
 
 L. WRIGHT. With 50 Coloured Plates, 318. 6d. ; half-morocco, a as. 
 
 Pity and of Death, The Book of. By PIERRE LOTI. Translated by 
 
 T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P. 58. 
 
 Planet, The Story of Our. By T. G. BONNBY, D.Sc., LL.D., F.R.S., 
 F.S.A., F.G.S. With Coloured Plates and Maps and about 100 
 Illustrations. 318. 6d. 
 
 Playthings and Parodies. Short Stories by BARRY PAIN. 53. 
 
 Poems, Aubrey de Vere's. A Selection. Edited by J. DENNIS. 35. 6d. 
 
 Poetry, The Nature and Elements of. By E. C. STEDMAN. 6s. 
 
 Poets, Cassell's Miniature Library of the. Price is. each Vol. 
 
 Pomona's Travels. By FRANK R. STOCKTON. Illustrated. 58. 
 
 Portrait Gallery, The Cabinet. Complete in Five Series, each containing 
 36 Cabinet Photographs of Eminent Men and Women. With Bio- 
 
 fraphical Sketches. 158. each, 
 try Keeper, The Practical. By L. WRIGHT. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 Poultry, The Book of. By LEWIS WRIGHT. Popular Edition. IDS. 6d. 
 Poultry, The Illustrated Book of. By LEWIS WRIGHT. With Fifty 
 
 Coloured Plates. New and Revised Eaition. Cloth, 313. 6d. 
 Prison Princess, A. A Romance of Millbank Penitentiary. By Major 
 
 ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. 6s. 
 Q's 'Works, Uniform Edition of. $s. each. 
 
 Dead Man's Bock. I The Astonishing History of Troy Town. 
 The Splendid Spur. I " I Saw 1'hree Ships," and other Winter's Tales. 
 The Blue Pavilions. | Noughts and Crosses. 
 Queen Summer ; or, The Tourney of the Lily and the Rose. With Forty 
 
 Pages of Designs in Colours by WALTER CRANK.. 6s. 
 Queen, The People's Life of their. By Rev. E. J. HARDY, M.A. is. 
 Queen Victoria, The Life and Times of. By ROBERT WILSON. Com- 
 plete in Two Vols. With numerous Illustrations, gs. each. 
 Queen's Scarlet, The. By G. MANVILLE FKNN. Illustrated. 55. 
 Quickening of Caliban, The. A Modern Story of Evolution. By J. 
 
 COMPTON RICKETT. Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 
 Rabbit-Keeper, The Practical. By CUNICULUS. Illustrated. 35. 6d. 
 Raffles Haw, The Doings of. By A. CONAN DOYLE. New Edition. 53. 
 Railways, Our. Their Origin, Development, Incident, and Romance. 
 
 By JOHN PBNDLETON. Illustrated. 2 Vols., 245. 
 Railway Guides, Official Illustrated. With Illustrations, Maps, &c. 
 
 Price is. each ; or in cloth, as. each. 
 
 LONDON AND NORTH-WESTERN 
 
 RAILWAY. 
 
 GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY. 
 MIDLAND RAILWAY. 
 GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY. 
 
 GREAT EASTERN RAILWAY. 
 LONDON AND SOUTH-WESTERN 
 
 RAILWAY. 
 LONDON, BRIGHTON AND SOUTH 
 
 COAST RAILWAY. 
 SOUTH-EASTERN RAILWAY. 
 
 Rovings of a Restless Boy, The. By KATHARINE B. FOOT. Illus- 
 trated. 55. 
 
 Rivers of Great Britain : Descriptive, Historical, Pictorial. 
 
 THE ROYAL RIVER : The Thames, from Source to Sea. Popular 
 
 Edit '.' '", i6s. 
 RIVERS OF THE EAST COAST. Popular Edition, i6s. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe, Cassell's New Fine-Art Edition 01. With 
 upwards of ico Original Illustrations. 73. 6d. 
 
 Romance, The World of. Illustrated. Cloth, gs. 
 
 Russo-Turkish War, Cassell's History of. With about 500 Illus- 
 trations. Two Vols. gs. each. 
 
 Sala, George Augustus, The Life and Adventures of. By Himself. 
 In Two Vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 325. 
 
 Saturday journal, Cassell's. Yearly Volume, cloth, 73. 6d. 
 
 Scandinavian Plan, The. A Sermon preached on Temperance Sunday, 
 Nov. 8, 1894. By the Ven. J. M WILSON, M.A. id.
 
 Selections from Cassell S; Company's Publications, 
 
 METZEROTT, SHOEMAKER. By KATH- 
 ARINE P. WOODS. 
 
 Railway Library, Cassell's. Crown 8vo, boards, 2s. each. 
 
 JACK GORDON, KNIGHT ERRANT, 
 
 GOTHAM, 1883. By BARCLAY 
 
 NORTH. 
 THE DIAMOND BUTTON. By BARCLAY 
 
 NORTH. 
 
 ANOTHER'S CRIME. By JULIAN HAW- 
 THORNE. 
 TFE YOKE OF THE THORAH. By 
 
 SIDNEY LUSKA. 
 WHO IS JOHN NOMANI By CHARLES 
 
 HENRY BECKETT. 
 THE TRAGEDY OF BRINKWATER. By 
 
 MARTHA L. MOODEY. 
 AN AMERICAN PENMAN. By JULIAN 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 SECTION 558; or, THE FATAL LETTER. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 DAVID TODD. By DAVID MACLURE. 
 
 COMMODORE JINK. ByG. MANVILI.H 
 FENN. 
 
 ST. CUTHBERT'S TOWER. By FLOR- 
 ENCE WARDEN. 
 
 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. By BAR- 
 CLAY NORTH. 
 
 BY RIGHT NOT LAW. By R. 
 SHERARD. 
 
 WITHIN SOUND OF THE WEIR. By 
 THOMAS ST. E. HAKE. 
 
 UNDF.R A STRANGE MASK. By FRANK 
 BARRETT. 
 
 THE COOMBSBERROW MYSTERY. By 
 IAMES COLWALL. 
 
 A QUEER RACE. By w. WESTALL. 
 
 CAPTAIN TRAFALGAR. By WESTALL 
 and LAURIE. 
 
 THE PHANTOM CITY. By w. WESTALL. 
 
 THE BROWN STONE BOY. By W. H. 
 
 BISHOP. 
 A TRAGIC MYSTERY. By JULIAN 
 
 HAWTHORNK. 
 THE GREAT BANK ROBBERY. By 
 
 JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Scarabaeus. The Story of an A'rican Beetle. By the MARQUISE CLARA 
 
 LANZA and JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. Cheap Edition. 33. 6d. 
 Science for All. Edited by Dr. ROBERT BROWN. Rci'ised Edition. 
 
 Illustrated. Five Vols. gs. each. 
 
 Sea Wolves, The. By MAX PEMBERTON. Illustrated. 6s. 
 Seven Ages of Man, The. In Portfolio, as. 6d. net. 
 Shadow of a Song, The. A Novel. By CECIL HARLEY. 55. 
 Shaftesbury, The Seventh Earl of, K.G., The Life and 'Work or. By 
 
 EDWIN HODDER. Cheap Edition. 35. 6d. 
 Shakespeare, The Plays of. Edited by Professor HENRY MORLEV. 
 
 Complete in Thirteen Vols., cloth, 2is. ; half-morocco, cloth sides, 423. 
 Shakespeare, Cassell's Quarto Edition. Containing about 600 Illus- 
 trations by H. C. SELOCJS. Complete in Three Vols., cloth gilt, 335. 
 Shakspere, The International. Edition de Luxe. 
 
 " King Henry VIII." Illustrated by SIR JAMES LINTON, P.R.I. 
 (Price on application.) 
 
 "Othello." Illustrated by FRANK DICKSEE, R. A. 3103. 
 
 "King Henry IV." Illustrated by EDUARD GRUTZNER. 3103. 
 
 "As You Like It." Illustrated by EMILE BAYARD. 3103. 
 Shakspere, The Leopold. With 400 Illustrations. Cheap Edition, 
 
 33. 6d. Cloth gilt, gilt edges, 53. ; Roxburgh, 73. 6d. 
 Shakspere, The Royal. With Steel Plates and Wood Engravings. 
 
 Three Vols. 153. each. 
 Sketches, The Art of Making and Using. From the French of 
 
 G. FRAIPONT. By CLARA BELL. With 50 Illustrations. 2s. 6d. 
 Smuggling Days and Smuggling Ways. By Commander the Hon. 
 
 HENRY N. SHORE, R.N. With numerous Illustrations. 73. 6d. 
 Social England. A Record of the Progress of the People. By various 
 
 writers. Edited by H. D.TRAILL, D.C.L. Vols. I., II., & III. 153. each. 
 Social Welfare, Subjects of. By Rt. Hon. LORDPLAYFAIR, K.C.B. ys.ed. 
 Sports and Pastimes, Cassell's Complete Book of. Cheap Edit-on. 
 
 With more than goo Illustrations. Medium 8vo, 992 pages, cloth, 33. 6d. 
 Squire, The. By Mrs. PARR. Popular Edition. 6s. 
 Standishs of High Acre, The. A Novel. By GILBERT SHELDON. 
 
 Two Vols. 2is. 
 
 Star-Land. By Sir R. S. BALL, LL.D., &c. Illustrated. 6s. 
 Statesmen, Past and Future. 6s. 
 
 Storehouse of General Information, Cassell's. With Wood Engrav- 
 ings, Maps, and Coloured Plates. Complete in Eight Vols , 53. each. 
 Story of Francis Cludde, The. By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 6s. 
 Story Poems. For Young and Old. Edited by E. DAVENPORT. 33. 6d. 
 Successful Life, The. By AN BIDDER BROTHER. 33. 6d.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company i Publications. 
 
 Sun, The. By Sir ROBERT STAWELL BALL, LL.D., F.R.S., F.R.A.S. 
 
 With Eight Coloured Plates and other Illustrations, ais. 
 Sunshine Series, Cassell's. Monthly Volumes, is. each. 
 
 (A List of the Volumes post frre on application.) 
 Sybil Knox: a Story of To-day. By EDWARD E. HALE. 6s. 
 Thackeray in America, With. By EYRE CROWE, A. R. A. III. ios.6d. 
 The " Short Story " Library. 
 
 Otto the Knight, &c. By OCTAVH 
 
 THANKT. 6s. 
 Eleven Possible Cases. By Various 
 
 Authors. 6s. 
 
 A Singer's Wife. By Miss FANNY 
 
 MURFREE. 6s. 
 The Poet's Audience, an-1 Delilah. 
 
 By CLARA SAVILE CLARKE, 6s. 
 
 The "Treasure Island" Series. Cheap Illustrated Edition. Cloth, 
 35. 6d. each. 
 
 The Black Arrow. By RoiltKi 
 
 Louis STEVP.NSON. 
 King Solomon'd Mines. By H. 
 RIDER HAGGARD. 
 
 J3 ! 
 
 "Kidnapped." ByR-L. STEVENSON. 
 Treasure Island. By ROBERT 
 
 Louis STEVENSON. 
 The Master of Ballantrae. By 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. 
 
 Things I have Seen and People I have Known. By G. A. SALA. 
 With Portrait and Autograph, a Vols. 2is. 
 
 Tidal Thames, The. By GRANT ALLEN. With India Proof Impres- 
 sions of Twenty magnificent Full-page Photogravure Plates, and with 
 many other Illustrations in the Text after Original Drawings by 
 W. L. WVLLIE, A.R.A. Half morocco. 5 155. 6d. 
 
 Tiny Luttrell. By E. W. HORNUNG. Popular Edition. 6s. 
 
 To Punish the Czar : a Story of the Crimea. By HORACE 
 HUTCHINSON. Illustrated. 35. 6d. 
 
 Treatment, The Year-Book of, for 1895. A Critical Review for Prac- 
 titioners of Medicine and Surgery. Eleventh Year of Issue. 7s. 6d. 
 
 Trees, Familiar. By G. S. BOULGER, F.L.S. Two Series. With 40 
 full-page Coloured Plates by W. H. J. BOOT. I2s. 6d. each. 
 
 "Unicode": the Universal Telegraphic Phrase Book. Desk or 
 Pocket Edition. 2s. 6d. 
 
 United States, Cassell's History of the. By EDMUND OLLIER. 
 With 600 Illustrations. Three Vols. gs. each. 
 
 Universal History, Cassell's Illustrated. Four Vols. gs. each. 
 
 Vision of Saints, A. By LEWIS MORRIS. With 20 Full-page Illustra- 
 tions. Crown 410, cloth, los. 6d. 
 
 Wild Birds, Familiar. By W. SWAVSLAND. Four Series. With 40 
 Coloured Plates in each. ias. 6d. each. 
 
 Wild Flowers, Familiar. By F. E. HULME, F.L.S., F.S.A. Five Series. 
 With 40 Coloured Plates in each. (In sets only, price OB application.) 
 
 Wood, Rev. J. G., Life of the. By the Rev. THEODORE WOOD. 
 Extra crown 8vo, cloth. Cheap Edition. 35. 6d. 
 
 Work. The Illustrated Weekly Journal for Mechanics. Volume VII., 45. 
 
 " Work " Handbooks. Practical Manuals prepared under the direction 
 ^/"PAUL N. HASLUCK, Editor of Work. Illustrated, is. each. 
 
 World of Wit and Humour, The. With 400 Illustrations. 73. 6d. 
 
 World of Wonders. Two Vols. With 400 Illustrations, ys. 6d. each. 
 
 Wrecker, The. By R. L. STEVENSON and L. OSBOURNE. Illustrated. 6s. 
 
 Yule Tide. Cassell's Christmas Annual, is. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINES. 
 The Quiver. Monthly, 6d. 
 Cassell'a Family Magazine. Monthly, 6d. 
 "TAttle Folks"' Magazine. Monthly, 6d. 
 The Magazine of Art. Monthly, is. Ad. 
 
 " Chums." Illustrated Paper for Boys. Weekly, id. ; Monthly, 6d. 
 Cassell's Saturday .Journal. Weekly, id. ; Monthly, 6d. 
 The Far in Mode. Illustrated. Weekly, id. ; Monthly, 6d. 
 Work. Weekly, id. Monthly, 6d. 
 Cottage Gardening. Weekly, J^d. ; Monthly, 3d. 
 CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, Ludgate Hill, London.
 
 Selections from Cassell tk Company's Publications. 
 
 ibk2 attfc fleUjjirras Works. 
 
 Bible Biographies. Illustrated, 2S. 6d. each. 
 
 The Story of Moses and Joshua. By the Rev. J. TELFORD. 
 The Stoi4 ot the Judges. By the Rev. J. WYCLrFFE GF.DGE. 
 Thl Story of Samuel and S0. ByJteKev. D ' c TOVEY 
 
 The Btorvot Joseph.' Its Les*ons e for To-Day.' By the Rev. GEORGE BAINTON. 
 The Story of Jesus. In Verse. By J. R. MACDUFF. D.D. 
 
 Bible, Cassell's Illustrated Family. With 900 Illustrations. Leather, 
 
 gilt edges, 2 IDS. 
 Bible Educator, The. Edited by the Very Rev. Dean PLUMPTRE, D.D 
 
 With Illustrations, Maps, &C. Four Vols., cloth, 6s. each. 
 Bible Manual, Cassell's Illustrated. By the Rev. ROBERT HUNTER, 
 
 LL.D. Illustrated. 75. 6d. 
 Bible Student in the British Museum, The. By the Rev. J. G. 
 
 KITCHJN, M.A. New and Revised Edition, is. 4d. 
 Biblewomen and Nurses. Yearly Volume. _ Illustrated. 33. 
 Bunyan, Cassell's Illustrated. With 200 Original Illustrations. Cheap 
 
 Edition. 73. 6d. 
 Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Illustrated throughout. Cloth, 33. 6d. ; 
 
 cloth gilt, gilt edges, 53. 
 
 Child's Bible, The. With 200 Illustrations. iy>th Thousand. 75. 6d. 
 Child's Life of Christ, The. With 200 Illustrations. 73. 6d. 
 "Come, ye Children." Illustrated. By Rev. BENJAMIN WAUGH. 33. 6d. 
 Conquests of the Cross. Illustrated. In 3 Vols. gs. each. 
 Dore Bible. With 238 Illustrations by GUSTAVE DOR^. Small folio, best 
 
 morocco, gilt edges, 15. Popular Edition. With 200 Illustrations. 153. 
 Early Days of Christianity, The. By the Ven. Archdeacon FARRAK, 
 
 D.D., F.R.S. LIBRARY EDITION. Two Vols., 243. ; morocco, 2 as. 
 
 POPULAR EDITION. Complete in One Volume, cloth, 6s. ; cloth, gilt 
 
 edges, 73. 6d. ; Persian morocco. IDS. 6d. ; tree-calf, 155. 
 Family Prayer-Book, The. Edited by Rev. Canon GARBETT, M.A., 
 
 and Rev. S. MARTIN. With Full page Illustrations. New Edition. 
 
 Cloth, 73. 6d. 
 Gleanings after Harvest. Studies and Sketches by the Rev. JOHN R. 
 
 VERNON, M.A. Illustrated. 6s. 
 "Graven in the Rock." By the Rev. Dr. SAMUEL KINNS, F.R.A.S., 
 
 Author of " Moses and Geology." Illustrated. I2S. 6d. 
 "Heart Chords." A Series of Works by Eminent Divines. Bound in 
 
 cloth, red edges, One Shilling each. 
 
 MY BIBLE. By the Right Rev. W. BOYD 
 CARPENTER, Bishop of Ripon. 
 
 MY FATHER. By the Right Rev. ASH- 
 TON OXENDEN, late Bishop of Mont- 
 real. 
 
 MY WORK FOR GOD. By the Right 
 
 Rev. Bishop COTTERILL. 
 MY OBJECT IN LIFE. By the Ven. 
 
 Archdeacon FARRAR, D.D. 
 MY ASPIRATIONS. By the Rev. G. 
 
 MATHESON, D.D. 
 MY EMOTIONAL LIFE. By the Rev. 
 
 Preb. CHADWICK, D.D. 
 MY BODY. By the Rev. Prof. W. G. 
 
 BLAIKIE, U.D. 
 Helps to Belief. A Series of 
 
 MY GROWTH IN DIVINE LIFE. By the 
 
 Rev. Preb. REYNOLDS, M.A. 
 MY SOUL. By the Rev. P. B. POWER, 
 
 M.A. 
 MY HEREAFTER. By the Very Rev. 
 
 Dean BICKERSTETH. 
 MY WALK WITH GOD. By the Very 
 
 Rev. Dean MONTGOMERY. 
 
 MY AIDS TO THE DIVINE LIFE. By 
 
 the Very Rev. Dean BOYLE. 
 MY SOURCES OF STRENGTH. By the 
 Rev. E.E.JENKINS, M. A., Secretary 
 ot Wesleyan Missionary Society. 
 Helpful Manuals on the Religious 
 
 Difficulties of the Day. Edited by the Rev. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE, M.A., 
 Canon of Worcester. Cloth, is. each. 
 
 CREATION. By Harvey Goodwin, D.D. 
 late Bishop of Carlisle. 
 
 THE DIVINITY OF OUR LORD. By 
 
 the Lord Bishop of Derry. 
 THE MORALITY OF THE OLD TESTA- 
 MENT. By the Rev. Newman 
 Smyth, D.D. 
 
 MIRACLES. By the Rev. Brownlow 
 
 Maitland. M.A. 
 PRAYER. By the Rev. T. Teignmouth 
 
 Shore, M.A. 
 THE ATONEMENT. By William Connor 
 
 Magee, D.D, Late Archbishop of 
 York. 
 
 5 B. 1.95
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications, 
 
 Holy Land and the Bible, The. By the Rev. C. GKIKIE, D.D., LL.D. 
 
 (Edin.). Two Vols., 243. Illustrated Edition, One Vol., ais. 
 Life of Christ, The. By the Yen. Archdeacon FARRAR, D.D., F.R.S. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION. Two Vols. Cloth, 243. ; morocco, 423. CHEAP 
 
 ILLUSTRATED EDITION. Cloth, 73. 6d. ; cloth, full gilt, gilt edges, 
 
 los. 6d. POPULAR EDITION (Revised and Enlarges), 8vo, cloth, pilt 
 
 edges, 73. 6d. ; Persian morocco, gilt edges, IDS. 6d. ; tree-calf, 153. 
 Moses and Geology ; or, The Harmony of the Bible with Science. 
 
 By the Rev. SAMUEL KINNS, Ph.D., F.R.A.S. Illustrated. New 
 
 Edition on Larger and Superior Paper. 8s. 6d. 
 New Light on the Bible and the Holy Land. By B. T. A. EVHTTS, 
 
 M.A. Illustrated. 218. 
 New Testament Commentary for English Readers, The. Edited 
 
 by Bishop ELLICOTT. In Three Volumes. 213. each. Vol.1. The Four 
 
 Gospels. Vol. II. The Acts, Romans, Corinthians, Galatians. Vol. 
 
 III. The remaining Books of the New Testament. 
 New Testament Commentary. Edited by Bishop ELLICOTT. Handy 
 
 Volume Edition. St. Matthew, 35. 6d. St. Mark, 33. St. Luke, 
 
 35. 6d. St. John, 33. 6d. The Acts of the Apostles, 33. 6d. Romans, 
 
 2s. 6d. Corinthians I. and II., 3s. Galatians, Ephesians, and Philip- 
 
 pians, 33. Colossians, Thessalonians, and Timothy, 33. Titus, 
 
 Philemon, Hebrews, and James, 33. Peter, Jude, and John, 33. 
 
 The Revelation, 33. An Introduction to the New Testament, 33. 6d. 
 Old Testament Commentary for English Readers, The. Edited 
 
 by Bishop ELLICOTT. Complete in Five Vols. ais. each. Vol. I. Genesis 
 
 to Numbers. Vol. II. Deuteronomy to Samuel II. Vol. III. 
 
 Kings I. to Esther. Vol. IV. Job to Isaiah. Vol. V. Jeremiah to 
 
 Malachi. 
 Old Testament Commentary. Edited by Bishop ELLICOTT. Handy 
 
 Volume Edition. Genesis, 33. 6d. Exodus, 33. Leviticus, 33. 
 
 Numbers, 2s. 6d. Deuteronomy, 2s. 6d. 
 Plain Introductions to the Books of the Old Testament. Edited 
 
 by Bishop ELLICOTT. 35. 6d. 
 Plain Introductions to the Books of the New Testament. Edited 
 
 by Bishop ELLICOTT. 33. 6d. 
 Protestantism, The History of. By the Rev. J. A. WYLIE, LL.D. 
 
 Containing upwards of 600 Original Illustrations. Three Vols. 93. each. 
 Quiver Yearly Volume, The. With about 600 Original Illustrations. 
 
 73. 6d. 
 Religion, The Dictionary of. By the Rev. W. BENHAM, B.D. 
 
 Cheap Edition. los. 6d. 
 St. George for England ; and other Sermons preached to Children. By 
 
 the Rev. T. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE, M.A., Canon of Worcester. 55. 
 St. Paul, The Life and Work of. By the Ven. Archdeacon FARRAR, 
 
 D.D., F.R.S., Chaplain-in-Ordinary to the Queen. LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 Two Vols., cloth, 243. ; calf, 425. ILLUSTRATED EDITION, complete 
 
 in One Volume, with about 300 Illustrations, l is. ; morocco, 2 28. 
 
 POPULAR EDITION. One Volume, 8vo, cloth, 6s. ; cloth, gilt edges, 
 
 73. 6d. ; Persian morocco, 103. 6d. ; tree-calf, 158. 
 Shall We Know One Another in Heaven? By the Rt. Rev. J C. 
 
 RYLE, D.D., Bishop of Liverpool. Cheap Edition. Paper covers, 6d. 
 Searchings in the Silence. By Rev. GEORGE MATHHSON, D.D. 35. 6d. 
 "Sunday," Its Origin, History, and Present Obligation. By the 
 
 Ven. Archdeacon HESSEY, D.C.L. Fifth Edition. 75. 6d. 
 Twilight of Life, The. Words of Counsel and Comfort for the 
 
 Aged. By the Rev. JOHN ELLERTON, M.A. is. fid.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 (B&turattottal Kltnrka attrj j^tufonta' |Hamtala. 
 
 Agricultural Text-Books, Cassell's. (The "Downton" Series.) Edited 
 by JOHN WRIGHTSON, Professor of Agriculture. Fully Illustrated, 
 2s. 6d. each. Farm Crops. By Prof. WRIGHTSON. Soils and 
 Manures. By J. M. H. MUNRO, D.Sc. (London), F.I.C., F.C.S. 
 Live Stock. By Prof. WRIGHTSON. 
 Alphabet., Cassell's Pictorial. 33. 6d. 
 Arithmetics, Cassell's " Belle Sauvage." By GEORGE RICKS, B.Sc. 
 
 Lond. With Test Cards. (List on application.) 
 Atlas, Cassell's Popular. Containing 24 Coloured Maps. 2s. 6d. 
 Book-Keeping. By THEODORE JONES. For Schools, 2s. ; cloth, 33. 
 
 For the Million, as. ; cloth, 33. Books for Jones's System, as. 
 British Empire Map of the 'World. New Map for Schools and 
 Institutes. By G. R. PARKIN and J. G. BARTHOLOMEW, F.R.G.S. 
 Mounted on cloth, varnished, and with Rollers, or folded. 253. 
 Chemistry, The Public School. By J. H. ANDERSON. M.A. as. 6d. 
 Cookery for Schools. By LIZZIE HERITAGE. 6d. 
 
 Dulce Domum. Rhymes and Songs for Children. Edited by JOHN 
 
 FARMER, Editor of " Gaudeamus," &c. Old Notation and Words, 53. 
 
 N.B. The words of the Songs in "Dulce Domum" (with the Airs both 
 
 in Tonic Sol-fa and Old Notation) can be had in Two Parts, 6d. each. 
 Euclid, Cassell's. Edited by Prof. WALLACE, M.A. is. 
 Euclid, The First Four Books of. New Edition. In paper, 6d. ; cloth, gd. 
 Experimental Geometry. By PAUL BERT. Illustrated, is. 6d. 
 French, Cassell's Lessons in. New and Revised Edition. Parts I. 
 
 and II., each as. 6d. ; complete, 43. 6d. Key, is. 6d. 
 French-English and English- French Dictionary. Entirely New 
 
 and Enlarged Edition. 1,150 pages, 8vo, cloth, 33. 6d. 
 French Reader, Cassell's Public School. By G. S. CONRAD. as.6d. 
 Gaudeamus. Songs for Colleges and Schools. Edited by JOHN FARMER. 
 
 53. Words only, paper covers, 6d. ; cloth, gd. 
 
 German Dictionary, Cassell's New (German-English, English- 
 German). Cheap Edition. Cloth, 33. 6d. 
 
 Hand and Eye Training. By G. RICKS, B.Sc. 2 Vols., with 16 Coloured 
 
 Plates in each Vol. Cr. 410, 6s. each. Cards for Class Use, 5 sets, is. each. 
 
 Hand and Eye Training. In Two Volumes. Vol.1. Designing' with 
 
 Coloured Papers. Vol. II. Cardboard Work. By G. RICKS and 
 
 JOSEPH VAUGHAN. 2s. each. 
 
 Historical Cartoons, Cassell's Coloured. Size 45 in. x 35 in., as. 
 
 each. Mounted on canvas and varnished, with rollers, 53. each. 
 Italian Lessons, with Exercises, Cassell's. Cloth, 33. 6d. 
 Latin Dictionary, Cassell's New. (Latin- English and English- Latin.) 
 Revised by J. R. V. MARCHANT, M.A., and J. F. CHARLES, B.A. 
 Cloth, 33. 6d. Large Paper Edition, 53. 
 Latin Primer, The First. By Prof. POSTGATE. is. 
 Latin Primer, The New. By Prof. J. P. POSTGATE. Crown 8vo, as. 6d. 
 Latin Prose for Lower Forms. By M. A. BAYFIELD, M.A. as. 6d. 
 Laws of Every-Day Life. By H. O. ARNOLD-FORSTER, M.P. is. 6d. 
 Special Edition on Green Paper for Persons with Weak Eyesight. 23. 
 Lessons in Our Laws ; or, Talks at Broadacre Farm. By H. F. 
 
 LESTER, B.A. Parts I. and II., is. 6d. each. 
 Little Folks' History of England. Illustrated, is. 6d. 
 Making of the Home, The. By Mrs. SAMUEL A. BARNETT. is. 6d. 
 Marlborough Books : Arithmetic Examples, 33. French Exercises, 
 
 33. 6d. French Grammar, as. 6d. German Grammar, 33. 6d. 
 Mechanics and Machine Design, Numerical Examples in Practical. 
 By R. G. BLAINB, M.E. New Edition, Revised and Enlarged. With 
 79 Illustrations. Cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 Mechanics for Young Beginners, A First Book of. By the Rev. 
 J. G. E ASTON, M.A. 48. 6d.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company 's Publication*. 
 
 Natural History Coloured Wall Sheets, Cassell's New. 17 Sub- 
 jects Size 39 by 31 in. Mounted on rollers and varnished. 38. each. 
 
 Object Lessons from Nature. By Prof. I* C MIALL, F.L.S. Fully 
 Illustrated. New and En targtd Edition. Two Vols., is. 6d. each. 
 
 Physiology for Schools. By A. T. SCHOFIELD, M.D., M.R.C.S..&C. 
 Illustrated. Cloth, is. gd. ; Three Parts, paper covers, sd. each ; or 
 cloth limp, 6d. each. 
 
 Poetry Readers, Cassell's New. Illustrated. 12 Books, id. each; or 
 complete in one Vol., cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Popular Educator, Cassell's NEW. With Revised Text, New Maps, 
 New Coloured Plates, New Type, &c. In 8 Vols., 55. each; or in 
 Four VoU., half-morocco, 503. the set. 
 
 Readers, Cassell's "Higher Class." (Lift on application.) 
 
 Readers, Cassell's Readable. Illustrated. {Liit on application.) 
 
 Readers for Infant Schools, Coloured. Three Books. 4d. each. 
 
 Reader, The Citizen. By H. O. ARNOLD-FORSTER, M.P. Illustrated. 
 is. 6d. Also a Scottish Edition, cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Reader, The Temperance. By Rev. J. DENNIS HIRD. Crown 8vo, 
 is.6d. 
 
 Readers, Geographical, CasselPs New. With numerous Illustrations. 
 (List on application.) 
 
 Readers, The " Modern School " Geographical. (List on application,) 
 
 Readers, The "Modern School." Illustrated. (List on application.) 
 
 Reckoning, Howard's Art of. By C. FRUSHER HOWARD. Paper 
 covers, is. ; cloth, as. New Edition, 53. 
 
 Round the Empire. By G. R. PARKIN. Fully Illustrated, is. 6d. 
 
 Science Applied to Work. By I. A. BOWER, is. 
 
 Science of Everyday Life By J . A. BOWER. Illustrated, is. 
 
 Shade from Models, Common Objects, and Casts of Ornament, 
 How to. By W. E. SPARKES. With 25 Plates by the Author. 38. 
 
 Shakspere's Plays for School Use. 9 Books. Illustrated. 6d. each. 
 
 Spelling, A Complete Manual of. By J. D. MORELL, LL.D. is. 
 
 Technical Manuals, Cassell's. Illustrated throughout : 
 
 Handrailing and Staircasing, 33. 6d. Bricklayers, Drawing for, 33. 
 Building Construction, as. Cabinet-Makers, Drawing for, 33. 
 Carpenters and Joiners. Drawing for, 33. 6d. Gothic Stonework, 35. 
 Linear Drawing and Practical Geometry, as. Linear Drawing and 
 Projection. The Two Vols. in One, 35. 6d. Machinists and Engineers, 
 Drawing for, 43. 6d. Metal-Plate Workers, Drawing for, 33. Model 
 Drawing, 3S. Orthographical and Isometrical Projection ; as. Practical 
 Perspective, 35. Stonemasons, Drawing for, 35. Applied Mechanics, 
 by Sir R. S. Ball, LL.D., as. Systematic Drawing and Shading, as. 
 
 Technical Educator, Cassell's NEW. An entirely New Cyclopaedia of 
 Technical Education, with Coloured Plates and Engravings. Four 
 Volumes, 55. each. 
 
 Technology, Manuals of. Edited by Prof. AYRTON, F.R.S., and 
 RICHARD WORMELL, D.Sc.. M.A. Illustrated throughout : 
 The Dyeing of Textile Fabrics, by Prof. Hummel, 53. Watch and 
 Clock Making, by D. Glasgow, Vice-President of the British Horo- 
 logical Institute, 45. 6d. Steel and Iron, by Prof. W. H. Greenwood, 
 F.C.S., M.I.C.E., &c., 53. Spinning Woollen and Worsted, by W. S. 
 B.McLaren, M. P., 43. 6d. Design in Textile Fabrics, by T. R. Ashen- 
 hurst, 45. 6d. Practical Mechanics, by Prof. Perry, M.E., 33. 6d. 
 Cutting Tools Worked by Hand and Machine, by Prof. Smith, 33. 6d. 
 
 Things New and Old ; or, Stories from English History. By 
 H. O. ARNOLD-FORSTER, M.P. Fully Illustrated, and strongly bound 
 in Cloth. Standards I. & II.. gd. each; Standard III., is 
 Standard IV., is. 3d. ; Standards V., VI., & VII., is. 6d. each. 
 
 This World of Ours. By H. O. ARNOLD-FORSTER. M.P. Illustrated. 
 3S.6d.
 
 Selections from Cassell i; Company's Publications. 
 
 gooka for flming 
 
 "Little Folks " Half- Yearly Volume. Containing 432 410 pages, with 
 about 200 Illustrations, and Pictures in Colour. Boards, 33. 6d. ; cloth, 55. 
 
 Bo-Peep. A Book for the Little Ones. With Original Stories and Verses. 
 Illustrated throughout. Yearly Volume. Boards, 2s. 6d. ; cloth, 33. 6d. 
 
 Beneath the Banner. Being Narratives of Noble Lives and Brave 
 Deeds. By F. J. CROSS. Illustrated. Limp cloth, is. Cloth gilt, 2S. 
 
 Told Out of School. By A. J. DANIELS. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 
 Five Stars in a Little Pool. By EDITH CARKINGTON. Illustrated. 6s. 
 
 The Great Cattle Trail. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. Illustrated, as. 6d. 
 
 Red Rose and Tiger Lily. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 
 The Romance of Invention: Vignettes from the Annals of Industry 
 
 and Science. By JAMES BURNLEY. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 . The Cost of a Mistake. By SARAH PITT. Illustrated. New Edition. as.6d. 
 
 Beyond the Blue Mountains. By L. T. MEADE. 53. 
 
 The Peep of Day. Casselfs Illustrated Edition, as. 6d. 
 
 Maggie Steele's Diary. By E. A. DILLWYN. as. 6d. 
 
 A Book of Merry Tales. _ By MAGGIE BROWNE, " SHEILA," ISABEL 
 WILSON, and C. L. MATBAUX. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 
 A Sunday Story-Book. By MAGGIE BROWNE, SAM BROWNE, and AUNT 
 ETHEL. Illustrated. 33. 6d. 
 
 A Bundle of Tales. By MAGGIE BROWNE (Author of "Wanted a 
 King," &c.), SAM BROWNE, and AUNT ETHEL. 33. 6d. 
 
 Pleasant Work for Busy Fingers. By MAGGIE BROWNE. Illustrated. 53. 
 
 Born a King. By FRANCES and MARY ARNOLD-FORSTER. (The Life of 
 Alfonso XIII., the Boy King of Spain.) Illustrated, is. 
 
 Cassell's Pictorial Scrap Book. Six Vols. 35. 6d. each. 
 
 Schoolroom and Home Theatricals. By ARTHUR WAUGH. Illus- 
 trated. New Edition. Paper, is. Cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Magic at Home. By Prof. HOFFMAN. Illustrated. Cloth gilt, 33. 6d. 
 
 Little Mother Bunch. By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated. New Edition. 
 Cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 Heroes of Every-day Life. By LAURA LANE. With about 20 Full- 
 page Illustrations. Cloth, as. 6d. 
 
 Bob Lovell's Career. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 55. 
 
 Books for Young People. Cheap Edition. Illustrated. Cloth gilt, 
 35. 6d. each. 
 
 The Champion of Odin ; or, I Bound by a Spell; or, The Hunted 
 Viking Life in the Days of Witch of the Forest. By the 
 
 Old. By J. Fred. Hodgetts. | Hon. Mrs. Greene. 
 
 Under Bayard's Banner. By Henry Frith. 
 
 Books for Young People. Illustrated. 33. 6d. each. 
 
 'Bashful Fifteen. By L. T. Meade. *The Palace Beautiful. By L. T. 
 
 The White House at Inch Gow. 
 
 By Mrs. Pitt 
 
 *A Sweet G-irl Graduate. By L. T. 
 Meade. 
 
 The King's Command: A Story 
 1'or Girls. By Maggie Symington. 
 
 Lost in Samoa. A Tale of Adven- 
 ture in the Navigator Islands. By 
 Edward S. Ellis. 
 
 Tad.: or, " Getting Even " with 
 TTiin. By Edward S. F.llis. 
 
 Meade. 
 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl. By 
 
 L. T. Meade. 
 "Follow Mv Leader." By Talbot 
 
 Baines Reed. 
 A World of Girls: The Story of 
 
 a School. By L, T. Meade. 
 Lost among White Africans. Bv 
 
 David Ker! 
 
 For Fortune and Glory: A Story 01 
 the Soudan War. By Lewis 
 Hough. 
 
 *Alf frtcurable in superior binding, 5a. each.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 
 Crown 8vo Library. Cheap Editions. Gill edges, as. 6d. each. 
 ByC 
 
 Bambles Round London. 
 
 I . Mateaux. Illustrated. 
 Around and About Old England. 
 
 By C. L. Mateaux. Illustrated. 
 Paws and Claws. By one of the 
 
 Authors of " Poems written for a 
 
 Child." Illustrated. 
 Decisive Events in History. 
 
 Bv Thomas Archer. With Original 
 
 lllus-rations. 
 The True Robinson Crusoes. 
 
 Cloth gilt. 
 Peeps A broad for Folks at Home. 
 
 Illustrated throughout 
 
 Wild Adventures in Wild Places. 
 By Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N. Illus- 
 trated. 
 
 Modern Explorers. By Thomas 
 Frost IlluMrated. New and Chcaftt 
 Edition. 
 
 Early Explorers. By Thomas Frost 
 
 Home Chat with our Young Folks. 
 Illustrated throughout. 
 
 Jungle, Peak, and Plain. Illustrated 
 throughout 
 
 The England of Shakespeire. By 
 E. Goadby. With Full-page Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 The "Cross and Crown" Series. Illustrated, as. 6d. each. 
 
 Freedom's Sword : A Story of the 
 Days of Wallace and Bruce. 
 By Annie S. Swan. 
 
 Strong to Suffer: A Story of 
 the Jews. By E. Wynne. 
 
 Heroes of the Indian Empire: 
 or. Stories of Valour and 
 Victory. By Ernest Foster. 
 
 In Letters of Flame : A Story 
 
 of the Waldenses. 
 
 Mateaux. 
 
 By C. L. 
 
 Ily 
 
 Through Trial to Triumph. 
 
 Madeline B. Hunt. 
 By Fire and Sword: A Story of 
 
 the Huguenots. By Thomas 
 
 Archer. 
 Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of 
 
 Kirk and Covenant. By Annie 
 
 S. Swan. 
 No. XIII.; or. The Story of the 
 
 Lost Vestal. A Tale of Early 
 
 Christian Days. By Emma Marshall. 
 
 "Golden Mottoes" Series, The. Each Book containing 208 pages, with 
 Four full-page Original Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, as. each. 
 
 "Nil Desperandum." By the 
 Rev. F. Langbridge, M.A. 
 
 "Bear and Forbear." By Sarah 
 Pitt. 
 
 "Foremost if I Can." 
 Attendee. 
 
 By Helen 
 
 " Honour is my Guide." By Jeanie 
 
 Henng (Mrs. Adams-Acton). 
 " Aim at a Sure End." By Emily 
 
 Searchfield. 
 " He Conquers who Endures." By 
 
 the Author of "May Cunninghams 
 
 Trial. "&c. 
 
 Cassell's Picture Story Books. Each containing about Sixty Page* of 
 Pictures and Stories, &c. 6d. each. 
 
 Little Talks. 
 Bright Stars. 
 Nursery Toys. 
 Pet's Posv. 
 Tiny Tales. 
 
 Daisy's Story Book. 
 Dot's Story Book. 
 A Nest of Stories. 
 Good-Night Stories. 
 Chats for Small Chatterers. 
 
 Auntie's Stories. 
 Birdie's Storv Book. 
 
 Little Chim.'B. 
 A Sheaf of Tales. 
 Dewdrop Stories. 
 
 Cassell's Sixpenny Story Books. All Illustrated, and containing 
 Interesting Stories by well-known writers. 
 
 The Boat Club. 
 
 Little Pickles. 
 
 The Elchester College Boys. 
 
 My First Cruise. 
 
 The Little Peacemaker. 
 
 The Smuggler's Cave. 
 Little Lizzie. 
 
 Little Bird, Life and Adven- 
 tures of. 
 
 Luke Bar nicott. 
 
 The Delft Jug. 
 
 Illustrated Books for the Little Ones. Containing interesting Stories. 
 All Illustrated, is. each ; cloth gilt, is. 6d. 
 
 Bright Tales & Funny Pictures 
 
 Merry Little Tales. 
 
 Little Tales for Little People. 
 
 Liitle People and Their Petj. 
 
 Tsles Told for Sunday. 
 
 Sunday Stories for Small People. 
 
 Stories and Pictures for Sundav. 
 
 Bible Pictures for Boys and Girls. 
 
 Firelight Stories. 
 
 Sunlight and Shade. 
 
 Rub-a-r \b Tales. 
 
 Fine Feathers and Fluffy Fur. 
 
 Scrambles and Scrapes. 
 
 Tittle Tattle Tales. 
 
 Up and Down the Garden. 
 
 All Sorts of Adventures. 
 
 Our Sunday Stories. 
 
 Our Holiday Hours. 
 
 Indoors and Out. 
 
 Some Farm Friends. 
 
 Wandering Ways. 
 
 Dumb Friends. 
 
 Those Golden Sands. 
 
 Little Mothers & their Children. 
 
 Our Pretty Pets. 
 
 Our Schoolday Hours. 
 
 Creatures Tame. 
 
 Creatures Wild.
 
 Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications. 
 Cassell's Shilling Story Books. All Illustrated, and containing Interest 
 
 ing Stories. 
 Bunty and the Boys. 
 The Heir of Elmdale. 
 
 The Giant's Cradle. 
 Shag and Doll. 
 Aunt Lucia's Locket. 
 The Magic Mirror. 
 The Cost of Kevenge. 
 Clever Prank. 
 Among the Redskins. 
 The Ferryman of Brill. 
 Harry Maxwell. 
 A Banished Monarch. 
 Seventeen Cats. 
 
 The Mystery at Shoncliff School. 
 Claimed at Last, & Roy's Reward. 
 Thorns and Tangles. 
 The Cuckoo in the Robin's Nest. 
 John's Mistake. [Pitchers. 
 
 The History of Five Little 
 Diamonds in the Sand. 
 
 Surly Bob. 
 
 " Wanted a King " Series. Cheap Edition. Illustrated, as. 6d. each. 
 Great Grandmamma. By Georgma M. Synge. 
 Robin's Ride. By Ellinor Davenport Adams. 
 Wanted a Kine ; or, How Merle set the Nursery Rhymes to Rights. 
 
 By Maggie Browne. With Original Designs by Harry Furniss. 
 Fairy Tales in Other Lan-ts. By Julia Goddard. 
 
 The World's Workers. A Series of New and Original Volumes. 
 With Portraits printed on a tint as Frontispiece, is. each. 
 
 John Cassell. By G. HoMen Pike. 
 Charles Haddon Spurgeon. By 
 
 G. Holden Pike. 
 Dr. Arnold of Rugby. By Rose 
 
 E. Selfe. 
 The Earl of Shaftesbury. By 
 
 Henry Frith. 
 Sarah Robinson, Agnes Wes- 
 
 ton, and Mrs. Meredith. By 
 
 E. M. Tomkinson. 
 
 Thomas A. Edison and Samuel 
 
 F. B. Morse. By Dr. Denslow 
 and J. Marsh Parker. 
 
 Mrs. Somerville and Mary Car- 
 penter. By Phyllis Browne. 
 
 General Gordon. By the Rev. 
 S. A. Swaine. 
 
 Charles Dickens. By his Eldest 
 Daughter. 
 
 Sir Titus Salt and George 
 Moore. ByJ. Burnley. 
 
 Florence Nightingale, Catherine 
 Marsh, Frances Ridley Haver- 
 gal, Mrs. Ranyard ("L. N. R."). 
 By Lizzie Alldridge. 
 
 Dr. Guthrie, Father Mathew, 
 Elihu Burritt, Georere Livesey. 
 By John W. Kirton, LL.D. 
 
 Sir Henry Havelock and Colin 
 Campbell Lord Clyde. By E. C. 
 Phillips. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln. By Ernest Foster. 
 
 George Miiller and Andrew Reed. 
 By E. R. Pitman. 
 
 Richard Cobden. By R. Gowing. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin. By E. M. 
 Tomkinson. 
 
 Handel. By Eliza Clarke. (Swaine. 
 
 Turner the Artist. By the Rev. S. A. 
 
 George and Robert Stephensou. 
 By C. L. Mateaux. 
 
 David Livingstone. By Robert Smiles. 
 
 The above Works can also te had Three in One Vol., cloth, gill edg, 
 Library of Wonders. Illustrated Gift-books for Boys. Paper, is.; 
 
 cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Wonderful Balloon Ascents. I 'Wonders of Animal Instinct. 
 Wonderful Adventures. Wonders of Bodily Strength 
 
 Wonderful Escapes. and Skill. 
 
 Cassell's Eighteenpenny Story Books. Illustrated. 
 
 Wee Willie Winkle. 
 
 Ups and Downs of a Donkey's 
 
 Life. 
 
 Three Wee Ulster Lassies. 
 Up the Ladder. 
 
 Dick's Hero; and other Stories. 
 The Chip Boy. 
 Raggles, Baggies, and the 
 
 Emperor. 
 
 Roses trom Thorns. 
 Gift Books for Young People. 
 
 Faith's Father. 
 
 By Land and Sea. 
 
 The Young Berringtons. 
 
 Jeff and Leff. 
 
 Tom Morris's Error. 
 
 Worth more than Gold. 
 
 "Through Flood Through Fire;" 
 
 and other Stories. 
 The Girl with the Golden Looks. 
 Stories of the Olden Time. 
 By Popular Authors. With Four 
 
 Original Illustrations in each. Cloth gilt, is. 6d. each 
 
 The Boy Hunters of Kentucky. 
 By Edward S. Ellis. 
 
 Red Feather: a Tale ol the 
 American Frontier. By 
 Edward S. Kllis. 
 
 Seeking a City. 
 
 Rhoda's Reward; or, "II 
 Wishes were Horses." 
 
 Jack Marston's Anchor. 
 
 Frank's Life-Battle; or, The 
 Three Friends. 
 
 Fritters. By Sarah Pitt. 
 
 The Two Hardcastles. By Made- 
 line Bonavia Hunt. 
 
 Major Monk's Motto. By the Rev. 
 
 F. Langbridge. 
 
 Trixy. liy Maggie Symington. 
 Rags and Rainbows: A Story of 
 
 Thanksgiving. 
 Uncle William's Charges; or, The 
 
 Broken Trust. 
 Pretty Pink's Purpose; or, The 
 
 Little Street Merchants. 
 Tim Thomson's Trial. By George 
 
 Weatherly. 
 Ursula's S tumbline-Block Bv lulia 
 
 Goddard. 
 Ruth's Life-Work. By the Rev. 
 
 Joseph Johnson,
 
 Selections from Cassell Sf Company's Publications, 
 
 Cassell's Two-Shilling Story Books. Illustrated. 
 
 Peggy, and other Tales. 
 
 The Four Cats of tue Tipper-tons. 
 
 Marion's Two Homes. 
 
 Little Folks' Sunday Book. 
 
 Two Pourpenny Bits. 
 
 Poor Nelly. 
 
 Tom Uenot. 
 
 Through Peril to Fortune. 
 
 Aunt Tabitha's Waifs. 
 
 In Mischief Again. 
 
 ciuLii, gill, cugeb. 4a. uu. cacii. 
 In Quest of Gold: or, Under 
 the Whanga Falls. 
 
 On Board the EsmeraUa ; or, 
 Martin Leigh's Log. 
 
 Margaret's Enemy. 
 Stones of the Tower. 
 Mr. Burke's Nieces. 
 Mav Cunningham's Trial. 
 The Top of the Ladder : How to 
 
 Reach it. 
 Little Flotsam. 
 Madge and Her Friends. 
 The Children of the Court. 
 Maid Marjory. 
 
 Cheap Editions of Popular Volumes for Young People. Bound in 
 cloth, gilt edges, as. 6d. each. 
 
 For Queen and King. 
 
 Esther West. 
 
 Three Homes. 
 
 Working to Win. 
 
 Perils Afloat and Brigands 
 
 Ashore. 
 
 The "Deerfoot" Series. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. With Four full-page 
 Illustrations in each Book. Cloth, bevelled boards, as. 6d. each. 
 The Hunters ol the Ozark. | The Camp in the Mountains. 
 
 The Last War Trail. 
 
 The "Log Cabin" Series. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. With Four Full- 
 page Illustrations in each. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Lost Trail. | Camp-Fire and Wigwam. 
 
 Footprints in the Forest. 
 
 The "Great River" Series. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. Illustrated. 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, bevelled boards, as. 6d. each. 
 
 Down the Mississippi. j Lost in the Wilds. 
 
 Up the Tapaj os ; or, Adventures in Brazil. 
 
 The " Boy Pioneer" Series. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. With Four Full- 
 page Illustrations in each Book. Crown 8vo, cloth, as. 6d. each. 
 Ned in the 'Woods. A Tale of I Ned on the Kiver. A Tale of Indian 
 Early Days in the West. River Warfare. 
 
 Ned in the Block House. A Story of Pioneer Life in Kentucky. 
 The "World in Pictures." Illustrated throughout. Cheap Edition. 
 is. 6d. each. 
 
 A Kamble Round France. 
 All the Russias. 
 Chats about Germany. 
 The Eastern Wonderland 
 (Japan). 
 
 The Land of Pyramids (Egypt). 
 Half-Crown Story Books. 
 Pen's Perplexities. 
 Pictures of School Life and Boy- 
 hood. 
 
 Books for the Little Ones. 
 Rhymes for the Young Folk. 
 By William Allingham. Beautifully 
 Illustrated. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Glimpses of South America. 
 Round Africa. 
 
 The Land of Temples (India). 
 The Isles of the Pacific. 
 Peeps into China 
 
 Notable Shipwrecks. 
 At the South Pole. 
 
 The History Scrap Book. With 
 nearly 1,000 Engravings. Cloth, 
 7s. 6d. 
 Albums for Children. 35. 6d. each. 
 
 My Diary. With 12 Coloured Plates 
 
 and 366 Woodcuts. Is. 
 The Sunday Scrap Book. With 
 
 Several Hundred Illustrations. Paper 
 
 boards, 3s. 6d. ; cloth, gilt edges, 5s. 
 The Old Fairy Tales. With Origii al 
 
 Illustrations. Boards, Is.: cloth. 
 
 la. ecu 
 
 The Album lor Home, Schoo., 
 and Play. Containing Stories by 
 Popular Authors. Illustrated. 
 
 My Own Album of Animals. 
 With Full-page Illustrations. 
 
 With 
 
 Picture Album of All Sorts. 
 
 Full-page Illustrations. 
 The Chit-Chat Album. Illustrated 
 
 throughout 
 
 Cassell & Company's Complete Catalogue will be sent post 
 free on application to 
 
 CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, Ludgate Hill, London.
 

 
 DATE DUE