-VA/T*'^" 
 
 'LlIU- 
 
J 
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/famesorrowcoloneOObalzrich 
 
€l)e WotH of 2&aJ5ac 
 
 CENTENARY EDITION 
 VOLUME III. 
 
 FAME AND SORROW 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
■oceie C-bu {■.."■ 
 
J^cene^ from ^tibate %i(t 
 
 LA COMEDIE HUMAINE 
 
 OF 
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 
 
 FA.P/^ AND SOS^QHT, >^, 
 
 COLONS. L C/lABE.^r\V' 
 
 THE ATHEIST'S MASS 
 
 LA GRANDE B RE TEC HE 
 
 THE PURSE 
 
 LA GRENADIMRE 
 
 A DOUBLE LIFE ' 
 
 THE RURAL BALL 
 
 THE DESERTED WOMAN 
 
 ^UustrateU iig 
 
 LAURENT-DESROUSSEAUX 
 AND GEORGES CAIN 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1907 
 
d 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Copyright, 1800, 1895, 1896, 
 \l y\ By 'JlgfBjijLTS JBik)thers. 
 
 ••• • •• • *••• • 'rf . . . 
 
 ** *By*H*ar^y, TrXVi'. A^b 'Company. 
 
 A U rights reserved. 
 
 2Enibersitg Press : 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 F ME AND Sorrow 1 
 
 Colonel Chabert 93 
 
 The Atheist's Mass 193 
 
 La Grande BRETiiCHE 221 
 
 The Purse 255 
 
 La Grenadi^re • • • . S03 
 
 A DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
 L The Second Life 839 
 
 n. The First Life S84 
 
 m. Besult •••• 428 
 
 THE RURAL BALL. 
 
 L A Rebellious Young Girl .441 
 
 n. The Ball 467 
 
 HI. In which the Worst comes to the Worst 489 
 
 THE DESERTED WOMAN 618 
 
 ^Xii043 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 From Photogravure Plates by Goupil ^ Co., Paris, 
 
 "The shop was not yet lighted vp" , . Frontispiece 
 
 " On such days she would sit beneath an 
 
 evergreen" Page 328 
 
 Designed by Laurekt-Desrousskaux. 
 
 ** The Abbi^ appeared in a state of very evi- 
 dent agitation". 419 
 
 Designed by Georges Cain. 
 
-. , 1 > ' J ' ' » » 
 
 '"•• •>*:.» ^5 >5 ', 
 
 FAME AND SORROW.* 
 
 Dedicated to Mademoiselle Marie de Montheaxi. 
 
 About the middle of the rue Saint-Denis, and near 
 the corner of the rue du Petit-Lion, there stood, not 
 very long ago, one of those precious houses which 
 enable historians to reconstruct by analogy the Paris 
 of former times. The frowning walls of this shabby 
 building seemed to have been originally decorated by 
 hieroglyphics. What other name could a passing ob- 
 server give to the X's and the Y's traced upon them 
 by the transversal or diagonal pieces of wood which 
 showed under the stucco through a number of little 
 parallel cracks? Evidently, the jar of each passing 
 carriage shook the old joists in their plaster coatings. 
 
 1 This was the title {Gloire et Malheur) under which the story- 
 was first published in 1830. The name was changed in 1842 to 
 La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote. The awkwardness of the title in 
 English (The House of the Cat-play ing-ball) leads the translator 
 to use the original name given by Balzac. 
 
 1 
 
2 . Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 , The, .venerable .building was covered with a triangular 
 ci-dof^'a shape G^Sv'hibh no specimen will exist much 
 longer in Paris. This roof, twisted out of line by the 
 inclemencies of Parisian weather, overhung the street 
 b}' about three feet, as much to protect the door-steps 
 from the rain as to shelter the wall of the garret and its 
 frameless window ; for the upper storej' was built of 
 planks, nailed one above the other like slates, so as not 
 to overweight the construction beneath it. 
 
 On a rain}^ morning in the month of March, a 3'oung 
 man carefully wrapped in a cloak was standing beneath 
 the awning of a shop directly opposite to the old build- 
 ing, which he examined with the enthusiasm of an archse* 
 ologist ; for, in truth, this relic of the bourgeoisie of the 
 sixteenth century presented more than one problem to 
 the mind of an intelligent observer. Each storey had 
 its own peculiarity ; on the first were four long, nari'ow 
 windows verj^ close to each other, with wooden squares 
 in place of glass panes to the lower sash, so as to give 
 the uncertain light by which a clever shopkeeper can 
 make his goods match any color desired b}' a customer. ' 
 
 The young man seemed to disdain this important part 
 of the house ; in fact, his eyes had not even rested on 
 it. The windows of the second floor, the raised outer 
 blinds of which gave to sight through large panes of 
 Bohemian glass small muslin curtains of a reddish tinge, 
 seemed also not to interest him. His attention centred 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 3 
 
 on the third store}', — on certain humble windows, the 
 wooden frames of which deserved a place in the Con- 
 eervatory of Arts and Manufactures as specimens of 
 the earliest efforts of French joinery. These windows 
 liad little panes of so green a glass that had he not 
 possessed an excellent pair of eyes the young man could 
 not have seen the blue-checked curtains which hid the 
 mysteries of the room from the gaze of the profane. 
 Occasionall}' the watcher, as if tired of his abortive 
 watch, or annoyed by the silence in which the house 
 was buried, dropped his eyes to the lower regions. An 
 involuntary smile would then flicker on his lips as he 
 glanced at the shop, where, indeed, were certain things 
 that were laughable enough. 
 
 A formidable beam of wood, resting horizontally on 
 four pillars which appeared to bend under the weight of 
 the decrepit house, had received as many and diverse 
 coats of paint as the cheek of an old duchess. At the 
 middle of this large beam, slightl}^ carved, was an an- 
 tique picture representing a cat playing ball. It was 
 this work of art which made the young man smile ; and 
 it must be owned that not the cleverest of modern 
 painters could have invented a more comical design. 
 The animal held in one of its fore-paws a racket as big 
 as itself, and stood up on its hind paws to aim at an 
 enormous ball which a gentleman in a brocaded coat was 
 tossing to it. Design, colors, and accessories were all 
 
4 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 treated in a wa}' to inspire a belief that the artist meant 
 to make fun of both merchant and customers. Time, 
 b}' altering the crude colors, had made the picture still 
 more grotesque through certain bewildering changes, 
 which could not fail to trouble a conscientious observer. 
 For instance, the ringed tail of the cat was cut apart in 
 such a way that the end might be taken for an onlooker, 
 so thick, long, and well-covered were the tails of the 
 cats of our ancestors. To the right of the picture, on a 
 blue ground, which imperfectlj' concealed the rotten 
 wood, could be read the name *' Guillaume," and to the 
 left the words *' Successor to the Siedr Chevrel." 
 
 Sun and rain had tarnished or washed off the greater 
 part of the gilding parsimoniously bestowed upon th« 
 letters of this inscription, in which U's stood in place of 
 V's, and vice versa^ according to the rules of our ancient 
 orthograph3\ In order to bring down the pride of those 
 who think the world is daily growing cleverer and wit- 
 tier, and that modern claptrappery surpasses everything 
 that went before, it may be well to mention here that 
 such signs as these, the etymology of which seems fan- 
 tastic to man}' Parisian merchants, are reall}^ the dead 
 pictures of once living realities by which our lively an- 
 cestors contrived to entice customers into their shops. 
 Thus, "The Sow a-Spinning," '^The Green Monkey," 
 and so forth, were live animals in cages, whose clever 
 tricks delighted the passers in the streets, and whose 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 5 
 
 training proved the patience of the shopkeepers of the 
 fifteenth centur}'. Such natural curiosities brought bet- 
 ter profits to their fortunate possessors than the fine 
 names, '' Good Faith," '' Providence," '' The Grace of 
 God," "The Decapitation of Saint John the Baptist," 
 which are still to be seen in that same rue Saint-Denis. 
 
 However, our unknown 3'oung man was certainly not 
 stationed there to admire the cat, which a moment's 
 notice sufficed to fix in his memory. He too, had his 
 peculiarities. His cloak, flung about him after the man- 
 ner of antique draperj^, left to sight the elegant shoes 
 and white silk stockings on his feet, which were all the 
 more noticeable in the midst of that Pansian mud, 
 several spots of which seemed to prove the haste with 
 which he had made his way there. No doubt he had 
 just left a wedding or a ball, for at this earl}- hour of 
 the morning he held a pair of white gloves in his hand, 
 and the curls of his black hair, now uncurled and tum- 
 bling on his shoulders, seemed to indicate a style of 
 wearing it called " Caracalla," a fashion set b}- the 
 painter David and his school, and followed with that 
 devotion to Greek and Roman ideas and shapes which 
 marked the earlier years of this century. 
 
 In spite of the noise made by a few belated kitchen- 
 gardeners as they gallopped their cartloads of produce 
 to the markets, the street was still hushed in that calm 
 stillness the magic of which is known only to those who 
 
6 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 wander about a deserted Paris at the hour when its 
 nightly uproar ceases for a moment, then reawakes and 
 is heard in the distance Uke the voice of Ocean. 
 
 This singular 3'oung man must have seemed as odd 
 to the shopkeepers of the Cat-playing-ball as the Cat- 
 pi ay ing-ball seemed to him. A dazzling white cravat 
 made his harassed white face even paler than it really 
 was. The fire of his black eyes, that were sparkling 
 and yet gloomy, harmonized with the eccentric outline 
 of his face, and with his large, sinuous mouth, which con- 
 tracted when he smiled. His forehead, wrinkling under 
 any violent annoyance, had something fatal about it. 
 The forehead is surely the most prophetic feature of the 
 face. When that of this unknown young man expressed 
 anger, the creases which immediately showed upon it 
 excited a sort of terror, through the force of passion 
 which brought them there ; but the moment he recov- 
 ered his calmness, so easily shaken, the brow shone 
 with a luminous grace that embellished the whole coun- 
 tenance, where joy and grief, love, anger, and disdain 
 flashed forth in so communicative a way that the coldest 
 of men was inevitably impressed. 
 
 It chanced that the man was so annoyed at the mo- 
 ment when some one hastily opened the garret window, 
 that he missed seeing three joyous faces, plump, and 
 white, and rosy, but also as commonplace as those given 
 to the statues of Commerce on public buildings. These 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 7 
 
 three heads framed b)^ the open window, recalled the 
 puffy angel faces scattered among the clouds, which 
 usually accompany the Eternal Father. The appren- 
 tices were inhaling the emanations from the street with 
 an eagerness which showed how hot and mephitic the 
 atmosphere of their garret must have been. The elder 
 of the three clerks, after pointing out to his companions 
 the stranger in the street, disappeared for a moment 
 and then returned, holding in his hand an instrument 
 whose inflexible metal has latel}^ been replaced by sup- 
 ple leather. Thereupon a mischievous expression came 
 upon all three faces as they looked at the singular watch- 
 er, while the elder proceeded to shower him with a fine 
 white rain, the odor of which proved that three chins 
 had just been shaved. Standing back in the room on 
 tiptoe to enjoy their victim's rage, the clerks all stopped 
 laugliing when they saw the careless disdain with which 
 the 5'oung man shook the drops from his mantle, and 
 the profound contempt apparent on his face when he 
 raised his ej^es to the now vacant window. 
 
 Just then a delicate white hand lifted the lower part 
 of one of the roughly made windows on the third floor 
 by means of those old-fashioned grooves, whose pulleys 
 so often let fall the heav}- sashes the}- were intended to 
 hold up. The watcher was rewarded for his long wait- 
 ing. The face of a young girl, fresh as the white lilies 
 that bloom on the surface of a lake, appeared, framed 
 
8 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 hy a rumpled muslin cap, which gave a delightful look 
 of innocence to the head. Her neck and shoulders, 
 though covered with some brown stuff, were plainly 
 seen through rifts in the garment opened by movements 
 made in sleep. No sign of constraint marred the in- 
 genuous expression of that face nor the calm of those 
 eyes, immortalized already in the sublime conceptions 
 of Raffaelle ; here was the same grace, the same virgin 
 tranquillity now become proverbial. A charming con- 
 trast was produced by the youth of the cheeks, on which 
 sleep had thrown into relief a superabundance of life, 
 and the age of the massive window, with its coarse 
 frame now blackened b}' time. Like those day-bloom- 
 ing flowers which in the early morning have not as jqX, 
 unfolded their tunics tightly closed against the chill of 
 night, the young girl, scarcely awake, let her eyes wan- 
 der across the neighboring roofs and upward to the sk}' ; 
 then she lowered them to the gloomy precincts of the 
 street, where they at once encountered those of her 
 adorer. No doubt her innate coquetry caused her a 
 pang of mortification at being seen in such dishabille, 
 for she quickly drew back, the worn-out sash-pulle}' 
 turned, the window came down with a rapidity which 
 has earned, in our da}', an odious name for that naive 
 invention of our ancestors, and the vision disappeared. 
 The brightest of the stars of the morning seemed to the 
 young man to have passed suddenly under a cloud. 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 9 
 
 While these trifling events were occurring, the heavy 
 inside shutters which protected the thin glass of the 
 windows in the shop, called the House of the Cat- 
 playing-ball, had been opened as if b^^ magic. The 
 door, with its old fashioned knocker, was set back 
 against the inner wall by a serving-man, who might 
 have been contemporary with the sign itself, and whose 
 shaking hand fastened to the picture a square bit of 
 cloth, on which were embroidered in yellow silk the 
 words, " Guillaume, successor to Chevrel." More than 
 one pedestrian would have been unable to guess the 
 business in which the said Guillaume was engaged. 
 Through the heavy iron bars which protected the shop 
 window on the outside, it was difficult to see the bales 
 wrapped in brown linen, which were as numerous as a 
 school of herrings on their way across tlie ocean. In 
 spite of the apparent simplicity of this gothic facade, 
 Monsieur Guillaume was among the best known drapers 
 in Paris, one whose shop was always well supplied, 
 whose business relations were widely extended, and 
 whose commercial honor no one had ever doubted. If 
 some of his fellow-tradesmen made contracts with the 
 government without possessing cloth enough to fulfil 
 them, he was always able and willing to lend them 
 enough to make up deficiencies, however large the num- 
 ber contracted for might be. The shrewd dealer knew 
 a hundred ways of drawing the lion's share of profits to 
 
10 Fame and Sorrotv, 
 
 himself without being forced, Hke the others, to beg for 
 influence, or do base things, or give rich presents. If 
 the ti*adesmen he thus assisted could not pay the loan 
 except by long drafts on good security, he referred 
 thera to his notar}', like an accommodating man, and 
 managed to get a double profit out of the affair; an 
 expedient which led to a remark, almost proverbial in 
 the rue Saint-Denis, " God keep us from the notary of 
 Monsieur Guillaume ! " 
 
 The old dealer happened, as if by some miraculous 
 chance, to be standing at the open door of his shop 
 just as the servant, having finished that part of his 
 morning duty, withdrew. Monsieur Guillaume looked 
 up and down the rue Saint-Denis, then at the adjoining 
 shops, and then at the weather, like a man landing 
 at Havre who sees France again after a long voy- 
 age. Having full}- convinced himself that nothing had 
 changed since he went to sleep the night before, he 
 now perceived the man doing sentry dut}^, who, on his 
 side, was examining the patriarch of drapery \qv\ much 
 as Humboldt must have examined the first electric eel 
 which he saw in America. 
 
 Monsieur Guillaume wore wide breeches of black 
 velvet, dyed stockings, and square shoes with silver 
 buckles ; his coat, made with square lappels, square 
 skirts, and square collar, wrapped a figure, slightly bent, 
 in its loose folds of greenish cloth, and was fastened with 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 11 
 
 large, white, metal buttons tarnished from use ; his gray 
 hair was so carefully combed and plastered to his yel- 
 low skull that the two presented somewhat the effect of 
 a ploughed field ; his little green eyes, sharp as gimlets, 
 glittered under lids whose pale red edges took the place 
 of lashes. Care had furrowed his brow with as many 
 horizontal lines as there were folds in his coat. The 
 pallid face bespoke patience, commercial wisdom, and 
 a species of sly cupidity acquired in business. 
 
 At the period of which we write it was less rare than 
 it is now to meet with old commercial families who pre- 
 served as precious traditions the manners, customs, and 
 characteristics of their particular callings ; and who 
 remained, in the midst of the new civilization, as ante- 
 diluvian as the fossils discovered by Cuvier in the quar* 
 ries. The head of the Guillaume family was one of these 
 noteworthy guardians of old customs ; he even regretted 
 the provost-marshal of merchants, and never spoke of a 
 decision in the court of commerce without calUng it " the 
 sentence of the consuls." Having risen, in accordance 
 with these customs, the earliest in the house, he was 
 now awaiting with a determined air the arrival of his 
 three clerks, intending to scold them if a trifle late. 
 Those heedless disciples of Mercurj' knew nothing more 
 appalling than the silent observation with which the 
 master scrutinized their faces and their movements of a 
 Monday morning, searching for proofs or traces of their 
 
12 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 frolics. But, strange to say, just as they appeared, the 
 old draper paid no attention to his apprentices ; he was 
 engaged in finding a motive for the evident interest 
 with which the young man in silk stockings and a 
 cloak turned his eyes alternatel}^ on the pictured sign 
 and then into the depths of the shop. The daylight, 
 now increasing, showed the counting-room behind an 
 iron railing covered by curtains of faded green silk, 
 where Monsieur Guillaume kept his huge books, the mute 
 oracles of his business. The too inquisitive stranger 
 seemed to have an eye on them, and also to be scruti- 
 nizing the adjoining dining-room, where the family, 
 when assembled for a meal, could see whatever hap- 
 pened at the entrance of the shop. So great an interest 
 in his private premises seemed suspicious to the eld 
 merchant, who had lived under the law of the maxi- 
 mum. Consequently, Monsieur Guillaume supposed, 
 not unnaturally, that the doubtful stranger had designs 
 upon his strong-box. 
 
 The elder of the clerks, after discreetly enjoying the 
 silent duel which was taking place between his master 
 and the stranger, ventured to come out upon the step 
 where stood Monsieur Guillaume, and there he observed 
 that the young man was glancing furtivel}^ at the third- 
 floor windows. The clerk made three steps into the 
 street, looked up, and fancied he caught sight of Ma- 
 demoiselle Augustine Guillaume hastily retiring. Dis- 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 13 
 
 pleased with this show of perspicacitj' on the part of his 
 head-clerk, the draper looked askance at his subordi- 
 nate. Then suddenly the mutual anxieties excited in 
 the souls of lover and merchant were allayed, — the 
 stranger hailed a passing hackney coach, and jumped 
 into it with a deceitful air of indifference. His depart- 
 ure shed a sort of balm into the souls of the other 
 clerks, who were somewhat uneasy at the presence of 
 their victim. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what are you about, standing 
 there with your arms crossed ? " said Monsieur Guil- 
 laume to his three neophytes. " In my da}', good 
 faith, when I was under the Sieur Chevrel, I had ex- 
 amined two pieces of cloth before this time of day ! " 
 
 " Then it must have been daylight earlier," said the 
 second clerk, whose duty it was to examine the rolls. 
 
 The old dealer could not help smiling. Though two 
 of the three clerks, consigned to his care by their fath- 
 ers, rich manufacturers at Louviers and Sedan, had only 
 to ask on the day they came of age for a hundred thou- 
 sand francs, to have them, Guillaume believed it to be 
 his duty to keep them under the iron rod of an old- 
 fashioned despotism, wholly unknown in these daj^s in 
 our brilliant modern shops, where the clerks expect to 
 be rich men at thirty, — he made them work like negro 
 slaves. His three clerks did as much as would have 
 tired out ten of the modern sybarites whose laziness 
 
14 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 swells the columns of a budget. No sound ever broke 
 the stillness of that solemn establishment, where all 
 *binges were oiled, and the smallest article of furniture 
 was kept with a virtuous nicety which showed severe 
 economy and the strictest order. Sometimes the gid- 
 diest of the three clerks ventured to scratch upon the 
 rind of the Gruyere cheese, which was delivered to 
 them at breakfast and scrupulously respected by them, 
 the date of its first deliver}^ This prank, and a few 
 others of a like kind, would occasionally bring a smile 
 to the lips of Guillaume's youngest daughter, the pretty 
 maiden who had just passed like a vision before the 
 ej'es of the enchanted watcher. 
 
 Though each of the apprentices paid a large sum for 
 hi-^ board, not one of them would have dared to remain 
 at table until the dessert was served. When Madame 
 Guillaume made read}' to mix the salad, the poor young 
 fellows trembled to think with what parsimon}' that pru- 
 dent hand would pour the oil. They were not allowed 
 to pass a night off the premises without giving long 
 notice and plausible reasons for the irregularity. Every 
 Sunday two clerks, taking the honor by turns, accom- 
 panied the Guillaume family to mass and to vespers. 
 Mesdemoiselles Virginie and Augustine, Gillaume's two 
 daughters, modestly attired in printed cotton gowns, 
 each took the arm of a clerk and walked in front, 
 beneath the piercing eyes of their mother, who brought 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 15 
 
 up the domestic procession with her husband, com- 
 pelled by her to carry two large prayer-books bound 
 in black morocco. The second clerk received no salary ; 
 as to the elder, whom twelve years of perseverance and 
 discretion had initiated into the secrets of the establish- 
 ment, he received twelve hundred francs a 3'ear in re- 
 turn for his services. On certain family l(^te-days a few 
 gifts were bestowed upon him, the sole value of which 
 lay in the labor of Madame Guillaume's lean and wrinkled 
 hands, — knitted purses, which she took care to stuff 
 with cotton wool to show their patterns, braces of the 
 strongest construction, or silk stockings of the heaviest 
 make. Sometimes, but rarely, this prime minister was 
 allowed to share the enjo3'ments of the family when they 
 spent a day in the country or, after months of deliber- 
 ation, they decided to hire a box at the theatre, and 
 use their right to demand some play of which Paris had 
 long been weary. 
 
 As to the other clerks, the barrier of respect which 
 formerly separated a master draper from his appren- 
 tices was so firmly fixed between them and the old 
 merchant that they would have feared less to steal a 
 piece of cloth than to break through that august eti- 
 quette. This deference may seem preposterous in our 
 day, but these old houses were schools of commercial 
 honesty and dignity. The masters adopted the appren- 
 tices ; their linen was cared for, mended, and often re- 
 
16 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 newed by the mistress of the house. If a clerk fell ill 
 the attention he received was truly maternal ; in case of 
 danger the master spared no money and called in the 
 best doctors, for he held himself answerable to the 
 parents of these j'oung men for their health as well as 
 for their morals and their business training. If one of 
 them, honorable by nature, was overtaken \)y some dis- 
 aster, these old merchants knew how to appreciate the 
 real intelligence such a j'outh had displayed, and often 
 did not hesitate to trust the happiness of a daughter to 
 one to whom the}^ had already confided the care of their 
 business. Guillaume was one of these old-fashioned busi- 
 ness men ; if he had their absurdities, he had also their 
 fine qualities. Thus it was that Joseph Lebas, his head- 
 clerk, an orphan without property, was, to his mind, a 
 suitable husband for Virginie, his eldest daughter. But 
 Joseph did not share these cut-and-dried opinions of 
 his master, who, for an empire, would not have married 
 his 3^oungest daughter before the elder. The unfortu- \ 
 nate clerk felt that his heart was given to Mademoiselle 
 Augustine, the j^ounger sister. To explain this passion, 
 which had grown up secretly, we must look further into 
 the system of autocratic government which ruled the 
 house and home of the old merchant draper. 
 
 Guillaume had two daughters. The eldest, Made- 
 moiselle Virginie, was a reproduction of her mother. 
 Madame Guillaume, daughter of the Sieur Chevrel, sat. 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 17 
 
 so firmly upright behind her counter that she had more 
 than once overheard bets as to her being impaled there. 
 Her long, thin face expressed a sanctimonious piety 
 Madame Guillaume, devoid of all grace and without 
 amiability of manner, covered her sexagenary head with 
 a bonnet of invariable shape trimmed with long lappets 
 like those of a widow. The whole neighborhood called 
 her *'the nun." Her words were few; her gestures 
 sudden and jerky, like the action of a telegraph. Her 
 eyes, clear as those of a cat, seemed to dislike the 
 whole world because she herself was ugly. Mademoi- 
 selle Virginie, brought up, like her 3'ounger sister, under 
 the domestic rule of her mother, was now twent3'-eight 
 years of age. Youth softened the ill-favored, awkward 
 air which her resemblance to her mother gave at times 
 to her appearance ; but maternal severit}' had bestowed 
 upon her two great qualities which counterbalanced the 
 rest of her inheritance, — she was gentle and patient. 
 Mademoiselle Augustine, now scarcely eighteen j'ears 
 old, was like neither father nor mother. She was one 
 of those girls who, b}' the absence of all ph3'sical ties 
 to their parents, seem to justify the saying of prudes, 
 ''God sends the children." Augustine was small, or, 
 to give a better idea of her, delicate. Graceful and full 
 of simplicity and candor, a man of the world could have 
 found no fault with the charming creature except that 
 her gestures were unmeaning and her attitudes occasion- 
 
18 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 all}^ common, or even awkward. Her silent and qui- 
 escent face expressed the fleeting melancholy which 
 fastens upon all young girls who are too feeble to dare 
 resist the will of a domineering mother. 
 
 Alwaj's modestly dressed, the two sisters had no way 
 of satisfying the innate coquetry of their woman's nature 
 except by a luxury of cleanliness and neatness which 
 became them wonderfully, and put them in keeping 
 with the shining counters and shelves on which the old 
 servant allowed not a speck of dust to settle, — in 
 keeping, too, with the antique simplicity of everything 
 about them. Forced by such a life to find the elements 
 of happiness in regular occupation, Augustine and Vir- 
 ginie had up to this time given nothing but satisfac- 
 tion to their mother, who secretly congratulated herself 
 on the perfect characters of her two daughters. It is 
 easy to imagine the results of such an education as 
 they had received. Brought up in the midst of busi- 
 ness, accustomed to hear arguments and calculations 
 that were grievousl}^ mercantile, taught grammar, book- 
 keeping, a little Jewish history, a little French history 
 in La Ragois, and allowed to read no books but those 
 their mother sanctioned, it is unnecessary to say that 
 their ideas were limited ; but they knew how to manage 
 a household admirably ; they understood the value and 
 the cost of things ; they appreciated the difficulties in 
 the wa}^ of amassing money ; they were economical and 
 
Fame and Sorroio, 19 
 
 full of respect for the faculties and qualities of men of 
 business. In spite of their father's wealth, ihey were 
 as clever at darning as they were at embroidery ; their 
 mother talked of teaching them to cook, so that they 
 might know how to order a dinner and scold the cook 
 from actual experience. 
 
 These girls, who were ignorant of the pleasures of the 
 world and saw only the peaceful current of their parents* 
 exemplary lives, seldom cast their 3'outhful e3'es bej'ond 
 the precincts of that old patrimonial house, which to 
 their mother was the universe. The parties occasioned 
 by certain famil}- solemnities formed the whole horizon 
 of their terrestrial joys. When the large salon on the 
 second floor was thrown open to receive guests, — such 
 as Madame Roguin, formerly Mademoiselle Chevrel, 
 fifteen years 3'ounger than her cousin, and who wore 
 diamonds ; young Rabourdin, head-clerk at the ministry 
 of Finance ; Monsieur Caesar Birotteau, the rich per- 
 fumer, and his wife, called Madame Caesar ; Monsieur 
 Camusot, the richest silk merchant in the rue des Bour- 
 donnais ; his father-in-law, Monsieur Cardot ; two or 
 three old bankers, and certain irreproachable women, — 
 then the preparations in getting out the silver plate, the 
 Dresden china, the wax candles, the choice glass, all 
 carefully packed away, were a diversion to the monoto- 
 nous lives of the three women, who went and came, 
 with as many steps and as much fuss as though they 
 
20 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 were nuns preparing for the reception of their bishop. 
 Then, at night, when all three were tired out with the 
 exertion of wiping, rubbing, unpacking, and putting in 
 their places the ornaments of these festivals, and the 
 3'oung girls were helping their mother to go to bed, 
 Madame Guillaume would say, ''My dears, we have 
 really accomplished nothing." 
 
 If, at these solemn assemblies, the pious creature al- 
 lowed a little dancing, and kept the whist and the 
 boston and the tric-trac players to the confines of her 
 own bedroom, the concession was accepted as an un- 
 hoped-for felicit}^, and gave as much happiness as the 
 two or three public balls to which Guillaume took his 
 daughters during the carnival. Once a year the worthy 
 draper himself gave an entertainment on which he 
 spared no expense. However rich and elegant the in- 
 vited guests might be, they took care not to miss that 
 fete ; for the most important business houses in the 
 city often had recourse to the vast credit, or the wealth, 
 or the great experience of Monsieur Guillaume. The 
 two daughters of the worthy merchant did not, however, 
 profit as much as might be thought from the instructions 
 which society oflfers to young minds. Thej^ wore at 
 these entertainments (bills of exchange, as it were, upon 
 futurity) wreaths and ornaments of so common a kind 
 as to make them blush. Their st^'le of dancing was not 
 of the best, and maternal vigilance allowed them to say 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 21 
 
 only " Yes " or *' No " to their partners. Then the invari- 
 able domestic rule of the Cat-playing-ball obliged them 
 to retire at eleven o'clock, just as the party was getting 
 animated. So their pleasures, apparently conformable 
 with their father's wealth, were really dull and insipid 
 through circumstances derived from the habits and 
 principles of their family. 
 
 As to their daily life, a single fact will suffice to paint 
 it. Madame Guillaume required her daughters to dress 
 for the day in the early morning, to come downstairs 
 at precisely the same hour, and to arrange their occu- 
 pations with monastic regularity. Yet, with all this, 
 chance had bestowed upon Augustine a soul that was 
 able to feel the void of such an existence. Sometimes 
 those blue ej^es were lifted for a moment as if to ques- 
 tion the dark depths of the stairway or the damp shop. 
 Listening to the cloistral silence her ears seemed to hear 
 from afar confused revelations of the passionate life, 
 which counts emotions as of more value than things. At 
 such moments the girl's face glowed ; her idle hands 
 let fall the muslin on the polished oaken counter ; but 
 soon the mother's voice would say, in tones that were 
 always sharp, even when she intended them to be 
 gentle, "Augustine, my dear, what are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 Perhaps " Hippolyte, Earl of Douglas," and the 
 '' Comte de Comminges," two novels which Augustine 
 
22 Fame and So. row. 
 
 had found in the closet of a cook dismissed hy Madame 
 Guillaume, may have contributed to develop the ideas 
 of the young girl, who had stealthily devoured those 
 productions during the long nights of the preceding 
 winter. The unconscious expression of vague desire, 
 the soft voice, the jasmine skin, and the blue eyes of 
 Augustine Guillaume had lighted a flame in the soul of 
 poor Lebas as violent as it was humble. 'By a caprice 
 that is easy enough to understand, Augustine felt no 
 inclination for Joseph ; perhaps because she did not 
 know he loved her. On the other hand, the long legs 
 and chestnut hair, the strong hands and vigorous frame 
 of the head-clerk excited the admiration of Mademoiselle 
 Virginie, who had not yet been asked in marriage in 
 spite of a dowr}^ of a hundred and fifty thousand francs. 
 What could be more natural than these inversed loves, 
 born in the silence of that shop like violets in the depths 
 of the woods? The mute contemplation which constantly 
 drew the eyes of these young people together, through 
 their violent need of some relief from the monotonous 
 toil and the religious calm in which they lived, could not 
 fail to excite, sooner or later, the emotions of love. 
 The habit of looking into the face of another leads to 
 an understanding of the noble qualities of the soul, and 
 ends b}^ obliterating all defects. 
 
 *' At the rate that man carries things," thought Mon- 
 sieur Guillaume when he read Napoleon's first decree on 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 23 
 
 the classes for conscription, '* our daughters will have 
 to go upon their knees for husbands." 
 
 It was about that time that the old merchant, noticing 
 that his eldest daughter was beginning to fade, be- 
 thought him that he himself had married Mademoiselle 
 Chevrel under very much the same circumstances as 
 those in which Virginie and Joseph Lebas stood to each 
 other. What a fine thing it would be to marry his 
 daughter and pa}^ a sacred debt by returning to the 
 orphaned young man the same benefaction that he him- 
 self had received from his predecessor in a like situa- 
 tion? Joseph Lebas, who was thirty-three j-ears of 
 age, was fully conscious of the obstacles that a differ- 
 ence of fifteen years in their ages placed between Au- 
 gustine and himself. Too shrewd and intelligent not to 
 fathom Monsieur Guillaume's intentions, he understood 
 his master's inexorable principles far too well to sup- 
 pose for a moment that the younger daughter could be 
 married before the elder. The poor clerk, whose heart 
 was as good as his legs were long and his shoulders 
 high, suffered in silence. 
 
 Such was the state of things in this little republic of 
 the rue Saint-Denis, which seemed in many ways like an 
 annex to La Trappe. But to explain external events 
 as we have now explained inward feelings, it is neces- 
 sary to look back a few months before the little scene 
 which began this history. 
 
24 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 One evening at dusk a young man, happening to pass 
 before the shop of the Cat-playing-ball, stopped to look 
 at a scene within those precincts which all the painters 
 of the world would have paused to contemplate. The 
 shop, which was not yet lighted up, formed a dark vista 
 through which the merchant's dining-room was seen. 
 An astral lamp on the dinner-table shed that yellow 
 light which gives such charm to the Dutch pictures. 
 The white table-linen, the silver, the glass, were bril- 
 liant accessories, still further thrown into relief by the 
 sharp contrasts of light and shadow. The figures of 
 the father of the family and his wife, the faces of the 
 clerks, and the pure lines of Augustine, near to whom 
 stood a stout, chubby servant-girl, composed so remark- 
 able a picture, the heads were so original, the expression 
 of each character was so frank, it was so easy to imagine 
 the peace, the silence, the modest life of the famil}*, that 
 to an artist accustomed to express nature there was 
 something absolutely commanding in the desire to paint 
 this accidental scene. 
 
 The pedestrian, thus arrested, was a 3'oung painter 
 who, seven j'ears earlier, had carried off the prix de 
 Home. He had lately returned from the Eternal City. 
 His soul, fed on poesy, his eyes surfeited with Raffaelle 
 and Michael- Angelo, were now athirst for simple nature 
 after his long sojourn in the mighty land where art has 
 reached its highest grandeur. True or false, such was 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 25 
 
 his personal feeling. Carried away for years b}' the fire 
 of Italian passions, his heart now sought a calm and 
 modest virgin, known to him as yet only upon canvas. 
 The first enthusiasm of his soul at the simple picture 
 before his eyes passed naturally into a deep admiration 
 for the principal figure. Augustine seemed thoughtful, 
 and was eating nothing. By a chance arrangement of 
 the lamp, the light fell full upon her face, and her bust 
 appeared to move in a circle of flame, which threw into 
 still brighter relief the outline of her head, illuminating 
 it in a waj^ that seemed half supernatural. The artist 
 compared her involuntarily to an exiled angel remem- 
 bering heaven. A mysterious feeling, almost unknown 
 to him, a love limpid and bubbling overflowed his 
 heart. After standing a moment as if paralyzed be- 
 neath the weight of these ideas, he tore himself away 
 from his happiness and went home, unable either to 
 eat or sleep. 
 
 The next day he entered his studio, and did not leave 
 it again until he had placed on canvas the magic charm 
 of a scene the mere recollection of which had, as it were, 
 laid a spell upon him. But his happiness was incom- 
 plete so long as he did not possess a faithful portrait of 
 his idol. Many a time he passed before the house of 
 the Cat-play ing-ball ; he even entered the shop once 
 or twice on some pretext to get a nearer view of the 
 ravishing creature who was always covered by Madame 
 
26 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 Guillaume's wing. For eight whole months, given up 
 to his love and to his brushes, he was invisible to his 
 friends, even to his intimates ; he forgot all, — poetry, 
 the theatre, music, and his most cherished habits. 
 
 One morning Girodet the painter forced his way in, 
 eluding all barriers as onl}^ artists can, and woke him 
 up with the inquiry, " What are you going to send to 
 the Salon?" 
 
 The artist seized his friend's arm, led him to the 
 studio, uncovered a little easel picture, and also a por- 
 trait. After a slow and eager examination of the two 
 masterpieces, Girodet threw his arms around his friend 
 and kissed him, without finding words to speak. His 
 feelings could only be uttered as he felt them, — soul 
 to soul. 
 
 " You love her ! " he said at last. 
 
 Both knew that the noblest portraits of Titian, Raf- 
 faelle, and Leonardo da Vinci are due to exalted human 
 feelings, which, under so man^^ diverse conditions, have 
 given birth to the masterpieces of art. For all answer 
 the young painter bowed his head. 
 
 "How fortunate, how happy you are to be able to 
 love here, in Paris, after leaving Italy. I can't advise 
 you to send such works as those to the Salon," added 
 the distinguished painter. '' You see, such pictures 
 cannot be felt there. Those absolutely true colors, 
 that stupendous labor, will not be understood; the 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 27 
 
 public is no longer able to see into such depths. The 
 pictures we paint now-a-days, dear friend, are mere 
 screens for decoration. Better make verses, saj'- I, 
 and translate the ancients, — we shall get a truer fame 
 that way than our miserable pictures will ever bring 
 us." 
 
 But in spite of this friendly advice the two pictures 
 were exhibited. That of the interior made almost a 
 revolution in art. It gave birth to the fashion of genre 
 pictures which since that time have so filled our exhi- 
 bitions that one might almost believe they were produced 
 by some mechanical process. As to the portrait, there 
 are few living artists who do not cherish the memory of 
 that breathing canvas on which the general public, occa- 
 sionally just in its judgment, left the crown of praise 
 which Girodet himself placed there. 
 
 The two pictures were surrounded by crowds. People 
 killed themselves, as women sa}', to look at them. Spec- 
 ulators and great lords would have covered both can- 
 vases with double- napoleons, but the artist obstinately 
 refused to sell them, declining also to make copies. 
 He was offered an immense sum if he would allow them 
 to be engraved ; but the dealers were no more success- 
 ful than the amateurs. Though this affair engrossed 
 the social world, it was not of a nature to penetrate the 
 depths of Egyptian solitude in the rue Saint-Denis. It 
 so chanced, however, that the wife of a notary, paying 
 
28 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 a visit to Madame Guillauine, spoke of the exhibition 
 before Augustine, of whom she was very fond, and 
 explained what it was. Madame Roguin's chatter nat- 
 urally inspired Augustine with a desire to see the pict- 
 ures, and with the boldness to secretlj^ ask her cousin 
 to take her to the Louvre. Madame Roguin succeeded 
 in the negotiation she undertook with Madame Guil- 
 laume, and was allowed to take her little cousin from 
 her daily tasks for the short space of two hours. 
 
 Thus it was that the young girl, passing through the 
 crowd, stood before the famous picture. A quiver 
 made her tremble like a birch-leaf when she recognized 
 her own self. She was frightened, and looked about 
 to rejoin Madame Roguin, from whom the crowd had 
 parted her. At that instant her eyes encountered 
 the flushed face of the j^oung painter. She suddenly 
 remembered a man who had frequently passed the shop 
 and whom she had often remarked, thinking he was 
 some new neighbor. 
 
 ** You see there the inspiration of love," said the ar- 
 tist in a whisper to the timid creature, who was terrified 
 by his words. 
 
 She summoned an almost supernatural courage to 
 force her way through the crowd and rejoin her 
 cousin. 
 
 '' You will be suffocated," cried Augustine. *' Do let 
 us go ! " 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 29 
 
 But there are certain moments at the Salon when 
 two women are not able to move freel}- through the 
 galleries. Mademoiselle Guillaume and her cousin were 
 blocked and pushed by the swaying crowd to within 
 a few feet of the second picture. The exclamation of 
 surprise uttered by Madame Roguin was lost in the 
 noises of the room ; but Augustine involuntarily wept 
 as she looked at the marvellous scene. Then, with a 
 feeling that is almost inexplicable, she put her finger on 
 her lips as she saw the ecstatic face of the young artist 
 within two feet of her. He replied with a motion of 
 his head toward Madame Roguin, as if to show Augus- 
 tine that he understood her. This pantomime threw a 
 fire of burning coals into the being of the poor girl, 
 who felt she was criminal in thus allowing a secret com, 
 pact between herself and the unknown artist. The stif- 
 ling heat, the sight of the brilliant dresses, a giddiness 
 which the wonderful combinations of color produced in 
 her, the multitude of figures, living and painted, which 
 surrounded her, the profusion of gold frames, — all 
 gave her a sense of intoxication which redoubled her 
 terrors. She might have fainted if there had not welled 
 up from the depths of her heart, in spite of this chaos 
 of sensations, a mj'sterious joy which vivified her 
 whole being. Still, she fancied she was under the do- 
 minion of that demon whose dreadful snares were threats 
 held out to her by the thundered words of the preach* 
 
30 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 ers. The moment seemed like one of actual madness 
 to her. She saw she was accompanied to her cousin's 
 carriage by the mysterious young man, resplendent 
 with love and happiness. A new and unknown excite- 
 ment possessed her, an intoxication which delivered 
 her, as it were, into the hands of Nature ; she listened 
 to the eloquent voice of her own heart, and looked at 
 the young painter several times, betraying as she did 
 so the agitation of her thoughts. Never had the carna- 
 tion of her cheeks formed a more charming contrast to 
 the whiteness of her skin. The artist then beheld that 
 beauty in its perfect flower, that virgin modesty in all 
 its gfory. 
 
 Augustine became conscious of a sort of joy mingling 
 with her terror as she thought how her presence had 
 brought happiness to one whose name was on every lip 
 and whose talent had given immortality to a passing 
 scene. Yes, she was beloved ! she could not doubt it ! 
 When she ceased to see him, his words still sounded in 
 her ear : " You see the inspiration of love ! " The pal- 
 pitations of her heart were painful, so violently did the 
 now ardent blood awaken unknown forces in her being. 
 She complained of a severe headache to avoid replying 
 to her cousin's questions about the pictures ; but when 
 they reached home, Madame Roguin could not refrain 
 from telling Madame Guillaume of the celebrity given to 
 the establishment of the Cat-playing-ball, and Angus- 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 31 
 
 tine trembled in every limb as she heard her mother 
 say she should go to the Salon and see her own house. 
 Again the young girl complained of her headache, and 
 received permission to go to bed. 
 
 *' That's what you get by going to shows!" ex- 
 claimed Monsieur Guillaume. ''Headaches! Is it so 
 very amusing to see a picture of what you see every 
 day in the street? Don't talk to me of artists ; they are 
 like authors, — half-starved beggars. Why the devil 
 should that fellow choose my house to villify in his 
 picture ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it will help to sell some of our cloth," said 
 Joseph Lebas. 
 
 That remark did not save art and literature from 
 being once more arraigned and condemned before the 
 tribunal of commerce. It will be readily believed that 
 such discourse brought little encouragement to Augus- 
 tine, who gave herself up in the night-time to the first 
 revery of love. The events of the day were like those 
 of a dream which she delighted to reproduce in thought. 
 She learned the fears, the hopes, the remorse, all those 
 undulations of feeling which rock a heart as simple and 
 timid as hers. What a void she felt within that gloomy 
 house, what a treasure she found within her soul ! To 
 be the wife of a man of talent, to share his fame ! 
 Imagine the havoc such a thought would make in the 
 heart of a child brought up in the bosom of such a fara- 
 
82 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 ily ! What hopes would it not awaken in a girl who 
 lived among the vulgarities of life, and 3'et longed for 
 its elegancies. A beam of light had come into her 
 prison. Augustine loved, loved suddenl3\ So many 
 repressed feelings were gratified that she succumbed at 
 once, without an instant's reflection. At eighteen love 
 flings its prism between the world and the eyes of a 
 maiden. Incapable of imagining the harsh experience 
 which comes to every loving woman married to a man 
 gifted with imagination, she fancied herself called to 
 make the happiness of such a man, seeing no disparity 
 between them. For her the present was the whole 
 future. 
 
 When Monsieur and Madame Guillaume returned the 
 next day from the Salon, their faces announced disap- 
 pointment and annoyance. In the first place, the artist 
 had withdrawn the picture ; in the next, Madame Guil- 
 laume had lost her cashmere shawl. The news that the 
 pictures had been withdrawn after her visit to the Salon 
 was to Augustine the revelation of a delicacy of senti- 
 ment which all women appreciate, if onty instinctivelj'. 
 
 The morning on which, returning from a ball, Theo- 
 dore de Sommervieux (such was the name which cele- 
 brity- had now placed in Augustine's heart), was 
 showered with soap}^ water by the clerks of the Cat- 
 playing-ball, as he awaited the apparition of his in- 
 nocent beauty, — who certainly did not know he was 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 33 
 
 tbere, — was only the fourth occasion of their seeing 
 each other since that first meeting at the Salon. The 
 obstacles which the iron system of the house of Guil- 
 laume placed in the way of the ardent and impetuous 
 nature of the artist, added a violence to his passion for 
 Augustine, which will be readily understood. How ap- 
 proach a young girl seated behind a counter between 
 two such women as Mademoiselle Virginia and Madame 
 Guillaume? How was it possible to correspond with 
 her if her mother never left her? Ready, like all 
 lovers, to invent troubles for himself, Theodore se- 
 lected a rival among the clerks, and suspected the 
 others of being in their comrade's interests. If he 
 escaped their Argus eyes he felt he should succumb to 
 the stern glances of the old merchant or Madame Guil- 
 laume. Obstacles on all sides, despair on all sides ! 
 The very violence of his passion prevented the young 
 man from inventing those clever expedients which, in 
 lovers as well as in prisoners, seem to be crowning 
 efforts of intellect roused either by a savage desire for 
 liberty or by the ardor of love. Then Theodore would 
 rush round the corner like a madman, as if movement 
 alone could suggest a wa}^ out of the difficult3\ 
 
 After allowing his imagination to torment him for 
 weeks, it came into his head to bribe the chubby 
 servant-girl. A few letters were thus exchanged during 
 the fortnight which followed the unlucky morning when 
 
34 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 Monsieur Guillaume and Theodore had first met. The 
 loving pair had now agreed to see each other daily at a 
 certain hour, and on Sunday at the church of Saint- 
 Leu, during both mass and vespers. Augustine had 
 sent her dear Theodore a list of the friends and rela- 
 tives of the family to whom the young painter was 
 to gain access. He was then to endeavor to inter- 
 est in his loving cause some one of those mone}"- 
 making and commercial souls to whom a real passion 
 would otherwise seem a monstrous and unheard-of 
 speculation. 
 
 In other respects nothing happened and no change 
 took place in the habits of the Cat-playing-ball. If 
 Augustine was absent-minded ; if, against every law 
 of the domestic charter, she went up to her bedroom 
 to make the signals under cover of the flower-pots ; 
 if she sighed, if she brooded, — no one, not even her 
 mother, found it out. This may cause some surprise 
 to those who have understood the spirit of the house- 
 hold, where a single idea tinged with poetry would have 
 contrasted sharply with the beings and with the things 
 therein contained, and where no one was able to give a 
 look or gesture that was not seen and analj'zed. And 
 yet, as it happened, nothing was really more natural. 
 The tranquil vessel which navigated the seas of Parisian 
 commerce under the flag of the Cat-playing-ball, was at 
 this particular moment tossed about in one of those 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 85 
 
 storms which may be called equinoctial, on account of 
 their periodical return. 
 
 For the last fifteen daj's the five men of the establish- 
 ment, with Madame Guillaume and Mademoiselle Vir- 
 ginie, had devoted themselves to that severe toil which 
 goes by the name of " taking an inventory." All bales 
 were undone, and the length of each piece of goods was 
 measured, to learn the exact value of what remained on 
 hand. The card attached to each piece was carefully 
 examined to know how long the different goods had 
 been in stock. New prices were aflSxed. Monsieur 
 Guillaume, always standing up, yard-measure in hand, 
 his pen behind his ear, was like a captain in command 
 of a ship. His sharp voice, passing down a hatchway 
 to the ware-rooms below, rang out that barbarous 
 jargon of commerce expressed in enigmas: "How 
 many H-N-Z ? " " Take it away ! " " How much left 
 of Q-X? " " Two yards." " What price ? " " Five- 
 five-three." " Put at three A all J-J, all M-P, and the 
 rest of V-D-0." A thousand other such phrases, all 
 equally intelligible, resounded across the counters, like 
 those verses of modern poetry which the romanticists 
 recite to each other to keep up their enthusiasm for a 
 favorite poet. At night Monsieur Guillaume locked 
 himself and his head-clerk and his wife into the count- 
 ing-room, went over the books, opened the new accounts, 
 notified the dilatory debtors, and made out all bills. 
 
36 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 The results of this immense toil, which could be noted 
 down on one sheet of foolscap paper, proved to the 
 house of Guillaume that it owned so much in monej^ so 
 much in merchandise, so much in notes and cheques ; 
 also that it did not owe a sou, but that so many hun- 
 dred thousand francs were owing to it ; that its capital 
 had increased ; that its farms, houses, and stocks were 
 to be enlarged, repaired, or doubled. Hence came a 
 sense of the necessity of beginning once more with 
 renewed ardor the accumulation of more money ; 
 though none of these brave ants ever thought of ask- 
 ing themselves, *' What's the good of it?" 
 
 Thanks to this annual tumult, the happ}' Augustine 
 was able to escape the observation of her Arguses. At 
 last, one Saturday evening, the '' taking of the inven- 
 tory" was an accomplished fact. The figures of the 
 total assets showed so man}' ciphers that in honor of 
 the occasion Monsieur Guillaume removed the stern 
 embargo which reigned throughout the 3'ear at des- 
 sert. The sly old draper rubbed his hands and told the 
 clerks they might remain at table. They had hardly 
 swallowed their little glass of a certain home-made 
 liqueur, however, when carriage-wheels were heard in 
 the street. The family were going to the Varietes to 
 see " Cinderella," while the two 3'ounger clerks each 
 received six francs and permission to go where they 
 liked, provided they were at home by midnight. 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 37 
 
 The next morning, in spite of this debauch, the old 
 merchant-draper shaved at six o'clock, put on his fine 
 maroon coat, — the lustre of its cloth causing him, as 
 usual, much satisfaction, — fastened his gold buckles to 
 the knee-band of his ample silk breeches, and then, 
 toward seven o'clock, while ever}' one in the house was 
 still asleep, he went to the little office adjoining the 
 shop on the first floor. It was lighted by a window 
 protected by thick iron bars, and looked out upon a lit- 
 tle square court formed by walls so black that the place 
 was like a well. The old merchant opened an inner 
 blind that was clamped with iron, and raised a sash of 
 the window. The chill air of the court cooled the hot 
 atmosphere of the office, which exhaled an odor peculiar 
 to all such places. Monsieur Guillaume remained stand- 
 ing, one hand resting on the greasy arm of a cane-chair 
 covered with morocco, the primitive color of which was 
 now eff'aced ; he seemed to hesitate to sit down. The old 
 man glanced with a softened air at the tall double desk, 
 where his wife's seat was arranged exactly opposite to 
 his own, in a little arched alcove made in the wall. 
 He looked at the numbered paper-boxes, the twine, the 
 various utensils, the irons with which they marked the 
 cloth, the safe, — all objects of immemorial origin, — 
 and he fancied himself standing before the evoked shade 
 'jf the late Chevrel. He pulled out the very stool on 
 tvhich he formerly sat in presence of his now defunct 
 
38 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 master. That stool, covered with black leather, from 
 which the horsehair had long oozed at the corners (but 
 without falling out), he now placed with a trembling 
 hand on the particular spot where his predecessor had 
 once placed it ; then, with an agitation difficult to de- 
 scribe, he pulled a bell which rang at the bed's head of 
 Joseph Lebas. When that decisive deed was done, the 
 old man, to whom these memories may have been op- 
 pressive, took out three or four bills of exchange which 
 had been presented to him the daj- before, and was 
 looking them over, but without seeing them, when 
 Joseph Lebas entered the office. 
 
 " Sit there," said Monsieur Guillaume, pointing to 
 the stool. 
 
 As the old master-draper had never before allowed a 
 clerk to sit in his presence, Joseph trembled. 
 
 " What do you think of these drafts? " asked Guil- 
 laume. 
 
 " They will not be paid." . 
 
 *' Why not?" 
 
 " I heard yesterday that Etienne and Company were 
 making their payments in gold." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! " cried the draper. " They must be very 
 ill to show their bile. Let us talk of something else, 
 Joseph ; the inventory is finished ? " 
 
 *' Yes, monsieur, and the dividend is the finest you 
 have ever had." 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 39 
 
 "Fray don't use those new-fangled words. Say 
 'proceeds,' Joseph. Do you know, my boy, that we 
 owe that result partly to you? Therefore, I do not 
 wish you to have a salary any longer. Madame Guil- 
 laume has put it into my head to offer you a share in 
 the business. Hey, Joseph, what do you say? *Guil- 
 laume and Lebas,* — don't the names make a fine part- 
 nership ? and we can add * and Company ' to complete 
 the signature." 
 
 Tears came into Joseph's eyes, though he tried to 
 hide them. *' Ah, Monsieur Guillaume," he said, " how 
 have I deserved such goodness ? I have only done my 
 duty. It was enough that you should even take an 
 interest in a poor orph — " 
 
 He brushed the cuff of his left sleeve with his right 
 sleeve, and dared not look at the old man, who smiled 
 as he thought that this modest young fellow no doubt 
 needed, as he himself once needed, to be helped and 
 encouraged to make the explanation complete. 
 
 " It is true, Joseph," said Virginie's father, '* that 
 you do not quite deserve that favor. You do not put 
 as much confidence in me as I do in you" (here the 
 clerk looked up hurriedly). ^'You know my secrets. 
 For the last two years I have told you all about the 
 business. I have sent you travelling to the manufac- 
 tories. I have nothing to reproach myself with as to 
 you. But you ! You have a liking in your mind, and 
 
40 Fame and jSorrow. 
 
 you have never said a word to me about it" (Joseph 
 colored). " Ha ! ha ! " cried Guillaume, " so you thought 
 you could deceive an old fox like me ? Me ! when you 
 knew how I predicted the Lecocq failure ! " 
 
 *' Oh, monsieur !" replied Joseph Lebas, examining 
 his master as attentively as his master examined him, 
 '* is it possible that 3^ou know whom I love? " 
 
 '* I know all, you good-for-nothing fellow," said the 
 worthy and astute old dealer, twisting the lobe of the 
 3'oung man's ear ; " and I forgive it, for I did as much 
 myself." 
 
 " Will you give her to me? " 
 
 *' Yes, with a hundred and fifty thousand francs, and 
 I will leave you as much more ; and we will meet our 
 new expenses under the new firm name. Yes, boy, we 
 will stir up the business finelj^ and put new life into it," 
 cried the old merchant, rising and gesticulating with 
 his arms. " There is nothing like business, son-in-law. 
 Those who sneer and ask what pleasures can be found 
 in it are simply fools. To have the cue of mone}' -mat- 
 ters, to know how to govern the market, to wait with 
 the anxiety of gamblers till ifetienne and Company fail, 
 to see a regiment of Guards go by with our cloth on 
 their backs, to trip up a neighbor, — honestlj^, of 
 course, — to manufacture at a lower price than oth- 
 ers, to follow up an aflair when we 've planned it, to 
 watch it begin, increase, totter, and succeed, to under- 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 41 
 
 stand, like the minister of police, all the ways and 
 means of all the commercial houses so as to make no 
 false step, to stand up straight when others are wrecked 
 and ruined, to have friends and correspondents in all the 
 manufacturing towns and cities — Ha, Joseph ! is n't 
 that perpetual pleasure ? I call that living ! Yes, and 
 I shall die in that bustle like old Chevrel himself." 
 
 In the heat of his allocution Pere Guillaume scarcely 
 looked at his clerk, who was weeping hot tears ; when 
 he did so he exclaimed, " Hej-, Joseph, my poor boy, 
 what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I love her so. Monsieur Guillaume, that my 
 heart fails me, I believe." 
 
 "Well, my boy," said the old man, quite moved, 
 "you are happier than 3'ou think you are ; for, by the 
 powers, she loves you. 1 know it ; yes, I do ! " 
 
 And he winked his two little green eyes as he looked 
 at Joseph. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Augustine ! Mademoiselle Augus- 
 tine ! " cried Joseph Lebas in his excitement. He was 
 about to rush out of the office when he felt himself 
 grasped by an iron arm, and his astonished master 
 pulled him vigorously in front of him. 
 
 "What has Augustine got to do with it?" asked 
 Guillaume, in a voice that froze the unfortunate young 
 man. 
 
 " It is she — whom — I love," stammered the clerk. 
 
42 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 Disconcerted at his own lack of perspicacity, Guil- 
 laume sat down and put his pointed head into his two 
 hands to reflect upon the queer position in which he 
 found himself. Joseph Lebas, ashamed, mortified, and 
 despairing, stood before him. 
 
 "Joseph," said the merchant, with cold dignity, "I 
 was speaking to you of Virginie. Love is not to be 
 commanded ; I know that. I trust your discretion ; 
 we will forget the whole matter. I shall never allow 
 Augustine to be married before Virginie. Your interest 
 in the business will be ten per cent." 
 
 The head-clerk, in whom love inspired a mysterious 
 degree of courage and eloquence, clasped his hands, 
 opened his lips, and spoke to Guillaume for fifteen min- 
 utes with such ardor and deep feeling that the situation 
 changed. If the matter had concerned some business 
 affair the old man would have had a fixed rule by 
 which to settle it ; but suddenly cast upon the sea of 
 feelings, a thousand miles from business and without a 
 compass, he floated irresolutely before the wind of an 
 event so "out of the way," as he kept sajing to him- 
 self. Influenced by his natural paternal kindness, he 
 was at the mercy of the waves. 
 
 "Hey, the deuce, Joseph, you know of course that 
 my two children came with ten years between them. 
 Mademoiselle Chevrel was not handsome, no ; but I 
 never gave her any reason to complain of me. Do as 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 43 
 
 I did. Come, don't fret, — what a goose 3'ou are! 
 Perhaps we can manage it; I'll try. There's alwaj's 
 some way to do a thing. We men are not exactly 
 Celadons to our wives, — you understand, don't you? 
 Madame Guillaume is pious, and — There, there, my 
 boy, you may give Augustine your arm this morning 
 when we go to mass." 
 
 Such were the sentences which Pere Guillaume scat- 
 tered at random. The last of them filled the lover's 
 soul with J03'. He was alreadj^ thinking of a friend 
 who would do for Mademoiselle Virginie as he left the 
 smoky office, after pressing the hand of his future 
 father-in-law and saying, in a confidential wa}^, that it 
 would all come right. 
 
 **What will Madame Guillaume say?" That idea 
 was terribly harrassing to the worth}' merchant when 
 he found himself alone. 
 
 At breakfast, Madame Guillaume and Virginie, whom 
 the draper had left, provisionally, in ignorance of her 
 disappointment, looked at Joseph with so much mean- 
 ing that he became greatlj' embarrassed. His modesty 
 won him the good-will of his future mother-in-law. 
 The matron grew so lively that she looked at Monsieur 
 Guillaume with a smile, and allowed herself a few little 
 harmless pleasantries customary from time immemorial 
 in such innocent families. She discussed the relative 
 heights of Joseph and Virginie, and placed them side 
 
44 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 by side to be measured. These little follies brought a 
 cloud to the paternal brow ; in fact, the head of the 
 family manifested such a sense of decorum that he 
 ordered Augustine to take the arm of his head-clerk on 
 their way to church. Madame Guillaume, surprised at 
 so much masculine delicac}'', honored her husband's act 
 with an approving nod. The procession left the house 
 in an order that suggested no gossipping constructions 
 to the neighbors. 
 
 *'Do you not think, Mademoiselle Augustine," said 
 the head-clerk in a trembling voice, " that the wife of a 
 merchant in high standing, like Monsieur Guillaume 
 for example, ought to amuse herself rather more than 
 — than your mother amuses herself ? She ought surely 
 to wear diamonds, and have a carriage. As for me, if 
 I should ever marry I should want to take all the cares 
 myself, and see my wife happy ; I should not let her sit 
 at any counter of mine. You see, women are no longer 
 as much needed as they used to be in draper's shops. 
 Monsieur Guillaume was quite right to do as he did, and 
 besides, Madame likes it. But if a wife knows how to 
 help in making up the accounts at times, and looking 
 over the correspondence ; if she can have an eye to a 
 few details and to the orders, and manage her household, 
 so as not to be idle, that 's enough. As for me, I should 
 alwa^'s wish to amuse her after seven o'clock, when the 
 shop is closed. I should take her to the theatre and 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 45 
 
 the picture galleries, and into society, — but you are not 
 listening to me." 
 
 *' Oh, yes I am, Monsieur Joseph. What were you 
 saying about painters? It is a noble art." 
 
 ** Yes, I know one, a master painter, Monsieur Lour- 
 dois ; he makes money." 
 
 Thus conversing, the family reached Saint-Leu; 
 there, Madame Guillaume recovered her rights. She 
 made Augustine, for the first time, sit beside her ; and 
 Virginie took the fourth chair, next to that of Lebas. 
 During the sermon all went well with Augustine and with 
 Theodore, who stood behind a column and prayed to 
 his madonna with great fervor ; but when the Host was 
 raised, Madame Guillaume perceived, somewhat tardily, 
 that her daughter Augustine was holding her prayer- 
 book upside down. She was about to scold her vigor- 
 ously when, suddenly raising her veil, she postponed 
 her lecture and looked in the direction which her daugh- 
 ter's eyes had taken. With the help of her spectacles, 
 she then and there beheld the young artist, whose 
 fashionable clothes bespoke an officer of the arm}^ on 
 furlough rather than a merchant belonging to the neigh- 
 borhood. It is difficult to imagine the wrath of Madame 
 Guillaume, who flattered herself she had brought up her 
 daughters in perfect propriety, on detecting this clan- 
 destine love in Augustine's heart, the evils of which 
 she magnified out of ignorance and prudery. She 
 
46 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 concluded instantly that her daughter was rotten to 
 the core. 
 
 "In the first place, hold 3'our book straight, made- 
 moiselle," she said in a low voice, but trembling with 
 anger ; then she snatched the tell-tale prayer-book, and 
 turned it the right way. "Don't dare to raise 3'our 
 eyes oflE" those prayers," she added ; " otherwise you will 
 answer for it to me. After service, your father and I 
 will have something to say to you." 
 
 These words were like a thunderbolt to poor Augus- 
 tine. She felt like fainting ; but between the misery 
 she endured and the fear of creating a disturbance in 
 church, she gathered enough courage to hide her suffer- 
 ing. Yet it was easy enough to guess the commotion 
 of her mind by the way the book shook in her hands 
 and by the tears which fell on the pages as she turned 
 them. The artist saw, from the incensed look which 
 Madame Guillaume flung at him, the perils which threat- 
 ened his love, and he left the church with rage in his 
 heart, determined to dare all. 
 
 " Go to 3"0ur room, mademoiselle ! " said Madame 
 Guillaume when they reached home. " Don 't dare to 
 leave it ; 3'ou will be called when we want 3'ou." 
 
 The conference of husband and wife was held in 
 secret, and at first nothing transpired. But after a 
 while Virginie, who had comforted her sister with 
 many tender suggestions, carried her kindness so far 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 47 
 
 as to slip down to the door of her mother's bedroom, 
 where the discussion was taking place, hoping to over- 
 hear a few sentences. At her first trip from the third 
 to the second floor she heard hei father exclaim, 
 "Madame, do you wish to kill your daughter?" 
 
 '* My poor dear," said Virginie, running back to her 
 disconsolate sister, *' papa is defending you ! " 
 
 *' What will they do to Theodore ? " asked the inno- 
 cent little thing. 
 
 Virginie went down again ; but this time she stayed 
 longer ; she heard that Lebas loved Augustine. 
 
 It was decreed that on this memorable day that 
 usually calm house should become a hell. Monsieur 
 Guillaume brought Joseph Lebas to the verge of de- 
 spair by informing him of Augustine's attachment to 
 the artist. Lebas, who by that time had met his friend 
 and advised him to ask for Mademoiselle Virginie in 
 marriage, saw all his hopes overthrown. Virginie, 
 overcome by the discovery that Joseph had, as it 
 were, refused her, was taken with a violent headache. 
 And finally, the jar between husband and wife, result- 
 ing from the explanation they had together, when for 
 the third time only in their lives \hey held different 
 opinions, made itself felt in a really dreadful manner. 
 At last, about four o'clock in the afternoon Augus- 
 tine, pale, trembling, and with red eyes, was brought 
 before her father and mother. The poor child related 
 
48 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 artlessly the too brief story of her love. Reassured by 
 her father, who promised to hear her through in silence, 
 she gathered enough courage to utter the name of her 
 dear Theodore de Sommervieux, dwelling with some 
 diplomacy on the aristocratic particle. As she yielded 
 to the hitherto unknown delight of speaking out her 
 feelings, she found courage to say with innocent bold- 
 ness that she loved Monsieur de Sommervieux and had 
 written to him, adding, with tears in her eyes: "It 
 would make me unhappy for life to sacrifice me to any 
 one else." 
 
 '* But Augustine, you do not know what a painter is," 
 cried her mother, in horror. 
 
 '* Madame Guillaume ! " said the old father, imposing 
 silence on his wife — " Augustine," he went on, " artists 
 are generally poor, half-starved creatures. They squan- 
 der what they have, and are always worthless. I know, 
 for the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late Monsieur 
 Lekain, and the late Monsieur Noverre were customers 
 of mine. My dear, if you knew the tricks that very 
 Monsieur Noverre, and Monsieur le chevalier de Saint- 
 Georges, and above all. Monsieur Philidor played upon 
 my predecessor Pere Chevrel ! They are queer fellows, 
 very queer. They all have a glib way of talking and 
 fine manners. Now your Monsieur Sumer — Som — " 
 
 " De Sommervieux, papa." 
 
 " Well, so be it, — de Sommervieux, he never could 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 49 
 
 be as charming with you as Monsieur le chevalier de 
 Saint-Georges was with me the day I obtained a con- 
 sular sentence against him. That's how it was with 
 people of good-breeding in those days." 
 
 '' But papa, Monsieur Theodore is a nobleman, and 
 he writes me that he is rich ; his father was called the 
 Chevalier de Sommervieux before the Revolution." 
 
 At these words Monsieur Guillaume looked at his ter- 
 rible better-half, who was tapping her foot and keeping 
 a dead silence with the air of a thwarted woman ; she 
 would not even cast her indignant ej-es at Augustine, 
 and seemed determined to leave the whole responsi- 
 bility of the misguided affair to Monsieur Guillaume, 
 inasmuch as her advice was not listened to. However, 
 in spite of her apparent phlegm, she could not refrain 
 from exclaiming, when she saw her husband playing 
 such a gentle part in a catastrophe that was not com- 
 mercial : '' Really, monsieur, you are as weak as 3'our 
 daughter, but — " 
 
 The noise of a carriage stopping before the door in- 
 terrupted the reprimand which the old merchant was 
 dreading. A moment more, and Madame Roguin was 
 in the middle of the room looking at the three actors in 
 the domestic drama. 
 
 *' I know all, cousin,'* she said, with a patronizing 
 air. 
 
 If Madame Roguin bad a fault, it was that of think- 
 4 
 
50 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 ing that the wife of a Parisian notar}- could play the 
 part of a great lad3\ 
 
 *' I know all," she repeated, " and I come to Noah's 
 Ark like the dove, with an olive-branch, — I read that 
 allegor}^ in the * Genius of Christianity,' " she remarked, 
 turning to Madame Guillaume ; " therefore the compari- 
 son ought to please you. Let me tell you," she added, 
 smiling at Augustine, *' that Monsieur de Sommei-vieux 
 is a charming man. He brought me this morning a 
 portrait of myself, done with a masterly hand. It is 
 worth at least six thousand francs." 
 
 At these words she tapped lightly on Monsieur Guil- 
 laume's arm. The old merchant could not refrain from 
 pushing out his lips in a manner that was peculiar to 
 him. 
 
 '* I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well," con- 
 tinued the dove. " For the last fortnight he has at- 
 tended my parties, and he is the present attraction of 
 them. He told me all his troubles, and I am here on 
 his behalf. I know that he adores Augustine, and is 
 determined to have her. Ah ! my dear cousin, don't 
 shake your head. Let me tell you that he is about to 
 be made a baron, and that the Emperor himself, on the 
 occasion of his visit to the Salon, made him a cheva- 
 lier of the Legion of honor. Roguin is now his notary 
 and knows all his affairs. Well, I can assure you that 
 Monsieur de Sommervieux has good, sound property 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 61 
 
 which brings him in twelve thousand a year. Now, the 
 father-in-law of a man in his position might count on 
 becoming something of importance, — mayor of the 
 arrondissement, for instance. Don't you remember 
 how Monsieur Dupont was made count of the Empire 
 and senator merely because, as mayor, it was his duty 
 to congratulate the Emperor on his entrance to Vienna ? 
 Yes, yes, this marriage must take place. I adore the 
 young man, mj'self. His behavior to Augustine is 
 hardl}' met with now-a-daj-s outside of a novel. Don't 
 fret, my dear child, you will be happy, and everybody 
 will envy j^ou. There 's the Duchesse de Carigliano, she 
 comes to my parties and delights in Monsieur de Som- 
 mervieux. Gossiping tongues do say she comes to my 
 house onl}^ to meet him, — just as if a duchess of 3'es- 
 terda}^ was out of place in the salon of a Chevrel whose 
 family can show a hundred years of good, sound bour- 
 geoisie behind it. Augustine," added Madame Ro- 
 guin, after a slight pause, " I have seen the portrait. 
 Heavens ! it is lovely. Did you know the Emperor 
 had asked to see it? He said, laughing, to the vice- 
 chamberlain, that if he had many women like that 
 Ht his court so many kings would flock there that he 
 could easily keep the peace of Europe. Was n't that 
 flattering?" 
 
 The domestic storms with which the day began were 
 something like those of nature, for they were followed 
 
52 l^ame and Sorrow, 
 
 by calm and serene weather. Madame Roguin*s argu- 
 liients were so seductive, she managed to pull so many 
 cords in the withered hearts of Monsieur and Madame 
 Guillaume that she at least found one which enabled her 
 to carry the day. At this singular period of our na- 
 tional history, commerce and finance were to a greater 
 degree than ever before possessed with an insane desire 
 to ally themselves with the nobility, and the generals 
 of the Empire profited immensely by this sentiment. 
 Monsieur Guillaume, however, was remarkable for his 
 opposition to this curious passion. His favorite axioms 
 were that if a woman wanted happiness she ought to 
 marr}^ a man of her own class ; that persons were al- 
 ways sooner or later punished for tr3'ing to climb too 
 high ; that love could ill endure the petty annoyances of 
 home-life, and that persons should look only for solid 
 virtues in each other ; that neither of the married pair 
 should know more than the other, because the first 
 requisite was complete mutual understanding ; and that 
 a husband who spoke Greek and a wife who spoke 
 Latin would be certain to die of hunger. He promul- 
 gated that last remark as a sort of proverb. He com- 
 pared marriages thus made to those old-fashioned stuffs 
 of silk and wool in which the silk always ended hy wear- 
 ing out the wool. And yet, there was so much vanity 
 at the bottom of his heart that the prudence of the pilot 
 who had guided with such wisdom the affairs of the 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 68 
 
 Cat-playing-ball succumbed to the aggressive volubil- 
 it}^ of Madame Roguin. The stern Madame Guillaume 
 was the first to derogate from her principles and to find 
 in her daughter's inclinations an excuse for so doing. 
 She consented to receive Monsieur de Sommervieux at 
 her house, resolving in her own mind to examine him 
 rigorously. 
 
 The old merchant went at once to find Joseph Lebas 
 and explain to him the situation of things. At half- 
 past six that evening the dining-room immortalized by 
 the painter contained under its skylight Monsieur and 
 Madame Roguin, the young artist and his charming 
 Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who found his comfort in sub- 
 mission, and Mademoiselle Virginie, whose headache 
 had disappeared. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume 
 beheld in perspective the establishment of both their 
 daughters, and the certainty that the fortunes of the 
 Cat-playing-ball were likely to pass into good hands. 
 Their satisfaction was at its height when, at dessert, 
 Theodore presented to them the marvellous picture, 
 representing the interior of the old shop (which they 
 had not yet seen), to which was due the happiness of 
 all present. 
 
 " Is n't it pretty ! " cried Monsieur Guillaume ; ** and 
 they give you thirty thousand francs for it?" 
 
 '' Why, there are my lappets ! " exclaimed Madame 
 Guillaume. 
 
54 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 ''And the goods unfolded!" added Lebas; "jou 
 might take them in your hand." 
 
 " All kinds of stuffs are good to paint," replied the 
 painter, " We should be onl}^ too happ}^, we modern 
 artists, if we could approach the perfection of ancient 
 draperies." 
 
 ''Ha! so you like drapery?" cried Pere Guillaume. 
 " Shake hands, my young friend. If jou value com- 
 merce we shall soon understand each other. Why, in- 
 deed, should persons despise it? The world began 
 with trade, for did n't Adam sell Paradise for an 
 apple? It did not turn out a \ery good speculation, 
 by the bye ! " 
 
 And the old merchant burst into a hearty laugh, ex- 
 cited by the champagne which he was circulating liber- 
 2\\y. The bandage over the eyes of the young lover 
 was so thick that he thought his new parents very 
 agreeable. He was not above amusing them with a 
 few little caricatures, all in good taste. He pleased 
 every one. Later, when the party had dispersed, and 
 the salon, furnished in a way that was "rich and 
 warm," to use the draper's own expression, was de- 
 sei-ted, and while Madame Guillaume was going about 
 from table to table and from candelabra to candlestick, 
 hastily blowing out the lights, the worthy merchant 
 who could see clearly enough when it was a question 
 of money or of business, called his daughter Augus- 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 55 
 
 tine, and, placing her on his knee, made her the 
 following harangue : — 
 
 " My dear child, you shall marry your Sommervieux 
 since 3'ou wish it ; I give you permission to risk your 
 capital of happiness. But I am not taken in b}' those 
 thirty thousand francs, said to be earned by spoiling 
 good canvas. Money that comes so quickly goes as 
 quickly. Didn't I hear that young scatterbrain say this 
 very evening that if money was coined round it was 
 meant to roll? Ha! if it is round for spendthrifts, it 
 is flat for economical folks who pile it up. Now, my 
 child, your handsome youth talks of giving you car- 
 riages and diamonds. If he has money and chooses 
 to spend it on you, bene ait; I have nothing to say. 
 But as to what I shall give you, I don't choose that any 
 of my hard-earned money shall go for carriages and 
 trumpery. He who spends too much is never rich. 
 Your dowry of three hundred thousand francs won't 
 buy all Paris, let me tell you ; and 3'ou need n't reckon 
 on a few hundred thousand more, for I'll make you 
 wait for them a long time yet, God willing ! So I took 
 your lover into a comer and talked to him ; and a man 
 who manoeuvred the failure of Lecocq did n't have much 
 trouble in getting an artist to agree that his wife's prop- 
 erty should be settled on herself. I shall have an eye 
 to the contract and see that he makes the proper settle- 
 ments upon you. Now, my dear, I hope you *11 make 
 
66 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 me a grandfather, and for that reason, faith, I 'ra be- 
 ginning to think about my grandchildren. Swear to me, 
 therefore, that you will not sign any paper about money 
 without first consulting me ; and if I should go to rejoin 
 Pere Chevrel too soon, promise me to consult Lebas, 
 who is to be your brother-in-law. Will yoxx promise 
 and swear these two things?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa, I swear it." 
 
 At the words, uttered in a tender voice, the old man 
 kissed his daughter on both cheeks. That night all the 
 lovers slept as peacefully as Monsieur and Madame 
 Guillaume. 
 
 A few months after that memorable Sunday the high 
 altar of Saint-Leu witnessed two marriages very unlike 
 each other. Augustine and Theodore approached it 
 beaming with happiness, their eyes full of love, ele- 
 ganth' attired, and attended by a brilliant compan3^ 
 Virginie, leaning on the arm of her father, followed 
 her young sister in humbler guise, like a shadow needed 
 for the harmony of the picture. Monsieur Guillaume 
 had taken infinite pains to so arrange the wedding that 
 Virginie's marriage should take precedence of Augus- 
 tine*s ; but he had the grief of seeing that the higher 
 and lesser clergy one and all addressed the younger 
 and more elegant of the brides first. He overheard 
 some of his neighbors highly commending Mademoiselle 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 67 
 
 Virginie's good sense in making, as they said, a solid 
 marriage and remaining faithful to " the quarter ; " and 
 he also overheard a few sneers, prompted by envy, 
 about Augustine who had chosen to marry an artist, a 
 nobleman, coupled with a pretended fear that if the 
 Guillaumes were becoming ambitious the draper's trade 
 was ruined. When an old dealer in fans declared that 
 the young spendthrift would soon bring his wife to 
 poverty. Monsieur Guillaume congratulated himself in 
 petto for his prudence as to the marriage settlements. 
 
 That night, after an elegant ball followed by one of 
 those sumptuous suppers that are almost forgotten by 
 the present generation. Monsieur and Madame Guil- 
 laume remained at a house belonging to them in the rue 
 du Colombier, where the wedding party took place, and 
 where they intended to live in future ; Monsieur and 
 Madame Lebas returned in a hired coach to the rue 
 Saint-Denis and took the helm of the Cat-playing-ball ; 
 while the artist, intoxicated with his happiness, caught 
 his dear Augustine in his arms as their coupe reached 
 the rue des Trois-Freres, and carried her to an apart- 
 ment decorated with the treasures of all the arts. 
 
 The raptures of passion to which Theodore now de- 
 livered himself up carried the young household through 
 one whole year without a single cloud to dim the blue 
 of the sky beneath which they lived. To such lovers 
 existence brought no burden ; each day some new and 
 
58 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 exquisite Jioritnre of pleasure were evolved by Theo- 
 dore, who delighted in varying the transports of love 
 with the soft languor of those moments of repose when 
 souls float upward into ecstasy and there forget cor- 
 poreal union. Augustine, wholly incapable of reflec- 
 tion, gave herself up to the undulating current of her 
 happiness ; she felt she could not yield too much to 
 the sanctioned and sacred love of marriage ; simple 
 and artless, she knew nothing of the coquetry of denial, 
 still less of the ascendency a young girl of rank obtains 
 over a husband by clever caprices ; she loved too well 
 to calculate the future, and never once imagined that 
 so enchanting a life could come to an end. Happy in 
 being all the life and all the jo}^ of her husband, she 
 believed his inextinguishable love would forever crown 
 her with the noblest of wreaths, just as her devotion 
 and her obedience would remain a perpetual attraction. 
 In fact, the felicity of love had made her so brilliant that 
 her beauty filled her with pride and inspired her with a 
 sense that she could alwaj^s reign over a man so easy 
 to impassion as Monsieur de Sommervieux. Thus her 
 womanhood gave her no other instructions than those 
 of love. In the bosom of her happiness she was still 
 the ignorant little girl who lived obscurel}^ in the rue 
 Saint-Denis, with no thought of acquiring the manners, 
 or the education, or the tone of the world in which she 
 was to live. Her words were the words of love, and 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 59 
 
 there, indeed, she did displa}^ a certain suppleness of 
 mind and delicacy of expression ; but she was using a 
 language common to all womankind when plunged into 
 a passion which seems their element. If, by chance, 
 Augustine gave utterance to some idea that jarred with 
 those of Theodore, the artist laughed, just as we laugh 
 at the first mistakes of a stranger speaking our lan- 
 guage, though the}' weary us if not corrected. 
 
 In spite of all this ardent love, Sommervieux felt, at 
 the end of a year as enchanting as it had been rapid, 
 the need of going back to his work and his old habits. 
 Moreover, his wife was enceinte. He renewed his rela- 
 tions with his friends. During the long year of physical 
 suffering, when, for the first time, a young wife carries 
 and nurses an infant, he worked, no doubt, with ardor ; 
 but occasionally he returned for some amusement to the 
 distractions of society. The house to which he pre- 
 ferred to go was that of the Duchesse de Carigliano, 
 who had finally attracted the now celebrated artist to 
 her parties. 
 
 When Augustine recovered, and her son no longer 
 required assiduous cares which kept his mother from 
 social life, Theodore had reached a point where self- 
 love roused in him a desire to appear before the world 
 with a beautiful woman whom all men should envy and 
 admire. The delight of showing herself in fashionable 
 salons decked with the fame she derived from her bus- 
 
60 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 band, was to Augustine a new harvest of pleasures, but 
 it was also the last that conjugal happiness was to bring 
 her. 
 
 She began by offending her husband's vanity ; for, in 
 spite of all his efforts, her ignorance, the incorrectness 
 of her language, and the narrowness of her ideas, viewed 
 from the standpoint of her present surroundings, were 
 manifest. The character of de Sommervieux, held in 
 check for nearly two years and a half by the first trans- 
 ports of love, now took, under the calm of a possession 
 no longer fresh, its natural bent, and he returned to the 
 habits which had for a time been diverted from their 
 course. Poetry, painting, and the exquisite enjoyments 
 of the imagination possess inalienable rights over minds 
 that can rise to them. These needs had not been balked 
 in Theodore dui'ing those two and a half years ; they 
 had simply found another nourishment. When the 
 fields of love were explored, when the artist, like the 
 children, had gathered the roses and the wake-robins 
 with such eagerness that he did not notice his hands 
 were full, the scene changed. It now happened that 
 when the artist showed his wife a sketch of his most 
 beautiful compositions, he took notice that she answered, 
 in the tone of Monsieur Guillaume, " Oh, how pretty ! " 
 Such admiration, without the slightest warmth, did not 
 come, he felt, from an inward feeling, it was the ex- 
 pression of blind love. Augustine preferred a glance 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 61 
 
 of love to the noblest work of art. The only sublimity 
 she was able to perceive was that in her own heart. 
 
 At last Theodore could not blind himself to the evi- 
 dence of a bitter truth ; his wife had no feeling for 
 poetry ; she could not live in his sphere of thought ; 
 she could not follow in the flight of his caprices, his 
 impulses, his joys, his sorrows ; she walked the earth 
 in a real world, while his head sought the heavens. 
 Ordinary minds cannot appreciate the ever-springing 
 sufferings of one who, being united to another by the 
 closest of all ties, is compelled to drive back within his 
 own soul the precious overflow of his thoughts, and to 
 crush into nothingness the images which some magic 
 force compels him to create. To such a one the tor- 
 ture is the more cruel when his feeling for his com- 
 panion commands him, as his first duty, to keep nothing 
 from her, neither the outcome of his thoughts nor the 
 effusions of his soul. The will of nature is not to be 
 evaded ; it is inexorable, like necessitj^, which is, as it 
 were, a sort of social law. Sommervieux took refuge in 
 the silence and solitude of his studio, hoping that the 
 habit of living among artists might train his wife and 
 develop the benumbed germs of mind which all superior 
 souls believe to exist in other souls. 
 
 But, alas, Augustine was too sincerely religious not 
 to be frightened at the tone of the artist- world. At the 
 first dinner given by Theodore, a young painter said to 
 
62 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 her, with a juvenile light-heartedness she was unable to 
 understand, but which really absolves all jests about 
 religion : " Why, madame, your paradise is not as 
 glorious as Raffaelle's Transfiguration, but I get a little 
 tired of looking even at that." Augustine, conse- 
 quently, met this brilliant and artistic society in a 
 spirit of disapproval, which was at once perceived. 
 She became a constraint upon it. When artists are 
 constrained they are pitiless ; they either fly, or they 
 stay and scoff. 
 
 Madame Guillaume had, among other absurdities, 
 that of magnifying the dignity she considered to be 
 an appanage of a married woman ; and though Augus- 
 tine had often laughed about it she was unable to keep 
 herself from a slight imitation of the maternal prudery. 
 This exaggeration of purit3^ which virtuous women do 
 not alwaj's escape, gave rise to a few harmless carica- 
 tures and epigrams, innocent nonsense in good taste, 
 with which de Sommervieux could scarcely be angrj'. 
 In fact, such jests were only reprisals on the part of his 
 friends. Still, nothing could be really a jest to a soul 
 so ready as that of Theodore to receive impressions 
 from without. Thus he was led, perhaps insensibty, 
 to a coldness of feeling which went on increasing. 
 Whoso desires to reach perfect conjugal happiness 
 must climb a mountain along a narrow way close to 
 a sharp and slippery precipice ; down that precipice 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 63 
 
 the artist's love now slid. He believed his wife in- 
 capable of understanding the moral considerations 
 which justified, to his mind, the course he now adopted 
 towards her ; and he thought himself innocent in hid- 
 ing thoughts she could not comprehend, and in doing 
 acts which could never be justified before the tribunal 
 of her commonplace conscience. 
 
 Augustine retired into gloomy and silent sorrow. 
 These secret feelings drew a veil between the married 
 pair which grew thicker day by day. Though her hus- 
 band did not cease his attentions to her, Augustine 
 could not keep from trembling when she saw him reserv- 
 ing for society the treasures of mind and charm which 
 he had hitherto bestowed on her. Soon she took 
 fatally to heart the livelj" talk she heard in the world 
 about man's inconstancj'. She made no complaint, but 
 her whole bearing was equivalent to a reproach. Three 
 years after her marriage this young and pretty woman, 
 who seemed so brilliant in her brilliant equipage, who 
 lived in a sphere of fame and wealth, alwaj's envied by 
 careless and unobserving people who never rightly esti- 
 mate the situations of life, was a prey to bitter grief; 
 her color faded ; she reflected, she compared ; and then, 
 at last, sorrow revealed to her the axioms of experience. 
 
 She resolved to maintain herself courageously within 
 the circle of her duty, hoping that such generous con- 
 duct would, sooner or later, win back her husband's 
 
64 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 love ; but it was not to be. When Sommervieux, tired 
 of work, left his studio, Augustine never hid her work 
 so quickly that the artist did not see her mending the 
 household linen or his own with the minute care of a good 
 housekeeper. She supplied, generously- and without a 
 word, the money required for her husband's extrava- 
 gances ; but in her desire to save her dear Theodore's 
 own fortune she was too economical on herself and on 
 certain details of the housekeeping. Such conduct is 
 incompatible with the free and easy ways of artists, 
 who, when they reach the end of their tether, have 
 enjoyed life so much that they never ask the reason 
 of their ruin. 
 
 It is useless to note each lowered tone of color 
 through which the brillianc}^ of their hone3'moon faded 
 and then expired, leaving them in deep darkness. 
 One evening poor Augustine, who had lately heard her 
 husband speaking with enthusiasm of the Duchesse de 
 Carigliano, received some ill-natured information on the 
 nature of de Sommervieux's attachment to that cele- 
 brated coquette of the imperial court. At twenty-one, 
 in the glow of youth and beauty, Augustine learned she 
 was betrayed for a woman of thirty-six. Feeling herself 
 wretched in the midst of society and oi fetes that were 
 now a desert to her, the poor little creature no longer 
 noticed the admiration she excited nor the envy she in- 
 spired. Her face took another expression. Sorrow laid 
 
Wame and Sorrow* 65 
 
 upon each feature the gentleness of resignation and the 
 pallor of rejected love. It was not long before men, 
 known for their seductive powers, courted her ; but she 
 remained solitar}^ and virtuous. A few contemptuous 
 words which escaped her husband brought her to intol- 
 erable despair. Fatal gleams of light now showed her 
 the points where, through the pettiness of her educa- 
 tion, complete union between her soul and that of 
 Theodore had been prevented ; and her love was great 
 enough to absolve him and blame herself She wept 
 tears of blood as she saw, too late, that there are ill- 
 assorted marriages of minds as well as of habits and of 
 ranks. 
 
 Thinking over the spring-tide happiness of their 
 union, she comprehended the fulness of her past 
 joys, and admitted to her own soul that so rich a 
 harvest of love was indeed a lifetime which might 
 well be paid for by her present sorrow. And yet she 
 loved with too single a mind to lose all hope ; and she 
 was brave enough at one-and-twenty to endeavor to 
 educate herself and make her imagination more worthy 
 of the one she so admired. '' If I ana not a poet," she 
 said in her heart, ** at least I will understand poetr3\" 
 Employing that force of will and energy which all 
 women possess when they love, Madame de Sommer- 
 vieux attempted to change her nature, her habits, and 
 her ideas ; but though she read many volumes and 
 
 5 
 
66 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 studied with the utmost courage, she only succeeded in 
 making herself less ignorant. Quickness of mind and 
 the charms of conversation are gifts of nature or the 
 fruits of an education begun in the cradle. She could 
 appreciate music and enjoy it, but she could not sing 
 with taste. She understood literature and even the 
 beauties of poetr}' , but it was too late to train her re- 
 bellious memoiy. She listened with interest to con- 
 versation in societ}^, but she contributed nothing to it. 
 Her religious ideas and the prejudices of her early 
 youth prevented the complete emancipation of her mind. 
 And besides all this, a bias against her which she could 
 not conquer had, little b}^ little, glided into her hus- 
 band's mind. The artist laughed in his heart at those 
 who praised his wife to him, and his laughter was not 
 unfounded. Embarrassed by her strong desire to please 
 him, she felt her mind and her knowledge melt away in 
 his presence. Even her fidelity displeased the unfaith- 
 ful husband ; it seemed as though he would fain see 
 her guilty of wrong when he complained of her virtue as 
 unfeeling. Augustine struggled hard to abdicate her 
 reason, to yield and bend to the fancies and caprices of 
 her husband, and to devote her whole life to soothe the 
 egotism of his vanity, — she never gathered the fruit of 
 her sacrifices. Perhaps they had each let the moment 
 go by when souls can comprehend each other. The day 
 came when the too-sensitive heart of the young wife 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 67 
 
 received a blow, — one of those shocks which strain 
 the ties of feehng so far that it seems as though they 
 snapped. At first she isolated herself. But soon the 
 fatal thought entered her mind to seek advice and con- 
 solation from her own famil}'. 
 
 Accordingly, one morning earl}', she drove to the 
 grotesque entrance of the silent and gloomy house in 
 which her childhood had been passed. She sighed as 
 she looked at the window from which she had sent a 
 first kiss to him who had filled her life with fame and 
 sorrow. Nothing was changed in those cavernous pre- 
 cincts, except that the business had taken a new lease 
 of life. Augustine's sister sat behind the counter in 
 her mother's old place. The poor aflflicted woman met 
 her brother-in-law with a pen behind his ear, and he 
 hardly listened to her, so busy was he. The alarming 
 signs of an approaching " inventory " were evident, and 
 in a few moments he left her, asking to be excused. 
 
 Her sister received her rather coldl}', and showed 
 some ill-will. In fact, Augustine in her palmy days, 
 brilliant in happiness and driving about in a pretty 
 equipage, had never come to see her sister except in 
 passing. The wife of the prudent Lebas now imag- 
 ined that mone}- was the cause of this earlj' visit, and 
 she assumed a reserved tone, which made Augustine 
 smile. The artist's wife saw that her mother had a 
 counterpart (except for the lappets of her cap) who 
 
68 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 would keep up the antique dignity of the Cat-play- 
 ing-ball. At breakfast, however, she noticed certain 
 changes which did honor to the good sense of Joseph 
 Lebas, — the clerks no longer rose and went away at 
 dessert; they were allowed to use their faculty of 
 speech, and the abundance on the table showed ease 
 and comfort, without luxury. The j'oung woman of 
 society noticed the coupons of a box at the Fran9ais, 
 where she remembered having seen her sister from 
 time to time. Madame Lebas wore a cashmere shawl 
 over her shoulders, the elegance of which was a sign 
 of the generosity with which her husband treated 
 her. In short, the pair were advancing with their 
 century. 
 
 Augustine was deeply moved to see, during the 
 course of the day, many signs of a calm and equable 
 happiness enjo3^ed by this well-assorted couple, — a 
 happiness without exaltation, it was true, but also 
 without peril. They had taken life as a commer- 
 cial enterprise, in which their first duty was to honor 
 their business. Not finding in her husband any great 
 warmth of love, Virginie had set to work to pro- 
 duce it. Led insensibly to respect and to cherish his 
 wife, the time it took for their wedded happiness to 
 blossom now seemed to Joseph Lebas as a pledge of its 
 duration ; so, when the sorrowful Augustine told her 
 tale of trouble, she was forced to endure a deluge of the 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 69 
 
 commonplace ideas which the ethics of the rue Saint- 
 Denis suggested to Virginie. 
 
 *'The evil is done, wife," said Joseph Lebas ; "we 
 must now try to give our sister the best advice." 
 Whereupon, the able man of business ponderously ex- 
 plained the relief that the laws and established customs 
 might give to Augustine, and so enable her to sur- 
 mount her troubles. He numbered, if we may so 
 express it, all the considerations ; ranged them in 
 categories, as though they were goods of different 
 qualities ; then he put them in the scales, weighed 
 them, and finally came to the conclusion that necessity 
 required his sister-in-law to take a firm stand, — a 
 decision which did not satisfy the love she still felt 
 for her husband, a feeling that was reawakened in full 
 force when she heard Lebas discussing judicial methods 
 of asserting her rights. Augustine thanked her two 
 friends and returned home, more undecided than before 
 she consulted them. 
 
 The next day she ventured to the house in the rue 
 du Colombier, intending to confide her sorrows to her 
 father and mother, for she was like those hopelessly ill 
 persons who try all remedies in sheer despair, even the 
 recipes of old women. Monsieur and Madame Guil- 
 laume received their daughter with a warmth that 
 touched her ; the visit brought an interest which, to 
 them, was a treasure. For four years they had floated 
 
70 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 on the sea of life like navigators without chart or com- 
 pass. Sitting in their chimnej^-corner, thej told each 
 other again and again the disasters of the maximum ; 
 the stor}' of their first purchases of cloth, the manner in 
 which they escaped bankruptc}^ and above all, the tale 
 of the famous Lecocq failure, old Guillaume's battle of 
 Marengo. Then, when these stock stories were ex- 
 hausted, they recapitulated the profits of their most 
 productive j-ears, or reminded each other of the gossip 
 of the Saint-Denis quarter. At two o'clock Pere Guil- 
 laume invariably went out to give an e3'e to the estab- 
 lishment of the Cat-pla^'ing-ball ; on his way back he 
 stopped at all the shops which were formerly his rivals, 
 whose young proprietors now endeavored to inveigle 
 the old merchant into speculative investments which, 
 according to his usual custom, he never positively de- 
 clined. Two good Norman horses were dying of pleth- 
 ora in the stable, but Madame Guillaume never used 
 them except to be conveyed on Sunday's to high mass 
 at the parish church. Three times a week the worthy 
 couple kept open table. 
 
 Thanks to the influence of his son-in-law, de Som- 
 mervieux, Pere Guillaume had been appointed member 
 of the advisory committee on the equipment of troops. 
 Ever since her husband had held that high post under 
 government, Madame Guillaume had felt it her duty to 
 maintain its dignity ; her rooms were therefore encum- 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 71 
 
 bercd with so many ornaments of gold and silver, so 
 much tasteless though costly furniture, that the sim- 
 plest of them looked like a tawdry chapel. Economy 
 and prodigality seemed fighting for precedence in all 
 the accessories of the house. It really looked as if old 
 Guillaume had considered the purchase of everything in 
 it, down to a candlestick, as an investment. In the 
 midst of this bazaar, de Sommervieux's famous picture 
 held the place of honor, and was a source of consola- 
 tion to Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, who turned 
 their spectacled eyes twenty times a day on that tran- 
 script of their old life, to them so active and so 
 exciting. 
 
 The appearance of the house and of these rooms 
 where all things had an odor of old age and mediocritj^, 
 the spectacle of the two old people stranded on a rock 
 far from the real world and the ideas that move it, sur- 
 prised and affected Augustine ; she recognized the sec- 
 ond half of the picture which had struck her so forcibly 
 at the house of Joseph Lebas, — that of an active life 
 without movement, a sort of mechanical and instinctive 
 existence, like that of rolling on castors ; and there 
 came into her mind a sense of pride in her sorrows as 
 she remembered how they sprang from a happiness of 
 eighteen months duration, worth more to her than a 
 thousand existences like this, the void of which now 
 seemed to her horrible. But she hid the rather un- 
 
72 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 kindly thought, and displayed her new qualities of mind 
 to her old parents and the endearing tenderness which 
 love had taught her, hoping to win them to listen favor- 
 ably to her matrimonial trials. 
 
 Old people delight in such confidences. Madame 
 Guillaume wished to hear the minutest particulars of 
 that strange life which, to her, was almost fabulous. 
 *' The Travels of the Baron de La Houtan," which she 
 had begun many times and never finished, had revealed 
 to her nothing more inconceivable among the savages 
 of Canada. 
 
 '' But, my dear child," she said, '' do you mean to 
 say that your husband shuts himself up with naked 
 women, and you are simple enough to believe he paints 
 them ? " With these words she laid her spectacles on 
 a work-table, shook out her petticoats, and laid her 
 clasped hands on her knees, raised by a foot- warmer, — 
 her favorite attitude. 
 
 ''But, my dear mother, all painters are obliged to 
 employ models." 
 
 " He took care not to tell us that when he asked you 
 in marriage. If I had known it I would never have 
 given my daughter to a man with such a trade. Re- 
 ligion forbids such horrors ; they are immoral. What 
 time of night do you say he comes home ? " 
 
 " Oh, at one o'clock, — or two, perhaps." 
 
 The old people looked at each other in amazement. 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 73 
 
 '' Then he gambles," said Monsieur Guillaume. " In 
 my day it was only gamblers who stayed out so late." 
 
 Augustine made a little face to deny the accusation. 
 
 '' You must suffer dreadfully waiting for him," said 
 Madame Guillaume. " But no, you go to bed, I hope, 
 — don't you ? Then when he has gambled away all his 
 money, the monster comes home and wakes you up ? " 
 
 *' No, mother ; on the contrary, he is sometimes very 
 gay ; indeed, when the weather is fine, he often asks 
 me to get up and go into the woods with him." 
 
 " Into the woods ! — at that hour? Your house must 
 be very small if he has n't room enough in it to stretch 
 his legs ! No, no, it is to give you cold that the villain 
 makes such proposals as that ; he wants to get rid of 
 you. Did any one ever know a decent man with a 
 home of his own and a steady business gallopiug round 
 like a were- wolf ! " 
 
 '' But, my dear mother, you don't understand that he 
 needs excitements to develop his genius. He loves the 
 scenes which — " 
 
 '' Scenes ! I 'd make him fine scenes, I would," cried 
 Madame Guillaume, interrupting her daughter. " How 
 can you keep on any terms at all with such a man ? 
 And I don't like that idea of his drinking nothing but 
 water. It is n't wholesome. Why does he dislike to 
 see women eat? what a strange notion ! He 's a mad- 
 man, that 'a what he is. All that 3'ou say of him proves 
 
74 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 it. No sane man leaves his home without a word, and 
 stays away ten days. He told 3*ou he went to Dieppe 
 to paint the sea ! How can anyone paint the sea? He 
 told 3011 such nonsense to blind 3'ou." 
 
 Augustine opened her lips to defend her husband, 
 but Madame Guillaume silenced her with a motion of 
 her hand which the old habit of obedience led her to 
 obey, and the old woman continued, in a sharp voice : 
 *' Don't talk to me of that man. He never set foot in 
 a church except to marry j'ou. Persons who have no 
 religion are capable of an3'thing. Did 3'our father ever 
 venture to hide anything from me, or keep silent three 
 da3's without sa3'ing boo to me, and then begin to chatter 
 like a blind magpie ? No ! " 
 
 " M3" dear mother, yoM judge superior men too se- 
 verel3'. If they had ideas like other people they would 
 not be men of genius." 
 
 " Well ! then men of genius should keep to them- 
 selves and not marry. Do 3^ou mean to tell me that a 
 man can make his wife miserable, and if he has got 
 genius it is all right ? Genius ! I don't see much 
 genius in saying a thing is black and white in the same 
 breath, and ramming people's words down their throats, 
 and lording it over his famil3', and never letting his 
 wife know how to take him, and forbidding her to amuse 
 herself unless monsieur, forsooth, is ga3', and forcing 
 her to be gloom3' as soon as he is — " 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 75 
 
 ** But, my dear mother, the reason for all such 
 imaginations — " 
 
 *'What do 3'ou mean b}^ all such imaginations?" 
 cried Madame Guillaume, again interrupting her daugh- 
 ter. *'He has fine ones, faith! What sort of man 
 is he who takes a notion, without consulting a doctor, 
 to eat nothing but vegetables ? If he did it out of piety, 
 such a diet might do him some good ; but he has no 
 more religion than a Huguenot. Who ever saw a man 
 in his senses love a horse better than he loves his neigh- 
 bor, and have his hair curled like a pagan image, and 
 cover his statues with muslin, and shut up the windows 
 in the daytime to work by lamplight? Come, come, 
 don't talk to me ; if he were not so grossly immoral he 
 ought to be put in the insane asylum. You had better 
 consult Monsieur Loraux, the vicar of Saint-Sulpice ; 
 ask him what he thinks of all this. He '11 tell 3'ou that 
 3*our husband does n't behave like a Christian man." 
 
 " Oh ! mother, how can 30U think — " 
 
 ** Think! yes I do think it! You used to love him 
 and therefore you don't see these things. But I re- 
 member how I saw him, not long after your marriage, 
 in the Champs-El3-sees. He was on horseback. Well, 
 he galloped at full speed for a little distance, then he 
 stopped and went at a snail's pace. I said to myself 
 then, ' There 's a man who has no sense.' " 
 
 *' Ah ! " cried Monsieur Guillaume, rubbing his hands. 
 
76 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 *' what a good thing it is I had j'our propertj^ settled on 
 3'ourself." 
 
 After Augustine had the imprudence to explain her 
 real causes of complaint against her husband the two 
 old people were silent with indignation. Madame Guil- 
 laume uttered the word ^' divorce." It seemed to awaken 
 the now inactive old business-man. Moved by his love 
 for his daughter and also b}^ the excitement such a step 
 would give to his eventless life, Pere Guillaume roused 
 himself to action. He demanded divorce, talked of 
 managing it, argued the pros and cons, and promised 
 his daughter to pay all the costs, engage the lawj-ers, 
 see the judges, and move heaven and earth. Madame 
 de Sommervieux, much alarmed, refused his services 
 declaring she would not separate from her husband 
 were she ten times more unhappy than she was, and 
 saying no more about her sorrows. After the old peo- 
 ple had endeavored, but in vain, to soothe her with 
 many little silent and consoling attentions, Augustine 
 went home feeling the impossibility of getting narrow 
 minds to take a just view of superior men. She learned 
 then that a wife should hide from all the world, even 
 from her parents, the sorrows for which it is so difficult 
 to obtain true sympathy. The storms and the suffer- 
 ings of the higher spheres of human existence are com- 
 prehended only by the noble minds which inhabit them. 
 In all things, we can be justly judged only by our equals. 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 11 
 
 Thus poor Augustine found herself once more in the 
 eold atmosphere of her home, cast back into the hor- 
 rors of her lonely meditations. Study no longer availed 
 her, for study had not restored her husband's heart. 
 Initiated into the secrets of those souls of fire but 
 deprived of their resources, she entered deeply into 
 their trials without sharing their joys. She became dis- 
 gusted with the world, which seemed to her small and 
 petty indeed in presence of events born of passion. 
 In short, life to her was a failure. 
 
 One evening a thought came into her mind which il- 
 luminated the dark regions of her grief with a gleam 
 of celestial light. Such a thought could have smiled 
 into no heart that was less pure and guileless than hers. 
 She resolved to go to the Duchesse de Carigliano, not to 
 ask for the heart of her husband, but to learn from that 
 great lady the arts which had taken him from her ; to 
 interest that proud woman of the world in the mother 
 of her friend's children ; to soften her, to make her the 
 accomplice of her future peace, just as she was now the 
 instrument of her present sorrow. 
 
 So, one day, the timid Augustine, armed with super- 
 natural courage, got into her carriage about two o'clock 
 in the afternoon, intending to make her way into the 
 boudoir of the celebrated lady, who was never visible 
 until that time of day. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux had never yet seen any of 
 
78 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 the old and sumptuous mansions of the faubourg Saint* 
 Germain. When she passed through the majestic ves- 
 tibule, the noble stairwaj^s, the vast salons, filled with 
 flowers in spite of the inclemencies of the season, and 
 decorated with the natural taste of women born to opu- 
 lence or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy, Augus- 
 tine was conscious of a terrible constriction of her heart. 
 She envied the secrets of an elegance of which till then 
 she had had no idea ; she inhaled a breath of grandeur 
 which explained to her the charm that house possessed 
 over her husband. 
 
 When she reached the private apartments of the 
 duchess she felt both jealousy and despair as she noted 
 the voluptuous arrangement of the furniture, the dra- 
 peries, the hangings upon the walls. There, disorder 
 was a grace ; there, luxury affected disdain of mere 
 richness. The perfume of this soft atmosphere pleased 
 the senses without annoying them. The accessories of 
 these rooms harmonized with the vista of gardens and 
 a lawn planted with trees seen through the windows. 
 All was seductive, and yet no calculated seduction was 
 felt. The genius of the mistress of these apartments 
 pervaded the salon in which Augustine now awaited her. 
 Madame de Sommervieux endeavored to guess the 
 character of her rival from the objects about the room ; 
 but there was something impenetrable in its disorder as 
 in its s^'mmetry, and to the guileless Augustine it was 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 79 
 
 a sealed book. All that she could reall}' make out was 
 that the duchess was a superior woman as woman. The 
 discovery brought her a painful thought. 
 
 '' Alas ! can it be true," she said to herself, *' that a 
 simple and loving heart does not suffice an artist? and to 
 balance the weight of their strong souls must they be 
 joined to feminine souls whose force is equal to their 
 own? If 1 had been brought up like this siren our 
 weapons at least would have been matched for the 
 struggle." 
 
 '^ But I am not at home ! " The curt, sharp words, 
 though said in a low voice in the adjoining boudoir, were 
 overheard by Augustine, whose heart throbbed. 
 
 '' The lady is here," said the waiting- woman. 
 
 " You are crazy ! Show her in," added the duchess, 
 changing her voice to a cordially polite tone. Evidently 
 she expected then to be overheard. 
 
 Augustine advanced timidly. At the farther end of 
 the cool boudoir she saw the duchess luxuriously reclin- 
 ing on a brown-velvet ottoman placed in the centre of a 
 species of half-circle formed by folds of muslin draped 
 over a yellow ground. Ornaments of gilded bronze, 
 arranged with exquisite taste, heightened still further 
 the effect of the dais under which the duchess posed 
 like an antique statue. The dark color of the velvet 
 enabled her to lose no means of seduction. A soft 
 chiaro-scuro, favorable to her beauty, seemed more a 
 
80 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 reflection than a light. A few choice flowers lifted their 
 fragrant heads from the Sevres vases. As this scene 
 caught the e^'e of the astonished Augustine she came 
 forward so quickly and softly that she surprised a 
 glance from the eyes of the enchantress. That glance 
 seemed to say to a person whom at first the painter's 
 wife could not see: ''Wait; you shall see a pretty 
 woman, and help me to put up with a tiresome visit." 
 
 As Augustine advanced the duchess rose, and made 
 her sit beside her. 
 
 " To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, ma- 
 dame? ** she said, with a smile full of charm. 
 
 ''Why so false?" thought Augustine, who merely 
 bowed her head. 
 
 Silence was a necessity ; for the young woman now 
 saw a witness to the interview in the person of an 
 officer of the army, — the youngest, and most elegant 
 and dashing of the colonels. His clothes, which were 
 those of a civilian, set oflT the graces of his person. 
 His face, full of life and youth and very expressive, 
 was still further enlivened by small moustachios, black 
 as jet and waxed to a point, by a well-trimmed im- 
 perial, carefully combed whiskers and a forest of black 
 hair which was somewhat in disorder. He plaj'ed with 
 a riding- whip and showed an ease and freedom of man- 
 ner which agreed well with the satisfied expression of 
 his face and the elegance of his dress ; the ribbons in 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 81 
 
 lus buttonhole were carelessly knotted and he seemed 
 more vain of his appearance than of his courage. 
 Augustine looked at the Duchesse de Carigliano, with 
 a glance at the colonel in which many prayers were 
 included. 
 
 '* Well, adieu, Monsieur d'Aiglemont ; we shall meet 
 in the Bois de Boulogne," said the siren, in a tone as 
 if the words were the result of some agreement made 
 before Augustine entered the room ; she accompanied 
 them with a threatening glance, which the officer de- 
 served, perhaps, for the undisguised admiration with 
 which he looked at the modest flower who contrasted 
 so admirably with the haughty duchess. The 3'oung 
 dandy bowed in silence, turned on the heels of his 
 boots, and gracefully left the room. At that moment 
 Augustine, watching her rival whose eyes followed the 
 brilliant officer, caught sight of a sentiment the fugitive 
 expressions of which are known to ervQvy woman. She 
 saw with bitter sorrow that her visit would be useless ; 
 the artful duchess was too eager for homage not to have 
 a pitiless heart. 
 
 " Madame," said Augustine, in a broken voice, " the 
 step I now take will seem very strange to you ; but de- 
 spair has its madness, and that is my excuse. I can 
 now understand only too well why Theodore prefers 
 your house to mine, and how it is that your mind 
 Bhould exercise so great an empire over him. Alas I 
 
 6 
 
82 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 I have but to look within myself to find reasons that 
 are more than sufficient. But I adore my husband, 
 madame. Two years of sorrow have not changed the 
 love of my heart, though I have lost his. In my 
 madness I have dared to believe that I might struggle 
 against you ; I have come to you to be told by what 
 means I can triumph over you. Oh, madame ! " cried 
 the young woman, seizing the hand which her rival 
 allowed her to take, *' never will I pray God for my 
 own happiness with such fervor as I will pray to him 
 for yours, if you will help me to recover, I will not 
 say the love, but the friendship of my husband. I have 
 no longer any hope except in j^ou. Ah ! tell me how 
 it is you have won him, and made him forget the early 
 days of — " 
 
 At these words Augustine, choking with her sobs, 
 was compelled to pause. Ashamed of her weakness, 
 she covered her face with a handkerchief that was wet 
 with tears. 
 
 "Ah, what a child you are, my dear little lady!" 
 said the duchess, fascinated by the novelty of the 
 scene and touched in spite of herself at receiving such 
 homage from as perfect a virtue as there was in Paris, 
 taking the young wife's handkerchief and herself dry- 
 ing her tears and soothing her with a few murmured 
 monosyllables of graceful pity. 
 
 After a moment's silence the accomplished coquette. 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 83 
 
 clasping poor Augustine's pretty hands in her own, 
 which had a rare character of noble beauty and power, 
 said, in a gentle and even affectionate voice : * ' My first 
 advice will be not to weep ; tears are unbecoming. We 
 must learn how to conquer sorrows which make us ill, 
 lor love will not stay long on a bed of pain. Sadness 
 may at first bestow a certain charm which pleases a 
 man, but it ends by sharpening the features and 
 fading the color of the sweetest face. And remember, 
 our tjTants have the self-love to require that their 
 slaves shall be alwaj'S gay." 
 
 *' Ah, madame ! is it within my power to cease feel- 
 ing? How is it possible not to die a thousand deaths 
 when we see a face which once shone for us with love 
 and joy, now harsh, and cold, and indifferent? No, I 
 cannot control my heart." 
 
 " So much the worse for you, my poor dear. But I 
 think I alread}^ know yoxxv history. In the first place, 
 be verj*- sure that if your husband has been unfaithful 
 to you, I am not his accomplice. If I made a point of 
 attracting him to my salon, it was, I freely confess, out 
 of vanity ; he was famous, and he went nowhere. I 
 «jke you too well already to tell )'0u all the follies he has 
 committed for me. But I shall reveal one of them be- 
 cause it may perhaps help us to bring him back to 3'ou, 
 and to punish him for the audacity he has lately shown 
 in his proceedings toward me. He will end by com- 
 
84 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 promising me. I know the world too well, m3'' dear, 
 to put myself at the mere}' of a superior man. Believe 
 me, it is verj^ well to let them court us, but to marry 
 them is a blunder. We women should admire men of 
 genius, enjoy them as we would a play, but live with 
 them — never! No, no! it is like going behind the 
 scenes and seeing the machinery, instead of sitting in 
 our boxes and enjoying the illusions. But with j'ou, 
 my poor child, the harm is done, is it not? Well, 
 then, you must try to arm yourself against tyrann3%" 
 
 *' Ah, madame, as I entered this house and before I 
 saw you I became aware of certain arts that I never 
 suspected." 
 
 *' Well, come and see me sometimes, and you will 
 soon learn the science of such trifles, — really impor- 
 tant, however, in their effects. External things are to 
 fools more than one half of life ; and for that reason 
 more than one man of talent is a fool in spite of his 
 superiority. I will venture to lay a wager that you 
 have never refused anything to Theodore." 
 
 '' How can we refuse anything to those we love? " 
 
 *' Poor, innocent child ! I adore your folly. Let me 
 tell you that the more we love the less we should let a 
 man, specially- a husband, see the extent of our passion. 
 Whoever loves the most is certain to be the one that is 
 tyrannized over, and, worse than all, deserted sooner 
 or later. Whoever desires to reign must — " 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 85 
 
 ** Oh, madame, must we all dissimulate, calculate, be 
 false at heart, make ourselves an artificial nature, and 
 forever? Oh, who could live thus ? Could you — " 
 
 She hesitated ; the duchess smiled. 
 
 *' M}^ dear," resumed the great lad}' in a grave tone, 
 " conjugal happiness has been from time immemorial a 
 speculation, a matter which required particular study. 
 If you persist in talking passion while I am talking 
 marriage we shall never understand each other. Listen 
 to me," she continued, in a confidential tone. *' I have 
 been in the waj^ of seeing many of the superior men of 
 our day. Those of them who married chose, with few 
 exceptions, women who were ciphers. Well, those 
 women have governed them just as the Emperor gov- 
 erns us, and they have been, if not beloved, at least 
 always respected by them. I am fond of secrets, 
 especiall}' those that concern our sex, and to amuse 
 m3'self I have sought the kej^ to that riddle. Well, 
 my dear little angel, it is this, — those good women 
 knew enough to analyze the characters of their hus- 
 bands; without being frightened, as 3*ou have been, 
 at their superiority, they have cleverly discovered the 
 qualities those men lacked, and whether the}- them- 
 selves had them or only feigned to have them, they 
 found means to make such a show of those very qual- 
 ities before the eyes of their husbands that they ended 
 by mastering them. Remember one thing more : those 
 
86 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 souls which see in so great all have a little grain of foll^ 
 in them, and it is our business to make the most of it. 
 If we set our wills to rule them and let nothing deter 
 us, but concentrate all our actions, our ideas, our fas- 
 cinations upon that, we can master those eminently 
 capricious minds, — for the yery inconstanc}' of their 
 thoughts gives us the means of influencing them." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the young wife, horror-struck, "can 
 that be life ? Then it is a battle — " 
 
 " — in which whoso would win must threaten," said 
 the duchess laughing. " Our power is artificial. Con- 
 sequently we should never let a man despise us ; we 
 can never rise after such a fall except through vile 
 manoeuvres. Come," she added, "I will give you the 
 means to hold your husband in chains.** 
 
 She rose, and guided her young and innocent pupil 
 in conjugal wiles through the labyrinths of her little 
 palace. They came presently to a private staircase 
 which communicated with the state apartments. When 
 the duchess touched the secret lock of the door she 
 stopped, looked at Augustine with an inimitable air of 
 wiliness and grace, and said, smiling: "My dear, the 
 Due de Carigliano adores me, — well, he would not dare 
 to enter this door without my permission. Yet he is a 
 man who has the habit of command over thousands of 
 soldiers. He can face a battery, but in my presence — 
 he is afraid." 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 87 
 
 Augustine sighed. They reached a noble gallery, 
 where th^ duchess led the painter's wife before the 
 portrait Theodore had once made of Mademoiselle 
 Guillaume. At sight of it Augustine uttered a cry. 
 
 *'I knew it was no longer in the house," she said, 
 *' but —-here!" 
 
 ''My dear child, I exacted it only to see how far 
 the folly of a man of genius would go. I intended to 
 return it to you sooner or later ; for I did not expect 
 the pleasure of seeing the original standing before the 
 copy. I will have the picture taken to your carriage 
 while we finish our conversation. If, armed with that 
 talisman, you are not mistress of 3'our husband during 
 the next hundred 3'ears, you are not a woman and you 
 deserve your fate." 
 
 Augustine kissed the hand of the great lady, who 
 pressed her to her heart with all the more tenderness 
 because she was certain to have forgotten her on the 
 morrow. This scene might have destroyed forever 
 the purity and candor of a less virtuous woman than 
 Augustine, to whom the secrets revealed by the duchess 
 could have been either salutary or fatal ; but the astute 
 policy of the higher social spheres suited Augustine as 
 little as the narrow reasoning of Joseph Lebas or the 
 silly morality of Madame Guillaume. Strange result 
 of the false positions into which we are thrown by the 
 even trivial mistakes we make in life I Augustine was 
 
88 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 like an Alpine herdsman overtaken by an avalanche ; 
 if he hesitates, or listens to the cries of his comrades, 
 he is lost In these great crises the heart either breaks 
 or hardens. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux returned home a pre}^ to 
 an agitation it is difficult to describe. Her conversation 
 with the duchess had roused a thousand contradictory 
 ideas in her mind. Like the sheep of the fable, full of 
 courage when the wolf was away, she preached to her- 
 self and laid down admirable lines of conduct ; she 
 imagined stratagems of coquetry; she talked to her 
 husband, he being absent, with all the resources of 
 that eloquence which never leaves a woman ; then, 
 remembering the glance of Theodore's fixed, light eyes, 
 she trembled with fear. When she asked if Monsieur 
 were at home, her voice failed her. Hearing that he 
 would not be at home to dinner, she was conscious of 
 a feeling of inexplicable relief. Like a criminal who 
 appeals against a death-sentence, the delaj^, however 
 short, seemed to her a lifetime. 
 
 She placed the portrait in her bedroom, and awaited 
 her husband in all the agonies of hope. Too well she 
 knew that this attempt would decide her whole future, 
 and she trembled at every sound, even at the ticking of 
 her clock, which seemed to increase her fears by mea- 
 suring them. She tried to cheat time; the idea oc- 
 curred to her to dress in a manner that made her still 
 
Fame and Sorrow. ^9 
 
 more like the portrait. Then, knowing her husband's 
 uneas}' nature, she caused her rooms to be lighted up 
 with unusual brilliancy, certain that curiosity would 
 bring him to her as soon as he came in. Midnight 
 sounded, and at the groom's cry the gates opened and 
 the painter's carriage rolled into the silent courtyard. 
 
 "What is the meaning of all this illumination?" 
 asked Theodore, gayly, as he entered his wife's room. 
 
 Augustine took advantage of so favorable a moment 
 and threw herself into his arms as she pointed to the 
 portrait. The artist stood still ; immovable as a rock, 
 gazing alternately at Augustine and at the tell-tale can- 
 vas. The timid wife, half-dead with fear, watched the 
 changing brow, that terrible brow, and saw the cruel 
 wrinkles gathering like clouds ; then the blood seemed 
 to curdle in her veins when, with a flaming eye and a 
 husky voice, he began to question her. 
 
 "Where did you get that picture?" 
 
 " The Duchesse de Carigliano returned it to me." 
 
 *' Did you ask her for it? '* 
 
 " I did not know she had it." 
 
 The softness, or rather the enchanting melody of that 
 angel voice might have turned the heart of cannibals, 
 but not that of an artist in the tortures of wounded 
 vanit3% 
 
 " It is worthy of her ! " cried the artist, in a voice of 
 thunder. *' I will be revenged ! " he said, striding up 
 
90 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 and down the room. " She shall die of shame ; I will 
 paint her, — yes, I will exhibit her in the character of 
 Messalina leaving Claudius' palace by night." 
 
 *' Theodore ! " said a faint voice. 
 
 * a will kill her ! " 
 
 " My husband ! " 
 
 " She loves that little cavalry colonel, because he 
 rides well ! " 
 
 "Theodore!" 
 
 " Let me alone ! " said the painter to his wife, in a 
 voice that was almost a roar. 
 
 The scene is too repulsive to depict here ; the rage 
 of the artist led him, before it ended, to words and acts 
 which a woman less j^oung and timid than Augustine 
 would have ascribed to insanity. 
 
 About eight o'clock on the following morning Madame 
 Guillaume found her daughter pale, with red eyes and 
 her hair in disorder, gazing on the fragments of a 
 painted canvas and the pieces of a broken frame which 
 lay scattered on the floor. Augustine, almost uncon- 
 scious with grief, pointed to the wreck with a gesture 
 of despair. 
 
 *' It is not such a very great loss," cried the old 
 woman. " It was very like you, that's true ; but I *m 
 told there is a man on the boulevard who paints 
 charming portraits for a hundred and fifty francs." 
 
 "Ah, mother!" 
 
Fame and Sorrow, 91 
 
 *' Poor dear ! well, yo\x are right,*' answered Madame 
 Guillaume, mistaking tlie meaning of the look her 
 daughter gave her; "there is nothing so tender as 
 a mother's love. My dearest, I can guess it all ; tell 
 me 3'our troubles and I '11 comfort 3-ou. Your maid has 
 told me dreadful things ; I always said 3'our husband 
 was a madman, — wh}', he *s a monster ! " 
 
 Augustine put her finger on her pallid Hps as if to 
 implore silence. During that terrible night sorrow had 
 brought her the patient resignation which, in mothers 
 and in loving women, surpasses in its effects all other 
 human forces, and reveals, perhaps, the existence of 
 certain fibres in the hearts of women which God has 
 denied to those of men. 
 
 An inscription engraved on a broken column in the 
 cemeter}' of Montmartre states that Madame de Som- 
 mervieux died at twenty-seven years of age. Between 
 the simple lines of her epitaph a friend of the timid 
 creature reads the last scenes of a drama. Every 3'ear, 
 on the solemn second of November, as he passes before 
 that earty grave he never fails to ask himself if stronger 
 women than Augustine are not needed for the powerful 
 clasp of genius. 
 
 *' The modest, humble flower, blooming in the valley 
 dies," he thought, ** if transplanted nearer to heaven, 
 to the regions where the storms gather and the sun 
 wilts." 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. 
 
 To Madame la Comtesse Ida de Bocaem^ 
 
 NEE DU ChASTELER. 
 
 *' There 's our old top-coat again ! " 
 
 This exclamation came from the lips of a clerk of the 
 species called in Parisian law-offices '' gutter-jumpers," 
 who was at the moment munching with a very good 
 appetite a slice of bread. He took a little of the crumb 
 and made a pellet, which he flung, with a laugh, through 
 the blinds of the window against which he was leaning. 
 Well-aimed, the pellet rebounded nearly to the height 
 of the window after hitting the hat of a stranger who 
 was crossing the courtyard of a house in the rue Vivi- 
 enne, where Maitre Derville, the lawyer, resided. 
 
 " Come, come, Simonnin, don't play tricks, or I '11 
 turn you off. No matter how poor a client may be, he 
 is a man, the devil take you 1 " said the head-clerk, 
 pausing as he added up a bill of costs. 
 
94 Colonel ChaherU 
 
 The gutter-jumper is usually, like Simonnin, a lad 
 of thirteen or fourteen years of age, who in all law- 
 offices is under the particular supervision of the head- 
 clerk, whose errands he does, and whose love-letters 
 he carries, together with the writs of the courts and the 
 petitions entered. He belongs to the gamin de Paris 
 through his ethics, and to the pettifogging side of law 
 through fate. The lad is usually pitiless, undisciplined, 
 totally without reverence, a scoffer, a writer of epi- 
 grams, lazy, and also greedy. Nevertheless, all such 
 little fellows have an old mother living on some fifth 
 story, with whom they share the thirty or forty francs 
 the}'^ earn monthly." 
 
 '' If it is a man, why do you call him an ' old top- 
 coat,' " said Simonnin, in the tone of a scholar who 
 detects his master in a mistake. 
 
 Thereupon he returned to the munching of his bread 
 with a bit of cheese, leaning his shoulder against the 
 window-frame ; for he took his rest standing, like the 
 horses of the hackney-coaches, with one leg raised and 
 supported against the other. 
 
 *' Couldn't we play that old gu}^ some trick?" said 
 the third clerk, Godeschal, in a low voice, stopping in 
 the middle of a legal document he was dictating to be 
 engrossed by the fourth clerk and copied by two neo- 
 phj^tes from the provinces. Having made the above 
 suggestion, he went on with his dictation: "• Miit in 
 
Colonel Chabert, 95 
 
 his gracious and benevolent wisdom His Majesty 
 Louis the Eighteenth^ — Write all the letters, hi, 
 there ! Desroches the learned ! — so soon as he re- 
 covered the reiiis of power ^ understood — What did 
 that fat joker understand, I'd like to know ? — the 
 high mission to which Divine Providence had called 
 
 him! Put an exclamation mark and six 
 
 dots ; they are pious enough at the Palais to let 'em 
 pass — and his first thought was., as is proved by the 
 date of the ordinance herein named., to repair evils 
 caused by the frightful and lamentable disasters of 
 the revolutionary period by restoring to his faithful 
 and numerous adherents — ' Numerous ' is a bit of 
 flattery which ought to please the court — all their 
 unsold property wheresoever situate^ whether in the 
 'public domain or the ordinary and extraordinary 
 crown domains., or in the endowments of public in- 
 stitutions / for we contend and hold ourselves able to 
 maintain that such is the spirit and the meaning of 
 the gracious ordinance., rendered in — " 
 
 '* Stop, stop," said Godeschal to the three clerks ; 
 "that rascally sentence has come to the end of my 
 paper and is n't done yet. Well," he added, stopping 
 to wet the back of the cahier with his tongue to turn the 
 thick page of his stamped paper, " if you want to play 
 the old top-coat a trick tell him that the master is so 
 busy he can talk to clients only between two and three 
 
96 Colonel Ckabert. 
 
 o'clock in the morning ; we '11 see if he comes then, the 
 old villain ! " and Godeschal returned to his dictation : 
 " g7'acious ordinance rendered in — Have you got 
 that down?" 
 
 *' Yes," cried the three copyists. 
 
 '' Rendered in — Hi, papa Boucard, what 's the date 
 of that ordinance ? Dot your i's, unam et omnes — 
 it fills up." 
 
 ** Omnes" repeated one of the clerks before Bou- 
 card, the head-clerk, could answer. 
 
 '' Good heavens ! you have n't written that, have 
 you?" cried Godeschal, looking at the provincial new- 
 comer with a truculent air. 
 
 *'Yes, he has," said Desroches, the fourth clerk, 
 leaning over to look at his neighbor's cop}^, ''he has 
 written, '' Dot your i's, and he spells it e-j'-e-s." 
 
 All the clei-ks burst into a roar of laughter. 
 
 *' Do you call that a law-term. Monsieur Hure ? " cried 
 Simonnin, '' and 3'ou say you come from Mortagne ! " 
 
 '' Scratch it out carefully," said the head-clerk. '' If 
 one of the judges were to get hold of the petition and 
 see that, the master would never hear the last of it. 
 Come, no more such blunders. Monsieur Hure ; a Nor- 
 man ought to know better than to write a petition care- 
 lessly ; it's the ' Shoulder-arms ! ' of the legal guild." 
 
 Rendered in — in — " went on Godeschal. *' Do 
 tell me when, Boucard?" 
 
Colonel Chahert. 97 
 
 ** June, 1814," replied the head-clerk, without raising 
 his head from his work. 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted the next sentence of 
 the prolix petition. Five grinning clerks, with lively, 
 satirical eyes and curly heads, turned their noses to- 
 wards the door, having all shouted with one voice, 
 ** Come in ! " Boucard remained with his head buried 
 in a mound of deeds, and went on making out the bill 
 of costs on which he was employed. 
 
 The office was a large room, furnished with the clas- 
 sic stove that adorns all other pettifogging precincts. 
 The pipes went diagonally across the room and entered 
 the chimne}', on the marble mantel-shelf of which were 
 diverse bits of bread, triangles of Brie cheese, fresh 
 pork-chops, glasses, bottles, and a cup of chocolate for 
 the head-clerk. The smell of these comestibles amalga- 
 mated so well with the offensive odor of the over-heated 
 stove and the peculiar exhalations of desks and papers 
 that the stench of a fox would hardly have been per- 
 ceived. The floor was covered with mud and snow 
 brought in by the clerks. Near the window stood the 
 rolling-top desk of the head-clerk, and next to it the 
 little table of the second clerk. The latter was now on 
 duty in the courts, where he usually went between eight 
 and nine o'clock in the morning. The sole decorations 
 of the office were the well-known large yellow posters 
 which announce attachments on property, mortgagee- 
 
 7 
 
98 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 sales, litigations between guardians and minors, and 
 auctions, final or postponed, the glory of legal offices. 
 
 Behind the head-clerk, and covering the wall from 
 top to bottom, was a case with an enormous number of 
 pigeon-holes, each stuffed with bundles of papers, from 
 which hung innumerable tags and those bits of red 
 tape which give special character to legal documents. 
 The lower shelves of the case were filled with paste- 
 board boxes, yellowed by time and edged with blue 
 paper, on which could be read the names of the more 
 distinguished clients whose affairs were cooking at the 
 present time. The dirty window-panes let in but a 
 small amount of light ; besides, in the month of Feb- 
 ruary there are very few law-offices in Paris where the 
 clerks can write without a lamp before ten o'clock in the 
 day. Such offices are invariabl}^ neglected, and for 
 the reason that while everj' one goes there nobody 
 staj's ; no personal interest attaches to so mean a 
 spot ; neither the lawyers, nor the clients, nor the 
 clerks, care for the appearance of the place which is 
 to the latter a school, to the clients a means, to the 
 master a laboratory. The greasy furniture is trans- 
 mitted from lawyer to lawyer with such scrupulous ex- 
 actness that certain offices still possess boxes of " resi- 
 dues," parchments engrossed in black-letter, and bags, 
 which have descended from the solicitors of the " Chlet,** 
 an abbreviation of the word *' Chatelet," an institution 
 
Colonel Chabert. 99 
 
 which represented under the old order of things what a 
 court of common pleas is in our day. 
 
 This dark office, choked with dust and* dirt, was there- 
 fore, like all such offices, repulsive to clients, and one 
 of the ugly monstrosities of Paris. Certainly, if the 
 damp sacristies where prayers are weighed and paid 
 for like spices, if the second-hand shops, where flutter 
 rags which blight the illusions of life by revealing to us 
 the end of our festive arrays, if these two sewers of 
 poesy did not exist, a law3^er's office would be the most 
 horrible of all social dens. But the same characteristic 
 may be seen in gambling-houses, in court-rooms, in the 
 letter}' bureaus, and in evil resorts. Wh}'? Perhaps 
 because the drama played in such places within the 
 soul renders men indifferent to externals, — a thought 
 which likewise explains the simplicity of great thinkers 
 and men of great ambitions. 
 
 " Where *s m}^ penknife?** 
 
 ** I shall eat my breakfast." 
 
 " Look out ! there *s a blot on the petition." 
 
 *' Hush, gentlemen ! " 
 
 These various exclamations went off all at once Just 
 «j.s the old client entered and closed the door, with the 
 sort of humility which gives an unnatural air to the 
 movements of a poverty-stricken man. The stranger 
 tried to smile, but the muscles of his face relaxed 
 when he had vainly looked for symptoms of civility 
 
100 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 on the inexorably indifferent faces of the six clerks. 
 Accustomed, no doubt, to judge men, he addressed 
 himself politely to the gutter-jumper, hoping that the 
 office drudge might answer him civilly : — 
 
 *' Monsieur, can I see 3'our master?" 
 
 The mischievous youngster replied by tapping his 
 ear with the fingers of his left hand, as much as to 
 say, ''I am deaf." 
 
 *' What is it you want, monsieur? " asked Godeschal 
 swallowing an enormous mouthful as he asked the 
 question, — brandishing his knife and crossing his legs 
 till the foot of the upper one came on a line with his 
 nose. 
 
 *'I have called five times, monsieur," replied the 
 visitor; '*I wish to speak to Monsieur Derville." 
 
 ''On business?" 
 
 *' Yes ; but I can explain my business only to him.** 
 
 "He's asleep; if you wish to consult him j-ou'll 
 have to come at night ; he never gets to work before 
 midnight. But if you wnll explain the matter to us we 
 can perhaps do as well — " 
 
 The stranger was impassive. He looked humbty 
 about him like a dog slipping into a strange kitchen 
 and afraid of kicks. Thanks to their general condi- 
 tion, law- clerks are not afraid of thieves ; so they felt 
 no suspicion of the top-coat, but allowed him to look 
 round in search of a seat, for he was evidently fatigued. 
 
Colonel Chabert : l&l; 
 
 It is a matter of calculation with lawj-ers to have few 
 chairs in their offices. The common client, weary of 
 standing, goes away grumbling. 
 
 '' Monsieur," replied the stranger, ** I have already 
 had the honor of telling you that I can explain my 
 business to no one but Monsieur Derville. I will wait 
 until he is up." 
 
 Boucard had now finished his accounts. He smelt 
 the fumes of his chocolate, left his cane chair, came up 
 to the chimney, looked the old man over from head to 
 foot» gazed at the top-coat and made an indescribable 
 grimace. He probably thought that no matter how 
 long the)' kept this client on the rack not a penny 
 could be got out of him ; and he now interposed, 
 meaning with a few curt words to rid the office of an 
 unprofitable client. 
 
 *' They tell you the truth, monsieur," he said ; *' Mon- 
 sieur Derville works only at night. If your business is 
 important I advise you to come back here at one or two 
 in the morning." 
 
 The client looked at the head-clerk with a stupid air, 
 and remained for an instant motionless. Accustomed 
 to see many changes of countenance, and many sin- 
 gular expressions produced by the hesitation and the 
 dreaminess which characterize persons who go to law, 
 the clerks took no notice of the old man, but continued 
 to eat their breakfasts with as much noise of their jaws 
 as if they were horses at a manger. 
 
iM' Colonel Chahert. 
 
 *' Monsieur, I shall return to-night," said the visi- 
 tor, who, with the tenacity of an unhappy man, was 
 determined to put his tormentors in the wrong. 
 
 The only retaliation granted to poverty is that of 
 forcing justice and benevolence to unjust refusals. 
 When unhapp}^ souls have convicted society of false- 
 hood then they fling themselves the more ardentlj^ 
 upon the bosom of God. 
 
 ''Did 3'ou ever see such a skull?" cried Simonnin, 
 without waiting till the door had closed on the old 
 man. 
 
 ''He looks as if he had been buried and dug up 
 again," said one. 
 
 "He's some colonel who wants his back-pay," said 
 the head-clerk. 
 
 " No, he*s an old porter." 
 
 ' ' Who '11 bet he 's a nobleman ? " cried Boucard. 
 
 "I'll bet he has been a porter," said Godeschal. 
 *' None but porters are gifted by nature with top- coats 
 as greasy and ragged round the bottom as that old 
 fellow's. Didn't you notice his cracked boots which 
 let in water, and that cravat in place of a shirt ? That 
 man slept last night under a bridge." 
 
 " He may be a nobleman and have burnt his candle 
 at both ends, — that 's nothing new ! " cried Desroches. 
 
 " No," replied Boucard, in the midst of much laughter, 
 "I maintain he was a brewer in 1789 and a colonel 
 under the Republic." 
 
Colonel Chahert, 103 
 
 " Ha ! I *ll bet tickets for a play all round that he 
 never was a soldier," said Godeschal. 
 
 *' Done," said Boucard. 
 
 ** Monsieur, monsieur!" called the gutter-jumper, 
 opening the window. 
 
 *' What are you doing, Simonnin?" asked Boucard. 
 
 '* I 'm calling him back to know if he is a colonel or 
 a porter, — he ought to know, himself." 
 
 '' What shall we say to him?" exclaimed Godeschal. 
 
 *' Leave it to me," said Boucard. 
 
 The poor man re-entered timidl^^ with his eyes low- 
 ered, perhaps not to show his hunger by looking too 
 eagerly at the food. 
 
 ** Monsieui'," said Boucard, ** will you have the kind- 
 ness to give us your name, so that Monsieur Derville 
 may — " 
 
 *'Chabert." 
 
 **The colonel who was killed at Eylau?" asked 
 Hure, who had not yet spoken, but was anxious to 
 get in his joke like the rest. 
 
 *'The same, monsieur," answered the old man, with 
 classic simplicity. Then he left the room. 
 
 " Thunder r' 
 
 '»Sold!" 
 
 "Puff!" 
 
 "OhI- 
 
104 Colonel Chabert, 
 
 ''Bourn!" 
 
 *'The old oddity!" 
 
 ''Done for!" 
 
 " Monsieur Desroches, you and I will go to the the- 
 atre for nothing ! " cried Hure to the fourth clerk, with 
 a rap on the shoulders fit to have killed a rhinoceros. 
 
 Then followed a chorus of shouts, laughs, and excla- 
 mations, to describe which we should have to use all 
 the onomatopoeias of the language. 
 
 " Which theatre shall we choose?" 
 
 " The Opera," said the head-clerk. 
 
 "In the first place," said Godeschal, "I never said 
 theatre at all. I can take you, if I choose, to Madame 
 Saqui." 
 
 " Madame Saqui is not a play," said Desroches. 
 
 "What's a play?" retorted Godeschal. "Let's 
 first establish the fact. What did I bet, gentlemen ? tick- 
 ets for a pla3^ What 's a play ? a thing we go to see — " 
 
 " If that 's so, you can take us to see the water run- 
 ning under the Pont Neuf," interrupted Simonnin. 
 
 " — see for money," went on Godeschal. 
 
 "But 3^ou can see a great many things for money 
 that are not plays. The definition is not exact," said 
 Desroches. 
 
 " But just listen to me — " 
 
 "You are talking nonsense, my dear fellow," said 
 Boucard. 
 
Colonel Chahert, 105 
 
 ** Do you call Curtius a play ? " asked Godeschal. 
 
 *'No," said the head-clerk, "I call it a gallery of 
 wax figures." 
 
 *' I'll bet a hundred francs to a sou," retorted Godes- 
 chal, " that Curtius's gallery constitutes a collection of 
 things which may legally be called a play. They com- 
 bine into one thing which can be seen at different prices 
 according to the seats 3'ou occup}^ — " 
 
 ^' You can't get out of it ! " said Simonnin. 
 
 '' Take care I don't box your ears ! " said Godeschal. 
 
 The clerks all shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 ** Besides, we don't know that that old baboon wasn't 
 making fun of us," he continued, changing his argu- 
 ment amid roars of laughter. ''The fact is. Colonel 
 Chabert is as dead as a door-nail ; his widow married 
 Comte Ferraud, councillor of state. Madame Ferraud 
 is one of our cHents." 
 
 ** The cause stands over for to-morrow," said Bou- 
 card. *' Come, get to work, gentlemen. Heavens and 
 earth ! nothing ever gets done here. Finish with that 
 petition, — it has to be sent in before the session of the 
 fourth court which meets to-day. Come, to work ! " 
 
 "If it was really Colonel Chabert, would n't he have 
 kicked that little Simonnin when he pretended to be 
 deaf ? " said the provincial Hure, considering that ob- 
 servation quite as conclusive as those of Godeschal. 
 
 '' Nothing is decided," said Boucard. "Let us agree 
 
106 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 to accept the second tier of boxes at the Fran5ais and 
 see Talma in Nero. Simonnin can sit in the pit." 
 
 Thereupon the head-clerk sat down at his desk, and 
 the others followed his example. 
 
 " Rendered June one thousand eight hundred and 
 fourteen — Write it in letters, mind," said Godeschal. 
 " Have you written it? " 
 
 '' Yes," replied the copyists and the engrosser, whose 
 pens began to squeak along the stamped paper with a 
 noise, well known in all law-offices, like that of scores 
 of cockchafers tied by schoolboys in a paper bag. 
 
 *' And we pray that the gentlemen of this tribunal — 
 Hold on ! let me read that sentence over to myself; I 
 don't know what I 'm about." 
 
 ''Forty-six — should think that often happened — 
 and three, forty-nine," said Boucard. 
 
 " We pray ^'^ resumed Godeschal, having re-read his 
 clause, ' ' that the gentlemen of this tribunal will not 
 show less magna?iimity than the august author of the 
 ordinance, and that they will deny the miserable pre- 
 tensions of the administration of the grand chancellor 
 of the Legion of honor by determining the jurispru- 
 dence of this matter in the broad sense in which we have 
 established it h&re — " 
 
 "Monsieur Godeschal, don't you want a glass of 
 water?" said the gutter-jumper. 
 
 " That imp of a Simonnin ! " said Boucard. " Come 
 
Colonel Chabert. 107 
 
 here, saddle your double-soled horses, and take this 
 package and skip over to the Invalides." 
 
 ''^ Which we have established it here — " went on 
 Godeschal. "Did you get to that? Well, then add 
 in the interests of Madame (full length) la Vicomtesse 
 de Grandlieu — " 
 
 ** What's that?" cried the head clerk, '* the idea of 
 petitioning in that affair! Vicomtesse de Grandlieu 
 against the Legion of honor ! Ah ! you must be a 
 fool ! Have the goodness to put awa^' 3'our copies and 
 your minute, — they '11 answer far the Navarreins affair 
 against the monasteries. It 's late, and I must be off 
 with the other petitions ; I 'U attend to that m3self at 
 the Palais." 
 
 Towards one o'clock in the morning the individual 
 calling himself Colonel Chabert knocked at the door of 
 Maitre Derville, solicitor in the court of common pleas 
 for the department of the Seine. The porter told him 
 that Monsieur Derville had not yet come in. The old 
 man declared he had an appointment and passed up to 
 the rooms of the celebrated lawyer, who, young as he 
 was, was even then considered one of the best legal 
 heads in France. Having rung and been admitted, the 
 persistent client was not a little astonished to find the 
 head-clerk laying out on a table in the dining-room a 
 number of documents relating to affairs which were to 
 come up on the morrow. The clerk, not less astonished 
 
108 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 at the apparition of the old man, bowed to the colonel 
 and asked him to sit down, which he did. 
 
 *'Upon my word, monsieur, I thought you were 
 joking when you named such a singular hour for a 
 consultation," said the old man, with the factitious 
 liveliness of a ruined man who tries to smile. 
 
 *' The clerks were joking and telling the truth also," 
 said the head-clerk, going on with his work. ** Mon- 
 sieur Derville selects this hour to examine his causes, 
 give directions for the suits, and plan his defences. 
 His extraordinary intellect works freer at this hour, 
 the only one in which he can get the silence and tran- 
 quillity he requires to evolve his ideas. You are the 
 third person only who has been admitted here for a 
 consultation at this time of night. After Monsieur 
 Derville comes in he will talk over each affair, read 
 everything connected with it, and spend perhaps five 
 or six hours at his work ; then he rings for me, and 
 explains his intentions. In the morning, from ten to 
 two, he listens to his clients ; the rest of the day he 
 passes in visiting. In the evening he goes about in 
 society to keep up his relations with the great world. 
 He has no other time than at night to delve into his 
 cases, rummage the arsenals of the Code, make his 
 plans of campaign. He is determined, out of love for 
 his profession, not to lose a single case. And for that 
 reason he won't take all that are brought to him, as 
 
Colonel Chahert. 109 
 
 other lawyers do. That 's his life ; it 's extraordinarily 
 active. He makes a lot of money." 
 
 The old man was silent as he listened to this explana- 
 tion, and his singular face assumed a look so devoid of 
 all intelligence that the clerk after glancing at him once 
 or twice took no further notice of him. A few moments 
 later Derville arrived, in evening dress ; his head-clerk 
 opened the door to him and then went back to the 
 papers. The 30ung lawyer looked amazed when he 
 saw in the dim light the strange client who awaited him. 
 Colonel Chabert was as motionless as the wax figures 
 of Curtius's gallery where Godeschal proposed to take 
 his comrades. This immovability might have been less 
 noticeable than it was, if it had not, as it were, com- 
 pleted the supernatural impression conveyed by the 
 whole appearance of the man. The old soldier was 
 lean and shrunken. The concealment of his forehead, 
 which was carefully hidden beneath a wig brushed 
 smoothly over it, gave a mysterious expression to his 
 person. The eyes seemed covered with a film ; 3'ou 
 might have thought them bits of dirty mother-of-pearl, 
 their bluish reflections quivering in the candle-light. 
 The pale, livid, hatchet face, if I may borrow that 
 term, seemed dead. An old black-silk stock was fas- 
 tened round the neck. The shadow of the room hid 
 the body so effectually below the dark line of the ragged 
 article that a man of vivid imagination might have 
 
110 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 taken that old head for a sketch drawn at random on 
 the wall or for a portrait by Eembrandt without its 
 frame. The brim of the hat worn by the strange old 
 man cast a black line across the upper part of his face. 
 This odd effect, though perfectly natural, brought out 
 in abrupt contrast the white wrinkles, the stiffened 
 lines, the unnatural hue of that cadaverous counte- 
 nance. The absence of all motion in the bod}^, all 
 warmth in the glance, combined with a certain ex- 
 pression of mental alienation, and with the degrading 
 sj^mptoms which characterize idioc}^, to give that face a 
 nameless horror which no words can describe. 
 
 But an observer, and especially a law3^er, would have 
 seen in that blasted man the signs of some deep an- 
 guish, indications of a misery that degraded that face 
 as the drops of rain falling from the heavens on pure 
 marble gradually disfigure it. A doctor, an author, a 
 magistrate would have felt intuitively a whole drama as 
 they looked at this sublime wreck, whose least merit 
 was a resemblance to those fantastic sketches drawn by 
 artists on the margins of their lithographic stones as 
 they sit conversing with their friends. 
 
 When the stranger saw the law^'er he shuddered with 
 the convulsive movement which seizes a poet when a 
 sudden noise recalls him from some fecund revery 
 amid the silence of the night. The old man rose 
 quickly and took off his hat to the young lawyer. The 
 
Colonel ChaheH, 111 
 
 leather that lined it was no doubt damp with grease, for 
 his wig stuck to it without his knowledge and exposed 
 his skull, horribly mutilated and disfigured by a scar 
 running from the crown of his head to the angle of his 
 right eye and forming a raised welt. The sudden re- 
 moval of that dirtj^ wig, worn by the poor soul to con- 
 ceal his wound, caused no desire to laugh in the minds 
 of the two young men ; so awful was the sight of that 
 skull. '* The mind fled through it!" was the first 
 thought suggested to them as they saw that wound. 
 
 ** If he is not Colonel Chabert he is some bold 
 trooper," thought Boucard. 
 
 *' Monsieur," said Derville, *' to whom have I the 
 honor of speaking?" 
 
 ''To Colonel Chabert." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 " The one who was killed at Eylau," replied the old 
 man. 
 
 Hearing those extraordinary words the clerk and the 
 law3^er looked at each other as if to say, "He is 
 mad." 
 
 "Monsieur," said the colonel, "I desire to confide 
 my secrets to you in private." 
 
 The intrepidit}^ which characterizes lawyers is worthy 
 of remark. Whether from their habit of receiving 
 great numbers of persons, whether from an abiding 
 sense of the protection of the law, or from perfect 
 
112 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 confidence in their ministry, certain it is they go 
 everj' where and take all risks, like priests and doc- 
 tors. Derville made a sign to Boiicard, who left the 
 room. 
 
 " Monsieur,** said the lawyer, *' during the day I am 
 not very chary of my time ; but in the middle of the 
 night every moment is precious to me. Therefore, be 
 brief and concise. Tell your facts without digression ; 
 I will ask you any explanations I may find necessary. 
 Go on.*' 
 
 Bidding his strange client be seated, the 3'oung man 
 sat down before the table, and while listening to the tale 
 of the late colonel he turned over the pages of a brief. 
 
 *' Monsieur," said the deceased, " perhaps yon know 
 that I commanded a regiment of cavahy at Eylau. I 
 was the chief cause of the success of Murat's famous 
 charge which won the day. Unhappil}' for me, my 
 death is given as an historic fact in ' Victories and 
 Conquests* where all the particulars are related. We 
 cut the three Russian lines in two ; then they closed be- 
 hind us and we were obliged to cut our way back again. 
 Just before we reached the Emperor, having dispersed 
 the Russians, a troop of the enemy's cavalry met us. I 
 flung myself upon them. Two Russian officers, actual 
 giants, attacked me together. One of them cut me 
 over the head with his sabre, which went through every- 
 thing, even to the silk cap which I wore, and laid my 
 
Colonel Chahert, 113 
 
 skull open. I fell from my horse. Murat came up 
 to support us, and he and his whole party, fifteen hun- 
 dred men, rode over me. They reported my death to 
 the Emperor, who sent (for he loved me a little, the mas- 
 ter !) to see if there were no hope of saving a man to 
 whom he owed the vigor of our attack. He despatched 
 two surgeons to find me and bring me in to the ambu- 
 lances, sa3 ing — perhaps too hurriedl^^, for he had work 
 to attend to — 'Go and see if my poor Chabert is still 
 living.' Those cursed saw-bones had just seen m^e 
 trampled under the hoofs of two regiments ; no doubt 
 they never took the trouble to feel my pulse, but re- 
 ported me as dead. The certificate of my death was 
 doubtless drawn up in due form of military law." 
 
 Graduall}', as he listened to his client, who expressed 
 himself with perfect clearness, and related facts that 
 were quite possible, though somewhat strange, the 
 young law3^er pushed away his papers, rested his left 
 elbow on the table, put his head on his hand, and 
 looked fixedly at the colonel. 
 
 "Are you aware, monsieur," he said, ''that I am 
 the solicitor of the Countess Ferraud, widow of Colonel 
 Chabert?" 
 
 " Of my wife? Yes, monsieur. And therefore, after 
 many fruitless efforts to obtain a hearing from lawyers, 
 who all thought me mad, I deteianined to come to j-ou. 
 I shall speak of my sorrows later. Allow me now to 
 
 8 
 
114 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 state the facts, and explain to you how they probably 
 happened, rather than how they actually did happen. 
 Certain circumstances, which can never be known ex- 
 cept to God Almighty, oblige me to relate much in the 
 form of hj'potheses. I must tell 3'ou, for instance, that 
 the wounds I received probably produced something 
 like lockjaw, or threw me into a state analogous to a 
 disease called, I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise, how 
 can I suppose that I was stripped of my clothing and 
 flung into a common grave, according to the customs of 
 war, by the men whose business it was to bury the 
 diead? Here let me state a circumstance which I only 
 knew much later than the event which I am forced to 
 call my death. In 1814 I met in Stuttgard an old cav- 
 alry sergeant of my regiment. That dear man — the 
 only human being wilUng to recognize me, of whom I 
 will presently speak to you — explained to me the ex- 
 traordinary circumstances of my preservation. He said 
 that my horse received a bullet in the body at the same 
 moment when I myself was wounded. Horse and rider 
 were therefore knocked over together like a stand of 
 muskets. In turning, either to the right or to the 
 left, I had doubtless been protected by the body of 
 my horse which saved me from being crushed by the 
 riders or hit by bullets." 
 
 The old man paused for a moment as if to collect 
 himself and then resumed : — 
 
Colonel ChaherL 115 
 
 ** When I came to m3'self, monsieur, I was in a place 
 and in an atmosphere of which I could give you no 
 idea, even if I talked for da3's. The air I breathed was 
 mephitic. I tried to move but I found no space. My 
 eyes were open but I saw nothing. The want of air 
 was the worst sign, and it showed me the dangers of my 
 position. I felt I was in some place where the atmos- 
 phere was stagnant, and that I should die of it. This 
 thought overcame the sense of extreme pain which had 
 brought me to my senses. My ears hummed violently. 
 I heard, or thought I heard (for I can affirm nothing), 
 groans from the heap of dead bodies among whom I 
 lay. Though the recollection of those moments is dark, 
 though my memory is confused, and in spite of still 
 greater sufferings which I experienced later and which 
 have bewildered my ideas, there are nights, even now, 
 when I think I hear those smothered moans. But there 
 was something more horrible than even those cries, — a 
 silence that I have never known elsewhere, the silence 
 of the grave. At last, raising mj^ hands and feeling 
 for the dead, I found a void between my head and the 
 human carrion about me. I could even measure the 
 space thus left to me b}' some mere chance, the cause 
 of which I did not know. It seemed as if, thanks to 
 the carelessness or to the haste with which we had been 
 flung pell-mell into the trench, that two dead bodies 
 had fallen across each other above me, so as to form<a5> 
 
116 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 angle like that of two cards which children lay together 
 to make houses. Quickly feeling in all directions, — for 
 I had no time to idle, — I happily came across an arm, 
 the arm of a Hercules, detached from its body ; and 
 those good bones saved me ! Without that unlooked- 
 for succor I must have perished. But now, with a 
 fury you will readily understand, I began to work m}^ 
 way upward through the bodies which separated me 
 from the layer of earth hastily flung over us, — I say 
 * us,' as though there were others living. I worked 
 with a will, monsieur, for here I am ! Still, I don't 
 know to-da}^ how it was that I managed to tear through 
 the covering of flesh that lay between me and life. I 
 had, as it were, three arms. That Herculean crow-bar, 
 which I used carefullj^, brought me a little air confined 
 among the bodies which it helped me to displace, and I 
 economized my breathing. At last I saw daylight, but 
 through the snow, monsieur ! Just then I noticed for 
 the first time that my head was cut open. Happily, 
 my blood — that of my comrades, possibly, how should 
 I know ? or the bleeding flesh of my horse — had co- 
 agulated on my wound and formed a natural plaster. 
 But in spite of that scab I fainted when my head came 
 in contact with the snow. The little heat still left in 
 my bod}^ melted the snow about me, and when I came 
 to myself my head was in the middle of a little opening, 
 through which I shouted as long as I was able. But 
 
Colonel Chahert, 117 
 
 the sun had risen and I was little likely to be heard. 
 People seemed already- in the fields. I raised myself to 
 my feet, making stepping-stones of the dead whose 
 thighs were solid, — for it was n't the moment to stop 
 and say, ' Honor to heroes ! * 
 
 *' In short, monsieur," continued the old man, who 
 had stopped speaking for a moment, '* after going 
 through the anguish — if that word describes the rage — 
 of seeing those cursed Germans, ay, many of them, 
 run awa}' when they heard the voice of a man they 
 could not see, I was at last taken from my living grave 
 b}' a woman, daring enough or inquisitive enough to 
 come close to my head, which seemed to grow from the 
 ground like a mushroom. The woman fetched her hus- 
 band, and together they took me to their poor hovel. 
 It seems that there I had a return of catalepsy, — allow 
 me that term with which to describe a state of which I 
 have no idea, but which I judge, from what m}^ hosts 
 told me, must have been an effect of that disease. I lay 
 for six months between life and death, not speaking, 
 or wandering in mind when I did speak. At last my 
 benefactors placed me in the hospital at Heilsberg. Of 
 course you understand, monsieur, that I issued from 
 my grave as naked as I came from my mother's womb ; 
 so that when, many months later, I remembered that I 
 was Colonel Chabert, and endeavored to make my 
 nurses treat me with more respect than if I were a 
 
118 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 poor devil of a private, ail the men in the ward laughed. 
 Happily for me, the surgeon made it a point of honor 
 or vanit}^ to cure me ; and he naturally became inter- 
 ested in his patient. When I spoke to him in a con- 
 nected manner of my former hfe, that good man (his 
 name was Sparchmann) had my statements recorded in 
 the legal forms of his countr}^ also a statement of the 
 miraculous manner in which I had escaped from the 
 trench, and the da}^ and hour my benefactress and her 
 husband had rescued me, together with the nature and 
 exact position of m^^ wounds and a careful description 
 of my person. Well, monsieur, I do not possess a 
 single one of those important papers, nor the declara- 
 tion I made before a notary at Heilsberg to establish 
 m}' identit}'. The events of the war drove us from the 
 town, and from that day I have wandered like a vaga- 
 bond, begging my bread, treated as a lunatic when I 
 told my story, unable to earn a single sou that would 
 enable me to send for those papers, which alone can 
 prove the truth of what I say and restore me to my 
 social status. Often my physical sufferings have kept 
 me for weeks and months in some obscure countrj- town, 
 where the greatest kindness has been shown to the sick 
 Frenchman, but where they laughed in his face when he 
 asserted he was Colonel Chabert. For a long while 
 such doubts and laughter made me furious, and that in- 
 jured my cause, and once I was shut up as a madman 
 
Colonel Chahert. 119 
 
 at Stuttgard. You can imagine, from what I have told 
 you, that there were reasons to lock me up. After two 
 years in a madhouse, where I was forced to hear my 
 keepers say : ' This poor man fancies he was once Col- 
 onel Chabert,' to visitors, who replied compassionately, 
 * Ah, poor man ! * I m3^self was convinced of the im- 
 possibility of my story being true ; I grew sad, resigned, 
 tranquil, and I ceased to call myself Colonel Chabert, 
 so as to get my release and return to France. Oh, mon- 
 sieur ! to see Paris once more ! it was a joy I — " 
 
 With those unfinished words Colonel Chabert sank 
 into a revery, which the lawj^er did not disturb. 
 
 " Monsieur," resumed the client presently, " one fine 
 day, a spring day, they gave me my freedom and ten 
 thalers, on the ground that I talked sensibly on all sub- 
 jects and had given up calling m3^self Colonel Chabert ; 
 and, God knows, at that time my name was disagree- 
 able to me, and has been at intervals ever since. I 
 would like not to be myself; the sense of mj* rights 
 kills me. If my illness had only taken from me forever 
 the remembrance of my past existence, I might be 
 happy. I might have re-entered the service under some 
 other name ; and, who knows ? perhaps I should have 
 ended as a Russian or an Austrian field-marshal." 
 
 ** Monsieur," said the lawj'er, *'you have upset all 
 my ideas ; I fancy I dream as I listen to you. Let us 
 pause here for a moment, I beg of you." 
 
1^0 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 "You are the only person," said the colonel sadly, 
 " who have ever listened to me patiently. No lawyer 
 has been willing to lend me ten napoleons, that I might 
 Bend to German}^ for the papers necessary for my suit." 
 
 *' What suit?" asked the lawyer, who had forgotten 
 the unfortunate present position of his client, as he 
 listened to the recital of his past misery. 
 
 " Why, monsieur, you are well aware that the Com- 
 tesse Ferraud is my wife. She possesses an income of 
 thirty thousand francs which belongs to me, and she 
 refuses to give me one penny of it. When I tell this to 
 lawyers and to men of common-sense, when I, a beg- 
 gar, propose to sue a count and countess, when I, 
 risen from the dead, deny the proofs of my death, thej^ 
 put me off, — they refuse to listen to me, either with 
 that coldly polite air with which 3'ou lawyers know so 
 well how to rid yourselves of hapless creatures, or 
 "brutally, as men do when they think they are dealing 
 with a swindler or a madman. I have been buried 
 beneath the dead, but now I am buried beneath the 
 living, — beneath facts, beneath records, beneath society 
 itself, which seeks to thrust me back underground ! " 
 
 *' Monsieur, have the goodness to sue, to prosecute 
 now," said the lawyer. 
 
 *' Have the goodness ! Ah ! " exclaimed the unfor- 
 tunate old man, taking the hand of the young lawyer ; 
 " that is the first polite word I have heard since — " 
 
Colonel ChaberL 121 
 
 He wept. Gratitude stifled his voice. The all-pene- 
 trative, indescribable eloquence of look, gesture, — even 
 silence, — clinched Derville's conviction, and touched 
 him keenly. 
 
 " Listen to me, monsieur," he said. " I won three 
 hundred francs at cards to-night ; I can surel}' afford to 
 give half that sum to procure the happiness of a man. 
 I will make all the investigations and orders necessary 
 to obtain the papers you mention ; and, until their 
 arrival, I will allow you five francs a day. If you are 
 Colonel Chabert, you will know how to pardon the small- 
 ness of the loan offered by a young man who has his 
 fortune to make. Continue." 
 
 The self-styled colonel remained for an instant mo- 
 tionless, and as if stupefied ; his great misfortunes had, 
 perhaps, destroyed his powers of belief. If he were 
 seeking to recover his illustrious military fame, his 
 home, his fortune, — himself, in short, — it may have 
 been only in obedience to that inexplicable feeling, that 
 germ in the hearts of all men, to which we owe the 
 researches of the alchemists, the passion for glorj', the 
 discoveries of astronomy and of physios, — all that 
 urges a man to magnify himself by the magnitude of 
 the facts or the ideas that are a part of him. The ef/o 
 was now but a secondary consideration to his mind, 
 just as the vanity of triumph or the satisfaction of gain 
 are dearer to a man who bets than the object of his 
 
122 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 wager. The words of the 3^oung lawyer came, there- 
 fore, like a miracle to this man, repudiated for the last 
 ten years by wife, hy justice, by the whole social crea- 
 tion. To receive from a lawyer those ten gold pieces 
 so long denied him, by so many persons, in so many 
 ways ! The colonel was like the lady who had been ill 
 so long, that when she was cured she thought she was 
 suffeiing from a new malad3\ There are joys in which 
 we no longer believe; they come, and we find them 
 thunderbolts, — they blast us. So now the poor man's 
 gratitude was so deep that he could not utter it. He 
 might have seemed cold to a superficial mind, but Der- 
 ville saw integrity in that very stupor. A swindler 
 would have spoken. 
 
 *' Where was I?" said the colonel, with the guileless- 
 ness of a child or a soldier ; for there is much of the 
 child in the true soldier, and nearl}^ always something 
 of a soldier in a child, especiallj' in France. 
 
 " At Stuttgard ; thej^ had set you at liberty." 
 
 *' You know my wife?" asked the colonel. 
 
 " Yes," replied Derville, with a nod of his head. 
 
 *'Howisshe?" 
 
 ** Always fascinating." 
 
 The old man made a gesture with his hand, and 
 seemed to conquer some secret pang with the grave 
 and solemn resignation that characterizes men who have 
 been tried in the fire and blood of battle-fields. 
 
Colonel Chahert, 123 
 
 ** Monsieur," he said, with a sort of gayety ; for he 
 breathed anew, poor soul ; he had issued a second 
 time from the grave ; he had broken through a crust of 
 ice and snow harder to melt than that which once had 
 frozen his wounded head ; he inhaled the air as though 
 he were just issuing from a dungeon. '^ Monsieur," he 
 said, " if I were a handsome fellow I should n't be where 
 I am now. Women believe men when they lard their 
 sentences with words of love. Then they '11 fetch and 
 carry, and come and go, and do anything to serve you. 
 They '11 intrigue ; they '11 swear to facts ; they '11 play 
 the devil for the man they love. But how could I make 
 a woman listen to one like me? With a face like a 
 death's head, and clothed like a sans-culotte, I was 
 more of an Esquimau than a Frenchman, — I, who in 
 1799 was the finest coxcomb in the service! — I, Cha- 
 bert, count of the Empire ! At last the day came when 
 I knew I was an outcast on the streets, like a pariah 
 dog. That day 1 met the sergeant I told you of ; his 
 name was Boutin. That poor devil and I made the 
 finest pair of broken-down old brutes I have ever seen. 
 I met him, and recognized him ; but he couldn't even 
 guess who I was. We went into a tavern. When I 
 told him my name his mouth split open with a roar of 
 laughter like a burst mortar. Monsieur, that laugh is 
 among the bitterest of my sorrows. It revealed, with- 
 out disguise, the changes there were in me. I saw 
 
124f Colonel Chahert. 
 
 myself unrecognizable, even to the humblest and most 
 grateful of my friends ; for I had once saved Boutin's 
 life, though that was a return for something I owed 
 him. I need n't tell you the whole story ; the thing 
 happened in Italy, at Ravenna. The house where Bou- 
 tin saved me from being stabbed was none too decent. 
 At that time I was not colonel, only a trooper, like 
 Boutin. Happilj^ there were circumstances in the affair 
 known onlj^ to him and me ; when I reminded him of 
 them, his increduhty lessened. Then I told him the 
 Btory of my extraordinary fate. Though my e3'es and 
 my voice were, he told me, strangely altered ; though I 
 had neither hair, nor teeth, nor eyebrows, and was as 
 white as an albino, he did finally recognize his old colo- 
 nel in the beggar before him, after putting a vast number 
 of questions to which I answered triumphantly. 
 
 "Ah!" went on the old soldier, after a moment's 
 pause, ''he told me his adventures too, and they were 
 hardly less extraordinary than mine. He was just back 
 from the borders of China, to which he had escaped 
 from Siberia. He told me of the disasters of the Rus- 
 sian campaign and Napoleon's first abdication ; that 
 news was another of my worst pangs. We were two 
 strange wrecks drifting over the globe, as the storms of 
 ocean drift the pebbles from shore to shore. We had 
 each seen Egypt, Syria, Spain, Russia, Holland, Ger- 
 many, Italy, Dalmatia, England, China, Tartary, Si- 
 
Colonel Chabert. 125 
 
 beria ; nothing was left for us to know but the Indies 
 and America. Boutin, who was more active on his 
 legs than I, agreed to go to Paris as quickty as he 
 could, and tell my wife the state in which I was. I 
 wrote a long and detailed letter to Madame Chabert ; it 
 was the fourth I had written her. Monsieur, if I had 
 had relatives of my own, the thing could not have hap- 
 pened ; but, I must tell you plainly, I was a foundling, a 
 soldier whose patrimon}^ was his courage, the world his 
 family, France his country, God his sole protector, — 
 no! I am wrong; I had a father, — the Emperor! 
 Ah ! if he, dear man, were still among us ; if he saw 
 * his Chabert,' as he called me, in such a plight, he 
 would be furious. But what 's to be done ? our sun has 
 set ; we are all left out in the cold ! After all, political 
 events might be the reason of mj' wife's silence ; at least 
 I thought so. Boutin departed. He was lucky, he was, 
 poor fellow ! he had two white bears who danced and 
 kept him in food. I could not accompany him ; my 
 pains were so great I could not go long distances. I 
 wept when we parted, having walked as far as I had 
 strength with the bears and him. At Carlsruhe I was 
 taken with neuralgia in my head, and lay six weeks in 
 the straw of an inn barn. 
 
 '* Ah ! monsieur," continued the unhappy man, " there 
 is no end to what I might tell you of my miserable life. 
 Moral anguish, before which all physical sufferings are 
 
126 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 as nought, excites less pity because it is not seen. I 
 remember weeping before a mansion in Strasburg where 
 I once gave a ball, and where they now refused me a 
 crust of bread. Having agreed with Boutin as to the 
 road I should follow, I went to every post-office on my 
 way expecting to find a letter and some money. I 
 reached Paris at last without a line. Despair was 
 in my heart ! Boutin must be dead, I thought ; and 
 I was right; the poor fellow died at Waterloo, as I 
 heard later and accidentally. His errand to my wife 
 was no doubt fruitless. Well, I reached Paris just 
 as the Cossacks entered it. To me, that was grief upon 
 grief. When I saw those Russians in France I no 
 longer remembered that I had neither shoes on my feet 
 nor monej^ in my pocket. Yes, monsieur, my clothes 
 were literally in shreds. The evening of my arrival I 
 was forced to bivouac in the woods of Claye. The 
 chilliness of the night gave me a sort of illness, I 
 hardly know what it was, which seized me as I was 
 crossing the faubourg Saint-Martin. I fell, half-uncon- 
 scious, close by the door of an ironmonger. When I 
 came to my senses I was in a bed at the Hotel-Die u. 
 There I stayed a month in some comfort ; then I was 
 discharged. I had no mone^', but I was cured and I 
 had my feet on the blessed pavements of Paris. With 
 what joy and speed I made my way to the rue du Mont- 
 Blanc, where I supposed my wife was living in my 
 
Colonel Chahert, 127 
 
 house. Bah ! the rue du Mont-Blanc had become the 
 rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin. My house was no longer 
 standing ; it was pulled down. Speculators had built 
 houses in my gardens. Not knowing that my wife had 
 married Monsieur Ferraud, I could hear nothing of her. 
 At last I went to an old lawyer who formerly took charge 
 of my affairs. The good man was dead, and his office 
 had passed into the hands of a younger man. The 
 latter informed me, to my great astonishment, of the 
 settlement of my estate, the marriage of my wife, and 
 the birth of her two children. When I told him that 
 I was Colonel Chabert, he laughed so loudly in my face 
 that I turned and left him without a word. My deten- 
 tion at Stuttgart made me mindful of Charenton, and I 
 resolved to act prudently. Then, monsieur, knowing 
 where my wife lived, I made my way to the house — 
 Ah ! " cried the colonel, with a gesture of intense anger, 
 '* I was not received when I gave a borrowed name, but 
 when I sent in my own I was turned out of the house ! 
 I have stood night after night leaning against the but- 
 tress of her porte-cochere to see her returning from a 
 ball or from the theatre. I have plunged my eyes into 
 that carriage where I could see the woman who is mine 
 and who is not mine ! Oh ! from that day I have lived 
 for vengeance," cried the old man, in a hollow voice, 
 standing suddenly erect in front of Derville. " She 
 knows I am living ; she has received three letters which 
 
128 Colonel Chahert 
 
 I have written to her since my return. She loves me 
 no longer ! I — I don't know if I love her or if I hate 
 her ; I long for her and I curse her by turns ! She 
 owes her prosperit}^ and all her happiness to me, and 
 she denies me even the meanest succor! Sometimes 
 I don't know where to turn ! " 
 
 The old man fell back into a chair, motionless and 
 fiilent. Derville too was silent, contemplating his 
 client. 
 
 " The matter is serious/' he said at last in a mechan- 
 ical way. *' Even admitting the authenticity of the 
 papers which ought to be found at Heilsberg, it is not 
 clear that we can establish our case, — certainly not at 
 once. The suit will have to go before three courts. 
 I must reflect at my leisure over such a case. It is 
 exceptional." 
 
 " Oh ! " replied the colonel, coldly, lifting his head 
 with a proud gesture, " if I am compelled to succumb, 
 I can die, — but not alone." 
 
 With the words the old man seemed to vanish ; the 
 eyes of the man of energy shone with the fires of desire 
 and vengeance. 
 
 *' Perhaps we shall have to compromise," said the 
 lawyer. 
 
 ''Compromise!" repeated Colonel Chabert. ''Am 
 I dead, or am I living?" 
 
 "Monsieur," said the lawyer, "you will, I hope, 
 
Colonel Chabert 129 
 
 follow my advice. Your cause shall be my cause. 
 You will soon, I trust, see the true interest I take 
 in your situation, which is almost without precedent 
 in legal annals. Meantime let me give you an order 
 on my notary, who will remit you fifty francs every 
 ten days on your receipt. It is not desirable that 3'ou 
 should come here for this money. If you are Colonel 
 Chabert you ought not to be beholden to any one. I 
 shall make these advances in the form of a loan. You 
 have property to recover ; you are a rich man." 
 
 This last delicate consideration for his feelings 
 brought tears from the old man's eyes. Derville rose 
 abruptly, for assuredly it is not the thing for a lawyer 
 to show feeling; he went into his private study and 
 returned presently with an unsealed letter, which he 
 gave to Colonel Chabert. When the old man took it 
 he felt two gold pieces within the paper. 
 
 *'Tell me precisely what the papers are; give me 
 the exact name of the town and kingdom," said the 
 lawyer. 
 
 The colonel dictated the necessary infonnation and 
 corrected the spelling of the names. Then he took 
 his hat in one hand, looked at Derville, offered him 
 the other hand, a horny hand, and said in a simple 
 way, — 
 
 "After the Emperor you are the man to whom I 
 owe most. You are a noble man." 
 
 9 
 
130 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 The lawyer clasped the colonel's hand, and went 
 with him to the stairway to light him down. 
 
 " Boucard," said the lawj'er to his head- clerk, whom 
 he summoned, " I have just heard a tale which may 
 cost me some money. If I am deceived I shall never 
 regret what I pay, for I shall have seen the greatest 
 comedian of our time." 
 
 ''When the colonel reached the street, he stopped 
 under a lamp, drew the two pieces of twenty francs 
 each from the letter which the lawyer had given him, 
 and looked at them for a moment in the dim light. He 
 saw gold for the first time in nine years. 
 
 " I can smoke cigars," he said to himself. 
 
 About three months after the nocturnal consultation 
 of Colonel Chabert with Derville, the notary whom the 
 latter had directed to pay the stipend he allowed to his 
 singular client went to the lawyer's office one day to 
 confer on some important matter, and opened the con^ 
 versation by asking for the six hundred francs he had 
 already paid to the old soldier. 
 
 " Do you find it amusing to support the old army?" 
 said the notary, laughing. His name was Crottat, — a 
 young man who had just bought a practice in which he 
 was head-clerk, the master of which, a certain Roguin, 
 had lately absconded after a frightful failure. 
 
 '' Thank you, my dear fellow, for reminding me o 
 
Colonel Chahert, 131 
 
 that affair," replied Derville. "My philanthrop}' does 
 not go be3ond twenty-five louis ; I fear I have been the 
 dupe of my patriotism." 
 
 As Derville uttered the words his eyes lighted on a 
 packet of papers the head-clerk had laid upon his desk. 
 His attention was drawn to one of the letters by the 
 postmarks, oblong, square, and triangular, and red 
 and blue stamped upon it in the Prussian, Austrian, 
 Bavarian, and French post-offices. 
 
 *' Ah ! " said he, laughing, '^ here *s the conclusion of 
 the comedj" ; now we shall see if I have been taken in." 
 
 He took up the letter and opened it, but was unable 
 to read a word, for it was in German. 
 
 "Boucard! " he called, opening the door and hold- 
 ing out the letter to his head-clerk, " go yourself and 
 get that letter translated, and come back with it as fast 
 as you can." 
 
 The Berlin notary to whom Derville had written now 
 replied by informing the latter that the papers he had 
 asked for would reach him a few days after this letter 
 of advice. They were all, he said, perfectly regular, 
 and were fully certified with the necessary legal forms. 
 He added, moreover, that nearly all the witnesses to 
 the facts were still living, and that the woman to whom 
 Monsieur le Comte Chabert owed his life could be found 
 in a certain suburb of Heilsberg. 
 
 *' It is getting serious," said Derville, when Boucard 
 
132 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 had told him the substance of the letter. '' But see 
 here, mj dear fellow, I want some information which I 
 am sure 3'ou must have in 3'our office. When that old 
 swindler of a Roguin — " 
 
 "We say 'the unfortunate Roguin,'" said Crottat, 
 laughing, as he interrupted Derville. 
 
 " Well — when that unfortunate Roguin ran off with 
 eight hundred thousand francs of his clients' money 
 and reduced many families to pauperism, what was 
 done about the Chabert property? It seems to me I 
 have seen something about it among our Ferraud 
 papers." 
 
 '*Yes," replied Crottat, "I was third clerk at the 
 time, and I remember copying and studying the docu- 
 ments. Rose Chapotel, wife and widow of Hyacinthe, 
 called Chabert, count of the Empire, grand oflScer of 
 the Legion of honor. They had married without a con- 
 tract and therefore they held their property in common. 
 As far as I can recollect, the assets amounted to about 
 six hundred thousand francs. Before his marriage 
 Comte Chabert had made a will leaving one fourth of 
 the property of which he might die possessed to the 
 Parisian hospitals ; the State inherited another fourth. 
 There was an auction sale and a distribution of the 
 property, for the lawyers made good speed with the 
 affair. Upon the settlement of the estate the monster 
 who then ruled France made a decree restoring the 
 
Colonel Chahert. 138 
 
 amount which had gone to the Treasury to the colonel's 
 widow." 
 
 " So that Comte Chabert's individual propert}-," said 
 Derville, '' does not amount to more than three hundred 
 thousand francs ? " 
 
 " Just that, old man," said Crottat ; " you solicitors 
 do occasionally get things right, — though some people 
 accuse 3'ou of arguing just as well against as for the 
 truth." 
 
 Comte Chabert, whose address was written at the 
 foot of the first receipt he had given to the notary, 
 lived in the faubourg Saint-Marceau, rue du Petit-Ban- 
 quier, with an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard named 
 Vergniaud, now a cow-keeper. When Derville reached 
 the place he was obliged to go on foot to find his client, 
 for his groom positively refused to drive through an un- 
 paved street the ruts of which were deep enough to 
 break the wheels of a cabriolet. Looking about him 
 on all sides, the lawyer at length discovered at the end 
 of the street nearest to the boulevard and between two 
 walls built of bones and mud, two shabby rough stone 
 pillars, much defaced by wheels in spite of wooden 
 posts placed in front of them. These pillars supported 
 a beam covered with a tiled hood, on which, painted 
 red, were the words, '^ Vergniaud, Cow-keeper." To 
 the right of the name was a cow, and to the left eggs, 
 all painted white. The gate was open. 
 
134 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 At the farther end of a good-sized j^ard and opposite 
 to the gate stood the house, if indeed that name right- 
 fully belongs to one of those hovels built in the suburbs 
 of Paris, the squalor of which cannot be matched else- 
 where, not even in the most wretched of countrj' huts ; 
 for they have all the poverty of the latter without 
 their poetr^^ In fact, a cabin in the open countrj' has 
 the charm that pure air, verdure, the meadow vistas, 
 a hill, a winding road, creepers, evergreen hedges, a 
 mossy roof and rural implements can give to it ; but in 
 Paris povert}^ is heightened onlj- b}' horrors. Though 
 recently built, the house seemed tumbling to ruins. 
 None of its materials were originallj- destined for it ; 
 they came from the "demoHtions" which are dail3' 
 events in Paris. On a shutter made of an old sign 
 Derville read the words " Fancy-articles." No two of 
 the windows were alike, and all were placed hap-hazard. 
 The ground-floor, which seemed to be the habitable part 
 of the hovel, was raised from the earth on one side, 
 while on the other the rooms were sunk below a bank. 
 Between the gate and the house was a slough of ma- 
 nure, into which flowed the rain-water and the drainage 
 from the house. The wall upon which this rickety 
 building rested was surrounded by hutches in which 
 rabbits brought forth their numerous young. To the 
 right of the gate was the cow-shed, which communicated 
 with the house through a dair}^, and over it the hay-loft. 
 
Colonel Chdbert, 135 
 
 To the left was a poultry-yard, a stable, and a pig- 
 st}', all of which were finished off, like the house, 
 with shabby planks of white-wood nailed one above the 
 other and filled in with rushes. Like most of the pur- 
 lieus whence the elements of the grand dinners dail}' 
 eaten in Paris are derived, the yard in which Derville now 
 stood showed signs of the haste required for the prompt 
 filling of orders. The great tin cans in which the milk 
 was carried, the smaller cans with their linen stoppers 
 which contained the cream, were tossed higgledy-piggle- 
 dy in front of the dairy. The rags used to wipe them 
 out were hanging in the sun to dry, on lines fastened 
 to hooks. The steady horse, of a race extinct except 
 among milk-dealers, had walked a few steps away from 
 the cart and stood in front of the stable, the door of 
 which was locked. A goat browsed upon the spindling, 
 powder}^ vine-shoots which crept along the cracked and 
 3'ellow walls of the house. A cat was creeping among 
 the cream-cans and licking the outside of them. The 
 hens, scared at Derville's advent, scuttled away cack- 
 ling, and the watch-dog barked. 
 
 ''The man who decided the victory of Eylau lives 
 here ! " thought Derville, taking in at a glance the 
 whole of this squalid scene. 
 
 The house seemed to be under the guardianship of 
 three little ragamuffins. One, who had clambered to 
 the top of a cart laden with green fodder, was throwing 
 
136 Colonel Chahert 
 
 stones down the chimney of the next house, probably 
 hoping that they would fall into the saucepans below ; 
 another was trying to lead a pig up the floor of a tip- 
 cart, one end of which touched the ground, while the 
 third, hanging on to the other end, was waiting till the 
 pig was fairly in to tip the cart up again. When Der- 
 ville asked if that was where Monsieur Chabert lived 
 none of them answered ; and all three gazed at him 
 with lively stupiditj' , — if it is allowable to unite those 
 words. Derville repeated his question without result. 
 Provoked at the saucy air of the little scamps, he spoke 
 sharply, in a tone which young men think they can use 
 to children, and the bojs broke silence with a roar of 
 laughter. Derville was angry. The colonel, who heard 
 the noise, came out of a little room near the dairy and 
 stood on the sill of his door with the imperturbable 
 phlegm of a military training. In his mouth was a 
 pipe in process of being *' colored," — one of those 
 humble pipes of white clay with short stems called 
 *' muzzle-scorchers." He raised the peak of a cap 
 which was horribly greasy, saw Dersille, and came 
 across the manure heap in haste to meet his bene- 
 factor, calling out in a friendly tone to the boys, 
 ''Silence, in the ranks!" The children became in- 
 stantly and respectfull}^ silent, showing the power the 
 old soldier had over them. 
 
 ''Why haven't you written to me?" he said to Der- 
 
Colonel Chabert. 137 
 
 ville. ** Go along by the cow-house ; see, the j-ard is 
 paved on that side," he cried, noticing the hesitation 
 of the young lawyer, who did not care to set his feet 
 in the wet manure. 
 
 Jumping from stone to stone, Derv'ille at last reached 
 the door through which the colonel had issued. Chabert 
 seemed annoyed at the necessity of receiving him in the 
 room he was occupying. In fact, there was only one 
 chair. The colonel's bed was merely a few bundles of 
 straw on which his landlad}^ had spread some ragged bits 
 of old carpet, such as milk-women lay upon the seats of 
 their wagons, and pick up, heaven knows where. The 
 floor was neither more nor less than the earth beaten 
 hard. Such dampness exuded from the nitrified walls, 
 greenish in color and full of cracks, that the side where 
 the colonel slept had been covered with a mat made of 
 reeds. The top-coat was hanging to a nail. Two pairs 
 of broken boots laj^ in a corner. Not a vestige of 
 under-clothing was seen. The '' Bulletins of the Grand 
 Army," reprinted by Plancher, was lying open on a 
 mouldy table, as if constantly read b}^ the colonel, 
 whose face was calm and serene in the midst of this 
 direful poverty. His visit to Derville seemed to have 
 changed the very character of his features, on which 
 the law3'er now saw traces of happy thought, the special 
 gleam which hope had cast. 
 
 '*Does the smoke of a pipe annoy you?" he asked, 
 
138 Colonel CkaherL 
 
 offering the one chair, and that half-denuded of 
 straw. 
 
 *' But colonel, you are shockingly ill-lodged here ! " 
 
 The words were wrung from Derville by the natural 
 distrust of lawyers, caused by the deplorable experience 
 that comes to them so soon from the dreadful, m3'steri- 
 ous dramas in which they are called professionally to 
 take part. 
 
 *' That man," thought Derville to himself, '* has no 
 doubt spent my money in gratifying the three cardinal 
 virtues of a trooper, — wine, women, and cards. 
 
 *'True enough, monsieur; we don't abound in lux- 
 ury. It is a bivouac, tempered, as you may say, bj' 
 friendship ; but " (here the soldier cast a searching look 
 at the law3'er) '' I have done wrong to no man, I have 
 repulsed no man, and I sleep in peace." 
 
 Derville felt there would be a want of delicacy in 
 asking his client to account for his use of the monej' he 
 had lent him, so he merely said: '' Wh}^ don't you 
 come into Paris, where you could live just as cheaply' 
 as you do here, and be much better off ? " 
 
 "Because," replied the colonel, " the good, kind 
 people I am with took me in and fed me gratis for 
 a year, and how could I desert them the moment I 
 got a little money? Besides, the father of these 
 3'oung scamps is an Egyptian." 
 
 "An Egyptian?" 
 
Colonel Chahert, 139 
 
 "That's what we call the troopers who returned 
 from the expedition to Egypt, in which I took part. 
 Not only are we all brothers in heart, but Vergniaud 
 was in my regiment ; he and I shared the water of the 
 desert. Besides, I want to finish teaching those little 
 monkeys to read." 
 
 " He might give you a better room for your money," 
 said the lawyer. 
 
 ** Bah ! " said the colonel, " the children sleep as I 
 do on straw. He and his wife have no better bed 
 themselves. They are ver}^ poor, you see ; they have 
 more of an establishment here than they can manage. 
 But if I get back my fortune — Well, enough ! " 
 
 ** Colonel, I expect to receive your papers from 
 Heilsberg to-morrow ; your benefactress is still living." 
 
 *'0h! cursed money! to think I haven't any!" 
 cried the colonel, flinging down his pipe. 
 
 A *' colored" pipe is a precious pipe to a smoker; 
 but the action was so natural and so generous that 
 all smokers would have forgiven him that act of leze- 
 tobacco ; the angels might have picked up the pieces. 
 
 " Colonel, your affair is very complicated," said 
 Derville, leaving the room to walk up and down in 
 the sun before the house. 
 
 " It seems to me," said the soldier, *' perfectlj' sim- 
 ple. They thought me dead, and here I am ! Give 
 me back my wife and my property ; give me the rank 
 
140 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 of general, — to which I have a right, for I had passed 
 colonel in the Imperial Guard the night before the battle 
 of Eylau." 
 
 "Matters are not managed that way in law," said 
 Derville. *' Listen to me. You are Comte Chabert, — 
 I'll admit that; but the thing is to prove it legally 
 against those persons whose interest it is to deny 
 your existence. All your papers and documents will 
 be disputed ; and the very first discussions will open a 
 dozen or more preliminar}^ questions. Every step will 
 be fought over up to the supreme court. All that will 
 involve expensive suits, which will drag along, no matter 
 how much energj^ I put into them. Your adversaries 
 will demand an inquiry, which we cannot refuse, and 
 which will perhaps necessitate sending a commission 
 to Prussia. But suppose all went well, and jou were 
 promptly and legally recognized as Colonel Cliabert, 
 what then? Do we know how the question of Ma- 
 dame Ferraud's innocent bigamy would be decided ? 
 Here 's a case where the question of rights is outside 
 of the Code, and can be decided by the judges only 
 under the laws of conscience, as a jury does in many 
 delicate cases which social perversities bring up in 
 criminal courts. Now, here 's a point : you had no 
 children by your marriage, and Monsieur Ferraud has 
 two ; the judges may annul the marriage where the ties 
 are weakest, in favor of a marriage which involves the 
 
Colonel Chahert. 141 
 
 well-beiug of children, admitting that the parents mar- 
 ried in good faith. Would it be a fine or moral posi- 
 tion for you, at your age, and under these circumstances, 
 to insist on having — will ye, nill ye — a wife who no 
 longer loves you ? You would have against you a hus- 
 band and wife who are powerful and able to bring in- 
 fluence upon the judges. The case has many elements 
 of duration in it. You may spend years and grow an 
 old man still struggling with the sharpest grief and 
 anxiety." 
 
 *' But my property? " 
 " You think you have a large fortune?" 
 *' I had an income of thirty thousand francs." 
 *'My dear colonel, in 1799, before 3'our marriage, 
 you made a will leaving a quarter of your whole prop- 
 erty to the hospitals." 
 " That is true." 
 
 "Well, 3'ou were supposed to be dead; then of 
 course an inventory of your property was made and 
 the whole wound up in order to give that fourth part 
 to the said hospitals. Your wife had no scruples about 
 cheating the poor. The inventory, in which she took 
 care not to mention the cash on hand or her jeweby, 
 or the full amount of the silver, and in which the fur- 
 niture was appraised at two-thirds below its real value 
 (either to please her or to lessen the treasury tax, for ap- 
 praisers are liable for the amount of their valuations) , — 
 
142 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 this inventory, I say, gave your property as amounting 
 to six hundred thousand francs. Your widow had a 
 legal right to half. Everything was sold and bought 
 in by her; she gained on the whole transaction, and 
 the hospitals got their seventy-five thousand frsncs. 
 Then, as the Treasury- inherited the rest of your prop- 
 erty (for 3^ou had not mentioned your wife in your 
 will), the Emperor made a decree returning the portion 
 which reverted to the Treasur}^ to your widow. Now, 
 then, the question is, to what have 3^ou any legal right ? 
 — to three hundred thousand francs only, less costs." 
 
 "You call that justice?" said the colonel, thunder- 
 struck. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " Fine justice ! " 
 
 "It is always so, my poor colonel. You see now 
 that what you thought so easy is not eas}" at all. Ma- 
 dame Ferraud may also ivy to keep the portion the 
 Emperor returned to her." 
 
 " But she was not a widow, and therefore the decree 
 was null." 
 
 " I admit that. But everything can be argued. Lis- 
 ten to me. Under these circumstances, I think a com- 
 promise is the best thing both for 3'ou and for her. 
 You could get a larger sum that way than by assert- 
 ing your rights." 
 
 " It would be selling my wife ! " 
 
Colonel Chahert 143 
 
 •* With an income of twent3'-four thousand francs 
 you would be in a position to find another who would 
 suit 3'ou better and make you happier. I intend to go 
 and see the Comtesse Ferraud to-da}^ and find out how 
 the land lies ; but I did not wish to take that step with- 
 out letting you know." 
 
 ** We will go together." 
 
 " Dressed as 3^ou are? " said the lawyer. *' No, no, 
 colonel, no ! You might lose your case." 
 
 *' Can I win it?" 
 
 " Yes, under all aspects," answered Derville. '* But 
 mj' dear Colonel Chabert, there is one thing j^ou pay 
 no heed to. I am not rich, and my practice is not 
 yet wholly paid for. If the courts should be willing 
 to grant you a provisional maintenance they will only 
 do so after recognizing your claims as Colonel Chabert, 
 grand oflScer of the Legion of honor." 
 
 *' So I am ! " said the old man, naively, " grand oflScer 
 of the Legion of honor, — I had forgotten that." 
 
 "Well, as I was saying," resumed Derville, '*till 
 then 3'ou will have to bring suits, pay lawv^ers, serve 
 writs, employ sheriffs, and live. The cost of those 
 preUminary steps will amount to more than twelve or 
 even fifteen thousand francs. I can't lend you the 
 money for I am crushed by the enormous interest I 
 am forced to pay to those who lent me money to buy 
 my practice. Where, then, can you get it? " 
 
144 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 Big tears fell from the faded eyes of the old soldier 
 and rolled down his cheeks. The sight of these difficul- 
 ties discouraged him. The social and judicial world 
 lay upon his breast like a nightmare. 
 
 " I will go to the column of the place Vendome," he 
 said, *' and cry aloud, ' I am Colonel Chabert, who broke 
 the Russian square at Eylau ! ' The man of iron up 
 there — ah ! he '11 recognize me ! " 
 
 *' They would put 3^ou in Charenton." 
 
 At that dreaded name the soldier's courage fell. 
 
 *' Perhaps I should have a better chance at the 
 ministry of war," he said. 
 
 " In a government office? Well, tr}' it," said Der- 
 ville. " But you must take with you a legal judgment 
 declaring 3'our death disproved. The government 
 would prefer to get rid of the Empire people." 
 
 The colonel remained for a moment speechless, mo- 
 tionless, gazing before him and seeing nothing, plunged 
 in a bottomless despair. Militar}" justice is prompt 
 and straight-forward ; it decides peremptorily, and is 
 generall}^ fair ; this was the only justice Chabert knew. 
 Seeing the labyrinth of difficulty which lay before him^ 
 and knowing that he had no mone}' with which to enter 
 it, the poor soldier was mortally wounded in that par- 
 ticular power of human nature which we call will. He 
 felt it was impossible for him to live in a legal struggle ; 
 far easier to his nature was it to sta}^ poor and a beg- 
 
Colonel Chahert, 145 
 
 gar, or to enlist in some cavalrj' regiment if the}' would 
 still take him. Physical and mental suffering had vitiated 
 his body in some of its important organs. He was 
 approaching one of those diseases for which the science 
 of medicine has no name, the seat of which is, in a way, 
 movable (like the nervous system which is the part of 
 our machinery most frequently attacked), an affection 
 which we must fain call " the spleen of sorrow." 
 However serious this invisible but most real disease 
 might be, it was still curable by a happy termination 
 of his gi'iefs. To completely unhinge and destroy that 
 vigorous organization some final blow was needed, 
 some unexpected shock which might break the weak- 
 ened springs and produce those strange hesitations, 
 those vague, incomplete, and inconsequent actions which 
 physiologists notice in all persons wrecked bj" grief. ' 
 
 Observing symptoms of deep depression in his client, 
 Derville hastened to say: ''Take courage; the issue 
 of the affair must be favorable to you in some way or 
 other. Only, examine your own mind and see if you 
 can place implicit trust in me, and accept blindly the 
 course that I shall think best for you." 
 
 ** Do what you will," said Chabert 
 
 " Yes, but will you surrender yourself to me com- 
 pletely, like a man marching to his death ? " 
 
 '' Am I to live without a status and without a name? 
 Is that bearable ? " 
 
 10 
 
146 Colonel Chabert, 
 
 " I don't mean that," said the lawyer. " We will 
 bring an amicable suit to annul the record of your 
 decease, and also your marriage ; then you will resume 
 your rights. You could even be, through Comte 
 Ferraud's influence, restored to the army with the 
 rank of general, and you would certainly obtain a 
 pension." 
 
 "Well, go on, then," replied Chabert; "I trust 
 implicitly to you." 
 
 " I will send you a power-of- attorney to sign," said 
 Derville. *' Adieu, keep up your courage ; if you want 
 money let me know." 
 
 Chabert wrung the lawyer's hand, and stood with his 
 back against the wall, unable to follow him except with 
 his eyes. During this conference the face of a man had 
 every now and then looked round one of the gate pil- 
 lars, behind which its owner was posted waiting for 
 Derville's departure. The man now accosted the young 
 lawyer. He was old, and he wore a blue jacket, a 
 pleated white smock like those worn by brewers, and 
 on his head a cap of otter fur. His face was brown, 
 hollow, and wrinkled, but red at the cheek-bones from 
 hard work and exposure to the weather. 
 
 ** Excuse me, monsieur, if I take the liberty of 
 speaking to you," he said, touching Derville on the 
 arm. " But I supposed when I saw you that you 
 were the general's friend." 
 
Colonel Chahert. 147 
 
 "Well," said Derville, ** what interest have you iu 
 him? Who are you? " added the distrustful lawyer. 
 
 ''I am Louis Vergniaud," answered the man, '*and 
 I want to have a word with you." 
 
 •' Then it is you who lodge the Comte Chabert in this 
 way, is it?" 
 
 '* Pardon it, monsieur. He has the best room in the 
 house. I would have given him mine if I had had one, 
 and slept myself in the stable. A man who has suffered 
 as he has and who is teaching my kids to read, a gen- 
 eral, an Eg3'ptian, the fii*st lieutenant under whom I 
 served, — why, all I have is his! I've shared all 
 with him. Unluckily it is so little, — bread and milk 
 and eggs ! However, when you *re on a campaign jou 
 must live with the mess ; and little as it is, it is 
 given with a full heart, monsieur. But he has vexed 
 us." 
 
 " He I " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, vexed us ; there 's no going behind 
 that. I took this establishment, which is more than I 
 can manage, and he saw that. It troubled him, and he 
 would do my work and take care of the horse ! I kept 
 rtaying to him, 'No, no, my general!* But there! he 
 only answered, ' Am I a lazybones? don't I know how 
 to put my shoulder to the wheel ? ' So I gave notes for 
 the value of my cow-house to a man named Grados. 
 Do you know him, monsieur?" 
 
148 Colonel CJiabert. 
 
 *' But, my good friend, I have n*t the time to listen 
 to all this. Tell me only how Colonel Chabert vexed 
 you." 
 
 '' He did vex us, monsieur, just as true as my name 
 is Louis Vergniaud, and my wife cried about it. He 
 heard from, the neighbors that I couldn't meet that 
 note ; and the old fellow, without a word to us, took 
 all you gave him, and, little by little, paid the note I 
 Wasn't it a trick ! My wife and I knew he went with- 
 out tobacco all that time, poor old man ! But now, 
 j^es, he has the cigars, — I 'd sell my own self sooner! 
 But it does vex us. Now, I propose to you to lend me 
 on this establishment three hundred francs, so that we 
 may get him some clothes and furnish his room. He 
 thinks he has paid us, doesn't he? Well, the truth is, 
 he has made us his debtors. Yes, he has vexed us ; 
 he shouldn't have played us such a trick, — wasn't it 
 almost an insult? Such friends as we are! As true 
 as my name is Louis Vergniaud, I will mortgage myself 
 rather than not return you that money." 
 
 Derville looked at the cow-keeper, then he made a 
 step backward and looked at the house, the j^ard, the 
 the manure, the stable, the rabbits, and the children. 
 
 *' Faith ! " thought he to himself, "I do believe one of 
 the characteristics of virtue is to own nothing. Yes," 
 he said aloud, "3^ou shall have your three hundred 
 francs, and more too. But it is not I who give them 
 
Colonel Chabert. 149 
 
 to you, it is the colonel ; he will be rich enough to help 
 3'ou, and I shall not deprive him of that pleasure." 
 
 *' Will it be soon?" 
 
 ** Yes, soon." 
 
 ** Good God ! how happy my wife will be." The 
 tanned face of the cow-keeper brightened into joy. 
 
 "Now," thought Derville as he jumped into his 
 cabriolet, *'to face the enemy. She must not see our 
 game, but we must know hers, and win it at one trick. 
 She is a woman. What are women most afraid of ? 
 Why, of—" 
 
 He began to study the countess's position, and fell 
 into one of those deep reveries to which great poli- 
 ticians are prone when they prepare their plans and try 
 to guess the secrets of foreign powers. Lawyers are, 
 in a way, statesmen, to whom the management of indi- 
 vidual interests is intrusted. A glance at the situ- 
 ation of Monsieur le Comte Ferraud and his wife is 
 necessary for a full comprehension of the law^'er's 
 genius. 
 
 Monsieur le Comte Ferraud was the son of a former 
 councillor of the parliament of Paris, who had emigrated 
 during the Terror, and who, though he saved his head, 
 lost his property. He returned to f'rance under the 
 Consulate, and remained faithful to the interests of 
 Louis XVIIL, in whose suite his father had been before 
 the Revolution. His son, therefore, belonged to that 
 
150 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 section of the faubourg Saint-Germain which nobly re- 
 sisted the Napoleonic seductions. The young count's 
 reputation for good sense and sagacity when he was 
 called simpl}^ '^ Monsieur Ferraud " made him the object 
 of a few imperial blandishments ; for the Emperor took 
 as much satisfaction in his conquests over the aris- 
 tocracy as he did in winning a battle. The count was 
 promised the restitution of his title, also that of all 
 his property which was not sold, and hopes were held 
 out of a ministry in the future, and a senatorship. The 
 Emperor failed. At the time of Comte Chabert's death 
 Monsieur Ferraud was a 3'oung man twentj'-six years 
 of age, without fortune, agreeable in appearance and 
 manner, and a social success, whom the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain adopted as one of its distinguished figures. 
 
 Madame la Comtesse Chabert had managed the 
 property derived from her late husband so well that 
 after a widowhood of eighteen months she possessed 
 an income of nearly forty thousand francs a year. 
 Her marriage with the young count was not regarded 
 as news by the coteries of the faubourg. Napoleon, 
 who was pleased with an alliance which met his ideas 
 of fusion, returned to Madame Chabeii; the monej" 
 derived by the Treasury from her late husband's estate ; 
 but here again Napoleon's hopes were foiled. Madame 
 Ferraud not only adored a lover in the 3^oung man, but 
 she was attracted by the idea of entering that haughty 
 
Colonel Chahert, 151 
 
 society which, in spite of its political abasement, was 
 still far above that of the imperial court. Her various 
 vanities as well as her passions were gratified by this 
 marriage. She felt she was about to become *'an 
 elegant woman." 
 
 When the faubourg Saint-Germain ascertained that 
 the 3'oung count's maniage was not a defection from 
 their ranks, all salons were opened to his wife. The 
 Restoration took place. The political fortunes of the 
 Comte Ferraud made no rapid strides. He understood 
 very well the exigencies of Louis XVIII.'s position ; 
 he was one of the initiated who waited until ''the 
 revolutionary gulf was closed," — a royal phrase which 
 the liberals laughed at, but which, nevertheless, hid a 
 deep political meaning. However, the ordinance with 
 its long-winded clerical phrases quoted by Godeschal 
 in the first pages of this story restored to the Comte 
 Ferraud two forests and an estate which had risen in 
 value during its sequestration. At the period of which 
 we write Comte Ferraud was councillor of State, also 
 a director-general, and he considered his position as no 
 more than the opening of his political career. Ab- 
 sorbed in the pursuit of an eager ambition, he depended 
 much on his secretary, a ruined law^^er named Delbecq, 
 — a man who was more than able, one who knew every 
 possible resource of pettifogging sophistry, to whom 
 the count left the management of all his private aflfairs. 
 
152 Colonel ChaheH. 
 
 This clever practitioner understood his position in the 
 count's household far too well not to Ije honest out of 
 policy. He hoped for some place under government 
 through the influence of his patron, whose propertj^ he 
 took care of to the best of his ability. His conduct so 
 completely refuted the dark story of his earlier life 
 that he was now thought to be a calumniated man. 
 
 The countess, however, with the shrewd tact of a 
 woman, fathomed the secretary, watched him carefully, 
 and knew so well how to manage him, that she had 
 already largely increased her fortune by his help. She 
 contrived to convince Delbecq that she ruled Monsieur 
 Ferraud, and promised that she would get him made 
 judge of a municipal court in one of the most impor- 
 tant cities in France if he devoted himself wholly to 
 her interests. The promise of an irremovable office, 
 which would enable him to marry advantageously and 
 improve his political career until he became in the end 
 a deputy, made Delbecq Madame Ferraud's abject tool. 
 His watchfulness enabled her to profit by all those 
 lucky chances which the fiuctuations of the Bourse 
 and the rise of property in Paris during the first three 
 3'ears of the Restoration offered to clever manipula- 
 tors of money. Delbecq had tripled her capital with all 
 the more ease because his plans commended them- 
 selves to the countess as a rapid method of making 
 her fortune enormous. She spent the emoluments of 
 
Colonel Chahert, 153 
 
 the count's various offices on the household expenses, 
 80 as to invest every penny of her own income, and 
 Delbecq aided and abetted this avarice without inquir- 
 ing into its motives. Men of his kind care nothing 
 for the discovery of any secrets that do not affect their 
 own interests. Besides, he accounted for it naturally by 
 that thirst for gold which possesses nearl}' all Parisian 
 women ; and as he knew how large a fortune Comte Fer- 
 raud's ambitions needed to support them, he sometimes 
 fancied that he saw in the countess's greed a sign of 
 her devotion to a man with whom she was still in love. 
 
 Madame Ferraud buried the motives of her conduct 
 in the depths of her own heart There lay the secrets 
 of life and death to her ; there is the kernel of our 
 present history. 
 
 At the beginning of the year 1818 the Restoration 
 was established on an apparently firm and immovable 
 basis ; its governmental doctrines, as understood by 
 superior minds, seemed likely to lead France into an 
 era of renewed prosperity. Then it was that society 
 changed front. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud found 
 that she had made a marriage of love and wealth and 
 ambition. Still young and beautiful, she played the 
 part of a woman of fashion and lived in the court at- 
 mosphere. Rich herself, and rich through her husband, 
 who had the credit of being one of the ablest men of 
 the royalist party, a friend of the king and likely to 
 
154 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 become a minister, she belonged to the aristocracy and 
 shared its glamour. 
 
 In the midst of this triumphant prosperity a moral 
 cancer fastened upon her. Men have feelings which 
 women guess in spite of every effort made by such men 
 to bury them. At the time of the king's first return 
 Comte Ferraud was conscious of some regrets for his 
 marriage. The widow of Colonel Chabert had brought 
 him no useful connections ; he was alone and without 
 influence, to make his way in a career full of obstacles 
 and full of enemies. Then, perhaps, after he had coolly 
 judged his wife, he saw certain defects of education 
 which made her unsuitable, and unable, to further his 
 projects. A word he once said about Tallej-rand's mar- 
 riage enlightened the countess and showed her that if 
 the past had to be done over again he would never 
 make her his wife. What woman would forgive that 
 regret, containing as it did, the germs of all insults, 
 na}^, of all crimes and all repudiations! 
 
 Let us conceive the wound that this discovery made 
 in the heart of a woman who feared the return of her 
 first husband. She knew that he lived ; she had re- 
 pulsed him. Then, for a short time, she heard no more 
 of him, and took comfort in the hope that he was killed 
 at Waterloo together with the imperial eagles and Bou- 
 tin. She then conceived the idea of binding her second 
 husband to her by the strongest of ties, by a chain of 
 
Colonel Chahert, 166 
 
 gold ; and she determined to be so rich that her great 
 fortune should make that second marriage indissoluble 
 if by chance Comte Chabert reappeared. He had reap- 
 peared ; and she was unable to understand why the 
 struggle she so much dreaded was not begun. Per- 
 haps the man*s sufferings, perhaps an illness had de- 
 livered her from him. Perhaps he was half-crazy and 
 Charenton might restore his reason. She was not wil- 
 ling to set Delbecq or the police on his traces, for fear 
 of putting herself in their power, or bringing on a ca- 
 tastrophe. There are many women in Paris who, like 
 the Comtesse Ferraud, are living secretly with moral 
 monsters, or skirting the edges of some abyss ; they 
 make for themselves a callus over the region of their 
 wound and still continue to laugh and be amused. 
 
 "There is something very singular in Comte Fer- 
 raud's situation," said Derville to himself, after long 
 meditation, as the cabriolet stopped before the gate of 
 the h6tel Ferraud in the rue de Varennes. *' How is it 
 that he, so wealthy and a favorite of the king, is not al- 
 ready a peer of France ? Perhaps Madame de Grandlieu 
 is right in saying that the king's policy is to give higher 
 importance to the peerage by not lavishing it. Besides, 
 the son of a councillor of the old parliament is neither 
 a Crillon nor a Rohan. Comte Ferraud can enter the 
 upper Chamber onlj', as it were, on sufferance. But if 
 liis marriage were ruptured would n't it be a satisfao- 
 
156 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 tion to the king if the peerage of some of those old 
 senators who have daughters only could descend to 
 him? Certainly that's a pretty good fear to dangle 
 before the countess," thought Derville, as he went up 
 the steps of the hotel Ferraud. 
 
 Without knowing it the lawyer had laid his finger on 
 the secret wound, he had plunged his hand into the can- 
 cer that was destroying Madame Ferraud's life. She 
 received him in a pretty winter dining-room, where she 
 was breakfasting and playing with a monkey, which was 
 fastened by a chain to a sort of little post with iron 
 bars. The countess was wrapped in an elegant morn- 
 ing-gown ; the curls of her pretty hair, carelessly caught 
 up, escaped from a little cap which gave her a piquant 
 air. She was fresh and smiling. The table glittered 
 with the silver-gilt service, the plate, the mother-of- 
 pearl articles ; rare plants were about her, growing in 
 splendid porcelain vases. 
 
 As the lawyer looked at Comte Chabert's wife, rich 
 with his property, surrounded by luxury, and she her- 
 self at the apex of society, while the unhappy husband 
 lived with the beasts in a cow-house, he said to him- 
 self: *' The moral of this is that a pretty woman will 
 never acknowledge a husband, nor even a lover, in a 
 man with an old topcoat, a shabby wig, and broken 
 boots." A bitter and satirical smile expressed the 
 half-philosophic, half-sarcastic ideas that necessarily 
 
Colonel Chabert. 157 
 
 come to a man who is so placed that he sees to the 
 bottom of things in spite of the Hes under which so many 
 Parisian families hide their existence. 
 
 '* Good morning, Monsieur Derville," said the count- 
 ess, continuing to make the monkey drink coffee. 
 
 " Madame/' he said, abruptl}', for he was offended at 
 the careless tone in which the countess greeted him. 
 ** I have come to talk to you on a serious matter." 
 
 *'0h! I am so very sorry, but the count is ab- 
 sent — " 
 
 *' I am glad, madame ; for he would be out of place 
 at this conference. Besides, I know from Delbecq that 
 you prefer to do business yourself, without troubling 
 Monsieur le comte." 
 
 " Very good ; then I will send for Delbecq," she 
 said. 
 
 " He could do you no good, clever as he is," re- 
 turned Derville. ''Listen to me, madame; one word 
 will suffice to make you serious. Comte Chabert is 
 living." 
 
 " Do 3'ou expect me to be serious when you talk 
 such nonsense as that?" she said, bursting into a fit 
 of laughter. 
 
 But the countess was suddenly subdued by the 
 strange lucidity of the fixed look with which Derville 
 questioned her, seeming to read into the depths of her 
 'soul. 
 
158 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 " Madame," he replied, with cold and incisive gravity, 
 ''you are not aware of the dangers of your position. 
 I do not speak of the undeniable authenticity of the 
 papers in the case, nor of the positive proof that can 
 be brought of Comte Chabert's existence. I am not 
 a man, as you know, to take charge of a hopeless 
 case. If you oppose our steps to prove the falsity 
 of the death-record, you will certainly lose that first 
 suit, and that question once settled in our favor de- 
 termines all the others." 
 
 " Then, what do you wish to speak of?" 
 
 *' Not of the colonel, nor of you ; neither shall I re- 
 mind you of the costs a clever lawyer in possession 
 of all the facts of the case might charge upon you, 
 nor of the game such a man could play with those 
 letters which you received from your first husband 
 before you married your second — " 
 
 "It is false!" she cried, with the violence of a 
 spoilt beauty. '' I have never received a letter from 
 Comte Chabert. If any one calls himself the colonel 
 he is a swindler, a galley-slave perhaps, like Cogniard ; 
 it makes me shudder to think of it. How can the colo- 
 nel come to life again? Bonaparte himself sent me 
 condolences on his death by an aid-de-camp ; and I 
 now draw a pension of three thousand francs granted 
 to his widow by the Chambers. I have every right to 
 reject all Chaberts past, present, and to come." 
 
Colonel Chabert. 159 
 
 " Happily we are alone, madame, and we can lie at 
 our ease," he said, coldl}^, inwardly amused by inciting 
 the anger which shook the countess, for the purpose 
 of forcing her into some betrayal, — a trick familiar to 
 all law3'ers, who remain calm and impassible themselves 
 when their clients or their adversaries get angry. 
 
 '* Now then, to measure swords I " he said to him- 
 self, thinking of a trap he could lay to force her to 
 show her weakness. ' ' The proof that Colonel Chabert's 
 first letter reached you exists, madame," he said aloud. 
 *' It contained a draft." 
 
 *' No, it did not ; there was no draft," she said. 
 
 *' Then the letter did reach you," continued Derville, 
 smiling. "You are caught in the first trap a lawyer 
 laj'S for you, and 3'et 3'ou think you can fight the 
 law ! " 
 
 The countess blushed, turned pale, and hid her face 
 in her hands. Then she shook off her shame, and said, 
 with the coolness which belongs to women of her class, 
 *' As you are the lawyer of the impostor Chabert, have 
 the goodness to — " 
 
 " Madame," said Derville, interrupting her, "I am 
 at this moment your lawyer as well as the colonel's. 
 Do you think I wish to lose a client as valuable to me 
 as you are ? But 3'Ou are not listening to me." 
 
 " Go on, monsieur," she said, graciousl3\ 
 
 " Your fortune came from Monsieur le Comte Cha- 
 
IGO Colonel Chabert, 
 
 bert, and you have repudiated him. Your property is 
 colossal, and you let him starve. Madame, law3'ers 
 can be very eloquent when their cases are eloquent ; 
 here are circumstances which can raise the hue-and-cry 
 of public opinion against 3"0U." 
 
 " But, Monsieur," said the countess, irritated by the 
 manner in which Derville turned and returned her on 
 his gridiron, " admitting that your Monsieur Chabert 
 exists, the courts will sustain my second marriage on 
 account of my children, and I shall get off by repaying 
 two hundred and fifty thousand francs to Monsieur 
 Chabert." 
 
 *' Madame, there is no telling how a court of law 
 may view a matter of feeling. If, on the one hand, 
 we have a mother and two children, on the other there 
 is a man overwhelmed by undeserved misfortune, aged 
 by you, left to starve by your rejection. Besides, the 
 judges cannot go against the law. Your marriage with 
 the colonel puts the law on his side ; he has the prior 
 right. But, if you appear in such an odious light you 
 may find an adversary joxx little expect. That, ma- 
 dame, is the danger I came to warn you of." 
 *' Another adversary ! " she said, " who?" 
 '' Monsieur le Comte Ferraud, madame." 
 "Monsieur Ferraud is too deepW attached to me, 
 and respects the mother of his children too — " 
 *' Ah, madame," said Derville, interrupting her, "why 
 
Colonel Chabert, 161 
 
 talk such nonsense to a lawyer who can read hearts. 
 At the present moment Monsieur Ferraud has not the 
 slightest desire to annul his marriage, and I have no 
 doubt he adores you. But if some one went to him 
 and told him that his marriage could be annulled, that 
 his wife would be arraigned before the bar of public 
 opinion — " 
 
 '* He would defend me, monsieur." 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 " What reason would he have for deserting me? ** 
 
 *' That of marrying the only daughter of some peer 
 of France, whose title would descend to him by the 
 king's decree." 
 
 The countess turned pale. 
 
 " I have her ! " thought Derville. *' Good, the poor 
 colonel's cause is won. Moreover, madame," he said 
 aloud, " Monsieur Ferraud will feel the less regret be- 
 cause a man covered with glory, a general, a count, 
 a grand officer of the Legion of honor, is certainly 
 not a derogation to you, — if such a man asks for his 
 wife — " 
 
 ** Enough, enough, monsieur," she cried ; ** I can have 
 no lawyer but you. What must I do.? " 
 
 *' Compromise." 
 
 *' Does he still love me? " 
 
 " How could it be otherwise ? " 
 
 At these words the countess threw up her head. A 
 11 
 
162 Colonel Chabert, 
 
 gleam of hope shone in her eyes ; perhaps she thought 
 of speculating on her husband's tenderness and winning 
 her way by some female wile. 
 
 " I shall await your orders, madame ; you will let 
 me know whether we are to serve notices of Comte 
 Chabert's suit upon you, or whether you will come to 
 my office and arrange the basis of a compromise," said 
 Derville, bowing as he left the room. 
 
 Eight days after these visits paid by Derville, on a 
 fine June morning, the husband and wife, parted by an 
 almost supernatural circumstance, were making their 
 way from the opposite extremes of Paris, to meet again 
 in the ofl3ce of their mutual law3'er. Certain liberal 
 advances made by Derville to the colonel enabled the 
 latter to clothe himself in accordance with his rank. 
 He came in a clean cab. His head was covered with 
 a suitable wig ; he was dressed in dark-blue cloth and 
 spotlesslj' white linen, and he wore beneath his waist- 
 coat the broad red ribbon of the grand officers of the 
 Legion of honor. In resuming the dress and the 
 habits of affluence he had also recovered his former 
 martial elegance. He walked erect. His face, grave 
 and mysterious, and bearing the signs of happiness 
 and renewed hope, seemed younger and fuller ; he was 
 no more like the old Chabert in the top-coat than a two- 
 sous piece is like a forty -franc coin just issued. All 
 
Colonel Chabert. 163 
 
 who passed him knew him at once for a noble relic of 
 our old arm}', one of those heroic men on whom the 
 light of our national glory shines, who reflect it, as 
 shattered glass illuminated by the sun returns a thou- 
 sand rays. Such old soldiers are books and pictures 
 too. 
 
 The count sprang from the carriage to enter Derville's 
 office with the agility of a young man. The cab bad 
 hardly turned away before a prett}^ coup^ with armorial 
 bearings drove up. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud got 
 out of it in a simple dress, but one well suited to dis- 
 play her 3'outhful figure. She wore a pretty drawn 
 bonnet lined with pink, which framed her face delight- 
 fully, concealed its exact outline, and restored its 
 freshness. 
 
 Though the clients were thus rejuvenated, the office 
 remained its old self, such as we saw it when this 
 history began. Simonnin was eating his breakfast, 
 one shoulder leaning against the window, which was 
 now open; he was gazing at the blue sky above the 
 courtyard formed by four blocks of black buildings. 
 
 " Ha ! " cried the gutter-jumper, '* who wants to bet 
 a play now that Colonel Chabert is a general and a 
 red-ribbon ? " 
 
 ** Derville is a downright magician," said GodeschaL 
 
 '* There's no trick to play him this time," said 
 Desroches. 
 
164 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 '^His wife will do that, the Comtesse Ferraud," said 
 Boucard. 
 
 '* Then she '11 have to belong to two — " 
 
 *' Here she is ! " cried Simounin. 
 
 Just then the colonel came in and asked for Derville. 
 
 *' He is in, Monsieur le Comte," said Simonnin. 
 
 *' So you are not deaf, you young scamp," said 
 Chabert, catching the gutter-jumper by the ear and 
 twisting it, to the great satisfaction of the other clerks, 
 who laughed and looked at the colonel with the inquisi- 
 tive interest due to so singular a personage. 
 
 Colonel Chabert was in Derville's room when his 
 wife entered the office. 
 
 " Sa}', Boucard, what a queer scene there's going to 
 be in the master's room ! She can live the even da3's 
 with Comte Ferraud, and the uneven days with Comte 
 Chabert — " 
 
 " Leap-3^ear the colonel will gain," said Godeschal. 
 
 "Hold your tongues, gentlemen," said Boucard, se- 
 verely. " You'll be overheard. I never knew an office 
 in which the clerks made such fun of the clients as you 
 do here." 
 
 Derville had put the colonel into an adjoining room 
 by the time the countess was ushered in. 
 
 "Madame," he said to her, "not knowing if it would 
 be agreeable to you to meet Monsieur le Comte Chabert, 
 I have separated you. If, however, you wish — " 
 
Colonel Chabert, 165 
 
 ** I thank you for that consideration, monsieur." 
 
 *' I have prepared the draught of an agreement, the 
 conditions of which can be discussed here and now, be- 
 tween you and Monsieur Chabert. I will go from one to 
 the other and convey the remarks of each." 
 
 '' Begin, monsieur," said the countess, showing signs 
 of impatience. 
 
 Derville read: ''Between the undersigned, — Mon- 
 sieur Hyacinthe, called Chabert, count, brigadier-gen- 
 eral, and grand officer of the Legion of honor, living 
 in Paris, in the rue du Petit-Banquier, of the first part, 
 and Madame Rose Chapotel, wife of the above-named 
 Monsieur le Comte Chabert, born — " 
 
 " That will do," she said ; '' skip the preamble and 
 come to the conditions." 
 
 *' Madame," said the lawyer, " the preamble explains 
 succinctly the position which you hold to each other. 
 Then, in article one, you recognize in presence of three 
 witnesses, namely, two notaries, and the cow-keeper 
 with whom your husband lives, to all of whom I have 
 confided your secret and who will keep it faithfully, — 
 you recognize, I sa}', that the individual mentioned in 
 the accompanying deeds and whose identity" is else- 
 where established by affidavits prepared b}^ Alexander 
 Crottat, your notary, is the Comte Chabert, your first 
 husband. In article two Comte Chabert, for the sake 
 of your welfare, agrees to make no use of his rights 
 
166 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 except under circumstances provided for in the agree- 
 ment, — and those circumstances," remarked Derville in a 
 parenthesis, " are the non-fulfilment of the clauses of 
 this private agreement. Monsieur Chabert, on his 
 part," he continued, " consents to sue with you for a 
 judgment which shall set aside the record of his death, 
 and also dissolve his marriage. " 
 
 ''But that will not suit me at all," said the countess, 
 astonished ; " I don't wish a lawsuit, you know why." 
 
 " In article three," continued the lawyer, with imper- 
 turbable coolness, " 3'ou agree to secure to the said 
 Hyacinthe, Comte Chabert, an annuity of twent^^-four 
 thousand francs now invested in the public Funds, the 
 capital of which will devolve on you at his death." 
 
 " But that is far too dear ! " cried the countess. 
 
 " Can you compromise for less? " 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 " What is it you want, madame? " 
 
 " I want — I don't want a suit. I want — " 
 
 " To keep him dead," said Derville, quicklj^ 
 
 " Monsieur," said the countess, " if he asks twent}'- 
 four thousand francs a 3'ear, I '11 demand justice." 
 
 " Yes, justice ! " cried a hollow voice, as the colonel 
 opened the door and appeared suddenly before his wife, 
 with one hand in his waistcoat and the other pointing 
 to the floor, a gesture to which the memory of his great 
 disaster gave a horrible meaning. 
 
Colonel Chahert, 167 
 
 *' It is he ! " said the countess in her own mind. 
 
 "Too dear?" continued the old soldier, "I gave 
 you a million and now you trade on my poverty. Well, 
 then, I will have you and m}' property both ; our mar- 
 riage is not void." 
 
 '' But monsieur is not Colonel Chabert! " cried the 
 countess, feigning surprise. 
 
 *' Ah ! " said the old man, in a tone of irony, *' do 
 you want proofs? Well, did I not take you from the 
 pavements of the Palais-Ro}- al ? " 
 
 The countess turned pale. Seeing her color fade be- 
 neath her rouge, the old soldier, Qoxvy for the suffering he 
 was inflicting on a woman he had once loved ardently, 
 stopped short ; but she gave him such a venomous look 
 that he suddenly added, " You were with — " 
 
 *' For heaven's sake, monsieur," said the countess, 
 appealing to the lawyer, " allow me to leave this place. 
 I did not come here to listen to such insults." 
 
 She left the room. Derville sprang into the oflSce 
 after her; but she seemed to have taken wings and 
 was already gone. When he returned to his own 
 room he found the colonel walking up and down in 
 a paroxysm of rage. 
 
 " In those days men took their wives where they 
 liked," he said. ''But I chose ill; I ought never to 
 have trusted her ; she has no heart ! " 
 
 '' Colonel, 3'ou will admit I was right in begging you 
 
168 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 not to come here ! I am now certain of your identity. 
 When you came in the countess made a little move- 
 ment the meaning of which was not to be doubted. 
 But you have lost your cause. Your wife now knows 
 that you are unrecognizable." 
 
 '' I will kill her." 
 
 '' Nonsense ! then you would be arrested and guil- 
 lotined as a criminal. Besides, you might miss your 
 stroke ; it is unpardonable not to kill a wife when you 
 attempt it. Leave me to undo your folly, you big 
 child ! Go away ; but take care of yourself, for she 
 is capable of laying some trap and getting you locked 
 up at Charenton. I will see about serving the notices 
 of the suit on her at once ; that will be some protection 
 to you." 
 
 The poor colonel obeyed his young benefactor, and 
 went away, stammering a few excuses. He was going 
 slowly down the dark staircase lost in gloomy thought, 
 overcome perhaps by the blow he had just received, to 
 him the worst, the one that went deepest to his heart, 
 when, as he reached the lower landing, he heard the 
 rustle of a gown, and his wife appeared. 
 
 " Come, monsieur," she said, taking his arm with a 
 movement like others he once knew so well. 
 
 The action, the tones of her voice, now soft and 
 gentle, calmed the colonel's anger, and he allowed her 
 to lead him to her carriage. 
 
Colonel Chahert 169 
 
 ** Get in," she said, when the footman had let down 
 the steps. 
 
 And he suddenly found himself, as if by magic, 
 seated beside his wife in the coupe. 
 
 '* Where to, madame?" asked the footman. 
 
 ** To Groslay," she replied. 
 
 The horses started, and the carriage crossed the 
 whole city. 
 
 '^ Monsieur!" said the countess, in a tone of voice 
 that seemed to betray one of those rare emotions, few 
 in life, which shake our whole being. 
 
 At such moments heart, fibres, nerves, soul, body, 
 countenance, all, even the pores of the skin, quiver. 
 Life seems no longer in us ; it gushes out, it conveys 
 itself like a contagion, it transmits itself in a look, in 
 a tone of the voice, in a gesture, in the imposition of 
 our will on others. The old soldier trembled, hearing 
 that word, that first, that expressive ''Monsieur!" 
 It was at once a reproach, a prayer, a pardon, a hope, 
 a despair, a question, an answer. That one word in- 
 cluded alL A woman must needs be a great comedian 
 to throw such eloquence and so many feelings into one 
 word. Truth is never so complete in its expression ; it 
 cannot utter itself wholly, — it leaves something to be 
 seen within. The colonel was filled with remorse for 
 his suspicions, his exactions, his anger, and he lowered 
 his eyes to conceal his feelings. 
 
170 Colonel ChaherL 
 
 " Monsieur," continued the countess, after an almost 
 imperceptible pause, " I knew you at once." 
 
 " Rosine," said the old soldier, " that word contains 
 the only balm that can make me forget my troubles." 
 
 Two great tears fell hotly on his wife's hands, which 
 he pressed as if to show her a paternal affection. 
 
 "Monsieur," she continued, " how is it you did not 
 see what it cost me to appear before a stranger in a 
 position so false as mine. If I am forced to blush for 
 what I am, at least let it be in my, own home. Ought 
 not such a secret to remain buried in our own hearts ? 
 You will, I hope, forgive my apparent indifference to 
 the misfortunes of a Chabert in whom I had no rea- 
 son to believe. I did receive your letters," she said, 
 hastily', seeing a sudden objection on her husband's 
 face ; " but they reached me thirteen months after the 
 battle of E^'lau ; the^^ were open, torn, dirt3' ; the writ- 
 ing was unknown to me ; and I, who had just obtained 
 Napoleon's signature to m}" new marriage contract, sup- 
 posed that some clever swindler was trying to impose 
 upon me. Not wishing to trouble Monsieur Ferraud's 
 peace of mind, or to bring future trouble into the family, 
 I was right, was I not, to take every precaution against 
 a false Chabert?" 
 
 '*Yes, you were right; and I have been a fool, a 
 dolt, a beast, not to have foreseen the consequences of 
 such a situation. But where are we going? " asked the 
 
Colonel ChaherL 171 
 
 colonel, suddenly noticing that they had reached the 
 Barriere de la Chapelle. 
 
 "To my countiy-place near Groslay, in the valley 
 of Montmorency," she replied. '' There, monsieur, we 
 can think over, together, the course we ought to take. 
 I know ray duty. Though I am yours legall}', I am no 
 longer yours in fact. Surel}', you cannot wish that we 
 should be the common talk of Paris. Let us hide from 
 the public a situation which, for me, has a mortifying 
 side, and strive to maintain our dignity. You love me 
 still," she continued, casting a sad and gentle look 
 upon the colonel, " but I, was I not authorized to 
 form other ties? In this strange position a secret 
 voice tells me to hope in your goodness, which I know 
 so well. Am I wrong in taking you, 3-0U onlj^ for the 
 sole arbiter of my fate ? Be judge and pleader both ; I 
 confide in your noble nature. You will forgive the 
 consequences of my innocent fault. I dare avow to 
 you, therefore, that I love Monsieur Ferraud ; I thought 
 I had the right to love him. I do not blush for this 
 confession ; it may offend you, but it dishonors neither 
 of us. I cannot hide the truth from you. When acci- 
 dent made me a widow, I was not a mother — " 
 
 The colonel made a sign with his hand as if to ask 
 silence of his wife ; and they remained silent, not SAy- 
 ing a word for over a mile. Chabert fancied he saw 
 her little children before him. 
 
172 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 " Rosine ! " 
 
 "Monsieur?" 
 
 " The dead do wrong to reappear." 
 
 *'0h, monsieur, no, no! Do not think me ungrate- 
 ful. But 3^ou find a mother, a woman who loves an- 
 other man, where 3'ou left a wife. If it is no longer in 
 my power to love you, I know what I owe to you, and 
 I offer you still the devotion of a daughter." 
 
 ''Rosine," said the old man, gentl}^, "I feel no re- 
 sentment towards you. We will forget all that once 
 was," he said, with one of those smiles whose charm is 
 the reflection of a noble soul. " I am not so lost to 
 delicacy as to ask a show of love from a woman who no 
 longer loves me." 
 
 The countess gave him such a grateful glance that 
 poor Chabert wished in his heart he could return to 
 that grave at Ej^lau. Certain men have souls capable 
 of vast sacrifices, whose recompense to them is the cer- 
 tainty of the happiness of one they love. 
 
 "My friend, we will talk of all this later, with a 
 quiet mind," said the countess. 
 
 The conversation took another turn, for it was im- 
 possible to continue it long in this strain. Though 
 husband and wife constantly touched upon their strange 
 position, either by vague allusions, or grave remarks, 
 they nevertheless made a charming journe}^ recalling 
 many of the events of their union, and of the Empire. 
 
Colonel Chahert, 173 
 
 The countess knew how to impart a tender charm to 
 these memories, and to cast a tinge of melancholy upon 
 the conversation, enough at least to keep it serious. 
 She revived love without exciting desire, and showed 
 her first husband the mental graces and knowledge she 
 had acquired, — trying to let him taste the happiness 
 of a father beside a cherished daughter. The colonel 
 had known the countess of the Empire, he now saw a 
 countess of the Restoration. 
 
 They at last arrived, through a cross-road, at a fine 
 park in the little valley which separates the heights of 
 Margency from the pretty village of Groslay. The 
 house was a delightful one, and the colonel saw on 
 arriving that all was prepared for their stsiy. Misfor- 
 tune is a sort of talisman, the power of which lies in 
 strengthening and fulfilling our natural man ; it in- 
 creases the distrust and evil tendencies of certain 
 natures just as it increases the goodness of those whose 
 heart is sound. Misfortune had made the colonel more 
 helpful and better than he had ever been ; he was there- 
 fore able to enter into those secrets of woman's suffer- 
 ing which are usually unknown to men. And yet, in 
 spite of his great lack of distrust, he could not help 
 saying to his wife : — 
 
 *' You seem to have been sure of bringing me here?" 
 "Yes," she answered, ''if I found Colonel Chabert 
 in the petitioner." 
 
174 Colonel ChaberL 
 
 The tone of truth which she gave to that answer 
 dispersed the few doubts which the colonel already fell 
 ashamed of admitting. 
 
 For three days the countess was truly admirable in 
 her conduct to her first husband. By tender care and 
 constant gentleness she seemed to try to efface even 
 the memory of the sufferings he had endured, and to 
 win pardon for the misfortunes she had, as she ad- 
 mitted, innocently caused. She took pleasure in dis- 
 playing for his benefit, though always with a sort of 
 melancholy, the particular charms under the influence 
 of which she knew him to be feeble, — for men are 
 more particular!}" susceptible to certain wa3s, to certain 
 graces of heart and mind ; and those they are unable 
 to resist. She wanted to interest him in her situation, 
 to move his feelings enough to control his mind and so 
 bend him absolutely to her will. Resolved to take any 
 means to reach her ends, she was still uncertain what 
 to do with the man, though she meant, undoubtedly, to 
 destroy him socially. 
 
 On the evening of the third day she began to feel 
 that in spite of all her efforts she could no longer con- 
 ceal the anxiety she felt as to the result of her manoeu- 
 vres. To obtain a moment's relief she went up to her 
 own room, sat down at her writing-table, and took ofif 
 the mask of tranquillity she had worn before the colonel, 
 like an actress returning weary to her room after a 
 
Colonel Chahert. 175 
 
 trying fifth act and falling half-dead upon a couch, 
 while the audience retains an image of her to which she 
 bears not the slightest resemblance. She began to 
 finish a letter already begun to Delbecq, telling him to 
 go to Derville and ask in her name for a sight of the 
 papers which concerned Colonel Chabert, to copy them, 
 and come immediately to Groslay. She had hardly 
 finished before she heard the colonel's step in the cor- 
 ridor ; for he was coming, full of anxiety, to find her. 
 
 *'0h! " she said aloud, ''I wish I were dead! my 
 position is intolerable — " 
 
 "What is it? is anything the matter?" said the 
 worthy man. 
 
 ''Nothing, nothing," she said. 
 
 She rose, left the colonel where he was, and went to 
 speak to her maid without witnesses, telling her to go 
 at once to Paris and deliver the letter, which she gave 
 her, into Delbecq's own hands, and to bring it back to 
 her as soon as he read it. Then she went out and seated 
 herself on a bench m the garden, where she was in full 
 view of the colonel if he wished to find her. He was 
 already searching for her and he soon came. 
 
 *' Rosine," he said, " tell me what is the matter." 
 
 She did not answer. It was one of those glorious 
 calm evenings of the month of June, when all secret 
 harmonies diffuse such peace, such sweetness in the 
 sunsets. The air was pure, the silence deep, and a 
 
176 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 distant murmur of children's voices added a sort of 
 melody to the consecrated scene. 
 
 *' You do not answer me," said the coloneL 
 
 "My husband — " began the countess, then she 
 stopped, made a movement, and said, appealingly, with 
 a blush, '' What ought I to say in speaking of Mon- 
 sieur le Comte Ferraud ? " 
 
 *' Call him j^our husband, my poor child," answered 
 the colonel, in a kind tone ; " he is the father of jour 
 children." 
 
 " Well, then," she continued, *' if he asks me what I 
 am doing here, if he learns that I have shut myself up 
 with an unknown man, what am I to say ? Hear me, 
 monsieur," she went on, taking an attitude that was 
 full of dignity, " decide my fate ; I feel I am resigned 
 to everything — " 
 
 " Dear," said the colonel, grasping his wife's hands, 
 " I have resolved to sacrifice myself wholly to your 
 happiness — " 
 
 '* That is impossible," she cried, with a convulsive 
 movement. *' Remember that in that case you must 
 renounce j^our own identitj^ — and do so legally." 
 
 **What!" exclaimed the colonel, '*does not my 
 word satisfy you?" 
 
 The term " legally" fell like lead upon the old man's 
 heart and roused an involuntary distrust. He cast a 
 look upon his wife which made her blush ; she lowered 
 
Colonel Ckahert, 177 
 
 her ej'es, and for a moment he feared he should be 
 forced to despise her. The countess was alarmed lest 
 she had startled the honest shame, the stern upright- 
 ness of a man whose generous nature and whose primi- 
 tive virtues were well-known to her. Though these 
 ideas brought a cloud to each brow they were suddenly 
 dispelled, harmony was restored, — and thus: A child's 
 cry resounded in the distance. 
 
 ** Jules, let 3'our sister alone ! " cried the countess. 
 
 **What! are your children here?" exclaimed the 
 colonel. 
 
 " Yes, but I forbade them to come in your way." 
 
 The old soldier understood the delicacy and the 
 womanly tact shown in that graceful consideration, and 
 he took her hand to kiss it. 
 
 ** Let them come ! " he said. 
 
 The little girl ran up to complain of her brother. 
 
 ** Mamma ! he plagued me — *' 
 
 "Mamma!" 
 
 '*It was his fault—-" 
 
 "It was hers — " 
 
 The hands were stretched out to the mother, and the 
 two voices mingled. It was a sudden, delightful picture. 
 
 "My poor children!" exclaimed the countess, not 
 restraining her tears, "must I lose them? To whom 
 will the court give them? A mother's heart cannot bo 
 shared. I will have them ! yes, I — " 
 
 12 
 
178 Colonel Chahert 
 
 " You are making mamma cr}^" said Jules, the elder, 
 with an angry look at the colonel. 
 
 " Hush, Jules ! " cried his mother, peremptorily. 
 
 The two children examined their mother and the 
 stranger with an indescribable curiosity. 
 
 '' Yes," continued the countess, *' if I am parted from 
 Monsieur Ferraud, they must leave me my children ; 
 if I have them, I can bear all." 
 
 Those words brought the success she expected. 
 
 " Yes," cried the colonel, as if completing a sentence 
 he had begun mentally. *' I must return to the grave ; 
 I have thought so already." 
 
 ''How can I accept such a sacrifice?" replied the 
 countess. ' ' If men have died to save the honor of 
 their mistresses, they gave their lives but once. But 
 this would be giving your daily life, your lifetime ! No, 
 no, it is impossible ; if it were only your existence per- 
 haps it might be nothing, but to sign a record that you 
 are not Colonel Chabert, to admit yourself an impostor, 
 to sacrifice your honor, to live a lie for all the daj's of 
 your life, — no ; human devotion cannot go to such a 
 length ! No, no ! if it were not for my poor children 
 I would fly with you to the ends of the earth." 
 
 "But," said Chabert, ''why can I not live here, in 
 that little cottage, as a friend and relative. I am as 
 useless as an old cannon ; all I need is a little tobacco 
 and the ' ConstitutionneL' " 
 
Colonel Chabert. 179 
 
 The countess burst into tears. Then followed a 
 struggle of generosity between them, from which Colo- 
 nel Chabert came forth a conqueror. One evening, 
 watching the mother in the midst of her children, 
 deeply moved by that picture of a home, influenced, 
 too, by the silence and the quiet of the country, he 
 came to the resolution of remaining dead ; no longer 
 resisting the thought of a legal instrument, he asked his 
 wife what steps he should take to secure, irrevocably, 
 the happiness of that home. 
 
 " Do what you will," replied the countess ; " I declare 
 positively that I will have nothing to do with it, — I 
 ought not." 
 
 Delbecq had then been in the house a few daj^s, and, 
 in accordance with the countess's verbal instructions, 
 he had wormed himself into the confidence of the old 
 soldier. The morning after this little scene Colonel 
 Chabert accompanied the former lawyer to Saint-Leu- 
 Taverny, where Delbecq had already had an agreement 
 drawn up by a notary, in terms so crude and brutal that 
 on hearing them the colonel abruptly left the office. 
 
 *' Good God ! would you make me infamous ! wh}', 
 I should be called a forger ! " 
 
 "Monsieur," said Delbecq, *'I advise j'ou not to 
 sign too quickly. You could get at least thirty thou- 
 sand francs a year out of this affair ; Madame would 
 give them." 
 
180 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 Blasting that scoundrel emeritus with the luminous 
 glance of an indignant honest man, the colonel rushed 
 from the place driven by a thousand conflicting feel- 
 ings. He was again distrustful, indignant, and merci- 
 ful by turns. After a time he re-entered the park of 
 Groslay by a breach in the wall, and went, with slow 
 steps, to rest and think at his ease, in a little study 
 built beneath a raised kiosk which commanded a view 
 of the road from Saint-Leu. 
 
 The path was made of that yellow earth which now 
 takes the place of river-gravel, and the countess, who 
 was sitting in the kiosk above, did not hear the slight 
 noise of the colonel's footstep, being preoccupied with 
 anxious thoughts as to the success of her plot. Neither 
 did the old soldier become aware of the presence of his 
 wife in the kiosk above him. 
 
 **Well, Monsieur Delbecq, did he sign?" asked the 
 countess, when she saw the secretary, over the sunk- 
 fence, alone upon the road. 
 
 ** No, Madame ; and I don't even know what has 
 become of him. The old horse reared." 
 
 " We shall have to put him in Charenton," she said ; 
 *' we can do it." 
 
 The colonel, recovering the elasticity of his youth, 
 jumped the ha-ha, and in the twinkling of an eye ap- 
 plied the hardest pair of slaps that ever two cheeks 
 received. " Old horses kick ! " he said. 
 
Colonel ChaherL 181 
 
 His anger once over, the colonel had no strength left 
 to jump the ditch again. The truth lay before him in 
 its nakedness. His wife's words and Delbecq's answer 
 had shown him the plot to which he had so nearly been 
 a victim. The tender attentions he had received were 
 the bait of the trap. That thought was like a sudden 
 poison, and it brought back to the old hero his past 
 sufferings, physical and mental. He returned to the 
 kiosk through a gate of the park, walking slowly like 
 a broken man. So, then, there was no peace, no truce for 
 him ! Must he enter upon that odious struggle with a 
 woman which Derville had explained to him ? must he 
 live a life of legal suits? must he feed on gall, and drink 
 each morning the cup of bitterness. Then, dreadful 
 thought ! where was the money for such suits to come 
 from. So deep a disgust of life came over him, that had 
 a pistol been at hand he would have blown out his brains. 
 Then he fell back into the confusion of ideas which, ever 
 since his interview with Derville in the cow-yard, had 
 changed his moral being. At last, reaching the kiosk, 
 he went up the stairs to the upper chamber, whose oriel 
 windows looked out on all the enchanting perspectives 
 of that well-known valley, and where he found his wife 
 sitting on a chair. The countess was looking at the 
 landscape, with a calm and quiet demeanor, and that 
 impenetrable countenance which certain determined 
 women know so well how to assume. She dried her 
 
182 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 eyes, as though she had shed tears, and played, as if 
 abstractedly, with the ribbons of her sash. Neverthe- 
 less, in spite of this apparent composure, she could not 
 prevent herself from trembling when she saw her noble 
 benefactor before her, — standing, his arms crossed, his 
 face pale, his brow stern. 
 
 '' Madame," he said, looking at her so fixedly for a 
 moment that he forced her to blush ; •* Madame, I do 
 not curse you, but I despise yoxi. I now thank the 
 fate which has parted us. I have no desire for ven- 
 geance ; I have ceased to love 3'ou. I want nothing 
 from you. Live in peace upon the faith of my word ; 
 it is worth more than the legal papers of all the notaries 
 in Paris. I shall never take the name I made, per- 
 haps, illustrious. Henceforth, I am but a poor devil 
 named Hyacinthe, who asks no more than a place in 
 God's sunlight. Farewell — " 
 
 The countess flung herself at his feet and tried to 
 hold him by catching his hands, but he repulsed her 
 with disgust, saying, "Do not touch me!" 
 
 The countess made a gesture which no description 
 can portray when she heard the sound of her husband's 
 departing steps. Then, with that profound sagacity 
 "which comes of great wickedness, or of the savage, 
 material selfishness of this world, she felt she might 
 live in peace, relying on the promise and the contempt 
 of that loyal soldier. 
 
Colonel Chahert, 18S 
 
 Chabert disappeared. The cow-keeper failed and 
 became a cab-driver. Perhaps the colonel at first 
 found some such occupation. Perhaps, like a stone 
 flung into the rapids, he went from fall to fall until he 
 sank engulfed in that great pool of filth and penury 
 which welters in the streets of Paris. 
 
 Six months after these events Derville, who had 
 heard nothing of Colonel Chabert or of the Comtesse 
 Ferraud, thought that they had probably settled on a 
 compromise, and that the countess, out of spite, had 
 employed some other lawyer to draw the papers. Ac- 
 cordingly, one morning he summed up the amounts ad- 
 vanced to the said Chabert, added the costs, and 
 requested the Comtesse Ferraud to obtain from Mon- 
 sieur le Comte Chabert the full amount, presuming- 
 that she knew the whereabouts of her first husband. 
 
 The next day Comte Ferraud's secretary sent the 
 following answer: — 
 
 Monsieur, — I am directed by Madame la Comtesse 
 Ferraud to inform you that your client totally deceived you, 
 and that the individual calling himself the Comte Chabert 
 admitted having falsely taken that name. 
 
 Receive the assurance, etc., etc. 
 
 Delbecq. 
 
 ** Well, some people are, upon my honor, as devoid 
 of sense as the beasts of the field, — they Ve stolen 
 
184 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 their baptism ! ^ cried Derville. '' Be human, be gen- 
 erous, be philanthropic, and you *11 find j^ourself in the 
 lurch ! Here 's a business that has cost me over two 
 thousand francs." 
 
 Not long after the reception of this letter Derville 
 was at the Palais, looking for a lawyer with whom he 
 wished to speak, and who was in the habit of practising 
 in the criminal courts. It so chanced that Derville en- 
 tered the sixth court-room as the judge was sentencing 
 a vagrant named Hyacinthe to two months' imprison- 
 ment, the said vagrant to be conveyed at the expiration 
 of the sentence to the mendicity office of the Saint-Denis 
 quai*ter, — a sentence which was equivalent to perpetual 
 imprisonment. The name, Hj^acinthe, caught Derville's 
 ear, and he looked at the delinquent sitting between two 
 gendarmes on the prisoner's bench, and recognized at 
 once his false Colonel Chabert. The old soldier was 
 calm, motionless, almost absent-minded. In spite of 
 his rags, in spite of the poverty marked on every 
 feature of the face, his countenance was instinct with 
 noble pride. His glance had an expression of stoicism 
 which a magistrate ought not to have overlooked ; but 
 when a man falls into the hands of justice, he is no 
 longer anything but an entity, a question of law and 
 facts ; in the eyes of statisticians, he is a numeral. 
 
 When the soldier was taken from the court-room to 
 wait until the whole batch of vagabonds who were then 
 
Colonel Ohabert. 185 
 
 being sentenced were ready for removal, Derville used 
 his privilege as a lawyer to follow him into the room 
 adjoining the sheriflTs office, where he watched him for 
 a few moments, together with the curious collection of 
 beggars who surrounded him. The ante-chamber of a 
 sheriflTs office presents at such times a sight which, ua- 
 fortunately, neither legislators, nor philanthropists, nor 
 painters, nor writers, ever study. Like all the labora- 
 tories of the law this antechamber is dark and ill- 
 smelling; the walls are protected by a bench, black- 
 ened by the incessant presence of the poor wretches 
 who come to this central rendezvous from all quarters 
 of social wretchedness, — not one of which is unrepre- 
 sented there. A poet would say that the da} light was 
 ashamed to lighten that terrible sink-hole of all miseries. 
 There is not one spot within it where crime, planned Of 
 committed, has not stood ; not a spot where some man, 
 rendered desperate by the stigma which justice lays 
 upon him for his first fault, has not begun a career 
 leading to the scaflTold or to suicide. All those who fall 
 in Paris rebound against these yellow walls, on which 
 a philanthropist could decipher the meaning of many a 
 suicide about which hypocritical writers, incapable of 
 taking one step to prevent them, rail ; written on those 
 walls he will find a preface to the dramas of the Morgue 
 and those of the place de Greve. Colonel Chabert was 
 now sitting in the midst of this crowd of men with 
 
186 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 nervous faces, clothed in the horrible liveries of pov- 
 erty, silent at times or talking in a low voice, for three 
 gendarmes paced the room as sentries, their sabres 
 clanging against the floor. 
 
 "Do you recognize me?" said Derville to the old 
 soldier. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur," said Chabert, rising. 
 
 *'If you are an honest man," continued Derville, in 
 a low voice, "how is it that you have remained my 
 debtor?" 
 
 The old soldier colored like a young girl accused by 
 her mother of a clandestine love. 
 
 "Is it possible," he cried in a loud voice, "that 
 Madame Ferraud has not paid you?" 
 
 " Paid me ! " said Derville, " she wrote me you were 
 an impostor." 
 
 The colonel raised his e3"es with a majestic look of 
 horror and invocation as if to appeal to heaven against 
 this new treachery-. " Monsieur," he said, in a voice 
 that was calm though it faltered, *' ask the gendarmes to 
 be so kind as to let me go into the sheriflfs office ; I will 
 there write you an order which will certainly be paid." 
 
 Derville spoke to the corporal, and was allowed to take 
 his client into the office, where the colonel wrote a few 
 lines and addressed them to the Comtesse Ferraud. 
 
 " Send that to her," he said, " and you will be paid 
 for your loans and all costs. Believe me, Monsieur, if 
 
Colonel OhaheH, 187 
 
 I have not shown the gratitude I owe you for j'our kind 
 acts it is none the less there" he said, laying his hand 
 upon his heart ; *' yes it is there, full, complete. But 
 the unfortunate ones can do nothing, — they love, 
 that is all." 
 
 ** Can it be," said Derville, " that you did not stipu- 
 late for an income ? " 
 
 ** Don't speak of that/' said the old man. *' You can 
 never know how utterly I despise this external life to 
 which the majority of men cling so tenaciously. I was 
 taken suddenly with an illness, — a disgust for humanity. 
 When I think that Napoleon is at Saint-Helena all 
 things here below are nothing to me. I can no longer 
 be a soldier, that is my only sorrow. Ah, well," he 
 added, with a gesture that was full of childlike playful- 
 ness, *' it is better to have luxury in our feelings than 
 in our clothes. I fear no man's contempt." 
 
 He went back to the bench and sat down. Der- 
 ville went away. When he reached his oflSce, he sent 
 Godeschal, then advanced to be second clerk, to the 
 Comtesse Ferraud, who had no sooner read the mis- 
 sive he canied than she paid the money owing to Comte 
 Chabert's lawyer. 
 
 In 1840, towards the close of the month of June, 
 Godeschal, then a lawj-er on his own account, was on 
 his way to Ris, in company with Derville. When they 
 
188 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 reached the avenue which leads into the mail road to 
 Bicetre, they saw beneath an elm by the roadside one 
 of those hoary, broken-down old paupers who rule the 
 beggars about them, and live at Bicetre just as pauper 
 women live at La Salpetriere. This man, one of the 
 two thousand inmates of the ** Almshouse for Old Age," 
 was sitting on a stone and seemed to be giving all his 
 mind to an operation well-known to the dwellers in 
 charitable institutions ; that of drying the tobacco in 
 their handkerchiefs in the sun, — possibly to escape 
 washing them. The old man had an interesting face. 
 He was dressed in that gown of dark, reddish cloth 
 which the Almshouse provides for its inmates, a dread- 
 ful sort of liver}^ 
 
 "Derville," said Godeschal to his companion, *'do 
 look at that old fellow. Is n*t he like those grotesque 
 figures that are made in German3\ But I suppose he 
 lives, and perhaps he is happy!" 
 
 Derville raised his glass, looked at the pauper, and 
 gave vent to an exclamation of surprise ; then he said : 
 *' That old man, my dear fellow, is a poem, or, as the 
 romanticists say, a drama. Did you ever meet the 
 Comtesse Ferraud?" 
 
 "Yes, a clever woman and very agreeable, but too 
 pious." 
 
 "That old man is her legitimate husband, Comte 
 Chabert, formerly colonel. No doubt she has had him 
 
Colonel Ckabert. 189 
 
 placed here. If he lives in an almshouse instead of a 
 mansion, it is because he reminded the pretty countess 
 that he took her, like a cab, from the streets. I can 
 still see the tigerish look she gave him when he 
 said it." 
 
 These words so excited Godeschal's curiosity that 
 Derville told him the whole stor3^ Two days later, on 
 the following Monday morning, as they were returning 
 to Paris, the two friends glanced at Bicetre, and Der- 
 ville proposed that they should go and see Colonel 
 Chabert. Half-way up the avenue they found the old 
 man sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, and amusing 
 himself by drawing lines on the gravel with a stick 
 which he held in his hand. When they looked at him 
 attentively they saw that he had been breakfasting 
 elsewhere than at the almshouse. 
 
 ** Good-morning, Colonel Chabert," said Derville. 
 
 ** Not Chabert ! not Chabert ! my name is Hyacinthe," 
 answered the old man. " I 'm no longer a man ; I *m 
 number 164, seventh room," he added, looking at 
 Derville with timid anxiety, — the fear of old age or of 
 childhood. *'You can see the condemned prisoner," 
 he said, after a moment's silence ; *' he 's not married, 
 no ! he *s happy — '* 
 
 "Poor man I" said Godeschal; ** don't you want 
 some money for tobacco?" 
 
 The colonel extended his band with all the naivete 
 
190 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 of a street boy to the two strangers, who each gave him 
 a twenty-franc gold piece. He thanked them both, with 
 a stupid look, and said, "Brave troopers ! " Then he 
 pretended to shoulder arms and take aim at them, 
 calling out with a laugh, " Fire the two pieces, and 
 long live Napoleon ! " after which he described an im- 
 aginary arabesque in the air, with a flourish of his 
 cane. 
 
 " The nature of his wound must have made him 
 childish," said Derville. 
 
 '' He childish ! " cried another old pauper who was 
 watching them. *'Ha! there are days when it won't 
 do to step on his toes. He *s a knowing one, full of 
 philosophy and imagination. But to-day, don't you 
 see, he 's been keeping Monday. Why, Monsieur, he 
 was here in 1820. Just about that time a Prussian 
 officer, whose carriage was going over the Villejuif hill, 
 walked by on foot. Hyacinthe and I were sitting by 
 the roadside. The officer was talking with another, I 
 think it was a Russian or some animal of that kind, 
 and when they saw the old fellow, the Prussian, just 
 to tease him, says he : ' Here 's an old voltigeur who 
 must have been at Rosbach — ' 'I was too 3'oung to 
 be at Rosbach,* says Hyacinthe, but I'm old enough 
 to have been at Jena ! ' Ha, ha ! that Prussian cleared 
 off — and no more questions — '* 
 
 *' What a fate ! " cried Derville ; *' born in the Found- 
 
Colonel Chahert 191 
 
 ling, he returns to die in the asylum of old age, having 
 in the interval helped Napoleon to conquer Egypt and 
 Europe ! — Do you know, my dear fellow,'* continued 
 Derville, after a long pause, "• that there are three men 
 in our social system who cannot respect or value the 
 "world, — the priest, the physician, and the lawyer. They 
 wear black gowns, perhaps because they mourn for all 
 virtues, all illusions. The most unhappy among them 
 is the lawyer. When a man seeks a priest he is forced 
 to it by repentance, by remorse, by beliefs which make 
 him interesting, which ennoble him and comfort the 
 soul of his mediator, whose duty is not without a certain 
 sort of joy ; the priest purifies, heals, reconciles. But 
 we lawyers ! we see forever the same evil feelings, never 
 coiTected ; our offices are sink-holes which nothing can 
 cleanse. 
 
 "How many things have I not seen and known 
 and learned in my practice ! I have seen a father die 
 in a garret, penniless, abandoned by daughters, to each 
 of whom he had given an income of forty thousand 
 francs. I have seen wills burned. I have seen mothers 
 robbing their children, husbands stealing from their 
 wives, wives killing their husbands by the very love 
 they inspired, so as to live in peace with their lovers. 
 I have seen women giving to the children of a first 
 marriage tastes which led them to their death, so that 
 the child of love might be enriched. I could not tell 
 
192 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 3"ou what I have seen, for I have seen crimes against 
 which justice is powerless. All the horrors that ro- 
 mance-writers think they invent are forever below the 
 truth. You are about to make acquaintance with such 
 things ; as for me, I shall live in the country with my 
 wife ; I have a horror of Paris. " 
 
 1832. 
 
THE ATHEIST'S MASS. 
 
 This is dedicated to Auguste Borget, by his friend, 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 A physician to whom science owes a masterly physi- 
 ological theorj^, and who, though still young, has taken 
 his place among the celebrities of the School of Paris, 
 that centre of medical intelligence to which the phy- 
 sicians of Europe pay just homage, Doctor Horace 
 Bianchon practised surgery for some time before he 
 devoted himself to medicine. His studies were directed 
 by one of the greatest of French surgeons, the illustri- 
 ous Desplein, who passed like a meteor through the 
 skies of science. Even his enemies admit that he 
 carried with him to the grave an incommunicable 
 method. Like all men of genius, he had no heirs of 
 his faculty ; he held all within him, and he carried all 
 away with him. 
 
 The fame of surgeons is something like that of 
 actors; it lives during their lifetime only, and is not 
 fully appreciable after they are gone. Actors and 
 
 13 
 
194 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 surgeons, also great singers, and all virtuosi who by 
 execution increase the power of music tenfold, are the 
 heroes of a moment. Desplein is a proof of the uni- 
 versal fate of these transitory geniuses. His name, so 
 celebrated yesterday, to-day almost forgotten, remains 
 within the limits of his specialty, and will never reach 
 beyond them. 
 
 But, let us ask, must there not exist some extraor- 
 dinary circumstances to bring the name of a great 
 worker from the domain of science into the general 
 history of humanity? Had Desplein that universality 
 of knowledge which makes a man the Word and the 
 Form of an era? Desplein possessed an almost divine 
 insight; he penetrated both patient and disease with 
 an intuition, natural or acquired, which enabled him 
 to seize the idiosyncrasies of the individual, and so 
 determine the exact moment, to the hour and the 
 minute, when it was right to operate, — taking note of 
 atmospheric conditions, and peculiarities of tempera- 
 ment. Was he guided in this by that power of deduc- 
 tion and analogy to which is due the genius of Cuvier? 
 However that may have been, this man certainly made 
 himself the confidant of flesh ; he knew its secrets of the 
 past, and of the future, as he dealt with its present. 
 But did he sum up the whole of science in his own 
 person, like Galen, Hippocrates, Aristotle? Has he 
 led a school to new and unknown worlds? No. 
 
The Atheist's Mass, 195 
 
 Though it is impossible to deny to this perpetual 
 observer of human chemistry some faculty of the an- 
 cient science of magic, — that is to say, a perception of 
 principles in fusion, the causes of life, the life before 
 the life, and what the life becomes through its prepa- 
 rations before being, — we must admit, speaking justly, 
 that unfortunately all with Desplein was Self; he was 
 isolated in life through egoism, and egoism has killed 
 his fame. No speaking statue surmounts his tomb, and 
 tells the future of the m3'steries that genius wrested 
 from her. But perhaps Desplein's talent was one 
 with his beliefs, and therefore mortal. To him, the 
 terrestrial atmosphere was a generating pouch ; he saw 
 the earth like an Qgg in its shell ; unable to discover 
 whether the Qgg or the hen were the beginning, he de- 
 nied both the cock and the Qgg, He believed neither 
 in the anterior animal nor in the posterior spirit of man. 
 
 Desplein was not a doubter ; he affirmed his beliefs. 
 His clear-cut atheism was like that of a great many 
 men of science, who are the best people in the world, 
 but invincible atheists, atheists like those religious 
 folk who will not admit that there can be atheists. 
 It could not be otherwise with a man accustomed from 
 his earliest youth to dissect the human being before, 
 during, and after life; to pry into all its apparatus 
 and never find that soul-germ so essential to religious 
 theories. Finding in the human body a brain centre, 
 
196 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 a nervous centre, a centre of the blood circulation (the 
 first two of which so complement each other that during 
 the last two days of Desplein's life he came to a con- 
 viction that the sense of hearing was not absolutely 
 necessar}^ in order to hear, nor the sense of sight abso- 
 lutely^ necessary in order to see, and that, beyond all 
 doubt, the solar plexus did replace them), — Desplein, 
 we say, finding thus two souls in man, corroborated his 
 atheism by this very fact, though he asserted nothing 
 in relation to God. The man died, the world said, in 
 the impenitence in which so man}' men of noblest 
 genius unhappily leave this life, — men whom it may, 
 perhaps, please God to pardon. 
 
 The life of this man presented, to use the expression 
 of his enemies, who were jealous of his fame and sought 
 to belittle it, many pettinesses which it is more just to 
 call apparent contradictions. Fools and detractors, 
 having no knowledge of the influences that act upon 
 superior minds, make the most of superficial incon- 
 sistencies, to bring accusations on which thej- sit in 
 judgment. If, later, success attends the labors of a 
 man thus attacked, showing the correlation of prepa- 
 rations and results, a few of the past calumnies are 
 sure to remain fixed upon him. In our day Napoleon 
 was condemned by contemporaries when his eagles 
 threatened England ; it needed 1822 to explain 1804 
 and the flat-boats of Boulogne. 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 197 
 
 Desplein's fame and science were invulnerable; his 
 enemies therefore found fault with his odd temper, 
 his peculiar character, — the fact being that he merely 
 possessed that quality which the English call "eccen- 
 tricity." At times gorgeously dressed, like the tragic 
 Cre billon, he would change suddenly to a singular in- 
 difference in the matter of clothes ; sometimes he drove 
 in his carriage, sometimes he went about on foot. By 
 turns rough and kind, apparently crabbed and stingy, 
 he was capable of offering his whole fortune to his ex- 
 iled masters, who did him the honor to accept it for a 
 few daj's ; no man was therefore more liable to con- 
 tradictory judgments. Though capable, in order to 
 win that black ribbon which physicians ought never 
 to have solicited, of dropping a prayer-book from his 
 pocket in some room at the palace, it was more because 
 in his heart he sneered at all things. He had the deep- 
 est contempt for men, having examined them from head 
 to foot, having detected their veritable being through all 
 the acts of existence, the most solemn and the most in- 
 significant. In great men great qualities often support 
 and require each other. Though some among these 
 Colossi may have more faculty than mind, their minds 
 are nevertheless more enlightened than that of others 
 of whom the world says simply, '*They are men of 
 mind." All genius presupposes a moral insight ; that 
 insight may be applied to some specialty, but whoso 
 
198 The Atheufs Mass. 
 
 can see a flower can see the sun. The story is told of 
 Desplein that when he heard a diplomate, whose life he 
 had saved, asking " How is the Emperor?" he replied, 
 "The courtier returns, the man will follow," — proving 
 that he was not onlj^ a great surgeon and a great phy- 
 sician, but wonderfully wise and witty. So the patient 
 and assiduous student of humanit}^ will admit the ex- 
 orbitant claims of Desplein, and will think him, as he 
 thought himself, fit to be as great a statesman as he 
 was a surgeon. 
 
 Among the enigmas offered to the eyes of contempo- 
 raries by Desplein's life we liave chosen one of the most 
 interesting, because of its final word, which may, per- 
 haps, vindicate his memory from certain accusations. 
 
 Of all the pupils whom the great surgeon had taught 
 in his hospital, Horace Bianchon was the one to whom 
 he was most attached. Before becoming a house pupil 
 at the Hotel-Dieu, Horace Bianchon was a medical stu- 
 dent living in a miserable pension in the Latin quarter, 
 known under the name of the Maison Vauquer. There 
 the poor young fellow felt the assaults of bitter povert}-, 
 that species of crucible from which great talents issue 
 pure and incorruptible as diamonds which can bear all 
 blows and never break. From the strong fires of their 
 vehement passions such natures acquire an uncompro- 
 mising rectitude ; they gain the habit of those struggles 
 which are the lot of genius through constant toil, in 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 199 
 
 the dull round of which they are forced to keep their 
 balked appetites. 
 
 Horace was an honorable 3'oung man, incapable of 
 paltering with his sense of duty ; given to deeds, not 
 words ; read}' to pawn his cloak for a friend, or to give 
 him his time and his nights in watching. Horace was, 
 indeed, one of those friends who care nothing for what 
 they receive in exchange for what the}^ give, sure of 
 finding a return in their hearts far greater than the 
 value of their gift. Most of his friends felt that in- 
 ward respect for him which virtue without assumption 
 inspires, and many among them feared his censure. 
 Horace displayed his fine qualities without conceit. 
 Neither a puritan nor a serraonizer, he gave advice 
 with an oath, and was ready enough for a " trongon 
 de chiere lie " when occasion offered. A jolly comrade, 
 no more prudish than a cuirassier, frank and open, — 
 not as a sailor, for sailors now-a-days are wily diplo- 
 mates, — but like a brave young fellow with nothing to 
 conceal in his life, he walked the earth with his head 
 up and his thoughts happy. To express him in one 
 sentence, Horace was the Pylades of more than one 
 Orestes, creditors being in these days the nearest 
 approach to the ancient Furies. He carried his pov- 
 erty with an easy gayety which is perhaps one of 
 the greatest elements of courage, and like all those 
 who have nothing he contracted few debts. Sober as 
 
200 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 a camel, agile as a deer, he was firm in his ideas, and 
 in his conduct. Bianchon's successful life may be 
 said to have begun on the day when the illustrious 
 surgeon became fully aware of the virtues and the 
 defects which made Doctor Horace Bianchon so doubly 
 dear to his friends. 
 
 When a clinical chief takes a young man into his 
 rounds that young man has, as they say, his foot in the 
 stirrup. Desplein always took Bianchon with him for 
 the sake of his assistance when he went among his opu- 
 lent patients, where many a fee dropped into the pupil's 
 pouch, and where, little by little, the mysteries of 
 Parisian life revealed themselves to his provincial eyes. 
 Desplein kept him in his study during consultations 
 and employed him there ; sometimes he sent him trav- 
 elling with a rich patient to baths ; in short, he provided 
 him with a practice. The result was that, after a time, 
 the autocrat of surgery had an alter ego. These two 
 men — one at the summit of science and of all honors, 
 enjoj'ing a large fortune and a great fame ; the other, 
 the modest omega, without either fame or fortune — be- 
 came intimates. The great Desplein tofl his pupil every- 
 thing ; the pupil knew what woman had been seated in 
 a chair beside the master, or on the famous sofa which 
 was in the study and on which Desplein slept ; Bian- 
 chon knew the m3^sterie8 of that temperament, half- 
 lion, half-bull, which finally expanded and amplified 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 201 
 
 beyond all reason the great man's chest, and caused 
 his death by enlargement of the heart. He studied 
 the eccentricities of that busy life, the schemes of 
 that sordid avarice, the hopes of the politic man hid- 
 den in the scientific man ; he was therefore fitted to 
 detect the deceptions, had an}- existed, in the sole 
 sentiment buried in a heart that was less hard than 
 hardened. 
 
 One day Bianchon told Desplein that a poor water- 
 carrier in the quartier Saint-Jacques had a horrible 
 disease caused by over-work and poverty; this poor 
 Auvergnat had eaten nothing but potatoes during the 
 severe winter of 1821. Desplein left all his patients 
 and rushed off, followed by Bianchon, and took the 
 poor man himself to a private hospital established by 
 the famous Dubois, in the faubourg Saint-Denis. He 
 attended the man personall}^ and when he recovered 
 gave him enough mone}' to buy a horse and a water- 
 cart. This Auvergnat was remarkable for an original 
 act. One of his friends fell ill, and he took him at 
 once to Desplein, saying to his benefactor, " I would n't 
 hear of his g^ng to any one else." Gruff as he was, 
 Desplein pressed the water-carrier's hand. ' ' Bring 
 them all to me," he said ; and he put the friend in the 
 Hdtel-Dieu, where he took extreme care of him. Bian- 
 chon had already noticed several times the evident 
 predilection his chief felt for an Auvergnat, and es- 
 
202 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 pecially for a water-carrier, but as Desplein*s pride was 
 in the management of his hospital cases the pupil saw 
 nothing really strange in the incident. 
 
 One day, crossing the place Saint-Sulpice, Bianchon 
 caught sight of his master entering the church about 
 nine o'clock in the morning. Desplein, who at that 
 time of his life went everywhere in his cabriolet, was 
 on foot, and was slipping along b}' the rue du Petit- 
 Lion as if in quest of some questionable resort. Natu- 
 rall}" seized with curiosity, the pupil, who knew the 
 opinions of his master, slipped into Saint-Sulpice him- 
 self, and was not a little amazed to see the great 
 Desplein, that atheist without pity even for the angels 
 who so little require a scalpel and cannot have stomach- 
 aches or fistulas, in short, that bold scoffer, humbly 
 kneeling — where ? in the chapel of the Virgin, before 
 whom he was hearing a mass, paying for the service, 
 giving money for the poor, and as serious in demeanor 
 as if preparing for an operation. 
 
 ' ' Heavens ! " thought Bianchon, whose amazement 
 was beyond all bounds. " If I had seen him holding 
 one of the ropes of the canopy at the F§te-Dieu I 
 should have known it was all a joke ; but here, at this 
 hour, alone, without witnesses ! Certainly it is some- 
 thing to think about." 
 
 Not wishing to seem to spy upon the great surg-^on 
 of the Hotel-Dieu, Bianchon went away. It so chan--^ 
 
The Atheist's Mass, 203 
 
 that Desplein asked him to dine with him that daj', 
 away from home, at a restaurant. By the time the 
 dessert appeared Bianchon had reached by clever stages 
 the topic of religious serv'ices, and called the mass a 
 a farce and a mummer}-. 
 
 "A farce," said Desplein, "which has cost Chris- 
 tianity more blood than all the battles of Napoleon and 
 all the leeches of Broussais. The mass is a papal 
 invention based on the Hoc est corpus, aud dates back 
 to the sixth century onl}'. What torrents of blood had 
 to flow to establish the Fgte-Dieu, by the institution of 
 which the court of Rome sought to confirm its victory 
 in the matter of the Real Presence, — a schism which 
 kept the church in hot water for three centuries ! The 
 wars of the Comte de Toulouse and the Albigenses were 
 the sequel of it. The Vaudois and the Albigenses both 
 refused to accept that innovation — " 
 
 And Desplein launched with aU an atheist's ardor into 
 a flux of Voltairean sarcasm, or, to be more exact, into 
 a wretched imitation of the *' Citateur." 
 
 "Whew!" thought Bianchon; " where *s the man 
 who was on his knees this morning?" 
 
 He was silent, for he began to doubt whether he had 
 really seen his chief at Saint-Sulpice after all. Desplein 
 would surely never have troubled himself to deceive 
 him. They knew each other too well, had exchanged 
 thoughts or questions fully as serious, and discussed 
 
204 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 systems de natura rerum^ probing them or dissecting 
 them with the knife and scalpel of unbelief. 
 
 Six months went by. Bianchon took no outward 
 notice of this circumstance, though it remained stamped 
 in his memory. One day a doctor belonging to the 
 Hotel-Dieu took Desplein by the arm in Bianchon's 
 presence as if to question him, and said, — 
 
 " Why did you go to Saint-Sulpice to-day, my dear 
 master ? " 
 
 '' To see a priest with caries of the knee whom 
 Madame la Duchesse d'Angoul^me did me the honor 
 to recommend to me," replied Desplein. 
 
 The doctor was satisfied, but not so Bianchon. 
 
 " Ha ! he went to see a stiff knee in a church, 
 did he?" thought the pupil. "He went to hear his 
 mass." 
 
 Bianchon resolved to watch Desplein. He recollected 
 the day and hour at which he had seen him entering 
 Saint-Sulpice, and he determined to return the next 
 year at the same time and see if he should surprise 
 him in the same place. If so, then the periodicity of 
 his devotion would warrant scientific investigation ; for 
 it was impossible to expect in such a man a positive 
 contradiction between thought and action. 
 
 The following year, at the time named, Bianchon, 
 who was now no longer Desplein's pupil, saw the 
 surgeon's cabriolet stop at the corner of the rue de 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 205 
 
 Tournon and the rue du Petit-Lion, from which point 
 his friend sUpped jesuitically along the wall of the 
 church, where he again entered and heard mass be- 
 fore the altar of the Virgin. Yes, it assuredly was 
 Desplein, the surgeon-in-chief, the atheist in petto, the 
 pietist by chance. The plot thickened. The persist 
 ency of the illustrious surgeon added a complication. 
 
 When Desplein had left the church, Bianchon went 
 up to the verger, who was rearranging the altar, and 
 asked him if that gentleman were in the habit of 
 coming there. 
 
 "It is twenty years since I came here," said the 
 verger, *' and ever since then Monsieur Desplein comes 
 four times a year to hear this mass. He founded it." 
 
 ''A mass founded by him!" thought Bianchon as 
 he walked away. "It is a greater mystery than the 
 Immaculate Conception, — a thing, in itself, which would 
 make any doctor an unbeliever." 
 
 Some time went by before Doctor Bianchon, though 
 Desplein's friend, was in a position to speak to him of 
 this singularity of his life. When they met in consul- 
 tation or in societ}^ it was difficult to find that moment 
 of confidence and solitude in which they could sit with 
 their feet on the andirons, and their heads on the back 
 of their chairs, and tell their secrets as two men do at 
 such times. At last, however, after the revolution of 
 1830, when the populace attacked the Archbishop's 
 
206 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 palace, when republican instigations drove the crowd 
 to destro}^ the gilded crosses which gleamed like flashes 
 of lightning among the man}^ roofs of that ocean of 
 houses, when unbelief, keeping pace with the riot, 
 strutted openly in the streets, Bianchon again saw 
 Desplein entering Saint-Sulpice. He followed him and 
 knelt beside him, but his friend made no sign and 
 showed not the least surprise. Together they heard 
 the mass. 
 
 " Will you tell me, my dear friend," said Bianchon, 
 when they had left the church, ' ' the reason for this 
 pious performance? This is the third time I have 
 caught you going to mass, you! You must tell me 
 what this mystery means, and explain the discrepancy 
 between 3^our opinions and your conduct. You don't 
 believe, but you go to mass ! My dear master, I hold 
 you bound to answer me." 
 
 "I am like a great many pious people, — men who 
 are deeply religious to all appearance, but who are 
 really as much atheists at heart as 30U or I — " 
 
 And he went on with a torrent of sarcasms on certain 
 political personages, the best known of whom presents 
 to this century a new and living edition of the Tartu fe 
 of Moliere. 
 
 "I am not talking to you about that," said Bianchon ; 
 " I want to know the reason for what you have just 
 done ; and why you founded that mass ? " 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 207 
 
 "Ah, well! my dear friend," replied Desplein, "I 
 am on the verge of my grave, and I can afford to tell 
 you the events of my early life." 
 
 Just then Bianchon and the great surgeon were pass- 
 ing through the rue des Quatre- Vents, one of the most 
 horrible streets in Paris. Desplein pointed to the sixth 
 story of a house that looked like an obelisk, the gate of 
 which opened upon a passage-way at the end of which 
 was a winding stair lighted by holes in the planked side 
 of it. It was a greenish-looking house, occupied on the 
 ground-floor by a furniture-dealer, and seeming to 
 harbor on each story some different form of povert3% 
 Desplein threw up his arm with an energetic action 
 and said to Bianchon, "I once lived up there for two 
 years." 
 
 ** I know the house ; d*Arthez lived in it. I went 
 there nearly every day in m^^ earl}' youth ; we used to 
 call it the ' harbor of great men.' Well, what next?" 
 
 *'The mass I have just heard is connected with events 
 which happened when I lived in the garret where you 
 say d'Arthez lived, — that one, where 3'ou see the 
 clothes-line and the linen above the flower-pots. My 
 beginnings were so hard, my dear Bianchon, that I 
 can bear away the palm of Parisian sufferings from 
 every one, no matter who. I have endured all, — hun- 
 ger, thirst, the want of a pennj', of linen, boots, all, 
 even the worst that poverty can bring. I have blown 
 
208 The Atheist's Mass, 
 
 upon my frozen fingers in that harbor of great men, 
 which I should like now to see again with 3'ou. I have 
 worked there a whole winter and seen the vapor issu- 
 ing from m^^ head just as 3'ou see horses smoking in 
 frosty weather. 
 
 '' I don't know where a man can take his stand and 
 find support against a life like that. I was alone, with- 
 out help, without a sou to buy books, or to pay the 
 costs of my medical education ; having no friend to 
 understand me, my irascible temper, uneasy and 
 touchy as it is, did me harm. No one saw in my irri- 
 table ways the evidence of the anxiety and toil of a 
 man who from the lowest social state is struggling to 
 reach the surface. But I had, — and this I can saj- to 
 you before whom there is no need that I should drape 
 myself, — I had that understratum of right feelings and 
 keen sensibility which will always be the attribute of 
 men who are strong enough to mount a height, no 
 matter what it is, after paddling long in the swamps 
 of misery. I could ask nothing of my family, nor of 
 my native town, beyond the insufficient allowance that 
 they made me. 
 
 " Well, at this time of my life, I made my breakfast 
 of a roll sold to me by the baker of the rue du Petit- 
 Lion at half-price, because it was a day or two days 
 old, and I crumbled it into some milk. So my morning 
 repast cost me exactly two sous. I dined, ever}' other 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 209 
 
 day onl}', in a pension wliere the dinner cost sixteen 
 sous. Tlius I spent no more than ten sous a day. 
 You know as well as I do what care I had to take of 
 my clothes and my boots ! I really can't tell whether 
 we suffer more in after 3'ears from the treachery of a 
 tried friend than you and I have suffered from the 
 smiling grin of a crack in our boots, or the threadbare 
 look of a coat-sleeve. I drank nothing but water, and 
 I held the cafes in reverence. Zoppi seemed to me the 
 promised land, where the Luculluses of the Latin quarter 
 alone had the right of entrance. ' Shall I ever,' I 
 used to say to myself, ' drink a cup of coffee there, 
 with cream, and play a game of dominoes? ' 
 
 *' So I let loose upon my work the rage m}^ misery 
 caused me. I tried to possess m}' self of positive knowl- 
 edge, so as to have a vast personal value, and thus de- 
 serve distinction when the day came that I should issue 
 from my nothingness. I consumed more oil than bread ; 
 the lamp which lighted me during those toilsome nights 
 cost me more than all my food. The struggle was long, 
 obstinate, and without alleviation. I awakened no sym- 
 path}' in any one about me. To have friends we must 
 be friendly with young men, we must have a few sous 
 to tipple with, we must frequent the places where other 
 students go ; but I had nothing ! Who is there in 
 Paris who realizes that nothing is nothing? When I 
 was forced at times to reveal my povert}'^ m}" throat 
 14 
 
210 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 contracted just as it does with our patients, who then 
 imagine that a ball is rolling up from the oesophagus to 
 the larj-nx. In later j^ears 1 have met these people, 
 born rich, who, never having wanted for any thing, knew 
 nothing of the problem of this rule of three : A young 
 man is to crime what a five-franc piece is to x. These 
 gilded imbeciles would say to me : ' But why do you 
 run in debt? why do you saddle yourself with obliga- 
 tions?* They remind me of the princess who, when 
 she heard the people were djing for want of bread, 
 remarked : ' Wh}' don't the}' buy cake?* 
 
 " Well, well, I should like to see one of those rich 
 fellows who complain that I charge them too dear for 
 my operations, — 3'es, I should like to see one of them 
 alone in Paris, without a pennj^ to bless himself with, 
 without a friend, without credit, and forced to woil 
 with his five fingers to get food. What would he do '. 
 where would he go to appease his hunger ? — Bianchon, 
 if you have sometimes seen me hard and bitter, it was 
 when I was setting my early sufferings against the un- 
 feeling selfishness of which I have had ten thousand 
 proofs in the upper ranks of life ; or else 1 was thinkiiii: 
 )f' the obstacles which hatred, env}', jealous^', and cal 
 iimny had raised between success and me. In Paris, 
 when certain persons see 3-ou about to put j'our foot in 
 the stirrup some of them will catch you by the tails of 
 your coat, others will loosen the buckles of the belly- 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 211 
 
 band to give you a fall which will crack your skull ; 
 that one will pull the nails out of the horses' shoes, that 
 other will steal your whip ; the least treacherous is he 
 whom you see approaching with a pistol to blow out 
 your brains. 
 
 '' Ah ! my dear lad, you have talent enough to be soon 
 plunged into the horrible strife, the incessant warfare 
 which mediocrity wages against superior men. If you 
 lose twenty-five louis some evening the next da}' you 
 are accused of being a gambler, and your best friends 
 will spread the news that 3'ou have lost twenty-five 
 thousand francs. Have a headache, and they *11 say 
 you are insane. Get angr}', and the}' '11 call you a 
 Timon. If, for the purpose of resisting this battalion 
 of pygmies, you call up within you all the powers you 
 possess, your best friends will cry out that you want to 
 destroy everything, that you want to rule, to tyrannize. 
 In short, your fine qualities are called defects, your 
 defects vices, and your vices crimes. Though you may 
 save a patient you will have the credit of killing him ; 
 if he recovers, you have sacrificed his future life to the 
 present ; if he does n't die, he soon will. Slip, and you 
 are down ! Make an invention, claim your right to it, 
 and you are a quarrelsome knave, a stingy man, who 
 won't let the young ones have a chance. 
 
 *' And so, my dear fellow, if I don't believe in God, 
 still less do I believe in man. Don't you know that 
 
212 The Atheist" s Mass, 
 
 there is in me a Desplein who is totally different from 
 the Desplein whom the world traduces ? But don't let 
 us drag that mudd}' pond. 
 
 *' Well, to go back, I lived in that house, and I was 
 working to pass m}^ first examination and I had n't a 
 brass farthing. You know ! — I had reached that last 
 extremit}^ where a man saj^s, ' I '11 pawn ! * I had 
 one hope. I expected a trunk of underclothing from 
 m}' home, a present from some old aunts, who, knowing 
 nothing of Paris, think about j^our shirts, and imagine 
 that with an allowance of thirty francs a month their 
 nephew must be living on ortolans. The trunk arrived 
 one day when I was at the hospital ; the carriage cost 
 forty francs ! The porter, a German shoemaker who 
 lived in the loft, paid the money and kept the trunk. 
 I walked about the rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain-des 
 Pres and the rue de L'Ecole-de-Medecine without being 
 able to invent any stratagem by which I could get 
 possession of that trunk without pacing the forty 
 francs, which I could, of course, pay at once as soon 
 as I had sold the underclothes. My stupidity was 
 enough to prove that I had no other vocation than that 
 of surgery. My dear Bianchon, sensitive souls whose 
 forces work in the higher spheres of thought, lack the 
 spirit of intrigue which is so fertile in resources and 
 schemes ; their good genius is chance, — thej' don't seek, 
 they find. 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 213 
 
 *' That night I entered the house just as my neigh- 
 bor, a water-carrier named Bourgeat, from Saint-Flour, 
 came home. We knew each other as two tenants must 
 when their rooms are on the same landing, and they 
 hear one another snore, and cough, and dress, and 
 at length become accustomed to one another. My 
 neiglibor told me that the proprietor of the house, to 
 whom I owed three months rent, had turned me out ; 
 I was warned to quit the next da}'. He himself was 
 also told to leave on account of his occupation. I 
 passed the most dreadful night of my life. How could 
 I hire a porter to carry away my few poor things, my 
 books? how could I pay him? where could I go? 
 These insoluble questions I said over and over to 
 myself in tears, just as madmen repeat their sing- 
 song. I fell asleep. Ah ! poverty alone has the divine 
 slumber full of glorious dreams ! 
 
 " The next morning, as I was eating my bowlful of 
 bread and milk, Bourgeat came in, and said in his 
 patois, * Monsieur, I 'm a poor man, a foundling from 
 the hospital at Saint-Flour, without father or mother, 
 and I 'm not rich enough to marry. You are no bet- 
 ter off for friends, and relations, and money, as I 
 judge. Now listen ; there is a hand-cart out there 
 which I have hired for two sous an hour ; it will hold 
 all our things ; if you like, we can go and find some 
 cheap lodging which will hold us both, as we are both 
 
214 The Atheist's Mass, 
 
 turned out of here. After all, jo\x know, it isn't a 
 terrestrial paradise.* ' I know that,' I said, ' m}' good 
 Bourgeat, but 1 am in a great quandary ; I have a 
 trunk downstairs which contains at least three hun- 
 dred francs' worth of linen, with which I could pay 
 the proprietor if I could only get it from the porter, to 
 whom I owe forty francs for the carriage.' ' Bah ! ' he 
 cried, cheerily, ' I've got a few pennies tucked away ;' 
 and he pulled out a dirty old leather purse. ' Keep your 
 linen ; you '11 want it.' 
 
 " Bourgeat paid my three months' rent, and his own, 
 and the porter. He put all our things and the trunk 
 into his hand-cart, and dragged it through the streets, 
 stopping before each house where a sign was up. Then 
 I went in to see if the place would suit us. At mid- 
 day we were still wandering round the Latin quarter 
 without having found what we wanted. The price was 
 the great obstacle. Bourgeat invited me to breakfast 
 in a wine-shop, leaving the hand-cart before the door. 
 Towards evening, I found in the Cour de Rohan, pas- 
 sage du Commerce, on the top-floor of a house, under 
 the roof, two rooms, separated b}^ the staircase. For a 
 yearly rent of sixty francs each, we were able to take 
 them. So there we were, housed, my humble friend and 
 I. We dined together. Bourgeat, who earned about 
 fifty sous a day, possessed something like three hun- 
 dred francs. He was close upon realizing his great 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 215 
 
 ambition, which was to bay a horse and a water-cart. 
 Learning my situation, for he wormed my secrets out 
 of me, with a depth of cunning and an air of good- 
 fellowship the remembrance of which to this day stiis 
 every fibre of my heart, he renounced, for a time, the 
 ambition of his life. Bourgeat never attained it; he 
 sacrificed his three hundred francs to my future." 
 
 Desplein clasped the arm he held, violently. 
 
 *' He gave me the mone}' I needed for m}- examina- 
 tions. That man — my friend — felt that I had a mis- 
 sion : that the needs of my intellect were greater than 
 his own. He busied himself with me ; he called me his 
 son ; he lent me the money I needed to bu}^ books ; he 
 came in sometimes, very softly, to watch me at work ; 
 he substituted, with the forethought of a mother, a 
 nourishing and sufficient diet for the poor fare to which 
 I had been so long condemned. Bourgeat, a man then 
 about fort}" 3'ears of age, had a middle-aged burgher 
 face, a prominent forehead, and a head which a painter 
 might have chosen for a model for Lj'curgus. The poor 
 soul had a heart full of unplaced affection. He had 
 never been loved except by a dog which had recently 
 died, and of which he often spoke to me, asking whether 
 I thought the Church would be willing to say masses 
 for the repose of its soul. That dog, he said, was a 
 true Christian, who for twelve 3'ears had gone with 
 liim to church and never barked, listening to the organ 
 
216 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 without opening his jaws, and crouching by him when 
 he knelt as if he prayed also. 
 
 *'That man, that Auvergne water-earner, spent all 
 his affection upon me. He accepted me as a lonelj-, 
 suffering human being ; he became my mother, my deli- 
 cate benefactor ; in short, the ideal of that virtue which 
 delights in its own work. When I met him about his 
 business in the street he flung me a glance of inconceiv- 
 able generosity ; he pretended to walk as if he carried 
 nothing ; he showed his happiness in seeing me in good 
 health and well-clothed. His devotion to me was that 
 of the people, — the love of a grisette for one above 
 her. Bourgeat did my errands, woke me at night when 
 I had to be called, cleaned my lamp, polished mj^ floor ; 
 as good a servant as a kind father, and as clean as 
 an English girl. He kept house. Like Philopoemen, 
 he sawed our wood, and gave to all his actions the 
 simple dignity of toil ; for he seemed to comprehend 
 that the object ennobled all. 
 
 ' ' When I left that noble man to enter the Hotel- 
 Dieu as an indoor pupil, he suffered dark distress from 
 the thought that he could no longer live with me ; but 
 he consoled himself with the idea of laying by the 
 money required for the expenses of my thesis, and he 
 made me promise to come and see him on all my daj's 
 out. If you will look up my thesis you will find that 
 it is dedicated to him. 
 
The Atheist's Mass, 217 
 
 " During the last year I was in hospital I earned 
 money enough to return all I owed to that noble Auver- 
 gnat, with which I bought him his horse and water-cart. 
 He was very angiy when he found out I had deprived 
 myself of my earnings, and yet delighted to see his 
 desires realized ; he laughed and scolded, looked at his 
 cart and at his horse, and wiped his eyes, saying to me : 
 * It is all wrong. Oh, what a fine cart ! You had no 
 right to do it ; that horse is as strong as an Auvergnat/ 
 Never did I see anything as touching as that scene. 
 Bourgeat positively insisted on buying me that case of 
 instruments mounted in silver which you have seen in 
 mj^ study, and which is to me the most precious of my 
 possessions. Though absolutely intoxicated by my 
 success, he never b}^ word or gesture let the thought 
 escape him, 'It is to me that he owes it.' And yet, 
 without him, miser}- would have killed me. 
 
 ** The poor man had wrecked himself for me ; all he 
 ate was a little bread rubbed with garlic, that I might 
 have coffee for my studious nights. He fell ill. You 
 can well believe that I spent nights at his bedside. I 
 pulled him through the first time, but he had a relapse 
 two years later, and, in spite of all my care, he died. 
 No king was ever cared for as be was. Yes, Bianchon, 
 to save that life I tried amazing things. I longed to 
 make him live as the witness of his own work ; to 
 realize his hopes, to satisfy the sole gratitude that ever 
 
218 The Atheist's Mass, 
 
 entered m}^ heart, to extinguish a fire which bums there 
 still. 
 
 *' Bourgeat," resumed Desplein, with visible emotion, 
 " my second father, died in my arms, leaving all he pos- 
 sessed to me, in a will drawn up by a street writer and 
 dated the ^^ear we went to live in the Cour de Rohan. 
 That man had the faith of his kind ; he loved the 
 Blessed Virgin as he would have loved his wife. An 
 ardent Catholic, he never said one word to me about my 
 irreligion. When he was in danger of death he asked 
 me to spare nothing that he might have the succor of the 
 Church. Every day masses were said for him. Often 
 during the night he would tell me of his fears for the 
 future ; he thought he had not lived devoutly enough. 
 Poor man ! he had toiled from morning till night. To 
 whom else does heaven belong, — if indeed there is a 
 heaven? He received the last offices of religion, like 
 the saint that he was, and his death was worth}' of his 
 life. I, alone, followed him to the grave. When the 
 earth covered my sole benefactor I sought a wa}' to 
 pay my debt to him. He had neither familj', nor 
 friends, nor wife, nor children, but, he believed ! he 
 had a deep religious belief ; what right had I to dispute 
 it? He had timidlj^ spoken to me of masses for the 
 repose of the dead, but he never imposed that duty 
 upon me, thinking, no doubt, it would seem like paj^- 
 ment for his services. The moment I was able to 
 
The Atheist's Mass, 219 
 
 found a mass I gave Saint-Sulpice the necessary sum 
 for four j'earlj' services. As the sole thing I can offer 
 to Bourgeat is the satisfaction of his pious w'shes, I 
 go in his name and recite for him the appointed prayers 
 at the beginning of each season. I say with the sin- 
 cerity of a doubter : ' My God, if there be a sphere 
 where thou dost place after death the souls of the 
 perfect, think of the good Bourgeat; and if there is 
 anything to be suffered for him, grant me those suffer- 
 ings that he may the sooner enter what, they sa^-, is 
 heaven.* 
 
 " That, m}- dear friend, is all a man of my opinions 
 can do. God must be a good sort of devil, and he '11 
 not blame me. I swear to you I would give all I am 
 worth if Bourgeat's belief could enter my brain." 
 
 Biahchon, who took care of Desplein in his last 
 illness, dares not affirm that the great surgeon died an 
 atheist. Believers will like to think that the humble 
 water-carrier opened to him the gates of heaven, as he 
 had once opened to him the portals of that terrestial 
 temple on the pediment of which are inscribed the 
 words : — 
 
 '* To HER Great Men, a grateful Country ! " 
 
 1836. 
 
VVH«€II ^<"*J <i<^ 4^011 
 
LA GRANDE BRETllCHE. 
 
 **Ah! Madame," replied Doctor Horace Bianchon 
 to the lad}^ at whose house he was supping, "it is 
 true that I have many terrible histories in my reper- 
 tory ; but every tale has its due hour in a conversa- 
 tion, according to the clever saying reported by 
 Charafort and said to the Due de Fronsac: '* There 
 are ten bottles of champagne between 3'our joke and 
 the present moment." 
 
 "But it is past midnight; what better hour could 
 you have?" said the mistress of the house. 
 
 "Yes, tell us, Monsieur Bianchon," urged the as- 
 sembled compan}'. 
 
 At a gesture from the complying doctor, silence 
 reigned. 
 
 "About a hundred yards from Vend6me," he said, 
 "on the banks of the Loir, is an old brown house, 
 covered with very steep roofs, and so completely 
 isolated that there is not so much as an evil-smelling 
 tannery, nor a shabb}^ inn such as you see at the en- 
 trance of all little towns, in its neighborhood. In 
 
222 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 front of this dwelling is a garden overlooking the 
 river, where the box edgings, once carefully clipped, 
 which bordered the paths, now cross them and straggle 
 as they fancy. A few willows with their roots in the 
 Loir have made a rapid growth, like the enclosing 
 hedge, and together they half hide the house. Plants 
 which we call weeds drape the bank towards the river 
 with their beautiful vegetation. Fruit-trees, neglected 
 for half a score of years, no longer yield a product, and 
 their shoots and suckers have formed an undergrowth. 
 The espaliers are like a hornbeam hedge. The paths, 
 formerly gravelled, are full of purslain ; so that, strictly 
 speaking, there are no paths at all. 
 
 "From the crest of the mountain, on which hang 
 the ruins of the old castle of Vend6rae (the onl}^ spot 
 whence the eye can look down into this enclosure) we 
 say to ourselves that at an earlier period, now difficult 
 to determine, this corner of the earth was the delight 
 of some gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a 
 word, to horticulture, but above all possessing a keen 
 taste for good fruits. An arbor is still standing, or 
 rather the remains of one, and beneath it is a table 
 which time has not yet completely demolished. 
 
 ''From the aspect of this garden, now no more, the 
 negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces can 
 be inferred, just as we infer the life of some worthy 
 from the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the sad 
 
La Grande Breteche, 223 
 
 and tender ideas which take possession of the soul, a 
 sundial on the wall bears this inscription, Christian 3'et 
 bourgeois, ' Ultimam Cogita/ The roofs are dilapi- 
 dated, the blinds always closed, the balconies are filled 
 with swallows' nests, the gates are locked. Tall herbs 
 and grasses trace in green lines the chinks and crevices 
 of the stone portico ; the locks are rust}-. Sun and 
 moon, summer and winter and snow have rotted the 
 wood, warped the planks, and worn away the paint. 
 The gloomy silence is unbroken save b}' the birds, the 
 cats, the martens, the rats, the mice, all free to scamper 
 or fly, and to fight, and to eat themselves up. 
 
 '* An invisible hand has written the word ' Mystery' 
 everywhere. If, impelled by curiosit}', you wish to 
 look at this house, on the side towards the road you 
 will see a large gate with an arched top, in which the 
 children of the neighborhood have made large holes. 
 This gate, as I heard later, had been disused for ten 
 years. Through these irregular holes you can observe 
 the perfect harmony which exists between the garden 
 piVle, and the courtyard side of the premises. The 
 
 'mo neglect everywhere. Lines of grass surround 
 !)nving-stone8. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, 
 nlackened eaves of which are festooned with pelli- 
 
 >ry. The steps of the portico are disjointed, the rope 
 ^A^ the bell is rotten, the gutters are dropping apart. 
 What fire from heaven has fallen here? What tribunal 
 
224 La Grande Breteehe. 
 
 has ordained that salt be cast upon this dwelling ? Has 
 God been mocked here ; or France betra^^ed ? These 
 are the questions we ask as we stand there ; the rep- 
 tiles crawl about but they give no answer. 
 
 " This empty and deserted house is a profound 
 enigma, whose solution is known to none. It was 
 formerl}^ a small fief, and is called La Grande Breteehe. 
 During my sta}^ at Vendome, where Desplein had sent 
 me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange 
 dwelling was one of m^^ keenest pleasures. It was bet- 
 ter than a ruin. A ruin possesses memories of positive 
 authenticity ; but this habitation, still standing, though 
 slowly demolished by an avenging hand, contained some 
 secret, some mysterious thought, — it betrayed at least 
 a strange caprice. 
 
 '' More than once of an evening I jumped the hedge, 
 now a tangle, which guarded the enclosure. I braved 
 the scratches ; I walked that garden without a master, 
 that property which was neither public nor private ; for 
 hours I sta3'ed there contemplating its deca}^ Not 
 even to obtain the historj- which underlaj' (and to 
 which no doubt was due) this strange spectacle would 
 I have asked a single question of an}^ gossiping coun- 
 tryman. Standing there I invented enchanting tales ; 
 I gave mj'self up to debauches of melancholj' which 
 fascinated me. Had I known the reason, perhaps a 
 common one, for tliis strange desertion, I should have 
 
La Q-rande Bretiche. 225 
 
 lost the unwritten poems with which I intoxicated m}'- 
 self. To me tnis sanctuar}^ evoked the most varied 
 images of human life darkened b}' sorrows ; sometimes 
 it was a cloister without the nuns ; sometimes a grave- 
 yard and its peace, without the dead who talk to 3'ou in 
 epitaphs ; to-day the house of the leper, to-morrow that 
 of the Atrides ; but above all was it the provinces with 
 their composed ideas, their hour-glass life. 
 
 *' Often I wept there, but I never smiled. More than 
 once an involuntarj- teiTor seized me, as I heard above 
 mj' head the muffled whirr of a ringdove's wings 
 / Jiurrj'ing past. The soil is damp ; care must be taken 
 '*• against the lizards, the vipers, the frogs, which wander 
 about with the wild liberty of nature ; above all, it is 
 well not to fear cold, for there are moments w^hen you 
 feel an icy mantle laid upon yoxxv shoulders like the 
 hand of the Commander on the shoulder of Don Juan. 
 One evening I shuddered ; the wind had caught and 
 turned a rust}' vane. Its creak was like a moan issuing 
 from the house ; at a moment, too, when I was ending 
 a gloomy drama in which I explained to myself the 
 monumental dolor of that scene. 
 
 '' That night I returned to m}'' inn, a prey to gloomj^ 
 thoughts. After I had supped the landlady entered my 
 room with a n^ysterious air, and said to me, ' Mon- 
 sieur, Monsieur Regnault is here.' 
 *' ' Who is Monsieur Regnault?* 
 15 
 
226 * La Grande, Breteche. 
 
 "'Is it possible that Monsieur does n't know Mon- 
 sieur Regnault? Ah, how funny!* she said, leaving 
 the room. 
 
 " Suddenly I beheld a long, slim man, clothed in black, 
 holding his hat in his hand, who presented himself, 
 much like a ram about to leap on a rival, and showed 
 me a retreating forehead, a small, pointed head and a 
 livid face, in color somewhat like a glass of dirty water. 
 You would have taken him for the usher of a minister. 
 This unknown personage wore an old coat much worn 
 in the folds, but he had a diamond in the frill of his 
 shirt, and gold earrings in his ears. 
 
 " ' Monsieur, to whom have I the honor of speaking? * 
 I said. 
 
 " He took a chair, sat down before my fire, laid his 
 hat on my table and replied, rubbing his hands : ' Ah ! 
 it is very cold. Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.* 
 
 "I bowed, saying to myself: '7/ hondo cani! 
 seek ! ' 
 
 *' * I am,* he said, ' the notary of Venddme.* 
 
 '* ' Delighted, monsieur,' I replied, ' but I am not in 
 the way of making my will, — for reasons, alas, too 
 well-known to me.* 
 
 " 'One moment ! ' he resumed, raising his hand as if 
 to impose silence ; ' Permit me, monsieur, permit me ! 
 I have learned that you sometimes enter the garden of 
 La Grande Breteche and walk there — * 
 
La Grande Breteche. 227 
 
 *' ' Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 *'*One moment!* he said, repeating his gesture. 
 *That action constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, I 
 come in the name and as testamentary executor of the 
 late Comtesse de Merret to beg 3'ou to discontinue 3'our 
 visits. One moment ! I am not a Turk ; I do not wish 
 to impute a crime to you. Besides, it is quite excusable 
 that you, a stranger, should be ignorant of the circum- 
 stances which compel me to let the handsomest house 
 in Vendome go to ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, as 
 3'ou seem to be a person of education, you no doubt 
 know that the law forbids trespassers on enclosed 
 property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But the 
 state in which that house is left may well excuse your 
 curiosity. I should be only too glad to leave you free 
 to go and come as 30U liked there, but charged as I am 
 to execute the wishes of the testatrix, I have the honor, 
 monsieur, to request that you do not again enter that 
 garden. I mjself, monsieur, have not, since the read- 
 ing of the will, set foot in that house, which, as I have 
 alreadj' had the honor to tell 3'ou, I hold under the will 
 of Madame de Merret. We have onl3" taken account 
 of the number of the doors and windows so as to assess 
 the taxes which I pay annually from the funds left b3' 
 the late countess for that purpose. Ah, monsieur, that 
 will made a great deal of noise in Vendome ! * 
 
 '•There the worthy man paused to blow his nose. 
 
228 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 I respected his loquacity, understanding perfectly that 
 the testamentary bequest of Madame de Merret had 
 been the most important event of his life, the head and 
 front of his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. So 
 then, I must bid adieu to my beautiful reveries, mj^ 
 romances ! I was not so rebellious as to deprive my- 
 self of getting the truth, as it were officially, out of the 
 man of law, so I said, — 
 
 " 'Monsieur, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask the 
 reason of this singularity?* 
 
 *' At these words a look which expressed the pleas- 
 ure of a man who rides a hobby passed over Monsieur 
 Regnault's face. He pulled up his shirt-collar with a 
 certain conceit, took out his snuff-box, opened it, 
 offered it to me, and on my refusal, took a strong 
 pinch himself. He was happy. A man who has n't 
 a hobb}' doesn't know how much can be got out of 
 life. A hobby is the exact medium between a passion 
 and a monomania. At that moment I understood 
 Sterne's fine expression to its fullest extent, and I 
 formed a complete idea of the joy with which my Uncle 
 Toby — Trim assisting — bestrode his war-horse. 
 
 "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was for- 
 merly head-clerk to Maitre Roguin in Paris. An ex- 
 cellent lawyer's office of which you have doubtless 
 heard ? No ! And yet a most unfortunate failure made 
 it, I may say, celebrated. Not having the means to 
 
La Grande Bretiche. 229 
 
 buy a practice in Paris at the price to which the}' rose 
 in 1816, I came here to Vendome, where I have re- 
 lations, — among them a rich aunt, who gave me her 
 daughter in marriage.* 
 
 '' Here he made a shght pause, and then resumed : — 
 "'Three months after my appointment was ratified 
 b}' Monseigneur the Keeper of the Seals, I was sent for 
 one evening just as I was going to bed (I was not then 
 married) by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, then 
 living in her chateau at Merret. Her lady's-maid, an 
 excellent giri who is now serving in this inn, was at 
 the door with the countess's carriage. Ah ! one mo- 
 ment ! I ought to tell 3'ou, monsieur, that Monsieur 
 le Comte de Merret had gone to die in Paris about 
 two months before I came here. He died a miserable 
 death from excesses of all kinds, to which he gave him- 
 self up. You understand? Well, the da}' of his de- 
 parture Madame la Comtesse left La Grande Breteche, 
 and dismantled it. The}' do say that she even burned 
 the furniture, and the carpets, and all appurtenances 
 whatsoever and wheresoever contained on the premises 
 leased to the said — Ah ! beg pardon ; what am I say- 
 ing? I thought I was dictating a lease. Well, monsieur, 
 she burned everything, they say, in the meadow at 
 Merret. Were you ever at Merret, monsieur?' 
 
 '' Not waiting for me to speak, he answered for me : 
 * No. Ah! it is a fine spot? For three months, or 
 
230 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 thereabouts,' he continued, nodding his head, * Mon- 
 sieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse had been 
 living at La Grande Breteche in a very singular way. 
 They admitted no one to the house ; madame lived on 
 the ground-floor, and monsieur on the first floor. After 
 Madame la Comtesse was left alone she never went to 
 church. Later, in her own chateau she refused to see 
 the friends who came to visit her. She changed greatly 
 after she left La Grande Breteche and came to Merret 
 That dear woman (I say dear, though I never saw her 
 but once, because she gave me this diamond), — 
 that good lady was very ill ; no doubt she had given 
 up all hope of recovery, for she died without calling 
 in a doctor ; in fact, some of our ladies thought she 
 was not quite right in her mind. Consequently, mon- 
 sieur, my curiosity was greatly excited when I learned 
 that Madame de Merret needed my services; and I 
 was not the only one deeply interested; that very 
 night, though it was late, the whole town knew I had 
 gone to Merret.' 
 
 "The good man paused a moment to arrange his 
 facts, and then continued : * The lady's maid answered 
 rather vaguely the questions which 1 put to her as we 
 drove along; she did, however, tell me that her mis- 
 tress had received the last sacraments that day from 
 the curate of Merret, and that she was not likely to 
 live through the night. I reached the chateau about 
 
La Grande Breteche, 231 
 
 eleven o'clock. I went up the grand staircase. After 
 passing through a number of dark and loft}" rooms, 
 horribly cold and damp, I entered the state bedroom 
 where Madame la Comtesse was lying. In conse- 
 quence of the many stories that were told about this 
 lady (really, monsieur, I should never end if I related 
 all of them) I expected to find her a fascinating co- 
 quette. Would you believe it, I could scarcel}- see her 
 at all in the huge bed in which she lay. It is true that 
 the only light in that vast room, with friezes of the old 
 style powdered with dust enough to make you sneeze on 
 merely looking at them, was one Argand lamp. Ah ! 
 but 3'ou say you have never been at Merret. Well, 
 monsieur, the bed was one of those old-time beds with 
 a high tester covered with flowered chintz. A little 
 night- table stood by the bed, and on it I noticed a copy 
 of the " Imitation of Christ." 
 
 *' 'Allow me a parenthesis,* he said, interrupting 
 himself. ' I bought that book subsequently, also the 
 lamp, and presented them to my wife. In the room 
 was a large sofa for the woman who was taking care of 
 Madame de Merret, and two chairs. That was all. No 
 fire. The whole would not have made ten lines of an 
 inventory. Ah! my dear monsieur, could you have 
 seen her as I saw her then, in that vast room hung with 
 brown tapestry, you would have imagined 30U were in 
 the pages of a novel It was glacial, — better than that, 
 
232 La Grande Bretiche. 
 
 funereal,* added the worthy man, raising his arm the- 
 atrically and making a pause. Presently he resumed : 
 
 *' ' By dint of peering round and coming close to the 
 bed I at length saw Madame de Merret, thanks to the 
 lamp which happened to shine on the pillows. Her face 
 was as yellow as wax, and looked like two hands joined 
 together. Madame la Comtesse wore a lace cap, which, 
 however, allowed me to see her fine hair, white as snow. 
 She was sitting up in the bed, but apparently did so 
 with difficulty. Her large black eyes, sunken no doubt 
 with fever, and almost lifeless, hardly moved beneath the 
 bones where the eyebrows usually grow. Her forehead 
 was damp. Her fleshless hands were like bones cov- 
 ered with thin skin ; the veins and muscles could all be 
 seen. She must once have been ver}^ handsome, but now 
 I was seized with — I couldn't tell 3'ou what feeling, as 
 I looked at her. Those who buried her said afterwards 
 that no living creature had ever been as wasted as she 
 without djing. Well, it was awful to see. Some mor- 
 tal disease had eaten up that woman till there was 
 nothing left of her but a phantom. Her lips, of a pale 
 violet, seemed not to move when she spoke. Though 
 my profession had familiarized me with such scenes, 
 in bringing me often to the bedside of the dj'ing, to 
 receive their last wishes, I must say that the tears and 
 the anguish of families and friends which I have wit- 
 nessed were as nothing compared to this solitary 
 
La Grande JBreteohe. 233 
 
 woman in that vast building. I did not hear the slight- 
 est noise, I did not see the movement which the breath- 
 ing of the dying woman would naturall}- give to the 
 sheet that covered her ; I myself remained motionless, 
 looking at her in a sort of stupor. Indeed, I fancy I 
 am there still. At last her large eyes moved ; she 
 tried to hft her right hand, which fell back upon the 
 bed ; then these words Issued from her lips like a 
 breath, for her voice was no longer a voice, — 
 
 ** ' "I have awaited you with impatience." 
 
 ** * Her cheeks colored. The effort to speak was 
 great. The old woman who was watching her here 
 rose and whispered in my ear : *' Don't speak ; Madame 
 la Comtesse is past hearing the slightest sound ; you 
 would only agitate her." 1 sat down. A few moments 
 later Madame de Merret collected all her remaining 
 strength to move her right arm and put it, not witliout 
 great difficult}^, under her bolster. She paused an in- 
 stant; then she made a last effort and withdrew her 
 hand which now held a sealed paper. Great drops of 
 sweat rolled from her forehead. 
 
 tt t u I gjye yQ^ jjjy will," she said. ** Oh, my 
 God! Oh!" 
 
 " 'That was all. She seized a crucifix which lay on 
 her bed, pressed it to her lips and died. The expression 
 of her fixed eyes still makes me shudder when I think 
 of it. I brought away the will. When it was opened 
 
234 La Grande BretecJie. 
 
 I found that Madame de Merret bad appointed me her 
 executor. She bequeathed her whole property to the 
 hospital of Vendome, save and excepting certain be- 
 quests. The following disposition was made of La 
 Grande Breteche. I was directed to leave it in the 
 state in which it was at the time of her death for a 
 period of fifty 3^ears from the date of her decease ; I 
 was to forbid all access to it, by any and every one, no 
 matter who ; to make no .repairs, and to put by from 
 her estate a yearly sum to pay watchers, if they were 
 necessary, to insure the faithful execution of these 
 intentions. At the expiration of that time the estate 
 was, if the testatrix's will had been carried out in all 
 particulars, to belong to my heirs (because, as mon- 
 sieur is doubtless well aware, notaries are forbidden by 
 law to receive legacies) ; if otherwise, then La Grande 
 Breteche was to go to whoever might establish a right 
 to it, but on condition of fulfilling certain orders con- 
 tained in a codicil annexed to the will and not to be 
 opened until the expiration of the fifty years. The will 
 has never been attacked, consequently — * 
 
 " Here the oblong notary, without finishing his sen- 
 tence, looked at me triumphantl3^ I made him perfectly 
 happy with a few compliments. 
 
 "'Monsieur,* I said, in conclusion, *you have so 
 deeply impressed that scene upon me that I seem to 
 see the dying woman, whiter than the sheets ; those 
 
La Grande Breteche. 235 
 
 glittering eyes horrify me; I shall dream of her all 
 night. But 30U must have formed some conjectures as 
 to the motive of that extraordinary will/ 
 
 *' 'Monsieur/ he replied, with comical reserve, 'I 
 never permit myself to judge of the motives of those 
 who honor me with the gift of a diamond.' 
 
 " However, I managed to unloose the tongue of the 
 scrupulous notar}^ so far that he told me, not without 
 long digressions, certain opinions on the matter emanat- 
 ing from the wise-heads of both sexes whose judgments 
 made the social law of Vendome. But these opinions 
 and observations were so contradictory, so diffuse, 
 that I well-nigh went to sleep in spite of the interest I 
 felt in this authentic story. The heavy manner and 
 monotonous accent of the notary, who was no doubt in 
 the habit of listening to himself and making his clients 
 and compatriots Hsten to him, triumphed over my curi- 
 osity. Happily, he did at last go away. 
 
 ** * Ha, ha ! monsieur,' he said to me at the head of 
 the stairs, * many persons would like to live their forty- 
 five years longer, but, one moment ! * — here he laid the 
 forefinger of his right hand on his nose as if he meant 
 to say, Now pay attention to this ! — * in order to do 
 that, to do that, they ought to skip the sixties.' 
 
 '' I shut my door, the notary's jest, which he thought 
 very witty, having drawn me from my apathy ; then I 
 sat down in my armchair and put both feet on the 
 
236 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 andirons. I was plunged in a romance a la Radcliffe, 
 based on the notarial disclosures of Monsieur Regnault, 
 when my door, softly opened by the hand of a woman, 
 turned noiselessly on its hinges. 
 
 " I saw my landlady, a jovial, stout woman, with a 
 fine, good-humored face, who had missed her true sur- 
 roundings ; she was from Flanders, and might have 
 stepped out of a picture by Teniers. 
 
 *''Well, monsieur,' she said, 'Monsieur Regnault 
 has no doubt recited to you his famous tale of La 
 Grande Breteche?' 
 
 '* ' Yes, Madame Lepas.* 
 
 **' What did he tell you?* 
 
 " I repeated in a few words the dark and chilling 
 story of Madame de Merret as imparted to me by the 
 notary. At each sentence my landlady ran out her 
 chin and looked at me with the perspicacity of an inn- 
 keeper, which combines the instinct of a policeman, tlie 
 astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a shopkeeper. 
 
 " 'My dear Madame Lepas,' I added, in conclusion, 
 * you evidently know more than that. If not, why did 
 you come up here to me ? ' 
 
 " ' On the word, now, of an honest woman, just as 
 true as my name is Lepas — ' 
 
 " ' Don't swear, for your eyes are full of the secret. 
 You knew Monsieur de Merret. What sort of man 
 was he?' 
 
La Grande Breteche, 237 
 
 " * Goodness ! Monsieur de Merret? well, j-ou see, he 
 was a handsome man, so tall you never could see the 
 top of him, — a very worthy gentleman from Picardy, 
 who had, as 3'ou ma^^ say, a temper of his own ; and 
 he knew it. He paid every one in cash so as to have 
 no quarrels. But, I tell you, he could be quick. Our 
 ladies thought him very pleasant.* 
 ** ' Because of his temper?* I asked. 
 *'' Perhaps,' she replied. *You know, monsieur, a 
 man must have something to the fore, as they say, to 
 marry a lady like Madame de Merret, who, without 
 disparaging others, was the handsomest and the rich- 
 est woman in Vendome. She had an income of nearly 
 twent}' thousand francs. All the town was at the wed- 
 ding. The bride was so dainty and captivating, a real 
 little jewel of a woman. Ah ! they were a fine couple 
 in those days ! ' 
 
 " ' Was their home a happy one? ' 
 '* * Hum, hum ! yes and no, so far as any one can 
 say ; for you know well enough that the like of us 
 don't live hand and glove with the like of them. Ma- 
 dame de Merret was a good woman and verj- charming, 
 who no doubt had to bear a good deal from her hus- 
 band's temper ; we all liked her though she was rather 
 haughty. Bah ! that was her bringing up, and she was 
 born so. When people are noble — don't you see ? ' 
 '^ * Yes, but there must have been some terriblo 
 
238 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 catastrophe, for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to 
 separate violentl}'.' 
 
 *''I never said there was a catastrophe, monsieur; 
 I know nothing about it.' 
 
 u t Yery good ; now I am certain that you know all.' 
 
 "'Well, monsieur, I'll tell j^ou all I do know. 
 When I saw Monsieur Regnault coming after j'ou I 
 knew he would tell you about Madame de Merret and 
 La Grande Breteche ; and that gave me the idea of 
 consulting monsieur, who seems to be a gentleman of 
 good sense, incapable of betraying a poor woman like 
 me, who has never done harm to any one, but who is, 
 somehow, troubled in her conscience. I have never 
 dared to say a word to the people about here, for 
 they are all goss:ps, with tongues like steel blades. 
 And there's never been a traveller who has stayed 
 as long as you have, monsieur, to whom I could tell 
 all about the fifteen thousand francs — * 
 
 " ' My dear Madame Lepas/ I replied, trying to stop 
 the flow of words, ' if your confidence is of a nature to 
 compromise me, I would n't hear it for worlds.' 
 
 *' ' Oh, don't be afraid,' she said, interrupting me. 
 'You'll see—' 
 
 '^ This haste to tell made me quite certain I was not 
 the first to whom my good landlady had communicated 
 the secret of which I was to be the sole repositary, so I 
 listened. 
 
La Grande Breteche. 239 
 
 " * Monsieur,' she said, ' when the Emperor sent the 
 Spanish and other prisoners of war to Vendome I lodged 
 one of them (at the cost of the government) , — a young 
 Spaniard on parole. But in spite of his parole he had 
 to report every day to the sub-prefect. He was a gran- 
 dee of Spain, with a name that ended in 08 and in dia, 
 like all Spaniards — Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his 
 name on the register, and 3'ou can see it if 3-ou like. 
 Oh, he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, 
 who, they tell me, are all ugly. He was n't more than 
 five feet two or three inches, but he was well made. 
 He had pretty little hands which he took care of — ah, 
 you should just have seen him ! He had as many 
 brushes for those hands as a woman has for her head. 
 He had fine black hair, a fiery eye, a rather copper- 
 colored skin, but it was pleasant to look at all the same. 
 He wore the finest linen I ever saw on any one, and I 
 have lodged princesses, and, among others, General 
 Bertrand, the Due and Duchesse d'Abrantes, Monsieur 
 Decazes and the King of Spain. He did n't eat much ; 
 but he had such polite manners and was always so ami- 
 able that I couldn't find fault with him. Oh! I did 
 really love him, though he never said four words a day 
 to me ; if any one spoke to him, he never answered, — 
 that's an oddity those grandees have, a sort of mania, 
 so I 'm told. He read his breviary like a priest, and he 
 went to mass and to all the services regularly. Where 
 
240 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 do you think he sat? close to the chapel of Madame d& 
 Merret But as he took that place the first time he went 
 to church nobod}^ attached any importance to the fact, 
 though it was remembered later. Besides, he never 
 took his eyes off his prayer-book, poor young man ! * 
 
 " My jovial landlady paused a moment, overcome 
 with her recollections ; then she continued her tale : 
 
 " ' From that time on, monsieur, he used to walk up 
 the mountain every evening to the ruins of the castle. 
 It was his only amusement, poor man ! and I dare say 
 it recalled his own country ; they say Spain is all 
 mountains. From the first he was always late at night 
 in coming in. I used to be uneasy at never seeing him 
 before the stroke of midnight ; but we got accustomed 
 to his ways and gave him a key to the door, so that we 
 did n't have to sit up. It so happened that one of our 
 grooms told us that one evening when he went to bathe 
 his horses he thought he saw the grandee in the dis- 
 tance, swimming in the river like a fish. When he 
 came in I told him he had better take care not to get 
 entangled in the sedges ; he seemed annoyed that any 
 one had seen him in the water. Well, monsieur, one 
 day, or rather, one morning, we did not find him in his 
 room ; he had not come in. He never returned. I 
 looked about and into everything, and at last I found 
 a writing in a table drawer where he had put away fifty 
 of those Spanish gold coins called '' portugaise," which 
 
La Grande Bretiche. 241 
 
 bring a hundred francs apiece ; there were also dia 
 monds worth ten thousand francs sealed up in a little 
 box. The paper said that in case he should not return 
 some day, he bequeathed to ns the money and the 
 diamonds, with a request to found masses of thanks- 
 giving to God for his escape and safet3^ In those days 
 m}^ husband was living, and he did ever3'thing he could 
 to find the 3'oung man. But, it was the queerest thing ! 
 he found onl}' the Spaniard's clothes under a big stone 
 in a sort of shed on the banks of the river, on the castle 
 side, just opposite to La Grande Breteche. My hus- 
 band went so earl}' in the morning that no one saw him. 
 He burned the clothes after we had read the letter, and 
 gave out, as Comte Fer^dia requested, that he had fled. 
 The sub-prefect sent the whob gendarmerie on his 
 traces, but bless your heart! they never caught him. 
 Lepas thought the Spaniard had drowned himself. But, 
 monsieur, I never thought so. I think he was somehow 
 mixed up in Madame de Merret's trouble ; and I '11 tell 
 you why. Rosalie has told me that her mistress had a 
 crucifix she valued so much that she was buried with it, 
 and it was made of ebony and silver ; now when Mon- 
 sieur de Feredia first came to lodge with us he had just 
 such a crucifix, but I soon missed it. Now, monsieur, 
 what do 5'ou say? isn't it true that I need have no 
 remorse about those fifteen thousand francs? are not 
 they rightfully mine?' 
 
 16 
 
242 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 " ' Of course they are. But how is it you have never 
 questioned Rosalie ? * I said. 
 
 " ' Oh, I have, monsieur ; but I can get nothing out 
 of her. That girl is a stone wall. She knows some- 
 thing, but there is no making her talk.* 
 
 "After a few more remarks, my landlady left me, a 
 prey to a romantic curiosity, to vague and darkling 
 thoughts, to a religious terror that was something like 
 the awe which comes upon us when we enter by night 
 a gloomy church and see in the distance beneath the 
 arches a feeble light ; a formless figure glides before 
 us, the sweep of a robe — of priest or woman — is 
 beard ; we shudder. La Grande Breteche, with its tall 
 grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty railings, its 
 barred gates, its deserted rooms, rose fantastically 
 and suddenly before me. I tried to penetrate that 
 mysterious dwelling and seek the knot of this most 
 solemn histor}^, this drama which had killed three 
 persons. 
 
 " Rosalie became to my ey^^ the most interesting 
 person in Vendome. Examining her, I discovered the 
 traces of an ever-present inward thought. In spite of 
 the health which bloomed upon her dimpled face, there 
 was in her some element of remorse, or of hope; her 
 attitude bespoke a secret, like that of devotees who 
 pray with ardor, or that of a girl who has killed her 
 child and forever after hears its cry. And yet her pos- 
 
La Grande Breteche, 243 
 
 tnres were naive, and even vulgar ; her silly smile was 
 surely not criminal ; you would have judged her inno- 
 cent if only by the large neckerchief of blue and red 
 squares which covered her vigorous bust, clothed, con- 
 fined, and set off by a gown of purple and white stripes. 
 ' No,* thought I ; 'I will not leave Vend6me without 
 knowing the history of La Grande Breteche. I '11 even 
 make love to Rosalie, if it is absolutely necessary,* 
 
 *• ' Rosalie ! ' I said to her one day. 
 
 " ' What is it, monsieur ? * 
 
 *' ' You are not married, are you?' 
 
 She trembled slightly. 
 
 *''0h! when the fancy takes me to be unhappy 
 there '11 be no lack of men,' she said, laughing. 
 
 *' She recovered instantly from her emotion, what- 
 ever it was ; for all women, from the great lady to the 
 chambermaid of an inn, have a self-possession of their 
 own. 
 
 " * You are fresh enough and taking enough to please 
 a lover,' I said, watching her. ' But tell me, Rosalie, 
 why did j'ou take a place at an inn after you left Ma- 
 dame de Merret ? Did n't she leave you an annuity ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, she did. But, monsieur, my place is the 
 best in all Vendome.* 
 
 "This answer was evidently what judges and lawj-ers 
 call * dilatory.' Rosalie's position in this romantic his- 
 tory was like that of a square on a checkerboard ; she 
 
244 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 was at the very centre, as it were, of its truth and its 
 interest ; she seemed to me to be tied into the knot of 
 it. The last chapter of the tale was in her, and, from 
 the moment that I realized this, Rosalie became to me 
 an object of attraction. By dint of studying the girl 
 I came to find in her, as we do in every woman whom 
 we make a principal object of our attention, that she 
 had a host of good qualities. She was clean, and 
 careful of herself, and therefore handsome. Some two 
 or three weeks after the notary's visit I said to her, 
 suddenly: 'Tell me all you know about Madame de 
 Merret.' 
 
 * ' ' Oh, no ! ' she replied, in a tone of terror, * don't 
 ask me that, monsieur.' 
 
 '' I persisted in urging her. Her pretty face dark- 
 ened, her bright color faded, her eyes lost their inno- 
 cent, liquid light. 
 
 ** ' Well ! ' she said, after a pause, * if you will have 
 it so, I will tell you ; but keep the secret.' 
 
 " * I '11 keep it with the faithfulness of a thief, which 
 is the most lojal to be found anywhere.' 
 
 "' If it is the same to you, monsieur, I 'd rather you 
 kept it with 3^our own.' 
 
 " Thereupon, she adjusted her neckerchief and posed 
 herself to tell the tale ; for it is very certain that an 
 attitude of confidence and security is desirable in order 
 to make a narration. The best tales are told at special 
 
La Grande Breteche. 245 
 
 hours, — like that in which we are now at table. No 
 one ever told a story well, standing or fasting. 
 
 *' If I were to reproduce faithfullj' poor Rosalie's 
 diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarce suflSce. 
 But as the event of which she now gave me a hazy 
 knowledge falls into place between the facts revealed 
 by the garrulity of the notary, and that of Madame 
 Lepas, as precisely as the mean terms of an arithmeti- 
 cal proposition lie between its two extremes, all I have 
 to do is to tell it to you in few words. I therefore 
 give a summary of what I heard from Rosalie. 
 
 *'The chamber which Madame de Merret occupied 
 at La Grande Breteche was on the ground-floor. A 
 small closet about four feet in depth was made in the 
 wall, and served as a wardrobe. Three months before 
 the evening when the facts I am about to relate to you 
 happened, Madame de Merret had been so seriousl}' 
 unwell that her husband left her alone in her room and 
 slept himself in a chamber on the first floor. By one of 
 those mere chances which it is impossible to foresee, he 
 returned, on the evening in question, two hours later 
 than usual from the club where he went habituall}- to 
 read the papers and talk politics with the inhabitants of 
 the town. His wife thought him at home and in bed 
 and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the 
 subject of a lively discussion ; the game of billiards was 
 a heated one ; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum 
 
246 La Grande Bi-eteche. 
 
 for Vendome, where every bod}' hoards his money, and 
 where manners and customs are restrained within modest 
 limits worthy of all praise, — which ma}', perhaps, be 
 the source of a certain true happiness which no Parisian 
 cares anything at all about. 
 
 '' For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been in 
 the habit of asking Rosalie, when he came in, if his 
 wife were in bed. Being told, invariably, that she was, 
 he at once went to his own room with the contentment 
 that comes of confidence and custom. This evening, 
 on returning home, he took it into his head to go to 
 Madame de Merret's room and tell her his ill-luck, 
 perhaps to be consoled for it. During dinner he had 
 noticed that his wife was coquettishly dressed ; and as 
 he came from the club the thought crossed his mind 
 that she was no longer ill, that her convalescence had 
 made her lovelier than ever, — a fact he perceived, as 
 husbands are wont to perceive things, too late. 
 
 " Instead of calling Rosalie, who at that moment was 
 in the kitchen watching a complicated game of ^ brisque,* 
 at which the cook and the coachman were pla3ing, 
 Monsieur de Merret went straight to his wife's room by 
 the light of his lantern, which he had placed on the 
 first step of the stairway. His step, which was easily 
 recognized, resounded under the arches of the corridor. 
 Just as he turned the handle of his wife's door he fan- 
 cied he heard the door of the closet, which I mentioned 
 
La Grande Bretiche, 247 
 
 to you, shut ; but when he entered, Madame de Merret 
 was alone, standing before the fireplace. The husband 
 thought to himself that Rosalie must be in the closet ; 
 and 3'et a suspicion, which sounded in his ears like 
 the ringing of bells, made him distrustful. He looked 
 at his wife, and fancied he saw something wild and 
 troubled in her eyes. 
 
 ** * You are late in coming home/ she said. That 
 voice, usually so pure and gracious, seemed to him 
 slightly changed. 
 
 "Monsieur de Merret made no answer, for at that 
 moment Rosalie entered the room. Her appearance 
 was a thunderbolt to him. He walked up and down 
 the room with his arms crossed, going from one win- 
 dow to another with a uniform movement. 
 
 *' ' Have you heard an}- thing to trouble you?' asked 
 his wife, timidl}^ while Rosalie was undressing her. 
 He made no answer. 
 
 *' * You can leave the room,' said Madame de Merret 
 to the maid. ' I will arrange m}^ hair myself.' 
 
 *' She guessed some misfortune at the mere sight of 
 her husband's face, and wished to be alone with 
 him. 
 
 '' When Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, 
 for she went no further than the corridor. Monsieur de 
 MeiTet came to his wife and stood before her. Then 
 be said, coldly ; 
 
248 La Grande Breteohe. 
 
 '* * Madame, there is some one in your closet.* 
 
 *' She looked at her husband with a calm air, and 
 answered, ' No, monsieur.* 
 
 '' That ' no* agonized Monsieur de Merret, for he 
 did not believe it. And yet his wife had never seemed 
 purer nor more saintly than she did at that moment. 
 He rose and went towards the closet to open the door ; 
 Madame de Merret took him by the hand and stopped 
 him ; she looked at him with a sad air and said, in 
 a voice that was strangely shaken: 'If you find no 
 one, remember that all is over between us.* 
 
 " The infinite dignity of his wife's demeanor restored 
 her husband's respect for her, and suddenly inspired 
 him with one of those resolutions which need some 
 wider field to become immortal. 
 
 "'No, Josephine,* he said, *I will not look there. 
 In either case we should be separated forever. Listen 
 to me : I know the purity of your soul, I know that you 
 lead a saintly life ; you would not commit a mortal sin 
 to save yourself from death.* 
 
 " At these words, Madame de Merret looked at her 
 husband with a haggard eye. 
 
 " ' Here is your crucifix,* he went on. ' Swear to me 
 before God that there is no one in that closet and I will 
 believe you ; I will not open that door.* 
 
 "Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said 'I 
 swear it.* 
 
La Grande Breteche, 249 
 
 *' ' Louder I ' said her husband ; ' repeat after me, — I 
 swear before God that there is no person in that 
 closet.' 
 
 ** She repeated the words composedly. 
 
 ''^That is well,' said Monsieur de Merret, eoldl}'. 
 After a moment's silence he added, examining the 
 ebony crucifix inlaid with silver, 'That is a beautiful 
 thing ; I did not know you possessed it ; it is very 
 artistically wrought.' 
 
 " * I found it at Duvivier's,* she replied ; * he bought 
 it of a Spanish monk when those prisoners -of- war 
 passed through Venddme last year.* 
 
 '''Ah!' said Monsieur de Merret, replacing the 
 crucifix on the wall. He rang the bell. Rosalie was 
 not long in answering it. Monsieur de Merret went 
 quickly up to her, took her into the recess of a window 
 on the garden side, and said to her in a low voice : — 
 
 " ' I am told that Gorenflot wants to marry you, and 
 that poverty alone prevents it, for you have told him 
 3'ou will not be his wife until he is a master-mason. Is 
 that so?' 
 
 " ' Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 " ' Well, go and find him ; tell him to come here at 
 once and bring his trowel and other tools. Take care 
 not to wake any one at his house but himself; he will 
 soon have enough money to satisfy you. No talking to 
 any one when you leave this room, mind, or — ' 
 
250 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 *' He frowned. Rosalie left the room. He called her 
 back ; * Here, take my pass-kej',' he said. 
 
 '' Monsieur de Merret, who had kept his wife in view 
 while giving these orders, now sat down beside her 
 before the fire and began to tell her of his game of 
 bilhards, and the political discussions at the club. 
 When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Ma- 
 dame de Merret talking amicabl3\ 
 
 '' The master had latelj- had the ceilings of all the 
 reception rooms on the lower floor restored. Plaster 
 is very scarce at Vendome, and the carriage of it 
 makes it expensive. Monsieur de Merret had there- 
 fore ordered an ample quantity for his own wants, 
 knowing that he could readily finds buyers for what 
 was left. This circumstance inspired the idea that 
 now possessed him. 
 
 " ' Monsieur, Gorenflot has come,' said Rosalie. 
 
 " ' Bring him in,' said her master. 
 
 " Madame de Merret turned slightly pale when she 
 saw the mason. 
 
 *" Gorenflot,' said her husband, * fetch some bricks 
 from the coach-house, — enough to wall up that door ; 
 use the plaster that was left over, to cover the wall.' 
 
 *'Then he called Rosalie and the mason to the end 
 of the room, and, speaking in a low voice, added, 
 * Listen to me, Gorenflot ; after you have done this work 
 you will sleep in the house ; and to-morrow morning 
 
La Grande Breteche, 251 
 
 I will give you a passport into a foreign countrj', and 
 six thousand francs for the journey. Go through Paris 
 wliere I will meet you. There, I will secure to you 
 legally another six thousand francs, to be paid to you at 
 the end of ten years if you still remain out of France. 
 For this sum, I demand absolute silence on what you 
 see and do this night. As for you, Rosalie, I give you 
 a dowry of ten thousand francs, on condition that 
 you marry Gorenflot, and keep silence, if not — ' 
 
 "'Rosalie,* said Madame de Merret, 'come and 
 brush my hair.* 
 
 " The husband walked up and down the room, watch- 
 ing the door, the mason, and his wife, but without 
 allowing the least distrust or misgiving to appear in 
 his manner. Gorenflot's work made some noise ; un- 
 der cover of it Madame de Merret said hastily to 
 Rosalie, while her husband was at the farther end of 
 the room. ' A thousand francs annuity if you tell 
 Gorenflot to leave a crevice at the bottom ; * then aloud 
 she added, composedly, ' Go and help the mason.' 
 
 *' Monsieur and Madame de Merret remained silent 
 during the whole time it took Gorenflot to wall up the 
 door. The silence was intentional on the part of the 
 husband to deprive his wife of all chance of saying 
 words with a double meaning which might be heard 
 within the closet; with Madame de Merret it was 
 either prudence or pride. 
 
252 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 *' When the wall was more than half up, the mason's 
 tool broke one of the panes of glass in the closet door ; 
 Monsieur de Merret*s back was at that moment turned 
 awa3\ The action proved to Madame de Merret that 
 Rosalie had spoken to the mason. In that one instant 
 she saw the dark face of a man with black hair and 
 fiery eyes. Before her husband turned the poor creat- 
 ure had time to make a sign with her head which 
 meant 'Hope.' 
 
 ''By four o'clock, just at dawn, for it was in the 
 month of September, the work was done. Monsieur de 
 Merret remained that night in his wife's room. The 
 next morning, on rising, he said, carelessly: 'Ah! 
 I forgot, I must go to the mayor's office about that 
 passport.* 
 
 *'He put on his hat, made three steps to the 
 door, then checked himself, turned back, and took the 
 crucifix. 
 
 " His wife trembled with joy ; * He will go to Duvi- 
 vier's,' she thought. 
 
 " The moment her husband had left the house she 
 rang for Rosalie. ' The pick-axe ! ' she cried, ' the 
 pick-axe! I watched how Gorenflot did it; we shall 
 have time to make a hole and close it again.' 
 
 ''In an instant Rosalie had brought a sort of cleaver, 
 and her mistress, with a fury no words can describe, 
 began to demolish the wall. She had knocked away 
 
La Grande BretecTie. 253 
 
 a few bricks, and was drawing back to strike a still 
 more vigorous blow with all her strength, when she 
 saw her husband behind her. She fainted. 
 
 " *Put madame on her bed,' said her husband, coldl}'. 
 
 "Foreseeing what would happen, he had laid this 
 trap for his wife ; he had written to the ma3'or, and 
 sent for Duvivier. The jeweller arrived just as the 
 room had been again put in order. 
 
 *' ' Duvivier,' said Monsieur de Merret, ' I think 5'ou 
 bought some crucifixes of those Spaniards who were 
 here last j-ear?' 
 
 " * No, monsieur, I did not.* 
 
 *''Very good; thank you,' he said, with a tigerish 
 glance at his wife. * Jean,' he added to the footman, 
 * serve m}" meals in Madame de Merret's bedroom ; she 
 is very ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.* 
 
 *'For twenty da3"s that man remained beside his 
 wife. During the first hours, when sounds were heard 
 behind the walled door, and Josephine tried to implore 
 merc}'^ for the dying stranger, he answered, without 
 allowing her to utter a word : — 
 
 " * You swore upon the cross that no one was there.* ** 
 
 As the tale ended the women rose from table, and 
 the spell under which Bianchon had held them was 
 broken. Nevertheless, several of them were conscious 
 of a cold chill as they recalled the last words. 
 
THE PURSE. 
 
 To Sofka: 
 
 Have you ever remarked, Mademoiselle, that when the 
 painters and sculptors of the middle ages placed two figures 
 in adoration beside some glorious saint they have always 
 given them a filial resemblance ? 
 
 When you see your name among those dear to me, under 
 whose protection I place my books, remember this likeness 
 and you will find here not so much a homage as an expression 
 of the fraternal affection felt for you by 
 
 Your servant, Db Balzac. 
 
 For souls easily moved to joyous feelings there comes 
 a delightful moment when night is not yet and day is 
 no more ; the twilight casts its soft tones or its fantastic 
 reflections over everything, and invites to a revery 
 which blends vaguely with the play of light and shadow. 
 The silence that nearly always reigns at such a moment 
 renders it particularly dear to artists, who then gather 
 up their thoughts, stand back a little from their crea- 
 tions, at which they can see to work no longer, and 
 
256 The Purse, 
 
 judge them in the intoxication of a subject the esoteric 
 meaning of which then blazes forth to the inner ej'es of 
 genius. He who has never stood pensive beside a friend 
 at that dreamj^, poetic moment will have difficulty in 
 comprehending its unspeakable benefits. Thanks to 
 the half-light, the chiaroscuro, all the material de- 
 ceptions employed by art to simulate truth disappear. 
 If a picture is the thing concerned, the persons it repre- 
 sents seem to speak and move ; the shadow is reallj^ 
 shadow, the light is da^', the flesh is living, the eyes 
 turn, the blood flows in the veins, and the silks shimmer. 
 At that hour illusion reigns unchallenged ; perhaps it 
 onl3^ rises at night-fall ! Indeed, illusion is to thought 
 a sort of night which we decorate with dreams. Then 
 it is that she spreads her wings and bears the soul to 
 the world of fantasy, — a world teeming with voluptuous 
 caprices, where the artist forgets the actual world, for- 
 gets yesterda}', to-daj^ to-morrow, all, even his dis- 
 tresses, the happy as well as the bitter ones. 
 
 At that magic hour a young painter, a man of talent, 
 who saw nought in art but art itself, was perched on a 
 double ladder which he used for the purpose of painting 
 a ver}^ large picture, now nearlj" finished. There, criti- 
 cising himself and admiring himself in perfect good 
 faith, he was lost in one of those meditations which rav- 
 ish the soul, enlarge it, caress it, and console it. His 
 r«very no doubt lasted long. Night came. Whether he 
 
The Purse. 257 
 
 tried to come down his ladder, or whether, thinking he 
 was on the ground, he made some imprudent movement, 
 he was unable to remember, but at any rate he fell, his 
 head struck a stool, he lost consciousness and lay for a 
 time, but how long he did not know, without moving. 
 
 A soft voice drew him from the sort of stupor in which 
 he was plunged. When he opened his eyes a bright 
 light made him close them again ; but through the veil 
 that wrapped his senses he heard the murmur of 
 women's voices, and felt two young and timid hands 
 about his head. He soon recovered consciousness and 
 perceived, by the light of one of those old-fashioned 
 lamps called *' double air-currents," the head of the 
 loveliest young girl he had ever seen, — one of those 
 heads which are, often thought artistic fancies, but which 
 for him suddenly realized the noble ideal which each 
 artist creates for himself, and from which his genius 
 proceeds. The face of the unknown maiden belonged, 
 if we may say so, to the school of Prudhon, and it also 
 possessed the poetic charm which Girodet has given to 
 his imaginary visions. The delightful coolness of the 
 temples, the evenness of the eyebrows, the puritj' of 
 the outlines, the virginity strongly imprinted on that 
 countenance, made the young girl a perfected being. 
 
 Her clothes, though simple and neat, bespoke neither 
 wealth nor poverty. When the painter regained pos- 
 session of himself, he expressed his admiration in a 
 
 17 
 
258 The Purse, 
 
 look of surprise as he stammered his thanks. He felt 
 his forehead pressed by a handkerchief, and he recog- 
 nized, in spite of the pecuhar odor of an atelier, the 
 strong fumes of hartshorn, used, no doubt, to bring 
 him to himself. Next he noticed an old lady, like a 
 countess of the old regime, who held the lamp and was 
 advising her companion. 
 
 " Monsieur," replied the young girl to one of the 
 painter's questions asked during the moment when he 
 was still half-unconscious, " m}^ mother and I heard the 
 noise of yoxxv fall on the floor and we thought we also 
 heard a groan. The silence which succeeded your fall 
 alarmed us and we hastened to come up to you. 
 Finding the key in the door we fortunately ventured 
 to come in. We found you I3 ing on the floor uncon- 
 scious. My mother obtained what was necessary to 
 bring you to and to stanch the blood. You are hurt 
 in the forehead ; there, do you feel it ? " 
 
 " Yes. now I do," he said. 
 
 ''It is a mere nothing," said the old mother, "for- 
 tunately your fall was broken by that lay-figure." 
 
 ''I feel much better," said the painter; "all I 
 want is a carriage to take me home. The porter can 
 fetch it." 
 
 He tried to reiterate his thanks to the two ladies, but 
 at every sentence the mother interrupted him, saying : 
 "To-morrow, monsieur, put on blisters or apply 
 
The Purse. 259 
 
 leeches ; drink a few cups of some restorative ; take 
 care of yourself, — falls are dangerous." 
 
 The young girl glanced shylj' at the painter, and 
 around the studio. Her look and demeanor were those 
 of perfect propriety, and her eyes seemed to express, 
 with a spontaneity that was full of grace, the Interest 
 that women take in whatever troubles men. These 
 unknown ladies appeared to ignore the works of the 
 painter in presence of the suffering man. When he 
 had reassured them as to his condition they left the 
 room, after examining him with a solicitude that was 
 devoid of either exaggeration or familiarity, and with- 
 out asking any indiscreet questions, or seeking to in- 
 spire him with a wish to know them. Their conduct 
 was marked with every sign of delicacy and good taste. 
 At first their noble and simple manners produced but 
 little effect upon the painter, but later, when he recalled 
 the circumstances, he was greatly struck by them. 
 
 Reaching the floor below that on which the studio 
 was situated, the old lady exclaimed, gently, "Ade- 
 laide, you left the door open ! " 
 
 "It was to succor me," replied the painter, with a 
 smile of gratitude. 
 
 " Mamma, you came down just now," said the young 
 girl, blushing. 
 
 " Shall we light you down? " said the mother to the 
 painter ; "the stairway is dark." 
 
260 The Purse. 
 
 " Ohj thank you, madame, but I feel much better.** 
 
 ''Hold by the baluster." 
 
 The two women stood on the landing to light the 
 young man, listening to the sound of his steps. 
 
 To explain all that made this scene piquant and un- 
 expected to the painter, we must add that he had onl3' 
 lately removed his studio to the attic of this house, 
 which stood at the darkest and muddiest part of the 
 rue de Suresnes, nearly opposite to the church of the 
 Madeleine, a few steps from his apartments, which 
 were in the rue des Champs ^lysees. The celebrity 
 his talent had won for him made him dear to France, 
 and he was just beginning to no longer feel the troubles 
 of want, and to enjoy, as he said, his last miseries. 
 Instead of going to his work in a studio bej'ond the 
 barrier, the modest price of which had hitherto been in 
 keeping with the modesty of his earnings, he now satis- 
 fied a desire, of dailj^ growth, to avoid the long walk 
 and the loss of time which had now become a thing of 
 the utmost value. 
 
 No one in the world could have inspired deeper in- 
 terest that Hippolyte Schinner, if he had only con- 
 sented to be known ; but he was not one of those who 
 readily confide the secrets of their heart. He was the 
 idol of a poor mother who had brought him up at a 
 cost of stern privations. Mademoiselle Schinner, the 
 daughter of an Alsatian farmer, was not married. 
 
The Purse, 261 
 
 Her tender soul had once been cruelly wounded by a 
 wealthy man who boasted of little delicacy in love. 
 The fatal day when, in the glow of j^outh and beauty, 
 in the glory of her life, she endured at the cost of all 
 her beautiful illusions, and of her heart itself, the dis- 
 enchantment which comes to us so slowly and 3'et so 
 fast, — for we will not believe in evil until too late, and 
 then it seems to come too rapidly, — that day was to her 
 a whole century of reflection, and it was also a day of 
 religious thoughts and resignation. She refused the 
 alms of the man who had betrayed her ; she renounced 
 the world, and made an honor of her fault. She gave 
 herself up to maternal love, enjoying in exchange for 
 the social enjoyments to which she had bid farewell, 
 its fullest delights. She lived by her labor, and found 
 her wealth in her son; and the day came, the hour 
 came which repaid her for the long, slow sacrifices of 
 her indigence. At the last Exhibition her son had re- 
 ceived the cross of the Legion of honor. The news- 
 papers, unanimous in favor of a hithei-to ignored talent, 
 rang with praises that were now sincere. Artists them- 
 selves recognized Schinner as a master, and the dealers 
 were ready to cover his canvases with gold. 
 
 At twenty-five years of age Hippol3"te Schinner, to 
 whom his mother had transmitted her woman's soul, 
 fully recognized his position in the world. Wishing to 
 give his mother the pleasures that society had so long 
 
262 The Purse, 
 
 •withdrawn from her, he lived for her on!}-, — hoping 
 to see her some daj', through the power of his fame 
 and fortune, happj', rich, respected, and surrounded 
 by celebrated men. 
 
 Schinner had therefore chosen his friends among the 
 most honorable and distinguished men of his own age. 
 Hard to satisfy in his choice, he wished to gain a posi- 
 tion even higher than that his talents gave him. En- 
 forcing him to live in solitude (that mother of great 
 thoughts) the toil to which he had vowed himself from 
 his youth up had kept him true to the noble beliefs 
 "which adorn the earlier years of life. His adolescent 
 soul had lost none of the many forms of chastity which 
 make a 3"oung man a being apart, a being whose heart 
 abounds in felicity, in poes}^, in virgin hopes, — feeble 
 to the eyes of worn-out men, but deep because they 
 are simple. He was endowed by nature with the 
 gentle, courteous manners, which are those of the heart, 
 and which charm even those who are not able to 
 comprehend them. He was well made. His voice, 
 which echoed his soul, roused noble sentiments in the 
 souls of others, and bore testimony by*a certain candor 
 in its tones to his innate modesty. Those who saw 
 him felt drawn to him b}^ one of those moral attrac- 
 tions which, happily, scientific men cannot anah'ze ; if 
 they could they would find some phenomena of gal- 
 vanism, or the flow of heaven knows what fluid, and 
 
The Fume. 268 
 
 formulate our feelings in proportions of oxygen and 
 electricity. 
 
 These details may perhaps enlighten persons who are 
 bold by nature, and also men with good cravats, as to 
 why Hippolyte Schinner, in the absence of the porter, 
 whom he had sent to the rue de la Madeleine for a hack- 
 ney-coach, did not ask the porter's wife any question 
 as to the two ladies whose kindness of heart accident 
 had revealed to him. But though he answered merely 
 yes or no to the questions, natural enough under the 
 circumstances, which the woman put to him on his 
 accident, and on the assistance rendered to him by the 
 occupants of the fourth floor, he could not prevent her 
 from obeying the instincts of her race. She spoke of 
 the two ladies in the interests of her own policy and 
 according to the subterranean judgment of a porter's 
 lodge. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, *' that must have been Mademoi- 
 selle Leseigneur and her mother ; they have lived here 
 the last four years. We can't make out what those 
 ladies do. In the morning (but only till twelve o'clock) 
 an old charwoman, nearly deaf, and who does n't talk 
 any more than a stone wall, comes to help them ; in 
 the evening two or three old gentlemen, decorated, like 
 you, monsieur, — one of them keeps a carriage and ser- 
 vants, and people do say he has sixty thousand francs 
 a year, — well, they spend the evening here and often 
 
264 The Purse. 
 
 stay very late. The ladies are very quiet tenants, like 
 you, monsieur ; and economical ! — they live on nothing ; 
 as soon as they get a letter they pay their rent. It is 
 queer, monsieur, but the mother has n't the same name 
 as the daughter. Ah ! but when they go to walk in the 
 Tuileries mademoiselle is dazzling, and often young 
 gentlemen follow her home, but she has the door shut 
 in their faces, — and she is right ; for the proprietor 
 would never allow — " 
 
 The coach having arrived, Hippolyte heard no more 
 and went home. His mother, to whom he related his 
 adventure, dressed his wound and would not let him 
 go back to the studio the next day. Consultation was 
 had, divers prescriptions were ordered, and Hippolyte 
 was kept at home three daj^s. During this seclusion, 
 his unoccupied imagination recalled to him in vivid 
 fragments the details of the scene that followed his 
 swoon. The profile of the young girl was deeply cut 
 upon the shadowy background of his inner sight; 
 again he saw the faded face of the mother and felt 
 Adelaide's soft hands ; he remembered a gesture he had 
 scarcely noticed at the time, but now its exquisite grace 
 was thrown into relief by memory ; then an attitude or 
 the tones of a melodious voice, made more melodious 
 by recollection, suddenly reappeared, like things that 
 are thrown to the bottom of a river and return to the 
 surface. 
 
The Purse, 265 
 
 So the first day on which he was able to go to work 
 he went early to his studio ; but the visit which he had, 
 incontestably, the right to make to his neighbors was 
 the real reason of his haste ; his pictures were forgotten. 
 The moment a passion bursts its swaddling-clothes it 
 finds inexplicable pleasures known only to those who 
 love. Thus there are persons who will know why the 
 painter slowly mounted the stairs of the fourth story ; 
 they will be in the secret of those rapid pulsations of his 
 heart as he came in sight of the brown door of the hum- 
 ble apartments occupied by Mademoiselle Leseigneur. 
 This young girl, who did not bear the same name as her 
 mother, had awakened a thousand sympathies in the 
 young painter ; he longed to find in her certain similari- 
 ties of position to his own, and he invested her with the 
 misfortunes of his own origin. While he worked, Hip- 
 polyte gave himself, complacently, to thoughts of love, 
 and he made as much noise as he could, to in(^uce the 
 ladies to think of him as much as he thought of them. 
 He stayed very late at the studio, and dined there. About 
 seven o'clock he went down to call on his neighbors. 
 
 No painter of manners and customs has dared to 
 initiate us — restrained, perhaps, b}^ a sense of pro- 
 priety — into the trul}' singular interiors of certain 
 Parisian homes, into the secret of those dwellings 
 whence issue such fresh, such elegant toilets, women so 
 brilliant on the outside who nevertheless betray signs 
 
266 The Purse. 
 
 of an equivocal fortune. If the painting of such a home 
 is here too frankly drawn, if you find it tedious, do not 
 blame the description, which forms, as it were, an integ- 
 ral part of the history ; for the aspect of the apartments 
 occupied by his neighbors had a great influence upon 
 the hopes and feelings of Hippolyte Schinner. 
 
 The house belonged to one of those proprietors in 
 whom there is a pre-existent horror of repairs or im- 
 provements, — one of the men who consider their posi- 
 tion as house-owners in Paris as their business in life. 
 In the grand chain of moral species such men hold the 
 middle place between usurers and misers. Optimists 
 from self-interest, they are all faithful to the statu quo 
 of Austria. If you mention moving a cupboard or a 
 door, or making the most necessary of ventilators, their 
 eyes glitter, their bile rises, they rear like a frightened 
 horse. When the wind has knocked over a chimney- 
 pot they fall ill of it, and deprive themselves and their 
 families of an evening at the Gymnase or the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin to pay damages. Hippolyte, who, apropos 
 of certain embellishments he wished made to his studio, 
 had enjoyed, gratis, the playing of a comic scene b}- 
 Monsieur Molineux, the proprietor, was not at all sur- 
 prised by the blackened, soiled colors, the oily tints, 
 the spots, and other disagreeable accessories which 
 adorned the woodwork. These stigmata of poverty 
 are never without a certain poetry to an artist. 
 
The Purse, 267 
 
 Mademoiselle Leseigneur herself opened the door. 
 Recognizing the young painter she bowed to him ; 
 then, at the same moment, with Parisian dexterity, 
 and that presence of mind which pride affords, she 
 turned and shut the door of a glazed partition through 
 which Hippolyte might have seen linen hung to dry 
 on lines above a cheap stove, an old flock bed, coal, 
 charcoal, flatirons, a water-filter, china and glass, and 
 all utensils necessary to a small household. Muslin 
 curtains, that were suflScientlj^ clean, carefully con- 
 cealed this " capharnaiim," — a word then familiarly 
 applied to such domestic laboratories, ill-lighted by 
 narrow windows opening on a court. 
 
 With the rapid glance of an artist Hippolyte had 
 seen the furnishing, the character, and the condition 
 of this first apartment, which was in fact one room 
 cut in two. The respectable half, which answered the 
 double purpose of ante-chamber and dining-room, was 
 hung with an old yellow paper, and a velvet border, 
 manufactured no doubt by R^veillon, the holes and 
 the spots of which had been carefully concealed un- 
 der wafers. Engravings representing the battles of 
 Alexander, by Lebrun, in tarnished frames, decorated 
 the walls at equal distances. In the centre of the 
 room was a massive mahogany table, old-fashioned in 
 shape, and a good deal rubbed at the corners. A 
 small stove, with a straight pipe and no elbow, hardly 
 
268 The Furse. 
 
 seen, stood before the chimney, the fireplace in which 
 was turned into a closet. By way of an odd contrast, 
 the chairs, which were of carved mahogan3^, showed 
 the relics of past splendor, but the red leather of the 
 seats, the gilt nails, and the gimps showed as many 
 wounds as an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard. 
 This room served as a museum for a variety of things 
 that are only found in certain amphibious households, 
 unnameable articles, which belong both to luxury and 
 poverty. Among them Hippolyte noticed a spj^-glass, 
 handsomely ornamented, which hung above the little 
 greenish mirror on the mantel-shelf. To complete the 
 oddity of this furniture, a shabby sideboard stood be- 
 tween the chimney and the partition, made of common 
 pine painted in mahogan}^, which of all woods is least 
 successfully imitated. But the red and slippery floor, 
 the shabby bits of carpet before the chairs, and all the 
 furniture, shone with the careful rubbing which gives 
 its own lustre to old things, and brings out all the 
 clearer their dilapidations, their age, and their long 
 service. 
 
 The room gave out an indefinable odor resulting from 
 the exhalations of the capharnaiim mingled with the 
 atmosphere of the dining-room and that of the stair- 
 case, though the window was open and the breeze from 
 the street stirred the cambric curtains, which were 
 carefully arranged to hide the window-frame where 
 
The Purse. 269 
 
 preceding tenants had marked their presence by various 
 cai-vings, — a sort of domestic frescoing. 
 
 Adelaide quickly opened the door of the next room, 
 into which she ushered the painter with evident pleas- 
 ure. Hippolyte, who had seen the same signs of pov- 
 erty in his mother's home, noticed them now with that 
 singular keenness of impression which characterizes the 
 first acquisitions of our memory ; and he was able to un- 
 derstand, better perhaps than others could have done, 
 the details of such an existence. Recognizing the things 
 of his childhood, the honest young fellow felt neither 
 contempt for the hidden poverty before him, nor pride 
 in the luxury he had lately achieved for his mother. 
 
 "Well, monsieur, I hope yoxx are none the worse 
 for your fall?" said the mother, rising from an old- 
 fashioned sofa at the corner of the fireplace, and 
 offering him a chair. 
 
 **No, madame. I have come to thank you for the 
 good care you gave me ; and especially mademoiselle, 
 who heard me fall." 
 
 While making this speech, full of the adorable 
 stupidity which the first agitations of a true love 
 produce in the soul, Hippolyte looked at the young 
 girl. Adelaide lighted the lamp with the double cur- 
 rent of air, no doubt for the purpose of suppressing a 
 tallow candle placed in a large pewter candlestick that 
 was covered with drippings from an unusual flow of 
 
270 The Purse. 
 
 tallow. She bowed slightly, placed the candlestick on 
 the chimney-piece, and sat down near her mother, a 
 little behind the painter, so as to look at him at her 
 ease, while seemingly engaged in making the lamp 
 burn ; for the feeble flame of the double current, affected 
 by the dampness of the tarnished chimney, sputtered 
 and struggled with an ill-cut, black wick. Observing 
 the mirror above the mantel-shelf, Hippolyte promptly 
 looked into it to see and admire Adelaide. The little 
 scheme of the young girl served therefore only to 
 embarrass them both. 
 
 While talking with Madame Leseigneur, for Hippolyte 
 at first gave her that name, he examined the salon, but 
 discreetly and with propriety. The Egyptian figures of 
 the andirons (made of iron) could scarcely be seen on 
 the hearth full of ashes, where two small sticks of wood 
 were trying to meet each other in front of an Imitation 
 back-log of earthenware. An old Aubusson carpet, 
 well-mended and much faded and worn, hardly covered 
 the tiled floor, which felt cold to the feet. The walls 
 were hung with a reddish paper in the style of a bro- 
 cade with buff designs. In the centre of the partition 
 opposite to the windows the painter observed an inden- 
 tation and cracks in the paper, made by the two doors 
 of a folding-bed, where Madame Leseigneur doubtless 
 slept, and which was only partly concealed by a sofa 
 placed in front of it. Opposite to the chimney, and 
 
The Parse. 271 
 
 above a chest of drawers in mahogany, the style of 
 which was handsome and in good taste, was the portrait 
 of an officer of high rank, which the poor light hardly 
 enabled the painter to make out; but, from what he 
 could see of it the thought occurred to him that the 
 frightful daub must have been painted in China. The 
 red silk curtains to the windows were faded, like the 
 coverings of the furniture in this salon with two pur- 
 poses. On the marble top of the chest of drawers was 
 a valuable tray of malachite, holding a dozen coffee- 
 cups, exquisitely painted, and made no doubt at Sevres. 
 On the mantel-shelf was the inevitable Empire clock, a 
 warrior driving the four horses of a chariot, the twelve 
 spokes of the wheel each telling an hour. The wax 
 tapers in the candelabra were yellow with smoke, and 
 at each end of the shelf was a china vase filled with arti- 
 ficial flowers covered with dust and mixed with mosses. 
 Hippolyte noticed a card-table in the centre of the 
 room, laid out with new packs of cards. To an ob- 
 server there was something indescribably sad in this 
 scene of poverty decked out like an old woman who 
 tries to give the lie to her face. Most men of common 
 sense would have secretly and immediatel}^ formulated 
 to their own minds a problem : were these women 
 honor and uprightness itself; or did they live by cards 
 and scheming? But the sight of Adelaide was to a 
 young man as pure as Schinner the proof of perfect 
 
272 The Purse, 
 
 innocence, and it provided the incoherencles of the 
 room with honorable causes. 
 
 '* My dear," said the old lady to her daughter, " I 
 am cold ; make us a httle fire, and give me mj^ shawl." 
 
 Adelaide went into an adjoining room, where no doubt 
 she slept herself, and returned, bringing her mother a 
 cashmere shawl which when new must have been of 
 great value, but being old, faded, and full of darns, it 
 harmonized with the furniture of the room. Madame 
 Leseigneur wrapped it artistically about her with the 
 cleverness of an old woman who wishes to make you 
 believe in the truth of her words. The young girl 
 darted into the capharnaiim, and reappeared with a 
 handful of small wood which she threw into the fire. 
 
 It would be difficult to write down the conversation 
 which took place between these three persons. Guided 
 by the tact which deprivations and trials endured in 
 youth nearly always give a man, Hippolyte did not 
 venture on the slightest allusion to the position of his 
 neighbors, though he saw all around him the signs of 
 an ill-disguised indigence. The simplest question would 
 have been indiscreet, and permissible only in the case 
 of an old friend. And yet the painter was deepl}' 
 preoccupied b^^ this hidden poverty ; his generous heart 
 ached for it ; knowing, however, that all kinds of pit3', 
 even the most S3'mpathetic, maj^ be offensive, he grew 
 embarrassed by the confiict that existed between his 
 
The Purse. 273 
 
 thoughts and his words. The two ladies talked first 
 of painting ; for women readily understand the secret 
 embarrassments of a first visit; perhaps they feel 
 them, and the nature of their minds gives them the 
 art of overcoming them. By questioning the young 
 man on matters of his profession and his studies 
 Adelaide and her mother emboldened him to converse. 
 The little nothings of their courteous and lively conver- 
 sation soon led him naturally to remarks and reflections 
 which showed the nature of his habits and his mind. 
 
 Sorrows had prematurely withered the face of the old 
 lady, who must once have been handsome, though 
 nothing remained of her good looks but the strong 
 features and outlines, — in other words, the skeleton of 
 a face which still showed infinite delicacy and much 
 charm in the play of the eyes, which possessed a cer- 
 tain expression peculiar to the women of the old court, 
 and which no words can define. These delicate and 
 subtle points may, however, denote an evil nature ; 
 they may mean feminine guile and cunning raised to 
 their highest pitch as much as they may, on the other 
 hand, reveal the delicacy of a noble soul. In fact, the 
 face of a woman is embarrassing to all commonplace 
 observers, inasmuch as the difference between frankness 
 and duplicity, between the genius of intrigue and the 
 genius of the heart is, to such observers, imperceptible. 
 A man endowed with a penetrating insight can guess 
 
 18 
 
274 The Purse. 
 
 the meaning of those fleeting tones produced by a line 
 more or less curved, a dimple more or less deep, a 
 feature more or less rounded or prominent. The un- 
 derstanding of such diagnostics lies entirely within the 
 domain of Intuition, which alone can discover what 
 others are seeking to hide. The face of this old lady 
 was like the apartment she occupied ; it seemed as 
 difficult to know whether the penury of the latter cov- 
 ered vices or integrity as to decide whether Adelaide's 
 mother was an old coquette accustomed to weigh and 
 to calculate and to sell everything, or a loving woman 
 full of dignity and noble qualities. 
 
 But at Schinner's age the first impulse of the heart is 
 to believe in goodness. So, as he looked at Adelaide's 
 noble and half-disdainful brow, and into her eyes that 
 were full of soul and of thought, he breathed, so to 
 speak, the sweet and modest perfumes of virtue. In 
 the middle of the conversation he took occasion to say 
 something about portraits in general that he might have 
 an opportunity to examine the hideous pastel over the 
 chimney-piece, the colors of which had faded and in 
 some places crumbled off. 
 
 "No doubt that portrait is valuable to jiou, ladies, 
 on account of its resemblance," he said, lobking at 
 Adelaide, *'for the drawing is horrible." 
 
 ** It was done in China, in great haste," said the old 
 lady, with some emotion. 
 
The Purse, 275 
 
 She looked up at the miserable sketch with that sur- 
 render to feeling which the memory of happiness brings 
 when it falls upon the heart like a blessed dew, to 
 whose cool refreshment we delight to abandon our- 
 selves. But in that old face thus raised there were 
 also the traces of an eternal grief. At least, that was 
 how the painter chose to interpret the attitude and 
 face of his hostess, beside whom he now seated him- 
 self. 
 
 ** Madame," he said, " before long the colors of that 
 pastel will have faded out. The portrait will then ex- 
 ist only in your memory. You will see there a face 
 that is dear to 3'ou, but which no one else will be able 
 to recognize. Will you permit me to copy that picture 
 on canvas ? • It will be far more durable than what you 
 have there on paper. Grant me, as a neighbor, the 
 pleasure of doing you this service. There come times 
 when an artist is glad to rest from his more important 
 compositions by taking up some other work, and it will 
 really be a rehef to me to paint that head." 
 
 The old lady quivered as she heard these words, and 
 Adt^laide cast upon the artist a thoughtful glance which 
 seemed like a gush of the soul itself. Hippolyte wished 
 to attach himself to his two neighbors by some tie, and 
 to win the right to mingle his life with theirs. His 
 offer, addressing itself to the deepest affections of the 
 heart, was the only one it was possible for him to 
 
276 The Purse. 
 
 make ; it satisfied his artist's pride, and did not wound 
 that of the ladies. Madame Leseigneur accepted it 
 without either eagerness or reluctance, but with that 
 consciousness of generous souls, who know the extent 
 of the obligations such acts fasten on them, and wlio 
 accept them as proofs of respect, and as testimonials 
 to their honor. 
 
 "I think," said the painter, "that that is a naval 
 uniform ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, "that of a captain in the navy. 
 Monsieur de Rouville, m}' husband, died at Batavia, 
 in consequence of wounds received in a fight with an 
 English vessel which he met off the coast of Asia. 
 He commanded a frigate mounting fifty-six guns, but 
 the ' Revenge ' was a ninety-gun ship. The battle 
 was unequal, but my husband maintained it bravely 
 until night, under cover of which he was able to escape. 
 When I returned to France, Bonaparte was not 3'et in 
 power, and I was refused a pension. Lately, when I 
 applied for one again, the minister told me harshly that 
 if the Baron de Rouville had emigrated I should not 
 have lost him, and he would now in all probabilitj' be 
 a vice-admiral ; his Excellency finally refused my appli- 
 cation under some law of forfeiture. I made the at- 
 tempt, to which certain friends urged me, onl}^ for the 
 sake of mj^ poor Adelaide. I have always felt a repug- 
 nance to hold out my hand for money on the ground of 
 
The Purse. 277 
 
 a sorrow which deprives a woman of her voice and 
 her strength. I do not like these valuations of blood 
 irreparably shed." 
 
 '*Dear mother, it always harms you to talk on this 
 subject" 
 
 At these words the Baronne Leseigneur de Rouville 
 bowed her head and said no more. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the young girl to Hippolyte, ^* I 
 thought that the occupation of a painter was generally 
 a rather quiet one?" 
 
 At this question Schinner blushed, recollecting the 
 noise he had been making overhead. Adelaide did 
 not finish what she seemed about to say, and perhaps 
 saved him from telling some fib, for she suddenly rose 
 at the sound of a carriage driving up to the door. She 
 went into her room and returned with two gilt cande- 
 labra filled with wax tapers which she quickly lighted. 
 Then, without waiting for the bell to ring, she opened 
 the door of the first room and placed the lamp on the 
 table. The sound of a kiss given and received went to 
 the depths of Hippolyte's heart. The impatience of the 
 young man to see who it was that treated Adelaide so 
 familiarly was not very quickly relieved, for the new 
 arrivals held a murmured conversation with the girl, 
 which he thought verj^ long. 
 
 At last, however. Mademoiselle de Rouville reap- 
 peared, followed by two men whose dress, physiognomy, 
 
278 The Purse. 
 
 and general appearance were a history in themselves. 
 The first, who was about sixty 3^ears of age, wore one 
 of those coats invented, I believe, for Louis XVIII., 
 then reigning, in which the most difficult of all vestuar}' 
 problems was solved by the genius of a tailor who ought 
 to be immortalized. That artist knew, not a doubt of 
 it ! the art of transitions, which constituted the genius 
 of that period, politically so fickle. Surely, it was a rare 
 merit to know how to judge, as that tailor did, of his 
 epoch ! This coat, which the young men of the present 
 day may consider a myth, was neither civil nor mili- 
 tary, but might pass at a pinch for either military or 
 civil. Embroidered fleurs-de-lis adorned the flaps be- 
 hind. The gold buttons were also fleur-de-lised. On 
 the shoulders, two unused ejelet-holes awaited the use- 
 less epaulets. These military symptoms were there like 
 a petition without a backer. The buttonhole of the old 
 man who wore this coat (of the color called "king's 
 blue *') was adorned with numberless ribbons. He held, 
 and no doubt always did hold in his hand his three- 
 cornered hat with gold tassels, for the snowy wings of his 
 powdered hair showed no signs of the pressure of that 
 covering. He looked to be no more than fifty, and 
 seem to enjoy robust health. While there was in him 
 every sign of the frank and loyal nature of the old 
 emigres^ his appearance denoted also easy and liber- 
 tine habits, — the gay passions and the careless joviality 
 
The Purse, 279 
 
 of the mousquetairea, once so celebrated in the annals 
 of gallantry. His gestures, his bearing, his manners, 
 all proclaimed that he did not intend to change his 
 royalism, nor his religion, nor his mode of life. 
 
 A truly fantastic figure followed this ga}' '' voltigeur 
 of Louis XIV." (that was the nickname given by the 
 Bonapartists to these relics of the old monarchy) ; but 
 to paint it properly the individual himself ought to be 
 the principal figure in a picture in which he is only 
 an accessory. Imagine a thin and withered personage, 
 dressed like the first figure, and yet only the reflection 
 or the shadow of it. The coat was new on the back of 
 the one, and old and faded on that of the other. The 
 powder in the hair of the counterpart seemed less white, 
 the gold of the fleurs-de-lis less dazzling, the eyelets 
 more vacant, the mind weaker, the vital strength nearer 
 its termination, than in the other. In short, he realized 
 that saying of Rivarol about Champcenetz : '' He is 
 my moonlight." He was only the echo of the other, a 
 faint, dull echo ; between the two there was all the dif- 
 ference that there is between the first and last proof 
 of a lithograph. The chevalier — for he was a chevalier 
 — said nothing, and no one said anything to him. Was 
 he a friend, a poor relation, a man who stayed by the 
 old beau, as a female companion by an old woman? 
 Was he a mixture of dog, parrot, and friend ? Had he 
 saved the fortune, or merely the life of his benefactor? 
 
280 The Purse. 
 
 Was he the Trim of another Uncle Tobj^ ? Elsewhere, 
 as well as at Madame de Rouville's, he excited curiosity. 
 Who was there under the Restoration who could recol- 
 lect an attachment before the Revolution on the part of 
 the Chevalier to his friend's wife, now dead for over 
 twent}' years? 
 
 The personage who seemed to be the less ancient 
 of these two relics, advanced gallantly to the Baroune 
 de Rouville, kissed her hand, and seated himself beside 
 her. The other bowed and sat beside his chief, at a 
 distance represented by two chairs. Adelaide came up 
 and put her elbows on the back of the chair occupied 
 by the old gentleman, imitating unconsciously the atti- 
 tude which Guerin has given to Dido's sister in his 
 famous picture. Though the familiarity of the old gen- 
 tleman was that of a father, it seemed for a moment to 
 displease her. 
 
 " What ! do you mean to pout at me? " he said. 
 
 Then he cast one of those oblique glances full of 
 shrewdness and perception at Schinner, — a diplomatic 
 glance, the expression of which was prudent uneasi- 
 ness, the polite curiosity of well-bred people who seem 
 to ask on seeing a stranger, "Is he one of us? " 
 
 " This is our neighbor," said the old lady, motioning 
 to Hippolyte. ** Monsieur is the celebrated painter, 
 whose name you must know very well in spite of yoxxt 
 indifference to art." 
 
The Purse. 281 
 
 The gentleman smiled at his old friend's mischievous 
 omission of the name, and bowed to the young man. 
 
 ''Yes, indeed," he said, " I have heard a great deal 
 about his pictures in the Salon. Talent has many 
 privileges, monsieur," he added, glancing at the artist's 
 red ribbon. ''That distinction which we acquire at the 
 cost of our blood and long services, you obtain young ; 
 but all glories are sisters," he added, touching the cross 
 of Saint-Louis which he wore. 
 
 Hippolyte stammered a few words of thanks and re- 
 tired into silence, content to admire with growing en- 
 thusiasm the beautiful head of the young girl who 
 charmed him. Soon he forgot in this delightful con- 
 templation the evident poverty of her home. To him, 
 Adelaide's face detached itself from a luminous back- 
 ground. He answered briefly all questions which were 
 addressed to him, and which he fortunately heard, 
 thanks to that singular faculty of the soul which allows 
 thought to run double at times. Who does not know 
 what it is to continue plunged in a deep meditation, 
 pleasurable or sad, to listen to the inward voice, and 
 yet give attention to a conversation or a reading? 
 Wonderful dualism, which often helps us to endure bores 
 with patience ! Hope, fruitful and smiling, brought him 
 a thousand thoughts of happiness ; what need for him 
 to dwell on things about him ? A child full of trust, he 
 thought it shameful to analyze a pleasure. 
 
282 The Purse, 
 
 After a certain lapse of time he was aware that the 
 old lady and her daughter were playing cards with the 
 old gentleman. As to the satellite, he stood behind his 
 friend, wholh'^ occupied with the latter's game, answer- 
 ing the mute questions the pla\'er made to him by little 
 approving grimaces which repeated the interrogative 
 motions of the other's face. 
 
 " Du Halga, I always lose," said the gentleman. 
 
 '' You discard too carelessl}'," said the baroness. 
 
 *' It is three months since I have been able to win a 
 single game," said he. 
 
 " Monsieur le comte, have 3'ou aces?" asked the old 
 lady. 
 
 "Yes, mark one," he answered. 
 
 "Don't you want me to advise 3'OU?" said Adelaide. 
 
 " No, no ; stay there in front of me ! It would double 
 my losses if I could n't see your face." 
 
 At last the game ended. The old gentleman drew 
 out his purse and threw two louis on the table, not 
 without ill-humor. "Forty francs, as true as gold!" 
 said he ; " and, the deuce ! it is eleven o'clock." 
 
 " It is eleven o'clock," repeated the mute personage, 
 looking at the painter. 
 
 The young man, hearing those words rather more 
 distinctly than the others, thought it was time to with- 
 draw. Returning to the world of common ideas, he 
 uttered a few ordinar3^ phrases, bowed to the baroness, 
 
The Purse, 283 
 
 her daughter, and the two gentlemen, and went home, 
 a prey to the first joys of true love, without trying to 
 analyze the little events of this evening. 
 
 The next day the painter was possessed with the most 
 violent desire to see Adelaide again. If he had listened 
 to his passion he would have gone to his neighbors on 
 arriving at his studio at six o'clock in the morning. 
 But he still kept his senses suflSciently to wait till the 
 afternoon. As soon, however, as he thought he could 
 present himself he went down and rang their bell, not 
 without much palpitation of the heart, and then, blush- 
 ing like a girl, he timidly asked Mademoiselle Le- 
 seigneur, who had opened the door, for the portrait of 
 Monsieur de Rouville. 
 
 *' But come in," said Adelaide, who had no doubt 
 heard his step on the stairway. 
 
 The painter followed her, abashed and out of counte- 
 nance, not knowing what to say, — so stupid did his 
 happiness make him. To see Adelaide, to listen to 
 the rustle of her gown after longing all the morning to 
 be near her, after jumping up a dozen times and saying, 
 '* I will go ! " and yet not daring to do so, — this, to him, 
 was so rich and full a life that such emotions if too pro- 
 longed would have exhausted his soul. The heart has 
 the singular property of giving an extraordinary value 
 to nothings. We know the joy a traveller feels in 
 gathering the twig of a plant or a leaf unknown to him, 
 
284 The Purse. 
 
 when he has risked his life in the quest The nothings 
 of love are precious in the same way. 
 
 The old lady was not in the salon. When the young 
 girl found herself alone with the painter she brought a 
 chair and stood on it to take down the portrait ; but 
 perceiving that she could not unhook it without stepping 
 on the chest of drawers, she turned to Hippolyte and 
 said to him, blushing : — 
 
 " I am not tall enough. Will you take it down?" 
 
 A feeling of modesty, shown in the expression of her 
 face and the accent of her voice, was the real motive of 
 her request ; and the young man, so understanding it, 
 gave her one of those intelligent glances which are the 
 sweetest language of love. Seeing that the painter 
 had guessed her feeling, Adelaide lowered her eyes 
 with that impulse of pride which belongs only to virgins. 
 Not finding a word to say and feeling almost intimi- 
 dated, the painter took down the picture, examined it 
 gravely in the light from the window, and then went 
 away without saying anything more to Mademoiselle 
 Leseigneur than, "I will return it soon." 
 
 Each during that rapid moment felt one of those 
 mysterious, violent commotions the effects of which in 
 the soul can be compared only to those produced by a 
 stone when flung into a lake. The soft expansions 
 which then are born and succeed each other, indefinable, 
 multiplying, unending, agitate the heart as the rings in 
 
The Purse, 285 
 
 the water widen in the distance from the centre where 
 the stone fell. 
 
 Hippoh te returned to his studio, armed with the por- 
 trait. His easel was already prepared with a canvas, 
 the palette was set with its colors, the brushes cleaned, 
 the light aiTanged. Until his dinner-hour he worked 
 at the picture with that eagerness which artists put into 
 their caprices. In the evening he again went to Madame 
 de Rouville's and remained from nine to eleven. Except 
 for the different topics of conversation, this evening was 
 very like its predecessor. The old men arrived at the 
 same hour, the same game of piquet was played, the 
 same phrases were repeated, and the sum lost by 
 Adelaide's old friend was the same as that lost the 
 night before, — the only change being that Hippolyte, 
 grown a little bolder, ventured to talk to Adelaide. 
 
 Eight days passed in this way, during which the 
 feelings of the painter and those of the j'oung girl 
 underwent those delicious, slow transformations which 
 lead 3'oung souls to a perfect understanding. So, day 
 by day, Adc^laide's glance as she welcomed her friend 
 became more intimate, more trustful, ga3'er, and more 
 frank ; her voice, her manners grew more winning, more 
 familiar. They both laughed and talked and communi- 
 cated their ideas to each other, talking of themselves 
 with the naivete of two children, who in the course of 
 one day can make acquaintance as if they had lived 
 
286 The Furse. 
 
 together for three years. Schinner wished to learn 
 piquet. Totally ignorant of the game he naturally 
 made blunder after blunder ; and, like the old gentle- 
 man, he lost nearly every game. 
 
 Without having yet told their love, the two lovers 
 knew very well that they belonged to each other. 
 Hippolyte delighted in exercising his power over his 
 timid friend. Man}^ a concession was made to him by 
 Adelaide, who, tender and devoted as she was, was 
 easily the dupe of those pretended sulks which the 
 least intelligent of lovers, and the most artless of 
 maidens invent, and constantly employ, just as spoilt 
 children take advantage of the power their mother's 
 love has given them. For instance, all familiarity sud- 
 denly ceased between the old count and Adelaide. 
 The young girl understood the painter's gloom, and 
 the thoughts hidden beneath the folds of his brow, 
 from the harsh tone of the exclamations he made as 
 the old man unceremoniously kissed her hands or 
 throat. On the other hand. Mademoiselle Leseigneur 
 soon began to hold her lover to a strict account of 
 his slightest actions. She was so uneasy and so un- 
 happy if he did not come ; she knew so well how to 
 scold him for his absence, that the painter renounced 
 seeing his friends, and went no longer into society. 
 Adelaide showed a woman's jealousj^ on discovering 
 that sometimes, after leaving Madame de Rouville's 
 
The Pune, 287 
 
 at eleven o'clock, the painter made other visits and 
 appeared in several of the gayest salons of Paris. 
 That sort of life, she told him, was very bad for his 
 health, and she asserted, with the profound conviction 
 to which the tones, the gesture, the look of those we 
 love give such immense power, that " a man who was 
 obliged to give his time and the charms of his mind to 
 several women at once, could never be the possessor of 
 a really deep affection." 
 
 So the painter was soon led, as much bj- the despot- 
 ism of his passion as by the exactions of a young girl, 
 to live almost wholly in the little home where all things 
 pleased him. No love was ever purer or more ardent. 
 On either side the same faith, the same mind, the same 
 delicacy, made their passion grow apace without the 
 help of those sacrifices by which so many persons 
 seek to prove their love. Between these lovers there 
 existed so constant an interchange of tender feelings 
 that they never knew who gave or who received the 
 most. A natural, involuntary inclination made the 
 union of their souls close indeed. The progress of 
 this true feeling was so rapid that two months after 
 the accident through which the painter obtained the 
 happiness of knowing Ad(ilaide, their lives had be- 
 come one and the same life. From early morning the 
 young girl, hearing a step above her, said to herself, 
 "He is there!" When Hippolyte returned home to 
 
288 The Purse. 
 
 dine with his mother he never failed to stop on his 
 way to greet his friends ; and in the evening he rushed 
 to them, at the usual hour, with a lover's punctuality. 
 Thus the most tyrannical of loving women, and the 
 heart most ambitious of love could have found no 
 fault with the 3^oung painter. Adelaide did indeed 
 taste an unalloyed and boundless happiness in finding 
 realized to its fullest extent the ideal of which youth 
 dreams. 
 
 The old gentleman now came less often ; the jealous 
 Hippolyte took his place in the evening at the green 
 table, and was equally unlucky at cards. But in the 
 midst of his happiness, he thought of Madame de 
 Rouville's disastrous position , — for he had seen more 
 than one sign of her distress, — and little by little an 
 importunate thought forced its way into his mind. 
 Several times, as he returned home, he had said to 
 himself, "What! twenty francs every evening?" 
 The lover dared not admit a suspicion. He spent 
 two months on the portrait, and when it was finished, 
 varnished, and framed, he thought it one of his best 
 works. Madame de Rouville had never mentioned it 
 to him ; was it indifference or pride which kept her 
 silent? The painter could not explain it to himself. 
 He plotted gayly with Adelaide to hang the picture 
 in its right place when Madame de Rouville had gone 
 out for her usual walk in the Tuileries. 
 
The Purse, 289 
 
 The day came, and Adelaide went up, for the first 
 time alone, to Hippol3'te's studio, under pretence of 
 seeing the portrait favorably in the light in which it 
 was painted. She stood before it silent and motion- 
 less, in a delicious contemplation where all the feelings 
 of womanhood were blended into one, — and that one, 
 boundless admiration for the man she loved. When 
 the painter, uneasy at her silence, leaned forward to 
 look at her, she held out her hand to him unable to 
 say a word; but two tears dropped from her eyes. 
 Hippolyte took that hand and kissed it, and for a 
 moment they looked at each other in silence, both 
 wishing to avow their love, neither of them daring 
 to. As the painter held her hand within his own, 
 an equal warmth, an equal throb, told them that their 
 hearts were beating with the same pulse. Too deeply 
 moved, the young girl gently left her lover's side, sa}-- 
 ing, with a guileless look, *' You will make my mother 
 very happy." 
 
 ''Your mother — only?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, as for me, I am too happy," she replied. 
 
 The painter bent his head and was silent, frightened 
 at the violence of the feeling the tone of those words 
 awakened in his heart. Both understood the danger 
 of their position, and they went downstairs with the 
 portrait and put it in its place. That night Hippolyte 
 dined for the first time with the baroness, who kissed 
 
 19 
 
290 The Purse. 
 
 him with tearful gratitude. In the evening the old 
 emigre, a former comrade of the Baron de Rouville, 
 made a special visit to his two friends to announce his 
 appointment as a vice-admiral. His terrestrial navi- 
 gations across Germany and Russia had been credited 
 to him as naval campaigns. When he saw the portrait, 
 he shook the painter by the hand, exclaiming ; *' Faith ! 
 though my old carcass is not worth preserving, I*d 
 gladly give five hundred pistoles for anything as like me 
 as that is like my friend Rouville." 
 
 Hearing the proposal, the baroness looked at her friend 
 with a smile, and let the. signs of a sudden gratitude 
 appear on her face. Hippolyte fancied that the old 
 admiral intended to pay the price of the two portraits 
 in paying for his own ; he was offended, and said 
 stiffly, "Monsieur, if I were a portrait-painter I should 
 not have painted that one." 
 
 The admiral bit his lips and began to pla3'. The 
 painter sat by Adelaide, who proposed him six kings 
 which he accepted. While playing, he noticed in 
 Madame de Rouville a degree of eagerness for the 
 game which surprised him. The old lady had never 
 before manifested such anxiety to win, or looked with 
 such pleasure at the admiral's gold coins. During that 
 evening suspicions once more came up in Hippolyte*3 
 mind to trouble his happiness and give him a certain 
 sense of distrust. Did Miidame de Rouville live by, 
 
The Purse, 291 
 
 cards ? Was she playing at that moment to pay some 
 debt, or was she driven to it by some necessity ? Per- 
 haps her rent was due. That old man seemed too 
 worldly-wise to let her win his money for nothing. 
 What interest brought him to that poor house, — he, 
 a rich man? Why, though formerly so familiar with 
 Adelaide, had he lately renounced all familiarities, — 
 his right perhaps ? These involuntary thoughts prompted 
 Schinncr to examine the old man and the baroness, whose 
 glances of intelligence and the oblique looks they cast 
 on Adelaide and himself displeased him greatlj^ 
 
 *' Can it be that they deceive me?" 
 
 To Hippolyte the thought was horrible, withering; 
 and he believed it just so far as to let it torture him. 
 He resolved to remain after the departure of the two 
 old men, so as to confirm his suspicions or get rid of 
 them. He drew out his purse at the end of the game, 
 intending to pay Adelaide, but his mind was so filled 
 with these poignant thoughts that he laid it on the table 
 and fell into a revery which lasted several minutes. 
 Then, ashamed of his silence, he rose, answered some 
 commonplace inquiry of Madame de Rouville's, going 
 close up to her to scrutinize that aged face. He left 
 the salon a prey to dreadful uncertainties. After going 
 down a few stairs, he recollected his purse and went 
 back to get it. ''I left my purse, ' he said to Adelaide. 
 
 *' No," she answered, coloring. 
 
292 The Purse. 
 
 " I thought I left it there," he said, pointing to the 
 card-table. 
 
 Ashamed for both mother and daughter at not finding 
 it, he stood looking at them with a bewildered air which 
 made them both laugh ; then he turned pale, and felt in 
 his waistcoat pockets, stammering, ** I am mistaken, 
 I must have it somewhere." 
 
 At one end of the purse were fifteen louis, at the 
 other some small change. The robbery was so flagrant, 
 so impudently denied, that Hippolyte had no doubt as 
 to the character of his neighbors. He stood still on the 
 staircase, for he could hardly go down ; his legs trem- 
 bled, his head swam, he perspired, his teeth chattered 
 in a cold chill, and he was literally unable to walk in 
 the grasp of that cruel convulsion caused by the over- 
 throw of all his hopes. At that moment, a crowd of 
 apparently trifling circumstances came back into his 
 mind, all corroborating his dreadful suspicions ; taken 
 together with the certainty of this last act, they opened 
 his ej'es to the character and the life of the two women. 
 Had they waited till the portrait was done to steal his 
 purse? Thus combined with profit, the theft seemed 
 more odious than at first. The painter remembered, 
 with anguish, that for the last two or three evenings 
 Adelaide had examined, with what seemed girlish curi- 
 osity, the netting of the worn silk, probably to ascertain 
 the sum contained in the purse, — making jests that 
 
The Purse, 293 
 
 seemed innocent, but were no doubt intended to cover 
 the fact that she was watching for the time when the 
 purse should be well filled. 
 
 " The old admiral must have good reasons for not 
 marrying her, and the baroness intends that I — " 
 
 He stopped, and did not continue the thought, for it 
 was checked by one more just. 
 
 »* If," thought he, '* the baroness wished me to marry 
 her daughter they would not have robbed me." 
 
 Then, unable to renounce his illusions, or to abandon 
 a love so deeply rooted in his being, he tried to find 
 some explanation. *' My purse must have fallen on the 
 ground; perhaps it was under my chair; perhaps I 
 have it, I am so absent-minded ! " He felt in all his 
 pockets with rapid motions, — but no, that cursed purse 
 was not in them. His cruel memory recalled every 
 particular of the fatal facts ; he distinctly saw the purse 
 lying on the table. Unable to doubt the thefb, he now 
 excused Adelaide, saying to himself that no one ought 
 to judge the poor and unfortunate too hastily. No 
 doubt there was some secret in this apparently de- 
 grading action. He would not allow himself to believe 
 that that proud, noble face was a lie. Nevertheless, 
 that miserable apartment had now lost all those poesies 
 of love which once embellished it ; he saw it as it was, 
 dirty and faded ; it seemed the outward likeness of an 
 inward life without nobleness, unoccupied and vicious. 
 
294 The Purse. 
 
 Are not our feelings written, so to speak, on the things 
 about us? 
 
 The next morning he rose without having slept. 
 The anguish of the heart, that serious moral malady , 
 had made great strides into his being. To lose an 
 imagined happiness, to renounce an expected future, 
 is far more bitter suflfering than that caused by the 
 ruin of an experienced joy, however great that joy 
 may have been. Is not hope better than memory? 
 The meditations into which our souls suddenly fall 
 are then like a shoreless sea, on whose bosom we 
 may float for a moment, though nothing can Save 
 our love from sinking and perishing. It is a dreadful 
 death. Are not our feelings the most vivid and glori- 
 ous part of our lives? From such partial death as 
 this come those great ravages seen in certain organiza- 
 tions that are both delicate and strong, when assailed 
 bj^ disillusions or by the balking of hopes and passions. 
 Thus it was with the young painter. He went out 
 early in the morning and walked about in the cool 
 shade of the Tuileries, absorbed in thought, and taking 
 no notice of any one. There, by chance, one of his 
 young friends met him, a college and atelier comrade, 
 with whom he had lived as with a brother. 
 
 '* Why, Hippolj^te, what's the matter?" said Fran- 
 5ois Souchet, a 3'oung sculptor who had just obtained 
 the grand prix and was soon going to Itaty. 
 
The Purse. 296 
 
 ** I am verj' unhappj^" replied Hippol3'te, gravely. 
 
 ** Nothing but a love-affair can make 3011 so. Wealth, 
 fame, consideration, — you have everything else ! " 
 
 liittle by little, the confidences began, and finally 
 the painter acknowledged his love. When he spoke of 
 the rue de Suresnes, and of a j'oung girl living on the 
 fourth story, *'Halt!" cried Souchet, gayl}-, "that's 
 a little girl I go to see everj^ morning at the Assump- 
 tion ; I 'm courting her. Whj', my dear fellow, we all 
 know her. Her mother is a baroness. Do you believe 
 in baronesses who live on a fourth fioor? Brrr ! Well, 
 well ! you belong to the age of gold. The rest of us 
 meet that old mother every da}' in the Tuileries. That 
 face of hers, and the waj' she carries herself tells all. 
 Come now, did 3'ou never guess what she is, from the 
 way she carries her bag ? " 
 
 The two friends walked about for some time, and 
 several 3'oung men who knew Schinner and Souchet 
 joined them. The painter's love-affair was related by 
 the sculptor, who supposed it of little importance. 
 
 Many were the outcries, the laughs, the jests, inno- 
 cent enough, but full of the familiar gayety of artists, 
 and horribly painful to Hippolyte. A certain chastity 
 of soul made him suffer at the sight of his heart's secret 
 lightl}' tossed about, his passion torn to shreds, the 
 young girl, whose life had seemed to him so modest, 
 judged, truly or falsely, with such careless indifference. 
 
296 The Purse, 
 
 *'But, my dear fellow, have you never seen the 
 baroness's shawl ? " said Souchet. 
 
 "Don't you ever follow the little one when she 
 goes to the Assumption?** said Joseph Bridau, a 
 young art-student in Gros's atelier. 
 
 *'Ha! the mother has, among her other virtues, a 
 gray dress which I regard as a type," said Bixiou, the 
 caricaturist. 
 
 ** Listen, Hippolyte ; " said the sculptor, '' come here 
 at four o'clock, and analj-ze the demeanor of the mother 
 and daughter. If, after that, you have an}- doubts, I 
 give you up, — nothing can ever be made of you ; 
 you '11 be capable of marrying your porter's daughter." 
 
 The painter parted from his friends a victim to a 
 contradiction of feelings. Adelaide and her mother 
 seemed to him above such accusations, and at the 
 bottom of his heart he felt remorse for having ever 
 doubted the purity of that 3'oung girl, so beautiful 
 and so simple. He went to his studio, he passed the 
 door of the room where she was sitting, and he felt 
 within his soul the anguish that no man ever misun- 
 derstands. He loved Mademoiselle de Rouville so 
 passionately that, in spite of the robbery of his purse, 
 he adored her still. His love was like that of the 
 Chevalier des Grieux, adoring and purifying his mis- 
 tress in his thoughts as she sat in the cart on her way 
 to the prison for lost women. 
 
The Purse, 297 
 
 <* Why should not mj' love make her the purest of 
 beings? Shall I abandon her to sin and vice, and 
 stretch no friendly' hand to her ? " That mission pleased 
 him. Love makes profit out of all. Nothing attracts a 
 3'oung man so much as the thought of pla3-ing the part 
 of a good genius to a woman. There is something truly 
 chivalrous in such an enterprise which commends itself 
 to lofty souls. Is it not the deepest devotion under the 
 highest form, and the most gracious form? What 
 grandeur in knowing that we love enough to love still 
 where the love of others would be a dead thing ! 
 
 Hippolyte sat down in his studio, and contemplated 
 his picture without touching it. Night overtook him in 
 that attitude. Wakened from his revery by the dark- 
 ness, he went downstairs, met the old admiral on the 
 stairway, gave him a gloomy glance and a bow, and 
 fled away. He had meant to go to his neighbors, but 
 the sight of Adelaide's protector froze his heart and 
 overcame his resohition. He asked himself, for the 
 hundredth time, what interest it could be that brought 
 that old beau, a man worth eightj'-thousand francs a 
 year, to that fourth story where he lost forty francs a 
 night ; that interest, he fancied, alas, he knew. 
 
 The next day and the following days Hippolyte spent 
 on his work, trying to fight his passion by flinging him- 
 self into the rush of ideas and the fire of conception . 
 He succeeded only partially. Study comforted him, 
 
298 The Purse, 
 
 but it did not stifle the memory of those dear hours 
 passed with Adelaide. One evening, leaving his studio, 
 he found the door of the apartments of the two ladies 
 half-open. Some one was standing in the recess of the 
 window. The position of the door and the stairs was 
 such that Hippolj'te could not pass without seeing 
 Adelaide. He bowed coldl}', with a glance of indiffer- 
 ence ; then, judging of her sufferings by his own, an 
 inward tremor overcame him, thinking of the bitterness 
 his cold glance might have carried to a loving heart. 
 What ! end the sweetest joys that ever filled two sacred 
 hearts, with the scorn of an eight days* absence, with a 
 contempt too deep for words ? — horrible conclusion ! 
 Perhaps that purse was found ! he had never inquired ; 
 perhaps Adelaide had expected him, in vain, every 
 evening! This thought, so simple, so natural, filled 
 the lover with fresh remorse ; he asked himself if the 
 proofs of attachment the young girl had given him, if 
 those delightful conversations bearing the impress of 
 love and of a mind which charmed him did not deserve 
 at least an inquiry, — whether indeed the}- were not a 
 pledge of justification. Ashamed of having resisted 
 the longings of his heart for one whole week, thinking 
 himself almost criminal in the struggle, he went that 
 same evening to Madame de Rouville's. All his sus- 
 picions, all his thoughts of evil vanished at the sight of 
 the young girl, now pale and thin. 
 
The Purse. 299 
 
 ** Good God ! what is the matter? " he said to her, 
 after bowing to Madame de Rouville. 
 
 Adelaide made no answer, but she gave him a sad, 
 discouraged look which went to his heart. 
 
 ** You look as if you had been working too hard," 
 said the old lady. ** You are changed. I fear we have 
 been the cause of your seclusion. That portrait must 
 have delayed other work more important for your 
 reputation." 
 
 Hippolyte was only too happy to find so good an 
 excuse for his absence. ** Yes," he said, " I have becR 
 very busy — but I have suffered — " 
 
 At these words Adelaide raised her head ; her eyes 
 no longer reproached him. 
 
 ** You have, then, thought us indifferent to what 
 makes you happy or unhappy ? " said the old lady. 
 
 " I have done wrong," he said. '' And 3'et there are 
 sufferings which we can tell to no one, no matter who 
 it is, even to a heart that maj' have known us long." 
 
 ** The sincerity and the strength of friendship ought 
 not to be measured by time. I have seen old fnends 
 who could not shed a tear for each other's misfortune," 
 said the baroness, nodding her head. 
 
 '^ But tell me, what is the matter?" asked Hippolyte 
 of the poor girl. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," said the baroness; ** Adelaide in- 
 sisted on sitting up two or three nights to finish a piece 
 
300 TJlb Purse, 
 
 of work ; she would not listen to me when I told her 
 that a da3^ more or less could make no difference — " 
 
 Hippolyte was not listening. Seeing those two faces, 
 so calm, so noble, he blushed for his suspicions and 
 attributed the loss of the purse to some mysterious 
 accident. That evening was delightful to him, and 
 perhaps to her. There are secrets that young souls 
 understand so well. Adelaide divined her lover's 
 thoughts. Without intending to reveal his wrong- 
 doing, Hippolyte tacitlj' admitted it ; he returned to 
 his mistress more loving, more affectionate than ever, 
 as if to buy a silent pardon. Adelaide now tasted joys 
 so sweet, so perfect, that the pangs which had cruelly 
 bruised her spirit seemed but a slight penalty to pay 
 for them. And yet that absolute accord between their 
 hearts, that comprehension which was full of magic, 
 was clouded suddenly by a little speech of Madame de 
 Rouville's. "Let us get ready for our game," she 
 said. " My old Kergarouet insists upon it." 
 
 That speech roused all the poor painter's fears ; he 
 blushed as he looked at Adelaide's mother. Yet he 
 could see on that face no other expression than one of 
 a true kind-heartedness without insinceritj' ; no latent 
 thought destroyed its charm ; in its shrewdness there 
 was no perfidy ; the gentle satire it expressed seemed 
 tender, and no remorse marred its placidity. So he sat 
 down at the card-table. Adelaide shared his game, 
 
The Purse, 801 
 
 pretending that he did not know piquet and needed an 
 adviser. While they played, signs of an understand- 
 ing passed between the mother and daughter which 
 again made Hippolyte anxious, — all the more because, 
 for once, he was winning. At last, however, a lucky 
 throw put the lovers in Madame de Rouville's debt. 
 Hippolyte withdrew his hands from the table to search 
 for money in his pockets, and suddenly saw lying 
 before him a purse which Adelaide had slipped there 
 without his noticing her ; the poor child held his own 
 pui*se in her hand, and was hiding her confusion by 
 pretending to look for money to pay her mother. The 
 blood rushed so violently to Hippolyte's heart that he 
 almost lost consciousness. The new purse substituted 
 for the old one had the fifteen louis in it, and was 
 worked with gold beads. The rings, the tassels, all 
 proved the good taste of the maker, who had no doubt 
 spent her little savings on those ornaments of her pretty 
 work. It was impossible to sa}' with greater delicacy 
 that the painter's gift could be acknowledged only by a 
 pledge of tenderness. 
 
 When HipiK)lyte, overcome with happiness, turned 
 his eyes on Adelaide and her mother he saw them 
 trembling with pleasure, happy in the success of their 
 little fraud. He felt himself small, petty, contemptible ; 
 he longed to punish himself, to rend his heart. Tears 
 came into his eyes, and he sprang up with an irresistible 
 
302 The Purse, 
 
 impulse, took Adelaide in his arms, pressed her to his 
 heart, snatched a kiss, and cried, with the honest good- 
 faith of an artist, looking straight at the baroness : — 
 '•'• I ask you to give her to me for mj^ wife ! " 
 Adelaide's e3^es as she looked at him were half-angrj^ 
 and Madame de Rouville, somewhat astonished, was 
 seeking a replj- when the scene was interrupted hy a 
 ring at the bell. The vice-admiral appeared, followed 
 b}^ Madame Schinner. After guessing the cause of her 
 son's grief, which he had vainly tried to hide from 
 her, Hippolyte's mother had made inquiries among her 
 friends as to Adelaide. Alarmed by the calumnies 
 which assailed the young girl, unknown to the old ad- 
 miral, the Comte de Kergarou^t, she went to the latter 
 and told him what she had heard. In his fury he wanted, 
 he said, " to cut the ears of those rascals." Excited b}^ 
 his wrath he told Madame Schinner the secret of his 
 visits and his intentional losses at cards, that being the 
 only way in which the baroness's pride gave him a 
 chajice to succor the widow of his old friend. 
 
 When Madame Schinner had paid her respects to 
 Madame de Rouville, the latter looked at the Comte de 
 Kergarouet, the Chevalier du Halga (the former friend 
 of the late Comtesse de Kergarouet), then at Hippolyte 
 and Adelaide, and said, with the delightful manners of 
 the heart, " We seem, I think, to be a family party." 
 
LA GRENADlflRE. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 To THE POESY OP HIS JOURNET. 
 
 A Grateful Traveller. 
 
 La GrenadiAre is a little habitation on the right 
 bank of the Loire, sloping towards it and about a 
 mile from the bridge of Tours. Just here the river, 
 broad as a lake, is strewn with green islets, and mar- 
 gined by rocky shores, on which are numerous country-- 
 houses, all built of white stone and surrounded by 
 vine3'ards and gardens, in which the finest fruits in 
 the world ripen under a sunny exposure. Industri- 
 ously terraced b}* generation after generation, the hol- 
 lows of the rock reflect the rays of the sun, and the 
 artificial temperature thus produced allows the culti- 
 vation of the products of hot climates in the open 
 ground. 
 
 From one of the least sunken of these hollows which 
 cut into the hillside, rises the sharp steeple of Saint- 
 C3T, a little village to which the scattered houses nomi- 
 nally belong. A little be3'ond, the Choisille falls into 
 
304 La Grenadiere. 
 
 the Loire, through a rich valley which runs up among 
 the hills. La Grenadiere [The Pomegranate], standing 
 half-way up the rocky shore, about three hundred feet 
 from the church, is one of those venerable homesteads 
 some two or three hundred years old, which are seen 
 in every lovely situation in Touraine. A cleft in the 
 rock has facilitated the making of a stairway, which 
 descends by easy steps to the "lev^e," — the local name 
 given to the dike built at the base of the slope to keep 
 the Loire to its bed, and along which runs the mail 
 road from Paris to Nantes. 
 
 At the top of this flight of steps is a gate opening on 
 a narrow, stony road, cut between two terraces which 
 resemble fortifications, covered with vines and palings 
 to prevent the rolling down of the earth. This path- 
 way, starting from the foot of the upper terrace, and 
 nearly hidden by the trees that crown it, leads to the 
 house by a steep pitch, giving a view of the river which 
 enlarges at every step. This sunken path ends at a 
 second gate, gothic in character, arched, and bearing 
 a few simple ornaments, which is now in ruins and 
 overgrown with gilli-flowers, ivj^ mosses, and pellitor3^ 
 These ineradicable plants decorate the walls of all the 
 terraces, hanging from the clefts of the stone courses 
 and designating each season by a garland of its own 
 flowers. 
 
 Beyond this mouldy gate a little garden, wrested 
 
La Grenadicre, 305 
 
 from the rock b}^ another terrace, with an old and 
 blackened balustrade which overlooks the rest, pre- 
 sents a lawn adorned by a few trees, and a multitude 
 of roses and other flowering plants. Opposite to the 
 gate, at the other end of the terrace, is a wooden 
 pavilion resting against a neighboring wall, the posts 
 of which are hidden under jasmine, honeysuckle, vines, 
 and clematis. In the middle of the garden stands the 
 house, beyond a vaulted portico covered with vines, on 
 which is the gate of a huge cellar hollowed in the rock. 
 The house is suiTounded with vine-clad arbors, and 
 pomegranate-trees — whicli give their name to the place, 
 — are growing in the open ground. The fa9ade has 
 two large windows separated by a very countrified front- 
 door, and three attic windows, placed very high up 
 in the roof relatively to the low height of the ground 
 floor. This roof has two gables and is covered with 
 slate. The walls of the main building are painted 
 yellow, and the door, the shutters on the lower floor, 
 and the blinds on the roof are green. 
 
 When you enter the house, j'ou find a little hall-way 
 with a winding staircase, the grade of which changes 
 at every turn ; the wood is rotten, and the balusters, 
 turning like a screw, are discolored by long usage. 
 To the right of the door is a vast dining-room with 
 antique panelling, floored in white tiles, manufactured 
 at Chateau-Regnault ; on the left is the salon, a room 
 
 20 
 
306 La G-renadiere, 
 
 of the same size, but without panels, hung with a gold- 
 colored paper with green bordering. Neither of the 
 two rooms has a plastered ceiling. The joists are of 
 walnut, and the spaces are filled in with a natural 
 white clay mixed with hair. On the first floor are 
 two large chambers with white-washed walls ; the stone 
 chimney-pieces in these rooms are less richly carved 
 than those in the rooms below. All the windows face 
 south. To the north there is only a door opening be- 
 hind the staircase on a vineyard. 
 
 On the left of the house, a building with a wooden 
 front backs against the wall ; the wood being protected 
 from the sun and rain by slates which lie in long blue 
 lines, upright and transversal, upon the walls. The 
 kitchen, consigned as it were to this cottage, commu- 
 nicates with the house, but it has an entrance of its 
 own raised from the ground by a few steps, near to 
 which is a deep well covered with a rustic pump ; 
 its sides overgrown with water-plants and tall grass 
 and juniper. This recent construction proves that 
 La Grenadiere was originally a mere veyidangeoir^ 
 where the owners, living in the city (from which it is 
 separated only by the broad bed of the Loire), came 
 only to attend to their vintages, or to bring parties of 
 pleasure. On such occasions they sent provisions for 
 the day, and slept there at night only when the grapes 
 were being gathered. 
 
La Grenadiere, 307 
 
 But the English have fallen like a swarm of 
 grass-hoppers upon Touraine, and La Grenadiere was 
 furnished with a kitchen that the}^ might hire it. 
 Fortunately this modern appendage is concealed b}'' 
 the first lindens planted along a path running down 
 a ravine behind the orchard. The vineyard, of about 
 two acres, rises above the house, and overlooks it 
 on a slope so steep that it is very difficult to climb. 
 Between the back of the house and this hill, green 
 with trailing shoots, is a narrow space of not more 
 than five feet, always cold and damp, a sort of ditch 
 full of rampant vegetation, and filled in rainy weather 
 with the drainage from the vineyard, used to enrich 
 the. soil of the flower-beds of the terrace with the 
 balustrade. 
 
 The little house of the vine-dresser backs against the 
 left gable ; it has a thatched roof and makes a sort of 
 pendant to the kitchen. The whole property is enclosed 
 by walls and palings ; the orchard is planted with fruit- 
 trees of all kinds ; in short, not an inch of the precious 
 soil is lost to cultivation. If man neglects an arid 
 corner of this rock, Natire flings into it a fig-tree 
 perhaps, or wild-flowers, or a few strawberry- vines 
 sheltered among the stones. 
 
 Nowhere in the world can you find a home so modest, 
 yet so grand, so rich in products, in fragrance, and 
 in outlook. It is in the heart of Touraine, a little 
 
308 ^ La Grenadiere, 
 
 Touraine in itself, where all the flowers, all the fruits, 
 all the beauties of that region are fully represented. 
 There are the grapes of every clime, the figs, the 
 peaches, the pears of every species, melons growing 
 wild in the open ground, as well as liquorice, the yellow 
 broom of Spain, the oleanders of Italj^, the jasmine of 
 the Azores. The Loire flows at your feet. You look 
 down upon it from a terrace raised thirty fathom above 
 its capricious waters. You inhale its breezes coming 
 fresh from the sea and perfumed on their way by the 
 flowers along its shores. A wandering cloud, which 
 changes at every instant its color and its form as it 
 moves in space beneath the cloudless blue of heaven, 
 gives a thousand varied aspects to each detail of that 
 glorious scenery which meets the eye wherever turned. 
 From there, you may see the river shores from Amboise, 
 the fertile plain where rises Tours, its suburbs, its manu- 
 factories, and Le Plessis ; also a portion of the left bank, 
 from Vouvray to Saint-Sj^mphorien, describing a half- 
 circle of smiling vineyards. The view here is limited 
 only by the rich slopes of Cher, a blue horizon broken 
 by parks and villas. To the west the soul is lost in 
 contemplation of the broad sheet of waters which bears 
 upon its bosom, at all hours, vessels with white sails 
 filled with the winds which ever sweep its vast basin. 
 
 A prince might make La Grenadiere his villa; a 
 poet would make it his home ; lovers would count it 
 
La Grenadiere, 309 
 
 their sweetest refuge ; a worthy burgher of Tours might 
 live there, — the spot has poems for all imaginations, 
 for the humblest, for the coldest, as for the highest and 
 the most fervent; no one ever stayed there without 
 breathing an atmosphere of happiness, without compre- 
 hending a tranquil life devoid of ambition, relieved of 
 care. Revery is in the air, in the murmuring flow of 
 waters ; the sands speak, they are sad or ga}-, golden 
 or sullied ; all is in motion around the possessor of this 
 spot, motionless amid its ever-blooming flowers and its 
 toothsome fruits. An Englishman gives a thousand 
 francs merely to live six months in that humble dwel- 
 ling, and he binds himself to gather no products ; if he 
 wants the fruits, he pays a double rent; if the wine 
 tempts him, he doubles it again. What, then, is La 
 Grenadiere worth, with that flight of steps, the sunken 
 path, the triple terrace, the two acres of vineyard, those 
 balustrades, those roses, the portico, its pump, the 
 wealth of tangled clematis and the cosmopolitan trees? 
 Ofler no price. La Grenadiere cannot be bought. Sold 
 once in 1690 for forty thousand francs, and left with 
 bitter regret, as the Arab of the desert abandons a 
 favorite horse, it still remains in the same family, of 
 which it is the pride, the patrimonial jewel, the Regent 
 diamond. To see is not to have, saith the poet. From 
 these terraces you see three valleys of Touraine and the 
 cathedral suspended in ether like a delicate filagree. 
 
310 La Grenadiere. 
 
 Can you pa3^ for such treasures? Could 3'ou buy the 
 health you will recover beneath those lindens? 
 
 In the spring of one of the finest 3'ears of the Restora- 
 tion, a lady, accompanied by a maid and two children, 
 came to Tours in search of a house. She saw La 
 Grenadiere and hired it. Perhaps the distance that 
 separated it from the town decided her to take it. The 
 salon was her bed-chamber ; she put each child in one 
 of the rooms on the upper floor, and the maid slept in 
 a little chamber above the kitchen. The dining-room 
 became the living-room of the little family-. The lady 
 furnished the house very simply, but with taste ; there 
 was nothing useless and nothing that conveyed a sense 
 of luxury. The furniture was of walnut, without orna- 
 ment. The neatness, and the harmony of the interior 
 with the exterior made the charm of the house. 
 
 It was difficult to know whether Madame Williamson 
 (that was the name the lady gave) belonged to the rich 
 bourgeoisie, or to the upper nobility, or to certain 
 equivocal classes of the feminine species. Her sim- 
 plicity of life gave grounds for contradictory supposi- 
 tions, though her manners seemed to confirm the most 
 favorable. It was, therefore, not long after her arrival 
 at Saint-Cyr that her reserved conduct excited the 
 curiosity of idle persons, who had the provincial habit 
 of remarking upon everything that promised to enliven 
 the narrow sphere in which they lived. 
 
La Grenadiere, 311 
 
 Madame "Williamson was rather tall, slight and thin, 
 but delicately made. She had pretty feet, more re- 
 markable for the grace with which they were joined to 
 the ankles than for their narrowness, — a vulgar merit. 
 Her hands were handsome when gloved. A certain 
 redness, that seemed movable and rather dark in tone, 
 disfigured her white skin, which was naturally fair and 
 rosy. Premature wrinkles had aged a brow that was 
 fine in shape and crowned with beautiful auburn hair, 
 always braided in two strands and wound around the 
 head, — a maidenly fashion which became her melan- 
 choly face. Her black eyes, sunken in dark circles and 
 full of feverish ardor, assumed a calmness that seemed 
 deceptive ; for at times, if she forgot the expression she 
 imposed upon them, they revealed some secret anguish. 
 Her oval face was rather long, but perhaps In other 
 days happiness and health may have rounded its out- 
 lines. A deceptive smile, full of gentle sadness, was 
 ever on her pallid lips, but the eyes grew animated, and 
 the smile expressed the delights of maternal love when 
 the two children, by whom she was alwaj'^s accompanied, 
 looked at her and asked those idle and endless questions 
 which have their meaning to a mother's heart. 
 
 Her walk was slow and dignified. She wore but one 
 style of dress, with a constancy that showed a deliberate 
 intention to take no further interest in personal adorn- 
 ment, and to forget the world, by which, no doubt, she 
 
312 La Grenadiere, 
 
 wished to be forgot. Her gown was black and very 
 long, fastened round the waist with a watered ribbon, 
 and over it, in guise of a shawl, was a cambric kercliief 
 with a broad hem, the ends passed negligently through 
 her belt. Her shoes and her black silk stockings be- 
 trayed the elegance of her former life, and completed 
 the conventional mourning that she always wore. Her 
 bonnet, always of the same English shape, was gray in 
 color and covered with a black veil. 
 
 She seemed very weak and ill. The only walk she 
 took was from La Grenadiere to the bridge of Tours, 
 where, on a calm evening she would take the two 
 children to breathe the cool air from the river and 
 admire the effects of the setting sun upon a landscape 
 as vast as that of the Bay of Naples or the Lake of 
 Geneva. During the time she lived at La Grenadiere 
 she went but twice to Tours, — once to ask the principal 
 of the college to direct her to the best masters of 
 Latin, mathematics, and drawing; and next to arrange 
 with the persons thus designated the price of their in- 
 structions, and the hours at which her sons could take 
 their lessons. But it sufficed to show herself once or 
 twice a week on the bridge in the evening, to rouse the 
 interest of nearly all the inhabitants of the town, who 
 made it their habitual promenade. 
 
 And yet, in spite of the harmless spying which the 
 dreary leisure and uneasy curiosity of provincial towns 
 
La Grenadiere, 313 
 
 forces upon their leading societies, no real information 
 as to the unknown lad3', her rank, her fortune, or 
 even her present condition, was obtained. The owner 
 of La Grenadiere did, however, tell some of his friends 
 the name (and it was no doubt a true one) under which 
 she had taken the lease. She gave it as "Augusta Wil- 
 liamson, Countess of Brandon." The name was doubt- 
 less that of her husband. The later events of her 
 historj^ confirmed this statement ; but it was never 
 made public bej-ond the little world of merchants 
 frequented by the owner. 
 
 So Madame Williamson continued a m3'8tery to the 
 leading societ}* of Tours, and all that she allowed them 
 to discover was her simple manners, delightfully natu- 
 ral, her personal distinction, and the tones of an an- 
 gelic voice. The complete solitude in which she lived, 
 her melancholy, and her beauty so cruelly obscured 
 and even faded, charmed the minds of a few young 
 men, who fell in love with her. But the more sincere 
 they were, the less bold they became ; moreover, she 
 was so imposing that it was difficult to address her. 
 When one or two, more courageous than the rest, 
 wrote to her, Madame Williamson put their letters 
 unopened into the fire. She seemed to have come to 
 this enchanting retreat to abandon herself wholly to 
 the pleasure of living there. The three masters who 
 were admitted to La Grenadiere spoke with respectful 
 
314 La Grenadiers, 
 
 admiration of the close and cloudless union which 
 bound the children and the mother in one. 
 
 The children also excited a great deal of interest, 
 and no mother ever looked at them without envy. 
 Both resembled Madame WilliamsoUj who was really 
 their mother. Each had a bright, transparent com- 
 plexion and high color, clear, limpid eyes, long eye- 
 lashes, and the purity of outline which gives such 
 brilliancy to the beauties of childhood. The eldest, 
 named Louis-Gaston, had black hair, and a brave, 
 intrepid eye. Everything about him denoted robust 
 health, just as his broad, high forehead, intelligently 
 rounded, foretold an energetic manhood. He was brisk 
 and agile in his movements, a strapping lad, with 
 nothing assuming about him, not easily surprised, and 
 seeming to reflect on all he saw. His brother, named 
 Marie-Gaston, was very fair, though a few locks of 
 his hair were beginning to show the auburn color 
 of his mother's. He had also the slender figure, the 
 delicate features, and the winning grace so attractive 
 in Madame Williamson. He seemed sicklj-, his gray 
 eyes had a gentle look, his cheeks were pale ; there 
 was a good deal of the woman about hira. His mother 
 still kept him to embroidered collars, long curls, and 
 those pretty jackets with frogged fastenings which 
 are worn with so pleasing an effect, and which betray 
 a feminine love of dress. 
 
La Grenadiere. 315 
 
 This dainty attire contrasted with the plain jacket 
 of the elder brother, over which the plain linen collar 
 of his shirt was turned. The trousers, boots, and 
 color of the clothes were the same in the two brothers, 
 and proclaimed their relationship as much as did their 
 physical likeness. Seeing them together, it was im- 
 possible not to be struck with the care which Louis 
 took of Marie. The look he gave him was paternal ; 
 and Marie, in spite of his childlike heedlessness, 
 seemed full of gratitude to his brother. These two 
 little flowers, scarcely apart on the same twig, were 
 shaken by the same breezes and warmed by the same 
 sun-ray; but while one was vigorous and rosy, the 
 other was half-etiolated. A word, a look, an inflection 
 of the voice suflSced to catch their attention, to make 
 them turn their heads and listen, hear an order, a 
 request, a suggestion, and obey. Madame Williamson 
 made them understand her wishes and her will as though 
 there were but one thought among them. 
 
 When they were running or playing before her in 
 their walks, gathering a flower, examining an insect, 
 her eyes rested upon them with such deep and tender 
 emotion that the most indifferent observers were 
 touched ; sometimes they even stopped to watch the 
 smiling children, and saluted the mother with a 
 friendly glance. Who, indeed, would not have ad- 
 mired the exquisite nicety of their garments, the 
 
316 La Grenadiere, 
 
 pretty tones of their voices, the grace of their move- 
 ments, their happy faces, and that instinctive nobility 
 which told of careful training from their cradles? 
 Those children seemed never to have wept or screamed. 
 The mother had an almost electric sense of their wishes 
 and their pains, and she calmed them or forestalled 
 them ceaselessl}'. She seemed to dread a plaint from 
 her children more than eternal condemnation for her« 
 self. All things in and about them were to her honor ; 
 and the picture of their triple life, seeming one and 
 the same life, gave birth to vague, alluring visions of 
 the joys we dream of tasting in a better world. 
 
 The domestic life of these harmonious beings was in 
 keeping with the ideas their outward appearance con- 
 veyed ; it was orderly, regular, and simple, as became 
 a home where children were educated. The two boys 
 rose early, by daybreak, and said a short prayer, taught 
 them in infancy, — true words said for seven years on 
 their mother's bed, begun and ended by two kisses. 
 Then the brothers, trained to that minute care of the 
 person so essential to health of body and purity of 
 soul, dressed themselves as carefully as a pretty woman 
 might have done. They neglected nothing, so fearful 
 were they of a word of blame, however tenderly their 
 mother might utter it, — as, for instance, when she said 
 at breakfast one morning, " My dear angels, how did 
 you get your nails so black already?" 
 
La Grenadiere. 317 
 
 After dressing, the pair would go down into the 
 garden and shake off the heaviness of the night in its 
 dewy ft-eshness, while waiting for the servant to pnt in 
 order the dining-room, where thej" studied their lessons 
 till their mother woke. But from time to time the}- 
 peeped and listened to find out if she were awake, 
 though forbidden to enter the room before a given 
 hour ; and this daily irruption, made in defiance of a 
 compact, was a delightful moment both to them and to 
 their mother. Marie would jump upon the bed and 
 throw his arms about his idol, while Louis, kneeling 
 beside the pillow, held her hand. Then followed tender 
 inquiries like those of a lover, angelic laughter, caresses 
 that were passionate and pure, eloquent silence, words 
 half- uttered, childish stories interrupted by kisses, begun 
 again, always listened to, seldom finished. 
 
 *' Hav^e you studied your lessons?" the mother would 
 Bay, in a gentle voice, ready to pity idleness as a mis- 
 fortune, but readier still with a tearful glance for the 
 one who could say he had done bis best. She knew 
 those children desired onlj' to satisfj^ her ; the}^ knew 
 she lived only for them, — that she led them by the 
 wisdom of love and gave them all her thoughts and all 
 her time. A marvellous instinct, which is neither rea- 
 son nor egotism, which we may perhaps call sentiment 
 in its first sincerity, teaches children whether they are 
 or are not, the object of exclusive care, and whether 
 
318 La Grenadiere. 
 
 others find happiness in caring for them. Do 3'oa 
 truly love them ? then the dear creatures, all frankness 
 and all justice, are delightfuUj- grateful. They love 
 passionately and jealously ; they possess the sweetest 
 delicacy, they can find the tenderest words ; they confide 
 to you, they trust to you in all things. Perhaps there 
 are no bad children without bad mothers, for the 
 afl'ection children feel is always in reply to that they 
 receive, to the first caress given to them, to the first 
 words the}^ have heard, to the first looks from which 
 they have sought for love and life. At that period all 
 to them is attraction or repulsion. God has put children 
 in the womb of the mother to teach her that she must 
 bear them long. 
 
 And yet we find some mothers cruelly misunderstood 
 by their children ; we see sublime maternal tenderness 
 constantlj^ wounded b}^ horrible ingratitude and neg- 
 lect, — showing how diflScult it is to lay down absolute 
 principles in matters of feeling. 
 
 In the heart of this mother and in those of her sons 
 no one of the thousand ties which could attach them to 
 one another was missing. Alone on earth they lived a 
 united life and understood each other. When Madame 
 Williamson was silent the boys said nothing, respectful 
 even to the thoughts they could not share. But the 
 elder, gifted with a mind that was already strong, was 
 never satisfied with his mother's assurances that her 
 
La Grenadiere, 319 
 
 health was good; he studied her face with silent un- 
 easiness, unaware of danger, yet foreboding it when he 
 noticed the purple tints round the sunken eyes and 
 saw that the hollows deepened and the red patches on 
 the face grew more inflamed. Full of true perception, 
 when he thought that his brother's games were begin- 
 ning to tire her he would say, ** Come, Marie, let's go 
 and breakfast ; I 'm hungry." 
 
 But when he reached the door he would turn back to 
 catch the expression on his mother's face, which always 
 wore a smile for him, though sometimes tears would start 
 from her eyes as a gesture of her boy revealed his exqui- 
 site feeling, his precocious comprehension of her sorrow. 
 
 The mother was always present at the lessons which 
 took place from ten to three o'clock, interrupted at 
 midday by the second breakfast, generally taken in the 
 garden pavilion. After this meal came a pla3^-hour, 
 when the happy mother, the unhappy woman, lay on a 
 sofa in the pavilion, whence she could see that sweet 
 Touraine, incessantly changing, ceaselessly rejuvenated 
 by the varying accidents of light and sky and season. 
 
 The boys ran about the place, climbing the terraces, 
 chasing the lizards, themselves as agile ; thej- watched 
 the seeds, and studied the insects and the flowers, run- 
 ning constantl}' to their mother with questions. Children 
 need no pla3'things in the country ; the things about 
 them are amusement and occupation enough. 
 
320 Jja Grenadiire. 
 
 During the lessons Madame Williamson sat in the 
 room with her work ; she was silent and never looked 
 at either masters or pupils, but she listened attentively 
 to catch the meaning of the words and know if Louis 
 were understanding them, and whether his mind were 
 acquiring force. If he interrupted his master with a 
 question, that was surely a sign of progress ; then the 
 mother's eyes would brighten, she smiled, and gave the 
 bo3^ a look full of hope. She exacted very little of 
 Marie ; all her anxiety was for the elder, to whom she 
 showed a sort of respect, employing her womanly and 
 motherly tact to lift his soul and give him a high sense 
 of what he should become. Behind this course was a 
 hidden purpose which the child was one day to compre- 
 hend — and he did comprehend it. After each lesson 
 she inquired carefully of the masters what they thought 
 of Louis's progress. She was so kindly and so winning 
 that the teachers told her the truth and showed her how- 
 to make Louis work in directions where they thought 
 him wanting. 
 
 Such was their hfe, uniform but full, — a life where 
 work and plaj^, cheerfully mingled, left no opening for 
 ennui. Discouragement or anger was impossible, the 
 mother's boundless love made all things easy. She 
 had taught her sons discretion b3^ refusing nothing to 
 them ; courage, by awarding them just praise ; resig- 
 nation, b}^ showing them its necessity under all cir- 
 
La Grenadiire, 821 
 
 cnmstances. She developed and strengthened the 
 angelic nature within them with the care of a guard- 
 ian angel. Sometimes a few tears would moisten her 
 ejes, when, watching them at play, the thought came 
 that the}^ had never caused her a moment's grief. 
 She spent delightful hours lying on her rural couch, 
 enjoying the fine weather, the broad sheet of water, 
 the picturesque country, the voices of her children, 
 their merry laughs rippling into fresh laughter, and 
 their little disputes, which only evidenced their union, 
 and Louis's fatherly care of Marie, and the love of both 
 for her. 
 
 They all spoke French and English equally well, and 
 the mother used both languages in conversing with her 
 boys. She ruled them by kindness, — hiding nothing, 
 but explaining all. She allowed no false idea to gain 
 a lodgment in their minds, and no mistaken principle 
 to enter their hearts. When Louis wished to read she 
 gave him books that were interesting and yet sound, 
 true to the facts of life, — lives of famous sailors, bio- 
 graphies of great men, illustrious captains ; finding in 
 such books the occasions to explain to him the world 
 and life, to show him the means by which obscure 
 persons who had greatness within their souls, coming 
 from the lower walks of life and without friends, had 
 succeeded in rising to noble destinies. 
 
 Such lessons she gave him in the evening, when 
 21 
 
322 La Grenadiere. 
 
 Marie, tired with his play, was sleeping on her knees 
 in the cool silence of a beauteous night, when the 
 Loire reflected the heavens. But they increased her 
 secret sadness, and ended often in leaving her ex- 
 hausted, thoughtful, and with her eyes full of tears. 
 
 "Mother, why do you crj'?" asked Louis, one rich 
 June evening, just as the half- tints of a softly-lighted 
 night were succeeding a warm day. 
 
 "My son," she answered, winding her arm around 
 the neck of the bo}^ whose concealed emotion touched 
 her deepty, " because the hard lot of Jameray Duval, 
 who reached distinction without help, is the fate I have 
 brought on you and your brother. Soon, my dear child, 
 you will be alone in the world, with no one to lean 
 on, no protector. I am forced to leave j^ou, still mere 
 children ; and yet I think that you, my Louis, know 
 enough, and are strong enough to be a guide to Marie. 
 I love you too well not to suffer from such thoughts. 
 God grant you may not some day curse me." 
 
 " Why should I curse you, mother?" 
 
 ** Some day, my child," she answered, kissing his 
 brow, "you will realize that I have done you wrong. 
 I abandon you, here, without means, without fortune, 
 without " — she hesitated — * ' without a father," she 
 added. 
 
 Tears choked her voice ; she gently pushed her son 
 away from her, and he, understanding by a sort of 
 
La Qrenadiere, 323 
 
 intuition that she wished to be alone, carried the 
 sleeping Marie away with him. An hour later, when 
 his brother was in bed, Louis returned with cautious 
 steps to the pavilion where his mother was still lying. 
 He heard her call, in a voice that sounded sweetly on 
 his ear, — 
 
 '* Louis, come ! " 
 
 The boy flung himself into his mother's arms, and 
 they kissed each other almost convulsively. 
 
 *' Dearest," he said, for he often gave her that name, 
 finding even that too feeble to express his tenderness, 
 ** dearest, why do you fear that yon will die? " 
 
 '' I am very ill, my poor loved angel," she said. ** I 
 grow weaker daily; my disease is incurable, and I 
 know it." 
 
 " What disease is it?" 
 
 " I must forget ; and you, you must never know the 
 cause of my death." 
 
 The child was silent for a moment, glancing furtively 
 at his mother whose e3'es were raised to heaven, watch- 
 ing the clouds. Moment of tender melancholy ! Louis 
 did not believe in his mother's approaching death, but 
 he felt her griefs without understanding them. He 
 respected her long revery. Were he less a child he 
 might have read upon that sacred face thoughts of 
 repentance mingled with happ}' memories, — the whole 
 of a woman's life ; a careless girlhood, a cold marriage, 
 
824 La Grenadiere. 
 
 a terrible passion, flowers born of a tempest, hurled by 
 the lightning to the depths of that abyss from which 
 there is no return. 
 
 " My precious mother," said Louis at last, " why do 
 you hide your sufferings from me ? " 
 
 *'My son," she answered, "we should always hide 
 our troubles from the eyes of strangers, and show to 
 them a smiling face ; we should never speak to others 
 of ourselves, but think only of them. Those things, if 
 we practise them in our homes, will make others happy. 
 Some day you, too, will suffer deepl}^ Then remember 
 your poor mother, who died before your ej^es hiding 
 her griefs, and smiling for you ; it will give you courage 
 to bear the woes of life." 
 
 Smothering her feelings, she tried to show her boy 
 the mechanism of existence, the just value, the ground- 
 work, and the stability of wealth ; the power of social 
 relations ; the honorable means of amassing money for 
 the wants of life ; and the necessity of education. Then 
 she revealed to him one cause of her sadness and her 
 tears, and told him that on the morrow of her death he 
 and Marie would be destitute, possessing only a trifling 
 sum of money, and with no other protector than God. 
 
 " What haste I must make to learn ! " cried the boy, 
 glancing at his mother, with a deep, yet plaintive look. 
 
 ''Ah, I am happy ! " she exclaimed, covering her 
 Bon with tears and kisses. ''He has understood me! 
 
La Grenadiere. 325 
 
 Louis," she added, ''3'ou will be your brother's guard- 
 ian, will you not? you promise me? You are no longer 
 a child/' 
 
 "Yes," he answered, *'I promise; but you will not 
 die yet? Say 3'ou will not ! " 
 
 "Poor children!" she said, "my love for 3'ou de- 
 tains me ; and this country is so beautiful, the air is so 
 reviving, perhaps — " 
 
 "I shall love Touraine more than ever now," said 
 the lad, with emotion. 
 
 From that day Madame Williamson, foreseeing her 
 end, talked to her eldest son of his future lot. Louis, 
 who had now completed his fourteenth year, became 
 more thoughtful, applied himself better, and cared less 
 for play. Whether it were that he persuaded Marie to 
 read, instead of caring only for games of pla}', it is certain 
 that the two boys made much less noise in the sunken 
 paths and in the terraces and gardens of La Grenadiere. 
 They conformed their life to the sad condition of their 
 mother, whose face grew paler day by day, with yellow 
 tints, the lines deepening night after night. 
 
 In the month of August, six months after the arrival 
 of the little family, all was changed at La Grenadiere. 
 The pretty house, once so gay, so lively, had grown 
 sad and silent, and its occupants seldom left the prem- 
 ises. Madame Williamson had scarcely strength to 
 walk to the bridge. Louis, whose imagination had 
 
326 La Grenadiere. 
 
 suddenly deve/oped, and who had now identified himself, 
 as it were, with his mother, guessing her weariness, 
 invented pretexts to avoid a walk which he felt was too 
 long for her. Happy couples passing along the road to 
 Saint-CjT and the groups of pedestrians below upon the 
 levee saw, in the warm evenings, the pale, emaciated 
 woman in deep mourning, near her end yet still brilliant, 
 pacing like a phantom along the terraces. Great suffer- 
 ings are divined. Even the cottage of the vine- dresser 
 became silent. Sometimes the peasant and his wife 
 and children were grouped about their door, Fanny, the 
 old English servant, would be washing near the well, 
 Madame Williamson and her boys sitting in the pavilion, 
 and yet no sound was heard in the once gay gardens, 
 and all eyes turned, when the dying woman did not see 
 them, to contemplate her. She was so good, so thought- 
 ful for others, so worthy of respect from all who ap- 
 proached her! 
 
 Since the beginning of the autumn, which is always 
 fine and brilliant in Toui'aine, and which, with its bene- 
 ficent influences, its fruits, its grapes, did somewhat 
 prolong the mother's life beyond the natural term of 
 her hidden malady, she had thought of nothing but her 
 children, and rejoiced over every hour she had them 
 with her as though it were her last. 
 
 From the month of June to the month of September 
 Louis studied at night without his mother's knowledge 
 
La Grrenadiere, 327 
 
 and made enormous progress ; he was already in the 
 equations of the second degree in algebra, had learned 
 descriptive geometry, and drew admirably well. He 
 was, in fact, prepared to pass an entrance examination 
 to the ^ficole Poly technique. Occasionally in the even- 
 ings he went to walk on the bridge of Tours, where he 
 had met a lieutenant of the navy on half-pay ; the 
 manly face, the decorated breast, the hearty bearing of 
 this sailor of the Empire, affected his imagination. The 
 lieutenant, on the other hand, took a fancy to the lad 
 whose eyes sparkled with energy. Louis, eager for 
 military tales and liking to ask questions, walked about 
 with the old salt and listened to him. The lieutenant 
 had a friend and companion in an infantry colonel; 
 young Gaston could therefore hear of the two lives, 
 military and naval, life in camp and life on seaboard, 
 and he questioned the two officers incessantly. 
 
 After a time, entering into their hard lot and their 
 rough experience, he suddenly asked his mother for 
 permission to roam about the canton to amuse himself. 
 As the astonished masters had told Madame Williamson 
 that her son was studying too hard, she acceded to his 
 request with extreme pleasure. The boy took immense 
 walks. Wishing to harden himself to fatigue he climbed 
 the highest trees with agility, he learned to swim, and 
 he sat up working at night. He was no longer the 
 same child ; he was a young man, on whose face the sun 
 
&28 La Grenadiire, 
 
 had cast its brown tones, bringing out the lines of an 
 already deep purpose. 
 
 The month of October came, and Madame Williamson 
 could rise only at midday, when the sun-raj's, reflected 
 from the Loire and concentrated on the terraces, pro- 
 duced the same equable warmth at La Grenadiere that 
 prevails on warm, moist days around the Bay of Naples, 
 «^ a circumstance which leads physicians to recommend 
 Touraine. On such days she would sit beneath an 
 evergreen, and her sons no longer left her. Studies 
 ceased, the masters were dismissed. Children and 
 mother wished to live in one another's hearts, without a 
 care, without distractions from the outside. No tears 
 were shed, no happy laughter heard. The elder, lying 
 on the grass beside his mother, was like a lover at her 
 feet, which he sometimes kissed. Marie, restless and 
 uneasy, gathered flowers, which he brought to her with 
 a sad air, rising on tiptoe to take from her lips the kiss 
 of a young girl. That pallid woman with the large 
 black eyes, lying exhausted, slow in all her motions, 
 making no plaint, smiling at her two children so full of 
 health, so living, was indeed a touching spectacle amid 
 the melancholy glories of autumn, with its yellowing 
 leaves, its half-bared trees, the softened light of the sun 
 and the white clouds of a Touraine sky. 
 
 The day came when Madame Williamson was ordered 
 by the doctor not to leave her room. Daily it was 
 
• urpm-Desrottssea 
 
 Copyrigit 1896 bjr 
 
La Grenadiire, 829 
 
 adorned with the flowers she loved best, and her chil- 
 dren stayed there. Earlj^ in November she opened her 
 piano for the last time. A Swiss landscape hung above 
 it. Beside the window the brothers, with their arms 
 around each other, showed her their mingled heads. 
 Her eyes moved constantly from her children to the 
 landscape, from the landscape to her children. Her 
 face colored, her fingers ran with passion along the 
 ivory notes. It was her last fete, a fete hidden from 
 others, a fete celebrated in the depths of her soul by 
 the genius of memory. 
 
 The doctor came and bade her keep her bed. The 
 sentence was received bj^ her and by her sons in a 
 silence that was almost stupid. 
 
 When the physician went away she said: ''Louis, 
 take me on the terrace that I may see the country once 
 more." 
 
 At these words, simpty said, the lad gave her his arm 
 and took her to the centre of the terrace. There her 
 eyes sought, involuntarily perhaps, the heavens rather 
 than the earth ; it would have been difficult at that 
 moment to say where was the finer landscape, for the 
 clouds represented vaguely the majestic glaciers of the 
 Alps. Her brow contracted violently, her eyes took 
 an expression of remorse and sorrow, she caught the 
 hands of her children and pressed them to her beating 
 heart. 
 
830 La Crrenadiere, 
 
 *' Father and mother unknown ! " she cried, casting 
 an agonized look upon them. *'Poor children! what 
 will become of you? And when you are men, what 
 stern account will you not demand of me for my life 
 and yours?" 
 
 She pushed her children from her, placed both elbows 
 on the balustrade, hid her face in her hands, and re- 
 mained for a few moments alone with her soul, fearing 
 to be seen. When she roused herself from her grief 
 she saw Louis and Marie kneeling beside her Hke two 
 angels ; they watched her looks and both smiled at 
 her. 
 
 *' Could I but take those smiles with me ! " she said, 
 drying her e3'es. 
 
 She returned to the house and went to her bed, to 
 leave it no more until they placed her in her coffin. 
 
 Eight days went by, each day like the rest. The old 
 waiting-woman and Louis took turns to watch that bed 
 at night, their eyes fixed on the patient. It was the 
 same drama, profoundly tragic, which is played at all 
 hours and in all families where they dread that every 
 breath may be the last of some adored member. On 
 the fifth day of this fatal week the doctor proscribed 
 flowers. One by one the illusions of life were taken 
 from her. 
 
 After that day Louis and Marie found fire beneath 
 their lips when they kissed their mother's brow. At 
 
La Grenadiire, 331 
 
 last, on the Saturday night, she could bear no noise, and 
 her room was left in disorder. That necessary neglect 
 marked the beginning of the death of this woman, once 
 so fastidious, so enamoured of elegance. Louis no 
 longer left her even for a moment. 
 
 During the night of Sunday, in the midst of deepest 
 silence, Louis, who thought her dozing, saw by the 
 light of the lamp a white, moist hand put back the 
 curtain. 
 
 **My son," she said. 
 
 The tones of the dying woman were so solemn that 
 their power, proceeding from her troubled soul, reacted 
 violently on her child ; he felt a burning heat in the 
 marrow of his bones. 
 
 ''What is it, mother?" 
 
 *' Listen to me. To-morrow all will be over. We 
 shall see each other no more. To-morrow 3'ou will be 
 a man, my child. I am obliged to make certain ar- 
 rangements which must remain a secret between you 
 and me. Take the key of my little table. You have it? 
 Open the drawer. You will find on the left two sealed 
 papers. On one is marked Louis, on the other, Marie." 
 
 " I have them, mother." 
 
 " My darling son, they are the legal records of your 
 birth, of great importance to you. Give them to my 
 poor old Fanny, who will take care of them for 3'ou, and 
 return them to you when needed. Now," she continued, 
 
832 La Grenadiire, 
 
 *' look again in the same place and see if there is not 
 another paper on which I have written a few lines?" 
 
 *'Yes, mother." 
 
 And Louis began to read : " Marie Augusta William- 
 son, born at — " 
 
 " That will do," she said quickly, " Don't go on. My 
 son, when I am dead, give that paper also to Fanny and 
 tell her to take it to the mayor's office at Saint-Cyr, 
 where they will need it to draw up. the record of my 
 death. Now bring what you require to write a letter 
 at my dictation." 
 
 When she saw that her son was ready and that he 
 turned to her as if to listen, she said, in a calm voice, 
 dictating: "Sir, your wife. Lady Brandon, died at 
 Saint^Cyr, near Tours, department of the Indre-et-Loire. 
 She forgave you. Sign it — " 
 
 She stopped, hesitating and agitated. 
 
 " Do you feel worse? " asked Louis. 
 
 '* Sign it, ' Louis Gaston.' " 
 
 She sighed, then continued: "Seal the letter and 
 direct it to ' The Earl of Brandon, Brandon Square, 
 Hyde Park, London, England.' Have you written it? 
 Very good," she said. " On the day of my death jou. 
 must mail that letter from Tours. Now," she continued, 
 after a pause, " bring my little pocket-book — 3'ou know 
 it — and come close to me, dear child. In it," she said, 
 when Louis had returned to her, ' ' are twelve thousand 
 
La Grenadiere, 333 
 
 francs. They are riglitfully yours, alas ! You would 
 have had far more had your father — " 
 
 *' My father ! " exclaimed the lad, " where is he?" 
 
 " Dead," she replied, laying a finger on her lips, — 
 "dead to save my honor and my life." 
 
 She raised her eyes to heaven ; she would have wept 
 had she still had tears for sorrows '* Louis," she said, 
 *' swear to me on this pillow that you will forget all that 
 you have written, and all that I have said to you." 
 
 "Yes mother." 
 
 ** Kiss me, dear angel." 
 
 She made a long pause as if to gather courage from 
 God, and to limit her words to the strength that was 
 left to her. 
 
 " Listen," she said at last. *' These twelve thousand 
 francs are your whole fortune; you must keep them 
 npon your person, because when I am dead, the legal 
 authorities will come here and put seals on everything. 
 Nothing will belong to you, not even your mother. 
 Poor orphans! all 3'ou can do is to go away — God 
 knows where. I have provided for Fanny; she will 
 have three hundred francs a year and stay in Tours. 
 But what will j'ou do with 3^ourself and 3'our brother ? " 
 
 She raised herself in the bed and looked at the brave 
 boy, who, with great drops on his forehead, pale from 
 emotion, his eyes half-veiled in tears, stood erect 
 before her. 
 
334 La Grenadiere. 
 
 "Mother," he replied in a deep voice, "I have 
 thought of it. I shall take Marie to the college of 
 Tours. 1 shall give ten thousand francs to old Fanny 
 and tell her to put them in safety, and to watch over ni}^ 
 brother. Then, with the rest, I will go to Brest, and 
 enter the navy as an apprentice. While Marie is get- 
 ting his education I shall be promoted lieutenant. 
 Mother, die easy ; I shall be rich ; I will put our boy 
 into the l^cole Polytechnique, and he shall follow his 
 bent." 
 
 A flash of joy came from the half-quenched eyes of 
 the mother ; two tears rolled down her burning cheeks ; 
 then a great sigh escaped her lips. She barely escaped 
 dying at that moment from the joy of finding the soul 
 of the father in that of her son, now suddenly trans- 
 formed into a man. 
 
 "Angel from heaven!" she said, weeping, "you 
 have healed my sorrows with those words. Ah ! I can 
 die now. He is my son," she added; " I have made, 
 I have trained, a man." 
 
 She raised her hands in the air and clasped them, as 
 if to express a boundless joj'^ ; then she lay back on the 
 pillows. 
 
 " Mother, you are turning white," cried the boy. 
 
 " Fetch a priest," she answered, in a dying voice. 
 
 Louis woke old Fanny, who ran in terror to the 
 parsonage of Saint-Cyr. 
 
La Grenadiere. 335 
 
 Earlj' in the morning Madame Williamson received 
 the sacraments in presence of her children, with old 
 Fann}^ and the family of the vine-dresser, simple folk, 
 now part of the family, kneeling round her. The silver 
 cross borne by a humble choir boy, a village choir boy ! 
 was held before the bed ; an old priest administered 
 the viaticum to the dying mother. The viaticum ! sub- 
 lime word, idea more sublime than the word, which the 
 apostolic religion of the Roman Church alone emploj's. 
 
 ''This woman has suffered much," said the curate 
 in his simple language. 
 
 Madame Williamson heard no longer ; but her eyes 
 remained fastened on her children. All present, in 
 mortal terror, listened in the deep silence to the 
 breathing of the dying woman as it slackened and 
 grew slower. At intervals, a deep sigh showed that 
 life was still continuing the inward struggle. At last, 
 the mother breathed no longer. Those present wept, 
 excepting Marie, too young, poor child, to be aware 
 of death. Fanny and the vine-dresser's wife closed 
 the eyes of the once exquisite creature, whose beauty 
 reappeared in all its glory. They sent away those 
 present, took the furniture from the room, placed the 
 body of the departed in its shroud, lighted the wax- 
 tapers around the bed, arranged the basin of holy 
 water, the branch of box, and the crucifix, after the 
 manner of that region of country, closed the blinds 
 
336 La Cirenadi^re, 
 
 and drew the curtains. Then the vicar came and 
 passed the night in prayer with Louis, who would 
 not leave his mother. 
 
 The funeral took place Tuesday morning ; old Fanny, 
 the children, and the vine-dresser alone followed the 
 body of a woman whose beauty, wit, and grace had 
 given her in other daj^s a European fame ; and whose 
 funeral would have been pompousl}^ heralded in the 
 newspapers of London, as an aristocratic solemnity, 
 had she not committed a tender crime, a crime always 
 punished on this earth, perhaps to allow the pardoned 
 angel to enter heaven. When the earth fell on his 
 mother's coflSn, Marie wept, comprehending then that 
 he should see her no more. 
 
 A simple wooden cross stands above her grave and 
 bears these words, given by the curate of Salnt-Cyr. 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 A SORROWFUL WOMAN. 
 
 SHE DIED AGED THIRTY-SIX, 
 
 Bearing the name Augusta in Heaven. 
 Pray for her. 
 
 When all was over the children returned to La 
 Grenadiere to cast a last look upon their home ; then, 
 holding each other by the hand, they prepared to 
 
La Qrenadiere. 837 
 
 leave it with Fanny, making the vine-dresser respon- 
 sible to the authorities. 
 
 At the last moment the old waiting- worn an called 
 Louis to the steps of the well, and said to him apart : 
 
 *' Monsieur Louis, here is madame's ring." 
 
 The boy wept, — moved at the sight of a li\ing memo- 
 rial of his dead mother. In his strong self-command 
 he had forgotten this last duty. He kissed the old 
 woman. Then all three went down the sunken path- 
 way, and down the flight of steps, and on to Tours 
 without once looking back. 
 
 " Mamma used to stand here," said Marie, when they 
 reached the bridge. 
 
 Fanny had an old cousin, a retired dressmaker, 
 li^nng in the rue de la Guerche. There she took the 
 lads, thinking they could all live together. But Louis 
 explained his plans, gave her Marie's certificate of 
 birth and the ten thousand francs, and the next day, 
 accompanied by the old woman, he took his brother 
 to the school. He told the principal the facts of the 
 case, but ver}^ briefly, and went awaj', taking his 
 brother with him to the gate. There he tenderly and 
 solemnly told him of their loneliness in the world and 
 gave him counsel for the future, looked at him silently' 
 a moment, kissed him, looked at him again, wiped 
 away a tear, and went away, looking back again and 
 again at bis brother, left alone at the college gate. 
 
338 La Grrenadiere, 
 
 A month later Louis Gaston was an apprentice on 
 board a government ship, leaving the Rochefort roads. 
 Leaning against the shrouds of the corvette *' Iris," he 
 watched the coasts of France as they dropped below 
 the blue horizon. Soon he saw himself alone, lost in 
 the midst of ocean, as he was in the midst of life. 
 
 " Must n't cry, young fellow ; there 's a God for all 
 the world," said an old seaman, in his gruff voice, both 
 harsh and kind. 
 
 The lad thanked him with an intrepid look. Then 
 he bowed his head and resigned himself to a sailor's 
 Hfe, for — was he not a father? 
 
 1832. 
 
A DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
A DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
 To Madame la Comtksse Louise de TuRHEiBf, 
 
 NATE BESf 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 As A MARK OF REMEMBRANCE AND AFFECTIONATE RESPECT 
 rSOM HER HUMBLE SERVANT, 
 
 THE SECOND LIFE. 
 
 The rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, formerly one of 
 the darkest and most tortuous streets of the old quar- 
 ter of Paris which encircles the H6tel-de-Ville, wound 
 round the little gardens of the prefecture till it ended 
 in the rue du Martroi at the angle of an old wall, now 
 pulled down. Here could be seen the turnstile to 
 which the street owed its name, a relic of the past 
 that was not destroyed until 1823, when the city of 
 Paris caused to be constructed on the site of a little 
 garden belonging to the H6tel-de-Ville a splendid 
 ball-room for the fete given to the Due d'Angoul^me 
 on his return from Spain. 
 
 The widest part of the rue du Tourniquet was near 
 its junction with the rue de la Tixeranderie, where 
 it was only five feet wide. Consequently, in rainy 
 weather the blackened water of the gutter washed the 
 feet of the old houses, bringing along with it the filth 
 and refuse deposited by each household at the various 
 
342 A Double Life. 
 
 posts along the street. The carts for the removal of 
 such rubbish could not enter the narrow way, and the 
 dwellers thereon reckoned upon the storms of heaven 
 to cleanse their ever-muddy street — though it never 
 could be clean. When the summer sun struck ver- 
 tically down, a line of gold, sharp as the blade of a 
 sabre, illuminated momentarily the darkness of the 
 street, but without drying the perpetual dampness 
 which reigned from the ground-floor to the next floor 
 of these dark and silent houses. 
 
 The inhabitants, who lighted their lamps at five 
 o'clock in the month of June, never put them out in 
 winter. Even to-day, if some courageous pedestrian 
 ventures to go from the Marais to the quays by taking, 
 at the end of the rue du Chaume, the several streets 
 named L'Homme Anne, Des Billettes, and Des Deux- 
 Portes, which lead into that of the Tourniquet-Saint- 
 Jean, he will fancy he has been walking through a 
 crypt or cellar. 
 
 Nearly all the streets of the old Paris resembled 
 this damp and sombre labyrinth, where antiquaries 
 can still find several historical singularities to admire. 
 For instance, when the house which stood at the cor- 
 ner of the rue du Tourniquet and the rue de la Tixer- 
 anderie still existed, observers would have noticed 
 two heavy iron rings built into the wall, a remnant of 
 the chains which the watchman of the quarter put up 
 each night as a measure of public safety. 
 
 This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been 
 built with precautions which fully proved the unhealth- 
 iness of these old dwellings ; for, in order to sweeten 
 the ground-floor, the walls of the cellar were raised 
 
A Double Life. 343 
 
 fully two feet above the level of the soil, which neces- 
 sitated a rise of three steps in order to enter the house. 
 The door-casing described a semicircular arch, the 
 apex of which was adorned with the carving of a 
 woman's head and sundry arabesques, much injured 
 by time. Three windows, the sills of which were 
 about on a level with a man's head, belonged to a 
 small apartment on the ground-floor looking on the 
 rue du Tourniquet. These windows were protected by 
 strong iron bars placed far apart, ending in a round 
 projection like those of a baker's grating. 
 
 If any inquisitive pedestrian had cast his eyes upon 
 the two rooms of this apartment in the daytime, he 
 could have seen nothing within them ; a July sun was 
 needed to distinguish in the second room two beds 
 draped with green serge under the panelled ceiling of 
 an old alcove. But in the afternoons, toward three 
 o'clock, when a lamp was lighted, it was possible to 
 see through the window of the first room an old woman 
 sitting on a stool at the corner of a fireplace, where she 
 was, at that hour, stirring something in a chafing-dish 
 which resembled those stews that Parisian portresses 
 know so well how to concoct. A few kitchen utensils 
 hanging on the wall at the end of this room could be 
 seen in the half-light. An old table, standing on 
 three legs and devoid of linen, held knives and forks 
 and pewter plates, and, presently, the dish which the 
 old crone was cooking. Three miserable chairs fur- 
 nished the room, which sei*ved the inhabitants for 
 kitchen and dining-room. Over the fireplace was a 
 fragment of mirror, a tinder-box, three glasses, some 
 sulphur matches, and a large white pot, much cracked. 
 
344 A Double Life. 
 
 The tiled floor of the hearth, the utensils, the fireplace, 
 were pleasing to the eye from the evident spirit of 
 neatness and economy which reigned in that cold, dark 
 home. 
 
 The pale and wrinkled face of the old woman was in 
 keeping with the gloom of the street and the mould i- 
 ness of the building. One might have thought, to see 
 her seated in her chair when doing nothing, that she 
 stuck to the house as a snail to its shell. Her face, 
 in which a vague expression of malice underlay an 
 assumed good-humor, was topped by a flat tulle cap, 
 which scarcely covered her white hair; her large gray 
 eyes were as still as the street, and the many wrinkles 
 on her skin might be compared to the cracks and 
 crevices of the walls. Whether she was born to 
 poverty, or whether she had fallen from some better 
 estate, she now seemed long resigned to her melan- 
 choly existence. From sunrise till evening, except 
 while preparing the meals, or, basket in hand, she 
 went out for provisions, this old creature spent her 
 time in the adjoining room, before the third window 
 and opposite to a young girl. 
 
 At all hours of the day this young girl, sitting in an 
 old arm-chair covered with red velvet, her head bent 
 down over an embroidery-frame, worked industriously. 
 Her mother had a green tambour-frame on her lap and 
 seemed to be making tulle; but her fingers moved the 
 bobbins stiffly, and her sight was evidently failing, 
 for her nose, of three-score years and over, bore a pair 
 of those old-fashioned spectacles which hold to the tips 
 of the nostrils according to the force with which they 
 are pinched on. At night, these two laborious creatures 
 
A Double Life. 345 
 
 placed a lamp between them ; the light of which, fall- 
 ing through two glass globes filled with water, threw 
 a strong ray upon their work, which enabled the old 
 woman to see the looser strands of the bobbins of her 
 tambour, and the young girl the more delicate parts of 
 the pattern she was embroidering. 
 
 The curve of the iron bars had enabled the girl to 
 put on the sill of the window a long wooden box 
 filled with earth ; in which were vegetating sweet-peas, 
 nasturtiums, a sickly honeysuckle, and a few convol- 
 vuli whose weakly tendrils were clinging to the bars. 
 These etiolated plants produced a few pale flowers; 
 another feature strangely in keeping, which mingled 
 I scarcely know what of sweetness and of sadness in 
 the picture, framed by the window, of those toiling 
 figures. A mere glance at that interior would have 
 given the most self-absorbed pedestrian a perfect 
 image of the life led by the work- women of Paris; 
 for it was evident that the girl lived solely by her 
 needle. Many persons reaching the turnstile had won- 
 dered how any young creature living in that noisome 
 place could have kept the bright colors of youth. The 
 lively imagination of a student on his way to the 
 "pays latin" might have compared this dark and 
 vegetative life to that of ivy draping a cold stone- 
 wall, or to that of peasants born to toil, who labor 
 and die ignored by the world they have contributed to 
 feed. A man of property said to himself as he looked 
 at the house with the eye of an owner : — 
 
 "What would become of those two women if em- 
 broidery should go out of fashion ? " 
 
 Among the persons whose duty took them at fixed 
 
346 A Double Life. 
 
 hours through this narrow way, either to the H6tel de 
 Ville or to the Palais, some might perhaps have been 
 found, whose interest in the sight would take a more 
 selfish view of it; some widower, perhaps, or some 
 elderly Adonis might have thought that the evident 
 distress of the mother and daughter would make the 
 innocent work-girl a cheap and easy bargain. Or per- 
 haps some worthy clerk with a salary of twelve hun- 
 dred francs a year, the daily witness of the girl's 
 industrious ardor, might have reckoned from that the 
 purity of her life and have dreamed of uniting one 
 obscure life to another obscure life, one plodding toil 
 to another as laborious, — bringing at any rate the arm 
 of a man to sustain existence, and a peaceful love, 
 colorless as the flowers in the window. 
 
 Such vague hopes did at times brighten the dull 
 gray eyes of the old mother. In the morning, after 
 their humble breakfast, she would take her tambour- 
 frame (more for appearances, it would seem, than for 
 actual work, because she laid down her spectacles on 
 the table beside her) and proceeded to watch from 
 half -past eight to about ten o'clock all the habitual 
 passers through the street at that hour. She noted 
 their glances; made observations on their demeanor, 
 their dress, their countenances ; she seemed to bargain 
 with them for her daughter, so eagerly did her keen 
 eyes seek to open communications, by manoeuvres like 
 those behind the scenes of a theatre. To her this 
 morning review was indeed a play; perhaps it was 
 her only pleasure. 
 
 The daughter seldom raised her head: modesty, or 
 perhaps the painful sense of poverty, kept her eyes 
 
A Double Life, 347 
 
 closely fixed upon her work; so that sometimes, in 
 order to make her show her face to a passer in the 
 street, her mother would give a cry of surprise. A 
 clerk with a new overcoat, or an habitual passer 
 appearing with a woman on his arm might then have 
 beheld the slightly turned-up nose of the little work- 
 girl, her rosy mouth, and her gray eyes, sparkling 
 with life in spite of her crushing toil. Those wakeful, 
 laborious nights were only shown by the more or less 
 white circle beneath the eyes on the fresh, pure skin 
 above the cheek-bones. The poor young thing seemed 
 born for love and gayety, — for love, which had 
 painted above her rounded eyelids two perfect arches, 
 and had given her such a forest of chestnut hair that 
 she might have hidden her whole person under its 
 impenetrable veil; for gayety, which moved her ex- 
 pressive nostrils, and made two dimples in her glow- 
 ing cheeks, — for gayety, that flower of hope, which 
 gave her strength to look without faltering at the 
 barren path of life before her. 
 
 The beautiful hair of the girl was always carefully 
 aiTanged. Like all other work-women of Paris, she 
 thought her toilet complete when she had braided 
 and smoothed her hair and had twirled into circles the 
 two little locks on either side of the temples, the effect 
 of which was to set off the whiteness of her skin. 
 The way her hair grew upon her head was so full of 
 grace, the bistre line clearly defined upon her neck 
 gave so charming an idea of her youth and its attrac- 
 tions, that an observer beholding her as she bent over 
 her work, not raising her head at any noise, would 
 have put down such apparent unconsciousness to 
 coquetry. 
 
348 A Double Life. 
 
 "Caroline, there *s a new regular man! none of the 
 old ones compare with him." 
 
 These words, said in a low voice by the mother one 
 morning in the month of August, 1815, conquered, 
 apparently, the indifiference of the girl, for she looked 
 into the street; but the new man was nearly out of 
 sight. 
 
 "Which way did he go? " she asked. 
 
 "He '11 be back, no doubt, about four o'clock. I 
 shall see him coming and I '11 kick your foot. I 'm 
 certain he '11 come back, for it is now three days since 
 he took to coming through the street. But he is n't 
 regular as to time. The first day he came at six, next 
 day it was four, yesterday five. I am sure I have 
 seen him at some time or other, elsewhere. I dare say 
 he *s a clerk at the prefecture who has gone to live 
 in the Marais — Oh, look here ! " she added, after 
 glancing into the street, "our monsieur with the brown 
 coat has taken to a wig ! Heavens ! how it does change 
 him!" 
 
 The monsieur with the brown coat must have been 
 the last of the habitues who formed the daily proces- 
 sion, for the old mother now put on her spectacles, 
 resumed her work with a sigh, and looked at her 
 daughter with so singular an expression that Lavater 
 himself would have been puzzled to analyze it, — 
 admiration , gratitude, a sort of hope for better things, 
 mingled with the pride of possessing so pretty a 
 daughter. 
 
 That evening, about four o'clock, the old woman 
 pushed the girl's foot, and Caroline raised her head 
 in time to see the new actor whose periodical passing 
 
A Double Life. 349 
 
 ■was now to enliven the scene of their lives. Tall, 
 thin, pale, and dressed in black, the man, who was 
 about forty years old, had something solemn in his 
 gait and demeanor. When his tawny, piercing eye 
 met the curious glance of the old woman, it made 
 her tremble; and she fancied he had the gift, or the 
 habit, of reading hearts. Certainly his first aspect 
 was chilling as the air itself of that gloomy street. 
 
 Was the cadaverous, discolored complexion of that 
 haggard face the result of excessive toil, or the 
 product of enfeebled health? This problem was solved 
 by the old mother in a score of different ways. But 
 the next day, Caroline divined at once that the 
 wrinkled brow bore signs of long-continued men- 
 tal suffering. The slightly hollowed cheeks of the 
 stranger bore an imprint of that seal with which mis- 
 fortune marks its vassals, as if to leave them the con- 
 solation of recognizing one another with fraternal eye, 
 and uniting together to resist it. 
 
 The warmth of the weather happened at this moment 
 to be so great, and the stranger was so absent-minded, 
 that he omitted to put on his hat while passing through 
 the unhealthy street. Caroline then noticed the stern 
 aspect given to the face by the cut of the hair, which 
 stood up from his forehead like a brush. Though the 
 girl's eyes were first brightened by innocent curiosity, 
 they took a tender expression of sympathy and pity 
 as the stranger passed on, like the last mourner in a 
 funeral procession. 
 
 The strong, but not pleasing, impression felt by 
 Caroline at the sight of this man resembled none of 
 the sensations which the other habitual passers had 
 
350 A Double Life. 
 
 conveyed to her. For the first time in her life her 
 compassion was aroused for another than her mother 
 and herself. She made no reply to the fanciful conjec- 
 tures which furnished food for the irritating loquacity 
 of the old woman, but silently drew her long needle 
 above and below the tulle in her frame ; she regretted 
 that she had not seen more of the unknown man, and 
 waited until the morrow to make up her mind more 
 decisively about him. For the first time, too, a passer 
 beneath the window had suggested reflections to her 
 mind. Usually she replied with a quiet smile to the 
 various suppositions of her mother, who was always 
 in hopes of finding a protector for her child among 
 these strangers. If such ideas, imprudently expressed, 
 awoke no evil thoughts in the girl's mind, we must 
 attribute Caroline's indifference to the cruelly hard 
 work which consumed the forces of her precious youth, 
 and must infallibly change ere long the limpid light 
 of her eyes and ravish from those fair cheeks the 
 tender color which still brightened them. 
 
 For two whole months the "black monsieur" — 
 such was the name they gave him — passed through the 
 street almost daily, but capriciously as to time. The 
 old woman often saw him at night when he had not 
 passed in the morning; also he never returned at the 
 fixed hours of other employees, who served as clocks 
 to Madame Crochard, and never, since the first day 
 when his glance had inspired the old mother with a 
 sort of terror, had his eyes appeared to take notice of 
 the picturesque group of the two female gnomes, — an 
 indifference which piqued Madame Crochard who was 
 not pleased to see her "black monsieur " gravely pre- 
 
A Double Life, 351 
 
 occupied, walking with his eyes on the ground or 
 looking straight in front of him, as if he were trying 
 to read the future in the damp mists of the rue du 
 Tourniquet. 
 
 However, one morning toward the last of Septem- 
 ber, the pretty head of Caroline Crochard stood out so 
 brilliantly on the dark background of her dingy cham- 
 ber, and she looked so fresh among her spindling 
 flowers and the sparse foliage that twined about the 
 bars of the window, — the scene, in short, presented 
 so many contrasts of light and shade, of white and 
 rose, blending so well with the muslin the girl was 
 embroidering and the tones of the old velvet chair 
 in which she sat, — that the unknown pedestrian did 
 look attentively at the effects of this living picture. 
 Madame Crochard, weary of the indifference of her 
 black gentleman, had, in truth, taken the step of 
 making such a clatter with her reels and bobbins that 
 the gloomy, thoughtful stranger was perhaps com- 
 pelled by this unusual noise to look up at the 
 window. 
 
 He exchanged one glance with Caroline, rapid, it is 
 true, but in it their souls came slightly in contact, and 
 they each were conscious of a presentiment that they 
 should think of one another. That evening when the 
 stranger returned, about four o'clock, Caroline distin- 
 guished the sound of his step upon the pavement, and 
 when they looked at each other they did so with a 
 species of premeditation; the eyes of the stranger 
 were brightened with an expression of benevolence, 
 and he smiled, while Caroline blushed. The old 
 mother watched them both with a satisfied air. 
 
352 A Double Life. 
 
 After that memorable morning the black monsieur 
 passed through the rue du Tourniquet twice every day, 
 with a few exceptions which the two women noted; 
 they judged, from the irregularity of his hours of 
 return that he was neither so quickly released nor so 
 strictly punctual as a subaltern clerk would be. 
 
 During the first three winter months Caroline and 
 the stranger saw each other twice a day for the length 
 of time which it took him to walk the distance flanked 
 by the door and the three windows of the house. 
 Daily this brief interview took on more and more a 
 character of benevolent intimacy, until it ended in 
 something that was almost fraternal. Caroline and 
 the stranger seemed from the first to understand each 
 other; and then, by dint of examining one another's 
 faces a deeper knowledge of their characters came 
 about. The meeting became a sort of visit which the 
 stranger paid to Caroline; if, by chance, her black 
 monsieur passed without giving her the half-formed 
 smile on his eloquent lips or the friendly glance of his 
 brown eyes, something was lacking to her day. She 
 was like those old men to whom the reading of their 
 newspaper becomes such a pleasure that if some acci- 
 dent delays it they are wholly upset at missing the 
 printed sheet which helps them for an instant to cheat 
 the void of their dreary existence. 
 
 These fugitive meetings soon had, both to Caroline 
 and to the unknown man, the interest and charm of 
 familiar conversation between friends. The young 
 girl could no more conceal from the intelligent eye 
 of her silent friend an anxiety, an illness, a sad 
 thought, than he could hide from her the presence in 
 
A Double Life. 353 
 
 his mind of some painful preoccupation. "Something 
 troubled him yesterday," was a thought that often 
 came into the girl's heart as she noticed a strained 
 look on the face of her black gentleman. *'0h! he 
 must have been working too hard ! '* was another ex- 
 clamation caused by other signs and shadows that 
 Caroline had learned to distinguish. 
 
 The stranger, on his side, seemed to know when the 
 girl had spent her Sunday in finishing a lace dress, in 
 the design of which he felt an interest. He saw how the 
 pretty face darkened as the rent-day came round ; he 
 knew when Caroline had been sitting up all night; 
 but more especially did he notice how the sad thoughts 
 now beginning to tarnish the freshness and the gayety 
 of that young face were dissipated little by little as 
 their unspoken acquaintance increased. 
 
 When winter dried the foliage and the tendrils of 
 the puny garden, and the window was closed, a smile 
 that was softly malicious came to the stranger's lips 
 as he saw the bright light in the room casting Caro- 
 line's reflection through the panes. An evident parsi- 
 mony as to fire, and the reddened noses of the two 
 women, revealed to him the indigence of the little 
 household; but if a pained compassion was reflected 
 in his eyes, Caroline proudly undermined it with a 
 feigned gayety. 
 
 But all this while the sentiments that were budding 
 in their hearts were buried there, and no event hap- 
 pened to teach them the strength or the extent of their 
 own feelings; they did not even know the sound of 
 each other's voices. These two mute friends avoided 
 a closer union as though it were an evil. Each seemed 
 
 23 
 
354 A Double Life, 
 
 to fear to bring upon the other a heavier misfortune 
 than those they each were bearing. Was it the reti- 
 cence of friendship that thus restrained them, or that 
 dread of selfishness, that atrocious distrust which puts a 
 barrier between all persons collected within the walls 
 of a crowded city ? Did the secret voice of their con- 
 sciences warn them of coming peril? It is wholly 
 impossible to explain the feeling which kept them 
 enemies even more than friends, seemingly as indiffer- 
 ent to each other as they were, in truth, attached ; as 
 much united by instinct as they were parted by fact. 
 Perhaps each was desirous of keeping both his and 
 her illusion. It almost seemed as though this name- 
 less black gentleman feared to hear from those fresh 
 lips, pure as a flower, some vulgar speech, and that 
 Caroline felt herself unworthy of that mysterious 
 being who bore to her eyes the unmistakable signs 
 of power and fortune. 
 
 As for Madame Crochard, that observant mother, 
 half angry at her daughter's indecision, began to 
 show a sulky face to her black monsieur, on whom she 
 had hitherto smiled with an air as complacent as it 
 was servile. Never did she bemoan herself to her 
 daughter so bitterly at the hard fate which obliged 
 her, at her age, to cook; never did her rheumatism 
 and her catarrh draw from her so many moans. Her 
 state of mind was such that she failed to do, that 
 winter, the number of yards of tulle on which the poor 
 household counted. 
 
 Under these circumstances and toward the end of 
 December, when bread was becoming dearer and the 
 poor were already feeling that rise in the cost of 
 
A Double Life. 355 
 
 grains which made the year 1816 so cruel to poverty, 
 the unknown man observed on the face of the girl, 
 whose name was unknown to him, the traces of some 
 painful thought which her friendly smiles were unable 
 to chase away. He recognized also in her eyes the 
 weary indications of nocturnal labor. On one of~the 
 last nights of the month he returned, contrary to cus- 
 tom, through the rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean about 
 one in the morning. The stillness of the hour enabled 
 him to hear, even before he reached the house, the 
 whining voice of the old woman, and the still more 
 distressing tones of the girl, the sound of which 
 mingled with the hissing sound of a fall of snow. 
 
 He walked slowly; then, at the risk of being 
 arrested, he crouched before the window to listen to 
 the mother and daughter, examining them through one 
 of the many holes in the muslin curtains. A legal 
 paper lay on the table which stood between their two 
 work-frames, on which were the lamp and the globes 
 of water. He recognized at once a summons of some 
 kind. Madame Crochard was weeping bitterly, and 
 the voice of the girl was guttural with her grief, com- 
 pletely changing its soft and caressing ring. 
 
 "Why make yourself so unhappy, mother? Mon- 
 sieur Moulineux will never sell our furniture, and he 
 cannot turn us out before I have finished this gown. 
 Two nights more and I shall carry it to Madame 
 Roguin." 
 
 "And she '11 make you wait for the money, as usual. 
 Besides, the price of that gown won't pay the baker, 
 too." 
 
 The spectator of this scene had so great a habit of 
 
356 . A Double Life, 
 
 reading faces that he thought he saw as much hypoc- 
 risy in the mother's grief as there was truth in the 
 daughter's. He disappeared at once; but presently 
 returned. Again he looked through the ragged mus- 
 lin. The mother had gone to bed. The girl was 
 bending over her frame with indefatigable energy. 
 On the table beside the summons lay a small piece of 
 bread cut in a triangle, meant, no doubt to support 
 her during the night, perhaps to sustain her courage. 
 The black gentleman shuddered with pity and with 
 pain ; he flung his purse through a hole in the window 
 that was covered with paper, in such a way that it fell 
 at the girl's feet. Then, without waiting to see her 
 surprise, he escaped, his heart beating, his cheeks on 
 fire. 
 
 The next day the sad and alien man passed by as 
 usual, affecting a preoccupied air. But he was not 
 allowed to escape the girl's gratitude. Caroline had 
 opened the window and was digging about the box 
 of earth with a knife, a pretext of ingenuous falsity 
 which proved to her benefactor that on this occasion 
 she was determined not to see him through glass. 
 "With eyes full of tears she made a sign with her head 
 as if to say, "I can only pay you with my heart." 
 
 But the black gentleman seemed not to understand 
 the expression of this true gratitude. That evening, 
 when he passed again, Caroline was busy in pasting 
 another paper over the broken window and so was able 
 to smile to him, showing the enamel of her brilliant 
 teeth, like, as it were, a promise. From that day the 
 black gentleman took another road, and appeared no 
 more in the rue du Tourniquet. 
 
A Double Life. 357 
 
 During the first week of the following May, on a 
 Saturday morning, as Caroline was watering her 
 honeysuckle, she beheld between the two black lines 
 of houses a narrow strip of cloudless sky, and called 
 to her mother in the next room : — 
 
 "Mamma! let us go to-morrow for a day's pleasur- 
 ing at Montmorency ! " 
 
 The words had scarcely left her lips when the black 
 monsieur passed, sadder and evidently more oppressed 
 than ever. The look of pleasure which Caroline gave 
 him might have passed for an invitation. In fact, 
 the next day, when Madame Crochard, arrayed in a 
 reddish-brown merino pelisse, a silk bonnet, and a 
 striped shawl made to imitate cashmere, went with 
 her daughter to choose a coucou at the corner of the 
 rue d'Enghien and the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, 
 she found her black monsieur standing there, with 
 the air of a man who was waiting for a woman. 
 
 A smile of pleasure softened the face of the stranger 
 when he beheld Caroline, whose little feet, shod in 
 puce-colored prunella boots, appeared beneath her 
 white muslin gown, which, blown by the wind (too 
 often perfidious to ill-made forms), showed off her 
 beautiful figure, while her face, shaded by a straw hat 
 lined with pink, seemed illuminated by a ray from 
 heaven. A broad belt, also puce-colored, set off a 
 little waist he might have spanned between his fingers ; 
 her hair, parted into two brown bandeaus round a 
 forehead white as milk, gave her an air of simple 
 purity which nothing marred. Pleasure seemed to 
 taake her as light as the straw of her hat; but a hope 
 darted into her mind on seeing the black gentleman, 
 
358 A Double Life, 
 
 eclipsing all else. He himself appeared irresolute. 
 Perhaps the sudden revelation of joy on the girl's face 
 caused by his presence may have decided him, for he 
 turned and hired a cabriolet, with a fairly good horse, 
 to go to Saint-Leu-Taverny ; then he asked Madame 
 Crochard and her daughter to take seats in it. 
 
 The mother accepted without further urging ; but no 
 sooner had the vehicle fairly started than she brought 
 forth scruples and regrets for the inconvenience that 
 two women would cause to their companion. 
 
 "Perhaps monsieur would rather go alone to Saint- 
 Leu?" she said hypocritically. 
 
 Presently she complained of the heat, and especially 
 of her troublesome catarrh, which, she said, had kept 
 her awake all night, and the carriage had hardly 
 reached Saint-Denis before she was asleep, though 
 certain of her snores seemed doubtful to the black 
 monsieur, who frowned heavily and looked at the old 
 woman with singular suspicion. 
 
 *'0h! she's asleep," said Caroline, naively. "She 
 coughed all night, and must be tired." 
 
 For all answer, the gentleman cast a shrewd smile 
 upon the girl which seemed to mean : — 
 
 "Innocent creature! you don't know your mother." 
 
 However, in spite of his distrust, by the time the 
 cabriolet was rolling along the avenue of poplars 
 which leads to Eau Bonne, the black gentleman 
 believed that Madame Crochard was really asleep; 
 perhaps, however, he no longer cared to know whether 
 the sleep was real or feigned. Whether it was that 
 the beauty of the skies, the pure country air, and those 
 delicious scents wafted by the budding poplars, the 
 
A Double Life. 359 
 
 willow catkins, the blossoms of the eglantine, had 
 inclined his heart to open and expand ; or that further 
 silence became irksome to him ; or that the sparkling 
 eyes of the young girl were answering his, — it is cer- 
 tain that the black monsieur now began a conversa- 
 tion, as vague as the quivering of the foliage to the 
 breeze, as vagabond as the circlings of a butterfly, as 
 little without real motive as the voice, softly melo- 
 dious, of the fields, but marked, like Nature herself, 
 with mysterious love. 
 
 At this season the country quivers like a bride who 
 has just put on her bridal robes ; it invites to pleasure 
 the coldest heart. To leave the darksome streets of 
 the Marais for the first time since the previous autumn, 
 and to find one's self suddenly in the bosom of that har- 
 monious and picturesque valley of Montmorency; to 
 pass through it in the morning when the eye can fol- 
 low the infinity of its horizons, and to turn from that 
 to an infinity of love in the eyes beside us, — what 
 heart will continue icy, what lips will keep their 
 secrets ? 
 
 The unknown man found Caroline more gay than 
 clever, more loving than informed. But if her laugh 
 was a trifle giddy, her words bore evidence of true 
 feeling; and when to the leading questions of her 
 companion she replied with that effusion of the heart 
 which the lower classes lavish, when they feel it, 
 without the reticence of persons of good society, the 
 face of the black gentleman brightened, and seemed, 
 as it were, reborn ; it lost by degrees the sadness that 
 contracted its features, and gradually, tint by tint, 
 it gained a look of youth and a character of beauty 
 
360 A BoulU Life. 
 
 which made the young girl proud and happy. She 
 divined instinctively that her friend, deprived of ten- 
 derness and love, no longer believed in the devotion 
 of women. At last a sudden gush of Caroline's light 
 chatter carried off the last cloud which veiled on the 
 stranger's face his real youth and his native char- 
 acter; he seemed to come to some eternal divorce from 
 oppressive ideas, and he now displayed a vivacity of 
 heart which the solemnity of his face had hitherto 
 concealed. The talk became insensibly so familiar 
 that by the time the carriage stopped at the first 
 houses of the village of Saint-Leu Caroline was call- 
 ing her friend "Monsieur Roger." Then, for the first 
 time, Madame Crochard woke up. 
 
 "Caroline, she must have heard us," said Roger, 
 suspiciously, in the young girl's ear. 
 
 Caroline answered by a charming smile of in- 
 credulity, which dispersed the dark cloud brought by 
 the fear of a scheme to the forehead of the distrust- 
 ful man. Without expressing any surprise, Madame 
 Crochard approved of everything, and followed her 
 daughter and Monsieur Roger to the park of Saint- 
 Leu, where the pair had agreed to ramble about the 
 smiling meadows and the balmy groves which the taste 
 of Queen Hortense had rendered celebrated. 
 
 "Heavens! how lovely! " cried Caroline, when, hav- 
 ing reached the green brow of the hill where the forest 
 of Montmorency begins, she saw at her feet the vast 
 valley winding its serpentine way dotted with villages, 
 steeples, fields, and meadows, a murmur of which 
 came softly to her ear like the purling of waves, as her 
 eyes rested on the blue horizon of the distant hills. 
 
A Double Life, 361 
 
 The three excursionists followed the banks of an 
 artificial river until they reached the Swiss valley with 
 its chalet where Napoleon and Queen Hortense were 
 wont to stay. When Caroline had seated herself with 
 sacred respect upon the mossy wooden bench where 
 kings and princesses and the Emperor had reposed 
 themselves, Madame Crochard manifested a desire to 
 take a closer view of a suspension bridge between two 
 cliffs a little farther on. Wending her way to that 
 rural curiosity she left her daughter to the care of 
 Monsieur Roger, remarking, however, that she should 
 not go out of sight. 
 
 "Poor little thing! " cried Roger, "have you never 
 known comfort or luxury? Don't you sometimes wish 
 to wear the pretty gowns you embroider? " 
 
 "I should n't be telling the truth. Monsieur Roger, 
 if I said I never thought of the happiness rich people 
 must enjoy. Yes, I do think often, specially when 
 asleep, of the pleasure it would be to see my poor 
 mother saved the trouble of going out to buy our food 
 and then preparing it at her age. I would like to 
 have a charwoman come in the morning before she is 
 out of bed, and make her a cup of coffee with plenty 
 of sugar, white sugar, in it. She likes to read novels, 
 poor dear woman I Well, I *d rather she used her eyes 
 on her favorite reading than strain them counting bob- 
 bins from morning till night. Also, she really needs a 
 little good wine. I do wish I could see her happy, 
 she is so kind." 
 
 "Then she has always been kind to you? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! " said the girl, in an earnest voice. 
 
 As they watched Madame Crochard, who had reached 
 
362 A Double Life. 
 
 the middle of the bridge, and now shook her finger at 
 them, Caroline continued : — 
 
 "Oh, yes! she has always been kind to me. What 
 care she gave me when I was little! She sold her last 
 forks and spoons to apprentice me to the old maid 
 who taught me to embroider. And my poor father! 
 she took such pains to make him happy in his last 
 days ! '* 
 
 At this remembrance the girl shuddered, and put 
 her hands before her eyes. 
 
 *'Bah! don't let us think of past troubles," she 
 resumed, gayly. 
 
 Then she colored, perceiving that Eoger was much 
 affected, but she dared not look at him. 
 
 ''What did your father do? " asked Roger. 
 
 "He was a dancer at the Opera before the Revolu- 
 tion," she replied, with the simplest air in the world, 
 "and my mother sang in the chorus. My father, who 
 managed the evolutions on the stage, chanced to be 
 present at the taking of the Bastille. He was recog- 
 nized by some of the assailants, who asked him if he 
 could n't lead a real attack as he had led so many 
 sham ones at the theatre. Father was brave, and he 
 agreed ; he led the insurgents, and was rewarded with 
 the rank of captain in the army of the Sambre-et- 
 Meuse, where he behaved in such a way that he was 
 rapidly promoted and became a colonel. But he was 
 terribly wounded at Lutzen, and returned to Pai'is to 
 die, after a year's illness. The Bourbons came back, 
 and of course my mother could not get a pension, and 
 we fell into such dreadful poverty that we had to work 
 for our living. Of late the poor dear woman has been 
 
A Double Life. 363 
 
 ailing; and she is n't as resigned as she used to be; 
 she complains, and I don't wonder, — she, who once 
 had all the comforts of an easy life. As for me, I 
 can't regret comforts I never had; but there's one 
 thing I do hope Heaven will grant me." 
 
 "What is that? " asked Roger, who seemed dreamy. 
 
 "That ladies will always wear embroidered gowns, 
 so that I shall never want work." 
 
 The frankness of these avowals interested her hearer 
 so much that when Madame Crochard slowly returned 
 to them, he looked at her with an eye that was less 
 hostile. 
 
 "Well, my children, have you had a good talk?" 
 she asked, in a tone both indulgent and sly. "When 
 one thinks. Monsieur Roger, that ' the little corporal * 
 sat on that bench where you are sitting ! " she con- 
 tinued, after a moment's silence. "Poor man! how 
 my husband loved him! Ah! it is a good thing 
 Crochard died; he never could have borne to think 
 of him at that place where those others have put him." 
 
 Roger laid a finger on his lips, and the old woman, 
 nodding her head, said, gravely : — 
 
 "Enough; I '11 keep a dead tongue in my head and 
 my lips tight. But," she added, opening the front 
 of her dress, and showing the cross of the Legion of 
 honor and its red ribbon fastened to her throat with 
 a black bow, "nothing can prevent me from wearing 
 what he gave to my poor Crochard; I mean to be 
 buried with it." 
 
 Hearing these words, which at that time were held 
 to be seditious, Roger interrupted the old woman by 
 rising abruptly, and they started to return to the vil- 
 
364 A Double Life, 
 
 lage through the park. The young man absented 
 himself for a few moments to order a meal at the best 
 restaurant, then he returned to fetch the two women, 
 guiding them along the paths through the forest. 
 
 The dinner was gay. Roger was no longer that 
 gloomy shadow which for months had passed through 
 the rue du Tourniquet; no longer the "black mon- 
 sieur," but rather a hopeful young man ready to let 
 himself float upon the current of life like the two 
 women who were happy in the day's enjoyment, though 
 the morrow might find them without food. He seemed, 
 indeed, to be under the influence of the joys of youth; 
 his smile had something caressing and childlike about 
 it. When, at five o'clock, the pleasant dinner came 
 to an end with a few glasses of champagne, Roger 
 was the first to propose that they should go to the 
 village ball, under the chestnut-trees, where he and 
 Caroline danced together. Their hands met in one 
 thought, their hearts beat with the same hope, and 
 beneath that azure sky, glowing toward the west with 
 the level rays of the setting sun, their glances had a 
 •brilliancy which, to each other's heart, paled even 
 that of the heaven above them. Strange power of a 
 thought and a desire! nothing seemed impossible to 
 these two beings. In such magic moments, when 
 pleasure casts its reflections on the future, the soul 
 can see naught but happiness. This charming day 
 had created for both of them memories to which they 
 could compare no other experience of their lives. Is 
 the spring more perfect than the current, the desire 
 more ravishing than its fulfilment? is the thing hoped- 
 for more attractive than the thing possessed? 
 
A Double Life. 365 
 
 "There *s our day already over! " 
 
 At this exclamation which escaped the young man 
 when the dance ended, Caroline looked at him com- 
 passionately, for she saw the sadness beginning again 
 to cloud his face. 
 
 " Why are you not as happy in Paris as you have 
 been here?" she said. *'Is there no happiness except 
 at Saint-Leu ? It seems to me I can never again be 
 discontented anywhere." 
 
 Roger quivered at those words, dictated by the soft 
 abandonment which often leads women farther than 
 they mean to go, — just as, on the other hand, prudery 
 makes them stiffer than they really are. For the first 
 time since that look which began their intimacy, 
 Caroline and Roger had one and the same thought. 
 Though they did not express it, they each felt it by a 
 mutual impression something like that of the warmth 
 of a glowing hearth beneficently comforting in winter. 
 Then, as if they feared their silence, they hastened to 
 the place where their vehicle awaited them. But be- 
 fore they reached it they took each other by the hand 
 and ran along a wood-path in advance of Madame 
 Crochard. When the white of the old woman's tulle 
 cap was no longer visible through the foliage, Roger 
 turned to the girl and said, with a troubled voice and 
 a beating heart: — 
 
 "Caroline?" 
 
 The girl, confused, stepped back a few paces, 
 understanding the desires that interrogation implied ; 
 nevertheless she held out her hand, which was ardently 
 kissed, though she quickly withdrew it, for at that 
 moment her mother came in sight. Madame Crochard 
 
366 A Double Life, 
 
 pretended to have seen nothing, as if, remembering 
 her stage experience, the scene was only an aside. 
 
 The history of Roger and Caroline does not continue 
 in the rue du Tourniquet ; to meet them again we must 
 go to the very centre of modern Paris, where, among 
 the newly built houses, there are found apartments 
 which seem expressly made for the honeymoon of 
 bridal couples. The paper and painting are as fresh 
 as they; the decoration, like their love, is in its 
 bloom ; all is in harmony with young ideas and bound- 
 ing desires. About the middle of the rue Taitbout, in 
 a house where the copings were still white, the col- 
 umns of the vestibule and the door unsoiled, the walls 
 shining with that coquettish paint which our renewed 
 relations with England brought into fashion, was a 
 little apartment on the second floor, arranged by an 
 architect as if he had foreseen the uses to which it 
 would be put. A simple airy antechamber with a 
 stucco wainscot gave entrance to a salon and a very 
 small dining-room. The salon communicated with a 
 pretty bedchamber, beyond which was a bathroom. 
 The mantels were adorned with mirrors choicely 
 framed. The doors were painted with arabesques 
 in excellent taste, and the style of the cornices was 
 pure. An amateur would have recognized, better 
 there than elsewhere, that science of arrangement and 
 decoration which distinguishes the work of our modern 
 architects. 
 
 For the last month Caroline had occupied this pretty 
 apartment, which was furnished by upholsterers under 
 direction of the architect. A short description of the 
 principal room will give an idea of the marvels this 
 
A Double Life, 367 
 
 apartment presented to Caroline's eyes when Roger 
 brought her there. 
 
 Hangings of gray cloth enlivened by green silk 
 trimmings covered the walls of the bedroom. The 
 furniture, upholstered with pale-green cassimere, was 
 of that light and graceful shape then coming into 
 fashion. A bureau of native wood inlaid with some 
 darker wood held the treasures of the trousseau; a 
 secretary of the same, a bed with antique drapery, 
 curtains of gray silk with green fringes, a bronze 
 clock representing Cupid crowning Psyche, and a car- 
 pet with gothic designs on a reddish ground were the 
 principal features of this place of delight. Opposite 
 to a psyche mirror stood a charming toilet-table, in 
 front of which sat the ex-embroidery girl, very impa- 
 tient with the scientific labor of Plaisir, the famous 
 coiffeur, who was dressing her hair. 
 
 "Do you expect to get it done to-day?" she was 
 saying. 
 
 '* Madame' s hair is so long and thick," responded 
 Plaisir. 
 
 Caroline could not help smiling. The flattery of 
 the artistic hair-dresser reminded her, no doubt, of 
 the passionate admiration expressed by her friend for 
 the beautiful hair he idolized. When Plaisir had 
 departed, Caroline's maid came to hold counsel with 
 her mistress as to which dress was most likely to 
 please Roger. It was then the beginning of Septem- 
 ber, 1816; a dress of green grenadine trimmed with 
 chinchilla was finally chosen. 
 
 As soon as her toilet was over Caroline darted into 
 the salon, opened a window looking upon the street, 
 
368 A Double Life. 
 
 and went out upon the elegant little balcony which 
 adorned the facade of the house; there she folded her 
 arms on the railing in a charming attitude, not taken 
 to excite the admiration of the passers who frequently 
 turned to look at her, but to fix her eyes on the boulevard 
 at the end of the rue Taitbout. This glimpse, which 
 might be compared to the hole in a stage-curtain through 
 which the actors see the audience, enabled her to watch 
 the multitude of elegant carriages and the crowds of 
 people carried past that one spot like the rapid slide of 
 a magic lantern. Uncertain whether Roger would come 
 on foot or in a carriage, the former lodger in the rue 
 du Tourniquet examined in turn the pedestrians and 
 the tilbury s, a light style of phaeton recently brought 
 to France by the English. Expressions of love and 
 mutinous provocation crossed her face when, after 
 watching for half an hour, neither heart nor sight had 
 shown her the person for whom she waited. What 
 contempt, what indifference was on her pretty face for 
 all the other beings who were hurrying along like ants 
 beneath her! Her gray eyes, sparkling with mischief, 
 were dazzling. "Wholly absorbed in her passion, she 
 avoided the admiration of others with as much care as 
 some women take to obtain it; and she troubled her- 
 self not at all as to whether a remembrance of her 
 white figure leaning on the balcony should or should 
 not disappear on the morrow from the minds of the 
 passers who were now admiring her; she saw but one 
 form, and she had in her head but one idea. 
 
 When the dappled head of a certain horse turned 
 from the boulevard into the street, Caroline quivered 
 and stood on tiptoe, trying to recognize the white 
 
A Double Life. 369 
 
 reins and the color of the tilbury. Yes, it was hel 
 Roger, as he turned the corner, looked toward the 
 balcony and whipped his horse and soon reached the 
 bronze door, with which the animal was now as famil- 
 iar as its master. The door of the apartment was 
 opened by the maid, who had heard her mistress's cry 
 of pleasure. Roger rushed into the salon, took Caro- 
 line in his arms, and kissed her with that effusion of 
 feeling which accompanies the rare meetings of two 
 creatures who love each other. Then they sat down 
 together on a sofa before the fire, and silently looked 
 at one another, — expressing their happiness only by 
 the close grasp of their hands, and communicating their 
 thoughts through their eyes. 
 
 "Yes, it is he! " she said at last "Yes, it is you! 
 Bo you know that it is three whole days since I last 
 saw you? — an age! But what is the matter? I know 
 you have some trouble on your mind." 
 
 "My poor Caroline — " 
 
 *'0h, nonsense! poor Caroline — " 
 
 "Don't laugh, my angel; we can't go to-night to 
 the Feydeau." 
 
 Caroline made a face of discontent, which faded 
 instantly. 
 
 "How silly of me! why should I care about the 
 theatre when I have you here. To see you! is n't that 
 the only play I care for? " she cried, passing her hand 
 through his hair. 
 
 "I am obliged to dine with the attorney-general. 
 We have a most troublesome affair on hand. He met 
 me in the great hall of the Palais ; and as I open the 
 case, he asked me to dinner that we might talk it 
 
 24 
 
370 A Double Life. 
 
 over previously. But, my darling, you can take your 
 mother to the Feydeau and I Ml join you there, if the 
 conference ends early." 
 
 "Go to the theatre without you!" she cried, with 
 an expression of astonishment; ''enjoy a pleasure you 
 can't share! Oh, Roger, you don't desers^e to be 
 kissed," she added, throwing her arm round his neck 
 with a motion as naive as it was seductive. 
 
 "Caroline, I must go now, for I have to dress, and 
 it takes so long to reach the Marais; besides, I have 
 business that must be finished before dinner." 
 
 "Monsieur," said Caroline, "take care what you 
 say! My mother assures me that when men begin to 
 talk to us of business that means they no longer love 
 us." 
 
 "But, Caroline, 1 did come as I promised; I 
 snatched this hour from my pitiless — " 
 
 "Oh, hush!" she said, putting her finger on his 
 lips; "hush! don't you see that I was joking?" 
 
 At this moment Roger's eye lighted on an article of 
 furniture brought that morning by the upholsterer, — 
 the old rosewood embroidery-frame the product of 
 which supported Caroline and her mother when they 
 lived in the rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, — which 
 had just been "done-up" like new, and on it a very 
 beautiful tulle dress was already stretched. 
 
 "Yes, look at it, dear friend! I shall work to- 
 night; and while I work I shall be thinking of those 
 first days and weeks and months when you passed me 
 without a word — but not without a look ! those days 
 when the memory of a look kept me awake at night. 
 Oh! my dear frame, the handsomest bit of furniture 
 
A Double Life, 371 
 
 in the room, though you did not give it to me. Ah! 
 you don't know!" she continued, seating herself on 
 Roger's knee. "Listen! I want to give to the poor 
 all I can now earn by embroidery. You have made 
 me so rich, I want for nothing. How I love that dear 
 property of Belief euille ! less for what it is, however, 
 than because you gave it to me. But tell me, Roger ; 
 I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille; 
 can I ? you ought to know. Is it legal or allowable ? " 
 
 Seeing the little nod of affirmation to which Roger 
 was led by his hatred for the name of Crochard, Caro- 
 line danced lightly about the room, clapping her hands 
 together. 
 
 *'It seems to me," she cried, "that I shall belong to 
 you more in that way. Generally a girl gives up her 
 own name and takes that of her husband." 
 
 An importunate idea, which she drove away 
 instantly, made her blush. She took Roger by the 
 hand and led him to the piano. 
 
 *' Listen," she said. **I know my sonata now like 
 an angel." 
 
 So saying, her fingers ran over the ivory keys, but a 
 strong arm caught her round the waist and lifted her. 
 
 "Caroline, I ought to be far away'by this time." 
 
 "You must go? Well, go, then," she said, pouting. 
 
 But she smiled as she looked at the clock, and cried 
 out, joyously : — 
 
 "At any rate, 1 have kept you a quarter of an hour 
 more." 
 
 "Adieu, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille," he said, 
 with the gentle mockery of love. 
 
 She took a kiss and led him to the door. When the 
 
372 A Double Life. 
 
 sound of his steps was no longer to be heard on the 
 staircase she ran to the balcony to see him get into 
 his tilbury, pick up the reins, and send her a last 
 look. Then she listened to the roll of the wheels 
 along the street, and followed with her eyes the mettle- 
 some horse, the hat of the master, the gold lace on the 
 groom's livery, and even looked long at the corner of 
 the street which parted her from that vision of her 
 heart. 
 
 Five years after the installation of Mademoiselle 
 Caroline de Bellefeuille in the pretty apartment in 
 the rue Taitbout, another domestic scene was happen- 
 ing there which tightened still further the bonds of 
 affection between the two beings who loved each 
 other. 
 
 In the middle of the blue salon and in front of the 
 window that opened on the balcony, a little boy- 
 about four and a half years old was making an infer- 
 nal racket by whipping and urging his rocking-horse, 
 which was going at a pace that did not please him. 
 The curls of his pretty blond head were falling in 
 disorder on his collarette, and he smiled like an angel 
 at his mother when she called to him from her sofa : 
 
 "Not so much noise, Charles; you'll wake your 
 little sister." 
 
 At that the inquiring boy jumped hastily from his 
 horse and came on tiptoe, as if he feared to make a 
 sound on the carpet; then, with a finger between his 
 little teeth, he stood in one of those infantine atti- 
 tudes which have so much grace because they are 
 natural, and gently lifted the white muslin veil that hid 
 the rosy face of a baby asleep on its mother's knee. 
 
A Double Life. 373 
 
 "Is she really asleep?" he said, much surprised. 
 "Why does Eugenie sleep when we are all awake?" 
 he inquired, opening wide his great black eyes which 
 floated in liquid light. 
 
 "God only knows that," replied Caroline, smiling. 
 
 Mother and son gazed at the little girl baptized 
 that morning. Caroline, now about twenty-four years 
 old, had developed a beauty which happiness unalloyed 
 and constant pleasure had brought into bloom. In 
 her, the woman was now complete. Happy in obey- 
 ing all the wishes of her dear Roger, she had by 
 degrees acquired the accomplishments in which she 
 was formerly lacking. She could play quite well on 
 the piano, and sang agreeably. Ignorant of the usages 
 of society (which would have repulsed her, and where 
 she would not have gone had it even desired her, for 
 a happy woman does not seek the world), she had not 
 learned how to assume the social elegance of manner 
 nor how to maintain the conversation teeming with 
 words and empty of thought which passes current in 
 the world. But, on the other hand, she had laboriously 
 obtained the knowledge and the accomplishments 
 necessary to a mother whose ambition lies in bringing 
 up her children properly. 
 
 Never to part from her son; to give him from his 
 cradle those lessons of every hour which imprint upon 
 the youthful soul a love of goodness and of beauty, 
 to preserve him from all evil influences, to fulfil the 
 wearisome functions of a nurse and the tender obliga- 
 tions of a mother, — such were her pleasures. From 
 the very first day of her love the discreet and gentle 
 creature resigned herself so thoroughly to make no 
 
374 A Double Life. 
 
 step beyond the enchanted sphere in which she found 
 her joys, that after six years of the tenderest union 
 she knew her friend only by the name of Roger. In 
 her bedroom an engraving of Psyche coming with her 
 lamp to look at Cupid, though forbidden by the god to 
 do so, reminded her of the conditions of her happiness. 
 
 During these six years no ill-placed ambition on 
 her part wearied Roger's heart, a treasure-house of 
 kindness. Never did she wish for display, for dia- 
 monds, for toilets; she refused the luxury of a car- 
 riage offered a score of times to her vanity. To watch 
 on the balcony for Roger's cabriolet, to go with him 
 to the theatre, to ramble with him in fine weather in 
 the country about Paris, to hope for him, to see him, 
 to hope for him again, — that was the story of her life, 
 poor in events, rich in affection. 
 
 While rocking to sleep with a song the baby, a 
 girl, born a few months before the day of which we 
 speak, she pleased herself by evoking her memories of 
 the past. The period she liked best to dwell on was 
 the month of September in every year, when Roger 
 took her to Belief euille to enjoy the country at that 
 season. Nature is then as prodigal of fruit as of 
 flowers; the evenings are warm, the mornings soft, 
 and the sparkle of summer still keeps at bay the 
 melancholy ghost of autumn. 
 
 During the first period of their love Caroline attrib- 
 uted the calm equability of soul and the gentleness of 
 which Roger gave her so many proofs to the rarity of 
 their meetings, always longed for, and to their manner 
 of life, which did not keep them perpetually in each 
 other's presence, as with husband and wife. She 
 
A Double Life. 375 
 
 recalled with delight how, during their first stay on 
 the beautiful little property in the Gatinais, tormented 
 by a vague fear, she watched him. Useless espial of 
 love! Each of those joyful months passed like 
 a dream in the bosom of a happiness that proved 
 unchangeable. She had never seen that kind and 
 tender being without a smile on his lips, — a smile 
 that seemed the echo of her own. Sometimes these 
 pictures too vividly evoked brought tears to her eyes ; 
 she fancied she did not love him enough, and was 
 tempted to see in her equivocal situation a sort of tax 
 levied by fate upon her love. 
 
 At other times an invincible curiosity led her to 
 wonder for the millionth time what events they were 
 which could have driven so loving a man as Roger to 
 find his happiness in ways that were clandestine and 
 illegal. She invented a score of romances, chiefly to 
 escape admitting the real reason, long since divined, 
 though her heart refused to believe in it. 
 
 She now rose, still holding her sleeping child in her 
 arms, and went into the dining-room to superintend 
 the arrangements of the table for dinner. The day 
 was the 6th of May, 1822, the anniversary of their 
 excursion to the park of Saint-Leu, when her life was 
 decided; during every succeeding year that day had 
 been kept as a festival of the heart. Caroline now 
 selected the linen and ordered the arrangement of the 
 dessert. Having thus taken the pains which she knew 
 would please Roger, she laid the baby in its pretty 
 cradle and took up her station on the balcony to watch 
 for the useful cabriolet which had now replaced the 
 elegant tilbury of former years. 
 
376 A Doulle Life. 
 
 After receiving the first onset of Caroline's caresses 
 and those of the lively urchin who called him "papa," 
 Roger went to the cradle, looked at his sleeping daugh- 
 ter, kissed her forehead, and drew from his pocket a 
 long paper, covered with black lines. 
 
 "Caroline," he said, "here 's the dowry of Made- 
 moiselle Eugenie de Belief euille." 
 
 The mother took the paper (a certificate of invest- 
 ment on the Grand-livre) gratefully. 
 
 "Why three thousand francs a year to Eugenie, 
 when you only gave fifteen hundred a year to 
 Charles?" she asked. 
 
 "Charles, my angel, will be a man," he answered. 
 "Fifteen hundred francs will suffice to support him. 
 With that income a man of energy is above want. If, 
 by chance, your son should be a nullity, I do not wish 
 to give him enough to make him dissipated. If he 
 has ambition, that small amount of property will in- 
 spire him with a love of work, and it will also enable 
 to work. Eugenie is a woman, and must be provided 
 for." 
 
 The father began to play with Charles, whose lively 
 demonstrations were proofs of the independence and 
 liberty in which he was being educated. No fear 
 between child and father destroyed that charm which 
 compensates paternity for its heavy responsibilities; 
 the gayety of the little family was as sweet as it was 
 genuine. That evening a magic lantern was produced 
 which cast upon a white sheet mysterious scenes and 
 pictures to the great amazement of the boy. More 
 than once the raptures of the innocent little fellow 
 excited the wild laughter of his father and mother. 
 
A Double Life. 377 
 
 Later, when the child had gone to bed, the baby woke, 
 demanding its legitimate nourishment. By the light 
 of the lamp, beside the hearth, in that chamber of 
 peace and pleasure, Roger abandoned himself to the 
 happiness of contemplating the picture of Caroline 
 with her infant at her breast, white and fresh as a lily 
 when it blooms, her beautiful brown hair falling in 
 such masses of curls as almost to hide her throat. 
 The light, as it fell, brought out the charms of this 
 young mother, — multiplying upon her and about her, 
 on her clothes and on her infant, those picturesque 
 effects which are produced by combinations of light 
 and shade. The face of the calm and silent woman 
 seemed sweeter than ever before to Roger, who looked 
 with tender eyes at the red and curving lips from 
 which no bitter or discordant word had ever issued. 
 The same love shone in Caroline's own eyes as she 
 examined Roger furtively, either to enjoy the effect 
 she was producing, or to know if she might keep him 
 that evening. 
 
 Roger, who saw that meaning in her glance, said, 
 with feigned regret : — 
 
 "I must soon be going. I have important business 
 to attend to; they expect me at home. Duty first; 
 isn't that so, my darling?" 
 
 Caroline watched him with a sad and gentle look, 
 which did not leave him ignorant of the pain of her 
 sacrifice. 
 
 "Adieu, then," she said. "Go now! If you stay 
 an hour longer perhaps I shall not then be able to let 
 you go." 
 
 "My angel," he said, smiling, "I have three days' 
 
378 A Double Life. 
 
 leave of absence, and I am supposed to be at this 
 moment twenty leagues from Paris." 
 
 A few days after this anniversary of the 6th of 
 May, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was hun*ying one 
 morning to the rue Saint-Louis in the Marais, hoping 
 not to arrive too late at a house where she usually 
 went regularly once a week. A messenger had been 
 sent to tell her that her mother, Madame Crochard, 
 was dying from a complication of ills brought on by 
 catarrh and rheumatism. 
 
 While Caroline was still on the way, certain scrup- 
 ulous old women with whom Madame Crochard had 
 made friends for the last few years, introduced a priest 
 into the clean and comfortable apartment of the old 
 mother on the second floor of the house. Madame 
 Crochard 's servant was ignorant that the pretty young 
 lady with whom her mistress often dined was the old 
 woman's daughter. She was the first to propose call- 
 ing in a confessor, hoping, secretly, that the priest 
 would be of as much use to her as to the sick woman. 
 
 Between two games of cards, or while walking 
 together in the Jardin Turc, the old women with whom 
 Madame Crochard gossiped daily had contrived to 
 instil into the hardened heart of their friend certain 
 scruples as to her past life, a few ideas of the future, 
 a few fears on the subject of hell, and certain hopes 
 of pardon based on a sincere return to the duties of 
 religion. Consequently, during this solemn morning 
 three old dames from the rue Saint-FranQois and the 
 rue Vieille-du-Temple established themselves in the 
 salon where Madame Crochard was in the habit of 
 receiving them every Tuesday. They each took turns 
 
A Double Life. 379 
 
 to keep the poor old creature company and give her 
 those false hopes with which the sick are usually 
 deluded. 
 
 It was not until the crisis seemed approaching and 
 the doctor, called in the night before, refused to 
 answer for the patient's life, that the three old women 
 consulted one another to decide if it were necessary 
 to notify Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Frangoise, 
 the maid, was finally instructed to send a messenger 
 to the rue Taitbout to inform the young relation whose 
 influence was feared by the four old women, each of 
 whom devoutly hoped that the man might return too 
 late with the person on whom Madame Crochard had 
 seemed to set a great affection. The latter, rich to 
 their minds, and spending at least three thousand 
 francs a year, was courted and cared for by the female 
 trio solely because none of these good friends, nor 
 even Fran9oise herself, knew of her having any heirs. 
 The opulence in which her young relation Mademoi- 
 selle de Bellefeuille lived (Madame Crochard refrained 
 from calling Caroline her daughter, according to a 
 well-known custom of the Opera of her day) seemed 
 to justify their scheme of sharing the property of the 
 dying woman among themselves. 
 
 Presently one of the three crones, who was watching 
 the patient, put her shaking head into the room where 
 the other two were waiting, and said : — 
 
 "It is time to send for the Abbe Fontanon. In two 
 hours from now she will be unconscious, and could n't 
 sign her name." 
 
 Old Frangoise departed immediately, and soon re- 
 turned with a man in a black coat. A narrow fore- 
 
380 A Double Life. 
 
 head bespoke a narrow mind in this priest, whose face 
 was of the commonest, — his heavy, hanging cheeks, 
 his double chin, showing plainly enough a comfort- 
 loving egotist. His powdered hair gave him a spe- 
 ciously mild appearance until he raised his small brown 
 eyes, which were very prominent, and would have been 
 in their proper place beneath the brows of a Kalmuc 
 Tartar. 
 
 "Monsieur I'abbe," Frangoise was saying to him, 
 "I thank you for your advice, but you must please 
 to remember the care I have taken of this dear 
 woman — " 
 
 Here she suddenly paused, observing that the door 
 of the apartment was open and that the most insinuat- 
 ing of the three crones was standing on the landing to 
 be the first to speak with the confessor. 
 
 When the ecclesiastic had graciously received the 
 triple broadside of the three pious and devoted friends 
 of the widow he went into the latter' s chamber and 
 eat down by her bedside. Decency and a certain 
 sense of propriety forced the three ladies and old 
 FranQoise to remain in the adjoining room, where 
 they assumed looks of grief and mourning, which 
 none but wrinkled old faces like theirs can mimic 
 to perfection. 
 
 "Ah! but haven't I been unlucky?" cried Fran- 
 9oise, with a sigh. "This is the fourth mistress I've 
 had the grief to bury. The first left me an annuity 
 of a hundred francs, the second a hundred and fifty, 
 the third a sum down of three thousand. After thirty 
 years' service that 's all I 've got! " 
 
 The servant presently used her right of going and 
 
-4, 
 
 A Double Life. 331 
 
 coming to slip into a little closet where she could 
 overhear the priest's words. 
 
 "I see with pleasure," said Fontanon, "that your 
 feelings, my daughter, are those of true piety. You 
 are wearing, I see, some holy relic." 
 
 Madame Crochard made a vague movement which 
 showed perhaps that she was not wholly in her right 
 mind, for she dragged out the imperial cross of the 
 Legion of honor. 
 
 The abbe rolled back his chair on beholding the 
 eflfigy of the emperor. But he soon drew closer to his 
 penitent, who talked to him in so low a voice that for 
 a time Fran^oise could hear nothing. 
 
 "A curse upon me!/' cried the old woman suddenly, 
 in a louder voice. "Don't abandon me, monsieur 
 I'abbe. Do you really think I shall have to answer 
 for my daughter's soul?*' 
 
 The priest spoke in so low a voice that Frangoise 
 could not hear him through the partition. 
 
 "Alas!" cried the widow, shrilly, "the wretch has 
 given me nothing that I can will to any one. When 
 he took my poor Caroline, he separated her from me, 
 and gave me only three thousand francs a year, the 
 capital of which is to go to my daughter." 
 
 "Madame has a daughter, and only an annuity!" 
 cried Fran^oise, hastening into the salon. 
 
 The three old women looked at each other in amaze- 
 ment. The one whose chin and nose were nearest 
 together (thus revealing a certain superior hypocrisy 
 and shrewdness) winked at the other two, and as soon 
 as FranQoise had turned her back she made them a 
 sign which meant, *She 's a sly one; she has got her- 
 self down on three wills already." 
 
«r 
 
 382 A Bouhle Life. 
 
 The three old women remained therefore where they 
 were. But the abbe presently joined them, and after 
 they had heard what he had to say, they hurried like 
 witches down the stairs and out of the house, leaving 
 Franyoise alone with her mistress. 
 
 Madame Crochard, whose sufferings were increasing 
 cruelly, rang in vain for her maid, who was busy in 
 making a search among the old woman's receptacles, 
 and contented herself by calling out from time to 
 time : — 
 
 "Yes, yes ! I 'm coming ! — presently ! " 
 
 The doors of the closets and wardrobes were heard 
 to open and shut, as if Frangoise were looking for 
 some lottery-ticket or bank-note hidden among their 
 contents. At this moment, when the crisis was im- 
 pending, Mademoiselle de Belief euille arrived. 
 
 "Oh! my dear mother," she cried, "how criminal 
 I am not to have got here sooner ! You suffer, and I 
 did not know it! my heart never told me you were in 
 pain ! But here I am now — '* 
 
 "Caroline." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They brought me a priest." 
 
 "A doctor is what you want," cried Caroline. 
 "Frangoise, fetch a doctor. How could those ladies 
 neglect to have a doctor? " 
 
 "They brought me a priest," reiterated Madame 
 Crochard, with a sigh. 
 
 "How she suffers! and not a thing to give her; no 
 quieting medicine, nothing ! " ^ 
 
 The mother made an indistinct sign ; but Caroline's 
 intelligent eye saw what was meant; she was instantly 
 silent herself that her mother might speak. 
 
A Double Life. 383 
 
 "They brought me a priest," said the old woman for 
 the third time, "on pretence of confessing me. Be- 
 ware for yourself, Caroline," she cried out painfully, 
 making a last effort; "the priest dragged out of me 
 the name of your protector." 
 
 "How did you know it, my poor mother?" The 
 old woman died while striving to look satirically at 
 her daughter. If Caroline had observed her mother's 
 face at that moment she would have seen what no one 
 will ever see, namely, — Death laughing. 
 
 To understand the secrets underlying this introduc- 
 tion to our present Scene, we must for a time forget 
 these personages and turn back to the story of anterior 
 events. The conclusion of that story will be seen to 
 be connected with the death of Madame Crochard. 
 These two parts will then form one history, which, by 
 a law peculiar to Parisian life, had produced two 
 distinct and separate lines of action. 
 
384 A Douhle Life. 
 
 TL 
 
 THE FIRST LIFE. 
 
 Toward the close of November, 1805, a young law- 
 yer, then about twenty-six years of age, was coining 
 down the grand staircase of the mansion occupied by 
 the arch-chancellor of the Empire, about three in 
 the morning. When he reached the court-yard in his 
 evening dress and saw a thin coating of ice, he gave 
 an exclamation of dismay, through which, however, 
 shone that sense of amusement which seldom deserts 
 a Frenchman. Looking about him he saw no hack- 
 ney-coaches, and heard in the distance none of those 
 familiar sounds produced by the wooden shoes of Par- 
 isian coachmen and their gruff voices. The tramp- 
 ling of a few horses were heard in the court-yard, 
 among them those of the chief-justice, whom the 
 young man had just seen playing cards with Cam- 
 baceres. Suddenly he felt the friendly clap of a hand 
 upon his shoulder; looking round, he beheld the chief- 
 justice and bowed to him. 
 
 As the footman was letting down the steps of his 
 carriage, the former legislator of the Convention had 
 observed the young man's predicament. 
 
 "All cats are gray at night," he said, gayly. "The 
 chief- justice won't compromise himself if he does 
 take a barrister to his lodgings. Especially," he 
 
A DouUe Life. 385 
 
 added, "if the said barrister is the nephew of an old 
 colleague, and one of the lights of that great Council 
 of State which gave the Code Napoleon to France." 
 
 The young man got into the carriage, obeying an 
 imperative sign from the chief law officer of imperial 
 justice. 
 
 "Where do you live?" asked the minister, while the 
 footman awaited the order before he closed the door. 
 
 **Quai des Augustins, monseigneur." 
 
 The horses started, and the young lawyer found 
 himself tete a tete with the minister, whom he had 
 vainly endeavored to speak with both during and after 
 the sumptuous dinner of Cambaceres; it was evident 
 to his mind that the chief-justice had taken pains to 
 avoid him during the whole evening. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur de Granville, it seems to me that 
 you are on the right road now — " 
 
 "So long as I am seated by your Excellency — " 
 
 "I'm not joking," said the minister. "You were 
 called to the bar two years ago, and since then your 
 defence in the Simeuse and the Hauteserre trials have 
 placed you very high." 
 
 "I have thought, until now, that my devotion to 
 those unfortunate emigres did me an injury." 
 
 "You are very young," said the minister, gravely. 
 "But," he added, after a pause, "you pleased the 
 arch-chancellor to-night. Enter the magistracy of the 
 bar; we back the right men there. The nephew of a 
 man for whom Cambaceres and I feel the deepest 
 interest ought not to remain a mere pleader for want 
 of influence. Your uncle helped us to come safely 
 through a stormy period, and such services must not 
 be forgotten." 
 
 26 
 
386 A Double Life, 
 
 The minister was silent for a moment. "Before 
 long," he resumed, ''I shall have three places vacant, 
 in the Lower court and in the Imperial court of Paris ; 
 come and see me then, and choose the one that suits 
 you. Until then, work hard ; but do not come to my 
 court. In the first place, I am overrun with work; 
 and in the next, your rivals will guess your intentions 
 and try to injure you. Cambaceres and I, by saying 
 not one word to you to-night, were protecting you 
 from the dangers of favoritism." 
 
 As the minister ended these words the carriage drew 
 up on the Quai des Augustins. The young barrister 
 thanked his generous protector with effusive warmth 
 of heart, and rapped loudly on the door, for the keen 
 north wind blew about his calves with wintry rigor. 
 Presently an old porter drew the cord, and, as the 
 young man entered, he called to him in a wheezy 
 voice : — 
 
 "Monsieur, here 's a letter for you." 
 
 The young man took it, and tried, in spite of the 
 cold, to read the writing by the paling gleam of a 
 street-lamp. 
 
 "It is from my father! " he exclaimed, taking his 
 candlestick from the porter. He then ran rapidly up 
 to his room and read the following letter ; — 
 
 "Take the mail coach, and, if you get here promptly, 
 your fortune is made. Mademoiselle Ang^lique Bon- 
 tems has lost her sister; she is now the only child, 
 and we know that she does not hate you. Madame 
 Bontems will probably leave her forty thousand francs 
 a year in addition to her dowry. I have prepared your 
 
A Double Life. 387 
 
 way. Our friends may be surprised to see a noble 
 family like ours ally itself with the Bontems. It 
 is true that old Bontems was a bonnet rouge of the 
 deepest dye, who got possession of a vast amount of 
 the national property for almost nothing. But in the 
 first place, what he got was the property of monks 
 who will never return, and in the next, inasmuch as 
 you have already derogated from our station in mak- 
 ing yourself a barrister, I don't see why we should 
 shrink from making another concession to modern 
 ideas. The girl will have three hundred thousand 
 francs, and I will give you one hundred thousand; 
 your mother's property is worth a hundred and fifty 
 thousand more, or nearly that. Therefore, my dear 
 son, if you are willing to enter the magistracy, I see 
 you in a fair way to become a senator like the rest 
 of them. My brother-in-law, the councillor of State, 
 will not lend a hand for that, I know, but as he is not 
 married, his property will be yours some day. In 
 reaching that position you perch high enough to watch 
 events. 
 
 "Adieu; I embrace you." 
 
 Young de Granville went to bed with his head full 
 of projects, each one more delightful than the last. 
 Powerfully protected by Cambaceres, the chief-justice, 
 and his maternal uncle, who was one of the construc- 
 tors of the Code, he was about to begin his career in 
 an enviable position before the leading court of France 
 and a member of that bar from which Napoleon was 
 selecting the highest functionaries of his empire. And 
 now, in addition to these prospects, came that of a 
 
388 A Double Life. 
 
 fortune sufficiently brilliant to enable him to sustain 
 his rank, to which the puny revenue of five thousand 
 francs which he derived from an estate left him by his 
 mother would not have sufficed. 
 
 To complete his dreams of ambition came those 
 of personal happiness; he evoked the naive face of 
 Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems, the companion of 
 his childish plays. So long as he remained a mere 
 child his father and mother had not opposed his inti- 
 macy with the pretty daughter of their country neigh- 
 bor; but when, during his short visits to Bayeux at 
 the time of his college vacations, his parents, bigoted 
 aristocrats, noticed his affection for the young girl, 
 they forbade him to think of her. For ten years past 
 young Granville had seldom seen his former com- 
 panion, whom he called his "little wife." On the few 
 occasions when the young pair had managed to evade 
 the watchfulness of their families, they had scarcely 
 done more than exchange a few words as they passed 
 in the street or sat near each other in church. Their 
 fortunate days were those when they met at some rural 
 fete, called in Normandy an "assembly," when they 
 were able to watch each other furtively. During his 
 last vacation, Granville had seen Angelique twice; 
 and the lowered eyes and dejected look of his "little 
 wife " made him think she was oppressed by some 
 secret despotism. 
 
 The morning after receiving his father's letter, the 
 young lawyer appeared at the coach office in the rue 
 Notre-Dame des Victoires, by seven o'clock, and was 
 lucky enough to get a seat in the diligence then 
 starting for Caen. 
 
A Double Life. 389 
 
 It was not without deep emotion that the new bar- 
 rister beheld the towers of the cathedral of Bayeux. 
 No hope of his life had yet been disappointed; his 
 heart was opening to all the noblest sentiments which 
 stir the youthful mind. After an over-long banquet 
 of welcome with his father and a few old friends, the 
 impatient young man was taken to a certain house in 
 the rue Teinture, already well-known to him. His 
 heart beat violently as his father — who was still 
 called in Bayeux the Comte de Granville — rapped 
 loudly at a porte-cochere, the green paint of which 
 was peeling off in scales. 
 
 It was four in the afternoon. A young servant- 
 girl, wearing a cotton cap, saluted the gentlemen with 
 a bob courtesy, and replied that the ladies were at 
 vespers, but would soon be heme. The count and his 
 son were shown into a lower room which sei*ved as a 
 salon and looked like the parlor of a convent. Panels 
 of polished walnut darkened the room, around which 
 a few chairs covered with tapestry were symmetrically 
 placed. The sole ornament of the stone chimney- 
 piece was a green-hued mirror, from either side of 
 which projected the twisted arms of those old-fashioned 
 candelabra made at the time of the Peace of Utrecht. 
 On the panelled wall opposite to the fireplace young 
 Granville saw an enormous crucifix of ebony and 
 ivory weathed with consecrated box. 
 
 Though lighted by three windows, which looked upon 
 a provincial garden of symmetrical square beds out- 
 lined with box, the room was so dark that it was diflS- 
 cult to distinguish on the wall opposite to the windows 
 three church pictures, the work of some learned artist, 
 
390 A Double Life. 
 
 and bought, during the Revolution no doubt, by old 
 Bontems, who, in his capacity as head of the district, 
 did not forget his own interests. 
 
 From the carefully waxed floor to the curtains of 
 green checked linen everything shone with monastic 
 cleanliness. The heart of the young man was chilled 
 involuntarily by this silent retreat in which Angelique 
 lived. His recent experience of the brilliant salons 
 of Paris in the vortex of continual fetes had easily 
 effaced from his mind the dull and placid life of the 
 provinces ; the contrast was now so abruptly presented 
 that he was conscious of a species of inward repug- 
 nance. To come from a reception at Cambace'res, 
 where life was so ample, where intellects had breadth 
 and compass, where the imperial glory was so vividly 
 reflected, and to fall suddenly into a circle of mean 
 ideas was like being transported from Italy to Green- 
 land. 
 
 "To live here! why, it is not living," he said in- 
 wardly, as he looked round this salon of methodism. 
 
 The old count, who noted the surprise on his son's 
 face, took his arm and led him to a window where 
 there was still a little light, and while the woman lit 
 the yellowed candles above the chimney-piece, he en- 
 deavored to disperse the clouds that this aspect of 
 dulness gathered on the young man's brow. 
 
 "Listen, my boy," he said. "The widow of old 
 Bontems is desperately pious, — when the devil gets 
 old, you know! I see that the odor of sanctity is too 
 much for you. Well, now, here 's the truth. The old 
 woman is besieged by priests; they have persuaded 
 her that she has still time to go straight to heaven j 
 
A Double Life. 391 
 
 and so, to make sure of Saint Peter and his keys, she 
 buys them. She goes to mass every day, takes the 
 sacrament every Sunday that God creates, and amuses 
 herself by restoring chapels. She has given the cathe- 
 dral so many ornaments, albs, and copes, she has 
 bedizened the canopy with such loads of feathers that 
 the last procession of the F^te-Dieu brought a greater 
 crowd than a hanging, merely to see the priests so 
 gorgeously dressed and all their utensils regilt. This 
 house, my boy, is holy ground. But I 've managed 
 to persuade the foolish old thing not to give those 
 pictures you see there to the church; one is a Do- 
 menichino, the other two, Correggio and Andrea del 
 Sarto, — worth a great deal of money." 
 
 "But Angelique?" asked the young man, eagerly. 
 
 *'If you don't marry her Angelique is lost," replied 
 the count. "Our good apostles keep advising her to 
 be a virgin and martyr. I 've had a world of trouble 
 to rouse her little heart by talking of you, — ever since 
 she became an only child. But can't you see that, 
 once married, you '11 take her to Paris, and once there 
 fgtes, and marriage, and the theatre and the excite- 
 ments of Parisian life will soon make her forget the 
 confessionals and fasts, hair-shirts and masses on 
 which these creatures feed ? " 
 
 "But won't the fifty thousand francs a year derived 
 from ecclesiastical property be given back ? " 
 
 "Ah! there's the rub," cried the count, with a 
 knowing look. "In consideration of this maiTiage — 
 for Madame Bontems* vanity is not a little tickled at 
 the idea of grafting the Bontems on the genealogical 
 tree of the Granvilles — the said mother gives her 
 
392 A Double Life. 
 
 fortune outright to her daughter, reserving to herself 
 only a life- interest in it. Of course the clergy oppose 
 the marriage ; but I have had the banns published ; all 
 is ready ; in a week you '11 be out of the claws of the 
 old woman and her abbes. You '11 get the prettiest 
 girl in Bayeux, — a little duck who '11 never give you 
 any trouble, for she has principles. She has been 
 mortified in the flesh, as they say in their jargon, by 
 fasts and prayers, and," he added, in a low voice, 
 *'by her mother." 
 
 A rap discreetly given to the door silenced the 
 count, who expected to see the two ladies enter. A 
 young servant-lad with an air of important business 
 entered, but, intimidated by the sight of two strangers, 
 be made a sign to the woman, who went up to him. 
 The lad wore a blue jacket with short tails which 
 flapped about his hips, and blue and white striped 
 trousers; his hair was cut round, and his face was 
 that of a choir-boy, so expressive was it of that forced 
 compunction which all the members of a devote house- 
 hold acquire. 
 
 ** Mademoiselle Gatienne, do you know where the 
 books for the Office of the Virgin are ? The ladies of 
 the congregation of the Sacre-Coeur are to make a 
 procession this evening in the church." 
 
 Gatienne went to fetch the books. 
 
 **WilI it take long, my little friar?" asked the 
 count. 
 
 *'0h! not more than half an hour." 
 
 "Suppose we go and see it; lots of pretty women," 
 said the father to the son. "Besides, a visit to the 
 cathedral won't do us any harm " 
 
A Double Life. 393 
 
 The young lawyer followed bis father with an iiTeso- 
 lute air. 
 
 "What 's the matter with you? " asked the count. 
 
 "Well, the fact is, father, that I — I — I think I am 
 right." 
 
 "But you haven't yet said anything." 
 
 "True; but I have been thinking that having saved 
 a part of your former fortune you will leave it to me 
 some day, and a long day hence I hope. Now if you 
 are willing to give me, as you say, a hundred thousand 
 francs to make this marriage, which may be a foolish 
 one, I 'd rather take fifty thousand to escape unhappi- 
 ness and stay a bachelor. Even so I shall have a for- 
 tune equal to that which Mademoiselle Bontems will 
 bring me." 
 
 "Are you crazy?" 
 
 "No, father. Here is what I mean. The chief- 
 justice promised me two days ago an appointment at 
 the Paris bar. Fifty thousand francs joined to what 
 I now possess, together with the salary of the place, 
 will give me an income of twelve thousand francs; 
 and I should undoubtedly have opportunities of for- 
 tune far preferable to those of a marriage which may 
 prove as poor in happiness as it is rich in means." 
 
 "I see plainly," said his father, laughing, "that 
 you never lived under the ancien regime. Did we of 
 that day ever trouble ourselves about our wives, I 'd 
 like to know?" 
 
 " But, father, marriage has become in our day — " 
 
 " Ah ga I " said the count, interrupting his son, 
 "then all is true that my old friends of the emigration 
 used to tell me? Has the Revolution bequeathed us 
 
394 A DouUe Life. 
 
 nothing but life without gayety, infecting the youth 
 of France with equivocal principles? Are you going 
 to talk to me, like my brother-in-law the Jacobin, of 
 the Nation, and public morality, and disinterested- 
 ness? Good heavens! without the Emperor's sisters 
 what would become of us ? " 
 
 The old man, still vigorous, whom the peasants on 
 his property continued to call the Seigneur de Gran- 
 ville, concluded these words as they entered the cathe- 
 dral. Disregarding the sanctity of the place, he 
 hummed an air from the opera of "Rose et Colas" 
 while taking the holy water; then he led his son along 
 the lateral aisles, stopping at each column to examine 
 the rows of heads, lined up like those of soldiers on 
 parade. 
 
 The special office of the Sacr^-Coeur was about to 
 begin. The ladies belonging to that society had 
 gathered near the choir; the count and his son moved 
 on to that part of the nave and stood leaning against 
 a column in the darkest corner, whence they could see 
 the entire mass of heads, which bore some resemblance 
 to a meadow studded with flowers. 
 
 Suddenly, within a few feet of young Granville, the 
 sweetest voice he could conceive a human being to 
 possess rose like the song of the first nightingale 
 after a dreary winter. Though accompanied by other 
 women's voices and the tones of the organ, that voice 
 stirred his nerves as if they had been suddenly assailed 
 by the too rich, too keen notes of an harmonica. The 
 Parisian turned round and saw a young girl whose face, 
 from the bowed attitude of the head, was completely 
 hidden in a large bonnet of some white material. He 
 
A Double Life. 395 
 
 felt it was from her that this clear melody proceeded ; 
 he fancied that he recognized Angelique in spite of 
 the brown pelisse which wrapped her figure, and he 
 nudged his father's arm. 
 
 "Yes, that 's she," said the count, after looking in 
 the direction his son had pointed out. 
 
 The old gentleman showed by a gesture the pale 
 face of an elderly woman whose eyes, encircled by 
 dark lines, had already taken note of the strangers, 
 though her deceitful glance seemed never to have left 
 her prayer-book. 
 
 Angelique raised her head toward the altar, as if to 
 inhale the penetrating perfume of the incense, clouds 
 of which were floating near the women. By the mys- 
 terious gleams cast from the tapers, the lamp of the 
 nave, and a few wax-candles fastened to the columns, 
 the young man saw a sight which shook his resolu- 
 tions. A white silk bonnet framed a face of charming 
 regularity, ending the oval by a bow of satin ribbon 
 beneath the dimpled chin. Above a narrow but deli- 
 cate forehead the pale gold hair was parted into bands 
 which came down upon her cheeks like the shadow of 
 foliage on a bunch of flowers. The arches of the eye- 
 brows were drawn with the precision so much admired 
 on beautiful Chinese faces. The nose, almost aqui- 
 line, possessed an unusual firmness of outline, and 
 the lips were like two rosy lines traced by love's most 
 delicate implement. The eyes, of a pale, clear blue, 
 were expressive of purity. 
 
 Though Granville remarked a sort of rigid silence 
 upon this charming face, he could readily assign it to 
 the feelings of devotion that were then in the giii's 
 
396 A Double Life. 
 
 soul. The sacred words of the prayer passed from 
 those rosy lips in a cloud, as it were, of perfume, 
 which the cold of the church sent visibly into the 
 atmosphere. Involuntarily, the young man bent for- 
 ward to breathe that divine exhalation. The move- 
 ment attracted the girl's attention, and her eyes, 
 hitherto fixed on the altar, turned toward Granville. 
 The dim light showed him to her indistinctly, but she 
 recognized the companion of her childhood ; a memory 
 more powerful than prayer brought a vivid brilliancy 
 to her face, and she blushed. The young man quivered 
 with joy as the emotions of another life were visibly 
 vanquished by emotions of love, and the solemnity of 
 the sanctuary seemed eclipsed by earthly memories. 
 But his triumph was soon over. Angelique lowered 
 her veil, recovered a calm countenance, and began 
 once more to sing without a thrill in her voice that 
 showed the least emotion. But Granville found him- 
 self under the thraldom of a new desire, and all his 
 ideas of prudence vanished. 
 
 By the time the service was over his impatience had 
 become so great that without allowing the ladies to 
 return home he went up at once to greet his "little 
 wife." A recognition that was shy on both sides took 
 place in the porch of the cathedral under the eyes of the 
 faithful. Madame Bontems trembled with pride as she 
 took the arm which the Comte de Granville, much 
 provoked by his son's scarcely decent impatience, 
 was forced to offer her before the eyes of all present. 
 
 During the fifteen days that now elapsed between 
 the oflScial presentation of the young Vicomte de Gran- 
 ville as the accepted suitor of Mademoiselle Angelique 
 
A Double Life. 397 
 
 Bontems and the solemn day of the marriage, the 
 young man came assiduously to visit his love in the 
 gloomy parlor, to which he grew accustomed. These 
 long visits were partly made for the purpose of watch- 
 ing Angelique's nature; for Granville's prudence re- 
 vived on the day after that first interview. He always 
 found his future wife seated before a little table of 
 Santa Lucia wood, employed in marking the linen 
 of her trousseau. Angdlique never spoke first of 
 religion. If the young lawyer began to play with the 
 beads of the handsome rosary which lay beside her in 
 a crimson velvet bag, if he smiled as he looked at a 
 relic which always accompanied that instrument of 
 devotion, Angelique would take the chaplet gently 
 from his hands, giving him a supplicating look ; then, 
 without a word, she replaced it in its bag and locked 
 them up. If, occasionally (to test her), Granville 
 risked some objecting remark against certain prac- 
 tices of religion, the pretty creature would listen to 
 him with the settled smile of fixed conviction on her 
 lips. 
 
 "We must either believe nothing, or believe all that 
 the Church teaches," she replied. *' Would you wish a 
 girl without religion for the mother of your children ? 
 No. What man would dare to judge between God 
 and the unbelievers? Can I blame what the Church 
 enjoins?" 
 
 Ang(51ique seemed so inspired by fervent charity, 
 Granville saw her turn such penetrating and beseech- 
 ing glances on him, that he was several times tempted 
 to embrace her religion. The profound conviction she 
 felt of walking in the ti'ue and only path awoke in. the 
 
398 A Double Life. 
 
 heart of the future magistrate certain doubts of which 
 she endeavored to make the most. 
 
 Granville then committed the enormous fault of 
 mistaking the signs of an eager desire for those of 
 love. Angelique was so pleased to unite the voice 
 of her heart with that of her duty, in yielding to an 
 inclination she had felt from childhood, that the young 
 man, misled, did not distinguish which of the two 
 voices was the stronger. Are not all young men 
 primarily disposed to trust the promises of a pretty 
 face, and to infer beauty of soul from beauty of 
 feature? An indefinable feeling leads them to believe 
 that moral perfection must coincide with physical per- 
 fection. If her religion had not permitted Angelique 
 to yield to her feelings they would soon have dried up 
 in her heart like a plant watered with an acid. Could 
 a lover beloved become aware of the secret fanaticism 
 of the girl's nature? 
 
 Such was the history of young Granville's feelings 
 during this fortnight, devoured like a book whose 
 denouement is absorbing. Angelique, attentively 
 studied, seemed to him the gentlest of womankind, 
 and he even found himself giving thanks to Madame 
 Bontems, who, by inculcating the principles of religion 
 so strongly in her daughter, had trained her, as it 
 were, to meet the trials of life. 
 
 On the day appointed for the signing of the mar- 
 riage contract Madame Bontems made her son-in-law 
 swear solemnly to respect the religious practices of 
 her daughter, to allow her absolute liberty of con- 
 science, to let her take the sacrament and go to church 
 and to confession as often as she pleased, and never 
 
A Double Life. 399 
 
 to oppose her in her choice of a confessor. At this 
 solemn moment Angelique looked at her future hus- 
 band with so pure and innocent an air that Granville 
 did not hesitate to take the required oath. A smile 
 flickered on the lips of the Abbe Fontanon, the pallid 
 priest who directed the consciences of the family. 
 With a slight motion of her head, Mademoiselle 
 Bontems promised her lover never to make an ill use 
 of that liberty of conscience. As for the old count, 
 he whistled under his breath, to the tune of "Va-t-en 
 voir s'ils viennent." 
 
 After the proper number of days granted to the 
 retours de noces^ customary in the provinces, Gran- 
 ville returned with his wife to Paris, where the young 
 lawyer was now appointed as substitute to perform 
 the duties of attorney-general to the imperial court 
 of the Seine. When the new couple began to look 
 about them for a residence, Angelique employed the 
 influence possessed by every woman during the honey- 
 moon to induce Granville to take a large apartment on 
 the ground-floor of a house which formed the corner 
 of the rue Vieille-du-Temple and the rue Neuve-Saint- 
 Fran^ois. The principal reason for her choice was 
 the fact that this house was close to the rue d' Orleans, 
 in which was a church, and it was also near a small 
 chapel in the rue Saint-Louis. 
 
 "A good housekeeper makes proper provision," said 
 her husband, laughing. 
 
 Angelique begged him to observe that the Marais 
 quarter was in the neighborhood of the Palais de Jus- 
 tice, and that the magistrates he had just called upon 
 lived there. A large garden gave, for a young house- 
 
400 A DouUe Life, 
 
 bold, an additional value to the residence, — their chil- 
 dren, "if heaven sent them any," could play there; the 
 court-yard was spacious, and the stables were fine. 
 Granville would much have preferred a house in the 
 Chaussee-d'Antin, where everything was young and 
 lively, where the fashions appear in all their novelty, 
 where the neighboring population is elegant, and the 
 distance less to theatres and other sources of amuse- 
 ment. But he found himself forced to yield to the 
 persuasions of a young wife making her first request, 
 and thus, solely to please her, he buried himself in 
 the Marais. 
 
 Granville's new functions required an assiduous 
 labor, all the more because they were new to him ; he 
 therefore gave his first thought to the furnishing of 
 his study and the aiTangement of his library, where 
 he quickly installed himself in the midst of a mass 
 of documents, leaving his young wife to direct the 
 decoration of the rest of the house. He threw the 
 responsibility of these purchases, usually a source of 
 pleasure and tender recollection to young wives, the 
 more willingly upon Angelique because he was ashamed 
 of depriving her of his presence far more than the 
 rules of the honeymoon permitted. But after he had 
 thoroughly settled to his work, the young official 
 allowed his wife to entice him out of his study and 
 show him the effect of the furniture and decorations, 
 which so far he had only seen piecemeal. 
 
 If it is true, as the adage says, that we may judge 
 of a woman by the door of her house, the rooms of 
 that house must reveal her mind with even more 
 fidelity. Whether it was that Madame de Granville 
 
A Double Life. 401 
 
 had given her custom to tradesmen without any taste, 
 or that her own nature was inscribed on the quantity 
 of things ordered by her, certain it is that the young 
 husband was astonished at the dreariness and cold 
 solemnity that reigned in the new home. He saw 
 nothing graceful; all was discord; no pleasure was 
 granted to the eye. The spirit of formality and petti- 
 ness which characterized the parlor at Bayeux reap- 
 peared in the Parisian salon beneath ceilings and 
 cornices decorated with commonplace arabesques, the 
 long convoluted strands of which were in execrable 
 taste. 
 
 With the desire to exonerate his wife, the young 
 man retraced his steps and examined once more the 
 long and lofty antechamber through which the apart- 
 ment was entered. The color of the woodwork, chosen 
 by his wife, was much too sombre; the dark-green 
 velvet that covered the benches only added to the dul- 
 ness of the room, — of no great importance, to be sure, 
 except as it gave an idea of the rest of the house; 
 just as we often judge of a man's mind by his first 
 words. An antechamber is a species of preface which 
 announces all, but pledges nothing. The young man 
 asked himself if his wife could really have chosen the 
 lamp in the form of an antique lantern which hung in 
 the middle of this barren hall, that was paved with 
 black and white marble and hung with a paper imitat- 
 ing blocks of stone with here and there green patches 
 of simulated moss and lichen. A large but old barom- 
 eter hung in the centre of one of the panels as if to 
 make the barrenness of the place more visible. 
 
 The husband looked at his wife; he saw her so 
 
402 A Bouhle Life, 
 
 satisfied with the red trimmiiigs that edged the cotton 
 curtains, so pleased with the barometer and the decent 
 statue which adorned the top of a huge gothic stove, 
 that he had not the barbarous courage to destroy 
 those fond illusions. Instead of condemning his wife, 
 Granville condemned himself; he blamed his neglect 
 of his first duty, which was surely to guide the steps 
 of a girl brought up in Bayeux and ignorant of Paris. 
 After this specimen, the reader can easily imagine 
 the decoration of the other rooms. What could be 
 expected of a young woman who took fright at the 
 legs of a caryatide, and rejected with disgust a cande- 
 labrum or a bit of furniture if the nudity of an 
 Egyptian torso appeared upon it. At this period the 
 school of David had reached the apex of its fame; 
 everything in France felt the influence of the correct- 
 ness of his drawing and his love for antique forms, 
 which made his painting, as one might say, a species 
 of colored sculpture. But none of the inventions of 
 imperial luxury obtained a place in Madame de Gran- 
 ville's home. The vast square salon retained the white 
 paint and the faded gilding of the Louis XV. period, 
 in which the architects were prodigal of those insuf- 
 ferable festoons due to the sterile fecundity of the 
 designers of that epoch. If the slightest harmony 
 had reigned, if the articles of furniture had taken, in 
 modern mahogany, the twisted forms brought into 
 fashion by the corrupted taste of Boucher, Angelique's 
 house would merely have offered the odd contrast of 
 young people living in the nineteenth century as if 
 they belonged to the eighteenth ; but no, — a mass 
 of heterogeneous things produced the most ridiculous 
 
A Double Life. 403 
 
 anachronisms. The consoles, clocks, and candelabra 
 represented warriors and their attributes, which the 
 triumphs of the Empire had rendered dear to Paris. 
 Greek helmets, Roman broad-swords, shields due to 
 military enthusiasm which now decorated the most 
 pacific articles of furniture were little in accordance 
 with the delicate and prolix arabesques, the delight 
 of Madame de Pompadour. Pietistic devotion carries 
 with it a sort of wearisome humility, which does not 
 exclude pride. Whether from modesty or natural 
 inclination, Madame de Granville seemed to have a 
 horror for light or gay colors. Perhaps she thought 
 that brown and purple comported best with the dignity 
 of a magistrate. How could a young girl accustomed 
 to an austere life conceive of those luxurious sofas, 
 those elegant and treacherous boudoirs where pleasures 
 and dangers take their rise? 
 
 The poor magistrate was in despair. By the tone 
 of approbation with which he echoed the praises which 
 his wife was bestowing upon herself she perceived that 
 she had not pleased him; and she showed such grief 
 at her failure that the amorous Granville saw another 
 proof of love for him in her excessive pain, instead of 
 seeing what it really was, — a wound to her self-love. 
 A young girl suddenly taken from the mediocrity of 
 provincial ideas, unaccustomed to the coquetry and 
 elegance of Parisian life, could she have done better? 
 The young husband preferred to believe that the choice 
 of his wife had been guided by her tradesmen, rather 
 than admit to himself what was really the truth. Less 
 loving, he would have felt that the dealers, quick to 
 divine the thoughts of their customers, must have 
 
404 A Double Life. 
 
 blessed heaven for sending them a young devote de- 
 void of taste, who enabled them to get rid of things 
 that were otherwise unsalable. As it was, he did his 
 best to console his wife. 
 
 "Happiness, my dear Angelique, doesn't depend on 
 furniture that is more or less elegant; it depends on 
 the sweetness and kindness and love of a woman." 
 
 "It is my duty to love you; and no duty can ever 
 please me as much," replied Angelique, softly. 
 
 Nature has put into a woman's heart so great a 
 desire to please, so great a need of love, that even in 
 a bigoted young girl ideas of a future life and of 
 working for salvation must succumb in some degree 
 to the first joys of marriage. So that, since the month 
 of April, the period at which they were married, until 
 the beginning of the winter, the married pair had 
 enjoyed a perfect union. Love and work have the 
 virtue of making a man indifferent to external mat- 
 ters. Obliged to spend half the day at the Palais de 
 Justice, required to debate the solemn interests of the 
 life or fate of men, Granville was less likely than 
 other husbands to see or know what went on within 
 his own household. If on Fridays his table was 
 served with a maigre dinner, if by chance he asked 
 for a dish of meat without obtaining it, his wife, 
 forbidden by the Gospels to tell a lie, contrived by 
 various little deceptions (allowable in the interests of 
 religion) to make her premeditated purpose appear 
 like an act of forgetfulness or the result of an empty 
 market; she excused herself often by throwing the 
 blame upon her cook, and even went so far on one 
 occasion as to scold him for it. At this period young 
 
A Double Life, 405 
 
 magistrates were not in the habit of keeping fasts, 
 Ember-days, and vigils as they do in our time; Gran- 
 ville therefore did not at first notice the periodicity of 
 his maigre meals, which his wife, moreover, took wily 
 care to make extremely delicate by means of teal, 
 wild-duck, and fish, the amphibious flesh of which, or 
 the careful seasoning, deceived his taste. 
 
 Thus the young magistrate lived, without being 
 aware of it, in an orthodox manner, and earned his 
 salvation unknown to himself. On week-days he did 
 not know if his wife went to church or not. On Sun- 
 days, by a very natural courtesy, he accompanied her 
 to mass as if to reward her for occasionally sacri- 
 ficing vespers to be with him ; he therefore did not at 
 first realize the rigidity of his wife's pious habits. 
 Theatres being intolerable in summer on account of 
 the heat, Granville had no occasion to ask his wife 
 to go there ; the serious question of theatre-going was, 
 therefore, not mooted. In the first months of a mar- 
 riage to which a man has been led by the beauty of 
 a young girl, he is never exacting in his demands; 
 youth is more eager than discriminating. How could 
 he see the coldness, the reserve, the frigidity of a 
 woman to whom he attributed a warmth of enthusiasm 
 equal to his own? It is necessary to reach a certain 
 conjugal tranquillity before perceiving that a true 
 devote accepts a man's love with her arms crossed. 
 Granville, thus in the dark, regarded himself as suflS- 
 ciently happy until a fatal event came to influence the 
 future of his marriage. 
 
 In the month of September, 1808, the canon of the 
 cathedral at Bayeux, who had formerly directed the 
 
406 A Double Life. 
 
 consciences of Madame Bontems and her daughter 
 came to Paris, led by an ambition to obtain a post 
 in one of the great churches, no doubt considering it 
 as the stepping-stone to a bishopric. In recovering 
 his former power over his lamb he shuddered, as he 
 said, to find her already so changed by the air of 
 Paris ; and he set himself to the work of drawing her 
 back to his chilly fold. Frightened by the remon- 
 strances of the ex-canon, — a man about thirty- 
 eight years old, who brought into the midst of the 
 enlightened and tolerant clergy of Paris the harsh- 
 ness of provincial Catholicism, with its inflexible big- 
 otry, whose manifold exactions are so many shackles 
 to timid souls, — Madame de Granville repented of 
 her sins and returned to her Jansenism. 
 
 It would be wearisome to describe, step by step, the 
 incidents which led insensibly to unhappiness within 
 the bosom of the Granville household ; it will perhaps 
 suffice to relate the principal facts without being scru- 
 pulous to give them their proper order and sequence. 
 The first misunderstanding between the young couple 
 was, however, sufficiently striking to be carefully 
 related here. 
 
 \Yhen Granville wished to take his wife into society 
 she never refused any staid receptions, or dinners, 
 concerts, and assemblies at the houses of magistrates 
 ranking above her husband in the judicial hierarchy ; 
 but she contrived, for a long time, under pretext of a 
 headache or other illness, to avoid a ball. One day 
 Granville, impatient at last with these wilful excuses, 
 suppressed the written notice of a ball at the house of 
 a councillor of State, and deceived his wife by a ver- 
 
A Double Life. 407 
 
 bal invitation. When the evening came her health 
 was not in question, and he took her, for the first time, 
 to a really magnificent fete. 
 
 "My dear," he said, after their return, obsei'ving 
 her depressed air, which annoyed him, **your position 
 as my wife, the rank to which you are entitled in 
 society, and the fortune you enjoy, impose obligations 
 upon you which you cannot escape. You ought to go 
 with me into society, especially to large balls, and 
 appear there in a suitable manner." 
 
 ''But, my dear friend, what was there so unsuitable 
 in my dress? " 
 
 "I did not refer to your dress, my dear, but to your 
 manner. When a young man came up to speak to 
 you, you grew so distant that a foolish observer might 
 have thought that you feared for your virtue. You 
 seemed to think that a smile would compromise you; 
 you really appeared to be asking God to forgive the 
 sins of the persons who surrounded you. The world, 
 my dear angel, is not a convent. As you yourself 
 have mentioned dress, I will also say that it is a duty 
 in your position to follow the fashions and usages of 
 society." 
 
 "Do you wish me to show my shape like those 
 brazen women I saw last night, who wore their gowns 
 so low that any one could plunge his immodest eyes on 
 their bare shoulders and — " 
 
 "There 's a difference, my dear, between uncovering 
 the whole bust and giving grace and charm to the 
 figure," said the husband, interrupting the wife. 
 "You wore three rows of tulle ruches swathing your 
 neck up to your chin. You really seem to have beggecj 
 
408 A Double Life. 
 
 your dressmaker to destroy the grace of your shoulders 
 and the outline of your bust with as much care as a 
 coquettish woman puts into the choice of becoming 
 garments. Your neck was buried under such innu- 
 merable pleats and folds that people laughed last night 
 at your affected modesty. You would be horrified if 
 I repeated to you the unpleasant things that were said 
 of you." 
 
 "Those to whom such obscenities are pleasing will 
 not be burdened by the weight of my sins," replied 
 the young wife, dryly. 
 
 "You did not dance," said Granville. 
 
 "I shall never dance," she replied. 
 
 "But if I say that you ought to dance? " said the 
 Magistrate, hastily. "Yes, you ought to follow the 
 fashions, wear flowers in your hair, and diamonds. 
 Beflect, my dear, that rich people, and we are rich, 
 are bound to maintain the luxury of a State. Is n't it 
 better to keep the manufactories busy and prosperous 
 than spend your money in alms, through the clergy ? " 
 
 "You talk like a politician," said Angelique. 
 
 "And you like a churchman," he replied, shai-ply. 
 
 The discussion now became very bitter. Madame 
 de Granville put into her answers, which were very 
 gentle, and uttered in tones as clear as the tinkling of 
 a bell, a stolid obstinacy which betrayed the sacerdotal 
 influence. She claimed the rights which Granville's 
 promise secured to her, and told him that her con- 
 fessor had expressly forbidden her to go to balls. In 
 reply Granville endeavored to prove to her that the 
 priest was exceeding the rights of his office according 
 to the regulations of the Church itself. 
 
A Double Life. 409 
 
 This odious dispute was renewed with far more 
 violence and acrimony on both sides when Granville 
 wished his wife to accompany him to the theatre. 
 Finally the husband, for the sole purpose of breaking 
 down the pernicious influence exercised by the con- 
 fessor, brought the quarrel to such a pitch that Madame 
 de Granville, driven to bay, wrote to the court of 
 Rome to inquire whether a woman could, without 
 losing her salvation, wear a low dress and go to the 
 theatre to please her husband. An answer was 
 promptly returned by the venerable Pius VII., who 
 strongly condemned the wife's resistance and blamed 
 the confessor. This letter, a true conjugal catechism, 
 seemed as if it were dictated by the tender voice of 
 Fenelon, whose grace and sweetness emanated from 
 it. "A wife," it said, *'is in her right place wherever 
 her husband takes her." "If she commits a sin by 
 his order, it is not she who will answer for that 
 sin." These two passages in the pope's homily made 
 Madame de Granville and her confessor accuse the 
 pontiff of irreligion. 
 
 Before the letter arrived, Granville had discovered 
 the strict observance of the ecclesiastical laws of fast- 
 ing, which his wife now imposed upon him more 
 openly; and he gave orders to the servants that he 
 himself was to be seiTed with meat daily. Notwith- 
 standing the extreme displeasure which this order 
 caused his wife, Granville, to whom feast or fast 
 was of little real consequence, maintained it with 
 virile firmness. The feeblest of thinking creatures is 
 wounded in his inmost being when another will than 
 his own imposes secretly a thing he would have done 
 
410 A Double Life. 
 
 of his own monition willingly. Of all tyrannies, the 
 most odious is that which deprives the soul of the 
 merit of its actions and its thoughts ; the mind is made 
 to abdicate without having reigned. The sweetest 
 word to say, the tenderest feeling to express, die on 
 our lips when we think they are compulsory. 
 
 Before long the young magistrate gave up receiving 
 his friends either at dinner or in the evening; the 
 house soon seemed to be one of mourning. A house- 
 hold which has a devote for its mistress assumes a 
 peculiar aspect. The servants under the eye of such a 
 woman are chosen from among those self-called pious 
 persons who have a physiognomy of their own. Just 
 as a jovial youth entering the gendarmerie acquires 
 the gendarme face, so domestic servants who are 
 trained to the practice of devotion contract a uniform 
 and peculiar countenance, a habit of lowering the eyes, 
 of maintaining an attitude of compunction, a livery of 
 cant, in short, which humbugs wear marvellously well. 
 
 Besides this, devotes form among themselves a 
 species of republic ; they all know one another ; their 
 servants, whom they recommend within their own 
 circle, are like a race apart, preserved by them as 
 horse-breeders admit to their stables only such animals 
 as possess a clear pedigree. The more a so-called 
 unbeliever examines the home of a devote^ the more 
 he finds that everything about it is stamped with an 
 indescribable unpleasantness. He finds there the 
 symptoms of avarice and mystery that characterize 
 the house of a usurer; also that perfumed dampness of 
 incense which makes the chilly atmosphere of chapels. 
 The paltry rigor, the poverty of ideas which appear 
 
A Double Life, 411 
 
 In all things can only be expressed by the one word 
 bigotry. In these repellent, implacable houses bigotry 
 is painted on the walls, the furniture, in the pictures, 
 the engravings; the talk is bigoted, the silence is 
 bigoted, the faces are bigoted. The transformation 
 of things and men into bigotry is an inexplicable 
 mystery; but the fact exists. Every one must have 
 observed that bigots do not walk, or sit down, or 
 speak, as walk, sit, and speak the rest of the world: 
 in their presence others are embarrassed; no one 
 laughs; all things are rigid, stiff, uniform, from the 
 cap of the mistress of the house to her pincushion 
 with its even rows of pins; glances are not open or 
 frank; the servants seem shadows; the lady of the 
 house sits enthroned on ice. 
 
 One morning poor Granville became aware, with 
 pain and sadness, of the symptoms of bigotry now 
 established in his home. We find in the world certain 
 social spheres where the same effects exist, though 
 produced by other causes. Ennui draws around these 
 unhappy homes a circlet of iron which encloses the 
 horrors of the desert and the infinitude of the void. 
 A household is then, not a tomb, but something worse, 
 — a convent. 
 
 In the centre of this glacial sphere the magistrate 
 now contemplated his wife without passion or illu- 
 sion; he remarked with keen regret the narrowness of 
 her ideas, betrayed externally by the way the hair 
 grew on the low forehead which was hollow beneath 
 the temples. He saw in the perfect regularity of her 
 features something, it is hard to say what, of fixed- 
 ness and rigidity which made him almost hate the 
 
412 A Double Life: 
 
 Bpecious gentleness by which he had been won. He 
 felt that the day might come when those thin lips 
 would say to him in presence of some misfortune: 
 "It is sent for your good, my friend." 
 
 Madame de Granville's face was gradually assuming 
 a wan complexion and a stern expression which killed 
 all joy in those who came in contact with her. Was 
 this change brought about by the ascetic habits of a 
 piety which is no more true piety than avarice is 
 economy; or was it produced by the dryness natural 
 to a bigoted soul ? It would be difficult to say ; beauty 
 without passion is perhaps an imposture. The imper- 
 turbable smile which this young woman trained upon 
 her face as she looked at her husband, seemed to be 
 a sort of jesuitized formula of happiness by which she 
 believed she satisfied the demands of marriage. Her 
 charity wounded, her passionless beauty seemed a 
 monstrosity to those who observed her; the softest of 
 her speeches made them impatient, for she was not 
 obeying a feeling, but a sense of duty. 
 
 There are certain defects which, in a woman, will 
 often yield to lessons of experience or to the influ- 
 ence of a husband, but nothing can ever overcome the 
 tyranny of false religious ideas. An eternity of hap- 
 piness to win, put into the scales against earthly 
 pleasure, will always triumph, and make all things 
 bearable. May not this be called deified egotism, the 
 / beyond the grave ? Even the pope was condemned 
 before the judgment-seat of the canon and the young 
 devote. The impossibility of being wrong is a feeling 
 that ends by superseding all others in these despotic 
 eouls. 
 
A Double Life. 413 
 
 Thus, for some time past, an underground struggle 
 had been going on between the opposing ideas of hus- 
 band and wife, but Granville was now weary of a 
 battle which he saw would never cease. What hus- 
 band could bear incessantly before him the sight of 
 a face hypocritically affectionate, and the annoyance 
 of categorical remonstrances opposed to his slightest 
 will? How treat a woman who uses your passion to 
 protect her own want of feeling, who seems resolved 
 to remain inexorably gentle, and prepares with delight 
 to play the part of victim, regarding her husband as 
 an instrument of God, — a scourge, whose flagellations 
 are to spare her those of purgatory ? But what descrip- 
 tion can give an idea of these women who make virtue 
 odious by distorting the precepts of a religion which 
 Saint John summed up in one, namely: "Love one 
 another ? " 
 
 Thus, in that domestic existence which needs so 
 much expansion, Granville's life was now companion- 
 less. Nothing m his home was sympathetic to him. 
 The large crucifix placed between his wife's bed and 
 his own was like a symbol of his destiny. Did it not 
 represent the killing of a divine thing, — the death of 
 a God-man in all the beauty of life and youth? The 
 ivory of that cross was less cold than Angelique as 
 she sacrificed her husband in the name of virtue. The 
 misery of the young magistrate became intense; he 
 went alone into the world, and to theatres; his wife 
 saw only duties, and pleasures to be shunned in mar- 
 riage, but what could he say ? he could not even com- 
 plain. He possessed a young and pretty wife, attached 
 to her duties, virtuous, — the model, in fact, of all the 
 
414 A Double Life, 
 
 virtues. She brought him a child every year; nursed 
 her children, and trained them up to the highest prin- 
 ciples. Her charitable soul was thought angelic. The 
 elderly women who composed the society in which she 
 lived (for in those days young women had not as yet 
 taken it into their heads to make a fashion of devo- 
 tion) admired Madame de Granville's zealous piety, 
 and regarded her, if not as a virgin, at least as a 
 martyr. 
 
 Insensibly, Granville, overwhelmed with toil, de- 
 prived of pleasures, weary of society where he wan- 
 dered alone, fell, by the time he was thirty-two, into 
 a condition of painful apathy. Life became odious 
 to him. Having too high a sense of his obligations 
 to allow himself to fall into irregular ways, he en- 
 deavored to stupefy himself by toil, and began a great 
 work on a legal subject. But he did not long enjoy 
 that form of monastic peace on which he had counted. 
 
 When the pious Angelique saw that he deserted 
 society and worked at home with a sort of regularity, 
 she thought the time had come to convert him. To 
 feel that her husband's views were not Christian was 
 a genuine grief to her ; she often wept at the thought 
 that if he died suddenly he would perish in his sin, 
 and she could then have no hope of saving him from 
 the flames of eternal punishment. Henceforth Gran- 
 ville became a target for the petty thrusts, the paltry 4, 
 arguments, the narrow views by which his wife, who 
 thought she had won a first victory by withdrawing 
 him from the world, endeavored to obtain a second by 
 bringing him into the pale of the Church. ' 
 
 This was the last drop to his cup of misery. What 
 
A Double Life. 415 
 
 could be more intolerable than a dumb struggle in 
 which the obstinacy of a narrow mind endeavored to 
 subdue the intelligence of the lawyer; what more hor- 
 rible to bear than this acrid nagging to which a gen- 
 erous nature would far prefer an open stab ? Granville 
 deserted his house, where all was now unbearable to 
 him. His children, subjected to the cold despotism 
 of their mother, were not allowed to accompany him 
 to the theatre ; he was literally unable to give them a 
 single pleasure without drawing down upon them a 
 rebuke from his wife. This man, naturally loving, 
 was driven into a condition of indifference, of selfish 
 egotism, which to him was worse than death. 
 
 He saved his sons as soon as possible from the hell 
 of this life by sending them to school at an early age, 
 and by maintaining firmly his right to manage them. 
 He did not interfere, or interfered very rarely, between 
 the mother and her daughters, though he resolved to 
 marry the latter as soon as they attained to a mar- 
 riageable age. If he had taken a more decided and 
 violent course nothing would have justified it. His 
 wife, supported by the formidable circle of pious 
 dowagers among whom she lived, could have shown 
 his injustice to all the world. Granville had literally 
 no other resource than a life of isolation. Crushed 
 under the tyranny of these misfortunes, his very feat- 
 ures, withered and hardened by grief and toil, became 
 displeasing to himself; he shrank from all intercourse 
 with others, especially with women of society, from 
 whom he despaired of gaining any comfort. 
 
 The didactic history of this sad household during 
 the fifteen years between 1806 and 1821 ofifera no 
 
416 A Boulle Life. 
 
 Bcene that is worthy of being related. Madame de 
 Granville remained precisely the same woman after 
 she had lost her husband's heart as she was in the 
 days when she called herself happy. She made no- 
 venas, praying God and the saints to enlighten her 
 mind as to the faults by which she displeased her 
 husband, and to show her the means of bringing back 
 that erring sheep into the fold. But the more fervent 
 her prayers, the less her husband appeared in his 
 home. For five years past Granville, now attorney- 
 general under the Restoration, had taken up his abode 
 on the ground-floor of his house to avoid the necessity 
 of living with his wife. Every morning a scene took 
 place which (if we may believe the gossip of society) 
 occurs in the bosom of many a family, — produced by 
 incompatibility of temper, or by mental and physical 
 diseases, or by antagonisms which bring the results 
 related in this history to many a marriage. Every 
 morning at eight o'clock the countess's waiting- 
 woman, looking much like a nun, rang at the door of 
 the count's apartment. Shown into the salon adjoin- 
 ing the magistrate's study, she gave to the valet, and 
 always in the same tone, this stereotyped message : — 
 
 "Madame begs to know if Monsieur le comte has 
 passed a good night, and whether she shall have the 
 pleasure of breakfasting with him." 
 
 "Monsieur," the valet would reply, after conveying 
 the message to his master, "presents his regards to 
 Madame la comtesse and begs her to excuse him; an 
 important affair obliges him to go to the Palais at 
 once." 
 
 A few moments later the maid would reappear to 
 
A Double Life, 417 
 
 ask in Madame* s name if she should have the pleasure 
 of seeing Monsieur le comte before he went out. 
 
 "He has gone already," the valet would reply, 
 though the count's carriage might be still in the court- 
 yard. 
 
 This ambassadorial dialogue was a daily ceremony. 
 Granville's valet, who, being a favorite with his mas- 
 ter, was the cause of more than one quarrel in the 
 household on account of his irreligion and moral 
 laxity, would sometimes take the message as a matter 
 of form into the study when the count was not there, 
 bringing back the accustomed answer. The afflicted 
 wife would often watch for her husband's return and 
 go down to the vestibule and place herself in his way 
 to awaken his remorse. This petty teasing, charac- 
 teristic of monastic life, was a strong feature in the 
 nature of this woman, who, though she was only thirty- 
 five, now looked to be over forty. 
 
 The presidency of a royal court in the provinces 
 was offered to the Comte de Granville, who stood well 
 in favor with the King, but he begged the ministry 
 to allow him to remain in Paris. This refusal, the 
 reasons for which were known only to the Keeper of 
 the Seals, suggested various strange conjectures among 
 the intimates of the countess, and more especially to 
 her confessor. Granville, the possessor of a hun- 
 dred thousand francs a year, belonged to one of the 
 highest families in Normandy; his appointment to a 
 royal court was a first step to the peerage. Why, 
 then, such a lack of ambition? Why had he given up 
 his great work on Law? Whence this unnatural life 
 which had made him for the last five years almost a 
 
 27 
 
418 A Double Life. 
 
 stranger to his home, his duties, and to all that ought 
 to be dear to him? The countess's confessor, who 
 relied on the support of the families where he ruled to 
 advance him to a bishopric, had met with disappoint- 
 ment from Granville, who refused him his influence; 
 and he now aspersed him with suppositions. 
 
 "If Monsieur le comte," he said, "was reluctant 
 to live in the provinces, it was probably because he 
 feared the necessity of having to lead a moral life. 
 The position of a chief -justice would force him to live 
 with his wife and abandon all illicit connections. A 
 woman as pure as the Comtesse de Granville could 
 never overlook the fact, if it came to her knowledge, 
 of her husband's irregularities. 
 
 Angelique's dowager friends did not leave her in 
 ignorance of these remarks, which, alas! were not 
 groundless ; the effect upon her was that of a thunder- 
 bolt. 
 
 "Without any just ideas of life or of society, igno- 
 rant of love and its madness, Madame de Granville 
 was so far from supposing that marriage could bring 
 other troubles than those which alienated her from her 
 husband, that she thought him incapable of the faults 
 which are the crimes of married life. When the count 
 no longer sought her society and lived apart, she 
 imagined that the calmness of such a life was that of 
 nature. She had given him all the affection her heart 
 was capable of giving to a man, and these conjectures 
 of her confessor completely destroyed all the illusions 
 in which she had livfed up to that moment. At first, 
 therefore, she disf ended her husband ; although, at the 
 same time, she Wars unable to put ^way the suepiei^Dns 
 
r,#; 
 
 3fei^ 
 
 Coiiyri^lu 1896 by Roberts Bros 
 
 edSGoupil 
 
A Double Life. 419 
 
 so cleverly introduced into her mind. This struggle 
 caused such ravages in her feeble brain that before long 
 her health gave way and she fell a victim to slow fever. 
 
 These events took place during the Lent of 1822, 
 but her piety would not relax its austerities, and she 
 finally reached a state of exhaustion in which her very 
 life seemed threatened. Granville's indifference to 
 her condition wounded her deeply. His attentions 
 were more like those that a nephew compels himself to 
 pay to an uncle. Though the countess tried to greet 
 her husband with pleasant words, and renounced for 
 the time being her system of nagging remonstrance, 
 the sourness of the devote was still perceptible, and 
 often destroyed by a few words the work of days. 
 
 Toward the end of May, the balmy breath of spring 
 and a more nourishing diet than Lent allowed brought 
 back some strength to Madame de Granville. One 
 morning, on her return from mass, she seated herself 
 on a stone bench in her little garden, where the warm 
 caresses of the sunshine recalled to her the pleasant 
 early days of her marriage. Her mind took in at a 
 glance the whole of her married life, striving to see 
 in what possible way she could have failed in her 
 duty as wife and mother. While she sat there the 
 Abbe Fontanon appeared, in a state of very evident 
 agitation. 
 
 "Has anything happened to distress you, father?" 
 she asked, with filial solicitude. 
 
 "Ah! I would that all the misfortunes which the 
 hand of God is laying heavily upon you, were laid 
 on me," said the Norman priest. "But, my worthy 
 friend, these are trials to which you must submit." 
 
420 A Double Life. 
 
 *'Can any chastisement be greater than that to which 
 the Divine Providence has already subjected me, using 
 my husband as the instrument of its wrath? " 
 
 "Prepare yourself, my daughter, for greater sorrow 
 than any you have hitherto undergone." 
 
 "Then I thank God that he deigns to make use of 
 you to lay his will upon me," said the countess, "fol- 
 lowing the vials of his wrath with the treasures of his 
 mercy, even as he showed to Hagar in the desert a 
 living spring." 
 
 "He allots your penalties to the weight of your sins 
 and the measure of your resignation," said the priest. 
 
 "Speak, father; I am ready to hear all;" so say- 
 ing, the countess raised her eyes to heaven ; then she 
 said again, "Speak, Monsieur Fontanon." 
 
 "For the last seven years Monsieur de Granville 
 has committed the crime of adultery with a concubine 
 by whom he has two children. He has spent upon 
 this illicit household more than five hundred thousand 
 francs, which ought to have belonged to his legitimate 
 family." 
 
 "I must see that with my own eyes before I believe 
 it," said the countess. 
 
 "No, be very careful to avoid that," said the 
 priest. "My daughter, it is your duty to forgive, and 
 to wait, in prayer, till God sees fit to change your 
 husband's heart. You must not employ such human 
 means against him." 
 
 The long conversation which followed produced a 
 violent change in the whole manner and appearance 
 of the countess. She dismissed the confessor at last, 
 and appeared with a flushed face before her servants, 
 
A Double Life. 421 
 
 wlio were frightened by an activity which seemed 
 almost insane. She ordered her carriage, then she 
 countermanded it, ordered it again, and changed her 
 mind a score of times within an hour. Finally, how- 
 ever, she appeared to come to a decisive resolution, 
 and started from home at three o'clock, leaving her 
 household amazed at her sudden action. 
 
 "Will your master be home to dinner? " she asked 
 the valet (to whom she usually never spoke) as she 
 left the house. 
 
 "No, madame." 
 
 "Did he go to the Palais this morning? " 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "To-day is Monday?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "Is the Palais open on Mondays now? " 
 
 "The devil take her!" thought the valet as the 
 countess got into her carriage and gave the order: 
 "Rue Taitbout." 
 
 Caroline de Belief euille was weeping; beside her 
 was Roger, holding one of her hands in both of his. 
 He was silent, looking alternately at little Charles, 
 who could not understand his mother's grief, at the 
 cradle where the baby Eugenie was sleeping, and then 
 at the face of his friend, where the tears were falling 
 like rain on a sunshiny day. 
 
 **Yes, my angel," said Roger, after a long silence, 
 "that is the truth; I am married. But some day, I 
 hope, I may have but one life, one home. My wife 
 is in wretched health ; I do not wish her death ; but if 
 it pleases God to take her, I think she will be happier 
 
422 A Double Life. 
 
 in paradise than she has been in a world the pains and 
 pleasures of which have never touched her." 
 
 ''I hate that woman! How could she make you so 
 unhappy? And yet it is to that misfortune that I owe 
 my happiness." 
 
 Her tears ceased suddenly. 
 
 "Caroline, let us hope on," cried Roger, with a kiss. 
 "Never mind what the abbe said to you. Though that 
 confessor is a dangerous man on account of his influ- 
 ence in the Church, if he attempts to disturb our 
 relation I shall — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Take you to Italy; I will flee — " 
 
 A cry coming from the next room made them start ; 
 they both rushed there, and found Madame de Gran- 
 ville fainting on the floor. When she recovered her 
 senses she gave a deep sigh on seeing herself between 
 her husband and her rival, whom she pushed aside 
 with an involuntary gesture of contempt. 
 
 Caroline rose to go. 
 
 "Stay where you are," said the count. "This is 
 your house." 
 
 Then he took his fainting wife in his arms and car- 
 ried her to her carriage, into which he followed her. 
 
 "What has made you desire my death? Why should 
 you wish to flee me ? " she asked, in a weak voice, 
 looking at her husband with as much indignation as 
 grief. "Was I not young? Did you not think me 
 beautiful? What blame can you lay at my door? 
 Did I ever deceive you ? Have I not been a good and 
 virtuous wife to you ? My heart has held no image 
 but yours; my ears have listened to no voice but 
 
A Double Life. 423 
 
 yours. What duty did I fail to perform? Have I 
 ever refused you anything ? " 
 
 "Yes; happiness," replied the count, in a firm voice. 
 ** There are two ways of serving God. Some Chris- 
 tians imagine that by entering a church and saying a 
 Pater Noster, by hearing mass at stated times and 
 abstaining from sinful acts they must win heaven; 
 such persons go to hell; they have never loved God 
 for God's sake; they do not worship him as he seeks 
 to be worshipped; they have made him no sacrifice. 
 Though gentle apparently, they are harsh to their 
 neighbor; they see the law, the letter, but not the 
 spirit. That is how you have acted with your earthly 
 husband. You have sacrificed my happiness to your 
 salvation. You were absorbed in the contemplation 
 of that when I came to you with eager heart; you wept 
 and fasted when you might have eased and brightened 
 my toil ; you have never satisfied one pleasurable desire 
 of my life." 
 
 "But if those desires were criminal," cried the 
 countess, hotly, "was I to lose my soul to please you? " 
 
 "That sacrifice a more loving woman has had the 
 coui-age to make," replied the count, coldly. 
 
 " Oh, God ! " she said, weeping. " Thou hearest 
 him! Was he worthy of the prayers and penances in 
 which I have spent my life to redeem his sins and my 
 own ? Of what good is virtue ? " 
 
 "To win heaven, my dear; you could not be the 
 bride of heaven and of man both; it was bigamy. 
 You should have chosen between a husband and a con- 
 vent. Instead of that, for the sake of your future 
 salvation, you have robbed your soul and mine of 
 
424 A Double Life 
 
 love, of all the devotion God bestows upon a woman ; 
 of the earthly emotions you have kept but one — and 
 that is hatred." 
 > "Have I not loved you? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What, then, is love?" she said, involuntarily. 
 
 ^^Love, my dear?" said Granville, with a sort of 
 ironical surprise. "You are not in a condition to 
 understand it. The sky of Normandy is never that 
 of Spain. Perhaps the question of climate is really 
 one of the secrets of unhappiness. Love is a mutual 
 yielding to each other's likes and dislikes and 
 dividing them. Love finds pleasure in pain, in sacri- 
 ficing to another the opinion of the world, self-love, 
 self-interest, religion even, — regarding all such offer- 
 ings as grains of incense burned on the altar of an 
 idol; that is love." 
 
 "The love of a ballet-girl," said the countess, hor- 
 rified; "such passions cannot last; they leave noth- 
 ing behind them but cinders and ashes, remorse and 
 despair. A wife should give her husband, as I think, 
 true friendship, an equable warmth, an — " 
 
 "You talk of warmth as negroes talk of ice," inter- 
 rupted the count, with a sardonic smile. "Remember 
 that the humblest wild-flower is more to us than a rose 
 with thorns. But," he added, "I will do you justice. 
 You have so firmly maintained the line of conduct pre- 
 scribed by law that, in order to show you where you 
 have failed toward me, I should have to enter upon 
 certain details which your dignity would not permit, 
 and say certain things which would seem to you the 
 reverse of moral." 
 
A Double Life. 425 
 
 "Do you dare to speak of morality, — you who are 
 leaving the house of a mistress where you have squan- 
 dered the property of your children in debauchery ? '* 
 cried the countess. 
 
 "Madame, I stop you there," said the count, coolly, 
 interrupting his wife. "If Mademoiselle de Belle- 
 feuille is rich it is not at my expense. My uncle was 
 master of his fortune; he had many heirs. During 
 his lifetime, and solely out of regard for a young 
 woman whom he considered in the light of a niece, 
 he gave her the estate of Belief euille." 
 
 " Such conduct is worthy of a Jacobin I " cried the 
 pious Angelique. 
 
 "You forget that your father was one of those Jaco- 
 bins whom you, a woman, condemn with so little 
 charity," said the count, sternly. "The citizen Bon- 
 tems was signing death-warrants at the time when my 
 uncle was rendering great services to France." 
 
 Madame de Granville made no reply. But, after a 
 moment's silence, the recollection of what she had just 
 seen awoke the jealousy which nothing can quench in 
 a woman's soul, and she said, in a low voice, as if 
 speaking to herself : — 
 
 " How can a man lose his soul and that of others in 
 this way ? " 
 
 "Ah! madame," said the count, weary of the fruit- 
 less conversation, "perhaps it is you who will have to 
 answer for all this." 
 
 These words made the countess tremble. 
 
 " But you will no doubt be excused in the eyes of 
 that indulgent Judge who understands our faults," he 
 added, " in virtue of the sincerity with which you havo 
 
426 A Double Life. 
 
 wrought the ruin of my life. I do not hate you; I 
 hate those who have distorted your heart and mind. 
 You have prayed for me doubtless as sincerely as 
 Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille has given me her heart 
 and crowned me with . love. You should have been 
 both mistress and saint. Do me the justice to 
 acknowledge that I have not been either wicked or 
 debauched. My morals are pure. But alas! at the 
 end of seven years' wretchedness, the need of being 
 happy led me, almost insensibly, to love another 
 woman, and to create for myself another home than 
 mine. Do not think I am the only man in Paris who 
 has done this. Thousands of other husbands are 
 driven, by one cause or another, to lead this double 
 life." 
 
 "O God! " cried the countess, "how heavy is the 
 cross I have to bear! If the husband whom thou 
 gavest me in thy wrath can be happy only through my 
 death, recall me to thy bosom ! " 
 
 "Had you shown those admirable feelings of self- 
 eacriSce earlier," said the count, coldly, "we should 
 still be happy." 
 
 "Well, then," said Angelique, bursting into tears, 
 "forgive me if I have really done wrong. Yes, I am 
 ready to obey you in all things, certain that you will 
 only ask that which is natural and right. Henceforth 
 I will be to you whatever you desire." 
 
 "If it is your intention to force me to say that I no 
 longer love you, I must have the dreadful courage to 
 say it. Can I control my heart? Can I efface in one 
 moment the memories of fifteen years of misery? I 
 love no more. Those words enfold a mystery as deep 
 
A Double Life. 427 
 
 as that contained in those other words, * I love. * 
 Esteem, respect, regard may be obtained, and lost, and 
 won again, but love, ah, never! I might goad myself 
 a thousand years and it could not live again, especially 
 for one who has wilfully destroyed her charm." 
 
 **Ah! Monsieur le comte, I sincerely hope the day 
 may never come when those words shall be said to 
 you by her you love, in the tone and manner with 
 which you say them now." 
 
 "Will you come with me to-night to the Opera and 
 wear a ball dress? " 
 
 The shudder of repugnance which that sudden 
 demand produced was her answer to the question. 
 
428 A Double Life. 
 
 ITL 
 
 RESULT. 
 
 On one of the first days of December, 1833, a man 
 whose snow-white hair and countenance appeared to 
 show that grief had aged him more than years (for 
 he seemed about sixty) was passing through the rue 
 Gaillon after midnight. He paused before a poor- 
 looking house of three stories to examine one of the 
 windows which were placed at equal distances in the 
 mansarde roof. A faint gleam came from its humble 
 sash, in which some panes were replaced by paper. 
 The passer was looking at that flickering light with 
 the idle curiosity of a Parisian lounger, when a young 
 man came suddenly and rapidly from the house. As 
 the pale rays of the street lamp fell upon the face of 
 the older man, he seemed not wholly surprised when, 
 in spite of the darkness, the young man came to him, 
 with the precautions used in Paris when one fears to 
 be mistaken in a recognition. 
 
 *'What!" exclaimed the latter, "is it really you. 
 Monsieur le comte, alone, on foot, at this hour, and 
 so far from the rue Saint-Lazare? Allow me the 
 honor of offering you my arm. The pavement to- 
 night is so slippery that unless we support each 
 other," he added, to spare the pride of the old man, 
 "we shall find it difficult to escape a fall." 
 
A Double Life, 429 
 
 "But, my dear friend, I am only fifty-nine years of 
 age — unhappily for me," said the Comte de Granville. 
 "So celebrated a physician as yourself ought to know 
 that a man is in his full vigor at that time of life." 
 
 "Then you must be engaged in some love affair," 
 replied Horace Bianchon, laughing. "You are not, I 
 am sure, accustomed to go on foot. When a man has 
 such horses as yours — " 
 
 "But the greater part of the time," said the Comte 
 de Granville, "I do return from the Palais, or the 
 Cercle des !^trangers, on foot " 
 
 "And carrying, no doubt, on your person large sums 
 of money. Isn't that inviting a dagger. Monsieur le 
 comte?" 
 
 "I am not afraid of such daggers," replied the count 
 with a careless though melancholy air. 
 
 "But at any rate you ought not to stand still," said 
 the physician, drawing the magistrate on toward the 
 boulevard. "A little more, and I shall think you 
 want to rob me of your last illness, and to die by 
 another hand than mine." 
 
 "Well, you surprised me engaged in a bit of spy- 
 ing," said the count, smiling. "Whether I pass 
 through this street on foot or in a carriage, at any 
 hour of the night I am certain to see at a third story 
 window of the house you have just left the shadow of a 
 person who appears to be working with heroic courage." 
 
 So saying, the count stopped short, as if some sud- 
 den pang had seized him. 
 
 "I take as much interest in that attic," he con- 
 tinued, "as a Parisian bourgeois feels in the comple- 
 tion of the Palais-Royal — " 
 
430 A Double Life, 
 
 li^ 
 
 'Well," cried Horace, eagerly, interrupting the 
 count, '*I can tell you — " 
 
 "Tell me nothing," said Granville, cutting short the 
 doctor's words. "I wouldn't give a penny to know 
 if the shadow that flickers on that ragged curtain is 
 that of a man or woman, or if the occupant of that 
 garret is happy or unhappy. If I was surprised to- 
 night not to see that person working, and if I stopped 
 for a moment to gaze at the window, it was solely for 
 the amusement of making conjectures as numerous and 
 as silly as those the street idlers make about buildings 
 in course of erection. For the last nine years, my 
 young — " 
 
 He stopped, seemed to hesitate to use some expres- 
 sion, and then, with a hasty gesture, added : — 
 
 "No, I will not call you friend; I detest every sem- 
 blance of sentiment. For the last nine years, as I 
 was saying, I am no longer surprised that old people 
 take pleasure in cultivating flowers and planting trees. 
 The events of life have taught them not to trust in 
 human affections. I grew an old man suddenly; I 
 attach myself now to none but animals ; I will call no 
 man friend. I abhor the life of the world, in which I 
 am alone. Nothing, nothing," added the count, with an 
 expression which made the young man shudder, — "noth- 
 ing can move me now, and nothing can interest me.'* 
 
 "But you have children? " 
 
 "My children!" he replied, in a tone of strange 
 bitterness. "Yes, my eldest daughter is the Comtesse 
 de Vandenesse. As for the other, her sister's mar- 
 riage has opened the way to hers. My two sons have 
 met with great success ; the vicomte is attorney-gen- 
 
A Double Life, 431 
 
 eral at Limoges, and the younger is king's attorney. 
 My children have their own interests, cares, and 
 solicitudes. If a single one among them had tried to 
 fill the void that is here" he said, striking his breast, 
 "well, that one would have ruined his or her life by 
 sacrificing it to me! And why have done so, after 
 all, merely to brighten my few remaining years? 
 Besides, could it have been done ? Should I not have 
 looked upon such generous care as the payment of a 
 debt? But — " 
 
 Here the old man smiled with deepest irony. 
 
 "But, doctor, the lessons we teach our children in 
 arithmetic are never lost; they learn how to calcu- 
 late — their inheritance. At this moment mine are 
 reckoning on that." 
 
 "Oh! Monsieur le comte, how can such thoughts 
 have come into your mind ? — you, so kind, so obliging, 
 so humane? Am I not myself a living proof of the 
 beneficence of which you take so broad and grand a 
 view? " 
 
 "For my own pleasure," said the count, hastily. 
 "I pay for a sensation as I shall pay to-morrow in 
 piles of gold for the paltry excitement of play, which 
 stirs my heart for an instant. I help my fellow-mor- 
 tals for the same reason that I play at cards. There- 
 fore I look for no gratitude from any one. Ah! young 
 man, the events of life have flowed across my soul like 
 the lava of Vesuvius through Herculaneum; the city 
 exists, dead." 
 
 "Those who have brought a soul so warm and living 
 as yours to such a point of insensibility are guilty of 
 an awful wrong." 
 
432 A Double Life. 
 
 "Not another word! " cried the count, with a look 
 of horror. 
 
 "You have a malady upon you which you ought to 
 let me cure," said Bianchon, in a voice of emotion. 
 
 "Do you know a cure for death?" exclaimed the 
 count, impatiently. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le comte, I will engage to stir that 
 heart you call so dead." 
 
 "Are you another Talma? " 
 
 "No; but Nature is as far superior to Talma as 
 Talma may be to me. Hear me: that garret at which 
 you gazed with interest is inhabited by a woman, 
 some thirty years of age, in whom love has become 
 fanaticism. The object of her worship is a young 
 man of fine appearance, to whom some evil genius 
 gave at birth all the vices of humanity. He is a 
 gambler; whether he loves women or wine best no one 
 could decide; he has committed, to my knowledge, 
 crimes that should have brought him to the correc- 
 tional police. Well, that unhappy woman sacrificed 
 for him a happy life, a man v/ho adored her, by 
 whom she had two children — What is it, Monsieur 
 le comte? are you ill?" 
 
 "No, nothing; goon!" 
 
 "She has let him squander her whole property; she 
 would give him, I think, the world if she had it; 
 night and day she works; often, without a murmur, 
 she has seen that monster take the money she had 
 earned to clothe her children — nay, their very food 
 for the morrow! Three days ago she sold her hair, 
 the finest I ever saw; that man came in before she 
 hid the bit of gold; he claimed it; for a smile, a kiss. 
 
A Bouhle Life. 433 
 
 she gave him the value of days of life and comfort! 
 Is not such love both shocking and sublime? But toil 
 and hunger have begun to waste her strength; the 
 cries of her children torture her; she has fallen ill; 
 to-night she is moaning on her pallet, unable, as you 
 saw, to work. The children have had no food all day ; 
 they have ceased to cry, being too weak; they were 
 silent when I got there." 
 
 Bianchon stopped. The Comte de Granville, as if 
 in spite of himself, had plunged his hand into his 
 pocket. 
 
 "I foresee, my young friend, that she will live," 
 said the old man, "if you take care of her." 
 
 "Ah! poor creature," cried the doctor, "who would 
 not take care of one so wretched ? But I hope to do 
 more; I hope to cure her of her love." 
 
 "But," said the count, withdrawing his hand full of 
 bank-notes from his pocket, "why should I pity a 
 wretchedness whose joys would seem to me worth 
 more than all my fortune? She feels, she lives, that 
 woman ! Louis XV. would have given his whole king- 
 dom to rise from his coffin and have three days of 
 youth and life. Is not that the history of millions 
 of dead men, millions of sick men, millions of old 
 men?" 
 
 "Poor Caroline! " exclaimed the physician. 
 
 Hearing that name the Comte de Granville quivered ; 
 he seized the arm of his companion, who fancied him- 
 self gripped by iron pincers. 
 
 "Is she Caroline Crochard? " asked the old man, in 
 a faltering voice. 
 
 "Then you know her? " replied the doctor. 
 
434 A Double Life. 
 
 "And that wretch is named Sol vet — Ah! you 
 have kept your word; you have stirred my heart by 
 the most terrible sensation I shall know till I am 
 dust," said the count. "Another of hell's gifts!" he 
 cried; "but I know how to pay them back." 
 
 At that moment the count and Bianchon had reached 
 the corner of the rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin. One of 
 those night-birds, a scavenger, with his basket on his 
 back and a hook in his hand, was close beside the 
 post where the count had now stopped short. The 
 face of the old rag-picker was worthy of those which 
 Charlet has immortalized in his sketches of the school 
 of sweepers. 
 
 " Do you often pick up thousand-franc notes ? " the 
 count said to him. 
 
 "Sometimes, my master." 
 
 "Do you return them? " 
 
 "That 's according to the reward offered." 
 
 "Here, my man," cried the count, giving him a note 
 for a thousand francs. "Take that; but remember 
 that I give it to you on condition that you spend it at 
 a tavern, get drunk upon it, quarrel, beat your wife, 
 stab your friends. That will set the watch, and sur- 
 geons and doctors, perhaps the gendarmes, the attor- 
 neys, the judges and the jailers all to work. Don't 
 change that programme, or the devil will revenge it on 
 
 you." 
 
 It needs an artist with the pencil of Charlet and 
 Callot and the brushes of Teniers and Rembrandt to 
 give a true idea of this nocturnal scene. 
 
 "There *s my account settled, for the present, with 
 hell, and I have had some pleasure out of my money," 
 
A Double Life. 435 
 
 said the count in a deep voice, pointing out to the 
 stupefied physician the indescribable face of the gap- 
 ing rag-picker. '*As for Caroline Crochard," he con- 
 tinued, "she may die in the tortures of hunger and 
 thirst, listening to the cries of her starving children, 
 recognizing the vileness of that man she loves. I will 
 not give one penny to keep her from suffering; and I 
 will never speak to you again, for the sole reason that 
 you have succored her." 
 
 The count left Bianchon standing motionless as a 
 statue, and disappeared, moving with the rapidity of 
 a young man in the direction of the rue Saint- Lazare. 
 When he reached the little house which he occupied 
 in that street, he saw, with some surprise, a carriage 
 before the door. 
 
 "Monsieur le procureur du roi," said his valet when 
 he entered, "has been here an hour, waiting to speak 
 with monsieur. He is in monsieur's bedroom." 
 
 Granville made a sign to the man, who retired. 
 
 "What motive could be strong enough to make you 
 break my express orders that none of my children 
 should come to this house without being sent for ? ** 
 he said to his son as he entered the room. 
 
 "Father," said the son, respectfully, in a voice that 
 trembled, "I feel sure you will pardon me when you 
 have heard my reason." 
 
 "Your answer is a proper one," said his father, 
 pointing to a chair. "Sit down; but whether I sit or 
 walk about, pay no attention to my movements." 
 
 "Father," said the procureur du roi, "a young lad 
 has been arrested this evening at the house of a friend 
 
436 A Double Life, 
 
 of mine, where he committed a theft; the lad appeals 
 to you and says he is your son." 
 
 " His name ? " asked the count, trembling. 
 
 " Charles Crochard. " 
 
 *' Enough," said the father, with an imperative 
 gesture. 
 
 Granville walked up and down the room in a deep 
 silence which his son was careful not to break. 
 
 "My son," he said at last, in a tone so gentle, 
 so paternal that the young man quivered, "Charles 
 Crochard has told the truth. I am glad that you have 
 come to me, my good Eugene. Here is a sum of 
 money," he added, taking up a mass of bank-bills, 
 "which you must use as you see fit in this affair. I 
 trust in you, and I approve, in advance, all that you 
 may do, whether at the present time, or in the future. 
 Eugene, my dear son, kiss me; perhaps we now see 
 each other for the last time. To-morrow I shall ask 
 leave of absence of the king and start for Italy. 
 Though a father is not bound to account to his chil- 
 dren for his conduct, he ought to leave them as a 
 legacy the experience which fate has allotted to him, 
 — it is apart of their inheritance. When you marry," 
 continued the count, with an involuntary shudder, " do 
 not commit that act, the most important of all those 
 Imposed upon us by society, thoughtlessly. Study 
 long the character of the woman with whom you asso- 
 ciate yourself for life ; also consult me ; I should wish 
 to judge her for myself. A want of union between 
 husband and wife, however it may be caused, leads to 
 frightful evils. We are, sooner or later, punished for 
 
A Double Life, 437 
 
 not obeying social laws — But as to that, I will 
 write to you from Florence; a father, especially if 
 he has the honor to be a judge in the highest courts 
 of law, ought not to blush in presence of his son. 
 Farewell." 
 
THE RURAL BALL, 
 
THE EUEAL BALL. 
 
 To Henri de Balzac, 
 
 His Bbothes, 
 
 Honob:^ 
 I. 
 
 A REBELLIOUS YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 The Comte de Fontaine, head of one of the most 
 ancient families in Poitou, had served the cause of 
 the Bourbons with courage and intelligence during the 
 war which the Vendeans made against the Republic. 
 After escaping the dangers that threatened the royalist 
 leaders during that stormy period of contemporaneous 
 history, he said, gayly: "I am one of those who are 
 fated to be killed on the steps of the throne." This 
 little jest was not without truth, as to a man left for 
 dead on the bloody day of the Quatre-Chemins. 
 
 Though ruined by confiscations, the faithful Vendean 
 refused the lucrative places which were offered to 
 him by the Emperor Napoleon. Uncompromising in 
 his religion of aristocracy he had blindly followed its 
 axioms when he thought proper to take a wife. In 
 spite of the offers of a rich revolutionary parvenu, 
 who was willing to pay a high price for such au alii- 
 
442 The Rural Ball. 
 
 ance, he married a Demoiselle de Kergarouet, a girl 
 without fortune, but whose family is one of the oldest 
 in Brittany. At the time of the Restoration, Monsieur 
 de Fontaine was burdened with a numerous family. 
 Though he did not share the ideas of the greedy nobles 
 who begged for favors, he yielded to his wife's request, 
 left his country domain, the modest revenues of which 
 barely sufficed for the needs of his children, and came 
 to Paris. Shocked by the avidity shown by many of 
 his old comrades for the places and dignities of the 
 new regime, he was about to return to Poitou, when 
 he received an official letter in which a well-known 
 minister informed him of his appointment to the rank 
 of brigadier-general, in virtue of the ordinance which 
 allowed the officers of the Catholic armies to count the 
 twenty years of Louis XVIII. 's exiled reign as years 
 of service. Some days later the count received, with- 
 out solicitation, the cross of the Legion of honor and 
 that of the order of Saint-Louis. 
 
 Shaken in his resolution by these successive favors, 
 which he thought he owed to the monarch's memory, 
 he no longer contented himself with taking his family, 
 as he had done religiously every Sunday morning, to 
 the Salle des Marechaux to shout "Vive le roi! " when 
 the princes passed on their way to Mass; he asked 
 the favor of a private audience. This audience, in- 
 stantly granted, had, however, nothing private about 
 it. The royal salon was full of old royalists, whose 
 powdered heads seen at a certain level looked like a 
 carpet of snow. There, the count met with a number 
 of his old companions in arms, who received him 
 rather stiffly ; but the princes were adorable^ a term of 
 
The Rural Ball. 443 
 
 enthusiasm which escaped him when the most gracious 
 of his masters, whom the count supposed to know 
 barely his name, came up and pressed his hand, and 
 called him the purest and most disinterested of the 
 Vendeans. 
 
 But in spite of this ovation, none of these august 
 personages thought of asking him the amount of his 
 losses in their cause, nor that of the money he had 
 generously poured out for the maintenance of the 
 Catholic army. He found, too late, that he had made 
 war at his own expense. Toward the end of the even* 
 ing he thought he might risk a witty allusion to the 
 state of his affairs. His Majesty laughed heartily; 
 any speech that bore the stamp of wit was sure of 
 pleasing him ; but for all that, he replied with one of 
 those royal jests whose soft speciousness is more to 
 be feared than a reprimand. One of the king's confi- 
 dential intimates soon after approached the Vend^an 
 and let him know, in a guarded and civil manner, that 
 the time had not yet come to make claims upon 
 the masters, for there were others on the tapis whose 
 services were of longer date than his. The count on 
 this retired from the group which formed a semi-circle 
 in front of the august royal family. Then, after dis- 
 engaging his sword, not without difficulty, from the 
 midst of the weak old legs which surrounded him, 
 he made his way on foot across the court-yard of the 
 Tuileries, to a hackney-coach which he had left upon 
 the quay. With that restive spirit which characterizes 
 the nobility of the vieille roche, in whom the memory 
 of the League and the Barricades is not yet extinct, 
 he grumbled aloud, as he drove along, on the change 
 that was visible at court. 
 
444 The Rural Ball 
 
 "Formerly," he said, "every man could speak freely 
 to the king of his affairs ; the seigneurs could ask at ^ 
 their ease for money and offices ; but now it appears 
 we cannot even ask without scandal for the sums we 
 have advanced in his service. Morhleu! the cross of 
 Saint-Louis and the rank of general are no equivalent 
 for the three hundred thousand francs that from first 
 to last I have spent on the royal cause. I will speak 
 face to face with the king in his private cabinet." 
 
 This scene chilled the zeal of Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 all the more because his requests for an audience 
 were left without reply. He saw the intruders of the 
 Empire successful in obtaining various offices reseiTed 
 under the old monarchy for the best families. 
 
 "All is lost," he said, one morning. "The king has 
 never been anything but revolutionary. If it were not 
 for Monsieur, who never derogates from the true 
 regime, and consoles his faithful followers, I don't 
 know what would become of the crown of France. 
 Their cursed constitutional system is the worst of all 
 governments, and will never suit France. Louis 
 XVIII. and Monsieur Beugnot ruined everything for 
 us at Saint-Ouen." 
 
 The count, in despair, was again preparing to return 
 to his country home, abandoning all his claims to in- 
 demnity ; but, at that moment, the events of the 20th 
 of March produced a new tempest, which threatened ta 
 engulf the legitimate king and his defenders. Like^ 
 those generous souls who will not send out their ser- 
 vants in the rain, Monsieur de Fontaine borrowed 
 money on his estate to follow the retreating monarchy, 
 without knowing whether his emigration would stand 
 
The Rural Ball 445 
 
 him in better stead than his former devotion. But, 
 having observed that the companions of the king's 
 former exile stood higher in his favor than those who 
 stayed behind and protested arms in hand against the 
 Republic, he may have considered that this journey 
 into foreign lands would be more to his benefit than 
 a perilous and active service in France. He was, 
 therefore, to use the saying of our wittiest and ablest 
 diplomatist, one of the five hundred faithful servants 
 who shared the exile of the court to Ghent, and one of 
 the fifty thousand who returned from it. 
 
 During this short absence of royalty. Monsieur de 
 Fontaine had the luck of being employed by Louis 
 XVIII. , and of finding more than one occasion to give 
 him proofs of great political sense and sincere attach- 
 ment to his person. One evening, when the king had 
 nothing better to do, he remembered the witty remark 
 the count had made to him at the Tuileries. The old 
 Vend^an did not let the opportunity slip ; he related 
 his history so cleverly that the king, who forgot noth- 
 ing, was likely to remember it in due season. The 
 royal literary man soon after noticed the graceful turn 
 of phrase given to certain notes he had confided to 
 the count to write for him; and this little merit, 
 together with his wit, placed Monsieur de Fontaine in 
 the king's memory as one of the most loyal servants 
 of the crown. At the second Restoration the count 
 was appointed one of the envoys extraordinary to go 
 through the departments and pass judgment on the 
 guilty actors of the rebellion ; he used his terrible power 
 moderately. As soon as this temporary jurisdiction 
 was over he entered the Council of State, became a 
 
446 The Bural Ball. 
 
 deputy, spoke little, listened much, and changed con- 
 siderably in his opinions. Certain circumstances, un- 
 known to biographers, brought him into such intimate 
 relations with the king that the witty monarch one 
 day said to him : — 
 
 *' Friend Fontaine, I shall never dream of appointing 
 you to any post. Neither you nor I, if we were em- 
 ployes, could keep our places, on account of our opin- 
 ions. Representative government has one good thing 
 about it; it saves us the trouble we formerly had in 
 getting rid of our secretaries of State. The Council 
 is now a sort of wayside inn, where public opinion 
 sends us queer travellers ; however, we can always find 
 some place to put a faithful servant." 
 
 This somewhat satirical opening was followed by a 
 special ordinance giving Monsieur de Fontaine the 
 administration of a part of the Crown domain. In 
 consequence of the intelligent attention with which he 
 listened to the sarcasms of his royal friend, his name 
 was often on his Majesty's lips whenever there was a 
 commission to be created which offered a lucrative 
 appointment. The count had the good sense to say 
 nothing about the favors the king showed him; and 
 he had the art of entertaining his royal master by a 
 piquant manner of telling a story during those famil- 
 iar conversations in which Louis XVIII. took as much 
 delight as he did in political anecdotes, diplomatic 
 cancans (if we may use that word in such connec- 
 tion), or the reading and writing of elegant little 
 notes. It is well known that the details of his "gov- 
 ernmentability," as the august jester called it, amused 
 him infinitely. 
 
The Rural Ball. 447 
 
 Thanks to the good sense, wit, and cleverness of the 
 Comte de Fontaine, every member of his numerous 
 family, young as they were, ended, as he said in jest 
 to his master, by fastening like silk-worms on the 
 leaves of the budget. His eldest son obtained an 
 eminent place in the permanent magistracy. The 
 second, a mere captain before the Restoration, received 
 a legion on the return from Ghent, entered the Royal 
 Guard, thence into the body-guard, and became a lieu- 
 tenant-general after the affair of the Trocadero. The 
 youngest son, appointed first a sub-prefect, was soon 
 after Master of Petitions and a director of one of the 
 municipal departments of the city of Paris. These 
 favors, given quietly, and kept as secret as the count's 
 own favor with the king, were showered upon him 
 unperceived by the public. Though the father and 
 his three sons had each sinecures enough to give them 
 a budgetary revenue that was nearly equal to that of 
 a director-general, their political good luck excited 
 no envy. In those days when the constitutional system 
 was just established, few persons had any correct ideas 
 as to the quiet regions of the budget, or the number 
 of favorites who contrived to find there the equivalent 
 of destroyed monasteries. 
 
 Monsieur le Comte de Fontaine, who had formerly 
 boasted of never having read the Charter and had 
 shown such displeasure at the eager avidity of cour- 
 tiers, was not long in proving to his august master 
 that he understood perfectly well the proper spirit 
 and resources of a representative. Nevertheless, in 
 spite of the careers opened to his three sons. Monsieur 
 de Fontaine's numerous family was too numerous to 
 
448 TJie Rural Ball 
 
 allow him to become a rich man all at once. In addi- 
 tion to his three sons he had three daughters, and he 
 feared to wear out the bounty of the king. On 
 reflection, he thought it better not to mention to his 
 august master more than one at a time of these virgins, 
 all waiting to light their lamps. The king had too 
 much sense of the becoming to leave his work unfin- 
 ished. The marriage of the first daughter with a 
 receiver-general, Planat de Baudry, was arranged by 
 one of those short royal sentences which cost nothing 
 and bestow millions. One evening, when the king was 
 sulky, he laughed on learning the existence of a second 
 Demoiselle de Fontaine; nevertheless, he married her 
 to a young magistrate, — of bourgeois descent, it is true, 
 but rich, and full of talent, and he made him a baron. 
 But when, the following year, the Vendean let drop a 
 few words about a Mademoiselle ]6milie de Fontaine, 
 the king replied, in his sour little voice : — 
 
 ^'Amicus Plato ^ sed magis arnica natio." 
 
 Then, a few days later, he presented his "friend 
 Fontaine " with a rather silly quatrain, which he called 
 an epigram, in which he teased him about three 
 daughters produced so opportunely in the form of a 
 trinity. If the chronicle be true, the monarch had 
 made the unity of the three persons the point of his 
 wit. 
 
 *' Would the king deign to change his epigram into 
 an epithalamium," suggested the count, endeavoring 
 to turn this freak to his profit. 
 
 "I don't see the rhyme nor the reason of that re- 
 mark," said the king, harshly, not at all pleased at any 
 joke about his poetry, however gentle it might be. 
 
The Rural Ball 449 
 
 From that day his relations with Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine were less cordial. Kings like contradiction 
 more than we imagine. 
 
 £milie de Fontaine, like many youngest children, 
 was the Benjamin of the family, and spoiled by every- 
 one. The king's coldness was all the more distressing 
 to the count because the marriage of this petted dar- 
 ling proved to be an exceedingly difficult one to carry 
 through. To understand the obstacles in the way of 
 it, we must enter the fine hotel where the government 
 official lodged with his family at the cost of the Civil 
 List. 
 
 Emilie had spent her childhood on the Fontaine 
 estate, enjoying that abundance which suffices to the 
 pleasures of early youth. Her slightest wishes were 
 laws to her sisters, brothers, mother, and even to her 
 father. All her relations idolized her. As she reached 
 girlhood at the very moment when her family were at 
 the summit of fortune's favors, the enchantment of her 
 life continued. The luxury of Paris seemed to her as 
 natural as the wealth of flowers and fruit, and the rural 
 opulence which had made the happiness of her earliest 
 years. She had never been opposed in her childhood 
 in satisfying her joyous fancies, and now, at the age 
 of fifteen, when she was flung into the vortex of the 
 great world, she found herself still obeyed. 
 
 Accustomed, by degrees, to the enjoyments of 
 wealth, the elegancies of dress, gorgeous salons, and 
 equipages became as necessary to her as the flattery, 
 true or false, of compliments, and the fetes and vani- 
 ties of the court. Like many spoiled children, she 
 tyrannized over those who loved her, and reserved her 
 
 29 
 
450 The Rural Ball 
 
 coquetries for the persons who took least notice of her. 
 Her defects grew with her growth, and her parents 
 were soon to gather the bitter fruits of this fatal 
 education. 
 
 At nineteen years of age, Emilie de Fontaine had 
 not yet been willing to select, as her husband, any of 
 the numerous young men whom her father's policy 
 assembled at his fetes. Although so young, she 
 enjoyed as much freedom in society as though she 
 were a woman. Her beauty was so remarkable that 
 no sooner did she enter a room than she seemed to 
 reign there ; but, like kings, she had no friends, and 
 no lovers; a better nature than hers, feeling itself 
 the object of so much admiration, would not have 
 repelled it as she did. No man, not even an old 
 man, had nerve enough to contradict the opinions of a 
 girl the mere glance of whose eyes roused love in a 
 cold heart. 
 
 Brought up with a care that her sisters had lacked, 
 she had various accomplishments ; she painted fairly 
 well, she spoke English and Italian, played on the 
 piano remarkably well, and her voice, trained by the 
 best masters, had a timbre which gave to her singing 
 an irresistible charm. Witty by nature, and well-read 
 in literature, she might have been thought, as Masca- 
 rille says of people of quality, to have been born into 
 the world knowing everything. She argued fluently 
 about Italian or Flemish art, on the middle ages or 
 the renaissance, and gave her opinion right and left 
 on books ancient or modern, bringing out, sometimes 
 with cruel cleverness, the defects of some work. The 
 simplest of. her remarks were received by an idolizing 
 
The Rural Ball 451 
 
 crowd on their knees. She dazzled superficial persons ; 
 but as for wiser ones, her natural tact enabled her to 
 recognize them, and to them she was so winning, so 
 coquettish, that she escaped examination under cover 
 of her flatteries. This attractive varnish covered an 
 indifferent heart, an opinion, common to many young 
 girls, that no one inhabited a sphere lofty enough to 
 comprehend the excellence of her soul, and a personal 
 pride based more on her birth than on her beauty. In 
 the absence of the more ardent sentiments which, 
 sooner or later, ravage the heart of woman, Emilie 
 spent her youthful ardor in an immoderate worship of 
 distinction, expressing the utmost contempt for every- 
 thing plebeian. Very haughty toward the new nobility, 
 she did her best to make her parents keep strictly to 
 the social lines of the faubourg Saint-Germain. 
 
 This disposition in his daughter had not escaped the 
 observing eye of Monsieur de Fontaine, who had more 
 than once been made to wince under her sarcasms and 
 witty sayings at the time of the marriage of her elder 
 sisters. Logical minds might, in fact, be surprised 
 to see the old Vendean giving his eldest daughter to 
 a receiver-general who had acquired possession of old 
 seignorial property by confiscation; and the second 
 to a magistrate too lately baronified to enable the 
 world to forget that his father sold fagots. This 
 notable change in the ideas of the count in his sixtieth 
 year, a period when few men give up their fixed be- 
 liefs, was not due solely to a residence in the modern 
 Babylon, where most provincials end by rubbing off 
 their peculiarities; the new political conscience of the 
 Comte de Fontaine was due far more to the counsels 
 
452 The Rural Ball. 
 
 and friendship of the king. That philosophical 
 prince took pleasure in converting the Vendean to the 
 ideas which the march of the nineteenth century and 
 the renovation of the monarchy demanded. Louis 
 XVIII. desired to fuse parties as Napoleon had fused 
 men and things; but the legitimate king, as wise, 
 perhaps, as his rival, went to work in an opposite 
 direction. The last head of the House of Bourbon 
 was anxious to satisfy the tiers etat and the followers 
 of the Empire as the first of the Napoleons was eager 
 to draw to himself the great lords and to endow the 
 Church. Being the confidant of the king's thoughts, 
 the councillor of State became insensibly one of the 
 most influential and wisest leaders of the moderate 
 party, who strongly desired, in the national interests, 
 a fusion of opinions. He preached the costly princi- 
 ples of constitutional government, and seconded, with 
 all his strength, the game of political see-saw which 
 enabled his master to govern France in the midst of 
 so many agitations. Perhaps Monsieur de Fontaine 
 flattered himself that he should reach a peerage by one 
 of those legislative gusts, the effects of which take the 
 oldest politicians by surprise. One of the firmest of 
 his acquired principles consisted in no longer recog- 
 nizing any other nobility in France than that of the 
 peerage, because the families of peers alone held the 
 privileges. 
 
 "A nobility without privileges," he said, ''is a 
 handle without a tool." 
 
 Thus, equally far from the party of Lafayette as 
 from that of La Bourdonnaye, he favored, ardently, 
 the general reconciliation from which was to issue an 
 
The Rural Ball 453 
 
 era of new and brilliant destinies for France. He 
 tried to convince the families who frequented his 
 salons, and those whom he visited, of the few favorable 
 chances now to be found in a military or governmental 
 career. He advised mothers to put their sons into 
 Industrial and other professions, assuring them that 
 military employment and the higher functions of 
 government must end in belonging constitutionally 
 to the younger sons of peers. 
 
 The new ideas of the Comte de Fontaine, and the 
 marriages which resulted of his two elder daughters, 
 had found much opposition in the bosom of his family. 
 The Comtesse de Fontaine continued faithful to the old 
 beliefs, as became a descendant of the Rohans through 
 her mother.. Though she opposed, for a time, the 
 marriage of her daughters, she yielded, after a while, 
 as all mothers would have done in her place ; but she 
 insisted that her daughter fimilie should be married 
 in a manner to satisfy the pride which she had herself 
 developed in that young breast. 
 
 Thus the events which might have brought only joy 
 to this household produced a slight leaven of discord. 
 One of the sons married Mademoiselle Mongenod, the 
 daughter of a rich banker; another chose a girl whose 
 father, thrice a millionnaire, had made his money by 
 salt; the third had taken to wife a Mademoiselle 
 Grossetete, daughter of the receiver-general at Bourges. 
 The three sisters-in-law and the two brothers-in-law 
 finding it for their interests to enter the salons of the 
 faubourg Saint-Germain, agreed among themselves 
 to make a little court around fimilie. This compact 
 of self-interests and pride was not, however, so thor- 
 
454 The Rural Ball, 
 
 oughly cemented that the young sovereign did not 
 occasionally excite revolutions in her kingdom. 
 Scenes which good taste would have repudiated took 
 place in private between the members of this powerful 
 family, though they were never allowed to affect the 
 outward show of affection assumed before the public. 
 
 Such were the general circumstances of the Fontaine 
 household and its little domestic strife, when the king, 
 into whose favor the count was expecting to return, 
 was seized with his last illness. The great politician 
 who had succeeded so well in piloting his wreck amid 
 the storm was not long in succumbing. Uncertain as 
 to the future, the Comte de Fontaine now made the 
 greatest efforts to collect about his youngest daughter 
 the elite of the marriageable young men. Those who 
 have tried to solve the difficult problem of marrying a 
 proud and fanciful daughter will understand the wor- 
 ries that came upon the poor Vendean. If this event 
 could worthily be brought about in a manner to please 
 his precious child, the count's career in Paris for the 
 last ten years would receive its final crown. His 
 family, indeed, by the way it had invaded all depart- 
 ments of government, might be compared to the house 
 of Austria, which threatens to overrun all Europe 
 through its alliances. The old count therefore per- 
 severed against his daughter's objections, so much 
 did he have her happiness at heart; though nothing 
 could be more provoking than the way in which that 
 impertinent girl pronounced her decisions and judged 
 the merits of her adorers. It really seemed as if 
 i^milie was one of those princesses in the Arabian 
 Nights to whom all the princes of the earth were 
 
The Rural Ball. 455 
 
 offered ; and her objections were equally grotesque and 
 senseless; this one was knock-kneed, that one 
 squinted, a third was named Durand, a fourth limped, 
 and all were too fat. Livelier, more charming, and 
 gayer than ever when she had just rejected two or 
 three suitors, lllmilie de Fontaine rushed into all the 
 winter fetes, going from ball to ball, examining with 
 her penetrating eyes the celebrities of the day, and 
 exciting proposals which she always rejected. 
 
 Nature had given her, profusely, the advantages 
 required for the role of Celimene. Tall and slender, 
 she was able to assume a bearing that was imposing 
 or volatile, as she pleased. Her neck, a trifle too long, 
 enabled her to take charming attitudes of disdain or 
 sauciness. She had made herself a fruitful repertory 
 of those turns of the head and feminine gestures which 
 explained, cruelly or the reverse as the case might 
 be, her smiles and words. Beautiful black hair, 
 thick and well-arched eyebrows gave an expression of 
 pride to her face which coquetry and her mirror had 
 taught her to render terrible or to modify by the fixity 
 or the softness of her glance, by the slight inflexion or 
 the immobility of her lips, by the coldness or the 
 grace of her smile. When ^milie wanted to lay hold 
 of a heart she could make her voice melodious; but 
 when she intended to paralyze the tongue of an indis- 
 creet worshipper she could give it a curt clearness 
 which silenced him. Her pure white face and alabas- 
 ter forehead were like the limpid surface of a lake 
 which is ruflSed by the slight breeze, and returns to 
 its joyous serenity as the air grows still. More than 
 one young man, the victim of her disdain, had accused 
 
466 The Rural Ball. 
 
 her of playing comedy. In revenge for such speeches 
 she inspired her detractors with the desire to please 
 her, and then subjected them pitilessly to all the arts 
 of her coquetry. Among the young girls of fashion- 
 able society none knew better than she how to assume 
 a haughty air to men of talent, or display that insult- 
 ing politeness which makes inferiors of our equals. 
 "Wherever she went she seemed to receive homage 
 rather than courtesies, and even in the salon of a prin- 
 cess she had the air of being seated on a throne. 
 
 Monsieur de Fontaine perceived, too late, how much 
 the education of his favorite daughter had been per- 
 verted by the mistaken tenderness of her family. The 
 admiration which the world gives to a beautiful young 
 woman, for which it often avenges itself later, had 
 still further exalted ifimilie's pride and increased her 
 self-confidence. General approval had developed in 
 her the selfishness natural to spoiled children, who, like 
 kings, amuse themselves on all who approach them. 
 At this moment the graces of youth and the charm of 
 native talent hid these defects from ordinary eyes; 
 but nothing escapes the eye of a good father, and 
 Monsieur de Fontaine sometimes attempted to explain 
 to his daughter the true meaning of the enigmatical 
 pages of the book of life. A vain attempt ! He was 
 made too often to groan over the capricious intracta- 
 bility and sarcastic cleverness of his wayward girl to 
 persevere steadily in the difficult task of correcting her 
 warped nature. He contented himself, finally, with 
 giving her kindly and gentle counsel from time to 
 time ; but he had the pain of finding that his tender- 
 est words slid from her heart like water from polished 
 
The Rural Ball. 457 
 
 marble. It took the old Vend^an some years to per- 
 ceive the condescending manner with which his petted 
 child received his caresses. 
 
 But there were times when with sudden caprice, 
 apparently inexplicable in a young girl, she would shut 
 herself up and go nowhere; at such times she com- 
 plained that social life separated her from the heart of 
 her father and mother, she grew jealous of every one, 
 even her brothers and sisters. Then, having taken 
 pains to create a desert around her, the strange girl 
 threw the blame of her dissatisfied solitude and self- 
 made troubles upon life. Armed with her twenty 
 years' experience, she railed at fate; not perceiving 
 that the principle of happiness is within us, she cried 
 aloud to the things of life to give it to her. She would 
 have gone to the ends of the earth to avoid a marriage 
 like those of her sisters, and yet in her heart she was 
 horribly jealous on seeing them rich and happy. 
 
 Sometimes her mother — even more the victim of her 
 proceedings than her father — was led to think there 
 was a tinge of madness in her. But her behavior was 
 otherwise explicable. Nothing is more common than 
 self-asumption in the heart of young girls placed high 
 on the social ladder and gifted with great beauty. 
 They are often persuaded that their mother, now forty 
 to fifty years old, can no longer sympathize with their 
 young souls or conceive their wants. They imagine 
 that most mothers, jealous of their daughters, have a 
 premeditated design to prevent them from receiving 
 attentions or eclipsing their own claims. Hence, 
 secret tears and muttered rebellion against imaginary 
 maternal tyranny. From the midst of these fancied 
 
'458 The Rural Ball, 
 
 griefs, which they make real, they draw for themselves 
 a brilliant horoscope; their magic consists in taking 
 dreams for realities ; they resolve, in their secret medi- 
 tations, to give their heart and hand to no man who 
 does not possess such or such qualifications, and they 
 picture to their imagination a type to which their 
 accepted lover must, willingly or not, conform. After 
 certain experience of life and the serious reflections 
 which years bring to them, and after seeing the world 
 and its prosaic course, the glowing colors of their ideal 
 visions fade ; and they are quite astonished some fine 
 day to wake up and find themselves happy without the 
 nuptial poesy of their dreams. At present Mademoi- 
 selle Emilie de Fontaine had resolved, in her flimsy 
 wisdom, on a programme to which a suitor must con- 
 form in order to be accepted. Hence her disdainful 
 comments. 
 
 "Though young, and belonging to the old nobility," 
 she said to herself, *'he must also be a peer of France, 
 or the son of a peer. I could never bear to see our 
 arms on the panels of my carriage without the azure 
 mantle, or be unable to drive among the princes 
 at Longchamps. Papa himself says the peerage is 
 going to be the highest dignity in France. He must 
 also be a soldier, but resign, if I wish him to ; and I 
 want him decorated, so that sentries may salute us." 
 
 But the above qualifications would amount to very 
 little, she thought, if this being did not also possess 
 great amiability, an elegant manner, intellect, and a 
 slender form. Slenderness, grace of body, fugitive 
 though it might be, especially under a representative 
 government, was absolutely indispensable. Made- 
 
The Rural Ball. 459 
 
 moiselle de Fontaine had a certain vision in her mind's 
 eye which served her as model. The young man who 
 at her first glance did not meet the required conditions 
 never obtained a second. 
 
 "Oh, heavens! how fat he is!" was with her the 
 expression of an abiding contempt. 
 
 To hear her, one would think that persons of honest 
 corpulence were incapable of feelings, dangerous hus- 
 bands, beings unworthy of existing in civilized soci- 
 ety. Though considered a beauty at the East, plump- 
 ness was to her eyes a misfortune in women and a 
 crime in men. These fantastic opinions amused her 
 hearers, thanks to a certain liveliness of elocution. 
 Nevertheless, the count felt that his daughter's preten- 
 sions would, sooner or later, become a subject of ridi- 
 cule, especially to clear-sighted women of little charity. 
 He also feared that as she grew older her fantastic 
 ideas might change to ill-breeding; and he saw plainly 
 that more than one actor in her comedy, displeased at 
 her refusal, was only waiting for some unlucky inci- 
 dent to avenge himself. Consequently, during the 
 first winter after the accession of Charles X., he 
 redoubled his efforts, seconded by his sons and his 
 sons-in-law, to fill his salons with the best marriage- 
 able men in Paris, trusting that at last this assemblage 
 of suitors would put an end to his daughter's fancies, 
 and force her to decide. He felt an inward satisfac- 
 tion in having done his duty as a father; but no result 
 appearing, he resolved to have a firm explanation 
 with her, and toward the end of Lent she was sum- 
 moned to his study. 
 
 She came in singing an air from the "Barbiere." 
 
460 Tlie Bural Ball 
 
 *' Good-morning, papa. What do you want me tot 
 so early ? " 
 
 The words were chanted as if they were the last 
 line of the air she was singing ; then she kissed the 
 count, not with that familiar tenderness which makes 
 the filial sentiment so sweet a thing, but carelessly, 
 like a mistress, sure of pleasing, whatever she may do. 
 
 *'My dear child," said Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 gravely, "I have sent for you to talk very seriously 
 about your future. It has now become a necessity for 
 you to choose a husband who will make your happiness 
 lasting — " 
 
 "My dear papa," replied ^fimilie, in her most caress- 
 ing tones, "the armistice that you and I agreed upon 
 as to my lovers has not yet expired." 
 
 "^milie, you must cease to jest on a subject so 
 important. For some time past all the efforts of those 
 who love you truly, my child, have been directed to 
 finding you a suitable establishment, and you would 
 be guilty of the greatest ingratitude if you made light 
 of the interest which I am not the only one to spend 
 upon you." 
 
 Hearing these words, the young girl selected an 
 arm-chair and carried it to the other side of the fire- 
 place, directly opposite to her father, sat down in it 
 with too solemn an air not to be sarcastic, and crossed 
 her arms over a pelerine of innumerable snowy ruches. 
 Glancing covertly at her father's anxious face, she 
 said, saucily: — 
 
 "I never heard you say, papa, that the heads of 
 departments made their communications in their 
 dressing-gowns. But, no matter," she added, smil- 
 
The Rural Ball 461 
 
 ing, "the populace are not punctilious. Now, then, 
 bring in your bill, and make your official representa- 
 tions." 
 
 "I shall not always be able to make them, my silly 
 child. Now listen to me, Emilie. I do not intend 
 much longer to compromise my character for dignity, 
 which is the inheritance of my children, by recruiting 
 this regiment of suitors whom you send to the right- 
 about every spring. Already you have been the cause 
 of dangerous dissensions with certain families. I 
 hope that you will now understand more plainly the 
 difficulties of your position and mine. You are 
 twenty-two years old, my dear, and you ought to have 
 been married at least three years ago. Your brothers 
 and sisters are well and happily established. I must 
 tell you now that the expenses accruing from those 
 marriages, and the style in which your mother keeps 
 up this household, have absorbed so much of our 
 property that I cannot afford to give you a dowry of 
 more than a hundred thousand francs. It is my duty 
 to make ample provision for your mother, whose future 
 must not be sacrificed to that of her children; I 
 should ill reward her devotion to me in the days of 
 my poverty if I did not leave her enough to continue 
 the comfort she now enjoys. I wish you to see, my 
 child, that your dowry will not be in keeping with the 
 ideas of grandeur you now indulge — Now, don't be 
 sulky, my dear, but let us talk reasonably. Among 
 the various young men who are looking for wives, have 
 you noticed Monsieur Paul de Manerville?" 
 
 *'0h! he lisps; and he is always looking at his foot 
 because he thinks it small. Besides, he is blonde, and 
 I don't like fair men.'* 
 
462 The Rural Ball 
 
 "Well, Monsieur de Beaudenord?" 
 
 "He is not noble. He is awkward and fat; more- 
 over, he is so dark. It is a pity that pair could n't 
 exchange points; the first could give his figure and 
 his name to the second, who might return the gift in 
 hair, and then — perhaps — " 
 
 "What have you to say against Monsieur de Ras- 
 tignac ? " 
 
 "Madame de Nucingen has made a banker of him," 
 she said, maliciously. 
 
 "And our relation, the Vicomte de Portenduere ? " 
 
 "That boy! who doesn't know how to dance; be- 
 sides, he has no fortune. Moreover, papa, none of 
 those men have titles. I wish to be at least a coun- 
 tess, like my mother." 
 
 "Have you seen no one this winter who — " 
 
 "No one, papa." 
 
 "Then what do you want?" 
 
 "The son of a peer of France." 
 
 "You are crazy, my child! " said Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine, rising. 
 
 Suddenly he looked up as if to ask of heaven another 
 dose of resignation; then, with a look of fatherly pity 
 on the girl, who was somewhat touched, he took her 
 hand, pressed it between his own, and said, ten- 
 derly : — 
 
 "God is my witness, poor, misguided girl! that I 
 have conscientiously done my duty by you — Con- 
 scientiously, do I say? I mean lovingly, my ^milie. 
 Yes, God knows that I have offered you, this winter, 
 more than one honorable man whose character and 
 morals were known to me as being worthy of my 
 
The Bural Ball. 463 
 
 child. My task is done, lilmilie, from this day 
 forth I leave you mistress of your own fate ; and I feel 
 both fortunate and unfortunate in finding myself 
 relieved of the heaviest of all the paternal obligations. 
 I do not know how long you may hear a voice which 
 has, alas ! never been stern to you ; but it will never 
 again say more to you than this : Remember that con- 
 jugal happiness does not depend as much on brilliant 
 qualities or on wealth, as on reciprocal esteem and 
 affection. Married happiness is, of its nature, 
 modest and not dazzling. My daughter, I will accept 
 whoever you may present to me as my son-in-law, but 
 if you make an unhappy marriage, remember that you 
 have no right to blame your father. I will not refuse 
 to promote your wishes and help you ; but your choice 
 must be serious and definite. I will not compromise 
 the respect due to my character any longer by promot- 
 ing your present course." 
 
 Her father's affection and his solemn accents did 
 really affect Mademoiselle de Fontaine sincerely ; but 
 she concealed her feelings, and sprang gayly on his 
 knee, — for the count was again seated, and trembling 
 with agitation. She caressed and coaxed him so 
 prettily that the old man's brow began to clear, and 
 when she thought him sufficiently recovered from his 
 painful emotion she said, in a low voice: — 
 
 "I thank you for your great kindness, dear papa. 
 Is it so very difficult to marry a peer of France? I 
 have heard you say they were made in batches. Ah! 
 you surely won't refuse me your advice? " 
 
 " No, my poor child, no ; indeed, I will often say to 
 you, * Beware! ' Remember that the peerage is too 
 
464 The Rural Ball, 
 
 new a thing in our ' governmentability,' as the late 
 king used to say, for peers to possess large fortunes. 
 Those who are rich want to become richer, and they 
 are looking for heiresses for their sons wherever they 
 can find them. It will be two hundred years before 
 the necessity they are under to make rich marriages 
 dies out. I don't need, I think, to warn a girl like 
 you of the difficulties in your way. One thing I am 
 sure of; you will never be misled by a handsome face 
 or flattering manners to rashly attribute either sense 
 or virtue to a stranger; you have your heart, like a 
 good horseman, too well in hand for that. My 
 daughter, I can only wish you good luck." 
 
 "You are laughing at me, papa. Well, listen. I 
 declare to you that I will go and die in Mademoiselle 
 de Conde's convent sooner than not be the wife of a 
 peer of France." 
 
 She sprang from her father's arms and ran off, proud 
 of being her own mistress, and singing, as she went, 
 the Cava non dubitare in the "Matrimonio Segreto." 
 
 At dessert that day, Madame Planat, ^milie's 
 elder sister, began to speak of a young American, the 
 possessor of a great fortune, who was passionately in 
 love with the girl, and had lately made her very bril- 
 liant proposals. 
 
 "He is a banker, I think," said ilmilie, carelessly. 
 "I don't like financial people." 
 
 "But, Emilie," said the Baron de Vilaine, the hus- 
 band of her second sister, "you don't like the magis- 
 tracy any better ; so that really if you reject all men 
 of property without titles, I don't see into what class 
 you can go for a husband." 
 
The Eural Ball, 465 
 
 "Especially, £milie, with your sentiments on fat 
 men," added her brother, the lieutenant-general. 
 
 "I know very well what I want," replied the girl. 
 
 "My sister wants a noble name, a fine young man, 
 a glorious future, and a hundred thousand francs 
 a year, — Monsieur de Marsay, for instance," said the 
 Baroune de Fontaine. 
 
 "I know this, my dear sister," returned ifemilie. 
 "I shall not make a foolish marriage, as I have seen 
 so many people do. Now, to avoid, in future, these 
 nuptial discussions, I here declare that I shall regard 
 as a personal enemy any one who says another word 
 to me about marriage." 
 
 A great-uncle of ^^milie, a vice-admiral whose for- 
 tune had just been increased by twenty thousand francs 
 a year through the law of indemnity, an old man of 
 seventy, assumed the right of saying harsh truths 
 when he pleased to his grand-niece, whom he idolized. 
 He now remarked, as if to put a stop to the sharpness 
 of the conversation : — 
 
 "Don't tease my poor ^milie; can't you see that she 
 is waiting for the majority of the Due de Bordeaux? " 
 
 A general laugh replied to the old man's jest. 
 
 "Take care I don't marry you, you old goose," re- 
 torted the girl, whose last word was fortunately lost 
 in the hubbub. 
 
 "My children," said Madame de Fontaine, endeav- 
 oring to soften this impertinence, "^milie, like the 
 rest of you, will take her mother's advice. " 
 
 "Oh, heavens! no; I shall take no one's advice but 
 my own in a matter which concerns me alone," said 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, very distinctly. 
 
 80 
 
466 The Rural Ball, 
 
 All eyes turned to the head of the family on hearing 
 this speech. Every one seemed curious to see how 
 the count would take such an attack on his dignity. 
 Not only did the worthy Vendean enjoy the considera- 
 tion of the world at large, but, more fortunate than 
 many fathers, he was greatly esteemed by his own 
 family, all the members of which recognized the solid 
 qualities which had enabled him to make the fortune 
 of those belonging to him. He was therefore sur- 
 rounded by that respect and even reverence which 
 English families and some aristocratic families on the 
 continent show to the head of their genealogical tree. 
 Silence fell; the eyes of every one turned from the 
 haughty and sullen face of the spoiled child to the 
 stern faces of her father and mother. 
 
 "I have left Emilie mistress of her own fate," was 
 the reply of the count, made in a deep voice. 
 
 All present looked at Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
 with a curiosity that was mingled with pity. The 
 words seemed to say that paternal kindness was weary 
 of endeavoring to control a character which the family 
 knew to be uncontrollable. The sons-in-law mur- 
 mured disapprovingly; the brothers looked at their 
 wives sarcastically. From that moment, none of them 
 took any further interest in the marriage of the in- 
 tractable girl. Her old uncle was the only person 
 who, in his naval parlance, dared to board her, and 
 he did, occasionally, receive her fire and return her 
 broadside for broadside. 
 
The Bural Ball. 467 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 When the summer season came (after the vote on 
 the budget) this family, a true likeness of the parlia- 
 mentary families on the other side of the British Chan- 
 nel, which have a foothold in all ministries and ten 
 votes in the Commons, flew ofif like a covey of birds 
 to the beautiful regions of Aulnay, Antony, and 
 Chatenay. The opulent receiver-general, the husband 
 of the eldest sister, had lately bought a country-seat 
 in that vicinity, and though Emilie despised all ple- 
 beians, that sentiment did not lead her so far as to dis- 
 dain the advantages of bourgeois wealth. She there- 
 fore accompanied her sister to her sumptuous villa, 
 less from affection for the members of her family, who 
 went with them, than from the rigid rule of good society, 
 which imperiously requires all women who respect 
 themselves to leave Paris during the summer season. 
 The verdant meadows of Sceaux fulfilled these exac- 
 tions of good taste and public duty suitably, and 
 fimilie agreed to go there. 
 
 As it is doubtful whether the reputation of the rural 
 ball of Sceaux has ever reached beyond the limits of 
 the department of the Seine, it is necessary to give 
 a few details on this hebdomadal fgte, which threat- 
 ened at that time to become an institution. The envi* 
 
468 The Bural Ball, 
 
 rons of the little town of Sceaux enjoys the reputation 
 of delightful scenery. Perhaps, however, it is really 
 commonplace, and owes its celebrity to the stupid 
 ignorance of the Parisian bourgeoisie, who, issuing 
 from the close and narrow streets in which they are 
 buried, incline naturally to admire the plains of Beauce. 
 Nevertheless, as the poetic woods of Aulnay, the hill- 
 sides of Antony, and the valley of the Bievre are in- 
 habited by artists who have travelled, by foreigners, 
 by persons difficult to please, and by a number of 
 pretty women who are not without taste, we may sup- 
 pose that the transient Parisian visitors were right. 
 
 But Sceaux possesses another charm in addition to 
 its scenery, not less attractive to Parisians. In the 
 middle of a garden where many delightful points of 
 view are obtained, stands an immense rotunda, open 
 on all sides, the light and airy dome of which is sup- 
 ported by elegant pillars. This rural dais shelters a 
 ballroom. It seldom happens that even the most con- 
 ventional and proper of the neighboring proprietors 
 and their families do not converge at least once or 
 twice during the season toward this palace of the vil- 
 lage Terpsichore, either in brilliant cavalcades, or in 
 light and elegant carriages which cover with dust 
 philosophical pedestrians. The hope of meeting there 
 some women of the great world and being seen by 
 them, the hope (less often betrayed) of meeting young 
 peasant-women as demure as judges, brings, Sunday 
 after Sunday, to the ball of Sceaux, swarms of law- 
 yers' clerks, disciples of Esculapius, and other youths 
 whose fresh complexions are discoloring behind the 
 counters of Paris. Quite a number of bourgeois mar- 
 
The Rural Ball, 469 
 
 riages are yearly planned to the sounds of the orches- 
 tra, which occupies the centre of the circular hall. If 
 that could speak, what tales of love it might tell! 
 
 This interesting medley of classes made the ball of 
 Sceaux, in those days, more spicy and amusing than 
 other rural balls in the neighborhood of Paris, over 
 which its rotunda, the beauty of its site, and the 
 charms of its garden, gave it additional advantages. 
 Emilie at once proclaimed her desire to "play popu- 
 lace " at this lively rural scene, and declared she 
 should take an enormous amount of pleasure in it. 
 Her family were astonished at this fancy for mixing in 
 such a mob; but to play at incognito has always had 
 a singular charm for persons of rank. Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine expected to derive much amusement from 
 citizen manners ; she saw herself leaving in more than 
 one bourgeois soul the memory of a look or a fasci- 
 nating smile; she laughed to think of the awkward 
 dancing, and she sharpened her pencils in preparation 
 for the scenes with which she expected to enrich her 
 satirical album. 
 
 Sunday arrived to put an end to her impatience. 
 The party from Planat made their way on foot to avoid 
 giving annoyance to the rest of the company. The 
 family had dined early. The month of May was a 
 delightful season for such an escapade. Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine's first sensation was one of surprise at 
 finding under the rotunda a number of persons dancing 
 quadrilles who appeared to belong to the best society. 
 She saw, indeed, here and there, a few young men 
 who had evidently put their month's savings into the 
 joy of shining for this one day; but, on the whole, 
 
470 The Rural Ball. 
 
 there was little of satire to glean and none to harvest. 
 She was amazed to find pleasure arrayed in cambric so 
 much like pleasure robed in satin, and the citizen 
 female dancing with as much grace as the noble lady, 
 sometimes with more. Most of the toilets were 
 simple and becoming. Those of the assembly who 
 represented the lords of the soil, namely, the peasants, 
 kept in the background with remarkable politeness. 
 Mademoiselle flmilie would have been forced to make 
 a study of the various elements composing the scene 
 before discovering the slightest subject of ridicule. 
 
 But, as it happened, she had no time for malicious 
 criticism, no leisure to listen for those absurd speeches 
 which satirical minds delight to fasten on. The 
 proud girl suddenly met in the midst of this vast field 
 a flower, — the comparison is in order, — a flower, the 
 color and brilliancy of which acted on her imagination 
 with the prestige of novelty. It sometimes happens 
 that we look at a gown, a curtain, or a bit of white 
 paper so abstractedly that we do not at first see some 
 stain, or sonje vivid beauty which later strikes our 
 eye as if it had just come to the place where we see 
 it. By a species of moral phenomenon of the same 
 kind. Mademoiselle de Fontaine now beheld in a young 
 man the type of those external perfections she had 
 dreamed of for years. 
 
 Seated on one of the common chairs which sur- 
 rounded the dancing circle, she had carefully placed 
 herself at the extremity of the group formed by her 
 family party, so as to be able to rise and move about 
 as she fancied. She sat there, turning her opera-glass 
 impertinently on all around her, even those in her 
 
The Rural Ball, 471 
 
 immediate vicinity ; and she was making remarks as 
 she might have done in a gallery over portraits or 
 genre pictures, when suddenly her eyes were caught by 
 a face which seemed to have been placed there, ex- 
 pressly, in the strongest light, to exhibit a personage 
 out of all proportion with the rest of the scene. 
 
 The stranger, dreamy, and apparently solitary, 
 leaned lightly against one of the columns that sup- 
 ported the roof, with his arms folded, slightly bending 
 forward as though a painter were taking his portrait. 
 His attitude, though proud and full of grace, was 
 entirely free from affectation. No gesture showed 
 that he held his face at three-quarters, inclining 
 slightly to the right, like Alexander and like Byron 
 and several other great men, for the purpose of attract- 
 ing attention. His eyes followed the motions of a 
 lady who was dancing, and their expression betrayed 
 some powerful sentiment. His slim and agile figure 
 recalled the proportions of the Apollo. Fine black 
 hair curled naturally on his high forehead. Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine, at her first glance, noticed the 
 fineness of his linen, the freshness of his kid gloves, 
 evidently from the best maker, and the smallness of 
 a foot well-shod in a boot of Irish leather. He wore 
 none of those worthless trinkets which a counter- 
 Lovelace or the fops of the National Guard affect. A 
 black ribbon, to which his eyeglass was attached, 
 alone floated over a waistcoat of elegant shape. 
 Never had the exacting jfimilie seen the eyes of man 
 shaded by lashes so long and so curving. Melancholy 
 and passion were both in that face, the tone of which 
 was olive, and the features manly. His mouth seemedi 
 
472 The Rural Ball, 
 
 ready to smile and to raise the corners of its eloquent 
 lips; but this expression, far from denoting gayety, 
 revealed, on the contrary, a certain graceful sadness. 
 There was too much future promise in that head, too 
 much distinction in the whole person not to make an 
 observer desire to know him; the most perceptive 
 observer would have seen that here was a man of 
 talent, brought to this village ball by some powerful 
 interest. 
 
 This mass of observations cost ^milie*s quick mind 
 but a moment's attention, during which moment, how- 
 ever, this privileged man, subjected to severe analysis, 
 became the object of her secret admiration. She said 
 to herself, "He is a noble, — he must be." Then she 
 rose suddenly and went, followed by her brother, the 
 lieutenant-general, toward the column on which the 
 stranger leaned, pretending to watch the quadrille, but 
 not losing, thanks to an optical manoeuvre familiar to 
 woman, a single one of the young man's movements 
 as she approached him. The stranger politely yielded 
 his place to the new-comers and went to another col- 
 umn, against which he leaned. Emilie, more piqued 
 at this civility than she would have been by an imper- 
 tinence, began to talk to her brother in a raised tone 
 of voice, louder than good taste admitted. She nodded 
 and shook her head, multiplied her gestures, and 
 laughed without much reason, far less to amuse her 
 brother than to attract the attention of the imperturb- 
 able stranger. None of these little artifices succeeded ; 
 and then it occurred to Mademoiselle de Fontaine to 
 follow the direction of the young man's glances. On 
 doing so, she saw at once the cause of his absorption. 
 
The Rural Ball. 473 
 
 In the middle of the quadrille directly before her, a 
 pale young girl was dancing, who was like those 
 Scottish deities whom Girodet has painted in his vast 
 composition of French warriors received by Ossian. 
 Emilie thought at first she must either be or belong 
 to a distinguished lady who had lately come to occupy 
 a neighboring country-house. Her partner was a 
 young man of fifteen, with red hands, nankeen trou- 
 sers, blue coat, and white shoes, which proved that her 
 love for dancing made her not difl3cult to please in the 
 matter of partners. Her movements did not show the 
 languor of her apparent feebleness ; but a faint flush 
 colored her delicate cheeks and was beginning to 
 spread over her face. Mademoiselle de Fontaine went 
 nearer to the quadrille in order to examine the young 
 stranger when she returned to her place, while the 
 vis-a-vis repeated the figure she had just executed. 
 But at this moment the young man advanced, stooped 
 to the pretty dancer, and said, in a masterful, yet 
 gentle tone of voice, these words, which Emilie dis- 
 tinctly overheard : — 
 
 ''Clara, my child, do not dance any more." 
 Clara gave a little pout, nodded her head in sign of 
 acquiescence, and ended by smiling. After the dance 
 was over the young man took all the precautions of a 
 lover in wrapping a cashmere shawl around the girl's 
 shoulders, and making her sit away from the draught. 
 Presently Mademoiselle de Fontaine saw them rise 
 and walk round the enclosure like persons intending 
 to take their departure, and she followed them hastily, 
 under pretence of admiring the views from the garden. 
 Her brother lent himself with malicious good-humor 
 
474 The Bural Ball. 
 
 to the various caprices of this vagabond ramble, 
 itlmilie soon perceived her elegant couple getting into 
 a tilbury held by a groom on horseback, and at the 
 moment when the young man gathered up the reins 
 she obtained from him one of those glances that are 
 aimlessly cast upon a crowd ; next, she had the satis- 
 faction of seeing him turn twice to look at her again. 
 The lady did likewise. Was she jealous? 
 
 "I presume that now, having examined the garden 
 thoroughly," said her brother, *'we may return to the 
 dance." 
 
 *'I am willing," she answered. "Do you think that 
 young girl can be a sister of Lady Dudley? " 
 
 "Lady Dudley may have a sister staying with her," 
 replied the Baron de Fontaine, "but she can't be a 
 young girl." 
 
 The next day Mademoiselle de Fontaine was pos- 
 sessed with a strong desire to ride on horseback. 
 Little by little she brought her old uncle and her 
 brothers to accompany her daily in certain early morn- 
 ing rides, very beneficial, she declared, for her health. 
 She particularly delighted in the country about Lady 
 Dudley's house. But in spite of her cavalry manoeu- 
 vres she did not find the stranger as promptly as her 
 joyous hopes predicted. Several times she returned 
 to the rural ball, but in vain. The stranger who had 
 fallen from heaven to rule her dreams and adorn them 
 appeared not again. Nothing spurs the dawning love 
 of a young girl like an obstacle; but there was, never- 
 theless, a moment when Mademoiselle l^milie de Fon- 
 taine was on the point of abandoning her strange and 
 secret quest, despairing of the success of an enterprise 
 
The Rural Ball 475 
 
 the singularity of which may give some idea of her 
 daring character. She might, indeed, have ridden 
 about the neighborhood indefinitely without meeting 
 her unknown hero. Clara — since Clara was the name 
 that lilmilie had overheard — was not English; she did 
 not belong to Lady Dudley's household, and the gen- 
 tleman who accompanied her did not reside near the 
 balmy groves of Chatenay. 
 
 One evening, as fimilie was riding alone with her 
 uncle, who enjoyed a cessation of hostilities from his 
 gout during the summer, she met the carriage of Lady 
 Dudley. That illustrious foreigner was accompanied 
 by Monsieur Felix de Vandenesse. Illmilie recog- 
 nized the handsome couple, and her past suppositions 
 were dissolved like a dream. Provoked, like any 
 other woman frustrated in her scheme, she turned her 
 horse and rode so rapidly homeward that her uncle had 
 all the trouble in the world to keep up with her. 
 
 "Apparently I 'm too old to understand these young 
 things," thought the old sailor as he urged his horse to 
 a gallop. "Or perhaps the youth of these days is n't 
 the same as it was in mine — But what's my niece 
 about now? Look at her, making her horse take short 
 steps, like a gendarme patrolling Paris. Would n't 
 one think she was trying to hem in that worthy fellow, 
 who looks like an author composing poetry? Yes, to 
 to be sure, he has an album in his hand! Faith! 
 what a fool I am! no doubt that's the young man 
 we 've been chasing all along." 
 
 At this thought the old sailor checked the speed of 
 his horse so as to reach his niece as noiselessly as he 
 could. In spite of the veil which years had drawn 
 
476 The Rural Ball 
 
 before his gray eyes the Comte de Kergarouet aav^ 
 enough to note the signs of some unusual agitation in 
 the girl, in spite of the indifference she endeavored to 
 assume. Her piercing eyes were fixed in a sort of 
 stupor on the stranger, who was tranquilly walking in 
 front of her. 
 
 *'That*s surely it!" thought the old gentleman. 
 "She is making a stern chase of him, like a pirate 
 after a merchantman. When she loses sight of him 
 she '11 be in a fine state at not knowing who he is, 
 whether a marquis or a bourgeois. Ah ! those young 
 heads, those young heads! they ought always to have 
 an old wig like me at their elbow — " 
 
 Suddenly he set spurs to his horse to startle that of 
 his niece, and passed so rapidly between fimilie and 
 the stranger that he forced the latter to jump back 
 upon the grass that bordered the road. Stopping his 
 horse, the count cried out : — 
 
 "Couldn't you get out of the way?" 
 
 "Ah, pardon me," replied the stranger. "I waa 
 not aware it was my place to make excuses for your 
 nearly knocking me down." 
 
 "Enough of that, friend!" returned the old sailor, 
 gruflfly, in a tone of voice which was meant to be 
 insulting. 
 
 At the same time the count raised his whip as if to 
 strike his horse, but he let the end of it touch the 
 shoulder of the young man as he said : — 
 
 "The liberals always reason, and the man who rea- 
 sons ought to be wise." 
 
 The young man jumped into the road on hearing the 
 words, and said, in an angry voice; — 
 
The Rural Ball 477 
 
 ** Monsieur, I can hardly believe, seeing your white 
 hair, that you still amuse yourself by seekiug 
 duels — " 
 
 "White hair!" cried the sailor, interrupting him; 
 "you lie in your throat; it is only gray." 
 
 A dispute thus begun became, in a few seconds, so 
 hot that the young adversary forgot the tone of moder- 
 ation he tried to use. At this moment Emilie rode 
 anxiously back to them, and the count gave his name 
 hurriedly to the young man, telling him to say noth- 
 ing more in presence of the lady who was intrusted 
 to his care. The young stranger could not help smil- 
 ing, but he gave his card to the old gentleman, re- 
 marking that he lived in a country-house at Chevreuse, 
 after which he disappeared rapidly. 
 
 "You came near killing that poor fellow, niece," 
 said the count, riding up to ifimilie. "Why don't you 
 hold your horse in hand ? You left me to compromise 
 my dignity in order to cover your folly; whereas if 
 you had stayed on the spot one of your looks or civil 
 words, which you can say prettily enough when you 
 don't want to be impertinent, would have mended 
 matters even if you had broken his arm." 
 
 "My dear uncle, it was your horse, not mine, that 
 caused the accident. I really think you ought to give 
 up riding; you are not half so good a horseman as 
 you were last year. But instead of talking about 
 trifles — " 
 
 "Trifles! the devil! Do you call it a trifle to be 
 impertinent to your uncle?" 
 
 " — we had much better follow that young man and 
 see if he is hurt. He is limping, uncle, see 1 " 
 
478 The Rural Ball 
 
 "No, he is runniDg. I gave him a good lesson." 
 
 "Ah! uncle, that was just like you." 
 
 "Stop, niece," said the count, catching Emilie's 
 horse by the bridle. "I don't see the necessity of 
 running after some shopkeeper, who may think him- 
 self only too happy to be run down by a pretty young 
 girl and the commander of the ' Belle-Poule.' " 
 
 "Why do you think he is a shopkeeper, uncle? I 
 think, on the contrary, that his manners are very 
 distinguished." 
 
 "Everybody has manners in these days." 
 
 "Everybody has not the air and style of social life; 
 I *11 lay a wager with you that that young man is 
 noble." 
 
 "You didn't have time to examine him." 
 
 "But it is n't the first time I have seen him." 
 
 "Ha, ha! " laughed her uncle; "and it is n't the first 
 time you have hunted for him, either." 
 
 £milie colored, and her uncle amused himself by 
 leaving her a while embarrassed ; then he said : — 
 
 "Emilie, you know I love you as my own child, 
 because you are the only one of the family who keeps 
 the legitimate pride of high birth. Ah! my little 
 niece, who 'd have thought good principles would have 
 become so rare ? Well, I wish to be your confidant. 
 My dear little girl, I see you are not indifferent to 
 that young gentleman. You know what that means. 
 Therefore, let me help you. Let us both keep the 
 secret, and I '11 promise to introduce him to you in 
 a salon." 
 
 "When, uncle?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
The Rural Ball. 479 
 
 "But, my dear uncle, you won't bind me to any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "To nothing at all; you can bombard him, set fire 
 to him, make a wreck of him if you please. And he 
 won't be the first, either." 
 
 "How kind you are, uncle." 
 
 As soon as the count got home he put on his spec- 
 tacles, pulled the card from his pocket, and read the 
 name, "Maximilien Longueville, rue du Sentier." 
 
 "You needn't feel uneasy," he said later to Emilie; 
 "you can harpoon him in safety; he belongs to one 
 of the great historical families, and if he isn't peer of 
 France now he can certainly become so." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 
 "That 's my secret." 
 
 "Do you know his name?" 
 
 The count nodded his gray head, which was some- 
 thing like an old oak stump, around which a few 
 autumn leaves were clinging. At that nod his niece 
 ran to him to try the ever fresh effect of her coquet- 
 ries. Learned in the art of cajoling the old sailor, 
 she coaxed him like a child with the tenderest words. 
 She even went so far as to kiss him, in order to obtain 
 the important secret. But the old man, who passed 
 his life in making his niece play such scenes, let her 
 entreat and pet him for a long time. Presently she 
 grew angry and sulked ; then, under the spur of curi- 
 osity, she coaxed again. The diplomatic mariner first 
 obtained her solemn promise to behave with more 
 discretion, to be more gentle, less self-willed, to spend 
 less money, and, above all, to tell him everything. 
 This treaty being concluded and signed by a kiss 
 
480 The Rural Ball. 
 
 which he deposited on ifimilie's white forehead, he 
 seated her on his knee, placed the card before her eyes, 
 with his two thumbs covering the print, and let her 
 make out, letter by letter, the name of Longueville, 
 obstinately refusing to show her more. 
 
 This event made the secret sentiments of Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine even more intense, and she spent 
 the greater part of the night in picturing to her mind's 
 eye the brilliant dreams with which she fed her hopes. 
 Thanks to chance, so often invoked, Emilie now saw 
 something besides a mere chimera in her visions of 
 conjugal life. Like all young girls, who are ignorant 
 of the risks of love and marriage, she was captivated 
 by the deceitful externals of the two conditions. In 
 other words, her sentiments were like other caprices 
 of early youth, sweet but cruel errors which exercise a 
 fatal influence on the existence of girls who are inex- 
 perienced enough to take upon their own shoulders the 
 responsibility of their future happiness. 
 
 The next morning, before ^fimilie was awake, her 
 uncle had ridden to Chevreuse. Finding in the court- 
 yard of an elegant country-house the young man he 
 had so wantonly insulted the night before, he went up 
 to him with the affectionate politeness of the old men 
 of the olden time. 
 
 *'My dear monsieur," he said, "could any one 
 believe that I should, at the age of sixty-three, get up 
 a quarrel with the son of one of my oldest friends ? I 
 am a vice-admiral, monsieur; which is proof enough 
 that I think no more of fighting a duel than of smok- 
 ing a cigar. In my day, young fellows could n't be 
 friends till they had seen the color of each other's 
 
The Rural Ball 481 
 
 blood. But, ventre-de-biche / I had, you must know, 
 taken a trifle too much grog aboard, and I ran foul of 
 you. Shake hands! I 'd rather receive a hundred re- 
 buffs from a Longueville than give the slightest pain 
 to any of the family." 
 
 Though at first the young man was inclined to be 
 cold to the Comte de Kergarouet, it was impossible to 
 hold out long against his hearty manner, and he 
 allowed himself to be shaken by the hand. 
 
 "You are going out," said the count; "don't let me 
 detain you. But, unless you have other plans, come 
 and dine with me to-day at the Pavilion Planat. My 
 nephew, the Comte de Fontaine, is a man you ought 
 to know. And, besides, morbleuf I want to repair 
 my rudeness by presenting you to four or five of the 
 prettiest women of Paris. Ha, ha ! young man, your 
 brow unclouds ! Well, I like young people, and I want 
 to see them happy. Their happiness reminds me of 
 those blessed days of youth when adventures were 
 never lacking. Gay! oh, we were gay then, I can 
 tell you. Nowadays, you reason, you worry about 
 all sorts of things, as if there had never been a fif- 
 teenth or sixteenth century.'* 
 
 "But, monsieur, are not we right to do so? The 
 sixteenth century gave Europe religious liberty only, 
 whereas the nineteenth will give her poli — 
 
 "Stop, stop, don't talk politics. I'm an old fogy 
 of an ultra. But for all that, I don't prevent young 
 fellows from being revolutionists, provided they allow 
 the king to disperse their meetings." 
 
 Riding on together a little way, the count and his 
 companion were soon in the heart of the woods. The 
 
 31 
 
482 ' The Bural Ball, 
 
 old sailor selected a slim young birch, stopped his 
 horse, pulled out a pistol, and sent a ball through its 
 stem at forty paces. 
 
 *'You see, my dear fellow, that I have no reason to 
 fear a duel," he remarked, with comic gravity, as he 
 looked at Monsieur Longueville. 
 
 "Nor I, either," said the young man, pulling out his 
 own pistol. Aiming for the count's hole he put his 
 ball close beside it. 
 
 "That 's what I call a well brought-up young man," 
 cried the count, with enthusiasm. 
 
 During this ride with the man he already regarded 
 as his nephew, he found several opportunities to 
 make inquiries as to those trifling accomplishments 
 the possession of which constituted, according to his 
 peculiar code, a finished gentleman. 
 
 "Have you any debts?" he asked, finally, after a 
 variety of other questions. 
 
 "No, monsieur." 
 
 "What! you pay for what you buy! " 
 
 "Punctually, monsieur; otherwise we should lose 
 our credit and standing." 
 
 "But of course you have a mistress? Ah! you blush, 
 young man. How times have changed, to be sure! 
 With these ideas of legality, Kantism, liberty, youth 
 is spoiled. You have neither Guimard, nor Duthe, nor 
 creditors, and you don't know heraldry ! Why, my dear 
 young friend, you are not hrought-itp at all! Let me 
 tell you that he who does n't commit his follies in the 
 spring is certain to commit them in winter. If I 
 have eighty thousand francs a year at seventy it is 
 because I ran through my capital at thirty — Oh! 
 
The Bural Ball 483 
 
 with my wife, honorably. Nevertheless your imper- 
 fections will not prevent me from presenting you at 
 the Pavilion Planat. Remember that you have prom- 
 ised to come, and I shall expect you." 
 
 "What an odd little man!" thought Longueville; 
 "he is lively and robust, but — though he tries to 
 seem kindly, I shall not trust him." 
 
 The next day, about four o'clock, as the family 
 party were scattered about in the salons and billiard' 
 room at Planat, a servant announced : — 
 
 "Monsieur de Longueville." 
 
 Having already heard of him from the Comte de 
 Kergarouet, the whole company, even to a billiard- 
 player who missed his stroke, gathered to see the new- 
 comer, as much to watch Mademoiselle de Fontaine's 
 face as to judge of the phoenix who had won the day 
 in defiance of so many rivals. Manners that were full 
 of ease, courteous politeness, a style of dress both 
 elegant and simple, and a voice which vibrated to the 
 heart of all hearers at once obtained for Monsieur 
 Longueville the good-will of the whole family. He 
 did not seem unused to the luxury now about him. 
 Though his conversation was that of a man of the 
 world, it was easy to see that he had received a bril- 
 liant education, and that his knowledge was solid and 
 also extensive. He used, for instance, the proper 
 technical word in a slight discussion which the count 
 started on naval constructions, which led one of the 
 women present to remark that he must have been 
 educated at the i^cole Polytechnique. 
 
 "I agree with you, madame," he replied, "that it is 
 an honor to have been educated there." 
 
484 The Rural Ball, 
 
 In spite of much urging, he declined politely, but 
 firmly, the urgent invitation of the family that he 
 should stay to dinner; and he put an end to all remarks 
 from the ladies by saying that he was the Hippocrates 
 of a young sister whose delicate health required inces- 
 sant watching. 
 
 "Monsieur is perhaps a physician?" said one of 
 Emilie's sisters-in-law, rather maliciously. 
 
 "No, monsieur was educated at the ^^cole Poly tech- 
 nique," interposed Mademoiselle de Fontaine, whose 
 face had brightened with the richest tints on hearing 
 that the lady she had seen at the ball was Monsieur 
 Longueville's sister. 
 
 "But, my dear sister, a man can be educated at the 
 £cole Poly technique and yet be a physician. Isn't 
 that so, monsieur?" 
 
 "Madame, the two things are not incompatible," re- 
 plied the young man. 
 
 All eyes rested on Emilie, who looked with a sort of 
 uneasy curiosity at the attractive stranger. She 
 breathed more freely when he added, with a smile, — 
 
 "I have not the honor of being a physician, 
 madame, and I have even declined an opportunity to 
 enter the government service, in order to maintain my 
 independence." 
 
 "And you did right," said the count. "But how 
 can you call it an honor to be a doctor? Ah! my 
 young friend, for a man like you — " 
 
 "Monsieur le comte, I feel infinite respect for all 
 professions that are useful." 
 
 "I'll agree to that; you respect professions, I sus- 
 pect, as other young men respect dowagers." 
 
Tlie Bural Ball 485 
 
 Monsieur Longueville*8 visit was neither too long 
 nor too short. He withdrew at the moment when he 
 had pleased every one and when the curiosity of all 
 was fairly roused. 
 
 "That's a sly fellow," said the count, returning to 
 the salon, after seeing the young man to the door. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who alone was in the 
 secret of this visit, had made a somewhat choice toi- 
 let to attract the eyes of the young man ; but she had 
 the small annoyance of perceiving that he paid her less 
 attention than she thought her due. The family were 
 a good deal surprised at the silence into which she 
 retired. Usually ifemilie displayed her coquettish 
 charms, her clever chatter, and the inexhaustible elo- 
 quence of her glances and her attitudes on each new- 
 comer. Whether it was that the musical voice of the 
 young man and the attraction of his manners had 
 seriously charmed her, and that this real sentiment had 
 given her a change of heart, it is certain that her 
 behavior lost all affectation. Becoming simple and 
 natural she was all the more beautiful. Some of her 
 sisters, and an old lady, a friend of the family, saw a 
 refinement of coquetry in this conduct. They sup- 
 posed that finding a young man worthy of her she 
 intended to show him slowly her charms, and then to 
 dazzle him suddenly when her mind was made up. 
 
 Every member of the family was curious to know 
 what the capricious girl thought of the stranger; but 
 when, during dinner, they each took occasion to endow 
 Monsieur Longueville with some fresh merit. Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine was mute until a slight sarcasm 
 from her uncle roused her suddenly from her apathy; 
 
486 The Rural Ball. 
 
 she then said, in a pointed manner, that such celestial 
 perfections must cover some great defect, and that 
 for her part she should be careful not to judge of so 
 clever a man at first sight. 
 
 "Those who please every one please no one in par- 
 ticular,'* she added; "and the worst of all defects is 
 to have none." 
 
 Like all young girls who fall in love, ilmilie fondly 
 hoped to hide her feelings in her heart by misleading 
 the Argus eyes that surrounded her; but at the end of 
 a fortnight there was not a single member of this 
 numerous family who was not initiated into her secret. 
 
 At Monsieur Longueville's third visit £milie felt 
 that she attracted him. This discovery gave her such 
 intoxicating pleasure that she felt surprised at herself 
 when she reflected on it. There was something humili- 
 ating to her pride in it. Accustomed to feel herself 
 the centre of the world she lived in, she was now 
 obliged to recognize a power which controlled her in 
 spite of herself. She tried to rebel against it, but 
 she was wholly unable to drive from her heart the 
 seductive image of the young man. Then came 
 uneasiness. Two characteristics of Monsieur Longue- 
 ville were very unwelcome, both to the general curi- 
 osity and that of Mademoiselle de Fontaine in partic- 
 ular; namely, his discretion and his modesty. He 
 never spoke of himself, or of his family, or his occu- 
 pations. In spite of the traps which fimilie repeat- 
 edly laid for him in conversation, he managed to evade 
 them all with the cleverness of a diplomatist who 
 means to keep his secret. If she talked of painting, 
 Monsieur Longueville replied as a connoisseur. If 
 
Tie Rural Ball, 487 
 
 she tried music, the young man showed, without 
 conceit, that he could play the piano fairly well. One 
 evening he delighted the company by blending his 
 delightful voice with that of l&milie in one of Cima- 
 rosa*s fine duets. But if any one attempted to dis- 
 cover whether he were an artist of any kind, he joked 
 about his accomplishments with so much grace that 
 he left these women, practised as they were in the art 
 of divining such secrets, unable to discover the social 
 sphere to which he belonged. No matter with what 
 vigor the old admiral flung a grapnel to the vessel, 
 Longueville managed to slip by it with a suppleness 
 which preserved the charm of mystery; and it was all 
 the more easy for him to keep his incognito at the 
 Pavilion Planat, because the curiosity he there aroused 
 never exceeded the limits of politeness. 
 
 Emilie, tortured by this reserve, fancied she might 
 get more from the sister than from the brother, and 
 she now attempted, with the help of her uncle, to 
 bring that hitherto mute personage, Mademoiselle 
 Clara Longueville, on the scene. The society at the 
 Pavilion expressed an extreme desire to know so 
 amiable a young lady and to afford her some amuse- 
 ment. An informal ball was proposed and accepted, 
 and the ladies felt certain of getting the truth from a 
 girl of sixteen. 
 
 In spite of these little clouds of doubt, a vivid light 
 had entered the soul of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, 
 who found a new and delightful charm in life when 
 connected with another being besides herself. She 
 began to conceive the true nature of social relations. 
 Whether happiness makes better beings of us, or 
 
488 TJie Rural Ball. 
 
 whether her mind was too occupied to tease and har- 
 ass others, it is certain that she became less caustic, 
 gentler and more indulgent. This change in her char- 
 acter delighted the astonished family. Perhaps, after 
 all, her selfishness was to turn into love. Merely to 
 expect the arrival of her reserved adorer was joy. 
 Though a single word of passion had never passed 
 between them she knew herself loved. With what 
 art she now enabled her unknown lover to display his 
 accomplishments and the treasures of an education that 
 was evidently varied. Conscious that she herself was 
 being carefully observed, she felt her defects and tried 
 to conquer those which her training had so fatally 
 encouraged. It was indeed a first homage paid to 
 love, and a bitter reproach which her awakened heart 
 made to itself. The result was that, wanting to please, 
 she fascinated ; she loved, and was idolized. 
 
 Her family, knowing how amply her pride protected 
 her, allowed her enough liberty to enjoy those little 
 youthful happinesses which give such charm and such 
 vigor to young love. More than once the young man 
 and Emilie walked alone about the shrubbery of the 
 park, where nature was decked like beauty for a ball. 
 More than once they held those vague and aimless con- 
 vei-sations the emptiest words of which conceal the 
 deepest sentiments. Together they admired the 
 setting sun and its glowing colors. They gathered 
 daisies to pluck the leaves ; they sang the passionate 
 duets of Pergolesi and Rossini, using those notes as 
 faithful interpreters to express their secret feelings. 
 
The Rural Ball. 489 
 
 m. 
 
 IN WHICH THE WORST COMES TO THE WORST. 
 
 The day of the ball arrived. Clara Longueville 
 and her brother, whom the footmen persisted in deco- 
 rating with the particle, were the heroes of it. For 
 the first time in her life Mademoiselle de Fontaine saw 
 the triumph of another girl with pleasure. She lav- 
 ished, in all sincerity, upon Clara, those pretty caresses 
 and attentions which women often show to each other 
 to excite the jealousy of men, £milie had an object 
 of her own, however; she wanted to obtain the secret. 
 But Mademoiselle Longueville proved to have even 
 more discretion and more cleverness than her brother, 
 for she did not even seem to be reserved, — keeping 
 the conversation away from personal interests, but 
 giving it so great a charm on other subjects that 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine felt a sort of envy, and 
 called her "the siren." Though flmilie's intention 
 was to question Clara, it was Clara who questioned 
 Emilie; she wanted to judge the girl, and the girl 
 judged her; she was even provoked with herself for 
 letting her real self appear in certain answers cleverly 
 drawn out of her by Clara, whose modest and inno- 
 cent air precluded all suspicion of malice. At one 
 moment Emilie seemed really angry at having made an 
 attack upon plebeians, which Clara herself had 
 provoked. 
 
490 The Rural Ball. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the charming girl, "I have 
 heard so much of you from Maximilien that I have 
 longed to know you; and to know you must be, I 
 think, to love you." 
 
 "Dear Clara, I was afraid I displeased you just now, 
 in speaking as I did of those who are not noble." 
 
 *'0h, no; don't be troubled. In these days such 
 discussions have no point; and as forme, I am out- 
 side of that question." 
 
 This answer gave Mademoiselle de Fontaine the 
 utmost satisfaction, for she interpreted it as people 
 interpret oracles, to suit themselves. She looked at 
 Maximilien, whose elegance surpassed even that of 
 her imaginary type, and her soul was filled with joy 
 at the knowledge at last obtained that he was noble. 
 Never did the two lovers understand each other so well 
 as at this moment ; more than once their hands trem- 
 bled as they met in the figures of the dance. 
 
 Autumn came in the midst of fetes and rural pleas- 
 ures, during which the charming couple let themselves 
 float upon the current of the sweetest of all sentiments, 
 strengthening that sentiment in a thousand little ways 
 which every one can imagine, for all loves resemble 
 one another on certain points. Also they studied each 
 other's characters, as much as persons can study each 
 other when they love. 
 
 " Well, never did a fancy turn into a love-match so 
 rapidly," said the old uncle, who watched the proceed- 
 ings of the young pair as a naturalist watches an insect 
 through his microscope. 
 
 The words alarmed Monsieur and Madame de Fon- 
 taine. The old Vendean was not as indifferent to his 
 
The Rural Ball 491 
 
 daughter's marriage as he had lately professed to be. 
 He went to Paris to make inquiries, and obtained no 
 results. Uneasy at such evident mystery, and before 
 he could hear the result of certain inquiries he had set 
 on foot in Paris, he thought it his duty to warn his 
 daughter to behave with more caution. This paternal 
 advice was received with a show of obedience that was 
 evidently ironical. 
 
 "But at least, my dear 6milie, if you love him don't 
 let him see it." 
 
 " Papa, it is true that I love him, but I shall wait 
 for your permission to tell him so." 
 
 "But reflect, ^milie, that you don't know anything 
 as yet about his family or his station." 
 
 "I don't mind that. But, papa, you wished to see 
 me married; you gave me liberty to choose, and I 
 have chosen — what more can you want? " 
 
 "I want to know, my dear, if the man you have 
 chosen is the son of a peer of France," replied her 
 father, sarcastically. 
 
 fimilie was silent for a moment. Then she raised 
 her head, looked at her father, and said, with some 
 anxiety : — 
 
 " Who are the Longuevilles ? " 
 
 "The family became extinct in the person of the old 
 Due de Rostein-Limbourg, who perished on the 
 scaffold in 1793. He was the last scion of the last 
 youngest branch." 
 
 "But, papa, there are several good houses descended 
 from bastards. The history of France swarms with 
 princes who bear the bar sinister." 
 
 "Your ideas seemed to have changed," said the old 
 noble, smiling. 
 
492 The Rural Ball. 
 
 The next day was the last which the Fontaine family 
 were to spend at Planat. fimilie, whom the advice of 
 her father had a good deal disquieted, impatiently 
 awaited the hour of young Longueville's usual visit, 
 being determined to obtain some definite explanation 
 from him. She went out alone after dinner, and 
 made her way to a grove in the park where she knew 
 her lover would be sure to search for her. As she 
 went along, she thought over the best means of obtain- 
 ing, without committing herself, a secret so impor- 
 tant; a difl3cult thing to do. Until now, no direct 
 avowal had sanctioned the feelings which united her 
 to this man. She had, like Maximilien, enjoyed the 
 delights of unspoken love, but proud as they were, it 
 seemed as though both shrank from acknowledging 
 their feelings. 
 
 Maximilien Longueville, in whom Clara had inspired 
 certain well-founded suspicions on Emilie's nature, 
 felt himself alternately driven onward by the violence 
 of his passion, and restrained by the desire to know 
 and test a woman to whom he was about to confide the 
 happiness of his life. His love did not prevent him 
 from seeing in Emilie the faults and prejudices which 
 injured her youthful character ; but he desired to know 
 whether he was truly loved by her in spite of them, 
 before speaking to her; he would not risk the fate of 
 either his love or his life. He therefore maintained 
 an outward silence, which his looks and attitudes and 
 slightest actions contradicted. 
 
 On the other hand, the pride natural to a young girl, 
 Increased in Mademoiselle de Fontaine by the foolish 
 vanity of her birth and beauty, prevented her from 
 
The Rural Ball, 493 
 
 meeting half-way the declaration which her growing 
 passion sometimes urged her to bring about. Thus 
 these lovers had instinctively underatood their mut- 
 ual situation without explaining their secret motives. 
 There are moments in life when the vague gives pleas* 
 ure to young souls. 
 
 Seated on a rustic bench, 6milie now thought over 
 the events of these thi'ee enchanting months. Her 
 father's doubts were the last fears that could touch 
 her, and even these she set aside by arguments which 
 to an inexperienced girl seemed triumphant. In the 
 first place, she convinced herself that it was impossible 
 she should be deceived. During the whole summer 
 she had never detected in Maximilien a look, or word 
 or gesture which indicated a vulgar origin or occupa- 
 tion; more than that, his manner of discussing topics 
 proved that he was a man whose mind was occupied 
 with the highest interests of the nation. "Besides," 
 she thought to herself, "a clerk, a banker, or a mer- 
 chant would not have leisure to spend a whole summer 
 in making love to me in the fields and woods; he 
 spends his time as idly as a noble whose life is free of 
 care." Then she abandoned herself to a course of 
 meditation far more interesting to her than these pre- 
 liminary thoughts, and was thus engaged when a slight 
 rustling of the foliage let her know that Maximilien 
 was looking at her, no doubt with admiration. 
 
 "Don't you know that it is very wrong to come sud- 
 denly upon girls in that way?" she said, smiling. 
 
 "Above all when they are thinking about their 
 secrets," replied Maximilien, slyly. 
 
 "Why should n't I have secrets ? " she asked. "You 
 have plenty of your own." 
 
494 The Rural Bad. 
 
 "Were you really thinking of your secrets?" he 
 said, laughing. 
 
 "No, I was thinking of yours. I know all about 
 mine." 
 
 "But," said the young man, gently taking the girl's 
 arm and placing it in his, "perhaps my secrets are 
 yours, and your secrets mine." 
 
 After walking a few steps they reached a grove of 
 trees which the setting sun was wrapping in a mist, 
 as it were, of reds and browns. This natural magic 
 seemed to give solemnity to the moment. The 
 eyes of the lovers had never before told each other so 
 many things that their lips dared not say. In the 
 grasp of this sweet intoxication they forgot the small 
 conventions of pride and the cold calculations of their 
 mutual distrust. At first they could only express their 
 emotions by clasping hands, and so interpreting 
 their happy thoughts. 
 
 "Monsieur, I have a question to ask you," said 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, after a long silence, in a 
 trembling voice, as they slowly paced onward. ^' But 
 remember, I entreat you, that it is, as it were, forced 
 upon me by the situation in which I stand with my 
 family." 
 
 A pause that was terrifying to !^milie followed these 
 words which she almost stammered. During the 
 moment that this silence lasted the girl, hitherto so 
 proud, dared not meet the burning glance of the man 
 she loved, for she was conscious in her heart of the 
 baseness of the words she added : — 
 
 "Are you noble?" 
 
 When they had left her lips she wished herself at 
 the bottom of a lake. 
 
The Rural Ball. 495 
 
 "Mademoiselle," replied Longueville, gravely, his 
 face assuming a sort of stern dignity, "I will answer 
 that question without evasion when you have answered 
 with sincerity the one I now put to you." 
 
 He dropped the arm of the young girl, who suddenly 
 felt alone in the world, and said, "Why do you 
 question me about my birth?" She was motionless, 
 cold, and silent. "Mademoiselle," he went on, "let 
 us go no farther if we do not comprehend each other. 
 I love you," he added, in a deep and tender tone. 
 "Well, then!" he continued, on hearing the exclama- 
 tion of joy which the girl could not restrain, "why 
 ask me if I am noble ? " 
 
 "Could he speak thus if he were not," cried an in- 
 ward voice which ilmilie believed to have come from 
 the depths of her heart. She raised her head grace- 
 fully, seemed to gather a new life in the look the 
 young man gave her, and held out her arm to him as 
 though to make a new alliance. 
 
 "You must think I care much for worldly dignities," 
 she said. 
 
 "I have no titles to offer to my wife," he replied, half 
 in jest and half in earnest. "But if I choose her in 
 the highest rank and among those who are accustomed 
 to luxury and the pleasures of opulence, I know to what 
 my choice obliges me. Love gives all," he added, 
 gayly, "but to lovers only. Married people want 
 more than the heavens above them and the velvet of 
 the turf at their feet." 
 
 "He is rich," thought she. "As for titles, perhaps 
 he wants to test me. They have probably told him I 
 was fanatical about nobility, and would only marry a 
 
496 The Rural Ball 
 
 peer of France. My cats of sisters may have played 
 me just such a trick. I assure you, monsieur," she 
 said aloud, "that although I have had exacting ideas 
 as to life and society, I now," glancing at him in a 
 manner to turn his head, **know where a woman 
 should look for her real happiness." 
 
 "I trust that you speak sincerely," he answered, with 
 gentle gravity. *'Next winter, my dear l^milie, in 
 less than two months, perhaps, I shall be able to offer 
 you the enjoyments of wealth. "What this means is 
 a secret I am compelled to keep for the present. On 
 its success depends my happiness; I dare not say 
 ours — " 
 
 "Oh! say it, say it!" she exclaimed. 
 
 With many tender thoughts and words they slowly 
 returned to the house and joined the company in the 
 salon. Never had Mademoiselle de Fontaine seen her 
 lover so lovable, so pleasing; his slim form, his 
 engaging manners seemed to her more charming than 
 ever. They sang together in Italian, with such expres- 
 sion that the company applauded enthusiastically. 
 Their final adieu was made in a formal tone which 
 covered a secret happiness. This day was to the 
 young girl a chain which bound her more closely than 
 ever to the destiny of the man she had chosen. The 
 force and dignity he displayed in the scene we have 
 just related, and in which their mutual sentiments had 
 been revealed, may have inspired Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine with a sense of respect without which no 
 true love exists. 
 
 Later in the evening, being alone with her father 
 and uncle in the salon, the former came up to her, 
 
The Rural Ball. 497 
 
 took her hands affectionately, and asked if she had 
 obtained any light as to the family and fortune of 
 Monsieur Longueville. 
 
 "Yes, my dear father,'* she replied, "and I am hap- 
 pier than I ever thought to be. Monsieur de Longue- 
 ville is the only man I ever wished to marry." 
 
 "Very good, !6milie," replied her father; "then I 
 know what I must do." 
 
 "Do you know of any obstacle?" she asked, in real 
 anxiety. 
 
 "My dear child, this young man is absolutely un- 
 known; but, unless he is a dishonest man, he is dear 
 to me as a son, because you love him." 
 
 "Dishonest!" cried Emilie; "oh! I am easy about 
 that. My uncle, who introduced him to me, knows 
 that much, at least. Tell me, uncle dear, has he ever 
 been a pirate, a filibuster, a corsair?" 
 
 " Ah ! I knew I should come to this ! " exclaimed the 
 old sailor, waking up from a nap. 
 
 He looked about the salon, but his niece had disap- 
 peared, — like Castor and Pollux, to use one of his 
 own expressions, 
 
 "Well, uncle," said Monsieur de Fontaine, "why 
 have you hidden from us all this time what you know 
 of this young man? You must have seen what was 
 going on. Is Monsieur de Longueville of good 
 family?" 
 
 "I don't know him from Adam," cried the admiral. 
 "Trusting to the tact of that wilful girl I brought her 
 the Saint-Preux she wanted, by means known to my- 
 self alone. All I know about the lad is that he is a 
 fine shot, hunts well, plays a marvellous game of bil- 
 
 '62 
 
498 The Rural Ball. 
 
 liards, also chess and backgammoii ; and he fences and 
 rides like the Chevalier de Saint-Georges. Also he 
 has a most amazing erudition about vineyards ; and he 
 can cipher like Bar^me, and draws and dances and 
 sings well. What the devil do you want else ? If that 
 is n't all a perfect gentleman need be, show me a bour- 
 geois who knows as much, or a man who lives more 
 nobly than he. You see for yourself he doesn't do 
 anything. Does he compromise his dignity in an 
 office, and bow down to parvenus, as you call directors- 
 general? No, he walks erect. He's a man. But 
 here, by the bye, in the pocket of my waistcoat is the 
 card he gave me when he thought, poor innocent! that 
 I wanted to cut his throat. Ha ! young men nowadays 
 haven't any tricks in their bag. Here 's the card." 
 
 ''Rue du Sentier, number 5," said Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine, trying to remember that address among the 
 various pieces of information he had obtained from 
 his inquiries. ''What the devil does that mean? 
 Palma, Werbrust and company, wholesale dealers in 
 muslins, calicos, and printed cottons of all kinds live 
 there — Ah! I have it! Longueville, the deputy, 
 has an interest in that firm. Yes, but I know Longue- 
 ville has a son thirty-two years old, not the least like 
 this man, to whom he has just given fifty thousand a 
 year in order to marry him to the daughter of a min- 
 ister ; he wants to be made a peer like all the rest. I 
 never heard him mention a son called Maximilien. 
 And he has n't a daughter, so far as I know. Who is 
 this Clara? Besides, it is open to any adventurer to 
 call himself Longueville, or anything else he likes. 
 I '11 make some inquiries about Palma and Werbrust." 
 
The Rural Ball. 499 
 
 "You talk as if you held the stage alone," cried the 
 old admiral, "Do you count me for nothing? Don't 
 you know that if he is a gentleman I 've got more than 
 one sack in my lockers to repair his lack of fortune ? ** 
 
 **As for that, if he is Longueville the deputy's son, 
 he needs nothing; but," added Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 shaking his head from right to left, "he has n't even 
 bought a property which carries a title. Before the 
 Revolution he was only an attorney, and the de he has 
 stuck on since the Restoration no more belongs to him 
 than one half of his wealth." 
 
 "Ah, bah! happy those whose fathers were hanged ! " 
 cried the old sailor, gayly. 
 
 Three or four days later, on one of those fine days 
 in November when Parisians find the pavement of 
 their boulevard cleansed by a slight touch of frost, 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, wearing a set of new furs 
 which she wished to make the fashion, had gone out 
 shopping with two of her sisters-in-law, the two whom 
 she was most inclined to ridicule. The three ladies 
 were induced to make this expedition less to exhibit 
 an elegant new carriage and dresses in the latest style, 
 than to see a certain pelerine that one of their friends 
 had remarked in the large lace and linen shop at the 
 corner of the rue de la Paix. 
 
 As the three sisters entered the shop the Baronne de 
 Fontaine pulled i^milie by the sleeve and pointed out 
 to her Maximilien Longueville behind the counter, 
 occupied at that moment in receiving money from the 
 mistress of the shop, with whom he seemed to be con- 
 feiTing. In his hand he held several patterns which 
 left no doubt as to the nature of his occupation. 
 
500 The Rural Ball. 
 
 ifimilie was seized with a cold shudder, fortunately 
 unperceived. Thanks to the savoir-vivre of good 
 society, she hid the fury in her heart and replied to 
 her sister with the words, *'I knew it," in a richness 
 of tone and with an inimitable accent which might 
 have made the fortune of an actress on the stage. 
 
 She advanced to the counter; Longueville raised his 
 head, put the patterns in his pocket with perfect self- 
 possession, bowed to Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and 
 came out to meet her, giving her, as he did so, a pene- 
 trating look. 
 
 "Madame," he said to the mistress of the shop, who 
 had followed anxiously, "I will send the money for 
 this bill. My firm prefers to do business in that way. 
 But here," he added, in a whisper, "is a thousand- 
 franc note — take it; we will settle the matter between 
 us later. You will, I hope, pardon me, mademoi- 
 selle," he said, turning back to !l6milie, "and be so 
 kind as to excuse the tyranny of business." 
 
 "It seems to me, monsieur, that the matter is one to 
 which I am totally indifferent," replied Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine, looking at him with a vacant air which 
 might have led a spectator to think she saw him for 
 the first time. 
 
 "Are you speaking seriously ? " asked Maximilien, 
 in a broken voice. 
 
 For all answer ifemilie turned her back upon him with 
 inconceivable rudeness. These few words, said in a 
 low voice, had escaped the notice of the sisters-in-law. 
 When, after having purchased the pelerine, the three 
 ladies returned to their carriage, fimilie, who -was 
 sitting on the front seat, could not refrain from glanc- 
 
The Rural Ball. 501 
 
 ing into the depths of that odious shop, where she saw 
 Maximilien standing with his arms crossed, in the atti- 
 tude of a man superior to the trouble which had come 
 upon him so suddenly. Their eyes met, and each 
 gave to the other an implacable look. Each hoped to 
 cruelly wound the other's heart. In a moment they 
 found themselves as far apart as if one were in China, 
 the other in Greenland. The breath of worldliness 
 had withered all ! 
 
 A prey to the most violent struggle that ever went 
 on in the heart of a young girl , Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine gathered the amplest harvest of bitter fruits 
 which prejudice and pettiness ever sowed in a human 
 soul. Her face, fresh and velvety a few moments ear- 
 lier, was furrowed with yellow tones and red stains, 
 and even the white of her cheeks turned greenish. In 
 the hope of hiding her trouble from her sisters she 
 ridiculed the passers in the street or laughed at a cos- 
 tume ; but the laugh was convulsive. She was more 
 deeply wounded by the silent compassion of her sisters 
 than she would have been by the sharpest sarcasms 
 which she might have revenged. She taxed her whole 
 mind to drag them into a conversation in which she 
 vented her anger in senseless paradoxes of the worst 
 taste. On reaching home she became really ill, and 
 was seized with a fever which at first showed dangerous 
 symptoms. At the end of a month, however, the care 
 of her family and her physician restored her entirely. 
 Every one hoped that the lesson would subdue her self- 
 will ; but she declared there was no shame in having 
 made a mistake, and she once more flung herself into 
 society and returned to her former habits of life. If, 
 
502 The Rural Ball 
 
 she said, she had, like her father, influence in the 
 Chamber, she would pass a law that all merchants and 
 shopkeepers should be branded on the forehead, like 
 the sheep of Berry, to the third generation ; it was a 
 great injury to the monarchy that there was no visible 
 difference between a merchant and a peer of France. 
 
 A hundred other such jests were poured out rapidly 
 when any unforeseen accident started the topic. But 
 those who loved her were conscious through her sar- 
 casms of a tone of melancholy. Evidently Maxi- 
 milien Longueville still reigned at the bottom of that 
 inexplicable heart. Sometimes she would be gentle and 
 sweet as she had been during the brief period when her 
 love was born, and then again she would make herself 
 intolerable. Her family excused these variations of 
 temper, knowing that they had their rise in sufferings 
 known and unknown. The Comte de Kergarouet alone 
 obtained some slight control over her, and this was 
 partly by gifts and amusements, a species of consola- 
 tion which seldom misses its effect on a Parisian girl. 
 
 The first ball that Mademoiselle de Fontaine went to 
 that winter was at the house of the Neapolitan ambas- 
 sador. As she was taking her place in a quadrille she 
 saw, not far from her, Maxmilien Longueville, who 
 nodded slightly to her partner. 
 
 "Is that young man a friend of yours? " she asked, 
 disdainfully. 
 
 " Only my brother, " he replied. 
 
 !^milie could not help trembling. 
 
 "Ah!" continued her partner in a tone of enthu- 
 siasm, "he is the noblest soul in the world — " 
 
 " Do you know my name? " asked fimilie, interrupt- 
 ing him, hastily. 
 
The Rural Ball 503 
 
 "No, mademoiselle. It is a crime, I know, not to 
 recollect a name which must be on every lip, or, I 
 should say, in every heart; but my excuse is that I 
 have just returned from Germany. My ambassador, 
 who is in Paris on leave of absence, has sent me here 
 this evening to serve as chaperon to his amiable wife, 
 whom you can see over there in a corner." 
 
 "A tragic muse," said £milie, after examining the 
 ambassadress. 
 
 "But that *s her ball face," returned the young dip- 
 lomat, laughing. "I must ask her to dance; that's 
 why I take my consolation now." Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine made him a little bow. "I am so surprised," 
 continued the chattering secretary, "to see my brother 
 here. On arriving from Vienna I was told he was ill 
 in bed, and I wanted to go to him at once ; but diplo- 
 macy and politics leave no time for family affections. 
 La padrona delta casa keeps me in attendance, and 
 gives me no chance to see my poor Maximilien." 
 
 "Is your brother, like yourself, in diplomacy? " said 
 £milie. 
 
 "No," said the secretary, sighing. "The poor 
 fellow has sacrificed himself to me. He and my sister 
 Clara have renounced their share of my father's prop- 
 erty to make an entail for me. My father is a deputy 
 and expects a peerage for his services to the govern- 
 ment He has the promise of it," added the young 
 man, in a low voice. "My brother, after getting 
 together a little capital, chiefly from our mother's 
 property, has gone into a banking business, and he has 
 just made a speculation in Brazil which is likely to 
 make him a millionnaire. I am very happy in the 
 
604 The Bural Ball. 
 
 thought that I have helped him by my diplomatic rela- 
 tions to this success. I am now expecting a despatch 
 from Brazil which I feel sure will clear that gloomy 
 brow of his. Don't you think him handsome?" 
 
 "His face does n't seem to me that of a man who 
 spends his thoughts on making money," she replied. 
 
 The young diplomatist gave a glance at the seem- 
 ingly calm face of his partner. 
 
 '*Ah!" said he, "so young ladies can detect the 
 thoughts of love beneath all foreheads!" 
 
 "Is your brother in love? " asked Emilie, in a tone 
 of curiosity. 
 
 "Yes. My sister Clara, whom he cares for like a 
 mother, wrote me that he had fallen in love with a very 
 pretty girl; but I have had no further news of the 
 affair. Would you believe it, the poor fellow used to 
 get up at five in the morning so as to get through his 
 business and ride out into the country, where the lady 
 was staying. He ruined a fine thorough-bred horse I 
 had sent him. Forgive my chatter, mademoiselle, I 
 am just from Germany, where I haven't heard a word 
 of pure French spoken ; I am so hungry for French 
 faces and sick of Germans that I 'd talk, I believe, to 
 the griffins on a candlestick. Besides, the fault is 
 yours, mademoiselle ; you asked me about my brother, 
 and when I get on that subject I am irrepressible. I 
 should like to tell the whole earth how good and gener- 
 ous he is. He has given up a hundred thousand francs 
 a year to me from our estates at Longueville." 
 
 If Mademoiselle de Fontaine obtained all this infor- 
 mation she owed it partly to the cleverness with which 
 flhe questioned her confiding partner. 
 
The Rural Ball, 505 
 
 "How can you bear to see your brother selling 
 calico and muslins?" asked fimilie, as they finished 
 the third figure of the quadrille. 
 
 "How do you know he does?" asked the diplomat- 
 ist. "Thank heaven! if I do rattle off a flux of words 
 I have learned to say no more than I choose, like the 
 other fledgling diplomatists of my acquaintance." 
 
 "I assure you that you told me so." 
 
 Monsieur de Longueville looked at Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine with a surprise that was full of intelligence. 
 
 A suspicion entered his mind. He glanced from his 
 partner to his brother, and guessed all ; he clapped his 
 hands together, threw up his eyes and began to 
 laugh: — 
 
 "I am nothing but a fool," he said. "You are the 
 handsomest person here, my brother is watching you 
 furtively, he is dancing in spite of his illness, and you 
 are pretending not to see him! Make him happy," 
 he added, as he took her back to her old uncle. "I '11 
 not be jealous ; though perhaps I shall wince a little at 
 calling you my sister." 
 
 However, the two lovers were resolved on being 
 inexorable. About two in the morning a collation was 
 served in a vast gallery, where, in order to allow per- 
 sons of the same set to be together, the tables were 
 arranged as they are at a restaurant. By one of those 
 accidents which are always happening to lovers Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine found herself placed at a table 
 adjoining that around which sat some very distin- 
 guished persons. Maximilien was among them. £mi- 
 lie listened with attentive ears to the talk of these 
 neighbors. The companion of the young merchant 
 
506 The Rural Ball 
 
 was a Neapolitan duchess of great beauty, and the 
 intimacy that he affected to have with her was all 
 the more wounding to Mademoiselle de Fontaine be- 
 cause at that moment she was conscious of a tenfold 
 deeper tenderness for her lover than she had ever felt 
 before. 
 
 *' Yes, monsieur, in my country, true love can make 
 all kinds of sacrifices," the duchess was saying in a 
 mincing way. 
 
 "You Italians are far more loving than French- 
 women," said Maximilien, looking full at £milie. 
 *'They are all vanity." 
 
 "Monsieur," said Slmilie, quickly, "it is an ill thing 
 to calumniate your country. Devotion belongs to all 
 lands." 
 
 "Do you think, mademoiselle," said the duchess, 
 with a sarcastic smile, "that a Parisian woman would 
 be capable of following her lover everywhere ? " 
 
 "Ah! understand me, madame; she would follow 
 him to the desert and live in tents, but not behind the 
 counter of a shop." 
 
 £milie emphasized these words with a gesture of 
 disdain. Thus the influence exercised over the girl by 
 her fatal education killed her dawning happiness twice, 
 and made her life a failure. The apparent coldness 
 of Maximilien and the smile of a woman, drew from 
 her a sarcasm the treacherous delight of which she 
 could not deny herself. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Longueville, in a low voice, 
 under cover of the noise the women made when rising 
 from table, "no one will ever offer more ardent wishes 
 for your happiness than I. Permit me to give you this 
 
The Rural Ball. 607 
 
 assurance on taking leave of you. I start in a few 
 days for Italy." 
 
 "With a duchess, I suppose." 
 
 "No, mademoiselle, with what may prove a mortal 
 illness." 
 
 **Is that a fancy?" asked 6milie, giving him an 
 uneasy glance. 
 
 " No," he answered, "for there are wounds that never 
 heal." 
 
 "You will not go," said the imperious young girl, 
 with a smile. 
 
 "1 shall go," returned Longueville, gravely. 
 
 "You will find me married on your return, I warn 
 you," she said, coquettishly. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Impertinent man! " she said to herself; "he takes 
 a cruel vengeance." 
 
 A fortnight later Maximilien Longueville started 
 with his sister Clara for the balmy and poetic regions 
 of la bella Jtalia, leaving Mademoiselle de Fontaine a 
 victim to bitter regrets. The young secretary of 
 legation took up his brother's quan*el, and revenged 
 him publicly by telling everywhere the reasons for the 
 rupture. The Comte de Fontaine was obliged to use 
 his credit at court to obtain for Auguste Longueville 
 a mission to Russia to protect his daughter from the 
 ridicule this young and dangerous persecutor heaped 
 upon her. 
 
 Not long after, the administration was compelled to 
 make a new batch of peers to strengthen the aristo- 
 cratic body in the Upper Chamber, which was begin- 
 ning to totter under the voice of an illustrious writer.* 
 
508 The Rural Ball. 
 
 among them appeared the name of Monsieur de 
 Longueville, the father, with the rank of viscount. 
 Monsieur de Fontaine was also raised to the peerage, a 
 reward due to his devotion during the dark days, and 
 also to his name, which was lacking to the roll of the 
 hereditary Chamber. 
 
 About this time Emilie, who had now attained her 
 majority, made, in all probability, some serious reflec- 
 tions upon life; for she changed completely in tone 
 and manner. Instead of saying ill-natured things to 
 her uncle, she began to show him the most affectionate 
 attentions ; she brought him his crutch with a persist- 
 ent tenderness which made the family laugh, she gave 
 him her arm, she went to drive in his coach, and took 
 walks with him daily. She even persuaded him that 
 she liked the smell of his pipe, and read his dear 
 " Quotidienne " aloud to him in the midst of clouds of 
 tobacco smoke which the mischievous old fellow would 
 sometimes puff at her intentionally. She learned 
 piquet to play with him, and she, so fastidious, lis- 
 tened without impatience to his ever-recurring tales of 
 the famous fight of the "Belle Poule," the manoeuvring 
 of the " Ville de Paris," the first expedition of Mon- 
 sieur de Suffren, or the battle of Aboukir. Though the 
 old admiral was fond of saying that he knew his lati- 
 tude and longitude too well for any young corvette to 
 overhaul him, the salons of Paris were startled one fine 
 morning by the news that Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
 had married the Comte de Kergarouet. 
 
 The young countess gave splendid f^tes to divert her 
 mind; but she soon found the hollowness of her vor- 
 tex ; luxury was a poor cover to the emptiness and 
 
The Rural Ball 509 
 
 misery of her suffering soul ; in spite of her feigned 
 gayety, her beautiful features expressed, for the most 
 part, a dull melancholy. She always, however, paid 
 great attention to her old husband, and her whole con- 
 duct was so severely proper that the most ill-natured 
 critic could find nothing to reprimand. Observers 
 thought that the admiral had resers^ed the right of 
 disposing of his fortune so as to hold his wife the more 
 securely ; but this supposition was unjust both to the 
 uncle and to the niece. Their demeanor to each other 
 was so judiciously managed that those most interested 
 were unable to decide whether the old count treated 
 his wife as a father or as a husband; though the 
 admiral was heard to say, on more than one occasion, 
 that he had saved his niece from a wreck; and that 
 in former times at sea he had never abused his rights 
 over a shipwrecked enemy who fell into his hands. 
 
 Though the countess aspired to reign in Parisian 
 society, and successfully endeavored to hold her own 
 against the duchesses de Maufrigneuse and de Chau- 
 lieu, the marquises d'Espard and d'Aiglemont, the 
 countesses Feraud, de Montcornet, de Restand, Ma- 
 dame de Camps and Mademoiselle des Touches, she 
 did not yield to the love of the young Vicomte de 
 Porteuduere, who made her his idol. 
 
 Two years after her marriage, being in one of the 
 oldest salons of the faubourg Saint-Germain, Emilie 
 heard the name of Monsieur le Vicomte de Longueville 
 announced. Her emotion passed unperceived in the 
 corner of the salon where she was playing piquet with 
 the Bishop of Persepolis. Turning her head, she saw 
 her former lover enter the room in the glow of youth 
 
510 The Rural Ball, 
 
 and distinction. The death of his father, and that of 
 his brother (killed by the climate of St. Petersburg) 
 had placed upon his head the hereditary plumes of the 
 peerage ; his fortune was equal to his station and his 
 acquirements; only the evening before, his fiery elo- 
 quence had electrified the Chamber. At this moment 
 he appeared before the eyes of the sad countess, free, 
 and adorned with all the advantages she had formerly 
 demanded in her ideal lover; and more than all, fimilie 
 knew well that the Vicomte de Longueville possessed 
 that firmness of character in which a woman of sense 
 sees the strongest pledge of happiness. She cast her 
 eyes upon the admiral, who, to use his own expression, 
 was likely to swing at anchor for a long time to come, 
 and she cursed the follies and errors of her youth. 
 
 Just then Monsieur de Persepolis remarked with 
 his episcopal grace, — 
 
 "My dear lady, you have thrown away the king of 
 hearts, and I win. But don*t regret your money; I 
 keep it for my ragged schools." 
 
THE DESERTED WOMAN 
 
THE DESERTED WOMAN 
 
 To Madame la Duchesse d'Abrant^s. 
 
 Her affectionate Servant, 
 
 Honors db Balzao. 
 
 Early in the spring of 1822 the Parisian doctors 
 sent to lower Normandy a young man who was recov- 
 ering from an inflammatory illness caused by some 
 excess of study, possibly of life. His convalescence 
 required complete rest, simple food, a cold air, and 
 the total absence of all excessive sensations. The 
 lush fields of the Bessin and the pale life of the prov- 
 inces seemed therefore propitious for his recovery. 
 He went to Bayeux, a pretty town two leagues from 
 the sea, to the house of a cousin who received him 
 with the cordiality characteristic of those who live 
 habitually in retirement, and to whom the aiTival of 
 a relation or a friend becomes a joy. 
 
 All little towns resemble each other, except perhaps 
 in a few local customs. So that after a few evenings 
 spent with his cousin, Madame de Sainte-Severe, or 
 WMth the persons who formed her society, this young 
 Parisian, M. le Baron Gaston de Nueil, soon knew all 
 there was to know of that exclusive circle who re- 
 garded themselves as being the whole town. Gaston 
 
 33 
 
514 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 de Nueil saw in thein that immutable clique which 
 observers find in all the numerous capitals of the an- 
 cient States that formed the France of other times. 
 
 First comes the family whose nobility, unknown at 
 a distance of fifty leagues, passes in the department 
 as being incontestable and of the highest antiquity. 
 This species of royal family on a minor scale is re- 
 motely connected by marriage with the Navarreins, 
 the Grandlieus, the Cadignans, and even lays hold of 
 the Blamont-Chauvrys. The head of this illustrious 
 race is always a determined sportsman. A man with- 
 out manners, he crushes every one by his nominal 
 superiority, tolerates the sub-prefect precisely as he 
 submits to taxation; acknowledges none of the new 
 powers created by the nineteenth century, and calls 
 attention to the fact, as a political monstrosity, that 
 the prime minister is not a noble. His wife takes a 
 peremptory tone, talks loudly, has had adorers, but 
 receives the sacrament at Easter regularly; she brings 
 up her daughters badly, and thinks that their name is 
 fortune enough for their establishment. Neither wife 
 nor husband has the slightest idea of modern luxury; 
 they keep to their old state liveries and ancient forms 
 of plate, furniture, and carriages, as they do to their 
 manners, customs, and language. This long-past 
 splendour comports, however, with the thrift of the 
 provinces. In short, these are the nobles of the olden 
 time, minus the feudal levies, minus the packs of 
 hounds and the gold-laced coats; all full of honour 
 among themselves, and all devoted to princes whom 
 they see only from a distance. This historical, in- 
 cognito family has the originality of an ancient 
 
The Deserted Woman, 515 
 
 tapestry of noted warp. In it vegetates infallibly 
 an uncle or a brother, lieutenant-general, red-rib- 
 boned, and a courtier, who went to Hanover with 
 Marechal Richelieu, and whom you find here like a 
 stray leaf from a pamphlet of the days of Louis XV. 
 
 To this fossil family is opposed a richer family, 
 but of less ancient nobility. The husband and wife 
 spend two months every winter in Paris, the fleeting 
 tone and ephemeral passions of which they duly re- 
 port. Madame is elegant, but rather starched, and 
 always a little behind in the fashions. Nevertheless, 
 she sneers at the ignorance affected by her neigh- 
 bours; her plate is modern; she has grooms, negro 
 pages, and footmen. 'Her eldest son has a tilbury, 
 does nothing, — he is the heir; the younger is auditor 
 to the Council of State. The father, very well posted 
 in the intrigues of the ministry, relates anecdotes of 
 Louis XVIII. and Madame du Cayla; he invests in 
 the "five per cents," avoids conversation about ciders, 
 but does sometimes give in to the mania for reducing 
 the amount of departmental fortunes ; he is member of 
 the Council-General, gets his clothes from Paris, and 
 wears the cross of the Legion of honour. In short, 
 this nobleman has understood the Restoration, and 
 coins money with the Chamber; but his royalism is 
 less **pure" than that of the family he rivals. He 
 takes the "Gazette" and the "Debats;" the other 
 family reads only the "Quotidienne." 
 
 Monseigneur the bishop, formerly vicar-general, 
 floats between these two powers, which render him 
 the homage due to religion, but make him feel at 
 times the moral that the good La Fontaine has placed 
 
516 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 at the end of "The Ass bearing Relics." The worthy 
 bishop is a commoner. 
 
 Next come secondary stars, nobles who enjoy some 
 ten or twelve thousand francs a year; who have been 
 captains in the navy, or the cavalry, or nothing at all. 
 On horseback along the roads they hold a middle dis- 
 tance between the rector who bears the sacraments, 
 and the controller of taxes on his rounds. Nearly all 
 have been pages at Court, or in the mousquetaires, 
 and are ending their days peaceably in getting the 
 most out of their means ; more concerned about their 
 timber or their cider than about the monarchy. 
 Nevertheless, they converse of the Charter and the 
 liberals between two rubbers of whist or games of 
 dominoes, after having calculated dots and arranged 
 marriages according to genealogies which they know 
 by heart. Their wives assume a haughty manner and 
 take Court airs in their wicker phaetons ; they think 
 themselves in full dress when rigged with a scarf 
 and a head-dress. They buy two bonnets yearly, after 
 mature deliberation, and occasionally import them 
 from Paris. They are usually virtuous and gossiping. 
 
 Around these principal elements of the aristocratic 
 tribe are grouped a few old maids of quality, who 
 have solved the problem of immobility in human 
 creatures. They appear to be sealed up in the houses 
 where you find them ; their figures, their clothes, are 
 part of the estate, of the town, of the province ; they 
 are the tradition, the memory, the spirit thereof. All 
 have something rigid and monumental about them; 
 they smile, or shake their heads apropos, and, from 
 time to time, say things that pass for witty. 
 
The Deserted Woman, 517 
 
 A few rich bourgeois have slipped into this minia- 
 ture Faubourg St. Ge'rmain, thanks to their aristo- 
 cratic opinions or their money. But once there, in 
 spite of their forty years, the clique says of them: 
 *'That young so and so thinks well" and helps to 
 make them deputies. Usually they are patronized by 
 the old maids — which causes gossip. 
 
 Finally, two or three ecclesiastics are admitted into 
 this circle of the 4Iite, either because of their cloth or 
 because they have intelligence; for these noble per- 
 sonages, bored by one another, are ready to introduce 
 a bourgeois element into their salons very much as a 
 baker puts yeast into his dough. 
 
 The amount of intelligence amassed in all these 
 heads is composed of a certain quantity of antique 
 ideas, with which are mingled a proportion of new 
 ideas, which brew together every evening. Like the 
 waters of a little cove, the phrases that represent these 
 ideas have their daily ebb and flow, their ceaseless 
 eddy, ever the same; whoso hears to-day its hollow 
 echo will hear it to-morrow, a year hence, ever. Their 
 immutable verdicts on all things here below form a 
 traditional knowledge, to which it is not in the power 
 of any human being to add one iota of intelligence. 
 The life of these monotonous persons gravitates in a 
 sphere of habits as unchangeable as their religious, 
 political, moral, and literary opinions. 
 
 If a stranger is admitted to this symposium every 
 one will say to him in a tone of irony: "You will not 
 find the brilliancy of your Parisian society among 
 us;" and each will censure the lives of his neigh- 
 bours, endeavouring to have it believed that he him- 
 
518 The Deserted Woman. 
 
 self is an exception in this society which he has, 
 unsuccessfully, endeavoured to renovate. But if, 
 unfortunately, the stranger should strengthen by some 
 remark of his own the opinion those people mutually 
 entertain of one another, he is at once set down as a 
 malicious person, without law or gospel, a corrupt 
 Parisian, "such indeed as all Parisians are." 
 
 When Gaston de Nueil appeared in this little social 
 world, where etiquette is perfectly observed, where 
 all things within its own life harmonize, and every- 
 thing is freely stated, nobiliary and territorial values 
 being as openly quoted as stocks at the Bourse in the 
 financial column of a newspaper, he had been already 
 weighed in the infallible scales of Bayeusian opinion. 
 His cousin, Madame de Sainte-Severe, had carefully 
 told the amount of his fortune and that of his expec- 
 tations; she had exhibited his genealogical tree and 
 boasted of his acquirements, his politeness, his mod- 
 esty. He therefore received the greeting to which 
 he had strictly a right; he was accepted as a sound 
 noble, without ceremony because he was only twenty- 
 three years old ; but certain young persons and their 
 mothers looked sweetly upon him. He possessed in 
 his own right eighteen thousand francs a year from 
 property in the valley of the Auge, and his father 
 would leave him, sooner or later, the chateau of 
 Manerville with all its dependencies. As for his 
 education, his political future, his personal merits, 
 his talents, there was no question about them. His 
 estates were good and the rentals certain; excellent 
 plantations had been made upon them, repairs and 
 taxes were paid by the tenant-farmers; the apple- 
 
The Deserted Woman, 619 
 
 trees were thirty-eight years old ; his father was now 
 in treaty for two hundred acres of woodland adjoin- 
 ing his park, which he meant to inclose with walls. 
 No ministerial hopes, no human celebrity could com- 
 pete against such advantages. Whether from malice 
 or calculation, Madame de Sainte-Severe had never 
 once mentioned Gaston's elder brother, neither did 
 Gaston say a word about him. But this brother was 
 consumptive, and likely to be buried, mourned, and 
 forgotten before long. 
 
 Gaston de Nueil began by amusing himself with all 
 these personages ; he drew, as it were, their faces in 
 his album, in all the vapid verity of their angular, 
 hooked, and wrinkled countenances, in the droll 
 originality of their clothes and their twitchings; he 
 delighted in the Normanisms of their idioms, in the 
 musty antiquity of their ideas and characters. But 
 after having espoused for a while an existence that 
 resembled that of squirrels turning in their cage, he 
 felt the absence of opposing elements in a life so fixed 
 beforehand, like that of monks in cloisters, and be- 
 fore long he fell into a nervous state which was not 
 yet that of ennui or disgust, although it had many of 
 the effects of them. After slight sufferings from such 
 a transition, the individual finds that he has under- 
 gone the phenomenon of transplantation into a region 
 which is either repugnant to him or in which he soon 
 becomes atrophied and leads a stunted life. Com- 
 monly, if nothing draws him out of this society he 
 insensibly adopts its usages, and grows wonted to its 
 void, which soon gains upon him and reduces him to 
 nonentity. Already Gaston's lungs were beginning 
 
520 The Deserted Woman. 
 
 to get accnstomed to this atmosphere. Almost ready 
 to admit a sort of vegetating happiness in days passed 
 without cares and without ideas, he was beginning to 
 lose consciousness of that movement of sap, that con- 
 stant fructification of minds, which he had so ardently 
 enjoyed in the Parisian sphere; he was, in short, 
 about to petrify among these petrifications, and stay 
 there forever, like the companions of Ulysses content 
 with his comfortable suiToundings. 
 
 One evening Gaston de Nueil chanced to find him- 
 self seated between an old lady and one of the vicar- 
 generals of the diocese in a panelled salon painted 
 gray, floored with large white tiles, decorated with 
 family portraits and occupied by four card-tables 
 around which sixteen persons were babbling and 
 playing whist. There, thinking of nothing, but 
 digesting an excellent dinner (the conclusion of the 
 day in the provinces), he suddenly found himself 
 explaining and justifying to himself the ways of these 
 people. He saw how it was that they used the same 
 cards night after night, on the same worn-out cloths, 
 and how it had come to pass that they dressed neither 
 for their own sake nor for that of others. He divined 
 a vague philosophy in the uniform motion of this 
 rotatory life, in the calm of these logical habits and 
 this ignorance of all real elegance. In short, he 
 almost comprehended the uselessness of luxury. The 
 city of Paris, with its passions, storms, and pleas- 
 ures, was already a mere memory of adolescence in 
 his mind. He sincerely admired the re.d hands, the 
 modest, timid air of a young girl, whose face, at first 
 sight, had seemed to him silly, her manners without 
 
The Deserted Woman, 521 
 
 grace, her general effect repulsive, and her behaviour 
 positively ridiculous. It was all over with him! 
 Having gone to Paris from the provinces, he would 
 now have fallen back from his inflammatory Parisian 
 existence to the cold life of the provinces, if a few 
 words had not caught his ear and caused him an 
 emotion like that we feel when some original melody 
 breaks in among the accompaniments of a wearisome 
 opera. 
 
 "Did you not go yesterday to see Madame de Beau- 
 s?ant?" said an old lady to the head of the great 
 family of the region. 
 
 "I went there this morning," he replied. "I found 
 her very sad, and so unwell that I could not persuade 
 her to dine with us to-morrow." 
 
 "With Madame de Champignelles ! " cried the dow- 
 ager, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "With my wife," said the old nobleman, tranquilly. 
 "Madame de Beauseant belongs to the family of 
 Bourgogne, does she not? Through the women, it 
 is true, but that name whitens all. My wife is very 
 fond of the vicomtesse, and the poor lady has been so 
 long alone that — " 
 
 As he said the last words the Marquis de Cham- 
 pignelles looked with a calm, cold air at the persons 
 who were listening to him and watching him. Im- 
 possible to determine whether he was making a con- 
 cession to the misfortunes or to the nobility of 
 Madame de Beauseant, whether he was flattered to 
 receive her, or whether he wished out of pride to 
 force the gentlemen of the neighbourhood and their 
 wives to visit her. 
 
522 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 All the ladies present seemed to consult one an- 
 other with a glance ; after which such profound silence 
 reigned in the salon that their attitude was taken as 
 a sign of disapprobation. 
 
 *'Is this Madame de Beauseant the same who had 
 the affair with M. Ajuda-Pinto, that made so much 
 noise?" asked Gaston of the lady next to whom he 
 was seated. 
 
 "Precisely the same," was the answer. "She came 
 to live at Courcelles after the marriage of the Mar- 
 quis d'Ajuda. No one here receives her. She has, 
 however, too much intelligence not to feel the false- 
 ness of her position; consequently, she has never 
 sought to know any one. Monsieur de Champignelles 
 and a few other men have called upon her, but she 
 has received none but M. de Champignelles — on 
 account, perhaps, of their relationship ; they are con- 
 nected through the Beauseants. The Marquis de 
 Beauseant, the father, married a Champignelles of 
 the elder branch. Though the Vicomtesse de Beau- 
 seant is descended from the house of Bourgogne, you 
 understand, of course, that we cannot admit into our 
 society a woman who is separated from her husband. 
 There are certain old-time ideas to which we no longer 
 have the stupidity to adhere. The vicomtesse was all 
 the more to blame in her behaviour because M. de 
 Beauseant is a very gallant man, a man of the Court; 
 he would perfectly have accepted the affair. But his 
 wife is so impulsive." 
 
 M. de Nueil, while hearing the old lady's voice 
 was not listening to her. He was absorbed in fan- 
 tasy — is there any other word that so expresses the 
 
The Deserted Woman, 523 
 
 attraction of an adventure at the moment when it 
 catches the imagination, when the soul conceives 
 vague hopes, foresees inexplicable delights, fears, 
 events, while nothing as yet feeds, or fixes, the ca- 
 prices of the mirage? The spirit wings its way, 
 imagines impossible things, and gives itself in germ 
 all the joys of a passion. Perhaps the germ of a 
 passion contains all its joys, as a seed contains a 
 beautiful flower with its fragrance and its glowing 
 colours. M. de Nueil was not ignorant of the fact 
 that Madame de Beauseant had taken refuge in Nor- 
 mandy after the noise of an affair which most women 
 envy and condemn, especially when the seductions of 
 youth and beauty seem almost to justify the fault 
 itself. There is an inconceivable prestige in every 
 species of celebrity, no matter to what it may be due. 
 It seem3 as if to women, as it used to be with fami- 
 lies, the fame of a crime effaces the shame of it. Just 
 as some old houses actually take pride in their be- 
 headed ancestry, a young and pretty woman becomes 
 the more attractive through the fatal renown of a 
 happy love or a cruel betrayal. The more she can 
 be pitied, the more she excites sympathy. We are 
 pitiless only to things, sentiments, and adventures 
 that are commonplace. By attracting eyes we are 
 magnified. And, in truth, is it not necessary to rise 
 above our fellows in order to be seen? The crowd 
 feels, involuntarily, a sentiment of respect for all that 
 is great, without asking its ways of being so. 
 
 At this moment Gaston de Nueil felt himself im- 
 pelled towards Madame de Beauseant by the secret 
 influence of these reasons, or perhaps by curiosity, by 
 
524 The Deserted 'Woman. 
 
 the need to put an interest into his present life; in 
 short, by that crowd of motives impossible to put 
 into words, but which the word fatality serves to ex- 
 press. The Vicomtesse de Beauseant had risen before 
 him suddenly, accompanied by a host of graceful 
 images ; she was another world ; near her there would 
 doubtless be much to fear, hope, combat, vanquish. 
 She would contrast with the persons Gaston saw 
 about him in that dreary salon. In short, she was a 
 woman; and he had never yet met a woman in this 
 cold society where calculation took the place of senti- 
 ment, where politeness was merely duty, and where 
 the simplest ideas found something too wounding to 
 allow them to be uttered or understood. Madame de 
 Beauseant awakened in his soul the memory of his 
 youthful dreams and his keenest passions, lulled to 
 sleep for a moment. 
 
 M. de Nueil was absent-minded for the rest of the 
 evening. He sought for means to obtain an intro- 
 duction to Madame de Beauseant, and there really 
 seemed none. She was said to be extremely clever. 
 But if clever people are readily attracted by original 
 or refined things, they are also very keen and able to 
 divine motives; near them there are often as many 
 chances to be foiled as to be successful in the diffi- 
 cult enterprise of pleasing. Besides, the vicomtesse 
 must, of course, add to the proud reserve of her situ- 
 ation the dignity that her name demanded. The 
 absolute solitude in which she lived seemed to him- 
 the least of the barriers raised between herself and 
 the world. It was therefore almost impossible for a 
 stranger, no matter how good his family might be, to 
 
The Deserted Woman. 625 
 
 get admittance to her. The next morning, however, 
 M. de Nueil walked in the direction of the villa of 
 Courcelles, and once or twice made a tour of the en- 
 closure within which it stood. Impelled by the illu- 
 sions in which, at his age, it is so easy to believe, he 
 looked through the openings and over the walls, and 
 stood in contemplation before the closed blinds, or 
 examined attentively those that were open. He hoped 
 for some romantic chance, he combined effects, with- 
 out perceiving their impossibility, which would intro- 
 duce him to the recluse. He took these walks for 
 several mornings fruitlessly; and every day this 
 woman, placed outside of society, the victim of love, 
 buried in solitude, was magnified in his thoughts and 
 lodged more and more in his soul. Thus it was that 
 Gaston's heart beat high with hope and joy if by 
 chance, skirting the walls of Courcelles, he heard the 
 heavy step of a gardener. 
 
 He thought of writing to Madame de Beaus^ant; 
 but what can be said to a woman whom you have 
 never seen and who does not know you? Besides, 
 Gaston distrusted himself; moreover, like all young 
 men still full of illusions, he feared, more than death 
 itself, the terrible disdain of silence; he shuddered in 
 thinking of the chances his first amorous prose would 
 have of being flung into the fire. He was a prey to 
 a thousand contradictory ideas which fought within 
 him. But at last, by dint of inventing chimeras, 
 composing romances, and beating his brains, he suc- 
 ceeded in finding one of those happy stratagems which 
 are generally to be met with among the multitude of 
 which we dream, and which reveal to the most inno- 
 
526 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 cent woman the extent of the ardoar of the man's 
 search for her. Often, social caprices create as many 
 real obstacles between a woman and her lover as the 
 oriental poets have put into the delightful fiction of 
 their tales, and their most fantastic imagery is not 
 exaggerated. So, in the world of reality as in fairy- 
 land, the woman will ever belong to him who knows 
 how to reach her and deliver her from the situation in 
 which she languishes. The poorest of the Calenders, 
 falling in love with the daughter of a caliph, was cer- 
 tainly not separated from her by a greater distance 
 than that between Gaston and Madame de Beauseant. 
 The vicomtesse, of course, lived in complete igno- 
 rance of the circumvallations traced around her by 
 M. de Nueil, whose love grew and increased to the 
 height of the obstacles before him, obstacles which 
 gave to his improvised mistress the attraction invari- 
 ably possessed by distant charms. 
 
 One day, trusting to his inspiration, he hoped for 
 all from the love that would gush from his eyes. Be- 
 lieving speech more eloquent than the most passionate 
 of letters, and speculating also on the natural curi- 
 osity of women, he went to M. de Champignelles in 
 order to employ his assistance for the success of his 
 enterprise. He told him that he had an important 
 and delicate commission to perform towards Madame 
 de Beauseant, but not feeling sure that she would 
 read letters in an unknown handwriting, or grant an 
 interview to a stranger, he begged him to ask the 
 vicomtesse whether, if he went to the house, she would 
 deign to receive him. While asking the marquis to 
 keep the secret in case of refusal, he cleverly sug- 
 
The Deserted Woman, 527 
 
 gested that he should not be silent to Madame de 
 Beauseant as to the reasons which made it proper that 
 she should admit him. Was he not a man of honour, 
 loyal, and Incapable of lending himself to anything 
 unbecoming or in bad taste? The haughty gentle- 
 man, whose little vanities were flattered, was com- 
 pletely duped by this diplomacy of love, which lends 
 to a young man the calm assurance and deep dissimu- 
 lation of an old ambassador. He tried to penetrate 
 Gaston's motives, but the latter (much puzzled to tell 
 them) opposed his Norman phrases to M. de Cham- 
 pignelles* adroit questioning, and the latter, as a true 
 French knight, praised his discretion. 
 
 The marquis hurried to Courcelles, with the eager- 
 ness that men of a certain age put into doing a ser- 
 vice to a pretty woman. In Madame de Beauseant's 
 peculiar position, such a message was of a nature to 
 puzzle her. Therefore, although in consulting her 
 memory she could not see any reason that should 
 bring M. de Nueil to her, she also saw no impropriety 
 in receiving him, after first making sure of his social 
 position. She began, however, by refusing; then she 
 discussed the propriety of the affair with M. de Cham- 
 pignelles, and questioned him, trying to find out 
 whether he knew the motive of the visit. After 
 that she withdrew her refusal. The discussion and 
 the enforced discretion of the marquis piqued her 
 curiosity. 
 
 M. de Champignelles, not wishing to appear ridicu- 
 lous, pretended to assume, like a well-informed but 
 discreet man, that the vicomtesse knew the object of 
 the visit perfectly well, though she was really seeking 
 
528 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 to discover it. Madame de Beauseant, on the other 
 hand, imagined relations between Gaston and persons 
 whom he did not even know; she lost herself among 
 the most absurd conjectures, and vainly wondered 
 wliether she had ever seen this M. de Nueil. The 
 most genuine love-letter or the cleverest, would not 
 have produced as much effect as this enigma with- 
 out a key which Madame de Beauseant's mind turned 
 over and over. 
 
 When Gaston learned that he could see her he was 
 both ravished at the thought of obtaining a happiness 
 so desired and greatly embarrassed as to how to give 
 a reason for his plot. 
 
 "Bah! to see her^^' he repeated, as he dressed him- 
 self; "to see her, that is all I care for! " 
 
 He was still hoping, as he entered the door at Cour- 
 celles, to come upon some expedient that should undo 
 the gordian knot he had tied himself. Gaston was 
 one of those young fellows who, believing in the 
 omnipotence of necessity, go forward ever; and, at 
 the last moment, when face to face with danger, they 
 are inspired by it, and find a way to vanquish it. 
 He took especial pains with his dress. He imagined, 
 like all young men, that on a well or ill-placed lock of 
 hair his success depended, unaware that in youth all 
 is charm and attraction. Besides, choice women like 
 Madame de Beauseant are only to be won by graces 
 of the mind and superiority of character. A fine 
 character flatters their vanity, offers the promise of a 
 great passion, and appears to admit the exigencies of 
 their heart. Wit amuses them, it replies to the intui- 
 tions of their nature, and they think themselves un- 
 
The Deserted Woman, 629 
 
 derstood ; and what do women want more than to be 
 amused, understood, and adored? It is necessary, 
 however, to have reflected deeply on the things of life 
 to divine how much of the highest coquetry lies in 
 carelessness of dress and reserve of mind, in a first 
 interview. When we are sufficiently shrewd to be able 
 politicians, we are usually too old to profit by our 
 experience. While Gaston was distrusting his own 
 wits by borrowing the seduction of clothes, Madame 
 de Beauseant herself was instinctively adding ele- 
 gance to her toilet, saying to herself as she arranged 
 her hair: — 
 
 *' There is no need that I should look like a fright." 
 
 M. de Nueil had in his mind, in his person, and in 
 his manners that naively original cast which gives a 
 sort of savour to ideas and actions that are otherwise 
 ordinary, allows all to be said, and makes everything 
 acceptable. He was well-educated, observing, and 
 possessed of a countenance as happy and mobile as 
 his soul was impressible. Passion and tenderness 
 were in his brilliant eyes, and his heart, essentially 
 good, did not contradict them. The resolution he 
 took on entering Courcelles was therefore in harmony 
 with his frank nature and his ardent imagination. 
 But in spite of the intrepidity of love he could not 
 keep himself from a violent palpitation when, after 
 crossing a great courtyard laid out like an English 
 garden, he reached the hall, where a footman, having 
 taken his name, disappeared for a moment and then 
 returned to introduce him. 
 
 *'M. le Baron de Nueil." 
 
 Gaston entered slowly, but with pretty good grace; 
 
 84 
 
530 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 a matter more difficult in a salon where there is but 
 one woman than where there are twenty. At the cor- 
 ner of the chimney-piece, within which, despite the 
 season, a large fire burned, and upon which were two 
 lighted candelabra that threw a softened glow into the 
 I'oom, he saw a young woman seated in one of those 
 modern easy-chairs with very high backs and low 
 seats, which allow of placing the head in many varied 
 poses full of grace and elegance, inclining it, bending 
 it, lifting it languidly as though it were a heavy bur- 
 den; while the feet can be shown or withdrawn be- 
 neath the long folds of a black gown. 
 
 The vicomtesse intended to lay the book she was 
 reading on a little round table, but having at the same 
 moment turned her head towards M. de Neuil, the 
 book, half-placed, fell upon the ground in the space 
 between the table and the chair. Without appearing 
 disturbed by the incident, she lifted herself and bowed 
 in answer to the young man's salutation, but in a 
 manner so imperceptible that she scarcely rose from 
 her chair, in which she remained ensconced. She 
 leaned forward to stir the fire; then she stooped, 
 picked up a glove which she negligently put upon her 
 left hand, while with her right, which was white, 
 almost transparent, without rings, the fingers taper- 
 ing and slender with rosy nails that formed a perfect 
 oval, she pointed to a chair as if to tell Gaston to 
 be seated. When her unknown guest had taken the 
 chair, she turned her head to him with an interroga- 
 tive and coquettish motion, the delicate charm of 
 which is not to be described; it belongs to the class 
 of those courteous intentions, those gracious though 
 
TJie Deserted Woman, 531 
 
 formal gestures, given by early education and the 
 constant habit of doing all things in good taste. 
 These multiplied movements succeeded each other 
 rapidly, without jerk or brusqueness; and they 
 charmed Gaston by that mingling of precision and 
 freedom which a pretty woman adds to the aristo- 
 cratic manners of the highest company. 
 
 Madame de Beauseant contrasted too vividly with 
 the automatons among whom he had lived during his 
 last two months of exile in the depths of Normandy 
 not to personify to his mind the poesy of his dreams. 
 Neither could he compare her perfections with those 
 he had formerly admired. In presence of this woman 
 and in this salon, furnished like those of the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Germain, full of the rich nothings that 
 lie about on tables with flowers and books, he felt 
 himself back in Paris. He trod the very carpets of 
 Paris ; he saw once more the distinguished type, the 
 fragile form, of the true Parisian woman, her exqui- 
 site grace, and her negligence of all sought-for effects, 
 which do so much to mar the women of the provinces. 
 
 Madame la Vicomtesse de Beauseant was blond, 
 white as a blonde, but with brown eyes. She pre- 
 sented her brow nobly, the brow of a fallen angel, 
 proud of her fault and asking no pardon for it. Her 
 hair, very abundant and braided high upon the smooth 
 bands which followed the broad curves of the fore- 
 head, added still further to the majesty of her head. 
 Imagination could see in the spirals of that golden 
 hair the ducal coronet of Bourgogne ; and in the bril- 
 liant eyes of this great lady the courage of her house, 
 the courage of a woman strong only in repulsing dis- 
 
532 The Deserted Woinan, 
 
 dain and audacity, but full of tenderness for all gentle 
 feelings. The outline of her little head, admirably 
 poised upon a long white throat, the features of her 
 delicate face, her slightly parted lips, and her mobile 
 countenance wore an expression of exquisite pru- 
 dence, a tinge of affected satire, which bore some re- 
 semblance to slyness and superciliousness. It was 
 difficult not to forgive her for those two feminine sins 
 in thinking of her misfortunes, of the passion which 
 had almost cost her life, and was visibly attested by 
 the furrows that the slightest movement traced upon 
 her brow, and by the sorrowful eloquence of her 
 beautiful eyes, that were often raised to heaven. Was 
 it not an imposing spectacle (still further magnified 
 by reflection) to see in that vast, silent salon this 
 woman, parted from her kind, who for three years 
 had lived in the depths of that valley, far from the 
 city, alone with her memories of a brilliant, happy, 
 ardent youth, once so filled with fetes and homage, 
 now given over to the horrors of nothingness? The 
 smile of this woman proclaimed a high sense of her 
 own value. Neither mother nor wife, repulsed by 
 society, betrayed by the only heart that could make 
 her own beat without shame, finding in no sentiment 
 the needed support to her tottering spirit, she was 
 driven to seek her strength within herself, to live 
 upon her own life, and have no other hope than that 
 of a deserted woman, namely: to await death, and 
 hasten its slowness, despite the days of youth and 
 beauty that still remained to her. To feel herself 
 made for happiness, and die without receiving it, 
 without giving it — a woman! What griefs I 
 
The Deserted WomarL 533 
 
 M. de Nueil made these reflections with the ra- 
 pidity of lightning, and felt ashamed of his own 
 individual person in presence of the greatest poesy 
 that can enfold a woman. Under the spell of that 
 ti'iple glow of beauty, misfortunes, and nobleness, he 
 remained almost stunned, dreaming, admiring the 
 woman before him, but finding nothing to say to 
 her. 
 
 Madame de Beaus^ant, who was doubtless not dis- 
 pleased by this attitude, made a gentle but imperative 
 gesture of the hand; then, recalling a smile to her 
 pale lips, as if to obey the gracious rules of her sex, 
 she said : — 
 
 " M. de Champignelles has informed me, monsieur, 
 of the message which you have so courteously taken 
 upon yourself to bring me. Is it from — ? " 
 
 Hearing that terrible speech Gaston felt the ab- 
 surdity of his position, the bad taste, the disloyalty 
 of his proceeding towards a woman so noble and so 
 unhappy. He blushed. His glance, full of many 
 thoughts, became agitated; then suddenly, with that 
 strength which young people are able to get out of 
 the consciousness of their faults, he recovered him- 
 self. Interrupting Madame de Beauseant, not with- 
 out making a submissive gesture, he said in a voice 
 of emotion: — 
 
 *' Madame, I do not deserve the happiness of seeing 
 you ; I have unworthily deceived you. The sentiment 
 I have obeyed, great as it was, does not excuse the 
 miserable subterfuge which I used to obtain an en- 
 trance here. But, madame, if you will have the 
 goodness to allow me to tell you — " 
 
634 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 The vicomtesse cast a haughty look of contempt 
 upon him, raised her hand to the bell, and rang it, 
 and when the footman came she said, looking at the 
 young man with dignity: — 
 
 " Jacques, show this gentleman out." 
 
 She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and stooped to 
 pick up her book. Her movements were as stiff and cold 
 as those with which she had greeted him were softly 
 elegant and gracious. M. de Nueil had risen, but he 
 remained standing. Madame de Beauseant flung him 
 another look as if to say: *' Well, are you not going? " 
 
 That look was full of such stinging sarcasm that 
 Gaston turned pale like a person about to swoon. 
 Tears rose in his eyes, but he restrained them, dry- 
 ing them in hot shame and regret as he looked at 
 Madame de Beauseant with a sort of pride which 
 expressed in the same glance resignation and a cer- 
 tain consciousness of his own value. The vicomtesse 
 had the right to punish him, but ought she to have 
 done so? Then he went out. As he crossed the 
 antechamber, the perspicacity of his mind and his 
 intelligence, sharpened by passion, made him see the 
 danger of his position. 
 
 " If I leave this house now," he said to himself, *' I 
 shall never be able to re-enter it ; I shall always be 
 despised by the vicomtesse. It is impossible that a 
 woman — and she is indeed a woman! — should not 
 divine the love she inspires; she may feel a vague 
 and involuntary regret for having so brusquely dis- 
 missed me, but she will not, she ought not to, she 
 never would, revoke her decision; it is for me to 
 understand her." 
 
The Deserted Woman* 535 
 
 At this reflection, Gaston stopped short on the por- 
 tico, made an abrupt exclamation, and said: — 
 
 *' I have forgotten something." 
 
 Then he returned to the salon, followed by the foot- 
 man, who, full of respect for the baron and the sacred 
 claims of property, was completely deceived by the 
 naive tone in which this remark was made. Gaston 
 entered the salon softly, without being announced. 
 When the vicomtesse, thinking perhaps that the in- 
 truder was the footman, raised her head she saw M. 
 de Nueil standing before her. 
 
 *' Jacques showed me out," he said, smiling. 
 
 That smile, full of a half-sad grace, took from his 
 words what might otherwise have seemed jesting, and 
 the accent with which he said thera went to the soul. 
 
 Madame de Beauseant was disarmed. 
 
 *' Well, then, sit down," she said. 
 
 Gaston seized a chair with an eager movement. 
 His eyes, animated with joy, cast so vivid a light 
 that the vicomtesse, unable to support that young 
 glance, lowered her eyes on her book and tasted the 
 pleasure, always fresh, of being to a man the prin- 
 ciple of his happiness, — an imperishable sentiment 
 in woman. Besides which, Madame de Beauseant had 
 been understood. A woman is always thankful 
 to encounter a man who is able to perceive the 
 caprices, so logical, of her heart; who compre- 
 hends the apparently contradictory ways of her 
 mind, the fleeting resei'ves of her sensations, now 
 timid, now bold, — astonishing mixture of coquetry 
 and artlessness. 
 
 " Madame! " cried Gaston, softly, ** you know my 
 
536 The Deserted Woman. 
 
 fault, but you are ignorant of my crimes. If you 
 knew with what happiness I have — " 
 
 *'Ah! take care," she said, lifting one of her fin- 
 gers with a mysterious air to the level of her nose, 
 which she lightly touched, while, with the other hand 
 she made the gesture of ringing the bell. 
 
 That pretty motion, that graceful threat created, no 
 doubt, a sad thought, a recollection of her happy life, 
 of the time when she might be all charm and fascina- 
 tion, when happiness justified the caprices of her 
 mind and gave attraction to the slightest movements 
 of her body. The lines upon her forehead gathered 
 between her eyebrows ; her face, softly lighted by the 
 candles, took a gloomy expression ; she looked at M. 
 de Nueil with a gravity devoid of harshness, and said 
 in the tone of a woman profoundly penetrated with 
 the meaning of her own words : — 
 
 "All this is very ridiculous. Time was, monsieur, 
 when I had the right to be thoughtlessly gay, when I 
 could have laughed with you and received you fear- 
 lessly; but to-day my life is changed, I am no longer 
 mistress of my actions, I am forced to reflect upon 
 them. To what sentiment do I owe your visit? Is 
 it curiosity ? If so, I am made to pay dear for a mo- 
 ment's gratification. Is it that you already love pas- 
 sionately a woman universally calumniated, whom you 
 have never seen ? In that case, your sentiments are 
 founded on a low opinion of me, on a wrong-doing to 
 which chance has given celebrity." 
 
 She threw her book upon the table in disgust. 
 
 "What!" she continued, with a terrible look at 
 GastoD. " Because I have once been weak does the 
 
The Deserted Woman. 537 
 
 world expect me to be so always? This is horrible, 
 degrading. Do you come here to pity me? You are 
 very young to sympathize with soitows of the heart. 
 Learn, monsieur, that I prefer contempt to pity; I 
 will not submit to the compassion of any one." 
 
 A moment's silence followed, and then she resumed, 
 turning her head to him with a sad and gentle air: 
 
 " You see, monsieur, that whatever may be the sen- 
 timent which has brought you so heedlessly into my 
 seclusion, it is wounding to me. You are too young 
 to be entirely devoid of kind feeling; you must cer- 
 tainly feel the impropriety of your action. I forgive 
 it, and I speak without bitterness. You will not re- 
 turn here, will you? I beg you where I could com- 
 mand you. If you pay me another visit it will not 
 be in your power or mine to prevent the whole town 
 from believing that you are my lover, and you will 
 add to all my other griefs a very great grief. That 
 is not your wish, I think." 
 
 She ceased speaking, and looked at him with an air 
 of such true dignity that it confounded him. 
 
 " I have done wrong, madame," he said in a tone 
 of conviction; " but ardent feelings, want of reflec- 
 tion, a keen desire for happiness, are virtues and 
 defects both at my age. I now perceive that I ought 
 not to have sought to see you, and yet my desire was 
 very natural." 
 
 He tried to tell her, but with more sentiment than 
 sense, the sufferings to which his enforced exile had 
 condemned him. He pictured the state of a young 
 man whose ardour burned without fuel, making him 
 believe that he was worthy of being tenderly loved, 
 
638 The Deserted Woinan, 
 
 who yet had never known the delights of love inspired 
 by a young and beautiful woman of good taste and 
 delicacy. He explained his disregard of conventionaJ 
 propriety without seeking to justify it. He flattered 
 Madame de Beauseant by showing her that she real- 
 ized for him the type of mistress incessantly but 
 vainly demanded by most young men. Then, speak- 
 ing of his early morning walks around Courcelles, of 
 the vagabond ideas that possessed him as he gazed at 
 the villa, to which, at last, he had found a way, he 
 excited that indefinable indulgence which a woman 
 always finds in her heart for the follies she inspires. 
 He rang the tones of a passionate voice in this cold 
 solitude, into which he brought the warm aspirations 
 of his youth and charms of mind, developed by a 
 careful education. Madame de Beauseant had been 
 too long deprived of the emotions given by a delicate 
 expression of true feeling not to feel the delight of 
 them keenly. She could not keep herself from look- 
 ing at the expressive face of M. de Nueil, or from 
 admiring the beautiful confidence of a soul which has 
 not yet been torn by cruel knowledge of the ways of 
 the world, or consumed by the ceaseless calculation 
 of ambition or vanity. Gaston was youth in the 
 flower of its age, appearing as a man of character, 
 as yet imperceptive of his highest destinies. 
 
 Thus they both made, unknown to each other, most 
 dangerous reflections for their peace of mind, mutu- 
 ally endeavouring to conceal them. M. de Nueil 
 recognized in the vicomtesse one of those rare women 
 who are always victims to their own perfections and 
 their inextinguishable tenderness; whose graceful 
 
The Deserted Woman. 539 
 
 "beauty is their least charm when they have once ac- 
 corded access to their soul, in which sentiments are 
 infinite, and where all is good, where the instinct of 
 the beautiful unites with the most varied expressions 
 of love to purify its joys and make them almost sa- 
 cred, — wonderful secret of womanhood, an exquisite 
 gift, not often granted by nature. 
 
 On her side, the vicomtesse, listening to the truth- 
 ful tones in which Gaston told her of the troubles of 
 his youth, divined the sufferings imposed by timidity 
 on children of larger growth when study has kept them 
 safe from the corruption and contagion of men of the 
 world, whose argumentative experience corrodes the 
 fine qualities of youth. She found in him the dream 
 of every woman — a man in whom there did not yet 
 exist that egotism of family and fortune, nor that 
 selfishness which ends by killing, after their first trans- 
 ports, devotion, honour, abnegation, self-respect, — 
 flowers of the soul so early wilted, which at the start 
 enrich existence with delicate though strong emotions, 
 and reveal in man an honest heart. Once launched 
 upon the vast spaces of sentiment, they soon went far 
 in theory; each sounded the depths of the other's 
 soul, seeking for the truth of its expression. This 
 examination, unconscious in Gaston, was premedi- 
 tated in Madame de Beauseant. Using her natural 
 and acquired slyness she expressed, without doing 
 injustice to herself, opinions quite the contrary of 
 those she held, in order to discover those of M. de 
 Nueil. She was so witty, so gracious, so completely 
 herself with a young man who did not rouse her dis- 
 trust, and whom she believed she should never see 
 
640 The Deserted Woman* 
 
 again, that Gaston exclaimed naively after one of her 
 charming remarks : — 
 
 "Oh, madame! how could any man desert you?" 
 
 Madame de Beauseaut was silent. Gaston red- 
 dened; he supposed he had offended her. But in 
 truth she was overcome by the first deep and true 
 pleasure she had felt since the day of her sorrow. 
 The cleverest roue could not have made by employ- 
 ing art the progress that M. de Nueil owed to this 
 cry from his soul. Such a judgment, wrung from the 
 purity of a young man, made her innocent in her own 
 eyes, condemned society, blamed the man who had 
 deserted her, and justified the solitude in which she 
 had come to languish. Worldly absolution, tender 
 sympathies, social esteem, so much desired, so cruelly 
 refused, in short, all her most secret cravings were 
 accomplished by that one exclamation, embellished 
 still further by gentle flatteries of the heart and the 
 admiration that is always so eagerly sought by women. 
 She was understood and comprehended. M. de Nueil 
 gave her naturally an opportunity to rise above her 
 fall. She looked at the clock. 
 
 "Oh, madame!" cried Gaston, " do not punish 
 my thoughtlessness. If you grant me but this one 
 evening, deign not to shorten it." 
 
 She smiled at the compliment. 
 
 " Well," she said, "as we shall never see each 
 other again, a few moments more or less cannot mat- 
 ter. If I had pleased you it would have been a great 
 misfortune." 
 
 " A misfortune that has happened," he answered 
 sadly. 
 
The Deserted Woman, 541 
 
 ** Do not say that!" she replied, gravely. "Were 
 I in any other position I would gladly receive you. 
 I shall speak to you without evasion, and you will 
 comprehend why 1 cannot, and why I ought not to 
 receive you. I think you have too great a soul not 
 to feel that if I were suspected of a second weakness 
 I should become in the eyes of every one a contemp- 
 tible and vulgar woman ; I should be like other women. 
 A pure and spotless life will, on the contrary, put my 
 character into relief. I am too proud not to attempt 
 to live in society as a being apart, victim to laws in 
 my marriage, victim to man in my love. If I did 
 not remain faithful to my position, I should deserve 
 the blame that crushes me, and I should lose my own 
 esteem. I have not had the lofty social virtue to be- 
 long to a man I did not love. I have broken, in spite 
 of the laws, the bonds of marriage; but to me mar- 
 riage was equivalent to death. I wished to live. If 
 1 had been a mother, perhaps I should have found 
 strength to endure the torture of a marriage forced 
 upon me by conventions. At eighteen we know noth- 
 ing, poor young girls, of what we are made to do. I 
 have violated the laws of the world, and the world has 
 punished me; we were just, the one to the other. I 
 sought happiness. Is it not a law of our nature to be 
 happy ? I was young, I was beautiful — I thought I 
 met a being who was as loving as he was impassioned. 
 I was loved deeply for a moment I " 
 
 She paused, 
 
 *' I think," she resumed, " that a man ought never 
 to abandon a woman in the situation in which I was. 
 I was deserted, I had ceased to please ; perhaps I was 
 
542 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 too loving, too devoted, or too exactirg ; I know not. 
 Sorrow has at last trained me. After being an accuser 
 for a long, long time, I am now resigned to be the 
 only guilty one. I have therefore absolved at my 
 own expense him of whom I believed I had reason to 
 complain. I was not clever enough to keep him ; fate 
 has harshly punished me for my incompetence. I 
 know only how to love; how can one think of one's self 
 when one loves? I was therefore a slave, when I 
 ought to have made myself a tyrant. Those who 
 know me may condemn me, but they esteem me. My 
 sufferings have taught me never again to put myself 
 in the way of desertion. 1 do not understand how it 
 is I still live after enduring the eight days of anguish 
 that followed that crisis, the most dreadful that can 
 happen in the life of a woman. One must have lived 
 three years in absolute solitude to have gathered suffi- 
 cient strength to speak as I do now of my sorrows. 
 A death-struggle usually ends in death; mine was 
 that struggle without the grave to end it. Oh! I 
 have suffered, indeed!" 
 
 She raised her beautiful eyes to the ceiling, confid- 
 ing to it, no doubt, all that she could not tell to a 
 stranger. A ceiling is certainly the gentlest, most 
 submissive, most complying confidant that women can 
 find on occasions when they dare not look at their 
 interlocutor. The ceiling of a boudoir is an institu- 
 tion. Is it not a confessional, minus the priest? At 
 this moment Madame de Beauseant was eloquent and 
 beautiful; I would say coquettish if the word were 
 not too strong. In rendering justice to herself, in 
 potting between herself and love the highest barriers, 
 
The Deserted Woman. 543 
 
 she spurred all the feelings of the man; and the more 
 she raised her nature, the better she offered it to his 
 sight. At the end she lowered her eyes to Gaston, 
 after taking from them the too affecting expression 
 given to them by the memory of her sufferings. 
 
 *' You will admit that I ought to remain solitary 
 and cold," she said calmly. 
 
 M. de Nueil felt a violent desire to fall at the feet 
 of this woman, sublime at this moment with reason 
 and unreason; but he feared her ridicule; he repressed 
 his enthusiasm and his thoughts; he felt both the fear 
 of not being able to express them well, and a terror 
 of some terrible rebuff or sarcasm, apprehension of 
 which so often freezes the souls of ardent beings. 
 The reaction of feelings thus repressed at the moment 
 when they were about to gush from his heart gave 
 him that bitter pain known to shy and ambitious per- 
 sons when forced to swallow their own desires. He 
 could not, however, help breaking the silence by say- 
 ing in a trembling voice : — 
 
 *' Permit me, madame, to give way to one of the 
 greatest emotions of my life by avowing to you what 
 you have made me feel. You enlarge my heart! I 
 feel within me a desire to spend my life in making 
 you forget your griefs, in loving you for all those 
 who have hated or wounded you. But this is a sud- 
 den effusion of the heart, which to-day nothing jus- 
 tifies, and which I ought — " 
 
 ''Enough, monsieur," said Madame de Beauseant; 
 *' we are each of us going too far. I wished to re- 
 move all harshness from the refusal I am obliged to 
 give; I wished to explain its mournful reasons, not 
 
644 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 to attract yonr homage. Coquetry is becoming to 
 none but happy women. Believe me, it is better we 
 should remain strangers to each other. Later, you 
 will know that it is better not to form ties that must 
 eventually be broken." 
 
 She sighed slightly, and her brow wrinkled, only 
 to renew its purity a moment later. 
 
 " What suffering for a woman," she resumed, "not 
 to be able to follow the man she loves through all the 
 phases of his life! And that deep grief, must it nox 
 echo horribly in the heart of that man, if indeed he 
 loves her well ? A double grief, is it not? " 
 
 A moment's silence, and then she rose as if to 
 make her guest rise, saying with a smile: — 
 
 " You did not expect, in coming to Courcelles, to 
 hear a sermon, did you ?" 
 
 Gaston felt himself at this moment farther from 
 this extraordinary woman than at the moment he first 
 approached her. Attributing the charm of this de- 
 lightful hour to the coquetry of the mistress of the 
 salon, desirous of displaying her mind, he bowed 
 coldly to the vicomtesse and left the house in de- 
 spair. As he went along he tried to disentangle the 
 true character of this creature, supple, yet hard as 
 a steel spring; but he had seen her take so many 
 aspects, so many shades, that he found it impossible 
 to form any real judgment upon her. Besides, the 
 intonations of her voice rang in his ears, and the 
 recollection gave such charm to her gestures, to 
 the motions of her head, to the play of her eyes that 
 the more his thoughts examined her, the more he wa8 
 in love. To him, her beauty shone the brighter ill 
 
The Deserted Woman, 645 
 
 the shadows ; the impressions he received of it woke 
 again, awakened by one another, seducing him anew 
 by revealing graces of womanhood and intellect not 
 perceived at first. He fell into one of those vagabond 
 meditations during which the most lucid thoughts 
 struggle together and cast the soul into a species of 
 short madness. One must be young to reveal and to 
 comprehend the secret of dithyrambics of this kind, 
 in which the heart, assailed by the wisest and by the 
 craziest ideas, yields to whichever strikes it last, a 
 thought of hope or of despair, at the will of some 
 unknown power. At twenty-three years of age a man 
 is almost always ruled by a sentiment of modesty; 
 the shyness, the timidity of a young girl agitate him; 
 he is afraid of expressing ill his love, he sees noth- 
 ing but difficulties, and stands in awe of them; he 
 trembles in fear that he may not please; he would be 
 bold if he did not love so much; the more he feels the 
 value of happiness, the less he believes that his mis- 
 tress will easily grant it to him. Sometimes he yields 
 himself up too entirely to his pleasure, and fears to be 
 unable to give any; or if, unfortunately, his idol is 
 imposing he adores her in secret and from afar; if his 
 love is not divined, it expires. Often this precocious 
 passion, dead in the young heart, remains there, 
 brilliant with illusions. What man has not several 
 of these virgin memories, which, later, awake, ever 
 gracious, bringing the image of a perfect joy? memo- 
 ries like children, lost in the flower of their age, whose 
 parents have known nothing but their smiles? 
 
 M. de Nueil returned, therefore, from Courcelles, a 
 prey to feelings big with contradictory resolutions. 
 
 35 
 
546 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 Madame de Beauseant had become to him already the 
 condition of his existence; he preferred to die than to 
 live without her. Still juvenile enough to feel those 
 cruel fascinations which a perfect woman exercises 
 over a fresh and passionate soul, he must have passed 
 one of those storm -tossed nights during which young 
 men fly mentally from happiness to suicide, from sui- 
 cide to happiness, exhausting a whole lifetime of joy 
 and falling asleep powerless. Fatal nights, from 
 which the greatest danger is to waken a philosopher. 
 Too thoroughly in love to sleep, M. de Nueil rose and 
 began to write letters, none of which satisfying him, 
 he burned them all. 
 
 The next day he went to make a turn round the 
 little inclosure of Courcelles, but only towards night- 
 fall, fearing lest the vicomtesse should see him. The 
 feeling he was then obeying belongs to a characteristic 
 of the soul so mysterious that one must still be a 
 young man in a like position to comprehend its mute 
 delights and whimsicalities, — all of which make those 
 persons fortunate enough to see only the practical side 
 of life shrug their shoulders. After painful hesitation 
 Gaston wrote to Madame de Beauseant the following 
 letter, which may pass for a model of the phraseology 
 special to lovers, and can be compared to the draw- 
 ings made in secret by children to surprise their 
 parents, — works of art detestable to all except the 
 parents who receive them. 
 
 " Madame, — You exercise so great an influence 
 over my heart, my soul, my person, that to-day my fate 
 hangs wholly upon you. Do not fling my letter into 
 
The Deserted Woman, 547 
 
 the fire. Be sufficiently benevolent to read it. Per- 
 haps you will pardon my first words when you per- 
 ceive that they are not a selfish or vulgar declaration, 
 but the expression of a natural fact. 
 
 " Perhaps you will be touched by the modesty of my 
 prayers, by the resignation that a sense of my inferi- 
 ority inspires, by the influence of your decision on 
 my life. At my age, madame, I know only how to 
 love; I am utterly ignorant of what will please a 
 woman and win her; but I feel for her in my heart 
 intoxicating adorations. I am irresistibly attracted 
 to you by the immense pleasure you make me feel ; I 
 think of you with all the egoism which draws us in- 
 stinctively where for us is vital warmth. I do not 
 think myself worthy of you. No, it seems to me im- 
 possible that I, young, ignorant, timid, should bring 
 to you one-millionth part of the happiness that I 
 breathe in as I listen to you, as I see you. You are 
 to me the only woman existing in the world. Unable 
 to conceive of life without you I have resolved to 
 leave France and risk my existence until I lose it in 
 some impossible enterprise, in the Indies, in Africa, 
 I know not where. Must I not combat a boundless 
 love with something that is allied to infinity? 
 
 ** But if you would have me hope, not to be wholly 
 yours, but to obtain your friendship, I shall remain. 
 Permit me to spend near you — rarely if you so insist 
 — a few hours like those I have just obtained. That 
 slender happiness, the keon enjoyments of which can 
 be denied me at my first too ardent words, will suffice 
 to make me endure the pulsations of my blood. Do 
 I presume too far upon your generosity when I en- 
 
548 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 treat you to permit an intercourse in which all the 
 profit is to me alone? You can surely show to the 
 world to which you sacrifice so much that I am noth- 
 ing to you. You, so brilliant and so proud, what can 
 you fear? 
 
 " I would that I could open my heart to you, in 
 order to convince you that my humble petition covers 
 no secret thought. I should not have told you that my 
 love is boundless in asking you to grant me friend- 
 ship did I have any hope that you would share the 
 sentiment so deeply sunken in my soul. No, I shall 
 ever be, near you, that which you desire me to be, 
 provided I may be there. If you refuse me, and you 
 may, I shall not murmur, I shall depart. If, later, 
 any other woman than you should enter my life, you 
 will have acted rightly; but if I die, faithful to my 
 love, you will perhaps feel some regret. The hope of 
 thus causing you regret will soothe my anguish — it 
 will be the only vengeance of my rejected heart." 
 
 It is necessary not to be ignorant of any of the 
 extravagant sorrows of youth, and also to have 
 climbed upon all the white and double-winged chi- 
 meras which offer their feminine crupper to burning 
 imaginations, in order to understand the torture to 
 which Gaston de Nueil was a prey when he knew that 
 his first ultimatum was in the hands of the vicomtesse. 
 He imagined her cold, scornful, jesting at his love, 
 like those who no longer believe in the tender pas- 
 sion. He would gladly have recalled his letter, — 
 he thought it absurd; there came into his mind a 
 thousand and one ideas that were infinitely better, 
 
The Deserted Woman. 649 
 
 all of them more touching than his stiff sentences, 
 those cursed, far-fetched, sophistical, pretentious sen- 
 tences, but, happily, very ill-punctuated and written 
 askew. He tried not to think, not to feel; but he did 
 think, he felt, he suffered. If he had been thirty 
 years old he would have made himself drunk ; but the 
 still artless young fellow knew nothing of the re- 
 sources of opium or the other expedients of extreme 
 civilization. He had not at his elbow one of those 
 good Parisian friends who know so well how to say to 
 you: PcETE, NGN dolet! as they hold out a bottle of 
 champagne, or carry you off to an orgy to ameliorate 
 the pangs of uncertainty. Excellent friends, always 
 ruined when you are rich, always at a watering-place 
 when you are in search of them, always having just 
 lost their last louis at cards when you ask them to 
 lend you one, but always owning a bad horse to sell 
 to you; yet, after all, the best fellows on earth, and 
 ever ready to jump in with you and race down the 
 steep incline on which time, and soul, and life itself 
 are wasted. 
 
 At last M. de Nueil received, from the hands of 
 Jacques, a letter sealed with perfumed wax bearing 
 the arms of Bourgogne, and written on satin paper, 
 unmistakable signs of a pretty woman. He rushed 
 away instantly to lock himself in and read and 
 re-read her letter. 
 
 " You punish me very severely, monsieur, both for 
 the kindness with which I saved you from the annoy- 
 ance of a dismissal, and for the seduction which gifts 
 of mind invariably exercise over me. I had confi- 
 
650 The Deserted Woman* 
 
 dence in the nobleness of youth, and you have de- 
 ceived me. Nevertheless, I spoke to you, if not with 
 open heart, which would have been perfectly ridicu- 
 lous, at least with frankness; I told you of my situa- 
 tion in order to make your young soul comprehend 
 my coldness. The more you interested me, the more 
 keen is the pain you have now caused me. I am 
 naturally tender and kind, but circumstances render 
 me harsh. Another woman would have burned your 
 letter without reading it ; I have read it, and I answer 
 it. My reasons will prove to you that while I am not 
 insensible to the expression of feelings to which, 
 however involuntarily, I have given birth, I am far 
 from sharing them, and my conduct will show you 
 better still the sincerity of my soul. Besides, I wish, 
 for your good, to employ the species of authority 
 which you give me over your life, and exercise it, 
 once only, in causing the veil that now covers your 
 eyes to drop. 
 
 " I shall soon be thirty years of age, and you are 
 barely twenty-two. You are ignorant yourself of 
 what your thoughts may be when you reach my years. 
 The vows you take to-day may seem to you by that 
 time extremely heavy. To-day, I am willing to be- 
 lieve, you would give me your whole life without 
 regret, you would even die for an ephemeral pleas- 
 ure; but at thirty, experience will have taken from 
 you the strength to make me daily sacrifices; and as 
 for me, I should be deeply humiliated to accept them. 
 Some day everything about you, Nature herself, will 
 command you to leave me; and, as I have told you 
 jilready, I prefer death to desertion. You see how 
 
The Deserted Woman. 551 
 
 Borrow has taught me to calculate. I reason, I have 
 no passion. You force me to tell you that I do not 
 love you, that I ought not, cannot, and will not love 
 you. I have passed that moment in life when women 
 yield to unreflecting impulse ; I could not be the mis- 
 tress of whom you are in search. 
 
 **My consolations, monsieur, come from God, not 
 from man. Besides, I read too clearly into hearts by 
 the sad light of a love betrayed, to consent to the 
 friendship that you ask and that you offer. You are 
 the dupe of your heart, and you hope much more from 
 my weakness than from your strength. All that is an 
 effect of instinct. I pardon you this childish plot, in 
 which you are not yet an accomplice. I order you, 
 in the name of this passing love, in the name of your 
 life, in the name of my tranquillity, to remain in your 
 own country, and not to abandon an honourable and 
 noble life in its service for an illusion which must, 
 sooner or later, be extinguished. 
 
 "Later, when you have, in accomplishing your true 
 destiny, developed all the sentiments that await a 
 man, you will appreciate my answer, which, at the 
 preseilt moment, you will doubtless accuse of harsh- 
 ness. You will then meet, with pleasure, an old 
 woman whose friendship will be sweet and precious 
 to you ; it will not have been subjected to the vicissi- 
 tudes of passion or to the disenchantments of life; 
 noble ideas, religious ideas will have kept it pure and 
 saintly. 
 
 "Adieu, monsieur, obey me; believe that your suo- 
 eess in life will cast some pleasure into my solitude, 
 and think of me only as we think of the absent ** 
 
552 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 After having read this letter Gaston de Nueil wrote 
 as follows; — 
 
 " Madame, if I ceased to love you, and accepted 
 the chances which you propose to me of becoming an 
 ordinary man, I should deserve my fate — admit it! 
 No, I shall not obey you, and I swear to you a fidelity 
 which can be unbound by death only. Oh ! take my 
 life! — unless you fear to put remorse in yours." 
 
 When the servant whom M. de Nueil had sent to 
 Courcelles returned, his master said to him: — 
 
 " To whom did you give my note? " 
 
 " To Madame la vicomtesse herself as she was get- 
 ting into the carriage — " 
 
 " To come into town? " 
 
 " I think not, monsieur; the carriage of Madame la 
 vicomtesse had post-horses to it." 
 
 "Ah! then she is going on a journey," said the 
 baron. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur,'* replied the valet. 
 
 Instantly Gaston made his preparations to follow 
 Madame de Beauseant, and she led him as far as 
 Geneva without knowing that he accompanied her. 
 Among the thousand reflections that crowded upon 
 him during this journey the one that occupied him 
 more especially was this: *' Why did she go away ? '* 
 That question was the text of innumerable supposi- 
 tions, among which he naturally chose the most flat- 
 tering, namely: "If she desires to love me, there is 
 no doubt that a woman of her intelligence would pre- 
 fer Switzerland, where no one knows us, to France, 
 where she would meet with censors." 
 
The Deserted Woman* 653 
 
 Certain passionate men would not like a woman 
 clever enough to clioose her ground; they belong to 
 the class of the refined. However, there is nothing 
 to show that Gaston's supposition was correct 
 
 The vicomtesse hired a little house on the shores of 
 the lake. When she was fully installed, Gaston pre- 
 sented himself one fine evening as the light was fad- 
 ing. Jacques, an essentially aristocratic footman, 
 showed no surprise on seeing M. de Nueil, and an- 
 nounced him as a servant accustomed to understand 
 things. Hearing the name, and seeing the young man 
 before her, Madame de Beausf^ant let fall the book 
 she was reading; her surprise gave Gaston the time 
 to reach her and to say in a voice that seemed to her 
 delightful. — 
 
 ** With what pleasure I took the horses that had 
 just taken you ! " 
 
 To be so well obeyed in her secret desires ! Where 
 is the woman who would not have yielded to such 
 happiness? An Italian, one of those fascinating 
 creatures whose soul is at the antipodes to that of 
 a Parisian woman, and whom, on this side of the 
 Alps, we think profoundly immoral, said one day in 
 reading a French novel : " I don't see why those poor 
 lovers spent so much time in settling what ought to 
 be the affair of an afternoon.'* Why should a nar- 
 rator not follow the example of the kind Italian, and 
 refrain from delaying his readers or his topic. There 
 would certainly be a few scenes of charming coquetry 
 to depict, sweet delays which Madame de Beauseant 
 preferred to give to Gaston's happiness, in order to 
 fall with grace like the virgins of antiquity; perhaps, 
 
654 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 too, she wished to enjoy the pleasures of inspiring a 
 first love and of leading it on to its highest expres- 
 sion of strength and power. M. de Nueil was still of 
 an age to be the dupe of these caprices, these ma- 
 noeuvres which women so delight in, and which they 
 prolong, either to stipulate for conditions or to in- 
 crease their power, the diminution of which they in- 
 stinctively divine. But these little protocols of the 
 boudoir, less numerous than those of the Conference 
 of London, hold too small a place in the history of a 
 real passion to be mentioned here. 
 
 Madame de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived for 
 three years in the villa on the lake of Geneva. They 
 lived alone, seeing no one, and causing no talk about 
 them; they sailed their boat, and were as happy as 
 we ought all to be. The little house was simple, with 
 green blinds, and wide balconies sheltered by awnings, 
 a true lover's-nest, a house of white sofas, silent car- 
 pets, fresh coverings, where all things shone with joy. 
 At each aud every window the lake took on a differ- 
 ent aspect; in the distance, the mountains with their 
 vapory, many-tinted, fugitive fantasies ; above them, 
 a beauteous sky; and, before them, that long expanse 
 of capricious, changeful water! All things seemed to 
 dream for those lovers, and all things smiled upon 
 them. 
 
 Important interests recalled M. de Nueil to France : 
 his father and brother were dead; it was necessary to 
 leave Geneva. The pair bought the little house; they 
 would have liked to cast down the mountains and 
 empty the lake by a subterranean current, in order to 
 leave nothing behind them. Madame de Beauseant 
 
The Deserted Woman* 555 
 
 followed M. de Nueil. She converted her fortune and 
 bought, near to Manerville, a considerable property 
 which adjoined the estates of M. de Nueil, and there 
 they lived together, Gaston very graciously gave up 
 to his mother the chateau and the income of the 
 domains of Manerville in return for the liberty she 
 gave him to live a bachelor. Madame de Beauseant's 
 estate was close to a little town in one of the loveliest 
 positions of the valley of the Auge. There, the two 
 lovers put between themselves and the world barriers 
 that neither social ideas nor individuals were able to 
 cross, and there they found again the happy days of 
 Switzerland. For nine whole years they enjoyed a 
 happiness it is useless to describe; the end of this 
 history will doubtless make all souls that are able to 
 comprehend it in the infinity of its expressions divine 
 its poesy and its aspiration. 
 
 Meanwhile, M. le Marquis de Beauseant (his father 
 and elder brother being dead), the husband of Madame 
 de Beauseant, was in the enjoyment of perfect health. 
 Nothing assists us so much to live as the certainty of 
 making others happy by our death. Monsieur de 
 Beauseant was one of those ironical, stubborn men 
 who, like life-annuitants, find an added pleasure to 
 that of other men in getting up well and hearty every 
 morning. Worthy man, however; a little methodical, 
 ceremonious, and sufficiently of a calculator to be able 
 to declare his love to a woman as tranquilly as a foot- 
 man announces that "Madame is served." 
 
 This little biographical notice of M. de Beauseant 
 is intended to show how impossible it was that 
 Madame de Beauseant should marry M. de Nueil. 
 
556i The Deserted Woman, 
 
 Thus, after nine years of happiness, the sweetest 
 lease a woman ever signed, M. de Nueil and Madame 
 de Beauseant were still in a position as natural and as 
 false as that in which we saw them at the beginning of 
 this affair; a fatal crisis, nevertheless, of which it is 
 impossible to give an idea, though the lines can be laid 
 down with mathematical correctness. 
 
 Madame la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, 
 had never been willing to meet Madame de Beauseant. 
 She was a person of stiff virtue, who had very legally 
 made the happiness of M. de Nueil, the father. 
 Madame de Beauseant knew perfectly well that the 
 honourable dowager was her enemy, and would surely 
 attempt to win Gaston away from his anti-religioua 
 ftnd immoral life. She would gladly have sold her 
 property and returned to Geneva. But to do so would 
 be showing distrust of M. de Nueil, and of that she 
 was incapable. Besides, he had taken a great liking 
 for the estate of Valleroy, where he was making great 
 plantations and altering the lay of the land. It would 
 be tearing him away from a species of mechanical 
 happiness which women desire for their husbands, 
 and even for their lovers. 
 
 Recently a young lady had arrived in the neighbour- 
 hood, a Mademoiselle de la Rodiere, about twenty-two 
 years of age, with a fortune of forty thousand francs 
 a year. Gaston met this heiress at Manerville every 
 time that his duty to his mother took him to the 
 house. 
 
 Having thus placed these personages like the 
 ciphers of a proposition in arithmetic before the 
 reader, the following letter, written and given one 
 
The Deserted Woman, 657 
 
 morning to Gaston, will explain the dreadful problem 
 which for over a month Madame de Beauseant had 
 been striving to solve : — 
 
 " My Beloved, — to write to you while living heart 
 to heart, when nothing parts us, when our caresses 
 serve us often in place of language — is not this a 
 contradiction? No, love. There are certain things a 
 woman cannot say face to face with her lover; the 
 mere thought of them takes away her voice, drives 
 the blood to her heart ; she is left without strength, 
 without mind. To be in this state near to you makes 
 me suffer, and I am often in it I feel that my heart 
 ought to be all truth to you ; that no thought within 
 it should be disguised to you, not even the most fugi- 
 tive; and I love this giving of all, which so becomes 
 me, too well to remain any longer restrained and silent. 
 Therefore I am going now to tell you my distress — 
 yes, it is a distress, an anguish. Listen to me! and 
 do not say that little * Ta ta ta ' with which you silence 
 my sauciness, and which I love, because all pleases 
 me from you. 
 
 *' Dear heaven-sent husband, let me tell you that you 
 have effaced all memory of the sorrows beneath the 
 weight of which I was so nearly succumbing years 
 ago. I have known love through you alone. It 
 needed the candour of your beautiful youth, the purity 
 of your great soul, to satisfy the exactions of an ex- 
 acting woman. Friend, I have often throbbed with 
 joy in thinking that during all these nine years — so 
 rapid yet so long — my jealousy has never once been 
 roused. I have had all the flowers of your soul, all 
 
658 The Deserted Woman. 
 
 your thoughts. There has never been the slightest 
 cloud upon our sky ; we have not known what a sacri- 
 fice was ; we have each obeyed the inspiration of our 
 hearts. I have enjoyed a boundless happiness for a 
 woman. The tears upon this page will tell you of 
 my gratitude. I would like to write of it on my 
 knees — 
 
 '* Well, this felicity has brought me an anguish 
 greater than was that of desertion. Dear, the heart 
 of a woman has folds within folds ; I knew not myself 
 until to-day the depth of mine, just as I knew not the 
 depth of love. The greatest sorrows that can assail 
 us are light to bear in comparison with the one 
 thought of harm to him we love. A.nd if we cause it, 
 that harm, is it not a thing to die of? 
 
 " There is the thought that oppresses me. But it 
 drags after it another that is yet more heavy; one 
 which degrades the glory of love, kills it, makes it a 
 humiliation that tarnishes our life forever. You are 
 thirty years old, and I am forty. What terrors does 
 not this difference of age inspire in a loving woman? 
 You may, first involuntarily, then consciously, have 
 felt the sacrifices you have made to me in renouncing 
 all the world for my sake. You may have thought, 
 perhaps, of your social destiny, of this marriage 
 which will so largely increase your fortune, of children 
 to whom you can transmit it, of your reappearance in 
 the world to occupy your place with honour. But 
 those thoughts you may have repressed, happy in sac- 
 rificing to me, without my knowledge, an heiress, a 
 fortune, and a noble future. In your manly gener- 
 osity you will choose to remain faithful to the oaths 
 
The Deserted Woman* 659 
 
 wliich bind us in the sight of God only. My past 
 will reappear to you, and I shall be protected by the 
 very grief from which you drew me — Shall I owe 
 your love to pity? that thought is more horrible to me 
 than even that of making your life a failure. Those 
 who stab their mistresses are more merciful when they 
 kill them happy and innocent in the glow of their 
 illusions — Yes, death is preferable to these two 
 thoughts which for some time past have saddened my 
 heart secretly. Yesterday, when you said to me so 
 tenderly: 'What is the matter?* your voice made 
 me shudder. I thought that, as usual, you read my 
 soul, and I expected your confidences, believing that 
 my presentiments were just, and divining the calcula- 
 tions of your mind. 
 
 " Then it was that I remembered certain attentions 
 which are habitual to you, but in which I believed 
 that I could trace the sort of effort by which men betray 
 that their loyalty is hard to maintain. At that 
 moment I paid dear for my past happiness; I felt 
 that the treasures of love were always sold to us. 
 And, in fact, has not fate parted us? You have surely 
 said to yourself: ' Sooner or later I must leave my 
 poor Claire; why not part from her in time?* That 
 sentence has been written in your eyes. At times I 
 have left you to go and weep elsewhere. These are 
 the first tears that grief has made me shed these ten 
 years, and I have been too proud to show them to 
 you. 
 
 '* But remember, I do not blame you. You are right; 
 I ought not to have the selfishness to bind your bril- 
 liant and long life to mine which is so nearly worn 
 
660 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 out. But, if I am wrong, if I have mistaken one of 
 your love-melancholies for a thought of separation? 
 — Ah! my angel, do not leave me in uncertainty; 
 punish your jealous wife, but give back to her the 
 consciousness of your love and hers: all of woman- 
 hood is in that prayer ; for in that sentiment alone all 
 is sanctified. 
 
 " Since your mother's arrival and since you meet 
 Mademoiselle de la Rodi^re so frequently at her house, 
 I am a prey to doubts which dishonour us. Make me 
 suffer, but do not deceive me ; I wish to know all, — 
 what your mother says and what you think. If you 
 have hesitated between anything and me I will give 
 you your liberty — I will hide my fate from you; I 
 will never weep before you; only I cannot see you 
 more — Oh! I stop, my heart is breaking. 
 
 " I have sat here gloomy and stupid for several 
 moments. Friend, I can have no pride with you, 
 you are so good, so frank ! You could not wound me, 
 you would not deceive me; you will tell me the truth, 
 however cruel it may be. Shall I help your avowal? 
 Well, then, heart of mine, I shall be comforted by one 
 thought: Shall I not have possessed the young being, 
 all grace, all beauty, all delicacy, the Gaston whom 
 no other woman can ever know, but whom I, I alone, 
 have delightfully enjoyed? — No, you will never 
 love again as you have loved me; no, I shall have no 
 rival. My memories will be without bitterness in 
 thinking of our love, which will be all my thought. 
 It is beyond your power to enchant another woman 
 with the young charms of a young heart, by those dear 
 
The Deserted Woman, 661 
 
 coquetries of the soul, those graces of the body, that 
 quick understanding of allurement — in short, by the 
 whole adorable cortege that surrounds adolescent love. 
 Ah! you are a man now; you will obey your destiny 
 by calculating everything. You will have cares, 
 anxieties, ambitions, troubles which will deprive her 
 of the constant and unalterable Bmile which was ever 
 on your lips for me. Your voice, to me so tender, 
 will oftentimes be harassed now. Your eyes, that 
 lighted with celestial gleams on seeing me, will be 
 dim to her. Then, as it is impossible to love you as 
 I love you, this woman will never please you as I 
 pleased you. She will never take that perpetual care 
 that I have taken of myself and that continual study 
 of your happiness, the intelligence of which has never 
 failed me. Yes, the man, the heart, the soul that I 
 have known will exist no more; but I shall bury them 
 in my memory to enjoy them still; I shall live happy 
 in that beautiful past life, unknowing of all that is 
 not us, 
 
 " My dear treasure, if, nevertheless, you have not 
 conceived the least desire for liberty, if my love indeed 
 is not a weight upon you, if my fears are all chimer- 
 ical, if I am still for you j^our Eve, the only woman 
 that there is in this world, come, come to me, the 
 moment you have read this letter. Ah I I will love 
 you in that one instant more than I have loved you in 
 these nine years. After having endured the useless 
 torture of these doubts, every day that is added to our 
 love, yes, every single day, will be a lifetime of hap- 
 piness. Therefore speak! be frank; do not deceive 
 me, for that would be a crime. Tell me, will yoa 
 
662 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 have your liberty? Have you reflected on the life of 
 your manhood? Have you a regret? — I, to cause 
 you a regret! oh, I should die of it! I have love 
 enough to prefer your happiness to mine, your life to 
 mine. Cast aside, if you can, the memory of our nine 
 years of bliss that you may not be influenced in your 
 decision; but speak! I am submissive to you as I 
 am to God, the one consoler that remains if you 
 desert me." 
 
 When Madame de Beauseant knew that her letter 
 was in M. de Nueil's hands she fell into such deep 
 dejection, into a meditation that was almost torpid 
 from the crowding of her overabundant thoughts, that 
 she seemed to be half asleep. Certainly she suffered 
 an anguish the intensity of which has not always 
 been proportioned to a woman's strength, and yet it is 
 only women who endure it 
 
 While she thus awaited her fate, M. de Nueil was, 
 on reading her letter, much emham^assedy the term 
 employed by all young men in a crisis of this kind. 
 He had already half yielded to the instigations of his 
 mother and the attractions of Mademoiselle de la 
 Rodiere, a rather insignificant young girl, straight as 
 a poplar, white and pink, semi-mute, according, to the 
 programme prescribed for all marriageable girls ; but 
 her forty thousand francs a year from landed property 
 were a sufficient charm, Madame de Nueil, with the 
 true affection of a mother, desired to inveigle her son 
 into virtue. She pointed out to him the flattery of 
 being preferred by Mademoiselle de la Rodiere when 
 BO many distinguished matches were offered to her; 
 
The Deserted Woman. 563 
 
 it was surely time to think of his future; such a 
 splendid opportunity might never come again; they 
 would have eighty thousand francs a year between 
 them eventually; fortune consoled for so much! If 
 Madame de Beaus^ant loved him for himself she ought 
 to be the first to advise him to marry ; — in short, this 
 good mother neglected none of the means of action 
 by which a woman influences a man's mind. She 
 had already brought her son to hesitate. Madame de 
 Beauseant's letter came at a moment when his love 
 was still debating against the seductions of a life ar- 
 ranged with propriety and in conformity with the 
 ideas of the world ; but the letter decided the struggle. 
 He resolved to part from Madame de Beauseant and 
 marry. 
 
 "One must be a man in life," he said to himself. 
 
 Then he reflected on the sufferings this resolution 
 would cause his mistress. His vanity as a man as 
 well as his conscience as a lover magnified them still 
 further; a sincere pity took possession of him. He 
 felt, all of a sudden, the immensity of the misfortune, 
 and he thought it necessary, charitable, to allay that 
 mortal wound. He hoped by careful management to 
 be able to bring Madame de Beauseant to a calmer 
 state of mind and induce her to advise this cruel mar- 
 riage, by accustoming her slowly to the idea of a ne- 
 cessary separation; keeping Mademoiselle de la 
 Rodi^re always between them as a mere phantom, 
 sacrificing her at first, that Madame de Beaust^ant 
 might impose her upon him later. In order to suc- 
 ceed in this compassionate undertaking, he went so 
 far as to count upon the nobility, the pride, the finest 
 
564 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 qualities in the soul of his mistress. He therefore 
 answered her letter in a way that he supposed would 
 lull her suspicions. 
 
 Answer her! To a woman who united to the intui- 
 tions of true love the most delicate perceptions of a 
 woman's mind an answer was condemnation to death. 
 When Jacques entered the room and advanced towards 
 Madame de Beauseant to give her a note, folded tri- 
 angularly, the poor woman trembled like a captured 
 swallow. A mysterious chill fell from her head to her 
 feet, wrapping her, as it were, in a shroud of ice. If 
 he did not rush to her, weeping, pale, a lover, all was 
 over. And yet, there is so much hope in the hearts 
 of loving women! so many stabs are needed to kill 
 them ; they love and they bleed to the last. 
 
 "Does madame need anything?" asked Jacques, 
 in a gentle voice, as he withdrew. 
 
 "No," she said. "Poor man," she thought, wiping 
 away a tear; "even he divines it, a valet! " 
 
 She read: "My Beloved, you are creating for your- 
 self chimeras — " A thick veil fell upon her eyes ; 
 the secret voice of her heart cried to her: "He lies! " 
 Then her glance seized the meaning of the whole first 
 page with that species of lucid avidity given by pas- 
 sion, and read at the bottom of it these words: 
 "Nothing has been settled." Turning the page with 
 convulsive haste she saw distinctly the intention 
 which had dictated the involved evasive phrases of 
 the letter, in which there was no longer the impetuous 
 gush of love; she crumpled it, tore it, bit it, and cast 
 it into the fire, crying out: — 
 
 *' Oh I infamy ! I was his when he did not love me I ** 
 
The Deserted Woman, 665 
 
 Then, half dead, she fell upon her sofa. 
 
 M. de Nueil went out to walk after he had written 
 and sent his letter. On his return, he found Jacques 
 at the door, who gave him a note and said : — 
 
 "Madame la marquise is not at the chateau." 
 
 Much astonished, M. de Nueil opened the envelope 
 and read : — 
 
 "Madame, if I ceased to love you and accepted the 
 chances which you propose to me of becoming an 
 ordinary man, I should deserve my fate — admit it* 
 No, I shall not obey you, and I swear to you a fidelity 
 which can be unbound by death only. Oh ! take my 
 life! — unless you fear to put remorse in yours." 
 
 It was the note he had written to Madame de Beau- 
 s^ant nine years earlier, as she started for Geneva. 
 Beneath it Claire de Bourgogne had written: "Mon- 
 sieur, you are free." 
 
 M. de Nueil removed to his mother's house at 
 Manerville. Three weeks later he married Mademoi- 
 selle Stephanie de la Rodiere. 
 
 If this history, very commonplace in its truthful- 
 ness, came to an end here it would seem a mere hoax 
 to relate it. Nearly every man has something as 
 interesting, or more so, to tell to himself. But the 
 noise made by its final conclusion, unhappily too true, 
 and all that this tale brings back in memory to the 
 hearts of those who have known the celestial delights 
 of an infinite passion which they have themselves 
 destroyed or lost by some cruel fatality, may justify 
 its recital here and shelter it from critics. 
 
B66 The Deserted Woman. 
 
 Madame de Beauseant had not left the chateau de 
 Valleroy at the time of her separation from M. de 
 Nueil. For a multitude of reasons which we must 
 leave buried in the heart of a woman (and which 
 women themselves will divine) Claire continued to 
 live there after the marriage of M. de Nueil. Her 
 seclusion was so great that even her servants, except 
 her maid and Jacques, did not see her. She exacted 
 absolute silence from all, and never left her room 
 except to go to the chapel of the chateau, where a 
 priest of the neighbourhood came every morning to 
 say mass. 
 
 Some days after his marriage the Comte de Nueil 
 fell into a species of conjugal apathy which might be 
 supposed to express happiness as much as unhappi- 
 ness. His mother said to every one: *'My son is 
 perfectly happy." 
 
 Madame Gaston de Nueil, like many young wives, 
 was rather tame, gentle, and patient; she became 
 pregnant about a month after marriage. All of which 
 conformed to the received ideas of wedlock. M. 
 de Neuil behaved to her charmingly ; only, about two 
 months after his rupture with Madame de Beauseant, 
 he became very dreamy and pensive. He had always 
 been serious, his mother said. 
 
 After seven months of this lukewarm happiness, 
 certain events occurred, very trivial apparently, but 
 bringing with them too much development of thought 
 and revealing too great a trouble of soul not to be 
 simply mentioned here and left to the Interpretations 
 of different minds. 
 
 One day, when M. de Nueil had been hunting in the 
 
The Deserted Woman, 667 
 
 woods of Manerville and Valleroy, he returned home 
 through the park of Madame de Beaus^ant and, stop- 
 ping at the house, he asked for Jacques. 
 
 *'Does Madame la marquise still like game?" he 
 asked. 
 
 On Jacques* reply in the affirmative, Gaston offered 
 him quite a large dole, accompanied by very specious 
 arguments, in order to obtain from him the very 
 slight service of keeping for madame's own use the 
 game he shot. It seemed very unimportant to Jacques 
 whether Madame la marquise ate a partridge shot by 
 her keeper or by M. de Nueil, inasmuch as the latter 
 insisted that she should noi be told from whom it 
 came. 
 
 "It was killed on her land," said the comte. 
 
 Jacques lent himself for several days to this inno- 
 cent deception. M. de Nueil went out shooting every 
 morning and did not return till dinner time, but 
 always without any game. A whole week went by. 
 Then Gaston made bold to write a long letter to 
 Madame de Beauseant and sent it to her. This letter 
 was returned to him unopened. It was evening when 
 her footman brought it back to him. Suddenly he 
 darted from the salon, where he seemed to be listening 
 to a caprice of Herold's that his wife was murdering 
 on the piano, and rushed, with the rapidity of a man 
 on his way to a rendezvous, to the chateau de Valleroy. 
 
 Reaching it, he listened to the murmuring noises 
 and knew that the servants were at dinner. He went 
 up instantly to Madame de Beauseant*s apartment, 
 which she now never left. He was able to reach the 
 door without making any noise. There he saw, by 
 
568 The Deserted Woman* 
 
 the light of two wax-candles, his former mistress, 
 emaciated, pale, seated in a large armchair, her head 
 bowed, her hands pendent, her eyes fixed on an object 
 that she seemed not to see. It was Sorrow in its 
 most complete expression. There was something of 
 vague hope in this attitude, but no one could have 
 told if Claire de Bourgogne were looking to the grave 
 or to the past. Perhaps the tears of M. de Nueil 
 glistened in the darkness, perhaps his breathing 
 echoed slightly, perhaps an involuntary shiver escaped 
 him, or it may be that his presence near her was impos- 
 sible without the phenomenon of intussusception, the 
 habit of which is the glory, the joy, and the proof of 
 veritable love. Madame de Beauseant turned her 
 face slowly to the door and saw her former lover. M. 
 de Nueil advanced a few steps. 
 
 "If you come nearer, monsieur," she cried, turning 
 pale, *'I will fling myself from that window." 
 
 She sprang to the fastening, opened it, and put her 
 foot upon the sill, her hand on the rail of the balcony, 
 as she turned her head to Gaston. 
 
 *'Go! go! " she cried, "or I throw myself down." 
 
 At that terrible cry, M. de Nueil, hearing the ser- 
 vants, who were roused, fled like a criminal. 
 
 Returning home Gaston wrote a short letter, and 
 ordered his valet to take it to Madame de Beauseant 
 and tell her it was a matter of life and death. The 
 messenger gone, M. de Nueil returned to the salon 
 where his wife was still at the piano. He sat down 
 and awaited the answer. An hour later, husband and 
 wife were seated, silent, on either side of the fireplace 
 when the v.alet returned from Valleroy and handed his 
 
The Deserted Woman, 569 
 
 master the letter, which had not been opened. M. de 
 Nueil passed into a boudoir adjoining the salon, where 
 he had left his gun on returning from the woods that 
 afternoon, and killed himself. 
 
 This quick and fatal conclusion of his fate, so con- 
 trary to all the habits of young France, was natural. 
 
 Persons who have carefully observed, or who have 
 delightfully experienced the phenomena to which the 
 perfect union of two beings gives rise, will compre- 
 hend this suicide. A woman does not mould herself, 
 does not bend herself in a single day to the caprices 
 of passion. Love, like a rare flower, demands the 
 choicest care of cultivation; time and the harmonizing 
 of souls alone can reveal its resources, and give birth 
 to those tender, delicate pleasures which we think 
 inherent in the person whose heart bestows them upon 
 us, and about which we cherish a thousand supersti- 
 tions. This wonderful unison, this religious belief, 
 and the fruitful certainty of ever finding a special and 
 extreme happiness near the being beloved, are, in 
 part, the secret of lasting attachments and long pas- 
 sions. Beside a woman who possesses the genius of 
 her sex love is never a habit; her adorable tenderness 
 clothes it in forms so varied, she is so brilliant and 
 so loving, both, she puts such art into her nature, 
 or so much of nature into her art, that she makes her- 
 self as all-powerful in memory as she is by her pres- 
 ence. Beside her all other women pale. A man must 
 have had the fear of losing a love so vast, so brilliant, 
 or else he must have lost it, to know its full value. 
 But if, having known it, a man deprives himself of it 
 to fall into a cold marriage ; if the woman in whom he 
 
670 The Deserted Woman, 
 
 expects to meet with the same felicity proves to him, 
 by some of those facts buried in the shadows of con- 
 jugal life, that it can never be reborn for him ; if he 
 still has upon his lips the taste of that celestial love, 
 and if he has mortally wounded his true spouse for the 
 sake of a social chimera, then he must either die or 
 take to him that material, cold, selfish philosophy 
 which is the horror of all passionate souls. 
 
 As for Madame de Beauseant, she doubtless never 
 supposed that her lover's despair would go as far as 
 suicide after having drunk so deep of love for nine 
 years. Perhaps she thought that she alone would 
 suffer. She had, moreover, every right to refuse the 
 most degrading joint-possession that exists; a shar- 
 ing which some wives may endure for high social 
 reasons, but which a mistress must hold in hatred, 
 because in the purity of her love lies its only 
 justification. 
 
THE COMEDIE HUMAINE OF 
 HONORB DE BALZAC 
 
 CENTENJRT 
 EDITION 
 
 Translated by Katharine Prescott 
 VVoRMELEY. Centenary Edition. Illus- 
 trated with nearly loo Photogravure plates 
 by French artists, including : Wagrez, 
 Jeanniot, Georges Cain, Adrien Moreau, 
 
 George Roux, Desrousseaux, Girardet, Maximilienne Guyon, Albert 
 
 Fouri^, Jules Muenier, Gustave Bourgain, Duez, Outin, and others. 
 
 Complete in 34 vols. i2mo, cloth, gilt top. Price per volume, $1.50. 
 
 The set, 34 vols., in half crushed morocco, gilt top, $110.50. 
 
 I. PfeRE GORIOT. 
 
 II. Two Young Married Women, etc. 
 
 III. Fame and Sorrow, and Other Stories. 
 
 IV. Modeste Mignon, and A Daughter of Eva, 
 V. A Start in Life, and Other Stories. 
 
 VI. BEATRIX, and a Commission in Lunacy. 
 VII. Eugenie Grandet, and Pierrette. 
 VIII. The Two Brothers, and An Old Maid. 
 IX. The Lily of the Valley, and A Gallery of Antiqvitib& 
 X. Ursuia, and The Vicar of Tours. 
 XI. Lost Illusions, and The Illustrious Gaudissart. 
 XII. The Great Man of the Provinces in Paris. 
 
 XIII. Lucien de Rubempr6, and Duchesse de Langbais. 
 
 XIV. Last Incarnation of Vautrin, Ferragus, and GobsscK* 
 
 XV. C6SAR BiROTTEAU, AND OTHER STORIES, 
 
 XVI. Bureaucracy, and Other Stories. 
 XVII. The Lesser Bourgeoisie. 
 XVIIL Cousin Bette. 
 XIX. Cousin Pons. 
 
 XX. The Chouans, and A Passion in the Desert. 
 XXI. An Historical Mystery, etc. 
 
 XXII. The Brotherhood of Consolation, and Z. Makcai. 
 
 XXIIL The Deputy of Arcis, 
 
 XXIV. The Country Doctor. 
 
 XXV. The Village Rector. 
 
 XXVI. Sons of the Soil. 
 
 XXVII. Catharine de' Medicl 
 
 KXVIII. The Magic Skin, and The Hidden Masterpiece. 
 XXIX. Louis Lambert, and Other Stories. 
 XXX. Sebaphita, and The Alkahest. 
 XXXI. Juana, and Other Stories. 
 XXXII. Memoir of Balzac. 
 
 XXXIII. Personal Opinions of Balzac. 
 
 XXXIV. Le'i-ters to Madame Hanska. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND CO., Publishers, BOSTON, 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE "^o RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DAT^^^' ^^^ PENALTY 
 NCREASE TQ^-b,./' „P°^J^E FOURTH 
 .NO^:^>^^-^ "^"^ SEVENTH Dav 
 
YB 5452 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY 
 
 r\