A N T O N I A 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 Copyright, 1898^ 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 University Press: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S. A 
 
©etrtcatiom 
 
 nno M. EDOUARD RODRIGUES, the father of the 
 
 fatherless, and friend of the friendless; who does 
 
 good for its own sake, with the same simplicity, the same 
 
 freedom and readiness, with which he interprets Mozart and 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 226393 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/antoniaaOOsandrich 
 
>• • • •, 
 ' • • J» • » 
 
 •••.♦%••• .• 
 
' ' On the next, night they met in the groves of 
 the gardens^ 
 
 stud! 
 
r 
 
ANT ONI A. 
 
 TT was the month of April, in the year I785y in Paris ; 
 "■- the spring that year was a genuine spring. The gar- 
 dens were in holiday dress, the grass was enamelled with 
 daisies, the birds were singing, and the lilacs were grow- 
 ing in such profusion near Julien*s window, that their full- 
 blown thyrsi bent over into his very room, and scattered 
 tlieir little flowerets over the great white squares of the 
 floor of his studio. 
 
 Julien Thierry was a flowertpainter, like his father, 
 Andre Thierry, who had been very famous in the time 
 of Louis XV. as a decorator of friezes, panels of dining- 
 rooms, and ceilings of boudoirs. In his skilful hands 
 these graceful ornaments became real works of art ; so 
 much so, indeed, that he ceased to be an artisan, and 
 gained a great reputation as an artist ; he was highly 
 esteemed by persons of taste, his work commanded great 
 prices, and he was a person of consideration in society. 
 Julien, his pupil, devoted himself to painting upon canvas. 
 In his generation, the light and charming decorations 
 in the Pompadour style had ceased to be fashion- 
 able. The severer taste of the Louis XVI. era no longer 
 scattered flowers over ceilings and walls, it framed them. 
 Julien, therefore, painted flowers, fruits, pearl-shells, 
 brilliant butterflies, green lizards, and drops of dew, in 
 the manner of Mignon. He had a great deal of talent, 
 he was handsome, he was twenty-four years old, and his 
 father had left him nothing but debts. 
 
 The widow of Andre Thierry was with Julien, in this 
 studio where he was at work, and where the bunches of 
 
lilac were being despoiled by the caresses of the \^ arm 
 breeze. Although a woman of sixty, she was well pre- 
 served : her eyes were still beautiful ; her hair was almost 
 black, and her hands were delicate. Small, slender, 
 fair, and dressed with exquisite neatness, although with 
 extreme simplicity, ^i\e was knitting, and every now 
 and then looked up at her son, absorbed in studying a rose. 
 
 *' Julien," she said, "why is it that you do not sing 
 any longer at your work? You might, perhaps, per- 
 suade the nightingale to let us hear its voice." 
 
 "Listen, mother, he is beginning now of his own ac- 
 cord," replied Julien ; " he does not require a leader." 
 
 In fact, the nightingale, for the first time in the year, 
 began at this very moment to pour forth his pure and re- 
 sounding notes. 
 
 " Ah ! it is really singing ! " cried Madam Thierry. 
 "A year has gone by. Do you see it, Julien ? " she 
 added, as the young man, interrupting his work, gazed 
 into the thick grove before the window. 
 
 " I thought that I saw her," he replied, with a sigh ; 
 " but I was mistaken." 
 
 He returned to his easel. His mother looked at him 
 anxiously, but asked no further questions. 
 
 " It is the same thing," she continued, after a pause, 
 "you have a beautiful voice also, and I love to hear the 
 pretty songs that your poor father sang so well — only a 
 year ago, at this time ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Julien, "you want me to sing his songs, 
 and then you weep. No, I will not sing them." 
 
 " I will not shed a tear, I promise you ! Sing me 
 sortiething gay, and I will laugh — as if he were here.'* 
 
 " No, do not ask me, mother ! It pains me as well as 
 you to hear those songs. Give me a little time. Let all 
 come about gently. Do not let us do violence to our sor- 
 row." 
 
 " Julien, you must not talk of sorrow any longer," 
 said the mother firmly, although in an agitated voice. 
 " I was weak at first, but you will pardon me ! It was 
 no light blow to lose forty years of happiness in a single 
 day ! But I should have remembered that your loss was 
 
ANTONIA. J 
 
 greater than mine, for you remain to me ; — while I — T 
 am good for nothing excepting to love you." 
 
 "And what more do I require?" said Julien, kneeling 
 at his mother's side. *' I know that you love me as no 
 one ever will love me. And do not say that you have 
 been weak. You have buried your sorrows in your own 
 heart as well as you could ; I have seen and understood 
 all your struggles, and I thank you for them, my poor 
 mother ! You have given me strength, and 1 have 
 needed your support, for I have had to suffer for you as 
 well as myself. Your courage gave me faith that God 
 would perform a miracle in my favor ; that He would 
 preserve your health and life in spite of the most cruel 
 trials ; and He has granted me this reward. You do not 
 feel ill now, do you, mother?" 
 
 " No, my child, I am really well ! You are right 
 in thinking that God will sustain those who are true to 
 themselves ; that He will give strength to those who pray 
 for it with their whole hearts. Do not think that I am 
 wretched ! I have wept a great deal, — how could I do 
 otherwise? He was so good, so amiable, so happy! 
 It seemed as if he had still many years to live. God 
 decreed otherwise. For my part, I have had so much 
 happiness in my life, that I had really no right to expect 
 anything more. And God was merciful, even while 
 afflicting me, for He has left me the best, the most be- 
 loved of sons ! What right have I, then, to weep, and 
 pray for death ? No, no ; I will rejoin your good father 
 when my hour comes, and when we meet he will say, 
 ' You have done well to live, to linger in yonder lower 
 world, for the sake of our well-beloved child.' " 
 
 "You see, then," said Julien, embracing his mother, 
 " that we are neither of us unhappy any longer, and 
 that it is not necessary for me to sing for our amuse- 
 ment. We can think of hinn without bitterness ; we can 
 cherish each other without selfishness." 
 
 Madam Thierry folded her sou to her heart for a 
 moment, and they resumed their diiferent occupations. 
 
 This scene occurred in an old pavilion, dating back to 
 the reign of Louis XIH., that stood at the end of the 
 
4 ANTONIA. 
 
 me de Babylone. The most modem building on this street, 
 and the one nearest to the pavilion, was a house now 
 demolished, which was then called the hotel d'Estrelle. 
 
 At the same time that Julien and his mother were 
 talking in the pavilion, two persons were chatting to- 
 gether in a pretty little saloon of the hotel d'Estrelle, — 
 a fresh, cosy drawing-room decorated in the taste of the 
 latter part of the reign of Louis XVI., — that is, a 
 graceful, bastard Greek style, a little cold in the lines, 
 but harmonious, and enriched with gilding on a white 
 and pearl ground. The Countess d'Estrelle was dressed 
 simply in a half-mourning gray silk ; the Baroness 
 d' Ancourt, her friend, was in demi-toilette, — a costume 
 adapted for informal visits ; that is to say, making a 
 great display of muslins, ribbons, and laces. 
 
 " My dear friend," she said to the countess, " I do not 
 understand you at all. You are twenty years old, beau- 
 tiful as an angel, and yet you persist in living alone, like 
 an insignificant bourgeoise. Your two years of mourning 
 have expired, and every one knows you had no occasion 
 to regret your husband ; no man ever lived who so little 
 deserved regret. He was considerate enough to leave 
 you a fortune, and that really was the only sensible act of 
 his life." 
 
 " Upon that point, dear baroness, you are utterly mis- 
 taken. The count left me a fortune, it is true, but it was 
 encumbered with debts. Assured that I might liberate it 
 in a few years by making certain sacrifices, and enduring 
 certain privations, I accepted the inheritance without 
 close examination ; and now, after two years of uncer- 
 tainty, — after endless explanations that I have never 
 understood at all, — my new lawyer, — who is a very 
 honest man, — assures me that I have been deceived, and 
 am poor instead of being rich. It was upon this subject, 
 ifiy dear, that I was consulting with my lawyer this morn- 
 ing, in order to decide whether or not I can keep the 
 hotel d'Estrelle." 
 
 " What ! sell your hotel ! Impossible, my dear I 
 It would be a disgrace to the memory of your husband. 
 His family would never allow it." 
 
ANTONIA. 5 
 
 " They say they will not allow it ; but they say also 
 that they will not help me in any way. What do they 
 expect, and what would you have me do ? " 
 
 " They are a contemptible set, that family," cried the 
 baroness ; " but nothing would surprise me on the part 
 of the old marquis and his bigot of a wife." 
 
 At this momentjktj^arcel Thierry was announced. 
 
 " Show him in," saidtEe"coiitttess ; and, turning to the 
 baroness, she added, "it is the person of whom I was 
 just speaking, — my lawyer." 
 
 *' In that case I will go." 
 
 " That is by no means necessary. He will only have a 
 few words to say ; and, since you know my position — " 
 
 " You will allow me to remain. I thank you with all 
 my heart, for I am interested in all that concerns you." 
 
 The lawyer entered. 
 
 He was a fine-looking man, apparently forty years old, 
 and unusually bald for that age ; his face was frank, 
 cheerful and serene, although he had a remarkably pen- 
 etrating, and even scornful expression. His professional 
 experiences had made him practical, and perhaps scep- 
 tical ; but it was evident that they had not destroyed his 
 ideal of integrity and honor ; perhaps they had only made 
 him the better able to appreciate and recognize that ideal. 
 
 " Ah, well. Monsieur Thierry," said the countess, 
 pointing to a chair, "have you heard any news since 
 morning, that you take the trouble to return ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam," replied the lawyer ; " M. the Marquis 
 d'Estrelle has sent his business agent to me with an offer 
 that 1 only await your permission to accept. He proposes 
 to come to your assistance by relinquishing in your favor 
 certain small pieces of property, not of sufficient value 
 to cover the debts that harass you, but which will re- 
 lieve you for the moment, and delay the sale of your 
 hotel, by enabling you to pay something upon account to 
 }our creditors." 
 
 "Upon account! Is that all?" cried the baroness, 
 indignantly. " Is that all the family d'Estrelle can do 
 for the wife of a prodigal ? It is perfectly infamous ! " 
 
 **It is certainly not magnanimous," replied Marcel 
 
6 ANTONIA, 
 
 Thierry, " but I have exerted my eloquence in vain, and so 
 the matter stands. As Madam d'Estrelle has no fortune 
 of her own, she is obliged, in order to retain a very mod- 
 erate dowry, to submit to the conditions of a family who 
 possess neither delicacy nor generosity." 
 
 " Say who possess neither heart nor honor," replied 
 the baroness, rhetorically. 
 
 " Say nothing at all," said the countess, who spoke at 
 last, after listening with resignation to all that had been 
 said. " These people are what they are, and I am not 
 the one to judge them, I who bear their name. We are 
 strangers in all other respects, and I have no excuse for 
 complaining, for it is I alone who am guilty." 
 
 " Guilty ! " said the baroness, rolling back in her arm- 
 chair in her surprise. 
 
 " Guilty ! " repeated the lawyer, with a smile of in- 
 credulity. 
 
 " Yes," repeated Madam d'Estrelle, " I have com- 
 mitted one great fault in my life : I consented to marry 
 a man to whom I felt an instinctive aversion. It was 
 cowardly. I was a child, and was compelled to choose 
 between a convent and a disagreeable husband. Afraid 
 of the eternal seclusion of the cloister, I accepted in- 
 stead the eternal humiliation of an uncongenial mar- 
 riage. Like so many others, I thought that wealth would 
 take the place of happiness. Happiness! I do not 
 know, I have never known what it was. I was taught 
 to believe that it consisted, above all things, in riding in 
 a carriage, wearing diamonds, and having a box at the 
 opera. I was bewildered, intoxicated, lulled to sleep 
 with presents. I will not say that I was forced to give 
 my hand, for it would not be true. Gratings, bars, bolts, 
 the life-long prison of the convent awaited me, in case I 
 had refused ; but not the axe of the executioner ; and, if 
 I had been brave, I might have said No, We women 
 have no courage, dear baroness, we may as well acknowl- 
 edge it ; we are not strong enough bravely to sacrifice 
 ourselves ; to hide the spring-time of our youth under 
 the black veil ; and yet it would be prouder, nobler, and 
 perhaps sweeter to do this than to let ourselves fall inta 
 
ANTONIA. 7 
 
 tlie arms of the first stranger who is presented to us. I 
 was cowardly then, vain, self-forgetful ; I committed this 
 error, this folly, this crime, in a word ! It shall never 
 be repeated, but I cannot forget that I deserve my pun- 
 ishment. Misled by a frivolous ambition, I threw i>iy. 
 life away, and now I see how deceived I was ; I am not 
 even rich. I must sell my diamonds, aud soon, perhaps, 
 shall be forced to abandon the very house that bears my 
 coat of arms. This is right, — I feel, I recognize tho 
 justice of my fate ; I repent, but I do not wish to be 
 pitied, and I shall accept without discussion the alms 
 which the parents of my husband, in order to save his 
 honor, choose to bestow upon me." 
 
 When Julie d'Estrelle paused, perfect silence pre- 
 vailed, for her auditors were surprised and moved. She 
 had taken no pains to conceal her grief. Weary of the 
 discussion of her material interests, she seemed irresist- 
 ibly impelled to pour forth her spiritual life, and seek the 
 philosophical explanation of her position. The haughty 
 Amelie d'Ancourt was shocked, rather than touched, by 
 "ner~cb»fcssion, condemning, as it did, her own ideas and 
 tlie habits of her class ; she thought her friend imprudent, 
 moreover, in speaking so freely in the presence of an in- 
 significant lawyer. 
 
 As for the lawyer, he was really moved, but he had 
 been accustomed to similar scenes. He knew how fre- 
 quently people (even those in the highest rank) forget 
 conventionalities when carried away by emotion, and he 
 gave no expression to his sympathy. 
 
 " My beautiful client," he said to himself, " is a sweet 
 and sincere woman, but she is right in blaming herself; 
 when any one has resolved to say wo, there is no human 
 law that can force them to say yes. Like the rest of her 
 class, she allowed herself to be betrayed into sin by a 
 passion for shining toys, but she confesses her error 
 sadly, and, in so far, is superior to most of her compan- 
 ions. It is not my duty to console her ; I will confine 
 myself to saving her — if that is possible." 
 
 •' Madam," he said, after making these reflections, 
 '• your prospects are brigliter now than they have been. 
 
8 ANTONIA. 
 
 The marquis will not consent to make you independent, 
 perhaps, but he will not let you suiFer. The small pres- 
 ent that he has just offered you is not the last ; I have 
 been given to understand this, and I am sure of what I 
 isay. Let his son's creditors threaten you again in the 
 course of a few months, and he will again put his hand 
 into his pocket, to prevent the sale of your hotel. For- 
 get these bickerings, therefore ; do not think of moving ; 
 trust to time and circumstances." 
 
 '' That is all very well, monsieur," said the baroness, 
 who was longing to put in her word and display her 
 aristocratic pride. " Your advice is excellent, but if I 
 were the countess I would not follow it. I would refuse 
 outright these contemptible little charities ! Yes, I 
 would blush to accept them. I would go proudly to live 
 in a convent, or, still better, with one of my friends, — the 
 Baroness d'Ancourt, for instance, — and I would say to 
 the marquis and marchioness, * Arrange matters as you 
 choose ; sell my property. These debts are not of my 
 contracting, and I shall not distress myself about the 
 debts of your son. Pay them with the fragments of the 
 fortune that he left me, and, if you dare, allow the world 
 to behold the spectacle of my destitution.* That is what 
 I would do, my dear Julie ; the second marriage of the 
 marquis has made him rich, and, I answer for it, that 
 the fear of scandal would force him to pursue a different 
 course." 
 
 ''Will the Countess d'Estrelle follow this advice?" 
 said the lawyer. " Shall I break off negotiations ?" 
 
 " No," said the countess ; " tell me at once what my 
 father-in-law's present is ; whatever it may be, I shall 
 accept it." 
 
 " It consists," replied Marcel Thierry, " of a small 
 farm in Beauvoisis, worth about twenty thousand francs, 
 and a pavilion, old, but not dilapidated, situated in this 
 Btreet,^at the end of the garden of your hotel." 
 
 " Ah, that old pavilion of Richelieu's era," said the 
 countess, carelessly. 
 
 " A hovel," said the baroness ; " good for nothing but 
 to be torn down." 
 
ANTONIA. 9 
 
 " That is possible," replied Thierry, "but the land is 
 valuable ; the street is being built up, and it can eapily 
 be sold for the site of a building." 
 
 " Do you think I would allow a building to be erected 
 so near nie," said Julie ; " a house overlooking my gar- 
 den, and almost my apartments?" 
 
 " You would have to require the house to turn its 
 back to you ; there need be no windows except on the 
 street, or overlooking my uncle's garden." 
 
 "Who? Your uncle?" said the baroness, disdain- 
 fully. 
 
 " M. Marcel Thierry," said the countess, " is the near 
 relative of my neighbor, the rich M. Antoine Thierry, 
 whom you must certainly have heard spoken of." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; an old merchant." 
 
 " Ship-owner," said Marcel ; " he made his fortune 
 in the Colonies, without ever putting his foot into a vessel ; 
 thanks to his skilful calculations, and to fortunate cir- 
 cumstances, he has gained several millions by his fire- 
 side, as you may say." 
 
 " Present my compliments to him," replied the baroness. 
 "And so he lives in this street? " 
 
 " His hotel fronts upon the new street, but there is only 
 a wall between his garden and that of the Countess 
 d'Estrelle ; the pavilion is in a corner between the two 
 estates. My uncle, I dare say, will be glad to purchase 
 this pavilion ; it will always be useful to him, whether he 
 tears it down to make room for his garden, or turns it 
 into a greenhouse or gardener's lodge." 
 
 " The rich M. Thierry then desires this pavilion," said 
 the baroness ; " perhaps he has already conmiissioned 
 you — " 
 
 "He has given me no commission at all," replied 
 Marcel, interrupting her, with dignity; "he knows 
 nothing about the affairs of my other clients." 
 
 " You are his lawyer, then, also ? " 
 
 " Naturally, madam ; but that would not prevent me 
 from asking the highest possible price, if the countess 
 chooses to sell ; nor wrould he owe me any grudge upon 
 that account. He understands business too well not to 
 
lO ANTONIA. 
 
 know the value of a piece of real estate that he wishes 
 to own." 
 
 " But I have not yet decided to sell the pavilion," said 
 the countess, starting from a vague reverie ; " it does not 
 trouble me in any way, and I understand that it is occu- 
 pied by a very quiet and deserving person." 
 
 " Yes, madam," said Marcel, '' but the rent is so small 
 that it will add but little to your income. However, if 
 you choose to keep it, it will be useful as security for one 
 of your debts." 
 
 " We will see about it, M. Thierry. I will think the 
 matter over, and you will give me your advice. How 
 much is the property that the marquis has given me 
 worth?" 
 
 " About thirty thousand francs." 
 
 "Ought I to thank him for it?" 
 
 '' If I were you I would do nothing of the kind," cried 
 the baroness. 
 
 " Thank him by all means," said the lawyer, in a low 
 voice; "'a word of gratitude, expressed with gentle- 
 ness and resignation, can do no harm, and it will cost a 
 heart like yours nothing." 
 
 The countess wrote a few lines, and gave them to 
 Marcel. 
 
 " Let us hope," he said, rising, " that the Marquis 
 d'Estrelle will be touched by your goodness." 
 
 " He is not a bad man," replied Julie, " but he is very 
 old and very feeble, and his second wife governs him 
 completely." 
 
 " That ex-Madam d'Orlande is a veritable pest," cried 
 the baroness. 
 
 " You should not say anything against her, madam," 
 replied Marcel ; " she belongs to your world, and holds 
 opinions which you accept as the law and the prophets." 
 
 " How so, Mr. Lawyer?" 
 
 " She detests new ideas, and regards the privileges of 
 rank as the holy arc of tradition." 
 
 " Do not insult me by comparing me with that woman," 
 said the baroness ; " her ideas may be correct, but her 
 
ANTONIA. II 
 
 conduct is abominable. She is avaricious, and it is said 
 would even betray her opinions for money." 
 
 " Oh, in that case," said Marcel, with a dubious smile, 
 which Madame d'Aucourt considered an expression of 
 homage, '' I can understand that you, madam, must re- 
 gard her witli profound aversion." 
 
 He bowed and withdrew. 
 
 " That is quite a well-bred man ! " said the baroness, 
 noticing the dignity and ease with which he left the room. 
 '* Is his name Thierry ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and that also of his wealthy uncle, and of still 
 another uncle, who had a far more desirable reputation : 
 Thierry, the flower-painter." 
 
 "Ah ! The painter? I came very near knowing that 
 worthy Thierry myself. My husband received him in the 
 morning." 
 
 " He was received by every one at all hours, my dear 
 child, — at least by all persons of taste and mind ; for he 
 was a charming old man, perfectly well-bred, and re- 
 markably agreeable." 
 
 "It seems, then, that the Baron d'Ancourt is not a 
 person of mind and taste, for he would not invite him — " 
 
 " I did not say that the baron — " 
 
 " Oh, say so, say so, if you choose ; it is the same 
 thing to me ; I have known him longer than you.'* 
 
 The baroness had a sovereign disdain for the intellect 
 of her husband, but she pardoned his stupidity in con- 
 sideration of his rank ; and, with this two-edged reply, 
 she burst into a fresh, joyous peal of laughter. 
 
 " Let us return to our conversation about these Thier- 
 rys," she said. " Were you acquainted with the artist? " 
 
 " No, I did not have that pleasure. You know that 
 the Count d'Estrelle was taken ill soon after our mar- 
 riage, and I accompanied him to the baths ; he sank 
 into a rapid decline, and the end of the matter was that 
 I did not see any one." » 
 
 " No wonder that you know nothing about the world, 
 since you have never caught even a glimpse of it. Poor 
 little thing ! After sacrificing yourself to make a bril- 
 liant marriage, what a life you have led ! Nursing a 
 
*2 ANTON I A. 
 
 dying man, wearing mourning, and the bother of busi* 
 nuss. We must put a stop to this sort of thing, dear 
 Julie ; you must marry again ! " 
 
 " Ah, Heaven forbid ! " cried the countess. 
 
 " You don't propose to live alone, and bury yourself 
 alive, at your age ? Impossible ! " 
 
 " I cannot tell you what I propose to do, for I really 
 do not know. My life has been so different from that of 
 most young women, to whom marriage brings wealth and 
 liberty, that I do not know my own tastes. I know, how- 
 ever, that I was miserable during the two years of my 
 married life, and that I should be happier in my present 
 position than ever before, were it not for these pecuniary 
 embarrassments, which annoy me exceedingly, although 
 I try to endure them without bitterness. My mind is not 
 brilliant, and my character, perhaps, lacks the necessary 
 elasticity to enable me to rebound from misfortune. 
 Obliged to occupy myself to pass away the time, I have 
 acquired a taste for serious amusements. I read a great 
 deal, draw a little, study music, and write letters to my 
 old convent friends. I am acquainted with a few quiet, 
 but excellent people, who are my only visitors, and my life 
 is calm and well regulated. I am not unhappy, and do not 
 suffer from ennui, and that is saying a great deal for a 
 person who at one time was always weeping or yawning. 
 Do not, therefore, my dear friend, seek to disturb the 
 placid monotony of my existence. Come and see me 
 when you can, without interfering with your pleasures ; 
 but do not feel anxious about me, for I am really very 
 comfortable." 
 
 " That is all very well for the moment, my dear. You 
 show yourself to be a woman of character, by meeting bad 
 fortune courageously. But there is a time for everything ; 
 you must not forget the advantages that youth and beauty 
 procure, and allow them to escape you. Your family, — - 
 you will excuse me for saying so, — was not very good; 
 but you derived a distinguished name, at least, from your 
 melancholy marriage, and a title that elevates you in the 
 consideration of the world. You are a widow, and there- 
 fore independent ; you have no children, and therefore 
 
ANTONIA. II 
 
 retain all the charm of your youth. You have no fortune 
 of your own ; but, as your dowry is incumbered with 
 debts, you can very well afford to renounce it and seek a 
 better match than your first one. Trust yourself to mc, 
 and I will find you a suitable husband ; I will agree to 
 arrange the sort of marriage that you have a perfect right 
 to look forward to." 
 
 " The sort of marriage ! What do you mean? I do 
 not understand you." 
 
 " I mean that you are too charming not to be married 
 for love." 
 
 "All very well; but I — , shall I be able to love the 
 person to whom you refer ? " 
 
 " Why not ; if he is really a man of wealth, and, 
 above all, of good family — it would be unpardonable in 
 you to marry below your present rank — instead of being 
 a spendthrift and a fool ? I will take care to select such 
 a person, and, moreover a man of honor, with experience, 
 knowledge of the world, and cultivated tastes ; what can 
 you ask more? You will not require, I presume, a 
 youthful Adonis, — a hero of romance ! Such brilliant 
 personages are not often to be met with ; and, when we 
 do see them, they are the last ones, as a usual thing, 
 inclined to select a bride for her beautiful eyes. Every 
 one, in this age, is more or less embarrassed." 
 
 " I understand you," replied Madam d'Estrelle, with 
 a sad smile ; " you would like me to marry some worthy 
 old gentleman whom you know and esteem, — for I don't 
 suppose you would ask me to accept a monster. Thanks, 
 my dear baroness, but I do not intend to hire myself out 
 again to a sick man for large fees, and, in plain terms, 
 this is what you want me to do. If my father were alive, 
 I would devote myself to him joyfully ; I would tend and 
 nurse an aged friend without repining, but never again 
 will I submit to be the slave of an infirm and morose 
 tyrant. I fulfilled my sad duties to M. d'Estrelle con- 
 scientiously, and every one gave me credit for my conduct, 
 but I shall not resign my present freedom. Although my 
 parents are no longer living, I have a few friends, and am 
 contented in their society. I ask nothing more, and I beg 
 
H 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 you, most earnestly, not to try and make me happy fto 
 cording to an idea of happiness which I do not share. 
 You are still, my friend, what I was at sixteen years old, 
 when I married. Retaining the illusions that had been 
 instilled into me, — imagining that people cannot live with- 
 out wealth and display, — you are younger than I, So 
 much the better for you, since you have married a man 
 who allows you to gratify all your tastes. You ask noth- 
 ing more — is it not so ? For my part I am more exact- 
 ing. I desire to love. You laugh ! Oh yes ! I know 
 your theories ! ' The honey-moon is short ' ; you have 
 told me so a hundred times ; ' the golden moon is the only 
 one that never fades.* Very well ; if this is so, I am so 
 foolish as to say that I still wish to love and to believe ; — 
 if only for a single day, the first day of my marriage ! 
 Without this, I know by experience that marriage is a 
 shame and a martyrdom." 
 
 "•If you feel so," said the baroness, rising, " I will 
 leave you, my sweet creature, to your reveries, and hum- 
 bly beg your pardon for having interrupted them." 
 
 She went away very much wounded ; for, although 
 frivolous, she was not without penetration ; and she felt 
 that the gentle Julie, in this flash of rebellion, had spoken 
 the truth. However, she was not vindictive, and after 
 an hour had forgotten her anger. She even felt a little 
 sad ; and at moments was ready to say, — 
 
 *' Julie is right, perhaps." 
 
 As for Julie, her courage abandoned her as soon as she 
 was left alone ; her pride melted into tears. She was only 
 strong in moments of nervous excitement, under the stim- 
 ulus, perhaps, of a more intense longing for affection than 
 she acknowledged to herself. She was naturally gentle, 
 and even timorous. She knew that the baroness had a 
 good heart, and did not fear a rupture with her ; but she 
 said in her turn, — 
 
 " Amelie is right, perhaps ! I am asking an impossi- 
 bility ; the advantages of wealth and rank, and love as 
 well ! Who obtains them all ? No one in my position ! 
 While longing for the highest happiness, I shall, perhaps, 
 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 15 
 
 lose everything ; — condemn myself to the worst fate of 
 all, — isolation and melancholy." 
 
 She took her parasol, — one of those old-fashioned, 
 white, flat parasols, that produced a much prettier effect 
 in green groves than our modern mushrooms, — and 
 wandered pensively into her garden. The heels of her 
 little slippers patted the green turf, her dress was tucked 
 up gracefully over her straight under-skirt ; she wandered 
 amid the lilacs, breathing the spring air with a silent 
 agony, trembling at the voice of the nightingale, think- 
 ing of no one, and yet carried beyond herself by an im- 
 mense yearning. 
 
 From lilac-bed to lilac-bed she walked slowly on, until 
 she approached the pavilion, where Julien Thierry , the 
 son of the painter, the nephew of the rich man, and the 
 cousin of the lawyer, whoiST the rcadot^ -^droady knows, 
 hacTbeeir^at work »»-hour before. Madam d'Estrelle's 
 garden was unusually large and beautiful for a garden in 
 Paris ; the vegetation was rich, and it was laid out with 
 great taste. Every day she walked through it several 
 times, lingering amid the groves, and gazing sadly but 
 tenderly upon the flowers with which the turf was sown. 
 She did not turn aside on approaching the Louis XIII. 
 pavilion, or feel any anxiety about being observed, — for 
 this pavilion had been unoccupied for a long time. Julien 
 and his mother had been living there only for a month. 
 Madame d'Estrelle had complained to Marcel Thierry 
 that her father-in-law, rather than lose the rent of such a 
 small building, had let it to strange tenants. Marcel in- 
 formed lier that the new occupant was the widow of his 
 uncle, the artist, — a most worthy and respectable woman, 
 — and she had been completely reassured by this intelli- 
 gence. He did not mention Julien. The countess did 
 not know, perhaps, that the painter had had a son. At 
 all events, she had not thought of inquiring about him. 
 She liad never seen him at the windows, for two reasons : 
 in the first place she was near-sighted, and the young 
 women of that period did not use eye-glasses ; in the sec- 
 ond place, Julien, knowing that he was in the neighbor- 
 bood of a person of austere manners, had taken great 
 
l6 ANTONIA. 
 
 pains to keep out of sight. At the windows of the upper 
 ptory Madam d'Estrelle had sometimes noticed a hidy 
 with a noble and delicate face, framed in a white cap, who 
 had bowed to her with polite reserve. She had returned 
 the salutation of the peaceful widow frankly and respect- 
 fully, but they had never exchanged a word. 
 
 To-day the windows on the ground-floor were half- 
 open, and Julie, seeing this, asked herself, for the first 
 time, why she had never entered into friendly relations 
 with Madam Thierry. She looked at the front of the 
 little building, and saw that the door opening into the 
 bottom of her garden was locked without, as it had been 
 before ihc pavilion was occupied. Madam ThieiTy had 
 bat a poor prospect ; the hotel, and greater part of the 
 lawn, were in a great measure concealed by the grove in 
 front of the pavillion. She had not even the right to seat 
 herself in the sun, by the wall of her own house, at the 
 foot of the flowering shrubs that grew there, or to pluck 
 the flowers that thrust themselves into her very apartment. 
 She was forbidden, in the strongest terms, by the condi- 
 tions of her lease, from taking a step in the garden. In 
 brief, the door was fastened, and the tenant had never 
 petitioned to have it opened. 
 
 In point of fact, the countess had expected some such 
 request, and had intended to comply with it ; but she did 
 not reflect that a feeling of timidity or pride might pre- 
 vent Madam Thierry from applying to her. She thought 
 of this to-day, — on this day of self-examination, — and 
 reproached herself for not anticipating the natural desire 
 of the poor widow. 
 
 " If some great lady in distress had been in her place," 
 she thought, " I should not have forgotten the considera- 
 tion due to age and misfortune. This is another proof 
 of what I have so often told the baroness ; our minds are 
 perverted, and our hearts hardened by the aristocratic 
 prejudices in which we are educated. I have been selfish 
 and impolite in my conduct to this lady, who is said to be 
 infinitely respectable, and who is very poor. How could 
 I have been so forgetful ? Now, however, I have an op- 
 
ANT ON I A. 17 
 
 portunity of repairing my neglect, and I will not lose it, 
 for I need, to-day, to be reconciled to myself." 
 
 The countess approached the window resolutely, and 
 coughed two or three times, to give intimation of her 
 presence. No one moved, and she ventured to tap upon 
 the ground-glass window-pane. 
 
 Julien had gone out, but Madam Thierry was still in 
 the studio. Surprised, she came forward ; and, when she 
 saw this beautiful lady, whom she knew very well by 
 sight, but to whom she had never yet spoken, she threw 
 the window wide open. 
 
 " Pardon me, madam," said the countess, " for intro- 
 ducing myself to you in such an informal way ; I am 
 still in half-mourning, as you see ; I am not yet making 
 visits, and, with your permission, I have something to 
 say to you. Can you, without ceremony, grant me a 
 moment's interview ? " 
 
 " Certainly, madam, and with a great deal of pleas- 
 ure," replied Madam Thierry, with cheerful dignity and 
 ease ; not at all in the manner of a petty bourgeoise, daz- 
 zled by the advances of a great lady. 
 
 The countess was struck by the refinement of her face, 
 the good taste of her dress, her sweet voice, and the sort 
 of perfume of elegance that seemed to exhale from her 
 whole person. 
 
 '^ You must sit down," she said ; " I do not want to 
 keep you standing." 
 
 '' But you, madam ? " said the widow, smiling. " Ah ! 
 An idea occurs to me. If you will allow me, I will 
 hand you a chair." 
 
 "■ Oh, no, do not take so much trouble." 
 
 " It is no trouble at all ! Here is a light cane-chair, 
 and, both of us together — " 
 
 Both together, indeed, they passed the cane-chair over 
 the window-sill, the one lifting it, the other receiving it, 
 and both smiling at this familiar operation, which seemed 
 to place them at once upon a footing of intimacy. 
 
 '' This is what I wanted to say," said Madam d'Estrelle, 
 sitting down ; " hitherto, you have been living in a house 
 belonging to the Marquis d'Estrelle, my father-in-law ; 
 a 
 
l8 ANTONIA. 
 
 but, from to-day, you are living in my house. I do not 
 yet know the conditions of your lease, but there is one 
 of them, I presume, that you will be willing to modify." 
 
 "Will you be so good as to tell me which one, madam ? '* 
 replied the widow, leaning slightly forward, while the fear 
 of some annoyance cast a shadow over her face. 
 
 " It is this abominable door that offends me," replied 
 the countess ; " this locked, worm-eaten door that sepa- 
 rates us. If you will allow me, I will have it opened to- 
 morrow, and I sincerely trust that you will walk as much 
 as you choose in my garden, whether for exercise or 
 amusement. It will always give me pleasure to meet 
 you there, and if you will sometimes stop and rest in my 
 house, where you will find that I live very much alone, I 
 will do what I can to make you like the neighborhood.'' 
 
 Madam Thierry's countenance had brightened. The 
 offer of the countess gave her sincere pleasure. To see 
 a beautiful garden at all hours, and be unable to enter it, 
 is a sort of martyrdom. Besides, she was deeply touched 
 by the grace of Madam d'Estrelle's invitation, and felt at 
 once that she was in the presence of a thoroughly kind- 
 liearted and amiable woman. Without losing the sweet 
 dignity of her manner, she thanked her with grateful cor- 
 diality, and they began immediately to converse upon 
 other subjects like old friends, so sudden and strong was 
 their mutual sympathy. 
 
 '' You live alone, I understand ! " said Madam Thierry ; 
 *' it must be a temporary arrangement; — you cannot 
 like solitude." 
 
 '• Not altogether ; but I am afraid of the woWd, and 
 have no confidence in myself. And you, madam, do you 
 enjoy society? " 
 
 " I do not dislike it," said the widow. " I forsook the 
 world for love, and forgot it ; afterwards it sought me 
 out, and I reentered it without effort and without intox- 
 ication. Finally, I abandoned it again, out of necessity 
 and without regret. All this seems a little obscure to 
 you." 
 
 " I know that M. Thierry was very well off, that his 
 standing was excellent, that he was courted in society. 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 19 
 
 and received the most cultivated and best people at his 
 house." 
 
 *' But you do not know about our previous life ; it was 
 a good deal talked about at the time ; but that was long 
 ago, and you are so young." 
 
 " Wait a moment," said the countess. " I ask your 
 pardon for my forgetfulness. I remember, now ; you 
 were well-born ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was Mademoiselle de Meuil, of a good family 
 in Lorraine. I should have been rich also, if my mar- 
 riage had not displeased my guardians. M. Thierry, who 
 was then a poor artist without name or position, had won 
 my heart, and I abandoned my family, parted from all 
 my friends, abjured my rank, to become his wife. Grad- 
 ually he became celebrated, and, after he had made a for- 
 tune of his own, I received my inheritance. We were 
 well rewarded, therefore, for our constancy, not only by 
 thirty years of love and happiness, but also by the pros- 
 perity of our old age." 
 
 " And yet, now — " 
 
 '* Oh, now it is different ! I am still happy, but in a 
 different way. I have lost my well-beloved companion, 
 and with him all that we possessed ; but such great con- 
 solations remain to me." 
 
 Madam Thierry was about to speak of her son, when 
 a valet in livery appeared, and informed the countess that 
 her friend Madam des Morges was at her house. 
 
 " I will see you to-morrow," said Julie to Madam 
 Thierry, as she rose ; " we will talk together at our ease, 
 either at your house or mine. I am eager to know all 
 that concerns you, for I feel that I love you. Pardon 
 me for saying this so abruptly, but it is the truth ! My 
 visitor is an old lady, and I cannot keep her waiting, but 
 I shall order the workman to be sent to you to-morrow 
 without fail, so that your prison may be opened." 
 
 Madam Thierry was enchanted with Madam d'Estrelle. 
 Living, as she had done, in an atmosphere of enthusiasm, 
 with the man she loved, and that man an artist, she had 
 retained her life and spontaneity, and she was very ro- 
 mantic, as beseemed a woman who had sacrificed ambi- 
 
20 ANTONIA. 
 
 tion to love. Her first impulse would have led her to 
 relate what had occurred to her son, with enthusiasm ; 
 but he was out, and she took it into her head to make the 
 most of the surprise that she had just enjoyed. Madam 
 Thierry had given up all her luxuries when they lost 
 their fortune, and Julien was often alarmed at the actual 
 privations that she was compelled to endure. 
 
 At Sevres, they had had a pretty little house, sur- 
 rounded by a beautiful garden, where she had cultivated 
 with her own hands the flowers that her husband and 
 son used as models. They had been obliged to sell 
 everything. JuUen's heart was heavy when he saw the 
 poor old lady shut up in Paris, in a small pavilion, for 
 which they paid the most moderate rent. He had hoped 
 at first that she would be able to enjoy the surrounding 
 gardens, especially as the street was obstructed with ma- 
 sonry and the materials for new buildings ; but the lease 
 informed him that neither the Marquis d'Estrelle, their 
 landlord, nor the rich Thierry, their near neighbor and 
 near relative, would allow them to enter their grounds. 
 
 " He has complained bitterly about this closed door," 
 said Madam Thierry to herself, as she thought of her son ; 
 *' a dozen times he has been eager to go and beg the 
 countess to have it opened for ray benefit, promising that 
 he himself would never cross the door of the pavilion. I 
 would not allow him to do so, fearing that we might be 
 martified by a refusal. How glad he will be to know 
 that she has invited me of her own accord ! How shall I 
 arrange matters so as to surprise him most agreeably ? I 
 must give him a commission to-morrow morning, that 
 will keep him away while the workmen are busy." 
 
 She formed her plans, and just then Julien returned to 
 dinner. The cane-chair was still without, leaning against 
 the window-sill, and on the ground by this chair lay 
 Madam d'Estrelle's white parasol ; she had let it fall, and 
 had forgotten it. Madam Thierry had gone into the 
 kitchen to tell her servant, a great Normandy peasant- 
 girl, to bring in the chair. She had not noticed the par- 
 asol. Julien, therefore, saw these two objects without 
 knowing what had occurred. He guessed the truth in- 
 
ANTONIA, 21 
 
 etantly ; a sudden giddiness, a violent palpitation of the 
 heart, seized him, and his mother found him so overcome, 
 80 agitated, so bewildered, that she was alarmed, think- 
 ing that some misfortune had occurred. 
 
 '^ What is the matter?" she cried, running up to him. 
 
 " Nothing, mother," replied JuUen, struggling to over- 
 come his emotion. " I came in quickly, I was very 
 warm, and the cool air of the studio gave me a chill, — 
 I am hungry. Come, let us go to dinner. You can 
 explain at table the meaning of the visit you have just 
 received. 
 
 He lifted in the chair, folded and unfolded the parasol, 
 and held it a long time in his hand ; he tried to seem in- 
 different, but his hands trembled, and he could not meet 
 his mother's eye. 
 
 '' Mon DieuT* she said to herself, " can it be that his 
 strange sadness for the last fifteen days, his unwillingness 
 to sing, his stifled sighs, his abstracted manner, his sleep- 
 lessness and loss of appetite, are because ? — but he does 
 not even know her, he has scarcely seen her even from a 
 distance. — Ah ! my poor child, can it be possible?" 
 
 They went to dinner. Julien questioned his mother 
 without embarrassment. She told him about the visit of 
 the countess with a good deal of reserve, repressing the 
 enthusiasm which, but for the discovery that she had 
 just made, or the danger that she began to apprehend, 
 would have made her eloquent upon the subject. 
 
 Julien felt that his mother was observing him, and 
 was very guarded. He had never had a secret from her 
 before ; within the last few days he had had one, and the 
 fear of alarming her taught him to dissimulate. 
 
 '' Madam d'Estrelle's conduct," he said, '' proves that 
 she is a kind and sensible person. She feels — rather 
 late, perhaps — the respect that she owes you. We ought 
 to be grate lul to her for her good heart. You told her, I 
 presume, that I have too much knowledge of the world to 
 consider myself included in the permission granted you." 
 
 *' That is understood, as a matter of course. I did not 
 even speak of you." ^ 
 
 " So much the better ! She does not know, probably, 
 
22 ANTONTA, 
 
 that there is such a person ; and, in order that she may 
 not repent of her kindness, it will be as well, perhaps, if 
 you never speak to her of your son." 
 
 " Why should I hesitate to speak of him? I will do so 
 or not, as it may happen ; — according to the chances of 
 conversation." 
 
 " You expect to see her frequently, then? to go to her 
 house, perhaps?" 
 
 " There is no sort of doubt that I shall meet her in the 
 garden ; whether I go to her house or not, will depend 
 upon how long she continues to welcome me as she did 
 to-day.'* 
 
 " Was she amiable?" 
 
 " Very amiable and very natural." 
 
 *' Is she a person of mind ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; she seemed sensible." 
 
 ••' Any of the affectations of a great lady?" 
 
 " I did not see any." 
 
 '' Is she young?" 
 
 " Why certainly." 
 
 '^ And pretty, they say ? " 
 
 *' Ah, indeed ! Have you never seen her?" 
 
 " Only from a distance. These windows are always 
 closed, and I have never happened to be in your room 
 when she was passing our house." 
 
 " You know, however, that she passes here every day." 
 
 *' You have just told me so. You must think me very 
 curious about beautiful ladies and their walks. I am 
 no longer a school-boy, my dear mother, I am a man ; 
 my mind has been matured by misfortunes." 
 
 " Has Marcel told you of any new misfortune?" 
 
 "On the contrary, uncle Antoine has agreed to be our 
 security." 
 
 " Ah, at last ! — And you did not tell me ! " 
 
 " You were talking of something else." 
 
 '^ That interests you more." 
 
 " Yes, for the moment, I confess it freely. I am 
 really glad to think that you will be able to walk, when 
 you choose, in this garden. I shall not be able to accom- 
 pany you and give you the support of my arm, since — 
 
ANTONIA. 23 
 
 naturally — since I ana not allowed to enter it ; but I shall 
 see you taking your walks, and you will return with a 
 little color and a better appetite, I hope." 
 
 " Appetite ! It is you who have no appetite ! To-day, 
 again, you have eaten scarcely anything, and you said 
 that you were hungry. Where are you going ? " 
 
 " To carry madam's parasol to the porter of the hotel 
 d'Estrelle. It would be impolite not to return it imme- 
 diately." 
 
 '' You are right, but let Babel take it. It is useless for 
 you to show yourself to the servants of the hotel. It 
 might make some talk." 
 
 Madam Thierry took the parasol, and put it into the 
 hands of the servant. 
 
 " Not like that," said Julien, taking it again. " Babel 
 will tarnish the silk with her warm hands." 
 
 He wrapped the parasol up carefully in white paper, 
 and gave it to Babel, not without regret, but without 
 hesitation. He saw plainly his mother's anxiety, and 
 tried to meet her eye without embarrassment. 
 
 Babel was gone ten minutes : longer than was necessary 
 to make the circuit of the garden, enter the court of the 
 hotel, and return. Finally she reappeared with the para- 
 sol, and a note from the countess. 
 
 " Madam, you will need a parasol, since you are gomg 
 to be exposed to the sun. Be so good as to use mine ; I 
 want to deprive you of every excuse for not coming to 
 visit your servant, 
 
 " Julie d'Estrelle." 
 
 Madam Thierry was still looking at Julien, who, with 
 as much composure as he could command, unrolled the 
 paper in which he had wrapped the parasol. As soon, 
 however, as her back was turned, he covered it with 
 kisses, like a romantic and passionate child as he was, 
 although he claimed to be a mature man. As for the 
 poor mother, doubtful and troubled, she said to herself, 
 sadly, that every pleasure in this world has its corres- 
 
24 ANTONIA. 
 
 ponding danger, and that she might have cause to regret 
 the amiable advances of her too enticino; nei"jhbor. 
 
 The next day, the door swun<^ upon its hinges, the keys 
 were placed in the hands of Madam Thierry, and, per- 
 suaded by Julie n, she ventured into the flowering domains 
 of the countess. The latter had promised herself to do 
 the honors of her primroses and hyacinths in person, but 
 she had received a visit from Marcel Thierry who gave 
 her an unexpected piece of information, that changed the 
 current of her ideas and somewhat chilled her zeal. 
 
 The lawyer called to talk to her about her affairs. 
 She hastened to inform him that she had made the ac- 
 quaintance of his aunt, of whom she spoke in the kindest 
 manner possible. 
 
 " This amiable lady," she said, " told me about her 
 family, her affection for her husband, and her past hap- 
 piness ; she was going to tell me about what she called 
 her present happiness, when we were interrupted. I 
 imagine, on the contrary, that she is very unhappy. Did 
 you not tell me that she had been obliged to sell all that 
 she had?" 
 
 "That is true," replied Marcel, "but she never lost 
 her cheerfulness and courage. There is something in 
 the character of my noble aunt that every one cannot 
 understand, but which you, countess, can understand 
 perfectly. I will relate, briefly, the history of herself and 
 husband. My uncle, the artist, was a man with a noble 
 heart, genius, and a brilliant intellect, but he was care- 
 less, and excessively imprudent. In his youth he was 
 poor ; day by day he earned, at first, the necessaries of 
 lii'e, and afterwards its luxuries. Gradually he allowed 
 himself to be carried away by his natural temerity ; and 
 as he had rather princely tastes, — that is to say, the 
 tastes of an artist, — he soon began to live in a very agree- 
 able but very precarious way. He loved the world, he 
 was admired in society ; he did not visit on foot ! He 
 kept a carriage, he gave exquisite little dinners in his 
 Sevres cottage, as he called it : a beautiful house crowded 
 with objects of luxury, and works of art, that cost a for- 
 tune ; he lived so splendidly, in short, that he soon in- 
 
ANTON I A. 25 
 
 volved himself in debt. His wife's fortune paid off past 
 oblisrations, and allowed him to continue this hazardous 
 but agreeable career. When he died, he had again accu- 
 mulated a fine array of debts. My good aunt foresaw 
 their approaching ruin, but was unwilling to sadden her 
 liusband's careless and frivolous old age by expressing 
 the least anxiety about the future of her son. ' My son 
 is a sensible young man/ she said ; ' he is studying his 
 art with enthusiasm, and has as much talent as his father. 
 He will be poor, and will make his fortune. He will 
 meet the trials that his father encountered with honor 
 and courage, and will achieve the success that he achieved ; 
 knowing him as I do, I cannot fear that he will ever re- 
 proach me for having trusted in his good heart.* Her 
 predictions were all fulfilled. When his father died, 
 Julien Thierry discovered that he had left him nothing 
 excepting debts ; he set bravely to work to pay them 
 off honorably, and, far from complaining, assured his 
 mother that she had done well in never contradicting the 
 best of fathers. For my part, I do not agree with him, 
 I confess. The best of fathers is he who sacrifices his 
 tastes and pleasures for the benefit of those who are to 
 survive him. My uncle, the painter, was a great man ; 
 I ought rather to say a great child. Genius is a very 
 beautiful gift ; but devotion to those you love is still more 
 noble, and (I shall have to say it in a whisper) it seems 
 to me that the widow and son of my uncle are much 
 greater than he. What is your opinion, madam ? " 
 
 The countess had listened to Marcel very attentively, 
 but with a dreamy expression. 
 
 " I agree with you. Monsieur Thierry," she answered, 
 '• and 1 admire these people with all my heart." 
 
 '•But it seems to me," replied Marcel, "that my story 
 has made you melancholy." 
 
 '^ Perhaps so ; it has given me something to think 
 about : I am very much struck, do you know, by 
 the example that is given by certain lives ! Madam 
 Thierry, for instance, is like myself, — a widow, and 
 ruined ; and yet, even under these circumstances, she is 
 happy, while I am far otherwise. She is proud to pay 
 
26 ANTONIA, 
 
 the debts of a husband whom she tenderly loved ; — and 
 I — • But I will not refer again to the confession that 
 escaped me in your presence yesterday. There is only 
 one great question that I would like *to ask you. Her 
 son, — this excellent son of the worthy widow, — where 
 is he?" 
 
 '' In Paris, madam, where he is hard at work ; his 
 pictures, even now, are almost equal to his father's, and 
 he is rapidly freeing himself from his embarrassments. 
 He has influential friends who are interested in him, and 
 who would assist him more eiFectuaily if he were less scru- 
 pulous and less proud ; but with a little time he will make 
 a fortune in his turn. He has reduced his debts to a very 
 trifling sum, and uncle Antoine, — since he no longer 
 runs any risk in doing so, — has agreed to become his 
 security." 
 
 '' This rich uncle, then, is as timid and economical as 
 the marquis, my father-in-law." 
 
 " No, madam ; his selfishness is very different from that 
 of the marquis, but it would take me too long to tell you 
 about it now. This is my hour for being at court." 
 
 '' Ah, yes, Monsieur Thierry, another time. Hasten 
 to fulfil your duties. Here are the deeds, ready signed ; 
 return soon." 
 
 " As soon as your affairs require it, madam ; rely upon 
 my punctuality." 
 
 " Do not be so ceremonious. Come without regard to 
 business, whenever you have time. I ow^e you a great 
 deal. Monsieur Thierry. You have not only given me a 
 clear idea about my situation, which it was very necessary 
 for me to have, — you have given me good advice also, 
 and have not urged me to pursue a dishonorable course 
 in order to serve my interests. I feel that you have some 
 esteem for me, — a little friendship, perhaps, — and I 
 thank you with all my heart." 
 
 The countess had a way of saying these simple things, 
 that made them irresistible. Chaste and dignified in all 
 her actions and in all her words, there w^as, nevertheless, 
 a sort of agitation and tenderness in her manner that 
 marked a heart too full, — a heart that is seeking to place 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 27 
 
 worthily its overflowing affections. The baroness would 
 certainly have considered her too affectionate and too 
 grateful to this insignificant lawyer, only too highly hon- 
 ored in being allowed to serve her. She would have told 
 her that it is not right to spoil people of this description, 
 by letting thera see that they are necessary to you. 
 Julie, sure of herself, and always modest and humble, 
 was not at all afraid of degrading her friendship by be- 
 stowing it upon an honest and intelligent man. An insen- 
 sible but rapid reaction was going on within her, as we 
 have already seen, against the decrees and customs of the 
 world in which she had hitherto lived. 
 
 '' What an amiable woman ! " Marcel Thierry said to 
 himself, as he left her ; " the devil take me, if I were not 
 a lawyer, husband of the best woman in the world, and 
 father of a grown lad, — excellent guarantees for the 
 solidity of a man's character, — I should be in love with 
 this countess ! There is no doubt about it, — madly in 
 love ! I will tell my wife so this evening ; she will laugh 
 heartily at the idea." 
 
 " How was it," thought Madam d'Estrelle, at this mo- 
 ment, " that I should have failed to ask M. Thierry one 
 thing, which it is important for me to know? I thought 
 of it, and then forgot it. I shall have to inquire. If this 
 young Thierry is living with his mother, it will not be 
 proper for him to take his walks in my garden. After 
 all, he may be a mere boy. Did Thierry say that he 
 was a young man ? His father was very old ! Did he 
 say that he was so old? I really cannot remember. 
 Well, my people will know. Servants know everything." 
 
 She rang. 
 
 " Camille," she said to her femme de chamhre, " has 
 Madam Thierry, — the lady who lives in the old pavilion 
 at the foot of the garden, and a very worthy person, — 
 has she any children ? I was talking to her yesterday, 
 but I forgot to ask her." 
 
 " She has one son," replied Camille. 
 
 "How old, about?" 
 
 ** He looks about twenty-five." 
 
 ** He is married, I suppose? " 
 
28 ANTONIA, 
 
 " No, madam." 
 
 " Where does he live ? " 
 
 '' In the pavilion, with his mother.** 
 
 " Is he well-behaved ? What is said of him ? *' 
 
 " He is very well-behaved, madam. Every one speaka 
 well of these people. They are very poor, but they pay 
 all their debts, and pay promptly. Moreover, they are 
 not suspicious or mean. One would really think that 
 they were well-born." 
 
 Camille was not seeking to flatter her mistress by 
 speaking thus. She, also, had pretensions to good birth, 
 and a reverse of fortune. She claimed to have had 
 aldermen among her ancestors. 
 
 '-'' Mon Dieul Camille, birth is nothing," said the 
 countess, who was often made impatient by the airs of 
 her chambermaid. 
 
 " Pardon me, madam," replied Camille, offended, " I 
 thought it was everything.** 
 
 "Just as you please, my dear. Go and bring me my 
 gray parasol. People nowadays, — one and all of them, 
 — have so many affectations," thought Madam d'Estrelle, 
 " that they Avill disgust me with all prejudices, and make 
 me admire Jean Jacques Rousseau more than is rea- 
 sonable. Really I have already begun to ask myself 
 whether we aristocrats do not belong to the past, and 
 whether our threadbare pretensions are not beginning to 
 ))e good for nothing, except to amuse our valets.'* 
 
 She took her gray parasol with a feeling of vague an- 
 noyance, and sat down in her drawing-room, open to the 
 April sun ; she must no longer walk, she said to herself, 
 in the direction of the pavilion, and perhaps ought to 
 give up entirely going into her garden. 
 
 Just at this moment who should appear but Madam 
 Thierry. Not meeting the countess, as she expected, she 
 had ventured to come to her house, in order to express 
 her gratitude. Madame d'Estrelle received her with 
 great politeness ; but the widow was too penetrating not 
 to feel a certain coldness in her manner, and she was 
 scarcely seated when she thanked her, and arose to go. 
 
 " Must you go so soon? '* said the countess ; " you find 
 
ANTONIA. 29 
 
 me dull, I am sure, and I acknowledge that I feel a Uttlo 
 embarrassed with you to-day. There is something weigh- 
 ing upon my mind that troubles me. Come, I will tell 
 you at once what it is, and let us have done with it for- 
 ever : you will pardon me. When I spoke to ycu 
 yesterday I did not know that you had a son, — a 
 very excellent young man, I am told, — living with 
 you — " 
 
 " Let me say the rest, countess, you are afraid — " 
 
 " Oh, mon Dieu 1 I am afraid people will talk, that is 
 all. I am young, alone in the world, bearing the name 
 of a family who received me with regret, — I learned it 
 only too late, — and who blame me for being unwilling 
 to pass my widowhood in a convent." 
 
 " I know it, madam ; my nephew. Marcel, has told me 
 your history. I am as anxious to guard your reputation 
 as you can be, and I will not allow your goodness to lead 
 you too far. You must not come to the pavilion again 
 while I am living there, and I must give up walking in 
 your garden, and visiting you. This is all that I need 
 eay. It is not necessary to add that my son never 
 dreamed, for a single moment, of considering himself 
 included in the permission you so graciously granted me 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Then it is all right," cried the countess ; " the latter 
 point is all that is necessary. I thank you for your deli- 
 cacy in excusing me from returning your visits, but I 
 shall agree to nothing more. You must walk in my gar- 
 den, as we arranged, and you must visit me." 
 
 ''I should be wiser, perhaps, to refuse your kindness." 
 
 '' No, no," replied Julie, gayly ; " you must come, — 1 
 msist upon it! If you refuse, I shall have to go in 
 search of you, and tap at your window again, and that 
 will be very compromising. Now we will see," she 
 added, laughing, " whether you want me to be slandered 
 for your sake. I warn you that I am capable of any- 
 tJiing." 
 
 Madam Thierry could not resist the charm of her gen- 
 erous simplicity. She yielded, but not without prom- 
 ising herself, secretly, that she would fly to the othei end 
 
30 ANT ON I A. 
 
 of Paris, if Julien's passion proved to be anything more 
 than a dream of her maternal imagination. 
 
 " Now," said the countess, " let us regulate at once 
 the conditions upon which we are to be neighbors, so as 
 to do away with all fear of scandal. The pavilion has 
 only four windows overlooking my garden. Two below, 
 — I do not know the premises — " 
 
 " The two windows on the ground-floor are in my 
 son's studio and my drawing-room. We are always 
 there ; but there is a frame in the lower sash of the win- 
 dows containing four panes of ground-glass, and we only 
 admit the air through the upper panes, which are often 
 open at this season." 
 
 "Then you cannot see into my grounds, after all! 
 Yesterday, however, the ground-glass panes were lifted ; 
 the window was half open." 
 
 " It is true, madam, one of the panes was broken, as 
 you may have noticed." 
 
 " No, I do not see well, and for that reason I seldom 
 observe closely." 
 
 " I opened the window yesterday, as an exceptional 
 thing ; early this morning it was repaired, and fastened as 
 usual. It would interfere seriously with my son's paint- 
 ing to admit the light from below ; and, in fact, he hangs 
 a curtain of green linen before the ground-glass panes, to 
 exclude it more eifectually. He would have to mount 
 upon a chair, therefore, for the express purpose, in order 
 to look into your garden, and as my son is a serious man, 
 and not at all an awkward school-boy — " 
 
 '' Enough, enough ! I am perfectly satisfied about the 
 ground-floor. The windows above — " 
 
 "Are in my chamber. My son's room is upon the 
 street." 
 
 "And does he never go into your room? Will you 
 promise me that no one in my house shall ever see a 
 man at your windows ? " 
 
 " That has never happened, and never shall happen, I 
 promise you." 
 
 " And he will never come to the door opening into the 
 garden ? You will tell him to be guarded ? " 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 31 
 
 " Be perfectly at ease upon that point, madam. My 
 eon is a man of honor." 
 
 " I do not doubt it. Warn him not to call mine in 
 question. And now say no more about it ; that is to say, 
 do not talk about me any longer ; to forbid you to speak 
 of him would be too cruel. I know that he is your pride 
 and happiness, and I congratulate you upon having so 
 good a son." 
 
 Madam Thierry had promised herself that she would 
 not say a word about Julien, but it was impossible for 
 her to keep her word. Reticent at first, she soon began 
 to express her idolatry for this worshipped son, so well- 
 beloved, and so well deserving her affection. The 
 countess listened to the enumeration of the talents and 
 virtues of the young artist without any misplaced delicacy. 
 She became a little melancholy, however, when the idea 
 occurred to her, that she, perhaps, would never have any 
 children to occupy her youth and console her old age. 
 IViadam Tiiierry divined her thoughts, and spoke of some- 
 tliing else. 
 
 And what was Julien doing while they were talking 
 about him in the little summer drawing-room of the hotel 
 d'Estrelle? He was at work, or pretending to be at 
 work. He paused frequently ; thought it too hot and 
 then too cold, and trembled at the least sound. He said 
 to himself that the countess might, by chance, be uttering 
 his name at that very moment, that she was perhaps ask- 
 ing questions about him, out of politeness, and without 
 listening to the reply. Finally he went to the window. 
 The lower sash was really fastened, and covered with a 
 piece of green linen, but in this linen there was an 
 im]>erceptible flaw, in the ground-glass there was a 
 transparent vein, and through this perfidious fissure, 
 skilfully discovered and skilfully concealed, he saw 
 Madam d'Estrelle every day wandering amid the groves 
 of her garden, and strolling along the walk which, from 
 the pavilion, was plainly visible. He knew to the mo- 
 ment at what hours she usually walked, and if, for any 
 reason, she made her appearance unexpectedly, the mys- 
 terious presentiments, the thrilUng intuitions that belong 
 
32 ANTONIA. 
 
 only to love, and above all to a first love, warned Lim of 
 her approach. At such moments he had a thousand ex- 
 cuses, each more ingenious than the last, for avoiding his 
 mother's vigilant eye, and contemplating his beautiful 
 neighbor ; when everything else failed he went up stairs, 
 pretending that he wanted something in his room, and 
 going instead to his mother's room, — she remaining be- 
 low, — gazed upon her through the blinds. In a word, he 
 had adored Julie for the last fifteen days, and Julie did 
 not know that he had ever seen her ; and Madam Thierry 
 was deceiving her without knowing it, when she declared 
 that her son could not see her garden from liis studio, and 
 never looked from the windows of her chamber. 
 
 Julien was remarkably sensible in most respects, and 
 there was something in the sudden passion that had taken 
 possession of him that seemed even to himself almost 
 insane, or at least inexplicable ; but every effect has its 
 cause, and it is our duty to seek the cause of his love, 
 and not to admit that any human experience is altogether 
 improbable. 
 
 It was a frequent custom with Marcel Thierry to spend 
 part of the evening, — sometimes alone, and sometimes 
 accompanied by his wife, — with his aunt. Julien and 
 he loved each other tenderly, and, although they often 
 disagreed. Marcel considering Julien too romantic, and 
 Julien considering Marcel too practical, they would have 
 died for each other. The lawyer liked to talk about his 
 profession, in which he was rapidly gaining distinction. 
 He amused Julien by giving him a description of his 
 various clients. " There are some of my clients," he 
 said, "whom I find it more honorable than profitable to . 
 serve, and these are precisely the ones whom I esteem 
 the most highly." The Countess d'Estrelle he placed first 
 in rank among these clients who brought him no law- 
 suits, but whose society he found agreeable or advan- 
 tageous. He spoke of Madam d'Estrelle very often, and 
 in enthusiastic terms, — he referred with the utmost con- 
 tempt to the unworthy husband of this beautiful widow, 
 he denounced bitterly the inhuman avarice of his family, 
 expressed the highest admiration for Julie's sweet and 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 33 
 
 noble character, and involuntarily referred so often to her 
 beauty and grace, that Julien felt curious to see her. As 
 soon as his wish was gratified, he fell in love ; he may 
 have loved her unconsciously even before this. 
 
 Julien had never loved. He had lived simply and 
 honorably ; he had just experienced a great sorrow, and 
 was in all the plenitude of his physical and moral devel- 
 opment ; his sensibility was stimulated by the courageous 
 etforts that he had made, by the life he was leading with 
 his mother, — a life made up of a continual exchange of 
 tenderness between the two, — and by a disposition to 
 enthusiasm that he had acquired in his long intercourse 
 with an enthusiastic father. Since his father's death he 
 had lived like a hermit ; denying himself every amuse- 
 ment, and working desperately to preserve the honor of 
 his name, and save his mother from distress. It was 
 absolutely necessary that all these repressed emotions 
 should find a vent ; his generous heart was full to over- 
 flowing. 
 
 We shall say no more about it ; we have spent too 
 much time already in explaining an experience which 
 people call impossible, and see every day ; — an obstinate, 
 violent, ungovernable passion for an object that is known 
 to be unattainable. Long before this, la Fontaine had 
 written these sensible lines, which have ever since been 
 proverbial : 
 
 ♦ Love, when we feel your magic spell, 
 To prudence straight we bid farewell. 
 
 • Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens, 
 On pent bien dire : *' Adieu prudenM I * 
 
34 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 II. 
 
 TTTHILE the countess was conversing with Madam 
 ' ^ Thierry, and while Julien was holding communion 
 with himself, Marcel, not far off, was talking with his 
 uncle, Antoine Thierry, the old bachelor, the ex-ship- 
 owner, — the wealthy man of the family. 
 
 Kind reader, — as it was the fashion for authors to say 
 at the time when our story occurred, — be so good as to 
 follow us to the rue Blomet. Leave the hotel d'Estrelle in 
 the rue de Babylone, walk for about five minutes around 
 tlie wall of the garden, pass before the pavilion Louis 
 XIIL, follow the wall of another garden larger than that 
 of Madam d'Estrelle, running along another road bordered 
 with green turf, — but muddy and broken up in the middle, 
 in preparation for the continuing of the city street, — turn 
 to your left and enter another street bordered with green. 
 You have now turned the corner of the rue Blomet, and 
 are in front of a large house in the style of Louis XIV. 
 This is the old hotel Melcy, now owned and occupied by 
 M. Antoine Thierry. If M. Thierry v^ould have allowed 
 us to cross his immense enclosure, we could have gone 
 from Julien's house straight across the nurseries of the 
 garden to the back of the hotel. But uncle Antoine likes 
 to be master of his dominions, and allows no privileges 
 even to the widow and son of his brother. Marcel, there- 
 fore, when he left the countess, took the half-city, half- 
 country walk that we have described, and finally entered 
 the cabinet of the rich man, an old boudoir, crowded 
 with shelves and etageres covered with sacks of grain, 
 specimens of fruit moulded in wax, and baskets filled 
 with horticultural tools and instruments. 
 
 This cabinet is the chosen retreat of the proprietor. 
 To get to it you must cross long galleries and immense 
 saloons, loaded with gildings and projecting ornaments, 
 blackened by neglect and humidity. The windows are 
 always closed, the shutters are fastened ; the rich man 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 35 
 
 passes no time in these magnificent apartments, he enter- 
 tains no company, gives neither balls nor dinner-parties, 
 loves no one, distrusts every one. All his tenderness 
 he bestows upon rare flowers and exotic trees ; he feels an 
 esteem, also, for fruit-trees, and meditates incessantly 
 upon the pruning and grafting of his subjects. He over- 
 sees and directs in person a score of gardeners ; pays 
 them well, and protects their families. Never talk to 
 him about taking an interest in people who do not serve 
 his caprices or flatter his vanity. 
 
 It was chance that first inspired him with his passion 
 for gardening. One of the merchant-vessels trading upon 
 his capital, and for his profit, with distant parts of the world, 
 brought him a variety of seeds from China, specimens of 
 which he allowed carelessly to fall into a vase filled with 
 earth. The seeds germinated, a plant grew and put forth 
 beautiful flowers. The ship-owner, who had not antici- 
 pated this result, and who never in his life had looked at 
 a flower, took but little interest, at first, in the matter. 
 But a botanist happened to call at his house (a second 
 chance), and when this connoisseur saw the precious 
 plant, he was enraptured, and declared that it was abso- 
 lutely new, and unknown in science. 
 
 The life of M. Antoine was determined by this dis- 
 covery. He had always disdained flowers : he will never, 
 perhaps, understand them, for he is totally without ar- 
 tistic feeling ; but his vanity, starving from the lack of 
 nourishment, seized upon this windfall ; he devoted him- 
 self to horticulture because it was his only way of becom- 
 ing famous. 
 
 M. Antoine has a brother who paints flowers, who in- 
 terprets them, cherishes them, gives them life. This 
 brother is admired ; a slight sketch from his hand is 
 prized more highly than all the wealth of his elder brother. 
 The elder brother knows this, and is jealous of his re- 
 nown. He cannot hear art spoken of without shrugging 
 his shoulders. He thinks the world foolish and unjust to 
 be amused by such trifles, instead of admiring the force 
 of character of a man who has had the ability to gain 
 millions by his own exertions. He is sad, anxious. But 
 
36 ANTONIA. 
 
 suddenly all this is changed : he will gain notoriety in 
 his turn. The flowers that his brother paints upon can- 
 vas he will produce, — he will make them grow out of 
 the earth ; not common flowers, that every one knows and 
 can name as soon as they see them ; his flowers shall be 
 rarities, — plants brought from the four quarters of the 
 globe, — plants that botanists will have to rack their 
 brains to define, classify, and christen. The most beau- 
 tiful of all shall bear his name, — his own name ! He 
 has been upon the point of giving it to several of his fa- 
 vorites, but he is in no haste, for every year his collection 
 is enriched by some wonder brought from afar. He can 
 afford to wait, and he is waiting now for a certain lily to 
 bloom, that promises to surpass all the others ; and to 
 which, ii'his expectations are fulfilled, he intends giving, 
 in addition to its generic name, the specific name of 
 Antonia Thierrii. 
 
 He has time enough, and to spare ; for uncle Antome, 
 although sixty-five years old, is still hardy and robust. 
 He is a short man, thin, and with quite a handsome face ; 
 he would be good-looking, but his hands, hardened by 
 constant dabbling in the earth, his skin tanned by con- 
 stant exposure to the wind, his neglected hair, dusty 
 clothes, and back bent by physical labor, make him re- 
 semble a peasant. His manners are rude, his prejudices 
 are obstinate, he has a hard, practical, and fault-finding 
 mind, and uses incorrect, peremptory, and dogmatical 
 language ; so that, in the heart of Paris, and in a palace 
 of which he is the careless and abstracted master, he pre- 
 sents the living image of a rustic boor. He never re- 
 ceived any education ; and, in regard to the refinements 
 and elegancies of life, has remained absolutely stupid. 
 Any reference to art or philosophy makes him almost 
 furious. He has really a great deal of intellect, but it 
 is exclusively concentrated upon practical calculations. 
 Hence it is that he has grown rich ; hence it is that he 
 has become a horticultural hermit. 
 
 Marcel saluted his uncle abruptly, and without the slight- 
 est deference. He knows that courtesy will be thrown 
 away upon uncle Antoine ; that it is only by struggling 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 37 
 
 with him obstinately and rudely, if necessary, that tlie 
 ex-ship-owner can be made to yield in anything what- 
 ever. He knows that his first impulse is always to say 
 no, that no very probably will be his final answer, and 
 that, to wring from him one poor aflirmative out of a 
 hundred negatives, he must be prepared to fight without 
 fainting. Marcel is well-tempered (it is a family trait), 
 and his professional habits of contention, and, above all, 
 his habit of fighting with his uncle, make him find a sort 
 of rude enjoyment in this occupation, by which an artist 
 would be instantly repelled. 
 
 " Look here ! " he opened the conversation by say- 
 ing; "I have brought you something to sign." 
 
 " I shall sign nothing ; my word is enough." 
 
 "Yes, for those who know you." 
 
 " Every one knows me." 
 
 "Almost every one; but I have got idiots to deal 
 with. Come — sign, sign ! " 
 
 " No, you might as well talk to a post ! My word is 
 as good as gold ; so much the worse for those who doubt 
 it." 
 
 " Then you want to see the house at Sevres sold? Your 
 brother's creditor will be delighted, no doubt, but he 
 will have good cause, from this time, to doubt my 
 word." 
 
 " It seems that you have a bad reputation." 
 
 " Apparently." 
 
 " You don't seem to mind it much ! " 
 
 " What would you have? If I talk in a different wayj 
 you won't sign ; I want to make you sign." 
 
 " Ah, you want it — and why?" 
 
 " Because I want to escape the annoyance and fa- 
 tigue of returning to Sevres, and waiting until the people 
 there make up their minds to come and see you ; not to 
 speak of the derangement that this will be to my busi- 
 ness. Sending this paper by my clerk will relieve all 
 difficulties, and save me trouble and expense. Do you 
 understand that ? " 
 
 " You make me do whatever you choose," replied the 
 fillip-owner, taking his pen. He dipped it three or four 
 
38 ANTONIA. 
 
 times into the ink without deciding, read and reread 
 the deed making him responsible for six thousand livrea 
 in behalf of his brothers estate, — looked at Marcel, to 
 see whether he was anxious or impatient, and, at the 
 sight of his impassible face, renounced, with regret, the 
 hope of putting him into a passion. Finally, he signed 
 the deed, and threw it into his face, saying with an ill- 
 natured laugh, — 
 
 '' Go, beggar ! You never enter my house except to 
 get something out of me. You might have been their 
 security yourself, — you are rich enough." 
 
 " If I were, the affair would have been settled long ago ; 
 you may be sure of that. I have not yet paid off my own 
 obligations, and can no longer hide from Julien that what 
 I have done for him has embarrassed me. He is troubled 
 about it, his mother is grieved — " 
 
 "Oh! his mother, — his mother, — "said the rich 
 man, with an expression of profound aversion. 
 
 " Every one knows that you dislike her, and she will 
 never ask any favors from you, — you need not be afraid ; 
 but, with your permission, I love my aunt, and Julien 
 worships her. He will pay the whole debt himself before 
 two years are passed ; if necessary, I will help him, and 
 you, I flatter myself, will have nothing to disburse." 
 
 " I do not flatter myself with anything of the kind. 
 However, I will render them this service, — but it shall 
 be the last." 
 
 " And the first also, my dear uncle." 
 
 Marcel, by this time, had folded the deed and put it 
 in his pocket ; leaning his elbow upon the table, and look- 
 ing his uncle straight in the face, he added, — 
 
 " Do you know, my good uncle, that you would have 
 been a great brute if you had allowed your brother's 
 country-house to be sold ? " 
 
 " Ah ! that is what you are coming to," cried M. An- 
 toine, rising, and striking the table a blow that would have 
 done credit to the fist of a peasant. " You want me to 
 spend my money, gained by the sweat of my brow, in 
 paying the debts of a spendthrift? When was it necessary 
 for artists to have houses of their own, to fill them with 
 
ANTONIA. yy 
 
 vain baubles more precious than the eyes in their heads ; to 
 have gardens with bridges and turrets, when they cannot 
 raise a single lettuce ? What is it to me, although my 
 brother's folly is sold, and although his widow can no 
 longer have first-rate cooks in her kitchen, and great 
 lords at her table? They were very well pleased, no 
 doubt, when they were entertaining counts and mar- 
 quesses, and when madame could say, ' My house, my 
 people, my servants ! ' I knew very well, for my part, 
 what such extravagance would lead to. And look at. 
 them now, crying out for the help of the old rat, wlio, 
 despising the world, disdaining luxury, and devoting hin> 
 self to useful works, lives in his comer, like a wise 
 man and a philosopher. They bow the head, they hold 
 out the paw, and he who would not give out of pity, 
 — such people do not deserve pity, — he gives out of 
 pride. It is in this way that he revenges himself. Go ! 
 repeat that to your aunt, the beautiful princess in dis- 
 tress ! Your brute of an uncle gives you this commis- 
 sion. — Off with you, dog of a lawyer ! what do you mean 
 by trying to stare me out of countenance?" 
 
 In fact. Marcel had fixed his small, gray, brilliant eyes 
 upon his uncle's face, and was studying it as if he would 
 have liked to read his very soul. 
 
 " Bah ! '* he said, rising suddenly ; " you are a very hard 
 man, a great brute, I repeat ; but you are not so wicked 
 as you pretend ! You have some cause for hating your 
 sister-in-law that no one knows anything about, and 
 which you do not acknowledge, perhaps, to yourself. 
 Now I intend to find out your secret, my dear uncle, you 
 may be sure of that, for I shall make a special business 
 of it ; and when I set about a thing I am like you, — I 
 never give it up." 
 
 Marcel continued to watch the rich man as he spoke, 
 and he noticed a remarkable change in his expression. 
 The coarse flush that had covered his face, burnt by the 
 sun of the early spring, was succeeded by a sudden pale- 
 ness. His lips trembled, he pulled his hat over his black, 
 bushy brows, and, turning his back upon his nephew, 
 went into the garden without a word. 
 
40 
 
 ANTONIA 
 
 Gardens imitating the sylvan style of Trianon, with arti- 
 ficial rocks, fantastic edifices, and miniature cows of coarse 
 earthenware, lying on the green grass, were the rage at 
 that time, but M. Antoine's was not of this description. 
 Nor was it, like that of the hotel d'Estrelle, an undulating 
 lawn, with winding walks, groves regularly planted, and 
 broken columns reflected in limpid pools ; one of the first 
 picturesque attempts in the style of the modern English 
 garden. Neither did it display the old-fashioned square 
 beds and ^ong regular borders of the time of Louis XIV". 
 The ground was cut up and intersected according to the 
 taste of M. Antoine. Everywhere you beheld baskets, 
 hearts, stars, triangles, ovals, shields, trifoils, surrounded 
 with green borders and with a labyrinth of little paths. 
 
 Flowers of every variety, — all beautiful or curious, — 
 glittered in these strange beds, but they seemed to have 
 lost all their natural grace. Imprisoned under bulrush 
 cages, brass net-wire, reed parasols ; protected and sup- 
 ported by props and stays of every description, preserving 
 them from the stains of the earth, heat of the sun, and 
 rude caresses/ of the wind, they no longer looked like 
 themselves. His rose-bushes, cut and pruned every hour, 
 were so clean and shining that they looked artificial. 
 His peonies were as large and round as the tufts on a 
 grenadier's cap, and his tulips glittered in the sun like 
 tin-foil. Around the flower-garden stretched immense 
 nurseries, poorly clad with foliage, and as melancholy as 
 rows of pickets. This spectacle delighted the eyes of the 
 horticulturist, and dissipated his melancholy. 
 
 There was only one agreeable walk in this immense 
 enclosure, and that was in the corner of the garden next 
 the pavilion occupied by Madam Thierry. There, for the 
 last twenty years, M. Antoine had acclimated ornamental 
 and exotic trees. These trees were already well grown, 
 and cast a fine shade ; but, as they no longer required 
 careful and minute attention, he had ceased to feel the 
 least interest in them, and greatly preferred the seed of a 
 piae-tree or a newly-sprouted acacia. 
 
 His greenhouse was marvellously beautiful, and it was 
 there tiiat he hastened to bury the bitter memories that 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 41 
 
 Alarcel had awakened. He walked through the depart- 
 ment of his favorite plants, — lilies, — and, after assuring 
 himself that those in bloom were in good condition, he 
 paused before a little china vase, where an unknown bulb 
 was beginning to put forth slender shoots of a dark and 
 brilliant green. 
 
 " What will it be like? " he thought ; '' will it make 
 an epoch in the history of horticulture, like so many 
 plants that owe their renown to me ? It is a long time 
 since I have produced anything new in my establishment, 
 and it seems to me that I am no longer talked about as 
 much as I ought to be." 
 
 Marcel, in the meanwhile, went away absorbed in 
 thought. There was one curious feature in the avarice 
 of M. Antoine, and this was that he was not avaricious. 
 He did not hoard up his money ; he did not practise 
 usury, and had never done so ; he denied himself nothing 
 that he took a fancy to, and sometimes, out of vanity, he 
 did good. How was it that he had refused to purchase 
 tlie property of his defunct brother for his nephew? This 
 act of liberality would have caused him to be talked about 
 more widely, and with more admiration, than the future 
 Antonia Thierrii. Why had he allowed such a fine op- 
 portunity of gaining notoriety to escape him? This point 
 Marcel souglit in vain to explain. He knew that the ship- 
 owner had always been jealous of his brother ; jealous, 
 not of his talent, — for that he despised, — but of his 
 celebrity, and the favor with which he was received in the 
 fashionable world. But surely this jealousy must have 
 died with the old Andre. Why should his widow and son 
 reap the sad inheritance? 
 
 A thought occurred to Marcel : he turned back, followed 
 M. Antoine to the greenhouse, and, interrupting his hor- 
 ticultural reveries, said, in a cheerful tone, — 
 
 " By the way, uncle, do you want to purchase the 
 pavilion of the hotel d'Estrelle ? " 
 
 '' Imbecile ! If the pavilion is for sale, why didn't 
 you tell me ? " 
 
 '* I forgot it. Well then, how much will you give for 
 it?" 
 
42 ANTONIA, 
 
 " How much is it worth? " 
 
 " I have told you already. To the Countess d'Estrelle, 
 who has just accepted the property, it is worth ten 
 thousand francs ; as you are anxious to get it, and are 
 in want of it, it is worth double that to you. It remains 
 to be seen whether the countess will not ask you three 
 times as much." 
 
 " Of course ! That is the way with your great 
 ladies ! They are sharper and meaner than the plebeians 
 they despise." 
 
 " The Countess d'Estrelle despises no one." 
 
 "It is false ! she is just as great a fool as any of 
 them. She has lived at the hotel d'Estrelle four years, 
 and, during all that time, although there is only a wall 
 between us, has never had the curiosity to come and see 
 my garden." 
 
 '' Perhaps she don't know anything about rare plants." 
 
 " Say, rather, that she would consider herself disgraced 
 if she set foot in the house of a plebeian." 
 
 " Ah ! You want a young woman in mourning to 
 compromise herself by coming to walk in your garden, 
 — a bachelor of your age." 
 
 " My age ! Are you joking? How could a man of 
 my age be talked about ? " 
 
 "There is no knowing! You were a volcano at 
 one time." 
 
 " I ! What are you talking about, animal? '* 
 
 " You will never make me believe that you have 
 never been in love." 
 
 " What do you say that for? Surely I have never 
 been in love. I'm not such a fool." 
 
 "That is all false. You may call yourself a fool as 
 much as you choose, but you have been in love, at least 
 once ! Deny it if you can," Marcel added, as he saw 
 that the horticulturist was again becoming pale and 
 agitated. 
 
 " Have done with this nonsense ! " replied uncle An- 
 toine, stamping on the ground with vexation. " You aro 
 the lawyer of Madam d'Estrelle ; are you commissioned 
 to sell the pavilion ? " 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 43 
 
 " No, but T have a right to offer it ! How much will 
 /ou give for it?" 
 
 " Not a sou ! Take yourself off, and leave me in 
 peace." 
 
 "I am at liberty, then, to offer it to another pur- 
 chaser?" 
 
 "What other?" 
 
 " There has been no applicant as yet. I have no taste 
 for trickery, and will not betray your interests ; but you 
 know, as well as I do, that they are building up the street, 
 and that, this evening or to-morrow morning, a dozen 
 would-be purchasers may be quarrelling over the pavilion." 
 
 " If Madam d'Estrelle chooses to enter into negotia- 
 tions with me — " 
 
 "You want to pay her a visit? That can easily bt» 
 arranged." 
 
 "She will receive a visit from me?" said M. An- 
 toine, his eyes lighting up for an instant. 
 
 " Why not?" said Marcel. 
 
 " Ah, yes I she will grant me an interview in her 
 court, or, at the most, in her ante-chamber ; — she will 
 stand up between two doors and receive me, as she would 
 a dog, — or a lawyer I " 
 
 " You think a great deal of good manners, then ; you, who 
 never take your hat off before any one, no matter who. 
 But set your heart at rest. Madam d'Estrelle is as polite 
 to deserving people of our class, as to the greatest aristo- 
 crats. The proof of this is, that she is on the best terms 
 with my aunt Thierry ; they are already almost friends." 
 
 "Ah! there is nothing strange in that, — your aunt 
 is noble. The nobles, — bah ! they understand each 
 other like thieves in a fair." 
 
 " Sapristi I uncle, what have you now against your 
 sister-in-law?" 
 
 " I have this against her — that I detest her ! " 
 
 "I see that; but why?" 
 
 " Because she is noble. Don't talk to me about the 
 nobility. They have no hearts, and they are all un- 
 grateful ! " 
 
 " You were in love with her, then 1 ** 
 
44 ANTONIA. 
 
 M. Antoine was completely overcome by this direct 
 question. He grew first pale, and then purple, with rage ; 
 he swore, pulled his hair, and cried furiously, — 
 
 " She told you so — she pretends, she dares relate — " 
 
 " Nothing at all. I have never been able to make her 
 say a word about you ; but I have had my suspicions all 
 along, — and now you acknowledge the truth. Tell me 
 all about it, uncle, it will be worth your while, for the 
 confession will relieve you ; at least, once in your life, you 
 will have yielded to a good impulse, and will be at peace 
 with yourself." 
 
 A good half hour passed before the ex-ship-owner had 
 poured forth all the spite and bitterness with which his 
 heart was filled ; he abused Marcel, Madam Thierry, and 
 his defunct brother, with almost equal violence. Marcel 
 teased him cruelly ; but finally, when he liad succeeded in 
 exhausting him, he carried the day. Old Antoine related 
 the following story by fits and starts, forcing the lawyer to 
 draw from him by piecemeal the secret of liis life, which 
 was, at the same time, that of his character. 
 
 The elopement of Mademoiselle de Meuil and Andre 
 Thierry occurred forty years before the opening of our 
 story ; after their flight, the lovers came to M. Antoine 
 Thierry, who, although young, was already a rich man, 
 to beg an asylum. Hitherto the brothers had been good 
 friends. Mademoiselle de Meuil was secreted in the 
 house of the ship-owner, and regarded him with sincere 
 friendship and holy confidence. Pursued by the family 
 de Meuil, and exposed to the danger of being sent to the 
 Bastile, Andre was obliged to leave Paris so as to mis- 
 lead his enemies ; in the meanwhile powerful protectors, 
 interested in his favor, endeavored to bring about a 
 reconciliation, and finally succeeded in doing so. 
 
 Tlie separation of the lovers lasted several months ; 
 and, during this period. Mademoiselle de Meuil, a prey 
 to the most terrible anxiety, thought several times of 
 returning to her relatives, so as to save her lover from 
 the perils and misfortunes that threatened him. More 
 than once she discussed her plans confidentially with 
 bi other Andre; she asked his advice, and did not hide 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 AS 
 
 from him her grief and alarm. Thus appealed to, M. 
 Antoine conceived a really whimsical idea ; the plan that 
 the poor man formed was suggested neither by treachery 
 nor passion, but it very soon brought his morbid vanity 
 into full play. But let him speak for himself: 
 
 " That girl," he said, " was lost, although she and 
 my brother had never lived together as man and wife. 
 She was too much compromised to be received again by 
 her family, and could hope for nothing better than to 
 be sent to end her days in a convent. My brother 
 seemed to me in a still worse plight : they had obtained 
 a leitre de cachet against him, which, at that time, was 
 no joke. He might have been thrown into prison at any 
 moment, and have lain there for twenty years, — how 
 did I know ? — perhaps for his whole life ! The young 
 lady was constantly telling me all this herself; every 
 moment she cried, ' What shall we do, M. Antoine ? 
 Mon Dieul what shall we do?' So then the idea 
 occurred to me that I would save them both by marrying 
 her. I was not in love with her. No ! The devil take 
 me if I am lying. She belonged to a good family, and 
 that gave her a sort of distinction, — not in my eyes, for 
 I have no prejudices, but in the opinion of other people, — 
 and but for that she would not have been worth noticing. 
 You laugh ! What are you laughing at, ass of a 
 lawyer ? " 
 
 ''I am not laughing," said Marcel. "Goon, — you 
 told her your fine idea." 
 
 "■ Plainly and fairly ; I was no more of a fool than my 
 brother, and could express myself just as well. Pray 
 was he an eagle in those days? He was an insignificant 
 dauber, who had not had sense enough to lay up two sous, 
 and who had no reputation at all. Was he more polite 
 than I, — younger, — better bred ? We had been brought 
 up together, and he had but one advantage ; I was five 
 years his senior. As far as appearances are concerned, I 
 was better looking than he ; Andre never was handsome. 
 He was a great babbler, and had always been so ; I did 
 not talk so much, but was more sensible. Brothers, born 
 of the same parents, with the same blood flowing in our 
 
46 ANTONIA, 
 
 veius, we were alike plebeians. In the meanwhile I had 
 already made nearly a million that no one knew anything 
 about ! This gave me a good deal of poAver which my 
 brother did not possess. With a million you can lull 
 justice to sleep, pacify relatives, buy up protectors who 
 will not fail you ; you can even reach the ear of the king, 
 and are quite good enough to marry a girl of a noble 
 family with no dowry of her own. If people make an 
 outcry, it is because they would like to have your million 
 in their own pockets. Finally, my money proved, plainly 
 enough, that it was not from any lack of mind or genius, 
 that I was not such a fine talker as my brother. All this 
 the young lady ought to have understood. I did not ask 
 her to love me immediately, but to love her Andre well 
 enough to forget him, and save him from being sent to 
 rot in prison. Nothing of the kind ! She behaved like 
 a prude ; instead of recognizing my good sense and gen- 
 erosity, she flew into a passion, called me rude, treated 
 me like a bad brother and a dishonest man, and de- 
 (nimped from my house without telling me where she was 
 going. Running all sorts of risks to avoid seeing me 
 again, she departed ; and, by way of thanks, left me a 
 letter promising never to inform M. Andre of my treach- 
 ery. I acknowledge that I have never pardoned her for 
 that, and never will pardon her. As for my brother, his 
 conduct in the affair offended me almost as much as that 
 of madame. I had no idea of waiting until his haughty 
 wife should betray me. As soon as he had escaped from 
 his troubles, and married, I told him the whole story, 
 as I have just told it to you. Andre was not angry ; 
 he thanked me, on the contrary, for my good intentions, 
 but he began to laugh. You know how frivolous he was, 
 — a weak head! Well, he thought my idea comical, 
 and made fun of me. That put an end to our friendship 
 forever ; I would never consent to see either wife or hus- 
 band again." 
 
 " Good ! " said Marcel ; " finally that mystery is solved. 
 Bat Julien ! — What grudge can you have against Julien? 
 He was not born at the time of your grievances." 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 47 
 
 "I have no grudi^e against Julien, but he is the son 
 of his mother, and I ara sure that he hates me." 
 
 " Upon my honor, Julien knows nothing about the 
 facts that you have just related ; your conduct since his 
 father's death is all that he knows about you. Do you 
 think he can approve of that? Was it not your duty to 
 purchase the house for his mother, when he swore, in 
 the most solemn manner, that he would devote his life 
 to paying you ? " 
 
 " Fine security, the life of a painter ! What became 
 of his father, — and he was famous ? " 
 
 " Even if you had lost fifty thousand francs or so, 
 you who have more than — " 
 
 '•'' Hold your tongue ! The amount of a fortune should 
 never be mentioned. When such words are spoken, the 
 walls, the trees, the very flower-pots have ears." 
 
 " At any rate, you are rich enough to have purchased 
 the house at Sevres without inconvenience ; you will 
 acknowledge that ? " 
 
 '' Do you want to make me out a miser? " 
 
 " I know that you are not a miser, but I am forced to 
 believe that you are wicked, and that you love to see 
 those to whom you are hostile suffer." 
 
 "•Well, have I not the right to do so? Since when 
 have we been forbidden to revenge ourselves ? " 
 
 " Since we have ceased to be savages." 
 
 " I am a savage, then ! " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 "Go away, — you have worn out my patience! — 
 Take care that I do not turn against you also 1 " 
 
 '' I defy you to do so ! " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because you know that I am the only person in the 
 world who, in spite of all your perversities, feels a little 
 affection and love for you." 
 
 " How discerning you are ! You acknowledge that 
 Julien detests me." 
 
 " Make him love you ! then you wiU have two friends 
 instead of one." 
 
 " Ah, of course ! you want me to purchase the housOv 
 
48 ANTONIA, 
 
 Very well, when Julien becomes an orphan I will look 
 after his interests, on condition that he never speaks to 
 me of his mother." 
 
 ""You would like him to kill her, perhaps? You are 
 a fool, uncle ; that is the long and the short of it. Yov. 
 are excessively vain, and you worship rank more than 
 those who can boast of their ancestors. I am certain 
 that you were not in love with Mademoiselle de Meuil ■, 
 but she belonged to a good family, and for that reason 
 you wanted to supplant your brother. You were furi- 
 ously jealous of poor Andre, not because you loved a 
 beautiful and noble woman, but because of the parch- 
 ments which were her marriage portion, and the sort of 
 glory reflected upon him by her affection. In a word, 
 you do not hate the nobility ; you worship them, you 
 envy them, you would give all your millions to have 
 been born noble. Your pretended fury against them 
 is nothing but the spite of a disdained lover, as your 
 hatred against my aunt is merely the malice of an 
 obstinate and humiliated plebeian. This, my poor 
 uncle, is your mania. We each of us have one, it is 
 said, but this of yours makes you a bad man, and I am 
 sorry for you." 
 
 The ex-ship-owner felt, perhaps, that Marcel was 
 right ; consequently he was prepared to work himself 
 up into a more violent rage than ever ; but Marcel 
 shrugged his shoulders, turned his back upon him, and 
 went away without paying the least attention to hia 
 invectives. 
 
 In his heart, Marcel was very glad to have got poss- 
 session of his uncle's secret, — the clue to his thoughts 
 and recollections. He promised himself that he would 
 turn his discovery to good account, and, by means of it, 
 would lead M. Antoine to amend. Will he succeed in 
 this effort? The sequel must show. 
 
 "Madam," said Marcel to the Countess d'Estrelle, 
 the next morning, " you must sell your pavilion." 
 
 " Wh/?" replied Julie. " It is so old, out of repair, 
 and is worth so little ! " 
 
 " It has a relative value which you should not despise 
 
ANTONIA, 49 
 
 My uncle will give you ten thousand francs for it, -— 
 perhaps more." 
 
 " This is the first time, my dear lawyer, that you 
 have given me bad advice. I would never consent to 
 take advantage of a neighbor. Would not that be specu- 
 lating upon the need that he may have of this old 
 building?" 
 
 " A little patience, my noble client ! My uncle does 
 not need the pavilion ; he wants it : that, I assure you is 
 a very different thing. He is rich enough to pay for his 
 fancies. And what would you say if he thanked you for 
 your demands ? " 
 
 ^'How can that be?" 
 
 "Make his acquaintance, and he will offer you a 
 consideration above the price." 
 
 " Fie, Monsieur Thierry ! Would you have me pay 
 court to his money ? " 
 
 " Not at all ; bestow a smile of patronizing goodness 
 upon it, and it will fly to you of its own accord. Be- 
 sides, you will be doing a good deed." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Show my uncle that you feel an affection and esteem 
 for my aunt and cousin, — your tenants, — and you will 
 force the old man to help them effectually in their 
 distress." 
 
 " I will do that with all my heart, Monsieur Thierry, 
 and I already know your aunt well enough to appreciate 
 her. But what can I say of your cousin, whom I do not 
 know?" 
 
 " Do not hesitate upon that account. You can take 
 him upon trust fearlessly. Julien has a noble heart, — a 
 lofty mind, — a soul above his condition ; he is the best 
 of sons, the truest of friends, the most honest of men, 
 and, moreover, the most reasonable of artists. You can 
 suy all that, countess, and if Julien ever gives the lie to 
 your statements, I am willing to forfeit your confidence 
 and esteem." 
 
 Marcel spoke with so much enthusiasm, that Julie was 
 deeply impressed. She refrained from asking questions, 
 but listened, without losing a word, to the conclusion 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 of his eulogy, and Marcel entered into details with which 
 any one, not absolutely incapable of feeling, would have 
 been touched. He told her of Julien's devotion to his 
 mother, of the sufferings he had endured without her 
 knowledge ; how he even went without food in order that 
 she might not be deprived of it. In making this state- 
 ment. Marcel, like Madam Thierry on the preceding day, 
 uttered a falsehood without knowing it. Julien did not 
 eat, because he was in love ; and Marcel, who was far 
 from suspecting the truth, thought that he understood the 
 cause of his involuntary austerity. But Julien was cap- 
 able of doing a great deal more for his mother than 
 restraining his appetite : he would have given the last 
 drop of his blood for her ; so that Marcel, although he 
 did not state the exact truth in regard to a special fact, 
 stated far less than the truth. 
 
 His panegyric upon Julien was so enthusiastic and 
 heartfelt, that the countess had no excuse for hesitating. 
 She begged Marcel to inform uncle Antoine that she was 
 anxious to see his rare flowers, and to visit his immense 
 and curious plantations. Uncle Antoine received this 
 communication with an air of haughty scepticism. 
 
 " I understand all that," he said ; " she wants a high 
 price for the pavilion ; she will make me pay the eyes out 
 of my head for her politeness." 
 
 Marcel was not duped by his grumbling. The satis- 
 faction of the rich man was too apparent. 
 
 On the appointed day. Madam d'Estrelle dressed herself 
 once more in deep mourning, stepped into her carriage, 
 and drove to the hotel Melcy. Marcel was standing at 
 the door awaiting her. He offered her his hand, and, as 
 they ascended the great front steps, uncle Antoine made 
 his appearance in all his glory, in the dress of a gardener. 
 Considering the folly of the old man, this really was not 
 a bad idea. Without consulting Marcel, he had half 
 resolved to array himself magnificently. He was rich 
 enough to wear cloth of gold, if he desired it, but the fear 
 of looking ridiculous restrained him. Since he prided 
 himself, above everything else, upon being a great horti- 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 51 
 
 culturist, he had sense enough to appear before his distin- 
 guished visitor in a severely rustic costume. 
 
 In spite of his harsh character and habitually rude 
 manners, — in spite of his secret desire to assert his inde- 
 pendence and philosophical pride before Marcel, — he lost 
 countenance altogether when the beautiful Julie saluted 
 him graciously, and looked at him with her sweet, frank 
 expression. For the first time in thirty years, perhaps, 
 he took off his three-cornered hat, and, instead of re- 
 placing it immediately upon his head, held it awkwardly, 
 but respectfully, under his arm, during the whole time 
 that her visit lasted. 
 
 Julie was above the pettiness of trying to flatter his 
 caprices, but she took a genuine interest in the horti- 
 cultural wealth displayed to her. A flower herself, she 
 loved flowers ; and this is not a madrigal, to use the lan- 
 guage of that epoch. There are natural affinities in all 
 the creations of God, and in all times symbols have been 
 the expression of a reality. 
 
 The rich man, although in himself not at all like a 
 rose, felt his heart expand, nevertheless, at the sincere 
 praise bestowed upon his cherished plants. In presence 
 of the sylph who seemed to float over the turf without 
 touching it, and who glided along the borders of his 
 flower-beds like a caressing breeze, he gradually forgot 
 his affected pride. With perfect resignation, he waited 
 to learn the amount that she proposed to demand for 
 the pavilion. 
 
 " By the way," said Marcel, who saw that Madam 
 d'Estrelle had forgotten this affair, "tell the countess, my 
 dear uncle, how anxious you are to purchase — " 
 
 " Yes, in fact," said the rich man, without allowing 
 himself to be too much compromised, " I have had 
 some idea of purchasing the pavilion of the hotel 
 d'Estrelle ; but at present, if madame regrets parting with 
 it — " 
 
 " There is only one reason that makes me do so," 
 replied Julie ; " it is occupied by persons for whom I 
 feel a great respect, and I do not wish to have them 
 disturbed." 
 
52 ANTONIA. 
 
 " They have a lease, I suppose ? " said M. Thierry, 
 who knew perfectly <vell how matters stood. 
 
 " Certainly," said Marcel ; " and you will have to pay 
 them a large indemnity if they consent to annul it, for 
 they have just entered into possession." 
 
 "A large indemnity?" said uncle Antoine, frown- 
 ing." 
 
 " I will willingly undertake that duty," said Madam 
 d'Estrelle, if— " 
 
 " If I pay in proportion ! " 
 
 " That is not what I intended to say," said Julie, in 
 a tone of dignity that cut the discussion short. "I in- 
 tended to say, that if Madam Thierry, your sister-in-law, 
 is imwilling to leave her lodging, it is my intention to 
 maintain her rights to the full enjoyment of her lease. 
 I shall make this a condition of the sale, and no pur- 
 chaser will be allowed to elude it under any pretext." 
 
 " Such a condition will delay the sale of the pavilion, 
 and make it less advantageous to you, madams," said 
 M. Antoine, who was longing to pronounce the sweet 
 word countess^ but who could not make up his mind to 
 do so. 
 
 " That may be, Monsieur Thierry," replied Julie, in 
 a tone of indifference which the rich man thought as- 
 sumed, and very adroit. 
 
 '^To come to the point," he said, after a moment's 
 silence. " What will be the price demanded by — ? " 
 
 Marcel was going to reply ; but Julie, who certainly 
 did not understand business, did not notice this, and 
 answered, ingenuously, — 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, I really don't know. Your reputation 
 is that of an honest and just man ; you can fix the price 
 yourself." 
 
 Without paying any attention to the reproachful glance 
 of her lawyer, she continued, — 
 
 "You cannot suppose, M. Thierry, that I came to 
 visit your garden so as to drive a bargain Avith you 
 about my little piece of property. I know that you would 
 like to purchase it, and you know, probably, that my 
 affairs are embarrassed ; but this, surely, need not make 
 
ANTONIA. 53 
 
 as unjust in our dealings with each other. The declaration 
 that I have just made I shall abide by. I will not con- 
 sent to have your sister-in-law annoyed upon any account, 
 — not for a million, — for I love and honor her. Consider 
 that point settled, therefore. As to the other matter, 
 reflect upon it, and let me know your decision ; for you 
 owe me a visit now, my good neighbor, and I shall not 
 excuse you from paying it, whether we conclude our 
 present negotiations or not." 
 
 The countess retired, leaving the rich man dazzled 
 by her sweetness and grace. Unable to conceal his satis- 
 faction from Marcel, he tried to attribute it to some 
 other cause than the true one, 
 
 "How now, lawyer?" he cried, with an air of tri- 
 umph. " You are caught, and look foolish enough ! 
 What have you to say now about the demands of this 
 lady ? She is more sensible than you : she agrees to my 
 valuation — " 
 
 " Enjoy her pretty ways, and praise her politeness, to 
 your heart's content," replied Marcel ; " but, at the same 
 time, try to understand, and be equal to, the part she 
 expects you to play." 
 
 " In fact you are right ! " said Antoine, who was 
 very acute in matters of business. " When a great lady 
 says to a man like me, ' Do as you choose,' she means, 
 ' Pay like a great lord ! ' Very well ; by the life of me, 
 I \vill pay dear ! The countess shall see that I am not 
 a miserly old pedant, like her father-in-law, the marquis ! 
 There is only one thing that surprises me in a woman that 
 seems so sensible, and that is, the friendship that she 
 feels for my sister-in-law. I don't exactly know whether 
 she meant to be agreeable to me, or to vex me, by talk- 
 ing as she did." 
 
 '' She meant to be agreeable to you." 
 
 " I suppose so, since she wants to make use of me. 
 Still, my sister-in-law may have told her that I was a 
 miser." 
 
 " My aunt has not spoken of you at all. Behave so 
 that she will not have to complain about you." 
 
 "Let her complain, if she chooses! What harnj 
 
54 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 would it do me ? Why should I care for the friendship 
 and respect of this countess ? " 
 
 " Why, indeed ! " replied Marcel, taking his hat. " It 
 'S evident enough how indifferent you are ! But no mat- 
 ter ; do your best to behave like a civilized being, and 
 name the day for your visit, so that I may announce it." 
 
 Antoine appointed the day after the morrow, and they 
 separated. On the very next day, without informing 
 Marcel, he took indirect but skilful measures for repur- 
 chasing the house at Sevres. Had he resolved to restore 
 his father's house to his nephew, to confer so great a 
 blessing upon his sister-in-law ? Certainly not ! No man 
 in the world was more vindictive than M. Antoine, for 
 he had never found a vent either for his good or bad pas- 
 sions, and repression had increased their violence. No 
 influences in his narrow life had softened the asperities 
 of his nature. But, at last, an impression was made 
 upon him. Without affectation and without calculation, 
 merely by unconsciously flattering his secret vanity, Julie 
 d'Estrelle had conquered this savage nature. He con- 
 sidered her condescension interested, he attributed it 
 entirely to her need of money ; and yet the irresistible 
 grace of her manner, and the tone of unaffected equality 
 in which she addressed him, had flattered him as he 
 had never before been flattered in his whole life. He 
 resolved, therefore, that he would pretend to feel a sort 
 of commiseration for Madam Thierry. He was really 
 afraid that she would injure him in Julie's estimation, 
 and by purchasing the house at Sevres he persuaded 
 himself that he would force his enemy to treat him with 
 respect, since she would naturally imagine that he in- 
 tended to confer it upon Julien. 
 
 Marcel, in the meanwhile, was doing his best to free 
 Madam d'Estrelle gradually from her embarrassments. 
 On the very evening of her visit to M. Antoine, he went 
 to scold her for her rashness, and to insist that she should 
 make her purchaser pay dearly for his sugar-plum. Ha 
 found her but little inclined to enter into his schemes. 
 
 " Do what you please, dear M. Thierry," she said, 
 ^' but do not ask my assistance. You told me that youi 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 55 
 
 uncle was somewhat vain, that I could easily gain an 
 influence over him, thanks to my title, and might lead 
 him to ameliorate his sister-in-law's misfortunes. I hast- 
 ened to try my power, and you tell me that you hope 
 something from my efforts. I have done what my heart 
 dictated, but do not talk to me of any further projects. 
 Why are you so anxious to sell this pavilion ? You told 
 me yourself that my husband's creditors, since I hav6 
 acquired a little more real estate, would be less exacting ; 
 that the marquis would never allow the hotel d'P^strclle 
 to be sold ; and that, for some time at least, you would 
 allow me to forget my troubles. Keep your word with 
 me ! Let your uncle make his own offer for the pavilion, 
 since these negotiations will give me an excuse for plead- 
 ing Madam Thierry's cause. When I said that I diO 
 not wish her to be dispossessed of her lodging against liei 
 will, I spoke the simple truth, and I assure you that 1 
 shall regret exceedingly to have her leave the neighbor- 
 hood." 
 
 Marcel, finding that he could not change her resolution, 
 took his leave. He stopped at the pavilion, and told 
 Madam Thierry, and Julien, who was also present, of the 
 efforts that the generous countess had made in their be- 
 half, and the kind sentiments with which she regarded 
 them. 
 
 Madam Thierry was so touched, that she could not 
 restrain her tears. Julien had played his part so well, 
 that her fears in regard to him had been dissipated, and, 
 pouring forth, at last, the gratitude with which her heart 
 was full, and which she had with difiiculty repressed for 
 several days, she broke out into an enthusiastic eulogy of 
 Julie d'Estrclle. The poor mother, therefore, poured oil 
 herself upon the flames. 
 
 Still, however, from moment to moment, her suspicions 
 returned. At every word that she uttered she glanced 
 stealthily at Julien, to see how he received her remarks. 
 His perfect self-possession reassured her, until a sudden 
 outbreak revealed his true state of feeling. Madam 
 Thierry was saying to Marcel that she did not wish to 
 keep the countess from selling the pavilion, and would 
 
^6 ANTONIA. 
 
 pretend that she felt no regret at giving up her lodging, 
 when Julien interposed vehemently : 
 
 " Move again ? " he cried. " We cannot do it. We 
 have spent too much, in proportion to our means, in get- 
 ting established here." 
 
 *' Your uncle will provide for that," said Marcel ; "if 
 he forces you to move, I will do my best to extort from 
 him — " 
 
 " My dear friend," Julien continued, with increased ani- 
 mation, " your zeal and goodness are incomparable ; but 
 you know perfectly well that my mother dislikes to have 
 you make any advances to uncle Antoine. All that you 
 have done hitherto has been against her will, and she 
 v.ould have forbidden you positively to make any appeal 
 to him, if it had not been out of consideration for me. 
 It is not for us to judge whether she is right or wrong in 
 detesting him as she does. For my part, I should have 
 been willing to make all possible concessions, even if I 
 suffered in d-oing so, to a man with such a singular 
 character ; but I cannot allow my mother's pride to be 
 wounded." 
 
 "' No, no ! I have no pride," cried Madam Thierry ; " I 
 cast my pride from me, Julien ! You are working too 
 much ; you will fall ill if we refuse to negotiate with M. 
 Antoine. Whatever Marcel's plans may be, they have 
 my approval ; even if I must be humiliated, I shall be 
 happy. Let us do our duty before everything else : let us 
 pay our debts. We will tell the countess that it is a mat- 
 ter of indifference to us whether we live here or else- 
 where, and beg her to conclude the sale ; and let Marcel 
 say to M. Thierry that we demand our rights, or that we 
 implore his generosity. I am willing to make every sac- 
 rifice so that you recover your repose and health." 
 
 '' My health is excellent," replied Julien, warmly ; 
 " and my repose will be very much disturbed by moving 
 again. I like my studio ; I have a work on hand — " 
 
 ''But you are speaking selfishly, my child ! You do 
 not remember that this lady is being tormented by her 
 creditors, just as we are, and even more than we are, for 
 the present." 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 57 
 
 " And you think M. Antoine will relieve hei by pur- 
 chasing this hovel ? Marcel is not so foolish ! " 
 
 " My opinion is," said Marcel, *' that M. Antoine will 
 submit to all the conditions that the countess may choose 
 to impose ; he will pay a high price for the pavilion, and 
 will not compel you to move. Let me alone, and I may, 
 perhaps, lead him to do something still better." 
 
 " What?" said Madame Thierry. 
 
 " That is my secret. You shall know about it later, 
 if I do not fail." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! " said Madam Thierry, interrupting 
 the conversation, " I have forgotten my snuff-box ; go 
 and bring it to me, Julien." 
 
 Julien went up stairs, and his mother took advantage 
 of the moment's tete-a-tete that she had contrived to ob- 
 tain with Marcel, to say quickly, — 
 
 " Take care, my dear friend ! We are threatened with 
 a great danger : Julien is in love with the countess." 
 
 *^What are you saying?" cried Marcel, in perfect 
 amazement; "you are dreaming, my good aunt; it is 
 impossible." 
 
 "Speak lower. It is possible, — it is a fact. Do 
 what you can to get us out of this dangerous abode. 
 Find some means, without allowing him to suspect what 
 1 have told you. Save him, — save me I Silence, — he 
 is coming." 
 
 Julieu performed his errand with the utmost despatch. 
 He was eager to take part again in the conversation ; but 
 when he entered the room he noticed that his mother 
 looked embarrassed, and that Marcel seemed surprised 
 and troubled. He felt that his secret had been betrayed, 
 and immediately assumed an air of cheerful indifference 
 that no longer deceived Madam Thierry, but which com- 
 pletely reassured the lawyer. The latter went away 
 promising himself that he would sound his cousin when an 
 opportunity occurred, but persuaded that Madam Thierry, 
 agitated by the events of the last few days, was a little 
 out of her mind. 
 
 Marcel soon made a discovery much more surprising 
 
58 ANTOMA, 
 
 than this, — so surprising, in fact, that we beg our readers 
 to prepare themselves for it a little in advance. 
 
 On the appointed day, uncle Antoine went to call upon 
 Madam d'Estrelle. He found her simple and natural as 
 ever, and quite as charming, — perhaps even more charm- 
 
 mir 
 
 05 
 
 than at their first interview. She greeted the hor- 
 ticulturist just as she would have done a person of her 
 own class. Unaccustomed to society, but endowed with 
 penetration, he felt that his reception was perfect, and 
 that he had never been treated so well by a person of her 
 social position. 
 
 He saw, also, that she was really indifferent to the 
 question of money. It was evident that her courtesy had 
 not been assumed to obtain any ulterior object whatever, 
 — even that of reconciling him to Madam Thierry, — 
 since she expressed her desire to see them reconciled 
 frankly and cordially. 
 
 M. Thierry returned from this interview radiant with 
 a delight that he no longer took any pains to conceal. 
 When Marcel saw him, he was obliged to confess that, in 
 certain cases, straiglit forward honesty is the best diplo- 
 macy ; and that Madam d'Estrelle had done more for her 
 proteges and herself, by following her natural instinct, 
 than she would have done if she had been more artful. 
 
 "• Now then," said M. Antoine, " we must settle this 
 matter of the pavilion. I consider it worth forty thou- 
 sand francs, and that is what I intend to pay for it. I 
 shall want to enter into possession immediately, and it ig 
 my duty, therefore, to meet any claims that Madam 
 Thierry may urge. I don't want to have any discussion 
 with that woman. Tell her that I release her from the 
 six thousand francs for which I am security ; here is my 
 receipt. Furthermore, if she requires a small amount 
 over and above this, to defray the expenses of moving, 
 she shall have it. Go, and don't let her break my head 
 any longer with her troubles. In the first place, how- 
 ever, take my offer, — which I think is very generous, — 
 to the countess, and tell her of my promise to indemnify 
 her proteges, according to her wish." 
 
 Marcel was amazed, but delighted. He carried this 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 59 
 
 good news, in the first place, to Madam Thierry, who 
 thanked her stars, and was ready to bless even her 
 brother-in-law, she was so grateful to him for forcing 
 her to move as quickly as possible, and at all costs. 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle was not so well pleased ; she had 
 had another interview with the amiable widow, she 
 enjoyed her society and regretted to lose it, and then her 
 delicacy was offended by M. Antoine's munificent offer, 
 which seemed to her the ostentatious folly of a plebeian. 
 She felt that she would be humiliated by accepting it. 
 
 " He will think," she said, " that I have been ma- 
 noeuvring to induce him to pay this extravagant price, 
 and that would annoy me exceedingly. No indeed ! I 
 shall only accept half that he offers ; I prefer to decline 
 his generosity, and retain his respect and my influence, 
 which I can exert in favor of the poor Thierrys. Tell 
 him the price of the pavilion is twenty thousand francs, 
 and that I ask, furthermore, the continuation of his sister- 
 in-law's lease." 
 
 •■' But my aunt is anxious to move," replied Marcel ; 
 " you must remember that the inducement he offers is 
 a matter of great importance." 
 
 " Then say nothing about her affairs in my name ; 
 but remember that my dignity is intrusted to you, and 
 do not allow it to be compromised." 
 
 This reply, transmitted to M. Antoine, led to an ex- 
 plosion by which the lawyer was dumbfounded. 
 
 " So," cried the rich man, " she refuses to accept a favor 
 from me ; for, knowing her embarassments, I was going 
 to do her a favor. I was going to treat her like a friend, 
 since she treated me like one. Ah ! you see, Marcel, 
 she is scornful, she despises me, she told me a lie when 
 she said that she thought higlily of me ! Very well, 
 since this is the case, I will be revenged ! Yes, cruelly 
 revenged ; she shall have her deserts I By heavens, I 
 will make her beg my help." 
 
 The face of the extravagant old man was still rather 
 handsome, and at this moment it looked unmistakably 
 wicked. Marcel gazed upon him in silence. 
 
6o ANTONIA. 
 
 "What is this new mystery?" he said to himself, 
 scrutinizing his uncle's piercing black eyes, flashing with 
 spite and indignation. " Can wounded vanity culminate 
 in delirium? Is my uncle losing his senses? Has the 
 abstracted, solitary, monotonous life that he has led so 
 long, been too much for him? Will the rage that he 
 constantly expresses against all the feelings that warm 
 and illumine the heart, lead, in the long run, to insanity? " 
 
 Antoine, without noticing Marcel's scrutiny, continued 
 vehemently, — 
 
 " I understand what you are all about ! You want 
 Madam Thierry to get the benefit of my generosity. 
 Now, for my part, I have not the least idea of making 
 a fool of myself for the sake of Mademoiselle de Meuil. 
 For a long time I have ceased to feel either hatred or 
 friendship for that person. Let her go to the devil, — I 
 never want to hear her spoken of again. I will pay forty 
 thousand francs for the pavilion, or I will not purchase it. 
 That is my final decision." 
 
 The affair remained in this state for several days. 
 Madam d'Estrelle laughed good-humoredly at what she 
 considered the old plebeian's fit of insanity, while the lat- 
 ter, unknown to Marcel, acted as if his madness had 
 reached a climax. 
 
 Purchasing secretly the claims of all the creditors who 
 were threatening the widow of the Count d'Estrelle, he 
 put himself into a position that would enable him, — 
 according to her conduct to him, — to destroy, or restore 
 her to prosperity. Under a fictitious name he purchased, 
 also, the house at Sevres, with all its rich and precious 
 furniture, and put it under the charge of a housekeeper. 
 All this was accomplished in a short time, and with great 
 expenditure. Finally, one day, having found out from 
 Marcel about the intimate friends of Madam d'Estrelle, 
 he went to call upon the Baroness d'Ancourt. The 
 baroness received him in great state, but deigned, never- 
 theless, to listen to him attentively, when she learned that 
 he had come to enable her to save Madam d'Estrelle from 
 certain ruin. 
 
 Their conversation was long and mysterious. The 
 
ANTONIA. 6 1 
 
 servants of the hotel d'Ancourt were very much puzzled 
 at this confereuce between their haughty mistress aud a 
 sort of presuming peasant, and still more so at the 
 nature of the interview. Now the resounding voice of 
 the baroness was heard breaking suddenly forth, and 
 then the harsh voice of her rustic visitor ; they were 
 quarrelling, in short, and their dispute was interrupted 
 with bursts of merriment or mockery ; for the baroness 
 laughed, at moments, so as to shake the glasses. 
 
 An hour after, the baroness hastened to call upou 
 Madam d'Estrelle. 
 
 ^' My dear," she said, in an agitated voice, " I bring 
 you five millions, or misery ; — choose." 
 
 " Ah ! an old husband, is it not so ? " said Julie ; " you 
 keep to your idea." 
 
 '' A very old husband ; but five millions ! " 
 
 "And a great name, undoubtedly?" 
 
 " No name at all ! — a thorough plebeian ; but five mil- 
 lions, Julie I " 
 
 " An honest man, at least?" 
 
 " He is considered so ; have you decided?" 
 
 "Yes, I refuse him! "Would not you do the same? 
 Would you respect me if I should do otherwise ? " 
 
 " I told him you would say so. I ordered him out 
 of the house. I made fun of him. He replied, obstinately, 
 * Five millions, madam, five millions ! ' " 
 
 " And he convinced you, since you have come to 
 me I" 
 
 " Convinced or not, I was surprised, dazzled ; I said, 
 like, the queen, ' You urge me so strongly.' " 
 
 " Then you advise me to say yes?" 
 
 " Do not say yes, say perhaps^ and reflect ; I will re- 
 flect also, for, at this moment, my head is not clear. 
 These millions have intoxicated me. What would you 
 have? The man is old, — in a little while you will be 
 free : people will stop crying out against the mesalli- 
 ance ! besides, every one knows that you, yourself, are 
 not noble. You can open drawing-rooms that will dazzle 
 all Paris, and all Paris will rush to your fetes ; for, when 
 all is said, Paris has but one idea : to seek amusement, 
 
62 ANTONIA. 
 
 and go where it is to be fotmd. You can give balls, con- 
 certs, private theatricals ; can fill your rooms with artists, 
 beautiful singers, fine talkers, brilliant people, in short, 
 able to entertain and amuse the stupid aristocrats. Ah ! 
 if I had five millions, — if I had only two, — I should 
 know what to do with them ! Come, do not think me 
 a fool, and do not be a coward. Accept vulgarity and 
 opulence." 
 
 " And the old age of the husband?" 
 
 " A reason the more ! " 
 
 Julie was indi^niant and Amelie excited ; they quar- 
 relled. Madam d'Ancourt did not tell her the name of 
 her suitor, and Julie did not think to inquire. Fearing 
 that her impetuous friend might compromise her by 
 allowing her protege to hope, she commissioned Marcel 
 to find out w^ho he was, and tell him plainly of her re- 
 fusal. Marcel went to Madam d'Ancourt to learn the 
 name of the millionaire. 
 
 "Ah, she has reconsidered her decision?" cried the 
 baroness. 
 
 '' No, madam, quite the contrary." 
 
 " Very well, you shall not know his name. I promised 
 on my honor not to reveal it, in case he was rejected." 
 
 Marcel went to the hotel Melcy. He suspected the 
 truth, but had said nothing to the countess, for he 
 feared, with good reason, that she would reproach him 
 for having introduced her to an insane old man. Besides, 
 Marcel valued his uncle's fortune only at two millions, — 
 tliis was all that he claimed to be worth ; and still felt 
 doubtful, therefore, as to whether he really was the per- 
 son in question. He was in a measure misled by the 
 five millions that had been dinned into Julie's ears as 
 the amount of her suitor's fortune. " 
 
 '^ So, uncle," he said, abruptly, as soon as he entered, 
 "you are worth five millions?" 
 
 "Why not thirty?" said the old man, shrugging his 
 shoulders. "Have you gone crazy?" 
 
 It was in vain that Marcel teased him with questions ; 
 his uncle remained impenetrable. A great event had 
 just occurred in his establishment, that had really di- 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 63 
 
 verted his mind from his dreams of marriage, so that it 
 was more easy for liim to conceal the truth. The mys- 
 terious lily that he had so often contemplated, watched, 
 watered, and tended, — the flower that was to bear his 
 name, — during the last few days of neglect and abandon- 
 ment had suddenly put forth a vigorous shoot, already 
 covered with well-swollen buds. One of these buds was 
 already partly open, and within the calyx could be seen 
 silken petals of incomparable beauty, — white, lustrous, 
 and spotted with a brilliant rose. The horticulturist was 
 beside himself with joy. Animated, almost consoled for 
 his matrimonial mishaps, he walked up and down his 
 greenhouse in a great state of agitation, or paused to 
 watch the opening of his flower, while he cried, again 
 and again, — 
 
 " This shall be the one ! This shall be the one ! I 
 am settled. This shall be the Antonia Thierrii; and all 
 he amateurs of Europe, if they choose, may burst with 
 rage." 
 
 "Upon my word," said Marcel to himself, "I am 
 more in doubt than ever. Is it with the Antonia or 
 with the countess that my uncle is in love?" 
 
 III. 
 
 '' I ^11 E vanity of the horticulturist had resumed its 
 -*• sway over Autoine's mind. Seeing this, and reflect- 
 ing that be might turn his uncle's enthusiasm to account 
 for the benefit of his proteges. Marcel bestowed the 
 greatest praise upon the Antonia. 
 
 " You intend, I suppose, to send it to the Jar din des 
 Boi," he said. ** The botanists there ought to feel a 
 great esteem for you." 
 
 " They will count upon this one in vain," replied M. 
 Antoine. " They may look at it until they are tired, de- 
 scribe it in their beautiful language, give a scientific 
 account of it, as they say ; but the specimen is unique. 
 
64 ANTONIA. 
 
 and I shall not part from it until I have a number of 
 offshoots.'* 
 
 " But if it dies without propagating? " 
 
 *' My name will live in the catalogues, even then." 
 
 " That is not enough ! If I were you, I would have 
 it painted, to provide against accidents." 
 
 ''How painted? Do people paint flowers nowadays? 
 Oh, I understand ! you mean that I ought to have its 
 portrait taken? I have thought about that with my 
 other rare plants ; but I had quarrelled with my brother, 
 and the other painters whom I employed were fools ; 
 their daubs never satisfied me. I paid them a high price 
 for their work, and afterwards cut up the canvas, or tore 
 the paper." 
 
 " Did you never think of Julien?" 
 
 " Bah ! Julien, — an apprentice ! " 
 
 " Have you ever seen any of his work? " 
 
 •'No, faith, nothing." 
 
 " Would you like me to bring you — ?" 
 
 " No, nothing, I tell you. We have quarrelled." 
 
 " Not at all. lie has called upon you regularly every 
 year, on the first of January, and you have always been 
 pleased with him." 
 
 "That is true. He has been well brought up, he 
 is quite sensible, and is good-looking. But, since I 
 refused to advance the money to purchase the house at 
 Sevres — " 
 
 " Julien has never blamed you, or uttered a discon- 
 tented word on the subject. I can assure of you that, 
 upon my honor." 
 
 " That may be true, and yet he may not have the 
 necessary talent — " 
 
 " Hold ! a small specimen will do as well as a large 
 one. Take your magnifying-glass, and look at this." 
 
 Marcel drew from his pocket a pretty little shell snuff- 
 box, with a bouquet painted upon it in miniature, by 
 Julien, Although this was not his style, he had copied 
 one of his pictures on this microscopic scale, so as to 
 make this present to Marcel ; and the little painting was 
 a veritable chef d'oeuvre. 
 
ANTONIA. ^3 
 
 Uncle A nioine was too ignorant of art to appreciate its 
 real merit ; but he understood the anatomy of every part 
 of a plant as well as the most thorough botanist, and 
 if his magnifying-glass did not enable him to count the 
 stamens of every flower, and the nerves of every leaf, 
 it proved to him, at least, that the artist, in sacrificing 
 details to produce his general effect, had not sinned against 
 nature ; that he had not been led astray by any error, 
 fancy, or heresy, contradicting the inviolable laws of 
 creation. 
 
 After examining it for a long time, he asked, inge- 
 nuously, whether Julien could paint as large as life ; 
 and, when Marcel replied in the affirmative, decided that 
 he would let him take the portrait of the Antonia 
 Thierrii. He added, however, that he would require 
 him to work under his own eyes, so that he might watch 
 over him, and see that he was exact in the most minute 
 details. 
 
 " I know what these painters are ! " he said ; " they 
 want to interpret, — they want to do better than nature. 
 They must have their atmosphere^ lights effect I Oh, I 
 remember all their stupid^words ! If Julien will be 
 obedient, both of us together, perhaps, may succeed in 
 producing something really beautiful. Go and tell him 
 wliat I want, and let him hold himself in readiness to 
 pass an hour here day after to-morrow ; it will be in 
 full bloom by that time." 
 
 Marcel went to consult Julien, and returned to tell 
 Antoine that the artist would require two days, at least, 
 for studying his model, and that he could not allow him 
 to see his sketches until they were completed, when he 
 would be willing to submit them to him and make such 
 alteration as he desired, if he did not find them satisfac- 
 tory. 
 
 '' He is very proud," said uncle Antoine, impatiently ; 
 "look at that, — he is already making difficulties just 
 like his father. Does he suppose I am asking him to 
 paint the flower as a favor ? I intend to pay him, and 
 will pay as high a price as any one, no matter who. 
 Pray wluit is a day of this gentleman's labor worth ? " 
 5 
 
66 ANTONIA. 
 
 " He does not ask you to pay him. If you are pleaset*. 
 with what he does, he will ask your patronage." 
 
 "It is easy to know what that means ; he v/ill ask 
 me — " 
 
 " Nothing at all. You shall settle the matter yourself. 
 Every one knows that you are generous when you do not 
 dislike people, and you will not dislike Julien when you 
 know him better." 
 
 ''Very well; let him come immediately, — let him 
 begin." 
 
 " No, he is very busy to-day ; he will give you several 
 hours, to begin with, to-morrow." 
 
 The next day, in fact, Julien began to study the plant, 
 and made several sketches, presenting it under different 
 aspects. M. Antoine, faithful to their agreement, did not 
 see these sketches until the artist submitted them to him. 
 He was more pleased than he cared to acknowled^^e. 
 This conscientious manner of studying its structure and 
 attitude surprised and delighted him. Julien talked very 
 little ; he looked constantly at his model, and he looked at 
 it with real artistic enthusiasm, as if he loved it pas:^ion- 
 ately. The horticulturist began immediately to feel a son 
 of respect for him, and, as Madam Thierry had nevei 
 told her son of her brother-in-law's foolish conduct, as 
 nothing in the face or manner of the young man indicated 
 that he regarded his uncle with the least aversion, An- 
 toine, who felt a real need of forming some human ties, — 
 a necessity that had increased in proportion with his 
 vanity, — conceived for him (if we may say so) a sort 
 of blind and unconscious friendship. 
 
 On the second day Julien began to paint ; his uncle 
 could no longer follow the progress that he was mak- 
 ing, and became uneasy. It was much worse when 
 Julien declared that he must finish the painting in his 
 studio, where the light was arranged to suit him, and 
 w^iere he had a number of little objects, all of which he 
 could not remember to bring with him, and which he 
 wanted to use. It was quite a distance from the pavilion 
 to the hotel Melcy, and, on the next day, they would have 
 no time to lose in coming and going ; he would have to 
 
ANTONIA, 67 
 
 seize the expression of the plant on the wing, when it was 
 in full bloom. 
 
 But the model might be injured by being moved ; the 
 flower might wither prematurely, the stalk might be weak- 
 ened, its freshness might be tarnished! The artist was 
 firm, and uncle Antoine resolved that he would carry his 
 precious Antonia to the studio himself, even at the risk 
 of meeting Madam Thierry, and being forced to bow to 
 lier. 
 
 Julien, in compelling his uncle to make this hard sacri- 
 fice, had not yielded to the petty caprice of a fanciful 
 artist. He had followed the advice of Marcel, who was 
 anxious to bring about a reconciliation between the op- 
 posing members of the family ; and who, as he could not 
 persuade Madam Thierry to make any advances, thought 
 I lie best plan would be to surprise her by a chance inter- 
 view with her enemy. 
 
 We have represented Madam Thierry as perfect, — 
 and she really was about as perfect as a human being 
 can be; — still, however, she had one little fault. Al- 
 though free from coquetry, from vanity, and from the 
 weakness of thinking herself young, she had never really 
 said to herself, " I am old." What woman of her time 
 was more sensible and clear-sighted? Her youth had 
 bloomed perennially in madrigals, gallant speeches, and 
 delicate attentions. She had been so pretty, and was so 
 well-preserved ! Her husband, although he had ruined 
 her by his imprudence, had been in love with her up to 
 his last day ; and it really seemed as if this old couple 
 had been destined to bring Philemon and Baucis to life 
 again. As she had never ceased to hear that she was 
 still charming, — relatively to her age this was perfectly 
 true, — good Madam Thierry had never ceased to feel 
 like and consider herself a woman, and, after a laspe 
 of forty years, she had not forgotten how deeply her 
 pride and dignity had been wounded by the pretensions 
 of the ship-owner. This rude man, who had had the 
 audacity to say to her, " Look at me. I am rich ; you 
 can love me instead of my brother," had caused her the 
 only real mortification to which she had been exposed 
 
68 ANT ON I A. 
 
 in consequence of her elopement, which the world, at the 
 time, had considered an unpardonable imprudence. Id 
 after years her beauty, agreeable manners, and noble 
 character, had caused her to be sought by her husband's 
 admirers. She had been able to lift her head, to triumph 
 over prejudices, and had occupied an exceptional and 
 enviable position in public opinion. She had been un- 
 usually happy, therefore ; but never had she forgotten 
 this one insult, nor could she think of it without bitter- 
 ness. It seemed to her that she had been contami- 
 nated once in her life, by the offers and hopes of M. 
 Antoine. 
 
 Marcel could not penetrate these subtle, feminine senti- 
 ments. He imagined that time must have taught Madam 
 Thierry to smile at this ridiculous adventure, and that 
 slie had been perfectly sincere in declaring her readiness 
 to pardon the past, so as to obtain the favor of their rich 
 relative for Julien. 
 
 Julien was not a man to covet his uncle Antoine's 
 wealth. He had never said to himself that, if he would 
 consent to flatter him, he might look forward to becoming 
 his principal heir. For a long time he had refused to 
 ask him the slightest favor ; but he longed to recover for 
 his mother the house where she had been so happy, and 
 this desire had conquered his pride. He had resolved 
 to devote his life, if necessary, to paying his debts, and 
 no longer blushed at Marcel's efforts to persuade Antoine 
 to advance the necessary funds. 
 
 Nevertheless, when he saw his uncle nearing the 
 house, Julien reproached himself for having deceived 
 his mother. He feared that the surprise would be too 
 much for her, and, at the last moment, tried to pre- 
 pare her for what she had to expect. Madam Thierry 
 did not lose couraue ; but, as soon as she had bowed 
 to M. Antoine, she made some excuse for going to her 
 room, and there she remained. It seemed to her impos- 
 sible to endure the presence of this disagreeable person- 
 age. Antoine, who had not seen her for forty years, did 
 not recognize her at first, and was not sufficiently self- 
 possessed to apologize for his forge tfulness. There was 
 
ANTONIA. 69 
 
 a gate opening from his garden into the rue de Babylone, 
 quite near the pavilion, and he had taken this path to 
 the studio. Unwilling to let any one touch his variegated 
 lily, he had brought it himself. He placed it himself 
 upon the table of the little studio, he took off the great 
 horn of white paper protecting it, and, when the artist 
 began to work, took up a newspaper which Madam 
 d'Estrelle sent to Madam Thierry every morning, and 
 fell asleep over it in a corner of the studio. 
 
 Julien was expecting Marcel, who had promised to 
 try and bring about the proposed reconciliation ; but 
 Marcel, detained by business, did not arrive. Madam 
 Tliierry did not appear. Julien felt that he could not 
 break the ice without the help of his cousin : he did not 
 say a word, therefore ; he worked, did his best, and 
 thought of Julie. 
 
 Uncle Antoine was only asleep with half an eye. In 
 the house of the woman he hated, and so near the hotel 
 d'Estrelle, the abode of his new fancy, he felt restless, 
 disturbed, agitated ; he was more troubled than he would 
 have cared to confess. He got up, walked to and fro, 
 with his creaking boots ; sat down again, and finally, 
 forgetting his lily for a moment, began to talk to Julien. 
 
 *' How about your work," he said ; " have you a great 
 deal to do?" 
 
 ** A great deal," replied Julien. 
 
 '' Do people pay you well?" 
 
 " Quite well ; I have no cause to complain." 
 
 " How much do you earn a day? " 
 
 *' A dozen francs or so," said Julien, smiling. 
 
 " That is very little ; but your father made still less 
 at your age, and I suppose you will increase your price 
 from year to year." 
 
 * I hope and intend to do so." 
 
 " You are prudent and systematic, I am told." 
 
 *' Yes, uncle ; I am obliged to be so." 
 Do you go much into society ? " 
 
 (( 
 
 '' I have no lime to go." / 
 
 " You know, however, persons of good family? 
 
 *' My father's friends have not forgotten me." 
 
70 ANTONIA. 
 
 " You sometimes return their visits?" 
 
 " Very seldom, and only when necessary." 
 
 " How about the Baroness d'Ancourt, — do you know 
 her?" 
 
 " Merely by name, — nothing more." 
 
 " She is a friend of Madam d'Estrelle ? ** 
 
 " I have ho idea." 
 
 "But you must know Madam d'Estrelle?" 
 
 "No, uncle." 
 
 *' Have you never seen her ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 Julien uttered this lie courageously. It seemed to him 
 that every one was trying to find out his secret, and he 
 had resolved to hide it with the most savage resolution. 
 
 " That is curious," said uncle Antoine, who, perhaps, 
 really did feel some suspicion upon this point, if only to 
 be true to his habit of suspecting every one ; " your 
 mother spends hours, whole days, they say, in her gar- 
 den, and even in her drawing-room, and you — " 
 
 " I am not my mother." 
 
 " You mean that you are not noble." 
 
 " I mean that I am not of an age to seek the acquaint 
 ance of a lady who is living secluded, and who only 
 receives visits from elderly persons." 
 
 " You regret very much, no doubt, that you are too 
 young ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, I like very much to be young, I can 
 assure you," said Julien, laughing at his uncle*s whim- 
 sical reflections. 
 
 Antoine, defeated, began to walk up and down the 
 room again, with short, jerking steps ; again he paused, 
 and said to Julien, — 
 
 " How much longer will you have to work? " 
 
 " Two or three hours." 
 
 " Can I look at the picture?" 
 
 " If you choose." 
 
 " Ah ah ! " he cried, " that is not so bad ; that begins 
 to look like something ; but you are painting all the back- 
 gi'ound, — where will you put the name of the flower ? 
 i want it in large gilt letters." 
 
ANTONIA. 71 
 
 " Then it must not be put auy where ; it would spoil the 
 effect." 
 
 •"^ You don't say so ! I must have my name, though ! '* 
 
 " Put it in large, black letters, upon a medallion in 
 relief, above or below the gilt frame." 
 
 " That is a good idea, upon my word ! Make a chef- 
 d'oeuvre, and I will invite you to the ceremony of tho 
 baptism." 
 
 " Bah, a ceremony ! " 
 
 " Yes ; the botanists of the Jar din du Box are going to 
 breakfast with me to-morrow morning. I have invited 
 them, and they have accepted. I am going to have a 
 sort of fete ; and, as it tires me to sit here with my arms 
 crossed, doing nothing, I will return to my house and see 
 how things are going on. Take care of my lily ; don't 
 let yourself be disturbed ; work without stopping ; I will 
 return in an hour." 
 
 Julien was working now with enthusiasm and rapidity ; 
 every stroke of his pencil seemed to transfer the life of 
 the wonderful plant to the canvas. Uncle Antoine was 
 struck by his aspect ; he smiled, and, becoming a little 
 humanized, tapped the young man upon the shoulder, 
 
 '' Courage, my lad, courage ! Satisfy me, and you 
 will have no cause to regret it." 
 
 He went out ; but, instead of returning to his garden, 
 went mechanically to the hotel d'Estrelle. Solitude, 
 wealth, ennui and vanity, had weakened and half-mad- 
 dened the old man's mind, and a world of confused ideas, 
 — cheerful, gloomy, and audacious, — were whirling 
 wildly through his brain. 
 
 *' I was wrong," he said, *' to confide my suit to that 
 foolish baroness. She performed her part badly, and 
 did not even mention my name I She said that I was an old 
 plebeian, and that was all ; the little countess never im- 
 agined that the person referred to was a well-preserved 
 man whom she herself had praised for his good health 
 and good looks, — a man whom she knows to be generous 
 and great, and whose talents as an agricultural amateur 
 and producer of rare plants are not to be despised. I 
 
72 
 
 ANTQNIA. 
 
 must end the affair one way or the other : I will offef 
 myself, and find out whether I am to love or hate her." 
 
 He entered the hotel boldly, and asked to speak to 
 the countess on business. She hesitated for a moment 
 whether to admit him. Knowing that he was whim- 
 sical, and thinkini^ him a monomaniac, she would have 
 preferred to have Marcel present at the interview. But 
 she knew how sensitive her old neighbor was, and, 
 fearing that she might injure Madam Thierry's interests 
 by offending him, allowed him to enter. Madam d'Es- 
 trelle was alone ; but she would have considered it 
 absurdly prudish to feel alarmed about a tete-a-tete 
 with an old man, well known for the austerity of his 
 manners. 
 
 The rich man had called upon her prepared for battle ; 
 he imagined that he would have to fight to obtain an in- 
 terview. When he found, on the contary, that he was 
 admitted without opposition, after two minutes delay, 
 when he saw that his beautiful neighbor received him 
 kindly and affably, although with a little reserve, his 
 courage abandoned him. Like all people who live in 
 the world of their own thoughts, unchecked and uncon- 
 trolled, no one could be bolder in forming plans. It was 
 his audacity that had enriched him, and he confided in it. 
 
 But, as he had always acted from behind a curtain as 
 it were, he was as incapable of taking a step upon the 
 stage of social life, or of conversing with a woman, as 
 he would have been of commanding a ship, or conduct- 
 ing negotiations with the Algonquins. He grew pale, 
 stammered, put his hat on after taking it off, and, in 
 siiort, was so agitated, that Madam d'Estrelle felt sur- 
 prised and distressed, and was obliged to come to his 
 assistance by referring at once to the subject which she 
 supposed to be the object of his visit. 
 
 '' So, my neighbor," she said kindly, " we are at odds 
 about this unfortunate pavilion, which I had hoped 
 would be the means of bringing us to a good under- 
 standing and making us friends. Do you know that 
 1 feel like scolding you, and that I consider you very 
 unreasonable ? " 
 
ANTONIA. 73 
 
 " Oh, it is well known that I am a fool," replied An- 
 toine, morosely ; " I hear it so often that I shall end by 
 believing it." 
 
 *' I only ask to be undeceived," replied Julie ; " can you 
 give me any good reason for accepting the sort of present 
 that you offer me ? I defy you to do so ! " 
 
 " You defy me ? Then you want me to speak. The 
 reason is clear enough, — I feel an interest in you ! " 
 
 "• You are very good," said Julie, with a smile, in 
 which there was a touch of irony, " but — " 
 
 " It is just so, countess ; you are a person that one can- 
 not help thinking about, and so I thought about you, — 
 what the devil would you have ? I said to myself, ' It is 
 a pity that a person so, — a lady who, — a person of 
 good family, in a word, should be in the hands of the 
 bailiffs. I am only a plebeian, but I am not such a miser 
 as the fine gentlemen and the fine ladies of her family.* 
 That is why I said what I did say ; but you misunderstood 
 it all, which proves that you despise me." 
 
 *' You are mistaken in that ! " cried the countess ; "de- 
 spise you for wanting to do a good action ? No ! a hun- 
 dred times no ! It would be impossible." 
 
 " Then why refuse my offer? " 
 
 " Listen to me. Monsieur Thierry ; will you give me 
 your word of honor as an honest man that you are per- 
 fectly convinced of the sincerity, — the personal disinter- 
 estedness, — of my conduct towards you? " 
 
 " Yes, madam, I give you my word of honor. The 
 devil ! do you suppose, otherwise, that I should ever have 
 come to see you again ? " 
 
 " Very well, I accept your offer," said Julie, holding 
 out her hand ; " but upon one condition, — that you will 
 give me back your friendship." 
 
 Old Antoine was completely beside himself when he felt 
 this little soft hand in his hard, dry palm. He had a sort 
 of vertigo ; and, as he did not know what to do with this 
 woman's hand, — to kiss it he would have thought an im- 
 propriety, and he dared not press it, — he let it drop, and 
 stammered out his thanks in a very confused manner, but 
 with heartfelt emotion. 
 
74 ANTONIA. 
 
 " Since you treat me as if I were conferring a favor 
 upon you," said Madam d*Estrelle, " I warn you that 
 I shall become exacting. I really need only twenty thou- 
 sand francs for the present ; let me offer the other twenty 
 thousand from you to Madam Thierry." 
 
 " No, no ! it cannot be ! " said Antoine, losing his tem- 
 per ; " she would refuse. That woman detests me ! I 
 have just paid her a visit. She turned her back upon me, 
 and went and hid in her garret." 
 
 *' You must have wronged her in some way, my neigh- 
 bor?" 
 
 " Never ! If she tries to make you think otherwise,— 
 let her say what she chooses, — I am an honest man." 
 
 " She has never said otherwise." 
 
 " Has she never spoken to you about me ? Come now, 
 — tell me the truth, — upon your honor." 
 
 " Upon my honor, never ! " 
 
 " Then, — stop a, moment ! — tell her to respect me as 
 she ought, and don't talk about giving her money that 
 belongs to you ; for, — the devil take me, — if you make 
 much of me, and don't blush to acknowledge my friend- 
 ship, I will give her, — yes, I will give her a pretty 
 present ! I will buy her house at Sevres. There ! 
 What will you say to that ? " 
 
 "I will say, M. Thierry," cried Madam d'Estrelle, 
 deeply touched, *' that you are the best of men ! " 
 
 ^' The best, in truth?" cried the rich man, so flattered 
 that he was like a person intoxicated; — ''the best, do 
 you say ? " 
 
 " Yes, — the best rich man that I know ! " 
 
 " That is something worth while ! Will you breakfast 
 at my house to-morrow with some savants, — some very 
 famous and learned men, — and witness a baptism? 
 Will you be godmother, and accept me as godfather ? " 
 
 "Yes! at what hour?" 
 
 " At noon." 
 
 "I will go, — but in the company of some lady, since 
 you have persons at your house whom I do not know. I 
 will go with — " 
 
 " My sister-in-law. I see what is coming ! " 
 
ANTONIA. 75 
 
 " Very well, — do you forbid it?" 
 
 " Forbid it? Do you know that you talk as if I were 
 your master?" he said, with a sort of mysterious fatuity. 
 
 " As if you were my father? " replied Julie, frankly. 
 
 An unchaste old man would have been wounded by 
 this speech, but Antoine was chaste in his folly ; we can 
 affirm, positively, that he was not in love with Julie ; it 
 was the countess only who was the object of his passion. 
 Whether she was his adopted daughter, or his wile, mat- 
 tered little to him. Provided that he could show her off 
 to his solemn company on the next day, — to the savants, 
 — Marcel, Julien, to Madam Thierry above all, and to all 
 his gardeners ; — provided that he could see her leaning 
 upon his arm or seated at his table, talking to him with 
 filial friendship, without any fear of what the world 
 might say, — provided that all this might be, it seemed to 
 him that he would be perfectly happy. 
 
 " And if I am not contented even then," he thought, — 
 talking to himself about himself, with a sort of ineffable 
 tenderness, — "I shall have time enough to tame her, and 
 lead her to think about marriage afterwards ; and when 
 she has sacrificed her title to be my wife, we will see 
 then whether the name of Thierry the elder will not be 
 worthy to stand by that of my brother, Thierry the 
 painter ! " 
 
 " Since you are so gracious," he said to Julie, " I will 
 be gracious also. I will do whatever you wish. I com- 
 mission you, for example, to give my invitation to Madam 
 Andre Thierry, and if she prevents you from keeping 
 your appointment to-morrow, tell her that I will never 
 pardon her in all my life." 
 
 '' 1 will take charge of her, my neighbor. Farewell, 
 until to-morrow ; have no fear ! " 
 
 "Would it annoy you to say my friend?" replied 
 Antoine, whose tongue was loosened by his secret hap- 
 piness. 
 
 " It would not annoy me at all," replied Julie, laugh- 
 ing ; "I will call you so to-morrow, if you keep your 
 word." 
 
 " You will call me so — publicly?" 
 
76 ANTONIA. 
 
 " Publicly — and with all my heart." 
 
 The old man went away reeling like a drunken man. 
 In the street he talked to himself in a loud voice ; his 
 eyes flashed, and he made emphatic gestures. The passers- 
 by took him for an escaped lunatic. 
 
 He followed the wall of the hotel d'Estrelle mechanic- 
 ally, for his first idea was to return to the studio, in 
 order to see whether Julien was at work, and whether 
 his lily was safe. Suddenly he remembered that tlie 
 Baroness d'Ancourt might ruin all his hopes, by revealing 
 to Madam d'Estrelle the name of the suitor whose cause 
 she had espoused. Evidently Julie suspected nothing; 
 she had no reason to imagine that her old neighbor was 
 acting from an interested motive. He might gi'adually 
 lead her to accept him as her husband, by impressing her 
 duly with his wealth and magnificence ; but he had 
 wanted to go too fast, and had come very near spoiling 
 everything. Since the baroness was not opposed to him, 
 he must go to her house before doing anything else, tell 
 her how matters stood, and urge her to be silent. II3 
 called a carriage that M'as passing, and ordered the coach- 
 man to drive to the hotel d'Ancourt. 
 
 Julie was deeply moved ; like every generous person 
 who has sought to inspire a good deed, and has carried 
 her point, she lost all sense of her own personality in her 
 sincere joy at what she had accomplished. Impatient to 
 announce the important news to Madam Andre, and 
 make her promise to be her chaperon at the breakfast at 
 the hotel Melcy, she threw a light mantle of violet silk 
 over her shoulders, and, — so utterly had she forgotten 
 herself, — ran towards the pavilion. She thought no 
 more of Julien than if he had never existed ; or, at all 
 events, did not remember that it was her duty to avoid 
 him. She had never clearly understood how serious a 
 matter this was ; and, in her eagerness to see his mother, 
 would not probably have hesitated, even if she had re- 
 membered it. Besides, she was alone. There was no one 
 in the drawing-room, no one in the garden. Would the 
 roses be scandalized at her imprudence ? Would the 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 77 
 
 nightingales cry over the walls that Madam d'Estrelle 
 had entered a house where she might, perhaps, meet a 
 young man whom she had never seen ? 
 
 Julien, at this moment, had no time to be watching for 
 Julie's approach. He was wholly absorbed in his work. 
 The lily could not promise to remain fresh and unchanged, 
 until he had given the last touch to his picture. Madam 
 Thierry was in her room with Marcel ; he had arrived 
 finally, and, after exchanging a few words with Julien, 
 had gone to converse with his aunt. He wanted to lec- 
 ture her, to make her confess, and to persuade her that 
 the cause of her dislike to M. Antoine ought to remain 
 concealed, as it had hitherto been, from the young artist. 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle struck lightly at the door of the 
 pavilion. A great wagon, loaded with broken stones, 
 was passing at this moment in the street. The noise of 
 the wheels, the cries of the driver, and the cracking of 
 the whip, completely drowned her feeble knock. Eager 
 to sec Madam Thierry before some surly message from 
 the whimsical Antoine had informed her of his plans, and 
 perhaps made her unwilling to agree to them. Madam 
 d'Estrelle opened the outer door boldly ; she opened a 
 second door, and found herself in Julien's studio, alone 
 and lace to face with the young artist ; he had placed his 
 model in the light streaming from the window above this 
 door, and Julie entered in a blaze of glory ; it seemed aa 
 if she had come to him in a ray of sunshine. 
 
 Julien was so little prepared for this vision, that he 
 came very near falling, as if thunderstruck. The blood 
 rushed to his heart, and his face became whiter than M. 
 Antoiue's lily. He could neither speak nor bow ; he 
 stood motionless, with his pallet in his hand, his eyes 
 fixed, — absolutely petrified. 
 
 Did the beautiful countess experience any correspond- 
 ing emotion ? At the sight of this young man, whose 
 beauty was so faultless, — that type of beauty in which 
 the nobility of the lines is only exceeded by the intelli- 
 gence of the expression, — what took place in her heart 
 and soul? Her first feeling was one of instinctive re- 
 spect ; for Julien was not unknown to her. She had 
 
78 ANTONIA. 
 
 heard all about his honest and self-saci ifieing life, his 
 patient industry, at the same time so ardent and regular, 
 his filial love, his noble sentiments ; she knew how well 
 he deserved the friendship and esteem of his devoted 
 friends. She had sometimes felt a curiosity to see him ; 
 and, either because she considered it childish, or from a 
 vague presentiment that their meeting would be danger- 
 ous to her peace, had forbidden herself to yield to this 
 desire. 
 
 Why investigate further? It is enough that her heart 
 was fully prepared for the reception of the sentiment that 
 was to govern her life. She experienced a terrible shock. 
 The agitation by which Julien was paralyzed overcame 
 her also, and she remained for a moment as silent and 
 motionless as he. 
 
 If any one had seen this beautiful couple, just as they 
 had come from the hand of God, in some region inacces- 
 sible to social prejudices, meeting under the simple and 
 glorious conditions reigning in an unfallen world, they 
 would have said, without hesitation, that they had been 
 destined for each other ; that God had made this superb 
 man for this charming woman, this tender and true 
 woman for this ardent and proud man. In Julie, all 
 was grace, tenderness, and sweetness ; Julien was full 
 of passion and magnanimity. When they beheld each 
 other at last, in the radiance of the May sunshine, humid 
 with the perfumes of a new life, each of them, as with 
 an irresistible cry of love, pronounced, in their souls, 
 the names that destiny (as if they had been intended to 
 have only one name) had given them, — Jalie^ Julien! 
 
 Upon either side a great effort was necessary, before 
 they could remember the social barriers by which they 
 were separated. 
 
 '' Ah me ! " thought Julie ; " this is the young painter. 
 I thougnt he was a demi-god." 
 
 " Alas ! " said Julien to himself, *' this is the great 
 lady. I thought she was half myself." 
 
 The countess was the first to bow, and ask whether he 
 was not M. Julien Thierry. He bowed deeply, saying, 
 with an expression of hypocritical doubt, — 
 
ANTONIA, 79 
 
 "Madcam the Countess d'Estrelle?" 
 
 Mockery! As if these questions were necessary to 
 enable them to understand each other. 
 
 " Has your mother gone out?" said the countess. 
 
 " No, madam. I will go and call her." 
 
 And Julien did not stir ; his feet seemed nailed to the 
 floor. 
 
 " She is with my cousin, Marcel Thierry," he added. 
 " Shall I ask him also to come down and receive the 
 orders — ?" 
 
 " Do not disturb either of them ! If you will show 
 me the way, I will go to your mother's room. But 
 wait," she added, seeing that Julien was incapable of 
 moving ; " it will be better, perhaps, to prepare your 
 mother. I did not see her yesterday ; she may not be 
 well." 
 
 " She is a little unwell, it is true." 
 
 " Then, — yes, you must prepare her for a surprise, — 
 an agreeable surprise, God be praised ! — but one by 
 which she might be agitated. Make her understand, 
 gently, that I bring great and good news in regard to the 
 house at Sevres." 
 
 Julien could not resist his desire to thank Madam 
 d'Estrelle. His presence of mind had somewhat re- 
 turned. He blessed her for what she had done for his 
 mother, in terms as heartfelt as they were delicately 
 expressed. Julie was deeply moved, but not surprised. 
 With liis reputation, and his irresistible face, Julien 
 could not have spoken otherwise. After tliis the ice 
 was broken, and all ceremony forgotten. Distrust would 
 have seemed a mutual insult. They talked together for 
 a moment with extraordinary ease and familiarity, 
 
 " It affords me happiness to have rendered your mother 
 a service," said Julie, " you know this well. She must 
 have told you how well I love her ! " 
 
 *' You are right to love her ; you will never repent 
 giving her your friendship. Her heart is worthy of 
 yours." 
 
 " I wish I could feel that I was worthy of her confi- 
 dence. Oh, she has told me about you ! I know that 
 
8o ANTONIA. 
 
 you worship her, and God will bless you for your devoted, 
 filial love." 
 
 " He has blessed me already, since you tell me that I 
 deserve His blessing." 
 
 " I tell you so most heartily. Why should I hesitate 
 to say so ? There are so few who are wholly worthy of 
 our esteem." 
 
 '' There are those whose esteem is so great a favor, 
 that to obtain it you would accept the hate and scorn of 
 all the rest of the world." 
 
 " Oh ! you only say that out of politeness ; you do not 
 know me sufficiently — " 
 
 " You are mistaken, madam, — I know your goodness, 
 the nobleness of your soul, the kindness of your heart. I 
 could not fail to understand you unless I were both deaf 
 and blind. And you, who scatter blessings upon all who 
 surround you, cannot feel surprised to have inspired one 
 whom you do not know with humble admiration and 
 gratitude." 
 
 It seemed to Julie that the very air she breathed was 
 on fire. She tried, mechanically, to recover herself, but 
 had not the courage to withdraw from this dangerous con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Will you also be glad," she said, "to regain the 
 house where you were brought up ? " 
 
 " I shall be glad for my poor mother's sake, most cer- 
 tainly ; but not upon my own account." 
 
 " Do you like Paris so well? " 
 
 " No, not at all ; — but — " 
 
 Julien's kindling eyes, darkened by a cloud of emotion, 
 expressed clearly enough what he thought. Julie under- 
 stood only too well. She tried to speak of something 
 else ; she looked at the artist's sketches, she praised his 
 talent, — that talent which had been revealed to her at the 
 same time with his love ; — she tried to tell him that she 
 understood his art, but, in fact, it was his passion that she 
 understood, and every word which they uttered betrayed 
 their real preoccupation. The agitation of the one was 
 communicated to the other ; both became so confused 
 that they scarcely knew what thf.y were saying; and 
 
ANT ON I A, 81 
 
 finally Madam d'Estrelle turned to M. Antoine's lily, so 
 as to have something to talk about. 
 
 " What a beautiful flower ! " she said ; ^' and how 
 fragrant it is ! " 
 
 '' Do you like it? " cried Julieu. And, with the impet- 
 uosity of a lover intoxicated with joy, he broke the stalk 
 of the Antonia TJiierrii, and offered the superb stem to 
 Julie ! 
 
 The countess had no idea of the interest attaching to 
 this plant ; she had not seen Marcel for several days ; and, 
 as Madam Thierry never mentioned her brother-in-law 
 when she could help it, she had not heard it spoken of. 
 Invited to a baptism on the following day at the hotel 
 Melcy, she had concluded, naturally, that the object of 
 M. Antoine's solicitude was the child of some retired 
 frardeuor. Slie was far enough from imagining that 
 Julien, in breaking this flower, severed all ties with his 
 uncle, and cast his whole future, — a future, perhaps, of 
 wealth and prosperity, — at the feet of his idol. 
 
 She uttered a cry of terror and surprise, however, at 
 the artist's rash act. 
 
 " Ah, moil Dieu I " she said ; " what have you done? 
 Your model?" 
 
 " I have finished," replied Julien, eagerly. 
 
 " No, you have not finished ; I can see that plainly ! " 
 
 " I will finish it without a model ; I know it by 
 heart ! " 
 
 For an instant, love of his art resumed its dominion 
 over him ; and, as he cast upon the lily a last glance of 
 intellectual possession, Julie replaced it upon its stem, 
 and said gayly and gracefully, with careless ease and self- 
 forgetfulness, — 
 
 " I will hold it, — finish ! it will not fade immediately. 
 Come, make haste ! Your picture is so beautiful ! I 
 shall never forgive myself for having interrupted you. 
 Work, — I wish it!" 
 
 *' You wish it?" said Julieu, distractedly. 
 
 There was a second piece of canvas behind his picture ; 
 this he seized, and, working with ardor, with fury, ho 
 sketched and painted the delicate and lovely hand of 
 6 
 
82 ANTONIA. 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle. The lily made no progress. Julie, 
 although she knew it not, was holding it in vain, while 
 waiting until it should bow its proud head never to be 
 lifted again. 
 
 Oh, uncle Antoine, where were you while such a crime, 
 without remorse and without terror, was being commit- 
 ted, under the eye of a sleeping or malicious Providence? 
 
 A slight sound upon the staircase recalled Julie to 
 herself; it was Marcel, who was coming to tell Julien 
 that his mother had consented to see M. Thierry on his re- 
 turn. Madam d'Estrelle, ashamed of being surprised alone 
 with the artist, and on terms of such strange familiarity, 
 planted the stem of the lily hurriedly in the light, moist 
 earth of the vase. The Antonia did not seem aware of 
 what had occurred, and remained fresh and beautiful. 
 Marcel entered, and took no notice of the catastrophe. 
 
 The presence of the countess surprised him sufficiently ; 
 the latter was exceedingly disconcerted at meeting him, 
 and Julien perceived this. He immediately conquered 
 his emotion, with a manly eifort, and informed Marcel 
 that the countess had just entered, and wished to speak to 
 his mother. At the same time he offered Julie a chair, 
 as if she had not yet been seated ; and, bowing respect- 
 fully, went to inform Madam Thierry of her presence. 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle was infinitely grateful to the artist 
 for his presence of mind. This slight indication showed 
 her that she was not dealing with a child, capable of 
 compromising her by his awkardness and simplicity, but 
 with a man, — watchful, and armed at all points, — ready 
 to defend her from every danger, to preserve her, if 
 necessary, from her own rashness. She loved him with 
 her whole heart ; and she felt that he was the master of 
 her destiny, since there was already a secret between them, 
 to be concealed from the scrutinizing gaze of their mu- 
 tual friends. 
 
 While she was giving Marcel a rapid resume of her 
 conversation with M. Antoine, Julien entered his mother's 
 room. His ftice was so radiant, that she cried, — 
 
 " Mon Dieu I how beautiful you are to-day. What has 
 happened ? " 
 
ANTONIA, 83 
 
 ** Madam d'Estrelle is below," said Julien ; " she brings 
 you joy and consolation. She has persuaded M. Autoine 
 to purchase your house. Quick ! put on your cap, and 
 come and thank your good angel." 
 
 Surprised and delighted as Madam Thierry was, she 
 was at the same time deeply grieved. Her mother's eye 
 could no longer be deceived : she saw plainly the repressed 
 passion concealed by Julien's apparent frankness, and 
 was so moved that she burst into tears. 
 
 "■How now! how now! what is the matter?" cried 
 Julien. " My poor mother, you who have always been so 
 courageous in misfortune, can you be so overcome by 
 joy ? No matter ! Let your cap hang, since you cannot 
 fasten it, and come as you are. Madam d'Estrelle will 
 like to see you shed such tears as these ; they will not 
 trouble her, — come ! " 
 
 " Julien ! Julien ! I am not weeping for joy alone ; 
 my heart is oppressed by sorrow, and, above all, by 
 fear." 
 
 " You are afraid that you will have to thank M. An- 
 toine ! Nonsense, mother ! That is too childish, — 
 come ! " 
 
 Madam Thierry was ready to faint. Julien was al- 
 most angry with her, for her emotion was making him 
 lose the precious moments, — seconds that he might have 
 passed by Julie's side. Marcel, who was delighted with 
 the good news that the countess had brought, became im- 
 patient, in his turn, at his aunt's delay, and came up 
 stairs to hasten her. Julie remained alone in the studio, 
 therefore, for several moments. 
 
 These moments, — swiftly as they passed, — counted 
 in after years like an age in her life, for they brought hei 
 a divine revelation ; the light flashed into her soul in a 
 single dazzling flame. " Your happiness is found," said 
 an inward voice, endowed with sovereign authority ; " it 
 is here. A devoted love, — a simple, retired, domestic 
 life ; — it is this, and this alone, that can make you happy. 
 Julien's mother experienced this happiness during the 
 whole period of her youth. Intercourse with the world 
 and wealth did not add to her felicity. They diminished 
 
84 ANTONIA. 
 
 it rather, by withdrawing her from her domestic life. 
 Forget the world, — it is worth your while ! Have done 
 forever with a past which has misled you, and brought 
 you into conflict with yourself. Reconcile yourself to your 
 origin, — derived from tlie middle classes far more than 
 from the nobility ; with your conscience, which reproaches 
 you for having been carried away by a desire for worldly 
 glory, and for having yielded to the threats of ambitious 
 parents ; seek the grace of God, who abandons the 
 worldly-minded ; be true, be strong, — like this young 
 man who worships you, and who has just revealed to you, 
 m a single glance, the grandest, the noblest passion that 
 you will ever inspire.'* 
 
 While listening to this mysterious voice of her own 
 soul, Julie gazed around her, and was surprised to feel 
 her agitation succeeded by a sense of divine repose. 
 This was due, in part, to a very simple, natural phe- 
 nomenon. Julie was short-sighted ; and in this room, so 
 much smaller than the apartments to which she was ac- 
 customed, she could see, in spite of her defective vision, 
 all the details of every object that surrounded her. The 
 pavilion Louis XIII. was a very humble abode ; but, 
 in spite of its simplicity, it was fitted up with artistic 
 taste and elegance. The building, in itself, was well- 
 proportioned. In the deep and large embrasure of the 
 window, as in a little sanctuary, the widow had placed 
 her arm-chair, her spinning-wheel, her candle-stand, and 
 her footstool, — giving this part of the studio the aspect 
 of a Flemish interior ; the rest of the room had been 
 thoroughly repaired, although with the strictest economy. 
 The wainscoting was painted gray, and was perfectly 
 plain, except for a few panels, whose lines were straight 
 throughout, but harmoniously proportioned ; the ceiling 
 was white, and, although not very high, it was not so low 
 as to be oppressive ; above each door was an oval gar- 
 land carved in wood, of quiet leafage, and painted, like 
 the headings of the panels, of a darker gray than the rest 
 of the woodwork. Two or three valuable flower and 
 fruit-pieces, by Andre Thierry, several sketches, and 
 two little studies, by Julien, hung upon the walls. On 
 
ANTONIA. 55 
 
 A bracket, opposite a mirror, stood a large vase of Rouen 
 porcelain, full of natural flowers and long vines, grace- 
 fully arranged, and falling to the floor. A little carpet 
 before the sofa, two or three easels, shells, boxes of in- 
 sects, statuettes and engravings upon a large table, plain 
 oak furniture, and a harp, — the only costly object to 
 be seen, — its worn, gilt strings glittering in a dark cor- 
 ner, — completed the simple interior. Certainly there was 
 nothing elegant or luxurious in all this, but an air of 
 exquisite neatness and taste gave a charm to the quiet 
 room, and the soft, dreamy light made you feel inclined to 
 reverie. The lilacs growing in thick masses so near the 
 house, and the curtains before the lower part of the win- 
 dows, made the studio a little dark. But there was some- 
 tliing in this greenish light that was strangely poetical, and 
 a sentiment of holy meditation seemed floating in the at- 
 mosphere, that penetrated Julie's very soul. What more 
 would be necessary than such a retreat as this, — so 
 modest, so humble, — to enable her to enjoy spiritual hap- 
 piness, — the eternal ecstacy of a true moral life ? What 
 did Julie care for sumptuous furniture, etageres loaded 
 with a thousand baubles that she never looked at, — blue 
 ceilings spangled with stars of gold over her head. Gobe- 
 lins carpets under her feet, Sevres vases to hold her bou- 
 quets, liveried lackeys to announce her friends, boxes of 
 Chinese fans, and caskets full of diamonds? They had 
 amused her only for a day ; can playthings distract a weary 
 heart ? Julien*s simple and laborious life, — his touching 
 devoiion to his mother, — his secret, humble love, — as 
 he liiniself hod called it, — was there not something in 
 all tliis purer and greater than she could ever hope to find 
 iu tlie lile and devotion of a frivolous or blase seigneur f 
 
 A sparrow that Julien had tamed, and which lived in 
 freedom upon the neighboring trees, flew into the studio, 
 and lighted familiarly upon her shoulder. She was 
 amazed ; in this simple incident she saw for a moment a 
 prodigy, — au ancient augury, — an omen of happiness 
 or victory ! She was really intoxicated. 
 
 Madam Thierry entered the room at last, in the utmost 
 agitation. She had insisted upon being allowed to speat • 
 
56 ANTONIA. 
 
 to the countess alone. She threw herself at her feet, and, 
 obliged by her to rise, spoke as follows : — 
 
 '' You are good as an angel, ray beautiful neighbor. 
 May God bless you a thousand times ! But I must show 
 you my grief as well as my joy ; my sou, my dear Julien, 
 will be lost unless he quickly renounces the hope of ever 
 seeing you again. He loves you, madam, — loves you 
 distractedly. When he told me that he had only seen you 
 from a distance, he was deceiving me : he sees you every 
 day ; he gazes at you by stealth, — he intoxicates himself, 
 kills himself by gazing upon you. He no longer eats, 
 no longer sleeps ; he is sad, his eyes are hollow, he is 
 consumed by fever. He has never loved, — but I know 
 how he will love, — how he loves already. His is a 
 nature full of enthusiasm, faith, devotion. Discourage 
 him, madam, if it is possible. Do not look at him, — 
 do not speak to him, — never see him again. Have 
 pity upon him and upon me. Never come to our house 
 again ; absence, perhaps, will cure him. If it does not 
 cure him, I do not know what I shall do to keep from 
 dying of gi'ief." 
 
 Madam Thierry's voice was stifled with sobs ; and these 
 sobs telling so eloquently of the sincerity of her grief, 
 fell upon Julie's heart like a blow. Her dream of happi- 
 ness, —^ must it not vanish before this maternal despair? 
 The delicious reverie by which she had been lulled to for- 
 getfiilness, was it not a fantastic delusion, at which she 
 herself would smile as soon as she crossed the threshold 
 of her hotel? Had she really resolved to forsake the 
 world forever, and throw herself into the arms of a man 
 whom she had just seen for the first time ? It was absurd 
 to think of such a thing ; and Madam Thierry was a 
 thousand times right in regarding it as impossible. Julie 
 made an effort to enter into her state of feeling, and to 
 throw off her momentary infatuation ; but the charm of 
 that moment of madness must have been potent indeed, 
 for the idea of submitting again to reason seemed to 
 rend her heart; and, instead of replying to the poor 
 mother with dignity and good sense, -^ instead of trying to 
 
ANTONIA, 87 
 
 reassure her, — she threw herself into her arms, and, like 
 her, burst into tears. 
 
 Madam Thierry was so surprised by these tears, that 
 she felt as if she would go frantic. She dared not ask 
 the countess to explain her emotion, and, moreover, she 
 had no time to do so ; Julien and Marcel entered. 
 
 " Come, my dear mother," Julien said, ''you are crying 
 altogether too much. You have forgotten to thank 
 Madam d'Estrelle, I am sure, and to arrange your plans. 
 Marcel has just told me that you must express your grat- 
 itude to M. Thierry in person, and that you must go to- 
 morrow to his house, so as — " 
 
 Julie had turned her face to the window, and was trying 
 to conceal and dry her tears without attracting observa- 
 tion ; Julien, who had been watching her, saw at tliis 
 moment what she was about. He repressed a cry, and 
 involuntarily took a step towards her. Marcel, who 
 perceived the strange agitation of the two women, and 
 who could only suppose that Madam Thierry was suffer- 
 ing from a nervous attack, and had said something to 
 agitate the countess, took up Julien's interrupted sentence, 
 so as to renew the conversation. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said ; " we must go to-morrow, so as to 
 witness the baptism of — " 
 
 Marcel was like Julien ; he remained with his eyes 
 fixed and mouth open, unable to articulate another word ; 
 for, happening to glance, not upon Julie, but upon tho 
 plant that he was about to name, he saw it reduced to 
 a cluster of bulbs and a broken stem, damp with the 
 sap oozing slowly forth, and falling in great drops, like 
 tears. 
 
 " Where is it? " he cried, stupefied. " Wliat have you 
 done with it? Great God, Julien, what have you done 
 with the Antonia ? " 
 
 No one replied. Madam Thierry looked at Julien ; 
 he gazed steadily at Madam d'Estrelle, while Madam 
 d'Estrelle, who was ignorant of the whole affair, did not 
 know what to think of the lawyer's strange alarm. 
 
 "What are you looking for?*' she said, rising. And, 
 as she rose, the Antonia, which, when she had been 
 
88 ANTONIA. 
 
 left alone in the studio, she had taken from the vase 
 and placed tenderly upon her lap, fell at her feet. 
 
 Madam Thierry understood at once the real state of 
 the case. Marcel was not so clear-sighted. 
 
 "Ah, madam," he cried, " to anyone else who had 
 caused this accident, I should say that she had ruined us ! 
 But what can I say to you? And, after all, why need we 
 be afraid of the consequences of your act? Uncle An- 
 toine will never visit his anger upon you ! You did not 
 know what you were doing ; Julien did not tell you ! " 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said Madam Thierry, "Julien ex- 
 plained nothing to our benefactress ; but she must see for 
 herself that every one in this house is not reasonable, and 
 that, while wishing to serve us, she runs the risk of 
 aggravating our sorrows — " 
 
 "It is you, mother, who are not reasonable," cried 
 Julien, vehemently. " Really, I do not understand you 
 to-day ! You are too much excited ; your words betray 
 your thoughts. It seems to me, that instead of thanking 
 Madam d'Estrelle, you have been imparting to her absurd 
 fancies — " 
 
 Julien scolded his mother, who began to cry again. 
 Marcel, seeing Madam d'Estrelle's astonishment, took her 
 apart, and in three words gave her the key to the mys- 
 tery, and at the same time the palpable proof, as it were, 
 of the young artist's ardent passion. Deeply moved at 
 first, she collected her strength, and recovered her pres- 
 ence of mind, to avert the blow that threatened the 
 family. 
 
 " Leave it all to me," she said to Madam Thierry, with 
 assumed cheerfulness ; " I will take everything upon my- 
 self ; it was I who committed the fault, and it is my duty, 
 therefore, to repair it." 
 
 " The fault ! what fault?" cried Julien. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I took a fancy to the flower and begged 
 you for it. No ! that is not it ; how dull I am ! It 
 was I who picked it, yes, — a foolish fancy in a mo- 
 ment of abstraction ! — You were not here. I am near- 
 sighted, awkward ! I will explain it all to your uncle. 
 
ANTONIA. 89 
 
 Mon Dieu ! what do you suppose he will do ? He will 
 not beat me. He is not so wicked ! " 
 
 '* Alas ! " said Madam Thierry, " unfortunately he is 
 very wicked when he is offended ; and if he knew that 
 Julien had committed this sacrilege — " 
 
 *' It really was Julien, then ? " said Marcel, astounded 
 in his turn. " It is incomprehensible ! " 
 
 " Certainly it was I, and I alone," replied Julien ; 
 " there is nothing strange in that — " 
 
 *' You are mistaken ! " said Marcel, in a low voice, 
 perceiving, at last, the real cause of the misfortune. *' You 
 are too audacious, ray lad ; and you must have become 
 both heartless and frivolous, to have sacrificed thus your 
 mother's future, and your own, without mentioning that 
 Madam d'Estrelle is too good, and ought rather to have 
 put you in your right place." 
 
 *' Silence, Marcel, silence ! " said Julien. " You do 
 not know what you are talking about ; you do not un- 
 derstand — " 
 
 " I understand only too well," said Marcel ; " and, on 
 my honor, I am like your mother now, — I say that 
 you have lost your senses — " 
 
 This dialogue was carried on in the recess of the 
 window, where Marcel had led Julien, while the two 
 hidies stood together by the despoiled vase, talking in low 
 voices, and without well knowing what they were say- 
 ing. Madam Thierry tried mechanically to plant anew 
 the stem of the decapitated lily, and Madam d'Estrelle 
 sought to console her in vain, for her greatest trouble 
 was not the loss of the Antonia^ but rather the storm of 
 passion that had led to its loss. Suddenly Julien, who was 
 in the habit of watching the curtain, and glancing at the 
 crevice through which he saw into the garden, started 
 violently. Seizing Marcel by the arm, and motioning 
 him to be silent, he said in a whisper, — 
 
 "Be quiet, for the love of God I Some one is lis- 
 
90 
 
 ANTONIA, 
 
 IV. 
 
 OME one was listening, in fact, and it was too late to be 
 ^ silent. Uncle Antoine had heard everything. How 
 he came to be spying about in Madam d'Estrelle's gar- 
 den, we shall soon learn. Marcel followed Julien's eye, 
 saw the crevice in the curtain, and, leaning forward in 
 his turn, saw Croquimitaine on the watch. He left the 
 window, and warned Madam d'Estrelle. For a moment, 
 they talked in pantomime. They had not yet decided 
 what to do, when Antoine, no longer hearing their voices, 
 struck at the garden door. 
 
 This arrival was something like that of the statue 
 in Don Giovanni. Julien was going promptly to open 
 the door, when Madam d'Estrelle remembered that her 
 presence might give rise to some ridiculous scene, and 
 that her absence would, without any fail, be made the 
 occasion of a stormy outbreak. She determined upon 
 her course in an instant : detained Julien, by authori- 
 tatively laying her hand upon his arm, and signing to 
 him and the others not to move, went into the hall, 
 opened the door herself, and stood face to face with M. 
 Antoine. Although he had prepared his part, he was a 
 little surprised, — he who imagined that he was going to 
 surprise every one. 
 
 '' What — you, M. Antoine ! " said Julie, pretending to 
 be perfectly astonished. ''What are you doing here? 
 You came back to the hotel, then ? Who told you where 
 
 1 was ? and what put it into your head to cross my gar- 
 den?" 
 
 Without waiting for his answer, she took the horticul- 
 turist's arm and led him quite a distance from the 
 pavilion, to the edge of a little lake in the centre of the 
 lawn fronting the hotel. 
 
 " But — I was going to the pavilion," stammered M. 
 Antoine. 
 
 "I suppose so, since I found you at the door." 
 
 " I was gr)ing — with very good intentions ; but — " 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 9* 
 
 ** Who doubts it ? Certainly not I, my friend." 
 
 " Ah ! Now you talk as I want to have you ! So — 
 you would like to talk to me alone, — I see, — it is just 
 the same with me ; I want to tell you about an idea that 
 I have — " 
 
 " Sit down upon this bench, my neighbor, I will listen 
 to you ; but, first of all, you must hear me, for I have a 
 confession to make." 
 
 " All right — I know what it is ; you have picked my 
 lily?" 
 
 '' Ah, mon Dieu I How did you know that? " 
 
 " I heard a few words, and I guessed the rest. Why 
 did you break the poor flower? Could you not have 
 asked me for it? Could you not have waited until to- 
 morrow ? I intended to give it to you." 
 
 ''But — supposing I did not do it on purpose?" 
 
 '' You did not do it on purpose?" 
 
 Julie felt that she was blushing, for Antoine was look- 
 ing at her attentively, and the expression of irony in his 
 little black eyes was at the same time bitter and tender. 
 
 '' No indeed," she answered, hoping to save herself 
 by a Jesuitical device ; " the accident happened against my 
 will ! " 
 
 '' Good, good ! " replied Antoine, who was still gazing 
 searcliingly into her face ; " say that, — I prefer that." 
 
 '' You prefer that, — what ? " 
 
 " Yes, mordie ! Come, abandon the bad cause that 
 you want to plead. Condemn, frankly, the folly and 
 treachery of Master Julien, and leave me to punish him 
 as he deserves." 
 
 '' But what makes you think that M. Julien? — " 
 
 " Ah, do not try to lie," cried M. Antoine, starting up 
 with a bound, his little body quivering with passion and 
 indignation ; " it does not suit you to lie ; you do not 
 know how ! And, besides, it is useless ; I tell you that 
 I heard, and, as I am not a fool, I have come to the con- 
 clusion Julien finds you to his liking ; and the rascal 
 
 would like to tell you so, if he dared 1 " 
 
 " Monsieur Thierry, what are you saying?" 
 
 " What am I saying ? — I am stating things aa they 
 
92 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 are. Mademoiselle de Meuil was as proud as you can 
 be ; my brother Andre told her his fine stories, and 
 ended by making himself understood. All men and all 
 women are of the same clay ! Come, acknowledge the 
 truth ; do you like Julien or not, — yes or no ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Thierry, if I did not know your good heart, 
 the disagreeable tone of your conversation would disgust 
 me ! Please to speak differently, or I will leave you." 
 
 " Oh, now you are angry ! You remember your pride, 
 and are going to turn your back upon me. Why ? It is 
 not your affair ! Julien has committed a folly, — let him 
 pay the penalty." 
 
 " No, Monsieur Thierry, it was my fault, — I am the 
 unfortunate cause of the accident ; if I had not admired 
 and praised the flower indiscreetly, — he considered him- 
 self obliged to offer it to me, — politeness — " 
 
 " Bad reasons, bad reasons, my beautiful lady ! The 
 scoundrel knew perfectly well that I would have thrown 
 the flower, the plant, the garden, and the gardener into 
 the bargain, at your feet. If he did not know it, he 
 ought to have guessed it ; and, anyhow, he had no right 
 to play the generous with my property ; it was a rape, 
 an abuse of confidence, and a theft. He may eat his 
 fingers for the rest of his life ; and his mother will learn 
 what it costs to have brought up a son to play the courtier 
 improperly with great ladies." 
 
 '"'' Oh, my neighbor," cried Madam d'Estrelle, in great 
 distress, and quite out of patience, " you are not going to 
 withdraw your favor from them ; you are not going to 
 make it seem as if I had lied, — I, who placed you upon a 
 pedestal ; you are not going to break the bond of friend- 
 ship that we formed to-day ? For a flower more or less 
 in your collection, you would not cause so much unhap- 
 piness ? You are too rich to be troubled by a loss tha*. 
 can so easily be repaired." 
 
 " It is easy for you to talk ! There are some things 
 that millions cannot replace ; which a man of taste re- 
 gards as altogether priceless." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu I mon Dieu I Who could have sup- 
 posed such a thing ? " 
 
ANTONIA, 93 
 
 " Julien knew it." 
 
 " No, it is impossible ! " 
 
 '' I tell you that he knew it." 
 
 " Then he is crazy : but it is not his mother's fault ; 
 she was not there." 
 
 '^ It is his mother's fault. She encourages him to love 
 you, she fawns upon you, so as to lead you to sacrifice 
 yourself, as she did for her husband." 
 
 *' No ! I swear to you that you are mistaken. Mon- 
 sieur Thierry ! She is desperate — " 
 
 ''About what? Ah! you acknowledge that she has 
 talked to you about it, and that you know the feelings of 
 the young man." 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle struggled in vain. All the prudence 
 of her sex, all the pride of her rank, all her natural tact 
 and knowledge of the world were shipwrecked, as it were, 
 upon the brutal, straightforward logic of the old man. 
 Slie was caught in a vise ; and felt ashamed, awkward, 
 unmasked, without resources. What should she do? 
 order him out of her presence, and have done for- 
 ever with this rude vulgarian, and his odious questions ? 
 But that would be abandoning the cause of the poor 
 Thierrys, and giving them up to his vengeance ; she felt 
 that she ouglit rather to restrain her indignation, defend 
 herself as well as she could, and submit to being humili- 
 ated by his most misplaced admonitions. 
 
 '' It seems," she said, with melancholy resignation, 
 " that I committed a great fault in going to the pavilion, 
 and yet my intention was most innocent. I had never 
 seen M. Julien Thierry, I was overjoyed by your gen- 
 erous promises, and went to make the heart of his poor 
 mother glad ; I am well punished for having been so 
 enthusiastic about you, M. Thierry, since you think you 
 have a right to scold me, and to demand an explanation 
 of the most innocent, if not the wisest, step that one 
 woman ever took for the benefit of another." 
 
 '' And who says that I blame you ? " replied M. Antoine, 
 at the same time softened and irritated by her appeal ; '' I 
 condemn no one, except the real culprits. Do you know 
 what would have happened, if I had entered suddenly, 
 
94 ANTONIA, 
 
 when Master Julien was breaking my lily? I should 
 have broken him. Yes, as truly as I tell you so, I would 
 have done it. Here is a cane that would have split his 
 painter's head for him." 
 
 The old man's wicked and excited expression alarmed 
 Madam d'Estrelle ; really afraid of him, she looked 
 around involuntarily, as if to seek protection in case she 
 should become the object of his rage. Just then there 
 was a tremulous movement in the thick foliage surround- 
 ing the bench ; it was only, perhaps, a bird hopping 
 about amid the branches, but she felt a vague sense of 
 security. 
 
 " No, M. Antoine," she resumed, with courageous 
 gentleness, " you will never make me believe that you 
 are a wicked man, or that you would behave cruelly to 
 any one. You must blame me alone for this accident. 
 Scold me, — you have a right to do so. I will promise 
 you what I have already promised myself, that I will 
 never again enter the pavilion. What can I do more? 
 Come, tell me ! " 
 
 At this moment the foliage stirred a little more vio- 
 lently, and Julien's tame sparrow, like a messenger 
 sent from him to implore her pardon, came and lighted 
 upon Madam d'Estrelle's shoulder. Moved by this tri- 
 fling incident more than she cared to acknowledge, she 
 took the friendly little animal in the hollow of her hand, 
 with a sort of tenderness. 
 
 '' Hum ! " said M. Antoine, whose piercing eyes seemed 
 to possess the power of divination. " That is a strange 
 companion ! Does it belong to you } " 
 
 " Yes," replied Julie, who feared that his vengeance 
 against Julien would fall upon the poor bird, if he knew 
 that it was his. 
 
 " A tame sparrow ! It is an ugly beast, and one that 
 does a great deal of mischief. If it were not yours — 
 Did Julien give it to you ? " 
 
 " There again ! You think of nothing but Julien ! " 
 cried Madam d'Estrelle, losing patience, " and I really 
 cannot understand the strange turn that our conversa- 
 tion has taken. I am very sorry that I went to the 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 95 
 
 pavilion ; I regret exceedingly the accident that has 
 occurred. How can I repair it ? Will you not tell me 
 that, instead of wounding me with all these unjust insin- 
 uations ? " 
 
 *' Do you wish me to tell you ? " 
 
 *' Yes ! did I not promise to go to a family festival at 
 your house lo-morrow? " 
 
 "The baptism of my poor Antoniaf That is done 
 witli. The child is dead, or at least disfigured. I must 
 invite my guests to a burial. And, besides, it no longer 
 suits me to invite Madam Andre, and to pretend to be 
 friendly with her son — at least, unless — " 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle imagined that the rich man had re- 
 pented of his munificence, and wanted, perhaps, to reduce 
 the sum that he had offered for the pavilion. 
 
 " Speak, speak ! " she cried eagerly ; " I will agree to 
 anything that can make you amends and console you." 
 
 There was no limit to M. Antoine's vanity. He had 
 seen Madam d'Ancourt an hour before, and she, out of 
 spite against Julie, had inflamed his imagination, and 
 encouraged him in his audacious hopes. He had re- 
 turned, intending to offer himself. Not finding Julie in 
 the drawing-room, he had been so bold as to follow her 
 into the garden. The incident of the broken lily hurried 
 forward the inevitable event. His folly had reached a 
 climax, — he declared himself. 
 
 *' Madam," ho said, '' you drive me to the point, with 
 your pretty words and sweet manners ; if you are offended 
 at what 1 say, it is your own fault. Consider a little ! 
 You are not rich, and I know that you were not born 
 upon the steps of a throne. I do not consider you proud, 
 either, since you go to the studio of an insignificant 
 painter, and accept his homage, — at my expense ! A 
 ridiculous story ! but no matter. Laugh at it, but let us 
 end by being reasonable. Julien has good ancestors 
 upon his mother's side, but he is my nephew, nevertheless : 
 — he is a plebeian. Do you despise him for that?" 
 
 '' No, certainly ! " 
 
 "His fault, then, is that he is poor? But suppose 
 
^ ANTONIA. 
 
 he was rich, very rich, — come, what would you say to 
 him then?" 
 
 " You want to give him a fortune, so that I may marry 
 him?" said Madam d'Estrelle, in a sort of stupor of 
 amazement. 
 
 "Who said anything of the kind?" 
 
 "• Excuse me, — I thought — " 
 
 " You thought that I was making you a very silly 
 proposition. What does an artist amount to ? Suppose 
 I should give him a fortune, would the money I have 
 earned elevate him in your eyes? Those who have 
 carved out their own destiny, who have shown that they 
 deserve respect by the talent they have displayed in busi- 
 ness, are the ones who deserve consideration. Come, 
 you understand me perfectly well. I am offering you a 
 good man, a large fortune, and a name that has made 
 some noise in the world ; a man who will fulfil all your 
 wishes during his life, and will leave you all his property 
 after his death ; a man who has neither mistresses, nor 
 illegitimate children, nor cares, nor responsibilities of 
 any kind ; and, finally, a man who will be your grand- 
 father, and w^hom no one will accuse you of selecting out 
 of caprice and gallantry. You will show your good sense 
 and delicacy, on the contrary, by choosing him, for you 
 have debts, — more debts than property ; and, if Marcel 
 calculates well, he cannot give you much encouragement. 
 Keflect, therefore ! If you say no, you will be certain to 
 meet with great misfortunes, while every one will honor 
 you for freeing yourself from your embarrassments by a 
 reasonable marriage. You seem to be very much sur- 
 prised ; and yet your friend the baroness gave you to 
 understand — but she did not tell you the amount, per- 
 haps?" 
 
 " Five millions, is it not?" said Julie, who had grown 
 pale and haughty. " You are the person to whom she 
 referred, and you are speaking of yourself? " 
 
 "What if I am? Does the idea shock you ? Does it 
 offend you ? " 
 
 "No, Monsieur Thierry," replied Julie, with a su- 
 
ANTONIA. 97 
 
 preme effort; " I feel very mnch honored by your offer, 
 but — " 
 
 " But what? My age? Do you imagine that I want 
 to play the lover? No, God be praised! I never had 
 that weakness, and, at my age, I am not a fool. I want 
 to be your father by contract ; I want to marry you so 
 that I may have the right to make you my heiress. 
 Come, we have talked enough. You must say yes or no, 
 for I am not a man to be kept in suspense, and I do not 
 want to be humiliated. Do you understand ? " 
 
 M. Antoine spoke with singular authority. Julie was 
 afraid that a refusal would exasperate him. 
 
 " You are too hasty," she replied ; " my character is 
 undecided and timid. You must give me time for re- 
 flection." 
 
 "Then — you do not say no?" replied the old man, 
 evidently flattered at being allowed to hope. 
 
 " I do not say anything," replied Madam d'Estrelle, 
 who bad risen, and was approaching the house eagerly. 
 '' I am agitated, as you see, by an offer that I did not 
 expect. Give me several days for reflection, for consid- 
 eration, — I am deeply moved, deeply touched by your 
 friendship ; but I am alarmed, also, for I had sworn to 
 remain free ! Adieu, Monsieur Thierry, — leave me ! I 
 really need to be alone with my own heart ; do not try 
 and force me into a decision by your goodness." 
 
 Julie escaped into an inner room, and uncle Antoine 
 left the hotel. Devoured by a fever of hope that made 
 him more insane than ever, he ibrgot the pavilion, the 
 lily, the picture : he forgot everything ; but when lie 
 found himself in the rue de Babylone, in front of the pavil- 
 ion, he was seized by a furious desire to torment, puzzle, 
 and bewilder his relatives. He rang, and was admitted by 
 Marcel, who was waiting to learn the result of his con- 
 ference with Julie. 
 
 " So, here you are ! " he said, abruptly. " Where is 
 my plant ? Has Master Julien finished my picture ? " 
 
 " Come into the studio," said Marcel ; " the picture ia 
 fi lished, and your lily is as fresh as if nothing had hap» 
 pened." 
 
 T 
 
^8 ANTONIA. 
 
 " Oh, of course ! " muttered Antoine, ironically ; <' it 
 has done it good to be broken." 
 
 He came into the studio with his hat on ; his sister-in- 
 law, with a sad countenance, and in a very dejected at- 
 titude, was seated upon her little cane-chair in the recess 
 of the window ; without seeeiug her, without glanc- 
 ing around, he went straight up to his lily, examined the 
 fracture, and gazed eagerly at the stalk, whicli continued 
 to bloom in the damp earth. Then he looked at the por- 
 trait of the Antonia^ and turning to Julien, said, — 
 
 " I like it very much ; but you sha'n't have my custom, 
 for all that." 
 
 He walked up and down the studio, passed before 
 Madam Thierry, saw her at last, and put his hand to his 
 hat, saying, in a surly tone, '^ Your servant, madam ! " 
 
 Returning to Marcel, he laughed in his face, like a 
 crazy man, without uttering a word ; and finally, furious 
 because he could not find any way of revenging himself 
 that would not deprive him of his fiancee's good opinion, 
 he rushed to the door. Marcel, who saw what he was 
 suffering, drew him back. 
 
 '' Come, uncle," he said, "we must know how we 
 stand ! Has the Countess d'Estrelle obtained our pardon, 
 or must I sell my practice to pay damages ? " 
 
 " The Countess d'Estrelle," replied the old man, " is 
 a prudent person, who knows the difference between hair- 
 brained fools and a sensible man. You will see the 
 proof of it some day." 
 
 Madam Thierry, who could not endure her brother- 
 in-law's insolence, and who thought he intended to insult 
 her, arose to go to her room. Antoine bowed slightly, 
 and continued, — 
 
 " I did not mean that for you, Madam Andre, I have 
 nothing at all to say to you ! — " 
 
 " And I have nothing at all to say to you," replied the 
 wddow, in a tone of disdainful bitterness, which she was 
 aot prudent enough to repress. 
 
 Julien, incapable of humiliating himself by making 
 excuses, devo/ired his indignation in silence, and Marcel 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 99 
 
 followed the embarrassed and disordered movements of 
 the horticulturist with a piercing eye. 
 
 " What is the matter, uncle ? " he said, when Madam 
 Thierry had left the room. " You are hatching out some- 
 thing, good or bad ! Be sensible, and tell the truth." 
 
 "Oh, the truth, the truth ! that is what you want ! " 
 replied M. Antoine ; " the truth will be seen and known 
 when the day and hour comes ! Every one, perhaps, will 
 not find it a laughing matter ! " 
 
 Julien, who was still painting, lost patience ; layiu^^ 
 down his pallette and maul-stick, and taking off the hand- 
 kerchief rolled carelessly around his head (painters, at 
 that time, wore this head-dress in their studios instead 
 of caps), he went straight up to his uncle, and, forciu^' 
 him to interrupt his restless and noisy walk, demanded, 
 seriously and firmly, an explanation of his vague threats. 
 
 " Uncle," he said, " you are acting as if you wished 
 to drive me to extremities, but I shall not forget the ro 
 spect I owe you. I beg you, however, to remember that 
 I am not a child, to be frightened by a frown and loud 
 talking. It would be better for all, if you would see and 
 understand the real state of the case ; that is to say, 
 the real grief that I feel at having displeased you. Do 
 not ask me how this misfortune occurred ; a moment's 
 forgetfulness, a fit of absence of mind, cannot be ex 
 plained ; since it has occurred, what is to be my pun- 
 ishment, or what do you wish me to do in expiation ? I 
 am ready to prove my repentance, or submit to the con- 
 sequences of my fault. Decide, and stop threatening ; it 
 will be more worthy of both of us." 
 
 M. Antoine stood perfectly still, and tried to look in- 
 different ; but, in reality, he was very much mortified, 
 for he could not deny that the accused occupied a much 
 more dignified position, at this moment, than the judge. 
 He felt afraid, also, that he had been making himself 
 ridiculous ; and, at his wit's end, he formed a diabolical 
 plan, and resolved to carry it out. 
 
 "Everything depends upon Madam d'Estrelle," he 
 said ; " I will do all that I promised for your mother, and 
 will pardon you as well, in spite of your villanous con- 
 
,CX) ANTONIA. 
 
 duct, if she desires and commands it ; but I will only do 
 this on condition that she keeps her word, and comes to- 
 morrow to my house, with your family." 
 
 '' Very well," said Marcel ;" if it is all arranged, why 
 did not you remind her of the appointment just now? " 
 
 " I am not talking to you, lawyer," replied Antoine, 
 ''be so good as to take yourself off; I want to talk to 
 master Julien alone." 
 
 " Talk to your heart's content," said Marcel ; "I am 
 glad enough to go, for they have been expecting me at 
 my house for more than an hour. I will return after a 
 while, and find out what you have decided." 
 
 When Julieii was alone with his uncle, the latter 
 assumed a solemn manner, that was even more comical 
 than his previous rage. 
 
 '' Listen ! " he said ; " I want you to do an errand for 
 me. You must go to the hotel d'Estrelle." 
 
 " Excuse me, uncle, I cannot go there. I should not 
 be admitted." 
 
 " I know perfectly well that you would not be ad 
 mitted. But you can carry a letter there ; you can wait 
 for the reply in the ante-chamber, and bring it back to 
 me." 
 
 *' Nq.yj well," said Julien, who thought he would stop 
 at the porter's lodge. " Where is the letter?" 
 
 "• Give me writing materials." 
 
 '' Here they are," said Julien, opening the drawer of 
 liis table. 
 
 The horticulturist sat down, and wrote rapidly. Julien 
 changed his working-dress for a coat which was lying 
 upon a chair, and tried to conceal his impatience by so 
 doing. Soon his uncle called him. 
 
 ^' Do you want a seal? " said Julien. 
 
 "• Not yet. You must correct my note. I do not 
 pride myself upon being learned, and I may have made 
 mistakes in orthography. Read it : read it alcud, and 
 then correct the points, the commas, — everything." 
 
 Julien. who suspected some trick, cast a rapid glance 
 over the few lines which his uncle had written in a bold 
 hand. A mist passed before his eyes, and he came very 
 
antonia:*^ ; . r . , '* ; ^'» 
 
 uear crushing the paper with indignation ; but he imag- 
 ined that this whimsical and extravagant old man had 
 written this letter only so as to make him betray his 
 secret. He restrained himself, therefore, met the scruti- 
 nizing gaze fastened ferociously upon him without blench- 
 ing, and read the contents of the note with a firm voice : 
 
 " Madame and Friend, — 
 
 " We were so confused at our last interview, that we 
 parted without coming to an understanding about our 
 arrangements for to-morrow. I will not conceal from 
 you that your presence at my little fete will give me new 
 hope, and that I shall consider your absence as the sign 
 of a breach between us, or an unfortunate delay of 
 your decision. I have told you that I did not wish to be 
 trifled with, and you have promised me to be sincere. 
 Night brings wisdom. I shall depend upon to-morrow 
 to confirm the hopes you have allowed me to enter- 
 tain. 
 
 " Your friend and servant, who is impatient to call him- 
 self your fianc6, 
 
 " Antoine Thierry." 
 
 '' Very well," replied the horticulturist, when Julien 
 had finished reading it, " are there any faults?" 
 
 " Yes, uncle, a great many," said Julien, quietly tak- 
 ing his pen. 
 
 " Softly ! Don't let the corrections be seen. Be 
 careful ! " 
 
 " It is all done. Seal it, and write the address." 
 
 "What do you think of it?" said his uncle, writing 
 Madam d'Estrelle's name upon the envelope. 
 
 "Nothing at all," replied Julien. "I don't believe 
 you will send it." 
 
 " Will you believe so if you take the letter? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What will you say then ? " 
 
 " Nothing, It is not my affair." 
 
 " Lianlre I it is as much your affair as mine I ^ 
 
 "How so, pray?" 
 
iJOi ', ' ^'c c..\:^\ .ANTONIA. 
 
 " The recovery and deed of gift of your house at 
 Sevres depend upon it." 
 
 " Very well, uncle. I thank you, then, with all my 
 heart." 
 
 " You have an expression — " 
 
 '' I have no expression at all. Look at me ! " 
 
 Antoine could not meet Julien's bold and penetrating 
 glance. 
 
 " Come ! be quick ! " he said, ill-naturedly ; " carry my 
 letter." 
 
 " I fly to do so," replied Julien. 
 
 He took his hat. 
 
 " Where shall I bring you the answer?" 
 
 " I will wait for you in the street, at the door of the 
 hotel, and you can bring it to me there ; we will go out 
 together." 
 
 They left the house. Julien went straight to the por- 
 ter's lodge, his uncle keeping him in sight ; but, instead 
 of giving the letter to the porter, as he had intended doing 
 at first, he informed him that he wished to speak to the 
 valet-de-chambre, and crossed the court rapidly. When 
 he reached the ante-chamber, he gave his message ; and, 
 like a man who does not expect to be admitted, sat down 
 on a bench to wait ; he said to the valet, however, — 
 
 " Inform the countess that there is a reply, and that the 
 nephew of M. Antoine Thierry is here to carry it to 
 him." 
 
 After a moment's delay, the valet returned and 
 said, — 
 
 " The countess would like to ask you a few questions , 
 be so good as to come this way." 
 
 He opened a side door, and led the way. Julien fol- 
 lowed him into a dark hall ; the valet opened another 
 door leading into a large apartment, brought a chair, and 
 retired. 
 
 Julien found himself in a beautiful dining-room, oppo- 
 site the principal door. In another moment this door 
 opened, and Madam d'Estrelle entered. She looked pale 
 and agitated. 
 
 "I receive you in this room," she said, "because! 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 103 
 
 have company in the drawing-room, and I cannot refer 
 to the subject that brings you here, before others. Did 
 M. Antoine give you this letter?" 
 
 " Yes, madam.'* 
 
 '' You have not read it, of course?" 
 
 " I have, madam." 
 
 " And you undertook the commissipn?" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 '•Why so?" 
 
 '' To find out whether my uncle is a fool, who ought to 
 be under lock and key, or whether he is atrociously 
 wicked." 
 
 " In other words, — you were not sure, — you wished 
 to find out, — whether I had given him the right to send 
 me such a letter ? " 
 
 "I did not suppose such a thing possible, and I took it 
 for granted that you would send me away without an an- 
 swer." 
 
 "And since I receive you, — you conclude — " 
 
 " Nothing, madam, excepting that it is unnecessary 
 cruelty to keep me in suspense." 
 
 " Why should you feel such an interest ? — What 
 account do I owe to you — ? " 
 
 " Ah, madam, do not speak in that tone," cried Julien, 
 almost beside himself. '' Either you have disregarded 
 the antipathy that you must feel for such a man, on ac- 
 count of my uncle's wealth, — and in that case I have 
 absolutely nothing to say, — or you have endured his inso- 
 lent offer with a patience that has deceived him ; and, if 
 this is so, I can easily understand the cause of your pa- 
 tience, — your goodness. You were afraid that M. An- 
 toine would visit his resentment upon us." 
 
 '' It is true, M. Julien : I thought of your mother, and 
 avoided making a repl)' ; I asked time for reflection ; I 
 hoped that, to please me, he would keep his word, and 
 restore Madam Thierry to comfort and happiness. It 
 was wrong, perhaps, for I am naturally sincere, and I 
 failed to be so in this case. But how could I suppose 
 that this violent and ill-mannered old man would begin 
 by trying to compromise me ? And yet he has done so, 
 
I04 antonia. 
 
 and God only knows what will be the end of this dis- 
 agreeable affair ! But I ought not to think about that. 
 Since my negotiations in your favor have failed, it is sel- 
 fish in me to complain of my own troubles. In fact, I 
 regret more than anything else that I shall no longer be 
 able to serve you, after being the cause of a great dis- 
 aster. What is to be done with a man who mistakes my 
 fear for coquetry, and my silence for an avowal? " 
 
 Julien fell upon his knees ; and, as Madam d'Estrelle, 
 alarmed and surprised, was about to fly, he said, — 
 
 " Don't be afraid, madam ; this is not a theatrical 
 declaration ; I am not a madman, and I am performing a 
 serious duty in thanking you, upon my knees, in my 
 mother's name. Gratitude for such goodness as yours 
 must be expressed, not by words, but by adoration. 
 Now," added Julien, rising, " I must also tell you that I 
 am a man, and that I should despise myself if my love, 
 even for the most tender of mothers, could induce me to 
 accept the sacrifice that you propose. No, madam, no. 
 You must show no consideration for M. Antoine Thierry ; 
 you must not allow him to suppose, for an instant longer, 
 that he can aspire, — poor man ! he is a fool ; but fools 
 must be held in check, like troublesome and badly be- 
 haved children. I will undertake this duty, and I will go 
 at once, with your permission, to disabuse him forever." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu^ you yourself? " said Julie. " No ! do 
 not drive him to desperation, I will write — " 
 
 " And for my part," replied Julien, proudly, and with a 
 burst of passion that did not displease Madam d'Estrelle, 
 " I will not allow you to write. Do you suppose that I 
 am such a child as to be afraid of his anger, or so great 
 a coward as to allow you to be exposed to his importuni- 
 ties ? Do you think that my mother, any more than my- 
 self, would accept favors that would cost you the shadow 
 of a falsehood? We would give our lives to save you 
 from the least suffering ; and is it your place to suffer and 
 to be persecuted for us? No, madam, understand us 
 belter. My mother's sentiments are as noble as your 
 own ; it was with the greatest reluctance that she agreed 
 to accept M. Antoine's assistance. At present, she would 
 
/ 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 105 
 
 blu.^h to do so ; she will abhor the thought of his benefits, 
 vvhen she knows what they would cost you. As for me, 
 I am nothing, and will never be anything in your life ; 
 but let a man, speaking from his heart, assure you that 
 ho has no fear, either of poverty, or vengeance, or any 
 sort of persecution. I have done my duty, and will con- 
 tinue to do it ; I will support my mother until her last 
 breath ; I would fight with the universe, if it were neces- 
 sary, for her sake. Do not be troubled, therefore, about 
 her fate, you who love her so well. If she had nothing 
 else, she would prefer your friendship to all M. Antoine's 
 wealth. For my part, it is enough for me to have been 
 allowed the privilege of telling you ' 1 love you * in this 
 one moment of my life, without offending you and without 
 seeming insane : this recollection will always make me 
 proud and happy ; I am speaking to your soul, and there is 
 no feeling in my heart that is not worthy of you. Adieu, 
 madam ! Live happy and tranquil ; and if you ever 
 want some task performed that others find impossible, 
 remember there is a man living who will do it, — a man 
 poor, humble, unknown, but able to move mountains ; 
 for, when he is striving for his mother or for you, he is 
 Avill, — he is faith in person." 
 
 Without seeking or waiting for an ans^wer, Julien went 
 out, and was in the street in the twinkling of an eye. 
 Antoine was waiting for him with feverish impatience ; 
 he was just about rushing into the house like a bomb- 
 shell, when Julien reappeared. 
 
 " 80 you have come!" he cried ; "the answer must 
 be at least four pages long. Where is it ? " 
 
 " Come a little farther off", monsieur," replied Julien, 
 taking his arm, and leading him across the street ; " there 
 is so much noise here, that we cannot hear our own 
 voices," 
 
 They went into an open lot, where there was a placard 
 bearing the inscription, — '' Land for sale.'' Julien con- 
 tinued, — 
 
 '' Madam d'Estrelle read your letter, uncle, and having 
 done so, summoned me into her presence, and intrusted 
 me with a verbal answer." 
 
io6 ANTONIA, 
 
 "Verbal?" 
 
 " And brief." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " When you offered the countess your hand, she iinag'* 
 ined that you were out of your senses, and was afraid of 
 being alone with you ; she promised to reflect, so as to 
 get rid of you. In point of fact, she needed no time for 
 reflection, and this is her answer : she regrets that she 
 will be unable to come to your house to-morrow, and she 
 sends you word that, from this time, she will not be at 
 home when you call." 
 
 " Is she going away? Where is she going?" 
 
 " It is not my place to explain her message ; you must 
 understand it." 
 
 " Oh ! it is my formal dismissal? " 
 
 " So it would seem." 
 
 "And she commissions you to inform me? " 
 
 " No ; I undertook to do so without asking her con- 
 sent." 
 
 " Why so, — I should like to know." 
 
 " You already know, monsieur. Did you not tell me 
 that my mother's fortune and mine depended upon the 
 encouragement given by Madam d'Estrelle to your mat- 
 rimonial hopes ? It was for this reason that I seized so 
 eagerly the excuse you gave me for going to her house ; 
 I hoped the strange character of your letter would in- 
 duce her to grant me an interview. You did not foresee 
 that?" 
 
 " On the contrary, mordieu ! " cried M. Antoine ; " I 
 said to myself plainly, that that very thing would hap- 
 pen, if — " 
 
 "If what, sir?" 
 
 " If I had guessed correctly. I understand now." 
 
 " For my part, I do not understand." 
 
 " It is the same to me." 
 
 "Excuse me, will you allow me to guess? You im- 
 agined that I was such a fool, such a madman, such an 
 impertinent fop, as to aspire to attract the attention of 
 this lady?" 
 
 " And now I am sure of it ! You have declared your 
 
ANTONIA. 107 
 
 Bcntiments, — your triumphant manner tells me so ! You 
 are rubbing your hands with joy, to think that you have 
 occasioned my defeat. You will tell the story to your 
 dear mother ! You will say to her, 'The rich man is 
 cheated ! He thought to throw us a morsel of bread, 
 and take a young wife ; he was going to turn us into rid- 
 icule, and disinherit us. Look at him ! He has only 
 succeeded in covering himself with shame. He will grow 
 old alone, he will die an old bachelor, and, in spite of 
 him, we shall be rich.* " 
 
 " You are mistaken, sir," replied Julien, with perfect 
 self-possession ; "I have never made any such ignoble 
 calculations, and never will do so. You may marry to- 
 morrow, if you choose, and marry whom you choose ; I 
 shall be delighted, provided that you do not compromise my 
 dignity, and my mother's, in the transaction. I wished to 
 have an opportunity of saying this to Madam d'Estrelle ; 
 I repeat it to you. And now I have only to recall that 
 you are my uncle, and to take leave of you with due 
 respect." 
 
 Julien bowed deeply to M. Antoine, and was turning 
 away. The latter called him back imperiously. 
 
 "And my lily ? " he cried, " who will pay me for that?" 
 
 " Name the price, sir." 
 
 " Five hundred thousand francs." 
 
 " Are you talking seriously?" 
 
 " You ask me whether I am talking seriously?" 
 
 *' I believe you, knowing that you would be incapable 
 of deceiving any one who trusts you." 
 
 " Base flattery ! " 
 
 The face of the young artist flushed ; he looked steadily 
 at M. Antoine, and tried to pursuade himself that 
 he was so insane that a man in his senses ought not 
 to mind his invectives. Antoine read his thought, and 
 tried to be more calm. 
 
 " No matter for that," he said, " let it pass. I will 
 go take tlie ruin and the picture ; my loss is the price 
 that I must pay for my goodness and confidence ; it will 
 teach me to be true, hereafter, to my own ideas and prin- 
 ciples. Luud the way, and not another word ! " 
 
io8 ANTONIA. 
 
 They returned to the studio. Silent as personified 
 spite, M. Antoine took up the plant, the broken stalk, 
 and the picture, and, without allowing any one to help 
 him, without looking at Julien or moving his lips, he 
 left the pavilion never to enter it again. 
 
 Marcel soon returned, to learn what had happened ; 
 and Julien, with frank sincerity, told him everything ia 
 Madam Thierry's presence. 
 
 " Now," he added, " I know that my thoughtless con- 
 duct has caused you great anxiety. You have thought 
 me as foolish as uncle Antoine, and my mother is fright- 
 ened about a sentiment that she imagines will be fatal to 
 me. Undeceive yourself, and recover your tranquillity, 
 dear mother ; and you, Marcel, give me back the respect 
 to which I am entitled, as a reasonable man. One can 
 be so, in spite of committing an imprudence ; and I 
 acknowledge that I was very thoughtless in ojQTering our 
 benefactress an object that did not belong to me. It 
 was a misplaced outburst of gratitude, but she was 
 not shocked, because she saw that my feeling was 
 worthy of her, and was perfectly respectful. I flatfer 
 myself that she is more than ever persuaded of this, since 
 granting me an interview, and I swear to both of you, by 
 everything that is most sacred, — by filial love and faith- 
 ful friendship, — that there shall be nothing in my future 
 conduct by which Madam d'Estrelle can be annoyed, or 
 you afflicted. Do not regret the house at Sevres, my 
 dear mother ; we can do without it ! At all events, you 
 don't want Madam d'Estrelle to become Madam Antoine 
 Thierry for the sake of obtaining it, and you certainly 
 don't suppose that such a thing could have happened. As 
 for you, my dear Marcel, I thank you for all the trouble 
 you have taken ; but you must be thoroughly convinced 
 that your efforts are thrown away, and that uncle An- 
 toine will never give anything without an equivalent. 
 Let us be composed, and resume the course of life which 
 this bad dream of fortune interrupted. I have still my 
 hands to work with, and a heart with which to cherish 
 you ; and believe me, from to day I shall be more active, 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 169 
 
 more courageous, and surer of the future than ever 
 before." 
 
 Julien was speaking the truth, and not making a dis- 
 play of courage to reassure his mother. Although far 
 from being tranquil, he felt strong : his two interviews 
 with Julie, succeeding each other so rapidly, had given a 
 new direction to his thoughts, — a new impulse to his 
 soul. 
 
 Inspired by her presence, he had expressed, imexpect- 
 cdly and without premeditation, his noble and devoted 
 passion. He was sure that he had opened his heart to her 
 freely, and that she had neither been alarmed nor offended. 
 Did he believe that she loved him? No; but he felt 
 vaguely, perhaps, that she did, and his heart was thrilled 
 with a mysterious ecstasy. Naturally inclined to an 
 ideal euthuj^iasm and self-sacrifice, he did not shrink 
 from the part that he felt called upon to perform. What 
 he had said, he meant to do, and he was strong enough 
 to do it. To love in silence, — to hope, seek, strive but 
 for one thing, — the opportunity of proving his devo- 
 tion, — this was his plan, his will, his confession of faith, 
 as it were. 
 
 " I may have to suffer a great deal for the present," 
 he thought ; " but it will give me so much joy to suffer 
 nobly, and hide my love for her sake, that I shall rise 
 above my misery, and my mother will no longer be af- 
 flicted. In the struggle between my passions and duties, 
 I must be really great. And why not ? I have always 
 loved noble ai^pirations and elevated sentiments, and 
 ought, therefore, to be equal to the trial. Since I am a 
 man, and believe we can best fulfil our duties in a 
 domestic life, I suppose I shall do some day as Marcel 
 has done : marry a good woman, who thenceforth will be 
 my best friend. Up to that time, I will live free and 
 pure. This noble Julie, wJio can never be mine, I will 
 love without hope, and, if possible, without desire ; I 
 will love her with a sublime, fraternal friendship, and will 
 seek inspiration in this sentiment. Others will regard 
 me merely as a gentle, patient artist, seeking grace and 
 bloom in baskets of roses ; but, by studying the diviu»< 
 
no ANTONIA. 
 
 mystery of purity in the bosom of flowers, one may leam 
 to comprehend the sanctity of love. It seems to me that 
 there is something great in being able to say to yourself 
 that you might seek to win a beloved woman, and love 
 her too well to wish to do so. My life will be one of 
 meditation and sentiment, and to this life I will be true 
 as long as possible. I will live in my thoughts as 
 others do in their acts, and perhaps I shall be happier 
 than any one else. My enthusiasm will not be wasted 
 upon delusions. I shall live in constant communion with 
 the beautiful, the pure, the great : more fortunate in this 
 than my poor father, who felt this longing, and thought to 
 satisfy it by external luxury, and the society of distin- 
 guished people, I shall not require so much ; and, asking 
 only the approval of my conscience, shall really be richer 
 than he." 
 
 In casting himself thus, of his own accord, into the 
 regions of the ideal, Julien obeyed a secret inclination 
 that had been developed in him at an early day. He had 
 received an excellent education, and had not only studied 
 his art with enthusiasm, but had read a great deal. His 
 severe enthusiasm would not allow him to enjoy all sub- 
 jects indiscriminately, or to take pleasure in every style. 
 Among all the authors who had nourished his youth, 
 the great Corneille was the one whom he had read 
 with the most satisfaction and benefit. It was in his 
 works that he had found the noblest aspirations, the most 
 heroic sentiments, clothed in the most elevated forms. 
 He preferred his teachings displayed in action, — the 
 picture that he presented of great virtues embodied in 
 living characters, — to the discussions of contemporane- 
 ous philosophy. 
 
 We do not mean that he disdained the spirit of his age, 
 or held himself aloof from the prodigious movement that 
 was going on at that time in ideas. On the contrary, he 
 was cue of the robust products of this epoch, so unique in 
 history for its grand illusions, leading the way to formid- 
 able resolutions. The last days of the monarchy had 
 come, but very few persons were thinking of overthrow- 
 in<j it. Julien, at least, was not among the number who 
 
ANTONIA. 1 1 1 
 
 cherished this dream. He was far enough from attempt- 
 ing any enterprise whatever of a political nature. For 
 his part, he was intoxicated by the discoveries and dreams 
 of moral science and of natural science, recently extri- 
 cated in great blocks, as it were, from the quarries of the 
 past. Legrange, Bailly, Lalande, Berthollet, Monge, 
 Condorcet, Lavoisier, had already revolutionized thought. 
 When we glance at the rapid succession of fortunate efforts 
 that, in a few years, had transformed astrology into as- 
 tronomy, alchemy into chemistry, and, along the whole 
 line of human knowledge, had replaced blind prejudice 
 by experimental analysis, it is impossible to deny that the 
 philosophers of the eighteenth century, in warring against 
 superstition, had freed individual genius from its fetters, a8 
 well as the religious and social conscience of peoples. And 
 what audacity, what enthusiasm, what intoxication in 
 these first flights towards the future ! The human mind 
 had just saluted the sun of progress, and already imag 
 ined that it had taken possession of all its rays. The 
 first montgolfiere balloon had scarcely risen upon its 
 wings of fire, when two men ventured to cross the chan- 
 nel. At once humanity cried, '• We are masters of the 
 atmosphere, we are inhabitants of heaven ! " 
 
 At the very time when our story chances to occur, the 
 new idea of the age, just starting in its noble career, had 
 been summed up in the word 'perfectibility. Condorcet 
 had made a magnificent outline of the doctrine, and, 
 without allowing for human weakness, urged its infinite 
 destiny. He believed in the infinite to such an extent, 
 that he even hoped to discover the secret for annihilating 
 death itself, and all readers and thinkers were beginning 
 to believe with him in the indefinite prolongation of phys- 
 ical life. Parmentier believed that he had exorcised for- 
 ever the spectre of famine, by acclimating the potato. 
 Mesmer thought that he had discovered a mysterious 
 agent, the source of everything wonderful. Saint Mar- 
 tin announced the regeneration of the soul, and dissipated 
 the terrors of the old dogmas with the dogma of infinite 
 light. Cagliostro pretended to resuscitate magic in a 
 natural and comprehensible manner. In a word, aU 
 
112 ANTONIA. 
 
 minds, the most practical as well as the most romantic, 
 were intoxicated by the wildest dreams of the future, 
 and, amid this over-excitement, the present seemed au 
 obstacle quite unworthy of any notice. The old mon- 
 archy, the inflexible clerfxy, were still erect, and were 
 endeavoring to seize again the power that was slipping 
 from them ; bat liberty had just been inaugurated in 
 America, and France felt that her day was near. No 
 bloodshed was anticipated. Delightful chimeras excluded 
 ideas of vengeance. Upon the eve of a terrible storm, 
 the people rejoiced, and a mysterious fever of ideas pre- 
 pared for the magnificent outburst of '89. 
 
 Julien was full of all that eager faith and resolution 
 that seem to descend providentially upon the earth at 
 periods preliminary to great conflicts ; but there was a 
 certain tranquillity about him, due to his habits, training, 
 and also to his natural disposition. He could not have 
 argued about it ; but one of his marked characteristics 
 was a philosophical mysticism, and a sort of inward ne- 
 cessity of sacrificing himself. If he had not loved a 
 woman, he would have loved liberty with fanaticism. 
 Love was revealed to him under the form of devotion. 
 As soon as Julie's image filled his soul, he thought of 
 himself merely as a force whose office was to serve and 
 protect Julie. Did the idea occur to him that she might 
 and ought to belong to him? Yes, undoubtedly, it oc- 
 curred to him in a confused, and sometimes in an impe- 
 rious manner ; but he resisted it bravely. He had no 
 prejudices, and was not like uncle Antoine, dazzled by the 
 rank, title, and elegance of the countess ; he knew Julie's 
 mediocre birth, and the embarrassed state of her finances. 
 He considered himself, moreover, her equal ; for he was 
 one of those men of the third estate, filled with a legiti- 
 mate and obstinate pride, who were beginning to say, — 
 The third estate is everything ; as people said afterwards, — 
 The people is everything ; as some day — without rejecting 
 any form of nobility, whether coming from the sword, 
 the robe, the workshop, or the plough — they will say, — 
 The individual is everything. Julien did not consider 
 Madam d'Estrelle as a woman placed above him by cir- 
 
ANTON I A, 113 
 
 cumstances, but by her personal merit. That merit he 
 very probably exaggerated. It is the privilege of love to 
 see the objects of its worship through the medium of the 
 ideal, and to consider itself called upon to make conquests 
 of divinities. Thus, an admirable humility and bound- 
 less pride were united in his passion. 
 
 " I am not worthy of such a woman," he said to him- 
 self; "I must become so: and when, by being patient, 
 disinterested, devoted and respectful, I have made myself 
 worthy of her, — ah, then, perhaps, I shall feel that I 
 have the right to say, — ' Love me ! * " 
 
 Sometimes he asked himself whether this day would 
 come before Julie's life had been disposed of by the un- 
 expected circumstances of the future ; and to this doubt 
 he answered, — 
 
 "Supposing that it is so, she will respect me, — per- 
 haps will feel a friendship for me, — and the time I have 
 consecrated to governing myself nobly, will not have been 
 thrown away." 
 
 Madam Thierry, therefore, was both surprised and de- 
 lighted to see that her son, from the very day of the great 
 catastrophe, suddenly recovered his cheerfulness, and 
 every appearance of moral and physical health. 
 
 " My friend," she said to Marcel, as she was talking 
 with him alone, " I scarcely dare acknowledge what is in 
 my mind ; but he looks so happy ! Mon Dieu I do you 
 think it can be possible ? " 
 
 "What?" said Marcel. "Oh, yes, — his visit to 
 Madam d'Estrelle ! There is no saying, my good aunt ; 
 he is handsome and amiable enough to please a great 
 lady ; but the countess is ruined, and can only be relieved 
 from her embarrassments by a rich marriage. We ought 
 to wish to see her well married, provided that her hus- 
 band is not too old a man. She is not determined and 
 courageous, as you were, and, besides, the step that suc- 
 ceeded in your case is usually a failure. An absorbing 
 passion is a number that draws once out of a hundred 
 thousand times in the lottery of destiny. Do not desire 
 to see it tried, either by Julien or the countess." 
 
 " No, I do not wish anything of the kind ; it is too 
 8 
 
114 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 hazardous, in fact ; but supposing she loves him : what 
 
 will happen ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; but she is virtuous, and he is an 
 honest man : they would both suffer. It would be better 
 if they could be separated." 
 
 " That is what I said at first. And yet what a pity ! 
 They are both so beautiful, so young and so good ! Ah ! 
 fate is sometimes very unjust ! If my poor husband had 
 left him our fortune, Julien would have been a good 
 match for her, since she is poor, and has no family pride. 
 Alas ! God pardon me ! This is the first time that I 
 have ever blamed my Andre ! Do not speak of it again. 
 Marcel, — never again ! " 
 
 •■' We must reflect, however," replied the lawyer, 
 " and not allow the fire in Julien's heart to blaze too 
 high ; to-day it is an illumination, probably because he 
 hopes ; to-morrow will be the conflagration." 
 
 " What shall we do then, Marcel? " 
 
 " I don't know. I wish I could find out what Madam 
 d'Estrelle feels, and, above all, learn about uncle Antoine ; 
 for I am not deceived by his pretended philosophy, and 
 I fear — " 
 
 "What do you fear?" 
 
 '' Everything ! With such a man, what may we not 
 expect ? " 
 
 The emotions of this eventful day made Madam d'Es- 
 trelle almost ill. Julien's visit completely unnerved her ; 
 but, when he had gone, the sort of fever into which she 
 had been thrown by M. Antoine's proposal, was suc- 
 ceeded by a languor that was not without sweetness. 
 
 " Every one would laugh at me," she said, " for feel- 
 ing such confidence in the word of a man whom I have 
 known only for a few hours ; and yet I am certain that 
 he is my friend, — my true friend. But ought I to ac- 
 cept this ardent friendship ? Will it not be dangerous for 
 him and for me ? It is true that he did not ask me to 
 accept it. He went away like a person who relies upon 
 himself alone, and who loves without asking permission. 
 Since he says that he has no hope, has he not the right to 
 love ? And how, indeed, could I prevent him ? " 
 
ANTONIA. 1x5 
 
 Julie knew perfectly well, in her own heart, that she 
 ought not to have received Jiilien, after what Madam 
 Thierry had told her of his feeling towards herself. 
 
 " In fact," she said, " why did I receive him when my 
 first impulse was to send this simple and final message : — 
 ' There is no answer ! ' That would have freed me both 
 from the uncle and nephew. But did the latter deserve 
 to be humiliated ? Did he not come for the purpose of 
 defending his honor from his uncle's contemptible trick- 
 eries ? Had he not the right to tell me what he did upon 
 this point ? And if he added a few tender words, — too 
 tender for his own good, perhaps, — was there anything 
 to wound me in what he said ? Is it my duty to be of- 
 fended ? I cannot tell. He offered himself, — he gave 
 himself to me, — without seeking anything in return. He 
 did not even give me time to answer him. Whether I 
 wish it or not, he has made me a present of his heart and 
 his life. Indeed, he did not talk like a lover, but like my 
 slave, and at the same time my master. It is all very 
 singular, and I cannot understand it. What I feel for 
 him I do not know ; but I am certain of one thing, and 
 that is, that I believe in him." 
 
 It seemed to Julie, as well as to Madam Thierry and 
 Marcel, that the morrow of this strange day would be 
 marked by the most important events. They wondered, 
 in vain, what M. Antoine's spite would induce him to do. 
 To their surprise, a number of days passed, and no change 
 occurred in their respective situations. The horticul- 
 turist had gone into the country, but no one knew where. 
 He had no country-seat, at least so Marcel thought, but 
 the lawyer was mistaken in supposing that he knew all 
 about his affairs. When convinced that he was really 
 absent, he became anxious. The people at his house, 
 however, showed him orders written by his hand which 
 the head gardener received every day, giving precise 
 directions about the treatment of certain delicate plants. 
 These horticultural bulletins had no date, and no post- 
 mark. They were brought by the valet-de-chambre of the 
 ex-ship-owner, — an old sailor, throroughly incorruptible, 
 devoted as a negro, silent as a log. 
 
ir6 ANTONIA, 
 
 *'What are we to think?" said Marcel to Madam 
 Thierry ; " he is probably in a great rage, or he may 
 perhaps be ashamed of his folly, and feel like hiding for 
 a while. Let us hope that he will return cured of his 
 mania for matrimony, and that he will make it a point of 
 honor not to break off his negotiations in regard to the 
 pavilion. The indemnity will be of great service to you, 
 and I cannot hide from you that Madam d'Estrelle is in 
 great need of the sum that he promised hei. I cannot 
 imagine what venomous fly is stinging her creditors, but 
 they are beginning to show the strangest impatience and 
 anxiety. They have gone so far as to threaten that they 
 will yield their claims to a principal creditor, who will 
 certainly speculate upon the embarrassment of my client ; 
 nothing worse than that could happen." 
 
 A few days afterwards he had an interview with Mad- 
 am d'Estrelle ; her father-in-law was very ill, and she 
 had just returned from paying him a visit. 
 
 " I am not at all easy," he said ; "I fear that the 
 marquis will die without settling your affairs." 
 
 *' I do not count much upon his goodness," replied 
 Julie, " but I cannot believe that he will leave me strug- 
 gling with the count's creditors, when he can so easily put 
 an end to my trials. We must make allowance for the 
 childish fear that selfish old men feel of poverty ! but 
 after him — " 
 
 "After him? — "replied Marcel, "the devil is after 
 him, — I mean is at his heels. His wife is a terrible 
 woman. I am afraid of her. She does not love you ; and, 
 since your husband was not her son, you have no claims 
 upon her." 
 
 " Mon Dieu I you see the dark side of everything, my 
 dear lawyer ! The marquis is neither very old nor very 
 sick. He must have made his will. The marchioness 
 is exceedingly devout, and she will do from a sense of 
 duty what she would not do out of tenderness. Do not 
 discourage me, you who have always sustained me." 
 
 " I should not be discouraged myself, if I could lay 
 my hand upon my whimsical uncle. If he would buy 
 and pay for the pavilion, we should gain a delay of one 
 
ANTONIA. 117 
 
 or two months. We should have time to sell the little 
 farm in Beauvoises, or to yield it at a moderate price ; 
 otherwise it will be seized brutally, and we shall lose al- 
 together remnants of property which are still valuable.*' 
 
 Julie, formerly, had been very much troubled about 
 her precarious position, but she was in a state of utter 
 lassitude, at present, that took the place of courage. So 
 much philosophy did she display, that Marcel was sur- 
 prised, and at last became irritated. 
 
 " The devil take me ! " he said, in a low voice, to 
 Madam Thierry, " one would swear that she asked 
 nothing better than to be put into the street." 
 
 Was this really Madam d'Estrelle's secret thought? 
 Had she said to herself that if her husband's family 
 abandoned her, left her poor, she would no longer owe 
 so much respect to the name she bore ; that she might 
 disappear from society, live as she chose, marry accord- 
 ing to her inclination ? 
 
 Yes and no ! At moments she abandoned herself to 
 the dream of obscure happiness which had come to her, 
 like a delightful vision, in Julien's studio. At other 
 times she became the Countess d'EstrcUe again, and 
 asked herself, with terror, how she could break away 
 from her surrouudings and habits, and, above all, endure 
 blame and contempt ; she who, up to this time, had been 
 so great a favorite in the small but aristocratic circle in 
 which she moved. 
 
 It is well known that there was at this time a violent 
 and desperate reaction in the aristocratic world against 
 the invasions of philosophy. Perhaps no other historical 
 epoch presents such strange contrasts ! On one side pub- 
 lic opinion, queen of the future, was proclaiming doctrines 
 of equality, scorn of social distinction, the philosophy of 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau, of Voltaire and Diderot. On the 
 other hand, the constituted authorities, terrified by a pro- 
 gress which they had not dared oppose, were now too 
 late trying a resistance, whose only effect was to plunge 
 them into an abyss. Still, to one whose horizon was 1 inc- 
 ited, and who could not foresee the morrow, this resist- 
 ance appeared formidable ; and a timid and gentle woman 
 
Ii8 ANTONIA. 
 
 like the Countess d'Estrelle, was very naturally alarmed 
 by it. Like all of her class, she imagined that the con- 
 duct of the coui't would determine the destiny of France. 
 And there were moments, just at that time, when the 
 terrified king did his best to resuscitate the monarchy 
 of Louis XIV. His efforts were pitiful, and utterly use- 
 less ; but, regarded from a certain point of view, they 
 appeared of sufficient importance to irritate the people, 
 and augment the pride of the privileged classes. The 
 court and city had proclaimed the triumph of Voltaire ; 
 on the day after that triumph, the clergy refused to grant 
 him a tomb. Mirabeau had written a chef d'oeuvre 
 against the arbitrary power of the letire de cachet. The 
 king had said, in speaking of Beaumarchais, — "If his 
 piece is played (the Marriage of Figaro), the Bastile 
 must be torn down ! " The third estate was constantly 
 increasing in intelligence, ambition, and real importance ; 
 the court had reestablished the privileges of rank in the 
 army as well as in the clergy, and had decided, — what 
 Cardinal Richelieu would not have dared decide, — that 
 in order to become an officer or prelate, it should be nec- 
 essary to prove four generations of nobility. The Amer- 
 ican Constitution had just proclaimed the principles of the 
 Contract Social of Jean Jacques Rousseau ; Washington 
 and Lafayette were dreaming of freeing their slaves, and 
 the French minister had granted new encouragement to 
 the slave trade ; the lower ranks of the clergy were 
 becoming more and more democratic, day by day ; Sor- 
 bonne was seeking a quarrel with Buffon, and the higher 
 ecclesiastics had demanded a new law for repressing the 
 art of writing ; public opinion had raised its voice against 
 capital punishment ; examination hy torture was in full 
 vigor. The queen had protected Beaumarchais ; Raynal 
 was forced to become an exile. 
 
 These attempts at reaction, amid the general tenden- 
 cies of the age, were repeated in devout circles. The 
 principal nobility, however they may have differed in 
 other respects, agreed in blaming those of its members 
 who allowed themselves to be seduced by the new philos- 
 ophy. In conservative saloons, the king and queen were 
 
ANTONIA. 119 
 
 overwhelmed with curses and sarcasms, as soon as they 
 seemed to abandon the theories of the king's good pleas' 
 ure. But, as soon as they laid a stone upon the feeble 
 dam that was erecting against the revolutionary spirit, 
 the devotees of these circles renewed their allegiance, and 
 imagined that everything was saved ; no one suspected the 
 rapidity of the torrent, and the nearness of the overflow. 
 Scoffs, scorns, and caricatures were the order of the 
 day. The coming danger was so utterly despised, that 
 it was laughed to scorn. 
 
 The set of people with whom Julie was intimate were 
 timid and gentle in disposition, like herself, and were 
 opposed to exaggeration of every kind ; but, beyond 
 this little coterie, she felt the influence of a larger and 
 more formidable circle, — that of the family of the Count 
 d'Estrelle. This haughty family disliked her, because 
 she silently resisted their tyranny ; and, although she 
 avoided them as much as possible, she suffered from the 
 consciousness of their displeasure. Still beyond this for- 
 midable circle, another, yet more powerful and more 
 threatening, — that of the second wife of the Marquis 
 d'Estrelle, — cast a shadow over her life. Excessively 
 bigoted, opposed to every sort of progress, despising the 
 philosophers, openly hostile to the great Voltaire himself, 
 imbued with all the prejudices of birth, and angrily occu- 
 pied about the preservation of its pretended rights, — this 
 coterie inspired Julie with the greatest alarm. Her fear 
 may have been childish, but it was excessive and irre- 
 sistible. The marchioness was known to be an avaricious, 
 wicked, and treacherous woman ; and we have seen that 
 the Baroness d'Ancourt herself, in spite of her conserva- 
 tive ideas, spoke of her, as well as of her friends, with the 
 greatest aversion. Julie was but slightly acquainied 
 with her, and tried to believe her piety sincere, but she 
 was afraid of her ; and when she asked herself why she 
 was living in such a state of timidity and melancholy, 
 the disagreeable spectre of this withered personage, with 
 green eyes and pitiless tongue, appeared before her. It 
 was therefore out of apprehension that she tried to defend 
 the marchioness in conversation, and to silence her 
 
I20 ANTONIA. 
 
 friends when they ventured to call her a harpy and a 
 bird of ill-omen. 
 
 It was only natural that poor Julie should detest the 
 opinions of the marchioness and her friends, but she was 
 too inexperienced, and too ignorant of the general spirit of 
 the age, to understand how trifling the persecutions would 
 be that she would have to brave, if she had resolved to live 
 according to her heart and conscience. She was shut up 
 in a little cage of prejudices, like a bird who thinks that 
 the universe is all a cage around it, and who no longer 
 comprehends the murmur of the wind among the trees, 
 and the flight of other birds in space. 
 
 *' It may be that there are happy people, " she said to 
 herself, " but they are far away ! and how can I join 
 them?" 
 
 Thus it is, upon the eve of a terrible revolution, that 
 the prisoners of the past weep over their chains, and 
 think they are riveted upon them for all eternity. Usu- 
 ally, however, Julie forgot all these questions of external 
 facts, to lose herself in vague reveries, and in secret 
 anxieties, of a new kind. We will soon see what she was 
 reilectiug about, and how difficult it was for this generous, 
 but timid heart, to enter into harmony with itself. 
 
 Fifteen days had passed away since the catastrophe of 
 the Antonia^ and Madam d'Estrelle had neither seen or 
 heard of Julien. She could almost have imagined that 
 he had never existed, and that her two interviews with 
 him had been a dream. Madam Thierry had not entered 
 her garden. Julie, very much surprised at her absence, 
 had sent to inquire about her, and received word that she 
 was a little unwell ; — there was nothing serious the 
 matter, but she was obliged to keep her room. 
 
 She questioned Marcel, but without obtaining any sat- 
 isfaction ; he repeated that his aunt was somewhat indis- 
 posed, but entered into no details. Julie dared not 
 question him farther ; she saw plainly that her neighbor 
 wanted to break off every sort of relation, even the most 
 indirect, between her son and herself. Finally, Madam 
 Thi*».rry reappeared one morning, when the countess had 
 
ANTONIA. 121 
 
 ceased to expect her. Interrogated by Julie with timidity 
 aud reserve, she replied, with affectionate confidence, — 
 
 " My dear and well-beloved countess, you must par- 
 don me for having had a bad dream, which is now 
 dissipated. Too hasty in judging, I allowed myself 
 to be foolishly alarmed, and alarmed you with my chi- 
 meras. I believed that my son had the audacity to love 
 you ; believed it so firmly, that it has required fifteen 
 days to disabuse me of the idea. Forget what I told 
 you, and let my poor child enjoy once more the respect 
 that he has never ceased to deserve. You are not the 
 object of his prayers and vows. He venerates you, as 
 he ought to do ; he would die for you, if necessary ; but 
 his feeling is not a romantic passion, but an ardent and 
 true gratitude. He swore that it was so ; I doubted his 
 word at first, but I was wrong. I have observed, nay, 
 more, have watched him for the last fifteen days, and I 
 am reassured. He eats, sleeps, talks ; he is interested 
 in everything, he comes and goes, works cheerfully ; in 
 a word, he is not in love. He makes no efibrt to see 
 you, he talks about you with tranquil admiration, he seeks 
 no opportunity of attracting your attention, and will 
 never do so. Pardon me for my folly, and love me as 
 before." 
 
 Julie accepted this statement, perfectly sincere upon 
 the part of Madam Thierry, with amiable satisfaction. 
 They talked about other things, and remained together 
 for an hour, after which they separated, congratulating 
 each other that they would have no further cause of 
 trouble, and would be able to renew their friendship 
 without agitation, and without fearing that it would be 
 dangerous to any one. 
 
 Why was it that Julie felt so strangely sad after this 
 interview? She could not think of any good reason for 
 her melancholy, aud laid the blame upon the visits 
 that she had happened to receive. She suddenly dis- 
 covered that her old friend Madam des Morges was an 
 insupportable gossip, that the old Duke de Quesnoy was 
 tiresome and monotonous as a sledge-hammer ; that her 
 cousin, the wife of the president, was a prude, and a 
 
122 ANTON I A. 
 
 hypocrite ; and that the abbe (there was always an abb^ 
 in every circle at that time) was personal and insipid. 
 Finally, when Camille came to make her toilette, she was 
 -TOSS, and sent her away, saying, — 
 
 "What's the use?" 
 
 Then she recalled her capriciously, and asked whether 
 the period of her half-mourning had not ended, three 
 days before. 
 
 • " Yes, madam," said Camille, " it is really over ! And 
 madam is very wrong not to throw aside her mourning- 
 dresses. If she wears them much longer, it will look 
 very badly." 
 
 "How so, Camille?" 
 
 " People will say that madam prolongs her regrets out 
 of economony, so as to wear out her gray dresses." 
 
 " That is a very powerful reason, my dear, and I 
 yield. Make haste, and bring me a rose-colored dress ! " 
 
 " Rose-colored ? No, madam, it is too soon for that I 
 They would say that madam had worn mourning against 
 her will, and that she has changed her mind as quickly as 
 her dress. Madam must wear a pretty toillette of chink 
 silk, royal blue, and embroidered with white bouquets." 
 
 " Very well. But have not all my dresses got out of 
 fashion during the two years that I have been in mourn- 
 ing?" 
 
 '* No, madam, I have taken care of that. I have 
 made the sleeves over, and changed the trimmings of the 
 waists. With white satin bows, and a lace coiiFure, 
 madam will be perfectly well dressed." 
 
 " But why should I care to dress, Camille, since I do 
 not expect any visitors ? " 
 
 " Has madam given orders that she was not at 
 home?" 
 
 " No ; but I shall, since you have suggested it. I 
 don*t want to see any one." 
 
 Camille looked at her mistress in surprise. Not un- 
 derstanding her mood, she said to' herself that madame 
 had the blues, and arranged her toilet without daring to 
 break the silence. Julie, sad and abstracted, allowed 
 herself to be adorned. When the servant had retired, 
 
ANTONIA. 123 
 
 carrying off the gray robes that had become her property, 
 she looked at herself from head to foot, in a large mirror. 
 She was exquisitely dressed, and beautiful as an angel. 
 Therefore it was that her heart again cried, WhaCs the 
 use f She hid her face in her hands, and began to cry 
 like a child. 
 
 V. 
 
 TF Julien had been a roue, he could not have pursued 
 •*• a better course for winning Madam d'Estrelle's heart. 
 Day succeeded day, and they never met, even by accident. 
 And yet Julie, either from an excess of confidence, or 
 from heedlessness, passed more of her time in her garden 
 than in her drawing-room, and preferred a walk amid 
 its lonely groves to the conversation of her friends. On 
 some evenings she shut herself up, under the pretence of 
 restlessness or weariness, and, at such times, dressed 
 elegantly, as if expecting some unusual visit. She 
 would wander to the very bottom of her garden, hurry 
 back in alarm at the slightest sound, return to see what 
 had frightened her, and sink into a sort of amazed reverie, 
 on finding that all was quiet and that she was really alone. 
 One day she received a declaration of love, quite well 
 written, and without signature or family seal. She was 
 very much offended ; Julien, she said, had failed in all his 
 engagements, and deserved to be treated with cold disdain. 
 On the following day, she discovered that this attempt had 
 come from the brother of one of her friends, and her first 
 feeling was one of joy. No, certainly Julien would not 
 have written in such terms ; he would not have written at 
 all. The love-letter, which she had thought exceedingly 
 graceful, as long ao her uncertainty lasted, now seemed 
 to her in very bad taste, and she threw it away with scorn. 
 But what if Julien should take the same means of com- 
 municatin"? with her. Doubtless he wrote as well as he 
 talked. Why didn't he write ? 
 
124 ANT ON I A. 
 
 As soon as Julie had asked herself this quesi.ion, tha 
 consciousness of her own weakness made her blush pain- 
 fully. 
 
 " What is the use of my self-control and my reason," 
 she said to herself, '' if I allow my heart to go out in this 
 way in pursuit of a love that avoids me ? Really I am 
 only protected by the indifference with which I am re- 
 garded, and even this shame does not cure me. Why am 
 I so inconsistent? I thought at first that any advance 
 upon the part of this young man would offend me. and 
 that I would repulse him haughtily ; but, on the contrary, 
 I am irritated by his submissiveness, wounded by his 
 silence ; — angry with him because he has forgotten me. 
 My mind must be very morbid." 
 
 She was going into a perfumer's shop one day, and met 
 Julieu at the door. As he had no right to speak to her 
 in public, he pretended not to see her. She noticed upon 
 the counter a pretty little fan, which he had painted for 
 his mother, and had brought to the store to have mounted. 
 Imagining that it was intended for her, she made up her 
 mind to refuse it ; but how impatiently she waited for 
 this little present. 
 
 " He will send it to me mysteriously," she thought ; " it 
 will be an anonymous offering, and then — " 
 
 The present did not come ; it had not been intended 
 for her. How foolish she had been to suppose that it 
 was ! Julien was in love with some other woman, a 
 petty bourgeoise, or a woman of the demi-monde, — an 
 actress, perhaps. She could not sleep for two nights ; 
 and then, suddenly, she h;.aw the fan in Madam Thierry's 
 hands, and breathed again. 
 
 In spite of herself, she could not help talking about 
 Julien with Madam Thierry, and there was no end to 
 her devices for turning the conversation to this subject. 
 She wanted to learn w^hat sort of life a young artist led ; 
 and although very much afraid of hearing disagreeable 
 or painful details, asked questions continually. After 
 inquiring about the tastes and habits of artists in general, 
 she would refer suddenly to Julien. " Your son, for ex- 
 ample," she said one day, in the course of such a conver- 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 125 
 
 sation, " must have led a very brilliant and dissipated life, 
 — a very agreeable life, at all events, — before his father's 
 death and your present trials.'* 
 
 " My son's character has always been serious," replied 
 Madam Thierry, '' and I must say that young people of 
 all classes seem to me very different at present from those 
 whom I knew in my youth. My poor husband had a fertile, 
 brilliant, and graceful imagination ; he was one of those 
 persons who fill life with unexpected pleasures ; far from 
 being ambitious, and eager in the pursuit of glory, his 
 aim seemed to be the enjoyment of whatever is most 
 agreeable. Painting chef-d'oeuvres, was his amusement, 
 and he allowed nothing to trouble him. The artists of 
 the present day are impatient to excel their predecessors. 
 They have invented criticism. M. Diderot, with whom 
 my husband was very intimate, often taught him to 
 appreciate his own works more highly than he would 
 have dreamed of doing ; and, when my little Julien lis- 
 tened to this remarkable man, devouring him with his 
 great eyes beaming with attention and curiosity, M. 
 Diderot used to say, * That child has the sacred fire.' 
 But my husbaud did not want people to put too many 
 ideas into his head. He believed that the beautiful ought 
 to be deeply felt, and not too much studied. Was he right 
 in this ? The imagination, he thought, ought to be adorned, 
 and not oppressed. Julien was gentle and patient ; 
 he read and pondered a great deal. Real connoisseurs 
 admire his painting more than that of his father, and 
 when he speaks of art it is easy to see that he under- 
 stands it thoroughly ; but he is not so popular with 
 people in general, and is very indifferent to society. 
 His mind is full of a great many subjects, in which he 
 is interested ; and when I say to him, * You do not 
 laugh, you are not gay, you have not the recklessness 
 that belongs to your age,' he replies, 'I am happy as 1 
 am. I really do not care lor amusements, I have so 
 many things to think about. ' " 
 
 These confidential conversations with Madam Thierry 
 gradually enabled Madam d'Estrelle to understand Julien ; 
 and the respect with which he had inspired her at first 
 
136 ANTONIA, 
 
 sight, changed to a feeling of tender timidity, that made 
 her love him the more. It was no longer possible for 
 her to regard him as an inferior, and yet this young artist 
 belonged to a class whom she had been in the habit of 
 hearing called those, 'peojple I In talking with her friends, 
 she sometimes tried to plead the cause of the intelligent 
 and virtuous, whatever might be their rank. Her friends 
 were sufficiently progressive to reply, ''You are per- 
 fectly right ; birth is nothing, — it is merit alone that is 
 important." But these were mere maxims, which it was 
 the fashion for educated people to employ ; they meant 
 nothing. Doctrines of equality had not yet begun to 
 influence manners. The very same people who made 
 these remarks, would not hesitate, a moment afterwards, 
 to blame vehemently a certain duke who had given his 
 hand to a plebeian for the sake of patching up his estates 
 with her dowry ; or some princess, so captivated with an 
 insignificant fortune-hunter, that, to the disgrace of all 
 honest people, she had consented to marry him. They 
 would allow a young girl, or a young widow, to fall in 
 love with a man of good family, even although poor ; but, 
 if he were not well-born, she was the victim of a shameful 
 infatuation, — an immodest attraction ; she was sacrificing 
 her principles to her senses ; marriage was no justification ; 
 she fell into public contempt. Julie, who had always been 
 treated with so much respect and consideration, — the only 
 compensation of her melancholy youth, — shuddered with 
 horror when she heard hex friends talking in this way ; 
 and if the object of her secret passion, at such moments, 
 had entered her little circle, apparently so liberal and pro- 
 gressive, she would have felt obliged to rise and say, 
 '' What do you want here, monsieur? " 
 
 But this little circle broke up at ten o'clock ; and, 
 ten minutes afterwards, Julie was in her garden. She 
 gazed upon the little light in the pavilion, trembling like 
 a green star through the foliage ; and imagined that if 
 Julien should meet her at the turning of one of the paths, 
 she would not be able to flee from him. 
 
 While poor Julie was going through all this agitation, 
 Julien was comparatively calm. His intentions were so 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 137 
 
 gincere, so upright, that he recovered his moral health, 
 and imagined that he had really subdued his passion. 
 
 "No," he said to himself, "I did not deceive my 
 mother ; " the feeling with which Madam d'Estrelle in- 
 spires me is that of friendship ; — a very intense, elevated, 
 and exquisite frieudsliip, and not, as I thought at first, a 
 violent and fatal passion. Possibly, indeed, I may have 
 had this fever in the beginning ; but it was dissipated on 
 the very day when I saw, face to face, this simple, good, 
 confiding woman ; on the very day when I heard her 
 sweet, pure voice, and comprehended that she was an 
 angel, to whom I am unworthy to aspire. I am not in 
 love with her, in the ordinary sense of the word ; I love 
 her with my whole heart, that is all, and I will not allow 
 my imagination to torment me. The grave has scarcely 
 closed over my poor father ; every hour is occupied in 
 laboring for my mother. No, no ; I have neither the 
 right nor the time to abandon myself to an absorbing 
 passion." 
 
 Marcel remarked Julien's tranquillity, and did not pay 
 much attention to the agitation that Madam d'Estrelle 
 sometimes betrayed. He called upon her one day when 
 she had just returned from another visit to her father-in- 
 law, the marquis. He was considered out of danger, and 
 Marcel hoped that he would consent, before long, to assist 
 his client more effectually. 
 
 " Oh, \mon Dieu I you take a great deal of trouble 
 about me," said Julie ; " but is it worthwhile? I assure 
 you that I should really like to be poor ; probably I should 
 not suffer from ennui so much as I do." 
 
 " And yet you look very elegant, and are going, I sup- 
 pose, to some great entertainment ? " 
 
 *•• No, I shall take my dress off. I do not intend to go 
 out. With whom can I go? I have quarrelled with 
 Madam d'Ancourt, my old convent friend, and she was 
 the only person whom I could visit alone in the evening. 
 I am not intimate enough with my other friends to go to 
 their houses without a chaperon. Madam des Morges, 
 who might accompany me, is horribly lazy ; ray cousin, 
 the wife of the president, is not received in the best so- 
 
128 ANT ONI A, 
 
 ciety, and the Marchioness d'Orbe is in the country. 1 am 
 really suffering from ennui, Monsieur Thierry. I am too 
 much alone, and there are a great many days when I have 
 not the heart to do anything." 
 
 This was the first time that Julie had complained 
 about her situation. 
 
 Marcel looked at her earnestly, and reflected. 
 
 " You ought to have some amusement," he said ; " why 
 don't you go to the theatre sometimes ? " 
 
 " I have no box anywhere. You know that I cannot 
 afford to keep one." 
 
 " Why should that prevent you from 'going wherever 
 you choose ? Keeping a box the year round is a sort of 
 slavery. It makes you conspicuous, and compels yoa 
 to have a chaperon. We bourgeois allow ourselves little 
 diversions at slight expense, and requiring no inconve- 
 nient display. This evening, for example, I am going 
 to take my wife to the Gomedie-Francaise. We have 
 hired a closed box on the ground-floor." 
 
 " Oh, how delightful to go there ! You cannot be seen 
 at all, can you ? You can enjoy the play, laugh and cry 
 as much as you choose, without being criticised by the 
 gallery. Have you a place for me. Monsieur Thierry ? " 
 
 " I have two. I intended to offer one to my aunt." 
 
 " And the other to her son ? Then — " 
 
 " That makes no difference : he can go another time ; 
 but what will people think if they meet you in the lob- 
 bies leaning upon the arm of your lawyer ? Or, if you 
 are recognized seated by the side of Madam Marcel 
 Thierry, what will they say?" 
 
 "Let them say what they choose. They will be very 
 foolish to see anything wrong in that." 
 
 " I agree with you, but people are very foolish, and 
 they will say that you are in low company ; nay, more, I 
 have softened the word out of respect for my wife. They 
 will say that you are in had company." 
 
 "It is abominable, that people should be so foolish! 
 Your wife is a very amiable woman, I have been told, 
 and is very highly thought of. 1 will call upon her to- 
 morrow, for I know that it would not be polite to go to 
 
ANT ON I A. 129 
 
 her box without ceremony, and without asking her per- 
 mission beforehand. Yes, I must make her acquaint- 
 ance ; and then, some time, we will go to the theatre to- 
 gether." 
 
 Marcel smiled, for he understood perfectly well tho 
 feeling of cowardice that had taken possession of his 
 noble client at the idea of being accused of associating 
 with bad company. She considered the opinion of the 
 world cruel, unjust, insolent and absurd ; but she was 
 afraid of it, nevertheless, and fear does not reason. 
 
 " You are perfectly right," Marcel replied. " I recog- 
 nize your delicacy and good heart in all that you say. 
 My wife will thank you for your kind intentions, and, 
 from this evening, will be flattered to offer you her box ; 
 but take my advice, countess, and do not leave your own 
 circle, either this evening, or to-morrow, or at any time ; 
 at all events, unless you have some very good reason, 
 well considered and well matured, for doing so. Eat if 
 you are hungry, but do not force yourself to eat to grat- 
 ify a caprice. The world to which you belong wishes to 
 be exclusive, and you ought not to defy it, unless to 
 obtain some great personal advantage, or to do a very 
 good deed. No one will believe that you are unconven- 
 tional merely for the sake of being so. People will be 
 surprised, at first, and then they will seek serious and 
 hidden motives to account for your simplest act." 
 
 "And what will they find?" said Julie, anxiously. 
 
 '^ Nothing," replied Marcel, '' consequently they will 
 invent some story ; and gossip of that kind is always 
 malicious." 
 
 " It follows, then, that I must be condemned to soli- 
 tude." 
 
 " You have accepted it courageously, hitherto, and you 
 know that it will cease whenever you choose." 
 
 '•Yes, if I choose to marry; but where will I find a 
 husband combining all the qualities required by the world 
 and by myself? Think for a moment ! According to you 
 he must be rich, according to my friends noble, and, to 
 please me, he must be amiable and lovable. I shall 
 never find such a man, and 1 would do better — " 
 9 
 
i30 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 Julie dared not finish her sentence, and Marcel thought 
 he had no right to question her. There was a pause, 
 which both found awkward ; Julie interrupted it, by 
 exclaiming, suddenly, — 
 
 "Ah ! mon Dieu^ do not imagine that I am tempted to 
 forget my principles, and enter into a frivolous liason ! I 
 meant, — I may as avcU say it, — that I should do better 
 to seek happiness in an obscure marriage." 
 
 " It depends upon what you mean by obscure !" said 
 Marcel. " You ought to insist upon a fortune, at all 
 events ; for if you give rank the go-by, there is no 
 sort of doubt that the family d'Estrelle will abandon 
 you." 
 
 "Suppose they do?" 
 
 " If the husband of your choice is poor, and you bring 
 him a dowry of debts — " 
 
 "Oh, yes, you are right ! I should add to his pov- 
 erty all the anxiety, all the dangers, by which I am tor- 
 mented. I did not think of that. See how heedless 1 
 am ! Oh, Monsieur Thierry, there are some days when 
 I long to be dead ! You are wrong not to take me to the 
 theatre ; I feel gloomy this evening, and should like to 
 forget that I exist." 
 
 "Is it so bad as that?" replied Marcel, earnestly, 
 alarmed at her distressed expression. " Very well, then, 
 — put on a thick black hood, and a large black man- 
 tle. There is a carriage at the door, — we will take it, 
 and call for my wife ; I will explain the circumstances to 
 her in a few words, and we will go and hear Polyeucte. 
 That will change the current of your ideas. Be quick ! 
 for if visitors arrive, you will not be able to go." 
 
 Julie jumped lor joy, like a child. She soon muffled 
 herself up, gave her servants their liberty foi the evening, 
 and started with Marcel. Divided between fear and de- 
 light, she was as much excited as if this little escapade 
 with a lawyer and his wife had been an alarming adven- 
 ture. 
 
 " And Madam Thierry? " she said, when they were on 
 the way. 
 
 " We will leave Madam Thierry where she is," said 
 
ANTONIA. 131 
 
 Marcel ; " I have sent her no invitation, and we should be 
 kept waiting while she was dressing. Besides, if you are 
 recognized in spite of our precautions, I prefer that you 
 should not be seen with a lady who has a grown-up son, 
 — a young man, by the way, of whom uncle Antoine was 
 very jealous. My son is a little rascal, scarcely twelve 
 years old ; we will take him, and that will complete the 
 party, — bourgeoise and patriarchal." 
 
 They stopped at Marcel's house. Leaving Julie shut 
 up alone in the carriage, he hurried in, and soon returned 
 with his wife and son. Madam Marcel Thierry was a 
 good deal intimidated, but she was too intelligent to at- 
 tempt paying compliments ; and, after a moment, felt 
 perfectly at ease with the amiable Julie, who, fof her 
 part, thought her good and sensible. They got out of 
 the carriage a little in advance of the file, walked to the 
 theatre, entered it without meeting curious or impertinent 
 loungers, and were soon installed in a dark box, where 
 Madam Thierry and her son took the front seats, so as to 
 shield Madam d'Estrelle and the lawyer. They listened 
 to the tragedy with the greatest delight. Julie had never 
 enjoyed herself so much at the theatre. She felt per- 
 fectly free, and this bourgeoise family interested her. 
 She regarded them with curiosity, as the representatives 
 of a class that she knew nothing about ; and, although 
 they were a little restrained by her presence, husband, 
 wife, and child addressed each other with a tender fa- 
 miliarity that touched her heart. In the most interesting 
 scenes in the play, Madam Thierry would turn to her hus- 
 band, and say, in a low voice, — 
 
 "Dost thou see well, my dear? Is not my bonnet iu 
 thy way?" 
 
 " No, no, my child," the lawyer would reply, " don't 
 trouble thyself about me. Take care of thyself." 
 
 The child applauded when he saw the pit applaud. 
 He would clap his little hands in an important manner, 
 and then suddenly would lean his head upon his mother*3 
 shoulder, and kiss her. That meant that he was enjoying 
 himself very much, and thanked her for bringing him. 
 
 These simple manners, characteristic of the middle 
 
132 
 
 ANTONIA, 
 
 classes, — this tender tliee and thou^ — these caressing 
 epitliets, at the same time so familiar and so sacred, — 
 sometimes made Julie feel like laughing, and then again 
 moved her so deeply as to bring tears to her eyes. Any- 
 thing of the kind would have been reputed bad style in her 
 circle ; this was the way in which common people lived 
 and talked. In Madam d'Estrelle's drawing-room, Mar- 
 cel assumed skilfully the language and bearing of a man 
 of the world acquainted with all classes of society. In his 
 household he threw off this formal manner, and, without 
 ever being gross, adopted the familiar tone that is natural 
 between intimate friends. Julie, therefore, surprised him 
 forgetful of his ceremonious bearing, — living to please 
 himself in a moment of cheerful ease and relaxation. At 
 first, she was both shocked and charmed ; but soon she 
 said to herself that these people were right ; that it would 
 be better for all husbands and wives to call each other thee 
 and thou, for all children to lean upon their mothers, and 
 all spectators to show an interest in the play. In aristo- 
 cratic circles, people said you ; they had no tender, heart- 
 felt epithets, — they refined away the meaning of every 
 sentiment. Elegance was the first consideration in lan- 
 guage, dignity in deportment. The heart could find 
 expression only accordiog to rule ; it was obliged to hide 
 its impulses, or clothe them in an affected and symbolical 
 style, that had given birth to the madrigal. Admiration 
 for genius was never allowed to rise to enthusiasm. They 
 enjoyed, appreciated ; their words were all carefully meas- 
 ured. Finally, they made it a rule never to be betrayed 
 into showing any emotion ; and, in this perpetual simper 
 of aristocratic grace, became so charming, that they al- 
 most ceased to be human. 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle now, for the first time, noticed these 
 things, and thought about them seriously. The little 
 Julio, — as he was called to distinguish him from Julien. 
 his godfather, — had an interesting face. He was a com- 
 ical little fellow, with a well-formed head, turned-up nose, 
 brilliant eyes, sarcastic mouth, and the cool, impudent 
 manner of a school-boy making the most of his vacation. 
 Even if he had been disguised like a grand seigneur, il 
 
ANTONIA. 133 
 
 would have been impossible to confound him with the 
 genuine little nobles of the day, — so very pretty, polite, 
 and polished, that it was almost impossible to tell them 
 apart. Julio, no less than themselves, had the style of 
 his class, but this did not deprive hira of his piquancy. 
 Each person in the middle class must live for himself, 
 and make his own way according to the qualities that he 
 possesses, and hence the bourgeois genius does not seek 
 to efface individuality. The child had a bright mind, 
 and his eager curiosity betrayed his Parisian descent. 
 lie was at the same time inquiring and affectionate, 
 discerning and credulous. To keep him from getting 
 hold of Madam d'Estrelle*s name, which he might have 
 repeated in his father's office, his parents had told him 
 that she was a client who had recently arrived in Paris, 
 and that this was the first time that she had seen a play. 
 Julie amused herself by asking him questions ; and, be- 
 tween the acts, the little fellow did the honors of the cap- 
 ital and the theatre. He showed her the king's box, the 
 pit, and chandelier ; and even explained the play, and told 
 her about the relative importance of the characters. 
 
 " You are going to see a very beautiful piece,'* he said, 
 before the curtain rose ; " you will not understand it very 
 well, perhaps, because it is in verse. I read it with my 
 godfather Julien ; he likes it very much, and he explained 
 it all to me, just as if it had been in prose. If there is 
 anything you do not understand, mademoiselle, you must 
 ask me." 
 
 " You are chattering like a magpie," said his mother ; 
 '' do you suppose madam does not understand the great 
 Corneille better than you do ? " 
 
 '' Maybe she does ; but perhaps she is not so learned 
 as my godfather." 
 
 " Madam does not care about the learning of your god- 
 father ! You imagine that every one knows him." 
 
 *' If you don't know him," said Julio, turning to Madam 
 d'Estrelle, '" I will show him to you. There he is, close 
 by." 
 
 " What ! " said Marcel, feeling very much annoyed j 
 * is he here? Do you see him?" 
 
134 ANTONIA, 
 
 "Yes, I have seen him this good while. He loveg 
 Polyeucte ever so much ! He's seen it played more than 
 ten times, I'm sure. There he is, in the pit, three 
 benches off. His back is turned, but I knew him right 
 off: he has got on his black coat, and opera hat." 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle's heart beat violently. She looked 
 at the bench to which the child pointed, but recognized 
 no one. Marcel did the same, with a like resuU. Julio 
 was mistaken ; the person whom he had thought to be 
 Julien turned, and proved to be a stranger. He was in 
 the theatre, however, in the second gallery, just above 
 Marcel's box, and far enough from imagining that, by 
 descending to the ground-floor, he might have seen 
 Madam d'Estrelle. But, even if he had known this, he 
 would have remained in his place. His resolution no 
 longer to seek chance interviews with the countess was 
 not to be shaken. 
 
 As an artist, he had his entrances to the Comedie-Fran- 
 caise. He listened intently to Polyeucte, as a devout person 
 listens to a sermon, and went out before it was concluded, 
 because he was afraid that his mother would sit up for 
 him. In crossing the vestibule, he was very much sur- 
 prised to meet uncle Antoine face to face. It was uncle 
 Antoine's invariable habit to go to bed at eight o'clock, 
 and probably he had never before entered a theatre. 
 Julien greeted him cordially ; it was the best way, even 
 if he was repulsed. 
 
 '' You have returned, then," he said ; " we have been 
 very anxious about you." 
 
 "Who do you mean by we?" replied Antoine, in a 
 surly tone. 
 
 " Marcel and I." 
 
 " You are very good. You thought, I suppose, that I 
 had gone to the Indies, you seem so surprised to see me." 
 
 " I acknowledge that I did not expect to meet you here.'* 
 
 " It was just the contrary with me ; I was perfectly 
 sure that I should meet you here." 
 
 This reply was quite enigmatical to Julien, and, with- 
 out condescending to explain it, uncle Antoine turned 
 his back upon him. 
 
AJSITONIA. 135 
 
 '* It is useless to talk," thought Julien, " his mind is 
 seriously affected." 
 
 He passed on, but returned several times to see whether 
 the horticulturist was going out or coming in, and judge 
 whether he really knew where he was. Uncle Antoine 
 remained standing at the foot of the staircase, and 
 stared at him with a mocking expression, but gave no 
 other sign of frenzy. 
 
 A few moments afterwards, he was lost in the crowd 
 filling the vestibule. One of the first groups that he saw 
 was the family of the lawyer, with an unknown lady, 
 taller than Madam d'Estrelle, and completely enveloped 
 in a black hood. Uncle Antoine followed them to the 
 street, took the number of their carriage, and sent in pur- 
 suit of it the adroit and skilful spy who had informed 
 him that Madam d'Estrelle was going out with her law- 
 yer, and who, in all manner of disguises, and under all 
 sorts of pretexts, had been spying about, and sometimes 
 within, the hotel d'Estrelle for the last month. 
 
 In those days theatres closed at an early hour, so as 
 to allow time for supper after the play. Julie, at'ter re- 
 conducting Madam Marcel to the street des Petits Augus- 
 tins, arrived at her house at about ten o'clock. Marcel, 
 who had escorted her, was going away without entering, 
 when she recalled him. Her porter had just informed 
 her of an important piece of news : the old marquis, 
 her father-in-law, had died at eight o'clock that evening, 
 just as they imagined that he was cured. They had 
 sent for Julie, so that she might be present when he par- 
 took of the sacraments. Her absence, which it would be 
 dilBcult to account for, on account of the peculiar position 
 that she had herself explained to Marcel, might have the 
 most fatal consequences. 
 
 "Ah, that is what made me feel so ! " said Marcel 
 anxiousJy, and in a low voice, as they stood together upon 
 the great front steps. '' I told you not to go. I felt a 
 presentiment of some danger ; but there is no use in 
 lamenting over what cannot be helped. The most alarm- 
 ing thing is the sudden death of the old man. Come, 
 madam, you must make haste to show yourself at his 
 
136 ANTONIA. 
 
 bed-side. Get into the carriage again, and I will ac- 
 company you to your mother-in-law's house. I will not 
 go in, for it would not do for you to make this visit of 
 condolence escorted by your lawyer. To-morrow, I will 
 take the field in your behalf, and we will learn the con- 
 tents of the will, if, as God grant, there is a will." 
 
 Julie, very much agitated, got into ihe carriage. 
 
 '' Stop a moment," said Marcel, " I cannot wait for 
 you at the dowager's door ; her people would see me, and 
 I have an idea that they tell their mistress everything. 
 You will have to drop me before driving into the court ; 
 and, as I should not like to have you return alone in this 
 cab, you had better order your servants to have your car- 
 riage got ready and sent after you." 
 
 "' You think of everything," said Julie ; " I don't know 
 what would become of me without you." 
 
 She gave directions, and they started. 
 
 " You must remember another thing," said Marcel, 
 while they were driving ; " you will not find the widow 
 in tears, but at her prayers ; do not be reassured as to 
 her state of mind by this apparent sanctity. Be sure that 
 she has taken note of your absence, and will be prepared 
 to subject you to an examination in the very midst of her 
 orisons. Do not forget that she hates you, and, as an 
 excuse for robbing you, would like nothing so well as to 
 find you out in a fault." 
 
 Julie wondered how she could best explain her inno- 
 cent adventure. 
 
 '' You will find nothing better to say than the truth," 
 said Marcel ; " tell her that you were at my house." 
 
 " If that were all ; — but the play ! In the eyes of my 
 mother-in-law, going to the theatre is a frightful sin ; she 
 would consider it so, whoever had accompanied me." 
 
 " Don't refer to it, then ; say that my wife v^as sick, 
 — that you feel a friendship for my wife, — because, — 
 because she has done you some service, — because she is 
 charitable, and helps you in doing good. Burnish it up 
 with a little varnish of devotion ; who will blame you?" 
 
 They arrived at their destination. Marcel stopped 
 the carriage, jumped out, and Julie drove into the court 
 
ANTONIA. 137 
 
 of the hotel d'Ormonde, rue de Grenelle-Samt-GeiTQain. 
 This hotel was the property of the Dowager d'Ormonde ; 
 since her second marriage with the Marquis d'Estrelle, 
 the marquis had lived with her in the house of her first 
 husband. 
 
 The dowager was very rich, and her house had a 
 stately, but forbidding and formal aspect ; she had few 
 servants, and made but little display ; all was splendid, 
 cold, and lifeless. The hotel consisted of a number of 
 buildings, the principal one of which, containing the apart- 
 ments occupied by the marchioness, stood in an inner 
 court, enclosed by a grating. At this grating Julie was 
 obliged to stop and ring, but, sure of being admitted, 
 and knowing that Marcel would have to return on foot, 
 unless she sent the carriage after him without delay, she 
 dismissed the coachman as soon as she saw some one 
 preparing to open the door. 
 
 Instead of admitting her, the porter entered into a 
 strange discussion. The marquis could not see any one, 
 he said, because he was dead. The priests had come 
 to administer the sacraments, and the marchioness was 
 shut up with him and the deceased. She could give 
 audience to nobody at such a time. Julie insisted in 
 vain that she had, as a near relative, a right to enter. 
 The porter, either intentionally or from forgetfulness, left 
 her standing outside the door, and went to inquire. Re- 
 turning, he informed her that madame had given strict 
 orders that she was not to be disturbed. 
 
 As these negotiations had lasted for some time, the 
 Countess d'Estrelle felt no sort of doubt that the mar- 
 cliioness had been communicated with, and had refused 
 to receive her. Slie had fulfilled her duty, and had noth- 
 ing further to urge. Her carriage ought naturally to have 
 come a great deal faster than the cab ; thinking that it 
 must have arrived, she retraced her steps, crossed the 
 first court, and went out at the street-door, which was 
 kept by the wife of the porter, who immediately, with 
 rude haste, shut it after her. There was really a carriage 
 in the street, but, in spite of her short-sightedness, Julie 
 saw at once that it was only a cab. 
 
138 ANTONIA. 
 
 Supposing that the coachman had not undei stood her 
 order, or that Marcel had sent him back as a precaution, 
 she imagined that this was the very carriage in which 
 she had come, and called the driver, who had fallen 
 fast asleep upon his seat. It was impossible to wake 
 him without pulling the flap of his cloak. Those who 
 remember what cab-drivers were forty years ago, can 
 judge what they were forty years earlier. This one 
 was so dirty, that Julie hesitated to touch him with her 
 gloved hand. She held up with care her ample silk skirts, 
 so that they might not rub against the muddy wheels. 
 Never had she been in such an embarrassing position ! 
 She was frightened at being alone in the open street at 
 near midnight. The few people who passed, stopped and 
 stared at her, and she trembled lest, out of kindness or 
 impertinence, they would offer to come to her assistance. 
 
 Finally the coachman woke up ; and stated, in reply 
 to her questions, that he did not know her, that he had 
 brought two priests of the parish to admister to a dying 
 man, and had been ordered to wait for them. He would 
 not move for any consideration. Julie looked around 
 anxiously. Her carriage did not arrive. She lifted the 
 heavy knocker of the door, so as to return to the court 
 of the hotel, but knocked in vain. Either special orders 
 had been given about her, or the porter was always in- 
 flexible ; at all events he did not open the door. 
 
 She became excessively alarmed. The idea of going 
 away alone, and on foot, was not to be thought of; to re- 
 main standing before this door was equally impossible. 
 There was not a single store in sight ; and, provided that 
 it was not in the street, she would have to wait for her 
 carriage, it mattered not where. The dependences of 
 the hotel d'Ormonde extended quite a distance to the 
 right and left. An abbey was upon one side, and upon 
 the other was the convent of the Visitation. There, per- 
 haps, she might have obtained shelter, but it was quite a 
 distance off; and, after walking ten minutes, at least, to 
 get to it, she w^ould have had to enter into a discussion 
 before being admitted. Opposite the hotel d'Ormonde, 
 there was a tall grating, enclosing a a alley midway be« 
 
ANTONIA. 139 
 
 tween the hotel de Puisieux, and the hotel d'Estrees. 
 Thlnkiog that she might persuade the keeper of this grat- 
 iug to let her wait in his room, by giving liim a louis, she 
 crossed the street ; but, when upon the point of ringing, 
 noticed that there was neither a keeper nor a bell. It 
 was a private gate, used only by the owners of the two 
 enclosures. Julie lost courage ; and when, just at this 
 moment, a man appeared suddenly by her side, as if he 
 had risen from the earth, she was so frightened that she 
 came very near fainting. As soon as he named himself, 
 however, she uttered an exclamation of joy : it was Ju- 
 lien. She explained her mishaps in a few confused 
 words, which Julien, as he was already partly acquainted 
 with the facts, and had not come to this place by chance, 
 understood without difficulty. 
 
 ''It is useless for you to wait here for your carriage," 
 he said ; "it will probably be some time before it ar- 
 rives." 
 
 " IIow do you know?" 
 
 " I went this evening to the Comedie-Francaise." 
 
 " Did you see me there? 
 
 " Were you there, madam? I did not know it." 
 
 "Then — " 
 
 " That enables me to explain my meeting with M. 
 Antoine Thierry, and his remarks. He, without doubt, 
 knew that you were to be there, and was playing the spy. 
 He made an ironical observation, which, although I did 
 not understand it, gave me food for reflection. In return- 
 ing to the pavilion, I felt a little uneasy, and stopped 
 bcibre your hotel. Your people were in great excite- 
 meui. It seems that the coachman could not be found. 
 The porter knows me by sight, and seeing that he was in 
 trouble, I went up to him, and inquired whether you had 
 met with any accident. He informed me of the death of the 
 Marquis d'Estrelle, and of the fact that you had been 
 escorted here by my cousin Marcel. The coachman, in 
 the meanwhile, arrived, dead drunk, and utterly incap- 
 able of understanding your orders. The porter left me, 
 saying that Bastien would go all right, when once upon 
 his seat. Not being so phlegmatic as your porter, I 
 
i^o ANTON I A. 
 
 hastened to follow you. My hope was to find Marcel 
 still here, and warn him not to leave you alone with a 
 drunken coachman, but I was a few minutes too late. 
 You were really alone, and have been very much fright- 
 ened." 
 
 '•• It is over," said Julie. '* I am calm now. Take 
 me back on foot. Providence has sent you to be my 
 guide." 
 
 " It is too far to go on foot," replied Julien, '* and 
 your shoes are not suitable for walking. The cab yon- 
 der shall carry you, with or without the consent of the 
 coachman : I answer for that. I will ride on the out- 
 side, and will reconduct you in safety." 
 
 Julien led Madam d'Estrelle to the carriage, put her 
 into it, and ordered the coachman to drive on. He re- 
 fused. Julien jumped upon the seat by his side, took 
 the reins, and swore that he would throw him into the 
 river if he offered any resistance. The uobie bearing 
 and determined air of the young man frightened him so, 
 that he submitted ; but, before they had gone a hundred 
 rods, he stopped, and began shouting, " Robbery ! Mur- 
 der ! " A group of men were coming from a house, and 
 the poor devil hoped that they would come to his assist- 
 ance, and enable him to resist Julien's violent assault. 
 
 Chance decreed that these persons were fashionable 
 young men, just coming from a late supper, and a good 
 deah intoxicated. It was one of those moments of excite- 
 ment when people are very ready to become the redress- 
 ors of wrongs, especially if they are four to one. They 
 speedily stopped the horses, and one of them tried to open 
 the carriage door ; for the malicious coachman cried at 
 the top of his voice, — 
 
 " Help ! help ! A villain running away with a nun ! " 
 
 " Let us see whether she is worth the trouble ! " cried 
 the group, with one voice. 
 
 Before they could get the door open, Julien was upon 
 his feet, and had repulsed the foremost of these inquisitive 
 gallants in an energetic manner. The young man so 
 roughly handled began to insult him, and drew his sword ; 
 his companions followed his example. Julien had no 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 141 
 
 time to draw his sword. He defended himself with his 
 cane, and used it with so much coolness, vigor and address, 
 that one of his opponents fell, and the others drew back. 
 Julien, who had not left the carriage steps, took advan- 
 tage of this fortunate respite to jump in and lift Julie 
 out by the opposite door. After carrying her some dis- 
 tance in his arms, he stopped, and turned to wait for his 
 adversaries ; but, either seriously wounded, or sobered by 
 the approach of the watch, they were hurrying rapidly 
 away in the opposite direction. 
 
 " Walk quickly, madam," said Julien to Madam d'Es- 
 trelle ; "let us avoid the curiosity of the police." 
 
 Julie walked quickly and well. Fear had paralyzed 
 lier for a moment, but the sight of the danger to which 
 her protector was exposed, restored her energy. After 
 making several turns to mislead the police, they came out 
 in safety upon the new street, now called the boulevard 
 des Invalids. It was scarcely built up at all, and, at this 
 iiour, was completely deserted. Julie had not noticed a 
 stain upon her gloved hand, but she felt the moisture of 
 the blood upon her wrist, and pausing, cried, — 
 
 " Ah ! mon Dieu^ you are wounded ! " 
 
 Julien had not felt anything, and was sure that he was 
 not seriously hurt. He tied up his wounded hand in a 
 handkerchief, and offered Julie his other arm. 
 
 " I assure you that it is nothing," he said ; " and what 
 if it were? Unluckily, my opponents were not very 
 formidable, and I deserve but little credit for driving 
 them off. Handsome dandies ! Petits-viaitres I And 
 yet these are the people who constitute our nobility." 
 
 " Do you despise the nobility so much?" 
 
 " I do not despise them, but I hate impertinence ; and 
 as nobles are not always ready to fight duels with plebei- 
 ans, I am very glad to have thrashed them as a plough- 
 boy would have done." 
 
 " Alas ! " said Julie, thinking aloud, " and yet these 
 people have the power to insult and to oppress the 
 feeble." 
 
 " The feeble ! Who do you mean by the feeble?" re- 
 phed Julien, misunderstanding her. "The man without 
 
142 ANTONIA. 
 
 a title ? Undeceive yourself, madam ; it is to this man 
 tliat the future belongs, for he has upon his side right, 
 real justice, and the determination to overthrow the 
 abuses of the past." 
 
 Julie did not understand him, and began once more to 
 tremble ; not because she was still afraid of meeting their 
 enemies, but at the mysterious power that seemed to her 
 to emanate from Julien. She gazed upon him stealthily, 
 and thought his countenance shone in the moonlight. 
 She imagined that her feeble hand was resHng upon the 
 arm of a giant. 
 
 And yet Julien's nature was perfectly simple ; a thor- 
 ough artist, he was not at all ambitious, as far as he was 
 concerned, of a public career. Dedicated to art, pro- 
 posing to devote his life to the study of nature, he did not 
 feel called upon to play a fiery part in revolutionary tem- 
 pests. The terrible power with which he was clothed in 
 Julie's eyes, was only the reflection of the divine power 
 descending upon the neiy class; — the class to which he 
 belonged. He was one of the hundred thousand among 
 the millions of crushed and disappointed men, who were 
 soon to say, " The measure is full, — the past has had its 
 day." The state of feeling to which he had referred was 
 almost universal, and allusions to it were constantly being 
 made ; but Madam d'Estrelle did not know this, and 
 imagined that she had listened to a momentous pro- 
 phecy, uttered by an exceptional man. This was the first 
 time she had ever heard opinions and customs that she 
 regarded as invincible, braved and despised. A feel- 
 ing of ardent confidence mingled with the superstitious 
 terror that she experienced ; a desire to lean so much the 
 more upon this vigorous arm, which, animated by a 
 noble heart, had just defended her, singly, against four 
 assailants. 
 
 '' You think, then," she said, continuing to walk rap- 
 idly, '' that it is possible to shake off the yoke of this 
 unjust world which oppresses consciences and condemns 
 new ideas ? I wish I could believe so." 
 
 " You do, since you wish to believe it." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but when will this state of freedom begin ? * 
 
ANTONIA. i\% 
 
 " No one knows how or when ; we only know that 
 justice must finally prevail. The present state of things 
 may last fifty, or it may last a hundred years longer 
 Why should you care, madam ? You are one of those 
 who profit innocently by the misfortunes of others." 
 
 " No indeed ; I have no advantages at all. I have 
 nothing of my own, and am nothing in the world." 
 
 " But you are of the world, — you belong to it ; it is 
 bound to protect you, and would never wound you per- 
 sonally." 
 
 " Who knows? " said Julie. 
 
 Fearing that she had said too much, she reverted to 
 their late adventure, to change the subject : 
 
 " It frightens me to think," she said, " that a great 
 misfortune might have occurred ! Ah, your poor mother J 
 how she would have cursed me, if I had occasioned — " 
 
 " No, madam, that could not have happened," replied 
 Julien ; " I had the right on my side." 
 
 *' Do you believe, then, that Providence interferes in 
 such cases?" 
 
 " Yes, since Providence is within us. It gives strength 
 and presence of mind. A man who is defending the 
 honor of a woman against villains has every chance in his 
 favor. It is easy for him to be courageous ; he feels that 
 he cannot yield." 
 
 "IIow much faith you have," said Julie, deeply moved. 
 " Yes, I remember, you told me when you were at my 
 house, the other day^ that faith removes mountains, and 
 that you were faith in person." 
 
 '' The other day T' replied Julien, simply, "why it 
 was more than a month ago ! " 
 
 Julio dared not acknowledge that she did not know how 
 many days and nights had succeeded that brief interview, 
 fcjhe was silent. Julien was so respectful that he would 
 not resume the conversation of his own accord, and the 
 longer it lasted the less capable she felt of breaking it, 
 w^ithout betraying her emotion. Finally they reached the 
 pavilion. 
 
 '' Do you not think," he said, " that I ought to leave 
 you here, so that I may not be seen by your people? 
 
142 ANTONIA, 
 
 a title ? Undeceive yourself, madam ; it is to this man 
 tliat the future belongs, for he has upon his side right, 
 real justice, and the determination to overthrow the 
 abuses of the past." 
 
 Julie did not understand hira, and began once more to 
 tremble ; not because she was still afraid of meeting their 
 enemies, but at the mysterious power that seemed to her 
 to emanate from Julien. She gazed upon him stealthily, 
 and thought his countenance shone in the moonlight. 
 She imagined that her feeble hand was resHng upon the 
 arm of a giant. 
 
 And yet Julien*s nature was perfectly simple ; a thor- 
 ough artist, he was not at all ambitious, as far as he was 
 concerned, of a public career. Dedicated to art, pro- 
 posing to devote his life to the study of nature, he did not 
 feel called upon to play a fiery part in revolutionary tem- 
 pests. The terrible power with which he was clothed in 
 Julie's eyes, was only the reflection of the divine power 
 descending upon the new; class; — the class to which he 
 belonged. He was one of the hundred thousand among 
 the millions of crushed and disappointed men, who were 
 soon to say, " The measure is full, — the past has had its 
 day." The state of feeling to which he had referred was 
 almost universal, and allusions to it were constantly being 
 made ; but Madam d'Estrelle did not know this, and 
 imagined that she had listened to a momentous pro- 
 phecy, uttered by an exceptional man. This was the first 
 time she had ever heard opinions and customs that she 
 regarded as invincible, braved and despised. A feel- 
 ing of ardent confidence mingled with the superstitious 
 terror that she experienced ; a desire to lean so much the 
 more upon this vigorous arm, which, animated by a 
 noble heart, had just defended her, singly, against four 
 assailants. 
 
 '' You think, then," she said, continuing to walk rap- 
 idly, '' that it is possible to shake off the yoke of this 
 unjust world which oppresses consciences and condemns 
 new ideas ? I wish I could believe so." 
 
 '' You do, since you wish to believe it." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but when will this state of freedom begin ? * 
 
ANTONIA, i\% 
 
 " No one knows how or when ; we only know that 
 justice must finally prevail. The present state of things 
 may last fifty, or it may last a hundred years longer 
 Why should you care, madam ? You are one of those 
 who profit innocently by the misfortunes of others." 
 
 " No indeed ; I have no advantages at all. I have 
 nothing of my own, and am nothing in the world." 
 
 "But you are of the world, — you belong to it; it is 
 bound to protect you, and would never wound you per- 
 sonally." 
 
 " Who knows? " said Julie. 
 
 Fearing that she had said too much, she reverted to 
 their late adventure, to change the subject : 
 
 " It frightens me to think," she said, " that a great 
 misfortune might have occurred ! Ah, your poor mother J 
 how she would have cursed me, if I had occasioned — " 
 
 " No, madam, that could not have happened," replied 
 Julien ; " I had the right on my side." 
 
 " Do you believe, then, that Providence interferes in 
 such cases?" 
 
 " Yes, since Providence is within us. It gives strength 
 and presence of mind. A man who is defending the 
 honor of a woman against villains has every chance in his 
 favor. It is easy for him to be courageous ; he feels that 
 he cannot yield." 
 
 " IIow much faith you have," said Julie, deeply moved. 
 " Yes, I remember, you told me when you were at my 
 house, tlie other day, that faith removes mountains, and 
 that you were faith in person." 
 
 " IVie other day I" replied Julien, simply, "why it 
 was more than a month ago ! " 
 
 Julio dared not acknowledge that she did not know how 
 many days and nights had succeeded that brief interview. 
 •She was silent. Julien was so respectful that he would 
 not resume the conversation of his own accord, and the 
 longer it lasted the less capable she felt of breaking it, 
 without betraying her emotion. Finally they reached the 
 pavilion. 
 
 " Do you not think," he said, " that I ought to leave 
 you here, so that I may not be seen by your people? 
 
«46 ANTOJSriA. 
 
 and God to yield to conventional ideas, — fear, calcuW 
 tion, the consideration of personal interests improperly 
 understood. According to this way of reasoning, every- 
 thing was measured by six-franc pieces. Marcel had 
 proved it to her. Julie had no right to love, because she 
 had not enough six-franc pieces. Was Marcel right? 
 Must her soul be sacrificed to the grossest of all facts, — 
 to the implacable menace of misery ? 
 
 " No," said Julie, '' it shall not be ! I will sell all that 
 I possess, own nothing, be poor, work, — beg, if necessary, 
 but I will love. Besides, he will take care of me, he 
 who already so tenderly cares for his mother. If he 
 loves me, he will accept the additional burden that I will 
 be to him, and accept it with joy. In his place, I would 
 do as much." 
 
 Tormented by a strange agony, she began to walk to 
 and fro. 
 
 " Does he love me well enough to devote himself to 
 me," she said, " with the passion that I thought h^ be- 
 trayed at our first meeting ? Ah ! I am continually ask- 
 ing myself that question, and it torments me in vain ; 
 neither my conscience, my reason, nor my heart can re- 
 ply. He may regard me merely with a feeling of friend- 
 ship. He is a good son, and respects me because I was 
 anxious to assist his mother. He is grateful, and proves 
 his gratitude by an admirable devotion. What more? 
 Why should I believe that he loves me madly, and longs 
 to pass his life at my feet ? It cannot be that he feels 
 this longing, since he never seeks me except when I am 
 in need of his assistance. At other times he is absorbed 
 by active duties ; he devotes himself to his mother, his 
 art, perhaps to some young girl of his own class, whose 
 dowry, when he marries her, will make him well off, 
 while I, — involved in debt, — but am I so? What if 
 my husband's father has given me a fortune? How 
 changed my life will be ! In that case, shall I forget this 
 young man so beneath me in position ? Shall I marry a 
 man of rank, whose alliance will bring me honor and 
 distinction ? Never ! At present, it is he who n I love, 
 and he alone ; no longer an unknown ideal. 1 love him 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 H7 
 
 and I do not know whether I can ever change, — can ever 
 forget. I fear not, since I have tried in vain to conquer 
 my heart ; since I am vanquished, when I forbid myself 
 to feel. My God, my God, love then is a positive terror, 
 a positive torture. It is the fear that he does not love me 
 that is killing me. How shall I learn the truth? I 
 will never do so, perhaps. How can I live without 
 knowing?" 
 
 While thus tormenting herself, she wandered heedlessly 
 into a side-walk, quite near the pavilion. The door was 
 open, a dark shadow detached itself from the house. 
 Julien, as if he had heard her thought, as if he had 
 been irresistibly drawn to reply to it, came straight up to 
 her. 
 
 Julie immediately recovered her self-possession and 
 pride. Surprised, she was going to address him like an 
 offended queen, but he did not give her time to speak. 
 
 ^ Why are you here, madam ? " he said ; " will no one 
 open the door for you ? Are your people all asleep, or 
 waiting for you on the other side of the hotel? You 
 cannot pass the night in this garden, dressed as you are. 
 It is two o'clock in the morning. The dew is falling ; 
 you will be cold, — ill. And see, your hood is on your 
 shoulders, your head is bare, your arms are scarcely cov- 
 ered. Stay, here is a cloak belonging to my mother ; 
 take it, and pardon me for being here." 
 
 ''But how did you know? — " 
 
 " I heard you walking on the sand ; — heard a light step, 
 that could only be yours. You stopped every few mo- 
 ments, but always began again. I was in my studio ; the 
 door was half open. I said to myself, ' She is still out 
 of doors, she cannot make herself heard, she is cold, — 
 fatigued, suffering, alarmed, perhaps.* I could no longer 
 remain within. Besides, it was my duty — . No, madam, 
 such a state of things could not continue. Whatever 
 may be said or thought, I do not wish to see you die." 
 
 At last Julien was moved, his voice trembled as he 
 spoke, his hands trembled as he placed his mother's cloak 
 around Julie's shoulders. His agitation, however, did 
 not proceed from an effort to resist the impulses of pas- 
 
148 ANTONIA, 
 
 sion ; he was troubled and excited as a father is whose 
 child is in danger. It did not even occur to him that he 
 could be accused of seeking Julie with a selfish or treach- 
 erous design. Forgetting all conventionality, therefore, 
 he expressed his solicitude in an ardent tone, that com- 
 pletely overwhelmed her. She seized both his hands in 
 hers, and, carried away by an impulse of exalted passion, 
 — the first of her life, — as unexpected as it was ungov- 
 ernable, — cried distractedly, — 
 
 " You love me, you love me ! I am sure of it ! 
 Speak ! tell me that it is so ; — let me hear it, know it ; 
 you love me as I wish to be loved ! " 
 
 Julien stifled a cry, and, obeying a first impulse, car- 
 ried Julie into his studio. But he recovered in a mo- 
 ment all the respect which he naturally felt for a person 
 of her extreme purity of character. Falling at her feet, 
 he covered the tips of her icy fingers with kisses, and im- 
 plored her not to doubt him. 
 
 " Have confidence in me," he said, " I have sworn that 
 I would be your brother ; I will be like a brother to you 
 now. Do not doubt me, for it is your confidence that 
 will save me. I told you that I adored you, and it was 
 true, — how true I did not know myself! My love is 
 stronger than you think, — more terrible than I myself 
 imagined ; but I would kill myself rather than cause you to 
 shed a tear ! Do not be alarmed, — you shall never blush 
 for having ordered me to love you." 
 
 Would he have been able to keep his word ? Amid all 
 the delirium of his joy he believed that he would, and 
 Julie added to his strength by her courage. 
 
 *' No, I do not want to blush," she said, with the frank 
 sincerity of an earnest love, " I intend to be your wife. 
 Frivolous intrigues are not suited to a man like you ; to 
 a woman like me gallantry is impossible. Rather than 
 Ibrget my honor, I also would kill myself. Julien, what- 
 ever may happen, — whether I am rich or poor, — for 
 there is an equal chance of the one as of the other, — let 
 us swear that we will be married. If I am poor, you must 
 not lose courage ; without weakness, without faltering, 
 you must support, cherish me. If I am rich, no foolish 
 
ANTONIA. 149 
 
 pride must keep you from sharing my fate. Let us ar- 
 range all our plans now, — decide, — bind ourselves by 
 an oath. I warn you that I am not courageous, and 
 therefore I wish to be engaged too far to retreat, for then 
 I know that I shall look neither to the right nor left. 
 Fidelity to my love will be my duty, and that thought will 
 give me strength, decision, coolness. True religious prin- 
 ciples enabled me to accept despair in my married life ; I 
 will accept happiness now, and will struggle to be happy, 
 as I have struggled, hitherto, not even to desire to be so. 
 Swear, my friend ! we must be all to each other, or never 
 meet again ; for it is certain that we love each other, and 
 that our love is stronger than ourselves. The world has 
 nothing to do with this. For the last fifteen days I have 
 no longer lived, — it has seemed to me that I was dying. 
 To-day I do not know myself; just now, if you had told 
 me that you did not love me, I should have followed you 
 in despair. Oh, no, no ! I should have thrown myself 
 to the bottom of the lake, with the moon and glittering 
 star. Julien, I am losing my senses ! I have never 
 said such things before ; I did not know that I would dare 
 speak so, and I am talking so to you ; — what spirit is 
 speaking through me ? Have pity upon me, — sustain 
 me, — guard my honor, which is yours ; preserve for your- 
 self the purity of your wife." 
 
 " Yes, my wife, I swear that I will ! " cried Julien, in a 
 transport of enthusiasm ; '' and you, Julie, swear also, 
 before God, that you will be mine ! " 
 
 '' Mon Dieu I " said Julie, bewildered, and suddenly be- 
 coming a little cowardly again, '' and we have only known 
 each other for a month ! *' 
 
 " No, not even for a month," replied Julien ; " a month 
 ago we met for quarter of an hour in this studio, and 
 for quarter of an hour in your house ; this evening we 
 have passed half an hour together in the street ; so that 
 altogether we have known each other only for an hour. 
 We may as well acknowledge, Julie, that we do not know 
 each other at all, according to all appearances. But, not- 
 withstanding, we love each other ! A love like this comes 
 from God. He hears us now, and comprehends all that 
 
150 ANTONIA, 
 
 we feel ; for it was His will that we should love ; He de 
 sires it." 
 
 " Yes, you are right," she replied, with renewed en- 
 thusiasm, inspired once more by her lover's exalted fai^h. 
 " We know nothing of each other beyond the fact of 
 our mutual love. Is not that enough? Does not this 
 consciousness render everything else superfluous ? What 
 remains? All that the world knows of you is that you 
 are a skilful artist, a worthy young man, a good son. 
 Do I love you because you possess these qualities? 
 You have heard people say that I am kind, gentle, gen- 
 erous ; but this is not the reason that you love me ! 
 There are other good men, other estimable women, for 
 whom we should never have dreamed of forming an af- 
 fection. We love because we love, — that is the whole 
 thing." 
 
 •' Yes," replied Julien, " love is like God ; it is because 
 it is, — it is absolute ! What matters it that we shall 
 discover in each other, hereafter, such and such pecu- 
 liarities of mind and character ? The great, the absorbing 
 interest of our life, is our affection ; sure of that, we have 
 known each other a hundred years, — forever, — love 
 has neither beginning nor end." 
 
 They talked in this incoherent way for more than an 
 hour, in low voices, in the studio, vaguely lighted by the 
 moon glimmering through the trees. Julie was seated ; 
 Julien knelt before her, and held her hands in his, al« 
 though they had not ventured to exchange a kiss. The 
 moon was sinking towards the horizon, and yet the light 
 became stronger and stronger : they were obliged to 
 confess that the dawn was breaking. 
 
 Julie arose, and made her escape, after swearing, and 
 making Julien swear a hundred times, that their union 
 was indissoluble. 
 
 Camille was very much surprised, when she opened 
 the door for her mistress, to see that it was nearly three 
 o'clock. 
 
 " Are my people still waiting for me.^" said Madam 
 d'Estrelle. 
 
 " Yes, madame, they supposed that madame would re* 
 
the door of the hotel d Ormonde. 
 
 " No, it delayed so long that I did not wait. M. Thierry 
 escorted me home by way of the pavilion, and I stopped 
 there to talk about my affairs. Tell the servants that they 
 can go to bed ; the carriage will probably return when the 
 coachman becomes sober." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! madame knows what happened, then ? 
 Poor Basticn ! I can swear to madame that he only got 
 drunk out of spite, because madame drove in a cab." 
 
 If this explanation made Julie smile, the account she 
 gave of her own proceedings appeared singular to her cham- 
 bermaid ; but she suspected nothing. Julie's life was so 
 simple and pure, that she was above suspicion. Camille 
 merely thought that her affairs must be very much involved, 
 since she had to pass the night in talking with her laAvyer. 
 She imparted her anxiety to the other servants, who took 
 the matter greatly to heart, although resolving, at the same 
 time, that they would not let their wages be in arrears. 
 The valet de chambre, who was the friend of Camille, 
 and protector of Bastien, went to the hotel d'Ormonde 
 in search of the latter, but did not find him, Bastien 
 had understood that he was ordered back to the tavern. 
 He had returned thither, and was sleeping the sleep of 
 an angel, — no other is reputed delicious enough to be 
 compared wiih that of a drunkard. The carriage was 
 waiting at ihe door under the charge of the footman, his 
 subordinate, who had consented to hold the lioracs, on 
 condition that he should be supplied, every quarter of an 
 hour or so, with something to keep him warm. Tlie rogues 
 did not reappear at the hotel until broad daylight, and 
 did not recover their senses for twenty-four hours. Un- 
 der otlier circumstances, Julie would have discharged 
 ihcm ; but she foresaw that this Bachanal adventure would 
 cast her own romantic adventure into the shade, and 
 keep it from being brought into discussion in the ante- 
 chamber and the lodge. This really happened ; and, as 
 Madam d'Estrelle's servants were not at ail spiteful, it 
 
15- 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 seemed as if no inquiries would ever be made about the 
 employment of this unusual night. 
 
 On the following evening, the lovers considered it pru- 
 dent to remain within doors ; but, on the next night, 
 although they had made no appointment, they met in the 
 groves of the garden, and repeated, with new delight, the 
 vows they had so lately made. For some time they con- 
 tinued to meet in this way, without trouble or apparent 
 danofer. Nothinor was easier than for Madam d'Estrelle 
 to slip from her apartments ; she could do so openly, 
 since her people had been in the habit of seeing her take 
 the fresh air alone, and at quite a late hour, during the 
 summer nights. 
 
 What a happy life, if it could only have lasted ! These 
 meetings had all the charm of mystery, and no remorse 
 troubled their delight. Free, both of them, — aspiring only 
 to the most holy union, and sustained by a love strong 
 enough to be patient, — they met together in the night, 
 amid thickets of flowers, in the splendor of the summer, 
 just opening and still retaining all the graces of the 
 spring, like two fiancees who are privileged to love, and 
 who, without abusing their liberty, withdraw from obser- 
 vation, so as not to make others jealous. It was the 
 honeymoon of sentiment preceding that of passion. Pas- 
 sion, indeed, they felt, but resisted it, or rather held it in 
 reserve by common consent, for the period of conflict and 
 danger that could not long be delayed. They knew that 
 they would lia^ e to fight a battle in defence of their love, 
 and Julien sometimes said to his friend, — 
 
 '•' You will have to suffer for my sake, I know, 
 and I shall suffer from the consciousness that you are 
 being annoyed ; but we will belong to each other then, 
 and our happiness will render us invulnerable to outside 
 attacks. Even if you were not made sacred to me by 
 your modesty and my veneration, it seems to me that 
 selfishness itself, properly understood, would teach me not 
 to exhaust all my happiness at once." 
 
 At other times Juiien was more agitated, and less re- 
 signed to delay ; but, at such moments, Julie calmed 
 
k 
 
 ANTONIA. 153 
 
 him by imploring him to remember what he had said on 
 the previous day. 
 
 " I have been so happy since we have loved each other 
 thus ! " she suid. '' Do not change a situation full of de- 
 light. Think : on the day when I acknowledge openly 
 that I have chosen you as the companion of ray life, peo- 
 ple will laugh at me, denounce me, accuse me of yielding 
 to a vulgar infatuation ; I know virtuous women, who will 
 Fay to me scornfully, — ' Accept him for a lover, since 
 you must have a lover, but see him in secret, — do not 
 marry him ! ' How shall I be able to rebuke their im- 
 pertinence, if my conscience is not clear, — if I have no 
 longer the right to say, ' No, he is not my lover, he is my 
 betrothed, whom I love, and who has proved his respect 
 for me as no other man would have been able to do ! * 
 We shall need all our strength, Julien, and truth is the 
 most powerful of all weapons with which to struggle 
 against false ideas." 
 
 Julien submitted from devotion, and also out of respect 
 to the heroic sentiment (that sentiment by which Corueille 
 was animated) that had governed his life and restrained 
 the first impetuosity of his youth. He could govern his 
 senses, since he had never allowed them to rule him. 
 And then, this romance of pure love, celebrated in the 
 balmy night, appealed to his imagination ; for the artist, 
 these poetic meetings were intoxicating festivals. There 
 were gloomy recesses, and dense masses of foliage in this 
 garden, such as we see in the compositions of Watteau, 
 And Julie herself, with her rather tall figure, so simply 
 and gracefully clad in ample, flowing skirts, harmonized 
 vvitii the very feeling which made Watteau a painter 
 without trickery, an Italian realist, although living in a 
 society of conventionalism, and an age of affectation. In 
 a certain retired corner, sharply defined upon the dark 
 background of the groves, and leaning forth vaguely in 
 the night like a ghost, stood a high pedestal encircled with 
 ivy, and surmounted by a large white vase. Faint gleams 
 of light, vanishing, intangible, glimmered amid the foliage, 
 and the shadows of the branches fell upon the marble. 
 As the twilight deepened, the outlines of the vase gradu* 
 
154 ANTON I A. 
 
 ally became iDdistinct, but its form never ceased to be 
 elegant and majestic. 
 
 It was to this spot, as soon as his mother had retired, 
 that Julien went to await Julie ; and, when she ap- 
 proached, smiling, tranquil as an embodied dream of hap- 
 piness, with her silk robes shining in the darkness, and 
 her beautiful bare arms, holding some light satin drapery, 
 he imagined that she was a modern muse presiding over 
 his destiny, bringing him all the promises of the future, 
 and all the delights, all the enchantments that belong to 
 the real life of the present. 
 
 It was well for them to enjoy the present without think- 
 ing too much of the morrow, for the future was too uncer- 
 tain to admit of their forming definite plans. They did 
 not yet know how long they would be allowed to remain 
 in happy tranquillity, forgotten and abandoned by the 
 world, in this garden, which Love had transformed into a 
 terrestrial paradise. Soon, perhaps, inexorable creditors 
 would even drive them from the pavilion, and force 
 them to seek in some suburb a cottage with a garden 
 under its windows. Whatever their fate might be, they 
 were resolved to meet it together ; this was the only thing 
 that was certain, — their only irrevocable determina- 
 tion. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T^HE marquis d'Estrelle had been dead two weeks, 
 -^ and still, in spite of all possible investigations, there 
 was no trace of a will. People believed that there had 
 been one, although no one dared assert distinctly that 
 the marchioness had destroyed it. A number of indica- 
 tions persuaded Marcel that this was the case, but there 
 was no use in expressing suspicions that could not be 
 proved true, and things quietly took their legal course. 
 The marchioness, that is, according to the terms of her 
 marriage settlement, inherited all the property of the 
 deceased, and she made no mention of any sum set apart 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 ^55 
 
 for paying the debts of the late ccant. The terms of 
 Julie's settlement, however, seemed to call for such a 
 provision. It was a question for the law to decide ; and 
 Marcel advised Julie to begin a suit, if only to stop the 
 suits against herself, that were already threatened. Julie 
 was opposed to going to law. She thought that in law- 
 suits both parties were almost sure to lose, and Marcel 
 confessed that slie was not very far wrong. 
 
 '' I am very well aware," she said, *' that the mar- 
 chioness does not like me, and it may be that she does 
 not legally owe me anything ; but her standing is very 
 high, and, wealthy as she is, it is impossible that she 
 will allow a person bearing her name to be left entirely 
 destitute. It would not do to speak to her about money 
 matters so soon as this, and would be imprudent, as you 
 yourself observed, to appear in too much haste. When- 
 ever the right time comes, I will speak to her, although 
 the task will be a very disagreeable one. You shall tell 
 me when." 
 
 Some time afterwards, Marcel notified her that she 
 must take her measures without delay. 
 
 " You must go at once,*' he said, " there is no time 
 to lose ; your creditors are proposing to begin proceed- 
 ings against you to-morrow." 
 
 Without being discouraged at the untoward result of 
 her first visit, Julie had called a second time upon the 
 marchioness a few days after the decease of the marquis. 
 On this occasion she had been received coldly, but civilly. 
 The will being destroyed, her presence, perhaps, was no 
 longer feared. The marchioness referred to her absence 
 on the evening of her father-in-law's death, and made 
 several tart observations about the worldly pleasures 
 which were attending the end of Madam d'Estrelle's 
 mourning. In reply, Julie gave the explanation agreed 
 upon with Marcel. The marchioness listened with an 
 air of impolite curiosity, and added, — 
 
 "It is unfortunate for you, countess, that you will 
 have to go into mourning again ! " 
 
 Julie continued to visit the dowa;:jer without makin«» 
 any reference to her own embarrassed circumstances. 
 
156 ANTONIA. 
 
 When delay was no longer possible, she called ; and, 
 with her usual sweetness of manner, explained her posi- 
 tion : brief and gentle as her words were, however, she 
 could not manage to make them very humble. 
 
 "I really beg your pardon," answered the marchion- 
 ess, '' but not having the advantage of being intimate 
 with attorneys, I know nothing about such matters. If 
 you will send your lawyer to mine, he shall examine into 
 ray rights as well as my obligations, and he will be satis- 
 fied that you were not one of the persons left under my 
 care." 
 
 " This is not the answer, madam, that I expected from 
 a person of your uprightness of character. Very possi- 
 bly you do not owe me anything. Since you assert that 
 it is so, I am bound to believe you. But I had supposed 
 that family considerations — " 
 
 *' I have not the honor of belonging to your family," 
 interrupted the marchioness, dryly. 
 
 '' You mean to imply," answered Julie, indignant at 
 this provocation, " that the Marquis d'Estrelle married 
 beneath him, in selecting from a family one-half of whose 
 nobility was of the sword, and one-half of the robe. That 
 intimation does not offend me. I am not ashamed of my 
 ancestors, who were magistrates, nor do I consider my- 
 self inferior to anybody. But I did not come here to 
 discuss my right to the honor of bearing the same name 
 with yourself. As a matter of fact, I am the Countess 
 d*Estrelle. Is it right that I should lose the support 
 promised to me, and supposed to be assured to me ? Al- 
 though the marquis may have forgotten me upon his 
 death-bed, he must have informed you of his intentions ; 
 and does it not follow that you ought to pay his son*s 
 debts, in his place, or at least a part of them ? " 
 
 '' No, madam," answered the dowager, " no such ob- 
 ligation follows from any intention that he ever expressed 
 to me. It was the opinion of the marquis that you ought 
 at once to surrender your right of dower, since it is not 
 worth enough to pay your husband's debts ; and that in 
 that case, measures should be taken to pay what remained 
 of them." 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 157 
 
 " This has often been suggested to me, madam ; and I 
 have asked whether, in consideration of this sacrifice, it 
 was proposed to settle any income upon me." 
 
 "Are you entirely without means? Have you inher- 
 ited nothing at all from your own family?" 
 
 " Twelve hundred francs a year, madam, and no more, 
 as you yourself know." 
 
 " Oh, well, you can live upon that, my dear ! It will 
 enable you to drive in a fiacre, to hire a box at the 
 theatre, to visit attorneys* wives, and to run about the 
 streets at midnight, leaning upon the arms of sign- 
 painters. Your tastes are of this description, from what 
 I hear. Gratify them, by all means. Surrender your 
 dower-right, or sell at any sacrifice all the property 
 which you have derived from the d'Estrelle family ; I 
 don't care which. My only wish in the matter is, that 
 30U should be married to somebody, so as to change your 
 name, and prevent you from being confounded with me 
 by people who don't know us." 
 
 "You shall have that satisfaction, madam," said Julie, 
 rising, " for I should dislike such a disagreeable confu- 
 sion as that, as much as yourself." 
 
 She bowed, and withdrew. 
 
 Marcel was waiting at her house, and saw her come 
 in, pale, and with her eyes flashing with indignation. 
 
 " All is lost," he exclaimed, " I see that ! Tell me 
 quickly, madam, what has happened. You frighten 
 me!" 
 
 " My dear Thierry, I am ruined without remedy," re- 
 plied Julie, " but it is not that which is choking me. I 
 have been insulted, — trodden under foot. At the very first 
 word, although I had said nothing rash, had offered her 
 no provocation, she insulted me to my very face. I have 
 been followed by spies, too, and the most innocent circum- 
 stances have been reported, and most venomously misrep- 
 resented. Thierry," she continued, sinking upon a chair, 
 " you are a virtuous man ; I swear to you that I am a 
 strictly virtuous woman." 
 
 " No one but a scoundrel could think of denying it," cried 
 Marcel. " But come, take courage, — explain ! " 
 
1^8 ANTONIA. 
 
 Tlie countess gave him a full account of her interview 
 with the marchioness, but did not refer to her understand- 
 ing with Julien ; for they had resolved, for the present, 
 not to reveal their secret, even to Madam Thierry herself. 
 
 When Marcel knew all, he was very much discour- 
 aged, and seemed to think the situation altogether des* 
 perate. 
 
 " You have no alternative, as far as I can see," he 
 said, "between sudden and absolute destitution, — a ter- 
 rible trial for a person of your habits, — and a lawsuit, 
 of which the result is extremely uncertain. I do not 
 know how to advise you. My worst apprehensions are 
 realized. The plan is to rob you, and to set the world 
 against you, too, by blackening your reputation. The 
 marchioness has been sharpening her weapons for some 
 time ; she provided herself with them on seeing that the 
 marquis was failing, and even at the very moment of his 
 death made use of them. She has been plotting your 
 destruction in cold blood, has set spies upon you, and fol- 
 lowed you about — " 
 
 " Stay, M. Thierry ; has not M. Antoine had a hand 
 in all this?" 
 
 " Julien believes he has. For my part, I am still in 
 doubt. I will ascertain, however ; and, if necessary, will 
 organize a spy system in opposition to his ; but the first 
 thing is not to know who has been betraying you, but to 
 resolve upon your own line of conduct." 
 
 " First of all, no lawsuit ! " 
 
 " Very well, but we will not say so. We will make 
 great demonstrations of fighting. I will attend to that. 
 They want you to surrender your dower-rights for noth- 
 ing. For my part, I mean that they shall pay for it, and 
 I phall hold out for a right good price, too." 
 
 " In the meanwhile," observed Julie, " I have quar- 
 relled with my husband's family ; for, as you can very 
 well imagine, I shall never enter the house of the mar- 
 chioness again." 
 
 " I cannot recommend you to pursue a different course, 
 tor she has evidently resolved to push you to extremities 
 
ANTONIA. 159 
 
 War has been declared ; and, although we did not pro- 
 voke hostilities, we must not draw back." 
 
 Marcel, however, had no time to prepare for battle. 
 Two or three lawyers, of rather bad character, who were 
 talkiuij about a forced sale at auction, and who declined 
 to hear of any further delays, were pursumg him vigor- 
 ously. He made up his mind that it would be necessary 
 to comply, therefore, with the demands of the mar- 
 chioness, and he went to Julie to tell her so. 
 
 '• They intend to rob you," he said, " and I am afraid 
 that, in case of resistance, they will force you to give up 
 even the small capital that you inherit from your own 
 family. It is very certain that the count's debts, with the 
 arrears of interest, will amount to more than what is left 
 of his fortune. The Marchioness d'Estrelle means to 
 come and live in the hotel d'Estrelle, or, at all events, to 
 get it into her hands." 
 
 ''And its dependencies as well? "asked Julie; "the 
 pavilion also?" 
 
 '' Tiie pavilion also. My aunt will be entitled to an 
 indemnity for quitting the premises, but that is a question 
 to be discussed separately, and does not concern you." 
 
 Julie made no reply, and sank into a fit of deep melan- 
 choly. The idea of being ruined, — of being reduced 
 to an income of twelve hundred francs a year, — had 
 not really assumed distinct form in her mind. But to 
 leave at once and forever this elegant mansion, — this 
 delicious garden, which had within the last few weeks be- 
 come so dear to her, — to lose the neighborhood of tho 
 pavilion, — to forego her interviews with Julien, so full 
 of charm and security, — this was indeed a catastrophe ! 
 A whole world of delights was crumbling beneath her 
 feet. A phase of existence, filled with the purest happi- 
 ness, was ended with brutal violence, and without allowing 
 her the least time for preparation. 
 
 Marcel at once went to see the notary of the mar- 
 chioness, and found that he took a very high tone, not- 
 withstanding the concessions that he was prepared to 
 make. This was not the fault of the notary, who was 
 really an excelleut man, but he was forced to follow his 
 
i6o ANTON I A. 
 
 client's directions as to the conduct of her business. He 
 had, moreover, been prejudiced against Julie, and re- 
 garded her as a foolish young woman, ready to sacrifice 
 everything to the gratiiication of her unregulated pas- 
 sions. This was more than Marcel could bear ; he was 
 highly indignant, and swore upon his honor that there was 
 no secret connection between the countess and his cousin, 
 — that they were scarcely acquainted, — and that Julie 
 was the purest of women, and the most entitled to respect 
 and to pity. Marcel was known to be an exceedingly 
 honorable man, and the notary was rather staggered by 
 the warmth of his conviction. But, coming back to the 
 question of the legal rights of the marchioness, he de- 
 monstrated that she was mistress of the situation, and 
 that Julie might even consider herself fortunate to be al- 
 lowed to do as she required. 
 
 He promised, however, to do all in his power to inspire 
 his client with more liberal views respecting the widow 
 of her step-son. The next day he wrote to Marcel, to say 
 that the marchioness desired to see the hotel d'Estrelle, 
 which she had not entered for a long time. She wished 
 to examine the condition of the premises with her own 
 eyes, and to have an appraisement made in her presence, 
 with his assistance and that of the lawyer of the countess. 
 It was easy to see, from the turn of this letter, that the 
 notary had displeased his client, by pleading Julie's cause, 
 as he had promised, from a moral point of view, and that 
 he himself was far from being satisfied with the suspicion 
 and harshness of the dowager. 
 
 He made his appearance, along with her, the same day. 
 Julie, unwilling to see her cruel enemy again, locked her- 
 self into her boudoir, leaving all the other doors open. 
 
 The Marchioness d'Estrelle was of a harsh disposition, 
 even for a Norman ; in Madam d'Aucourt's circle they used 
 to call her " Madame de Pimbeche," " Madame d'Or- 
 beche," and so on. She was accused of borrowing money 
 by the year, and lending it again for short terms, at hard 
 rates. Perhaps there was some exaggeration about this, 
 but if she was proposing to advance a large sum in order 
 to settle with the creditors of the Count d'Estrelle, and 
 
ANTON I A, 161 
 
 obtain possession herself of Julie's property, it is certain 
 that slie meant to get some of it back again in the details 
 of the business. This was proved clearly enough, by her 
 promptness in causing an appraisement. 
 
 She went all over the house, inspecting everything 
 with keen and unerring eyes. She made objections, and 
 noted deductions for every little rub on the wall, depre- 
 ciated as much as she could the value both of the real 
 and personal property ; and both in speech and action 
 showed a disgusting avarice, and aversion for her rela- 
 tive, that astounded Marcel, and more than once made 
 the notary blush. When they came to the boudoir in 
 which Julie had taken refuge, she ordered the door to be 
 opened. She was obeyed instantly. Julie had heard 
 her coming, and not choosing to be compelled to receive 
 an odious visit in spite of herself, — such an insult was 
 too much to be endured, — she had gone out by way of the 
 garden, leaving orders with Camille to open the door when 
 required. Camille was very proud, — there had been 
 aldermen among her ancestors ! She could not resist 
 the temptation of giving the dowager a lesson ; going to 
 a table where she had hastily laid out a few articles on 
 purpose, she said, in a tone of sarcastic humility, — 
 
 '' Perhaps madam would like to count the linen ? Here 
 are some of my mistress's neck-handkerchiefs and rib- 
 bons." 
 
 The dowager usually would have cared little for the 
 talk of a servant, but her hatred of Julie was stung and 
 exasperated by the blow. She looked hastily through the 
 window, and saw Madam d'Estrelle crossing the garden 
 towards the pavilion. 
 
 Julie, no doubt, made a great mistake in going to the 
 pavilion, but she was angry also. It seemed to her that 
 fcshe was driven out of her house, her own room, her most 
 private sanctuary, by this impudent persecution. She 
 tied for a refuge ; and, too irritated lor consideration, 
 instinctively, and without stopping to reflect, ran to 
 Madam Thierry, — to Julien. 
 
 " They will not come and hunt me down over there," 
 she said to herself; " they will not dare. 1 am the owner 
 II 
 
102 ANTONIA, 
 
 of that property yet; no one except myself has the 
 right to enter premises occupied under a lease from me. 
 Besides, it is time to avow my friendship for Madam 
 Thierry ; from this time forward, I shall take the lib- 
 erty of visiting her as I do other ladies who have brothers 
 and sons." 
 
 Just as she was resolutely entering the pavilion, the 
 marchioness, with a resolution not less sudden, issued 
 from the boudoir and rushed into the garden. 
 
 " Where are you going, madam?" said Marcel, who 
 had not noticed Julie's flight, but who mistrusted the glit- 
 tering eyes and abrupt manoeuvres of the active and 
 vigorous old woman. 
 
 The marchioness, active as a plucked magpie, flew 
 onward, without condescending to reply. Unable to stop 
 her, Marcel and the notary followed. 
 
 She knew the way perfectly well, although she had not 
 been upon the premises for a long time, having, since her 
 second marriage, quarrelled with the count, her step-sou. 
 She reached the pavilion a few minutes after Julie, found 
 the outer door open, and sprang into the studio as if she 
 had been shot into it. 
 
 Julien was there alone ; he did not even know that 
 Madam d'Estrelle had come in and gone up stairs to his 
 mother's room. Since his secret interviews with Julie 
 he no longer watched for her approach. Their under- 
 standing with each other was so good, that they could 
 afibrd to dispense with accidental meetings. He was at 
 work, and singing. Julie, as she entered the little ves- 
 tibule, had felt a sudden vague presentiment that she 
 would be pursued, and had gone up stairs, thinking that 
 the widow's chamber would aftbrd her an inviolable re- 
 treat. Julien had never seen the old dowager; aud, 
 startled by her sudden apparition, he rose up, thinking that 
 she had entered from the street, and that he was going, 
 perhaps, to receive some commission. This flushed and 
 breathless personage, with her harsh and wrathful coun- 
 tenance, inspired him, however, with a feeling of dislike 
 rather than of expectation. 
 
ANTONIA. 163 
 
 " That woman would haggle like a second-hand dealer," 
 he said to himself; " perhaps she really is one." 
 
 The old lady's mean dress gave no indication of her 
 rank and fortune. 
 
 " Are you alone here?" she inquired, without any sort 
 of salutation. 
 
 Marcel and the notary now made their appearance, 
 and Julien, astonished, looked inquiringly at Marcel, who 
 made haste to say, — 
 
 " This lady thinks of buying the pavilion, and she — " 
 
 *' It is unnecessary to present me to this person," re- 
 turned the marchioness, sharply, " and I am quite able to 
 make my own explanations." 
 
 " Very well, madam," said Julien, smiling, " this per- 
 son is very much at your service." 
 
 " I asked you a question," continued the marchioness, 
 not at all disconcerted ; " let me make it plainer. Which 
 way did the Countess d'Estrelle go ? " 
 
 Julien started back. Marcel, wishing to avoid a ridic- 
 ulous scene, caught his eye, and pointed to his forehead, 
 as much as to say, " The lady is out of her mind ! " 
 
 " Ah, I understand ! " said Julien ; and continued in 
 the tone that people use to children or idiots, " the 
 Countess d'Estrelle, madam, — I do not know her." 
 
 *' That is a very foolish reply, Mr. Painter, and quite 
 useless besides. I want to speak to that lady, and I 
 know that she stays here, — from time to time." 
 
 " Marcel," said Julien to his cousin, " was it you who 
 brought this woman here } " 
 
 Marcel, in an agony, shook his head. 
 
 "Was it you, then, monsieur?" said Julien to the no- 
 tary. 
 
 " No, monsieur," said the notary, promptly ; " I fol- 
 lowed her, and I don't know at all for what reason she 
 came here." 
 
 '' Then you would have done much better not to have 
 followed me," replied the marchioness, dryly and quietly ; 
 *' I had a reason for coming into this picture-shop, and 
 you had none. Do me the favor to allow me to transact 
 my business in my own way." 
 
164 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 '' I wash my hands of it," said the notary ; and, bowing 
 to Julien with much politeness, he went out, cursing the 
 cross-grained, fantastic humor of his client. 
 
 " As to you, Mr. Attorney — " began the marchioness 
 to Marcel — 
 
 "As to me, madam," interrupted Marcel, "this is my 
 own family, and I shall receive no orders except from tlie 
 lady of the house, who is my aunt." 
 
 " I know all that. I know that you are relatives. I 
 know what good friends you are among yourselves, and 
 what good neighbors you are to the widow of the Count 
 d'Estrelle. Stay if you choose, or put me out if you 
 dare ! " 
 
 " Let us have done, madam, with this disagreeable dis- 
 cussion," said Julien, losing patience ; "I am not in the 
 habit of being disrespectful to women, however aston- 
 ishing their conduct may appear. But I am an artist, — 
 a mechanic, if you will. This is my house, — my picture- 
 shop, as you very properly observed. I am at work, and 
 cannot aiford to lose my time. You are speaking of 
 things that I know nothing about, and of a lady that I 
 have not the honor of receiving. If you have no better 
 reason for interrupting me, allow me to leave you." 
 
 Taking his canvas and his palette, Julien left the 
 studio, after casting an expressive glance at Marcel, as 
 much as to say, " Now get out of it as well as you 
 can.*- 
 
 "Very well," said the marchioness, by no means 
 abashed at this formal dismissal, "I remember what 
 the old song says : ' Let's search the house a little.* I 
 will not let you off at all. I mean to see the whole of 
 the pavilion, inside and out, up stairs and down, just as 
 1 have seen the hotel." 
 
 " This way, then," said Marcel, " since you insist 
 upon it. But allow me to speak to my aunt, whose room 
 is up stairs." 
 
 " No, by no means," said the dowager, moving to- 
 wards the door. " I'll speak to her myself; and if they 
 turn me out, — well, I shall be very glad of it, Mr. At- 
 torney.'* 
 
ANTON I A. 165 
 
 "You are certainly out of your senses," exclaimed 
 Marcel, involuntarily. " Is it possible that you really 
 suppose Madam d'Estrelle is hidden up there? Come 
 and see ! I will show you the way. When you are per- 
 fectly satisfied — " 
 
 Marcel was a hundred leagues away from imagining 
 that Julie was in his aunt's room. All at once, as ho 
 suddenly opened the door of the studio, he saw Madam 
 d'Estrelle and Madam Thierry standing before him. He 
 stopped short, with an expression of the most pitiable 
 disappointment. 
 
 Julie had heard the uproarious entrance of the mar- 
 chioness into the studio, and Julien had come up stairs 
 to tell his mother that a crazy woman was below making 
 a disturbance. He was surprised to see Julie, and, when 
 he learned that the crazy woman was the dowager her- 
 self, was distressed enough at her presence. Julie had 
 recognized her voice ; and as she knew perfectly well that 
 the old lady would hunt her to the very garret, she made 
 up her mind at once what to do. Taking Madam 
 Thierry's arm, she said, — 
 
 " Come, it does not suit me at all to be found in this 
 room, like a criminal hiding himself. I prefer to face 
 the storm ; and, since it is my duty to do so, I shall not 
 falter." 
 
 Julien, desperate, and ready to give free vent to his 
 anger, remained standing at the head of the staircase, 
 listening, and asking himself whether Marcel alone would 
 be able to protect the two women, whom, of all the world, 
 he loved and respected the most, from being insulted by 
 this old fury. 
 
 But, most unexpectedly, as soon as she found herself 
 in the presence of the two ladies, the face of the dow- 
 ager cleared up, and her anger seemed to disappear. All 
 that she had wanted was to see with her own eyes that 
 she had not been misinformed about Julie's friendship 
 for Madam Thierry, and consequently her intimacy with 
 Julien, It was rather a far-fetched conclusion, indeed, 
 to suppose that she was the mistress of the son because 
 she knew the mother ; but as Julien had told the mar- 
 
i66 ANTONIA. 
 
 chioness that he did not know Julie, she had some show 
 of reason for believing what she desired to believe. 
 Quieted by her supposed discovery, as a vulture is 
 quieted when it seizes its prey, she burst into an ill- 
 natured laugh, glanced triumphantly at Marcel, and pre- 
 pared to depart without saluting any one, or waiting to 
 be spoken to. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Lawyer," she said, " I am satisfied ; I 
 have seen all that I wanted to. Let us attend now to 
 business." 
 
 Julie was about to reply to this insolent and sarcastic 
 speech. She felt so exasperated that she was ready to 
 reveal lier secret before them all. Calumniated, treated 
 with contempt, as if guilty of a crime, she felt that she 
 could recover her dignity only by avowing her sincere 
 and legitimate affection. This was very courageous in a 
 woman like her, who had never known what it was to 
 contend with others. She would not probably have been 
 capable of forming such an extreme resolution with cool 
 deliberation, at least without Julien*s consent, but indig- 
 nation gave her courage. 
 
 She was not allowed, however, to carry out her pur- 
 pose. Marcel and Madam Thierry each of them seized 
 one of her hands, and cried, as if in unison, — 
 
 " Do not reply ; it is beneath you to notice her." 
 
 While they held her in this way, the dowager, without 
 condescending to look at her, left the house, and returned 
 to the hotel, followed by the honest lawyer, who had 
 been waiting for her outside, and who, as he left, bowed 
 to Julie in a peculiarly deferential manner. 
 
 " You see," said Marcel, " even her own lawyer pro- 
 tests against such insulting conduct ; and now that the 
 woman has taken off her mask, nobody will be upon her 
 side as against you. But, for God's sake, madam, how 
 could you have allowed yourself to be surprised in this 
 house, where you never come ? I must say that you are 
 very imprudent." 
 
 " My dear Thierry," said Julie, " I have something to 
 tell you. Go and wind up your business with the mar- 
 chioness, yield everything as far as the money questions 
 
ANT ONI A. 167 
 
 are concerned, save only my own little fortune, and come 
 back to the pavilion. I will wait for you." 
 
 *'But why in the pavilion?" asked Marcel. 
 
 " I will tell you when you return," said Julie. 
 
 " In fact, madam," said Julien, as soon as Marcel had 
 gone, " what unlucky accident can have induced you to 
 honor my mother with a visit on the very day when your 
 mortal enemy was lying in wait for you ? And why do 
 you remain here now, as if on purpose to confirm her 
 strange suspicions? " 
 
 In spite of Julien's respectful and modest tone, his 
 words implied a sort of reprimand that astonished Madam 
 Thierry. 
 
 "Julien," replied Madam d'Estrelle, with spirit, " the 
 moment for our confession has come. It has come sooner 
 than we expected, but it is inevitable, and I will not 
 shrink from the duty it imposes." 
 
 " My excellent friend," she cried, throwing herself into 
 Madam Thierry's arms, " learn the truth. 1 love Julien ! 
 I have engaged myself to him in the most sacred man- 
 ler. Embrace your daughter, and bless her." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! " cried Madam Thierry, bewildered, 
 and pressing Julien to her heart ; " are you married? " 
 
 " Without your consent? Certainly not," cried Julien, 
 embracing his mother in his turn. " But we have only 
 been waiting to beg your consent, until we could do so 
 without fear of distressing and alarming you. Julie has 
 spoken sooner than I should have wished, but, since she 
 has spoken, what can I add? I have deceived you, my 
 dear mother : I love her to distraction, and I am the 
 happiest of men, for she loves me too." 
 
 Madam Thierry was so affected by this unexpected 
 intelligence, that it was a long time before she could 
 speak. Even while overwhelming both her children with 
 the tenderest caresses, she trembled ; her hands were 
 cold, her eyes were dim with tears ; she felt a singular 
 mingling of apprehension and joy. The former senti- 
 ment was perhaps predominant, for her first question was 
 to ask Julien why, in spite of his happiness, he had 
 seemed inclined to reprove Julie for being too hasty 
 
1 68 ANTON I A. 
 
 "This was the reason," exclaimed Julie; "we 
 agreed yesterday evening, — for we meet and talk to- 
 gether every evening, dear mother, — that we would 
 wait until my business affairs should be definitely settled, 
 before revealing our secret to our friends, or even to 
 you. I saw plainly that I should soon be ruined, and 
 Julien was not at all alarmed at the prospect. He 
 wished, however, for my sake, that every provocation 
 should come from the marchioness ; and it is certain that 
 my resolution to marry him, when it is known, will 
 secure her numerous partizans, at least among the re- 
 ligious hypocrites and social prudes of her own circle. 
 He was right, I know, but I cannot endure to be called 
 a woman of gallantry, and they will be sure to give me 
 that reputation if I fear to acknowledge the whole truth." 
 
 " There is no doubt of it," said Julien ; " it is neces- 
 sary to acknowledge everything now, but your conduct, 
 dear Julie, has precipitated this necessity. I adore you 
 all the more for your rashness, but it was my duty not to 
 lend myself to it. Love and fate have overcome my 
 prudence, and made my self-sacrifice unavailing. It is no 
 longer time to hesitate ! Bless your children, my dear 
 mother ! Julie entreats you, — she wishes it ; and you, I 
 know, will be as happy in giving us your blessing as we 
 in receiving it." 
 
 While the inmates of the pavilion were thus indulging 
 their affection., the marchioness had established herself 
 in the drawing-room of the hotel, and was presiding at a 
 rigidly conducted appraisement of both houses. Marcel 
 fought bravely for his client, and the notary made hon- 
 orable but useless efforts to reconcile the conflicting 
 claims of the opposing parties. The conclusion finally 
 arrived at was very mortifying to Marcel : it proved im- 
 possible to save even Julie's furniture from the claws of 
 her enemy. The marchioness considered that she was 
 doing a great deal in allowing her to retain her diamonds 
 and laces. It was necessary to submit to these hard 
 conditions, for the sale of the property could no longer 
 be delayed, and no competitor had appeared in the field. 
 Slarcel had written to uncle Antoine, in hopes that he 
 
ANTONIA. 169 
 
 would take a fancy to the garden, and would buy it at a 
 fair rate, in spite of his displeasure ; but uncle Antoine 
 liad made no answer. 
 
 There was half an hour of final discussion over the 
 draft of the agreement ; a few erasures were made, and 
 some blanks filled. The dowager signed, and Marcel, 
 although very discontentedly, and with many protests, 
 prepared to submit the paper to Julie for her accept- 
 ance. 
 
 " Why isn't she here ? " cried the dowager, abruptly. 
 *' She ought to be willing to leave her dear pavilion for a 
 few minutes, to attend to such an important matter." 
 
 " You will acknowledge, madam," observed Marcel, 
 " that you have not treated Madam d'Estrelle so kindly 
 as to make her particularly desirous to meet you again." 
 
 '' Bah ! bah ! She is mighty touchy ! Come, Lawyei 
 Tiiierry, go and fetch her, — I am in haste to go ; and if, 
 on reading the agreement, she should be disposed to raise 
 objections, I, for my part, am not at all disposed to sub- 
 mit to delay. Let her come and talk it over here, — we 
 shall get through all the sooner. What is she afraid of? 
 I luive no further observations to make on her conduct. 
 Indeed, as things now stand, I care very little about it, 
 and I have not reproached her either. Did I say a single 
 word to her just now? If I have offended her formerly, 
 it was because she chose to appeal to sentiments which I 
 am not under any obligation to entertain. Let her avoid 
 recriminations, and I will promise not to humiliate her." 
 
 " If you will send her a conciliatory message," said 
 Marcel, " expressed in polite and friendly language, I 
 will do my best to persuade her to come." 
 
 " Besides," added the notary, " the marchioness has 
 no doubt some arrangements to suggest beyond the mere 
 terms of the agreement. ' She will, of course, allow 
 Madam d'Estrelle time to find a lodging, before vacating 
 the hotel." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly I will," said the marchioness ; 
 '' I intend to do so. Come, Master Thierry, go ! " 
 
 Marcel hurried to the pavilion, and persuaded Julie to 
 return with him. He imagined that the marchioness, 
 
170 ANTONIA. 
 
 in her satisfaction at having made a good bargain, 
 wished to offer some little reparation for her ill-natured 
 conduct ; and he appealed to Julie's generosity, and per- 
 haps to her prudence, not to reject the formal reconcilia- 
 tion which is customary in such cases. 
 
 They had no time to make any explanation to Marcel 
 at the pavilion. Julie, however, said to Madam Thierry, 
 in a low voice, — 
 
 " You know what my means are now ; my income 
 is very small, but, by selling my jewels, we shall have 
 enough to purchase the house at Sevres. I am a suitable 
 match, therefore, for Julien, and I am thankful that the 
 affair has terminated in this way." 
 
 The marchioness concealed her impatience at being 
 kept waiting for a few minutes, and begged Julie to read 
 the agreement, and sign it, with something like polite- 
 ness. Julie took up the pen, but, hearing nothing of 
 the friendly demonstrations that Marcel had led her to 
 anticipate, she hesitated a little, and looked at the notary 
 as if asking his advice. The deference that this showed 
 did not escape the quick perception of the lawyer, who 
 felt a decided sympathy for her. 
 
 " This is the proper time," he said to his harsh old 
 client, "to state to Madam d'Estrelle your kind intentions 
 about taking possession under the agreement." 
 
 " Ah, oh yes, undoubtedly," said the marchioness ; 
 " I wish to take possession of the hotel at once : to-mor- 
 row, at farthest. I will allow madam, however, the use 
 of the pavilion for three or four months." 
 
 "The pavilion?" said Marcel, in surprise. "The 
 pavilion is leased. The marchioness is surely aware 
 that it is occupied under a nine years' lease." 
 
 " The lease is void, M. Thierry, for I did not sign it ; 
 and, by the terms of my marriage settlement, the Mar- 
 quis d'Estrelle could not dispose of his property in any 
 way without my signature." 
 
 "• Then Madam Thierry will have to move, and without 
 obtaining an indemnity." 
 
 " I am sorry for her, but you know my marriage con 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 171 
 
 tract by heart. Look at the lease, and you will see that 
 it is void." 
 
 She took the lease out of her pocket, and showed it 
 to him. He examined it, and was silent. 
 
 '' What is the matter?" said the marchioness, laughing 
 at Marcel's consternation. •' The countess will still be 
 in a condition to make up to Madam Thierry for this 
 little annoyance. One does not reckon closely with one's 
 friends." 
 
 "You are quite, right madame," answered Julie, with 
 dignity ; " and I thank you for affording me an oppor- 
 tunity of proving my devotion to Madam Thierry. I 
 decline your very kind offer. Madam Thierry and I 
 will leave your premises together, within an hour." 
 
 " Together ?" said the marchioness. "It is unnec- 
 essary to be so open about it as that, madam ! " 
 
 Julie was upon the point of replying, when a vigorous 
 ring at the door of the ante-chamber startled the mar- 
 chioness. 
 
 " Well, well, let us have no useless quarrelling," she 
 said, suddenly changing her tone ; " there are some visi- 
 tors, — sign, my dear, and be done with it." 
 
 Just at this moment, the valet de chambre entered to 
 announce somebody, and she cried out, — 
 
 " Say that we can see no one just now. Let them 
 wait." 
 
 " Pardon mc, madam," interrupted Julie, offended at 
 this assumption of dignity in her presence, " it is my 
 house yet." 
 
 Marcel, who had noticed the sudden impatience of the 
 marchioness, felt impelled by a vague, but irresistible im- 
 pulse, to gain time. He took the pen out of Julie's hands. 
 The marchioness turned pale. Marcel saw it. 
 
 " Sliall I announce ? " inquired the servant of Julie. 
 
 *' Yes ! " exclaimed Marcel, vehemently, for he had 
 espied the visitor's face through the half-open door. 
 
 " Yes," repeated Julie, agitated because she saw Mar- 
 cel's excitement. 
 
 " M. Antoine Thierry I " said the servant, in a loud 
 voice. 
 
172 
 
 ANTON I A. 
 
 Julie, in surprise, arose. The marchioness, who wag 
 stauding, sat down with an angry gesture. The horti- 
 culturist came in, embarrassed and awkward as usual, 
 but carrying as high as ever that irascible face of his, 
 which always, with its resolute, haughty expression, con- 
 trasted so strangely with his timid manner. Without 
 exactly saluting any one, and advancing in a zig-zag 
 course, but very quickly, he went up to the table where 
 lay the contract, with the inkstand beside it. Then he 
 turned to Julie : 
 
 '' Have you just been concluding some transaction ? " 
 he said, in an angry tone, and yet with a certain expres- 
 sion of anxiety and solicitude. 
 
 '' Nothing at all is concluded," answered Marcel, " since 
 you have got here. Possibly you may have some offer 
 to make, uncle.*' 
 
 *' No one can make any offer," cried the marchioness, 
 in a great state of excitement ; " the bargain is closed. 
 I appeal to the good faith — " 
 
 '' Good faith has nothing to do with it, madam," said 
 Marcel ; " we were just about submitting to extremely 
 hard conditions. No one can blame a criminal condemned 
 to death, no matter how resigned he might be, for ac- 
 cepting a pardon that reached him unexpectedly. Come, 
 uncle ; you have a fancy for the hotel d'Estrelle. I 
 can say more than that : you need it ; you can remove 
 the boundary wall, and make a splendid addition to your 
 garden. The hotel de Melcy is cold, old, gloomy, and 
 badly situated. This house is cheerful and agreeable ; 
 cool in summer, warm in winter. You want it. You 
 mean to buy it. Don't you ? " 
 
 " This is infamous," cried the marchioness. " The 
 consent of the countess is equivalent to a signature. No 
 one ever withdrew from a promise so late as this ! " 
 
 "Pardon me, madam," retorted Marcel, '*you had 
 fair warning. I waited up to the very last moment ; I 
 told you three times over, while we were discussing, that 
 if the door should open that moment, and any other pur- 
 chaser whatever should appear, I would at once tear up 
 this agreement, which I consider an altogether deplorable 
 
ANTONIA, 
 
 173 
 
 one for my client. I only submitted, — I did not consent ; 
 I appeal to my colleague here to witness that it was so. 
 Uncle, you are yourself a recognized authority in busi- 
 ness transactions. Say, have I the right to put a stop to 
 further proceedings until you shall have had an oppor- 
 tunity to speak?" 
 
 " Certainly,'* answered M. Antoine ; " and the more 
 80, since my rights in the matter take precedence over 
 those of the marchioness. Let's see what this instru- 
 ment is ! " 
 
 He read it, and observed, — 
 
 " This is not my appraisement at all, marchioness ; 
 you pluck the bird too close, and oblige me to remind you 
 of our little understanding.'* 
 
 " Go on, sir ; make your bid ! " cried the dowager ; 
 " I can't contend with a man that possesses millions. 
 I withdraw altogether, and leave the field to you." 
 
 *' Wait, wait ! " replied Antoine ; " you and I can come 
 to an understanding in half a word, madam ! I can ar- 
 range this affair in a way to satisfy all parties. But it 
 depends upon you. " 
 
 "' Never ! " cried the marchioness, indignantly ; " you 
 are a fool, and I am ashamed to have accepted your ser- 
 vices ! " 
 
 She went straight out of the room, forgetting all about 
 her lawyer. Antoine, with his face turned towards the 
 door through which she had departed, remained silent, 
 darkly frowning, and plunged in some mysterious medi- 
 tation. 
 
 '^ They have an understanding against me," whispered 
 Julie to Marcel ; " what are they going to do now? " 
 
 *' Have patience," answered Marcel ; " I think I can 
 guess." 
 
 They had no time for further observations. M. An- 
 toine started from his reverie, and turned to the lawyer. 
 
 *' Well," he said, " how do we stand? What has been 
 decided." 
 
 '' So far as I am concerned, monsieur," replied the 
 notary, gathering up his papers, and looking for his spec- 
 tacles, " the transactions between yourself and the mar- 
 
174 
 
 ANTONIA 
 
 chioness are at an end. My client seems to have given Uf 
 the object she was in pursuit of, and I must take new 
 orders from her before moving further in the matter." 
 
 " Then it is entirely between you and me?" said M. 
 Antoine to Julie, while the notary was taking his de- 
 parture. 
 
 ''No, monsieur," she said, referring him to Marcel-, 
 "I beg permission to leave you together." 
 
 " But why?" asked Antoine, in a strange sort of hearts 
 broken tone, and making a gesture as if to detain her, 
 although without venturing even to touch her sleeve. 
 " Wiiy are you angry with me, Madam d'Estrelle? All 
 that I have done has been in your interest. Why will 
 you not let me tell you so ? " 
 
 " Very true," said Marcel ; " why should she refuse? 
 Come, madam, have patience, and listen ; it seems to be 
 our lot to have to face the enemy along the whole line to- 
 day ! " 
 
 Julie resumed lier seat, casting upon M. Antoine a 
 cold and severe look, which completely disconcerted him. 
 He hesitated, stammered, and uttered only unintelligible 
 sounds. 
 
 " Come," said Marcel, " you will never get it out, my 
 poor uncle ! Let me cross-question you. To begin at 
 the beginning : why was it that you mysteriously left 
 Paris on the morning after a certain tragic experience 
 which befell one of your plants?" 
 
 "What, are you going to talk about that?" cried 
 Antoine, his little round eyes beginning to flash furi- 
 ously. 
 
 '' Yes, about everything. Answer, or I will carry off 
 the judge, and you will remain condemned." 
 
 '' Condemned to what?" said Antoine, looking towards 
 Julie ; " to her hatred? " 
 
 Marcel was trying to bring his uncle to acknowledge 
 his repentance, but, in spite of his signs to the contrary, 
 Madam d'Estrelle interrupted him. 
 
 " No, monsieur," she said, " to my blame and pity." 
 
 "Your pity ! Pity for me ! " he cried, in a rage. 
 
ANTON I A, 175 
 
 " No one ever used that word to me before, and if you 
 were not a woman — " 
 
 He paused, and turned to Marcel : 
 
 " Pity is another word for contempt," he said ; " and 
 if it is by your advice that she talks to me so, I'll make 
 you pay well for it." 
 
 ^"Thcn justify yourself if you can," answered Marcel, 
 bolrUy ; " for if your conduct has really been as treacher- 
 ous as it seems, you are simply a detestable man, and 
 every honorable woman whom you have insulted has a 
 right to tell you so." 
 
 " How have I insulted her ? I have insulted nobody. 
 I saw that she was going to throw herself away. I 
 wanted to keep her from — " 
 
 " Throw herself away ! You don't know what you are 
 talking about. There are certain dangers that a woman 
 like Madam d'Estrelle never knows, by which she cannot 
 be assailed." 
 
 " Words ! Words ! I don't trouble myself about 
 phrases learned out of books. When a woman gives 
 rendezvous to a young man — " 
 
 '* Rendezvous ? Where did you pick up such non- 
 sense ? Whoever told you that, is a liar ! " 
 
 "You are a liar yourself ! You, the accomplice, the 
 confidant — " 
 
 " There, stop, uncle ! Damnation ! You will drive 
 me beyoud all bounds." 
 
 " Get beyond all bounds, if you want to ! I saw you 
 coming out of the theatre with my own eyes." 
 
 " And what of that ? My wife — " 
 
 " Bah ! Your wife is a goose ! I saw Julien coming 
 out too." 
 
 " Julien was not with us. He did not know that we 
 were on the ground-floor in the theatre any more than 
 we knew that he was in the gallery. And, besides, sup- 
 pose he had been with us, what is the meaning of this 
 mania for bringing accusations — " 
 
 " Accusations ! " cried M. Antoine. " I accuse no- 
 body except those who are guilty ! And how about 
 walking arm-in-arm in the night from the hotel d'Or- 
 
176 ANTONIA, 
 
 monde to the pavilion, where, by the way, madam 
 remained until three o'clock in the morning? It is pos- 
 sible that Madam Andre may have been present during the 
 interview, I don't deny that ; but that is only an additional 
 reason for bringing accusations, as you say, you ass of a 
 lawyer ! And how about all the meetings at night in the 
 garden, that always keep her out until two o'clock, and 
 sometimes later?" 
 
 '* Where on earth did you pick up this footman's scan- 
 dal?" cried Marcel. " In what servants' hall have you 
 raked together such a heap of slanders ? " 
 
 "• I don't hang about servants' halls, and I don't get 
 my information from footmen. I have a secret police of 
 my own. I have money enough to pay a few sharp peo- 
 ple, who keep on the look-out, and tell me the truth. I 
 don't deny it. I wanted to know what madam's feelings 
 were, and what her reason was for insulting me by com- 
 missioning Julien to turn me off. I had a right to do so, 
 and if I revenged myself as I could, I had a right to do 
 that too." 
 
 Madam d'Estrelle, who had fully resolved to reveal 
 everything, and take the consequences, listened to uncle 
 Antoine with proud indifference. The brutality of his 
 discourse, — which she attributed to a diseased mind, and 
 excused on account of his want of education, — did not 
 wound her like the intentional and deliberate impertinence 
 of the marchioness. While his uncle was making his 
 agreeable remarks. Marcel observed her, and, in her dis- 
 dainful and smiling serenity, read a denial of his slan- 
 ders more eloquent than any words. 
 
 '' Look," he cried, actually shaking the old man to 
 make him hold his tongue, " look for a moment at the 
 woman whose reputation you are daring to assail ! See 
 how superior she is to the dreams and lies with which 
 you have been crammed ! You cannot bring the faintest 
 blush to her forehead ; her silence confounds your noisy 
 brutality ! " 
 
 " I shall speak when the time comes," said Julie. 
 " Let M. Thierry go on. You see that he does not pro- 
 voke me ; and, after he has fully exposed my conduct, i 
 
ANTONIA. 177 
 
 shall expect him to give me an account of his. You are 
 suffering under my just indignation, Monsieur Antoine 
 Thierry : do not forget that. You pretend that you are 
 innocent. It remains for you to prove your assertion." 
 
 The old man was silenced for a moment, but he quickly 
 recovered himself. 
 
 '' Very well," he said, " despise me if you choose. I 
 shall be able to bear up under your contempt easily 
 enough. My own good opinion will be sufficient for mc. 
 I have been angry, it is true enough. I have spoken 
 about you in anger, and have tried to revenge myself. I 
 sliiill deny nothing that I have done. And yet I do 
 not hate you, — it only depends on you to have me for a 
 friend." 
 
 " Confess before you beg for absolution," cried Mar- 
 cel ; "what has happened? what have you been doing? 
 Tell us." 
 
 " What has happened? This is what has happened. 
 Mordi 1 Chance helped me to gratify my anger. The 
 Dowager d'Estrelle applied to me to do her a service. 
 Two or three days before her husband's death I was asked 
 to call upon her. I had known her long ago in connec- 
 tion with some land that she sold me, and cheap enough 
 too. She was not so good a business woman then as now. 
 Well, I went. She said to me : ' My husband cannot 
 last long, as every one knows. I am his heir, but I will 
 not pay his son's debts unless the countess surrenders her 
 dower to me, and I want to buy up the debts so as to 
 force her to do this. Furnish me the money, and you 
 shall have part of the spoils. I will pay you for the ac- 
 commodation.* So I answered : ' Pardon me, madam , 
 I want myself to show that lady that she is in my power ; 
 but I want, also, to be in a position to forgive her if I 
 should choose.' Says she : • Ah, what ! What have 
 you against her ? ' And says I : ' Just what I have.* 
 * But what is it?* 'No matter.* ' Tell me — * and so 
 forth. In short, to come to an end of the matter, from 
 one word to the other, I did finally tell her the whole 
 story ; I said that I had wanted to be a friend to the 
 countess, ar'1 had been treated like a pirate, and that the 
 
178 ANTONIA. 
 
 reason was she had been influenced by the intrigues of 
 Madame Andre Thierry, who wanted to marry her son 
 to a great lady, out of vanity, and to get others in the 
 same fix with herself, — like the fox who had his tail cut 
 off, in the story. The marchioness was pleased to find 
 out all this, and she led me on to say perhaps more than 
 I meant to, especially as I found it agreeable to tell her 
 about my troubles. Finally, when she had got it all out 
 of me, she said : ' M. Thierry, we must let this splendid 
 marriage go on ; it suits me ! * And said I : ' But it 
 doesn't suit me ! ' ' What ! In love at your age ? — an- 
 gry ? — jealous ! — who would have believed it ? ' ' No, 
 madam, I am not in love at my age ; but at my age one 
 does not like to be fooled, and I have been fooled. I am 
 not a bad man, but I have power, and I mean it to be 
 understood. It does not suit me to proceed against her 
 myself; but, if it amuses you to torment her, do it ; plague 
 her well ! When you have got through, if she asks my 
 pardon, I will forgive her.' ' Very good,' the marchioness 
 said, ' I swear to abide by this understanding with you in 
 good faith ; so advance me the money. Here is my 
 note of hand, and you have my word besides.* She sent 
 for me again after the old marquis was buried. I had 
 plenty of fine stories by that time about the doings in this 
 house ; I told her all of them, and the idea of bringing 
 down the pride of the countess pleased us both. The 
 dowager said to me then: 'Now revenge yourself; I 
 mean to follow her to the uttermost.* But I always an- 
 swered : ' Go on, but keep me informed. I shall redeem 
 the property, if she will reform.* Now you understand ; 
 madam dowager deceived me, but I got here in time. 
 That breaks up all my arrangements with her. She is a 
 craity woman, but she shall pay me for it, — that's all ! *' 
 
 " You ha\e not told the whole, uncle. There was some 
 other question discussed between you. You said to her 
 just now, ' It only depends upon you to arrange all these 
 matters.' '* 
 
 " Oh, that's my business. It has nothing; to do with 
 you at all." 
 
ANTONIA. 179 
 
 " Excuse me ; and in what an angry tone she an« 
 swered, Never 1 " 
 
 '' She's an old fool ! " 
 
 " But really, what did she mean ? " 
 
 "Why? Goto the devil, will you ? Mind your own 
 business ! " 
 
 " Confess the truth, then ; you have some other pro- 
 ject on foot." 
 
 " I tell you I have not." 
 
 Marcel persisted that he had. 
 
 " It is all perfectly clear to me, uncle," he said ; " un- 
 able to marry a countess, you took it into your head to 
 marry a marchioness. In fact, it was a much more rea- 
 sonable plan than your first one : the age and the fortune 
 of the marchioness are suited to yours ; but I see that you 
 have failed in that quarter also. She encouraged you, 
 lured you on, for the sake of obtaining a little money ; 
 and all the while she was working secretly, and without 
 your knowledge, to get possession of the property of the 
 countess. If you had come a few minutes later, she 
 would have accomplished her designs, and you would 
 neither have been married nor revenged." 
 
 Antoine listened to this expostulation with his head 
 down. He seemed to be meditating ; but from under his 
 eyebrows he looked at Madam d'Estrelle, and saw her 
 surprise, and the ironical smile which she could not conceal, 
 "As for |Dot being married to that sharper of an old 
 woman," he said at last, rising, " I thank God for my 
 escape. But as for my revenge, I intend to have it. 
 The devil shall not rob me of it." 
 
 " What is it to be ? " said Julie, calmly. 
 "Who said that it was going to be against you?" 
 cried uncle Antoine, whose tongue always broke loose 
 when there was least occasion to expect it ; "I have 
 known three women in my life, and they have all laughed 
 at me, as if I were a little boy. Women indeed ! They 
 don't know any better ! The first was Madam Andre 
 Thierry, who called me her brother and friend, and so 
 gave me confidence. You were the second, — you who 
 called me your good friend and dear neighbor, so as to 
 
I So ANT ON I A. 
 
 get me to give your lover a fortune ; and the third, — oh ! 
 that one called me her dear monsieur and her excellent 
 creditor, — and she is the Voorst of all the three, for she 
 only wanted to pluck me, — the miserly old thing ! Con- 
 sequently I shall make her pay for both the others. As 
 for you. Madam d'Estrelle, I pardon and excuse you ! 
 Love makes people commit great follies, but, at all events, 
 it is love ; a sort of infatuation which, as it would seem, 
 confuses the brain and disables the reason. So be it, 
 madam ! Give me your friendship again, and do not 
 talk any longer of marrying either me or the other one. 
 I wish you nothing but good ; and I shall prevent you from 
 having my nephew the painter, because my nephew the 
 painter has not done what was right by me, and because 
 it is not suitable for you to marry a painter." 
 
 " There, then !" interrupted Marcel, "you were just 
 beginning to talk sense, and now your mania has seized 
 you again. You seem to be really insane upon that 
 point. Who the devil suggested it to you ? '* 
 
 "It is time for this discussion to end," said Julie; 
 " you and I, M. Marcel, do not understand each other. 
 Perfectly sincere in my intentions, — which I avowed 
 plainly enough in your presence to the marchioness, — I 
 am tired of seeming to feign. Listen to me, therefore : I 
 declare to both of you, that my marriage to Julien Thierry 
 is agreed upon and sworn to beyond recall. Yes, Marcel, 
 you are to be my cousin ! Yes, M. Antoine, you are to 
 be my uncle ! All your information was perfectly cor- 
 rect, and you can pay your spies liberally. And now 
 tliat 1 have made this declaration, you will understand 
 that I must withdraw the harsh expressions that I have 
 used in referring to your conduct towards me. What- 
 ever that conduct may have been, respect for a kinsman 
 will keep me silent. You are free to abuse me, to slander 
 me, to rob me. I will not reply, but neither will I en- 
 treat your forbearance. I have done nothing for which 
 to ask your forgiveness, and, if you reduce me to poverty, 
 you will only increase my esteem and gratitude towards 
 him who, even under such circumstances, is willing to be 
 my guardian and protector." 
 
ANTONIA. l8i 
 
 Marcel was too surprised to speak. His uncle looked 
 at him with an expression of triumph ; but when he saw 
 how genuine his astonishment was, he became more 
 gloomy and irritated than ever at the idea of being defied 
 to his face by Madam d'Estrelle. 
 
 " It is decided, then," he said, rising ; " you are re- 
 solved : vou will not even listen to my final proposi- 
 tions?" 
 
 '' By no means," cried Marcel. " State them. For 
 my part, I do not approve Madam d'Estrelle's deter- 
 mination, and I declare to you plainly that I shall oppose 
 this marriage with all my power. Speak, uncle ; fur- 
 nish me with arguments." 
 
 " You are right, for once," said M. Antoine ; " but 
 she don't think so ! See how contemptuous she is ; see 
 with what an obstinate, scornful look she turns her head 
 away ! — Oh, she is w^orthy to be the niece of my-sister- 
 in-hiw, — she will treat me just as she did ! Tell her your- 
 self, Marcel, what I propose to do, provided she will give 
 up her dauber of tulips ! I will give her a release from 
 all her debts ; I will leave her in possession of her hotel, 
 her garden, her pavilion, her diamonds, her farm du 
 Beauvoisis ; in short, of all her property." 
 
 " Stay, stay ! " said Marcel to Julie, as she was about 
 to reply. 
 
 *' No," exclaimed Julie ; " I will accept nothing from 
 a person who speaks of Julien and Madam Thierry with 
 such aversion and contempt. I do not mind the injury 
 he has done me. I pardon monsieur for having ex- 
 posed me to the sarcasms and insults of the marchioness, 
 and her circle ; but the enemies of those whom I love 
 can never be my friends, and I reject their benefits as 
 an insult." 
 
 " Wait, wait until you hear all ! " cried M. Antoine, 
 stamping upon the floor. "Are you possessed by a devil? 
 You think 1 mean to ruin your friends. Not at all ; I shall 
 give them the house at Sevres, which belongs to me yet, 
 if you please ; I will secure them an income and a good 
 part of my inheritance, for my property is to be divided 
 among yourself, Julien, and this ass of a lawyer here ! I 
 
l82 ANTONIA, 
 
 propose to make you all rich and happy, on one single 
 condition ; and that is, that the pavilion be vacated in- 
 stantly, and that you all swear upon your honor, and 
 sign your names to the oath, that Madam d'Estrelle will 
 never see Julien again." 
 
 This time it was Julie who was struck dumb. Al- 
 though there was really something of insanity in this 
 inexorable old man, there was also a sort of fierce gran- 
 deur in the magnificent way in which he accepted any 
 sacrifice necessary to secure the success of his jealousy. 
 He showed great shrewdness, moreover, in putting 
 Madam d'Estrelle in a position where, if she ventured 
 to oppose him, Julieu's interests, Madam Thierry's, 
 and Marcel's, would be sacrificed. Marcel, however, de- 
 termined not to be made use of in any way, hastened to 
 reply, with great dignity and nobility : 
 
 ••' Uncle," he said to M. Autoine, " you will make 
 such future arrangements in regard to me as you may 
 see fit. You know me too well to imagine that any ex- 
 pectations of the kind would weigh against my con- 
 science. I said, a moment ago, that I did not approve of 
 Madam d'Estrelle's determination, and it will be my duty 
 to submit to her certain suggestions upon the subject. 
 But understand me at once : if she is not persuaded by 
 ray arguments, I shall never hint to her that her resistance 
 has injured me with you; my conduct shall never be 
 influenced by a regard for my own interests. Lastly, if 
 she and Julien shall persist in their intention of marry- 
 ing, 1 will assist them in every possible Vv'ay with my 
 advice, my services ; I will be eternally their friend, 
 their kinsman, and their obedient servant." 
 
 Julie silently held out her hand to the lawyer. Her 
 eyes were full of tears. She looked at Antoine, but 
 could read nothing but immovable obstinacy in his horny 
 and copper-colored visage. 
 
 '' Let us go to Madam Thierry and Julien," she said, 
 rising ; " it is for them to decide." 
 
 ''Not by any means ! " cried M. Antoine. " I'll have 
 no one taken unawares. At first, I know very well that 
 the painter will play the great man, and that his mother 
 
ANTONIA. 1S5 
 
 will put on her grand airs. Besides, they will be ashamed 
 to yield before madame : it will not do to be loss 
 proud than she ; although they repent an hour after- 
 wards, they will say exactly what she does. I will wait 
 for my answer until to-morrow, and I will come here to 
 receive it. In the meanwhile, lawyer, carry ray final 
 proposition to your protegees, and you, my beautiful 
 friend, reflect upon it also. We shall see whether you 
 four will agree to refuse both my present gifts, and my 
 future bequests. Good-day, Madam d'Estrelle. To- 
 morrow, at this place, at noon ! " 
 
 As he went out, Julie, pale and exhausted, fell back 
 upon her chair. He returned a moment after he had 
 gone out of the room, and looked in at her. Certain 
 that he had succeeded in breaking down even her pride 
 and courage, he departed in triumph. 
 
 VII, 
 
 "V/TARCEL was a prudent man ; this was his natural 
 ^^ disposition, and his professional career had strength- 
 ened it. It is possible to be both practical and generous. 
 It was under the influence of both these sentiments 
 that he considered the position of the two lovers, and 
 argued with Julie. 
 
 " Madam,'* he said, taking her hand with an affec- 
 tionate good-will, in which there was nothing oflTensive, 
 " to begin with, I must be left out of the account in this 
 whole business. Provided Julien and his mother are as 
 courageous and devoted as you are, instead of dissuading 
 them from making the sacrifice in question, I shall admire 
 it. And, at the outset, do not exaggerate the consequences 
 of your present determination upon the future. M. Au- 
 toiue is undoubtedly a man of his word ; both in good and 
 evil he does as he agrees. It is impossible, however, to 
 conjecture anything about the provisions of his will, since 
 he may marry at any moment. It is certainly strange to 
 
184 ANT ON I A. 
 
 see an old bachelor, — a hater of women and of love, — 
 seized, in his declining years, with a rage for matrimonj. 
 But for the very reason that it is a sort of monomania, no 
 promises or resolutions that he may make will save him. 
 He will find, without doubt, what he is looking for ; some 
 woman with a title, no matter whether young or old, re- 
 spectable or otherwise, handsome or ugly, will be tempted 
 by his money, and will get possession of all his estate. 
 This simplifies the question, since we need not take the 
 final division of the property among ourselves into con- 
 sideration. We can only reckon on present arrangements 
 as certain ; and in these, you know, I am not a party. 
 Let us examine, then, the questions immediately before 
 us. These are important enough. I know uncle An- 
 toine ; he will do what he proposes within twenty-four 
 hours, or not at all. He will come here to-morrow with 
 his papers all ready, — drafted by himself; and, in spite 
 of the rudeness of his style, not one iota requisite to make 
 them perfectly valid in law (which he understands better 
 than I do) will be omitted. It is by no means likely that 
 you will be required to make a formal rupture with this 
 or that person, — such a stipulation would be strange and 
 uidvuown to the law, — but you will have to bind your- 
 self not to marry again without M. Antoine's consent, 
 and a clause in the grant will make it revocable in case 
 you violate this condition. It would be in vain, there- 
 fore, to hope to evade the proposed agreement ; and, in 
 any event, your character is a sufficient guarantee that 
 you would not think of attempting such a thing." 
 
 *• You are quite right, my friend," said Julie, with a 
 sigh, '' I will never make a promise without keeping it." 
 
 '' Very well, then," continued Marcel, " the project sub- 
 mitted to us is unprecedented ; but it has actually been 
 formed, it cannot be evaded, and it will determine the 
 destiny of two persons most dear to you, — Julien and 
 his mother. I myself, as I explained, am not involved 
 in this business. You are bound to consider it most se- 
 riously. Do you prefer to think it over by yourself, or 
 may I say plainly to you all that I would have said, if 
 
AN TON I A. 185 
 
 you had made me your confidant before the appeArance 
 of M. Antoine ? " 
 
 " Go on, Marcel ; it is best to tell tne all." 
 " Let us suppose then, madam, that M. Antoine, in 
 jspite of his anger, makes you a better offer than the mar- 
 chioness : your means will even then be very moderate ; 
 you will have, perhaps, an income of two or three thou- 
 sand francs a year ! You marry Julieu, who has nothing 
 t> depend upon except his labor; you will have chil- 
 dren, and you will have Madiini Thierry to support. 
 You will be able to keep a maid for her, a nurse for your- 
 self, and a mau-of-all-work, — unless Julien himself lays 
 down liis brush to do the drudgery that is necessary even 
 in the most modest household. You will live respectably, 
 no doubt, for Julien will work ; Madam Thierry will knit 
 all the stockings of the family, and you will be econom- 
 ical. You can afford one silk dress, and will commonly 
 wear calico. You will go about on foot ; you can't even 
 allow yourself a bow of ribbon without counting on your 
 fingers to see if you can afford it. That is the way my 
 wile began when I bought my practice, and I assure you, 
 madam, that we did not enjoy it much, although we were 
 very fond of each other. My wife was not a frivolous 
 woman ; we had never been in easy circumstances, and 
 were unacquainted with luxury. We knew very well 
 how to be sparing, but we were both of us troubled. My 
 wife was anxious at seeing me working half the night, 
 and running about at all liours and in all weathers, tired 
 to death, and with a cold in the head. I was anxious at 
 seeing her shut up without fresh air and good food, and 
 harnessed, without intermission, to the housework and to 
 her responsibilities as a mother. This solicitude for each 
 other was a constant and wearing burden. I give you 
 my word, that the more we loved each other the more 
 tormented we were, and prevented from enjoying real 
 happiness. We lost our first two children. One we 
 were obliged to put out to nurse in the country, and it 
 was not well cared for ; the other we tried to bring up at 
 home, and it died in consequence of the bad air of Paris, 
 together with the feeble health which it inherited frc m its 
 
i86 ANTONIA. 
 
 mother. If we have contrived to keep our third alive, W 
 is because, by economy and industry, we have succeeded 
 in making ourselves a little more comfortable. At present 
 we are contented, and are quite well off; but we are I'orty 
 years old, and we have suffered a great deal ! Our youth 
 was always a warfare, and often a martyrdom. !Such is 
 the life of a poor citizen in Paris, madam ; and that of a 
 poor artist is harder still, because his profession is far less 
 sure than mine. People are always having questions of 
 business to decide that bring them to a lawyer ; they are not 
 always in want of pictures, and most people care nothing 
 about them. They are superfluities. Julien will never 
 amass a fortune, as his father did. His talents and his 
 character, perhaps, will be more highly estimated, but he 
 has not the amiable frivolity, — the social tastes and bril- 
 liant manners necessary to make him a favorite in cer- 
 tain circles, which, when they fall in love with an artist, 
 have the power to bring him forward, and insure his rep- 
 utation and success. You must remember that my uncle 
 Andre would never have gained the position he lield, in 
 spite of his genius, if he had not been a capital singer, a 
 great wit, and a good story-teller ; and moreover, if cer- 
 tain frivolous but influential ladies had not, at various 
 times, tempted him from his allegiance to his wife. Ho 
 adored her, notwithstanding ; but he used to say, confiden- 
 tially and very frankly, that he must deceive her a little 
 once in a while, for his own advantage. You turn pale ; 
 Julien will never follow that example, for it belongs to a 
 past age. But even if Julien should create clief-d'ceuvres 
 of art, he will always be poor. The world does not run 
 after modest merit, nor does it take the trouble to seek 
 after unknown virtue. His marrying you will, it is true, 
 make some noise, — it will be a little scandal that will do 
 something towards bringing him into notice. That was 
 the case with his father's marriage, but, as I said, the 
 times are changed. Nowadays people are more austere, 
 — or more hypocritical, — than in the time of Madamvi de 
 la Pompadour. And then the same thing never succeeds 
 twice over. People will say, ' That young fellow has 
 been trying to ape his father,' and you will bring him more 
 
ANT ONI A. 1S7 
 
 enemies than protectors. Against you there will be a 
 great outcry. I do not suppose that the old marchioness 
 will try to have you thrown into a convent, and Julien into 
 the Bastile, for the crime of mesalliance, for she has no 
 authority over you ', but she will do you even greater 
 harm by talking against you, while you will not have a 
 rigorous persecution to help make you interesting. You 
 are well known as a person of virtuous character, and 
 that very fact will make the feeling against you more 
 violent and implacable. All the old prudes will go about 
 saying that such marriages are becoming altogether too 
 common, — that they must be put down, and utterly dis- 
 countenanced. Even the literary people, — and some of 
 them are good friends of Julien, — will not dare defend 
 you. They themselves belong to good society nowadays ; 
 instead of being persecuted, they are feted and caressed ; 
 Paris is excited yet over the triumph that was granted to 
 M. de Voltaire after his long exile. People laugh at 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau for fancying himself the victim 
 of a conspiracy ; he could have lived, they say, comfort- 
 ably and respectably, if it had not been for his sour dis- 
 posiiion and diseased mind. The philosophers take the 
 wall of everybody now, and they are very careful no 
 longer to attack people's prejudices ; while those who re- 
 main of the great crusade of free-thinkers will neither 
 mend their pens nor open their mouths for the sake of 
 defending you against the verdict of the drawing-rooms. 
 And all these cowardly insults will strike Julien. He 
 will live in constant uneasiness and apprehension ; he 
 will quarrel with all his friends, and probably will fight 
 Bome of them — " 
 
 •' Enough, enough, Marcel," cried Julie, weeping, " I 
 sec plainly how foolish I have been : I have taken counsel 
 of a selfish passion, or rather have acted without under- 
 standing social necessities. I see now what a burdea 
 I should be to Julien ; that his marriage to me would 
 expose him to constant danger, and fill his whole life with 
 bitterness. Ah, Marcel, you have broken my heart ! 
 But it was your duty to do so, and I esteem you the more 
 for your courage. Go and tell Julien that I wish our en- 
 
1 88 ANTON I A, 
 
 gagement broken. Mon Dieu! How can I tell lilm 
 so?" 
 
 " Julien will not believe you. Eager to suffer for your 
 sake, he will smile at your generous magnanimity. He 
 has courage, and force of character, and I have no doubt 
 that he adores you. If you consult him he will instantly 
 cry, ' Let us be true to our love at whatever cost, in spite 
 of misery, in spite of persecution ! ' He will have no 
 misgivings about himself; and his mother, — who is as 
 courageous and disinterested as he is, — will uphold him 
 in his determination. But imagine Julien a year or 
 two hence, when he sees his mother suffering ! It is by 
 unheard-of efforts even now that he keeps her from actual 
 poverty ; and in spite of him and of herself, — in spite of 
 all their mutual forbearance, — there can be no doubt that 
 she does suffer. Madam Thierry is an enthusiast, not a 
 stoic. She was not brought up to any employment, and all 
 she is fitted for is to sit comfortably in her arm-chair and 
 knit or read. Besides, her health was always delicate. 
 She could never stand on her feet until midnight to finish 
 ironing her son's shirts, as my wife could do ; her pretty 
 hands know as little about hard work as yours. How 
 will it be, then, when Julien shall have a wife and chil- 
 dren? He will reproacli himself with your unhappiness ; 
 and if remorse once gain admission into so proud a heart 
 as his, farewell to courage, and perhaps even to the 
 ability to work in his profession ! " 
 
 " My dear Marcel, I told you that you had said enough. 
 Advise me ; direct me. Give your orders, and I will 
 obey. You think I ought not even to see him and speak 
 to him." 
 
 " I think so, most certainly, my dear countess. He 
 must not know anything about what has just happened ; 
 he must receive M. Antoine's gifts without suspecting the 
 conditions upon which they are granted. Otherwise, he 
 would refuse them." 
 
 " Marcel," said the countess, rising, and ringing the 
 bell, '' I must leave my home at once, and never return 
 to it." 
 
 The servant entered. 
 
ANTONIA. I {59 
 
 " Send for a carriage," she said, " and tell Camillc tlial 
 I want her." 
 
 " I shall take nothing with me," she continued to 
 Marcel. " You must make it your duty to pay off tbo 
 servants, and to send after me such of my things as ma/ 
 be necessary." 
 
 " But where will you go ? " 
 
 " Into some convent out of Paris. It makes no differ- 
 ence, as long as you alone know where I am." 
 
 Camille made her appearance. Julie put on her mantle, 
 and when she had left the room continued : 
 
 " It must be, my friend. Madam Thierry will be 
 anxious to know what has happened, and will come to 
 inquire ; if I stay a single moment longer, I may see her. 
 And even if I could deceive her, in the evening, — ah ! 
 in the evening Julien will wait for me in the garden ; 
 and when he sees that I do not join him, he cannot help 
 coming to rap at my window. I could never have tlio 
 strength to leave him in mortal anxiety, and I could not 
 utter an untruth to him. No, no, — let us go away. There 
 is the carriage in the court-yard. Come, let me not lose 
 wliat little courage I have." 
 
 Marcel felt that she was right, and offered her his 
 arm. 
 
 ^' Come, madam," he said ; " it is God who inspires 
 you, and He will support you ! " 
 
 They drove off, pretty much at random ; the countess 
 gave the coachman the address, first of one convent and 
 then of another, without really knowing where she 
 wished to go. Marcel at last bethought him of a cousin 
 of his family who was at the Ursulines, at Chaillot, and 
 suggested that institution. They went there, and he 
 himself arranged for her accommodation ; paying for a 
 week's board and lodging in advance, with an under- 
 standing that the lady, if satisfied, was to have the privi- 
 lege of remaining longer. Julie assumed the name of 
 Madam d'Erlange. Marcel charged his cousin to vouch 
 for her, and see that she was properly cared for, but did 
 not admit her into their confidence. As Julie entered the 
 convent merely as a boarder, she had the privilege of 
 
190 ANT ON I A. 
 
 seeing Marcel in her room, where she gave him her final 
 instructions. 
 
 " In any event," she said, " I will not accept any favors 
 from M. Antoine ; they would be odious to me, and 1 no 
 longer need his assistance. Since he is my only creditor, 
 let him sell all my property, and pay himself in full. I 
 will retain nothing, except my twelve hundred francs a 
 year ; and as I intend to live alone, that will be quite 
 enough. Do not let him reserve my furniture for me, or 
 send me my diamonds, — I will not accept them. He may 
 draw up the engagement himself, stating that I will never 
 marry. I will sign it, in return for the conveyance 
 which he is to execute to Madam Thierry of the house at 
 Sevres, and of an income whose amount you shall act for 
 me in adjusting. You are also to stipulate that neither 
 Madam Thierry nor her son are to be informed of any 
 of the facts about me. You can tell them that I am 
 gone, that I cannot see them, that I do not wish to do so, 
 because — Ah, mon Dieu ! what can you tell them? I 
 do not know. Tell them whatever you choose, but let it be 
 irrevocable, without being cruel ; do not torment them with 
 false hopes, for they are weakening, and it is agonizing to 
 wake from them. Tell them — tell them nothing — Ah ! 
 I can neither think nor wish any longer — my strength is 
 all gone ! " 
 
 '' I will consider what to say," said Marcel ; "I will 
 think it over as I return. I leave you in despair, and 
 yet I must go. My duty for the present is to get you 
 settled here, to keep Julien from being frightened out of 
 his senses at your disappearance, and to reassure your 
 servants, who will be waiting for you, and who, when 
 they see that you do not return, may make inconvenient 
 inquiries or observations. Come, madam, be heroic ! 
 Be calm ; I will return this evening, — sooner if possible, 
 — and will try and bring you some comfortable news from 
 the pavilion. I must deceive Julien in some way, but 
 how, I don't know any more than you do. Good-by ; 
 wait for me ; don't write to anybody. It would not do 
 for us to be contradicting each other. You will weep 
 
ANTONIA, 191 
 
 bitterly. I have pained you terribly, my poor friend, 
 and now I must leave you alone. It is frightful ! " 
 
 As he spoke, Marcel wept without knowing it. Touched 
 by this evidence of his grief and devotion, Julie assumed 
 an appearance of fortitude that she did not possess, and 
 urged him to depart. But as soon as he had gone, she 
 locked herself up, threw herself upon her poor little bcd^ 
 hid her face, and weeping, sobbing, wringing her hands, 
 abandoned herself to her grief, until she lost all conscious- 
 ness of where she was, and of the events that had so 
 suddenly torn her from her home and former associa- 
 tions. 
 
 Marcel, when he reentered the coach, wiped his eyes, 
 reproached himself for his weakness, and tried to reason 
 himself out of it. 
 
 " What we resolve," he said, " we must have courage 
 to perform." 
 
 lie had one last hope that he had not mentioned to 
 Julie, — that of changing M. Antoine's resolution. To 
 him, therefore, he went first of all, but his sensible ar- 
 guments and heartfelt eloquence fell alike upon a deaf 
 ear. The selfish old man was happy and triumphant. 
 He was draining his sweet draught of vengeance, enjoy- 
 ing it, and did not mean to leave a drop at the bottom of 
 the goblet. They both gave vent to stormy reproaches 
 and invectives, but Marcel could not change his resolu- 
 tion ; he consented at last, — and this was the only con- 
 cession he wo.dd agree to, — that Julien and his mother 
 should remain ignorant of the cruel bargain that was to 
 purchase their prosperity. 
 
 " You will find it difficult, as it is, to carry out your 
 scheme," said Marcel ; '* take care, or you will make it 
 impossible. Madam d'Estrelle is the only one Avho has 
 consented to it as yet. Julien would have refused. You 
 must deceive him, or else you will gain no advantage 
 from Julie's submission." 
 
 ^' I'm tired to death of your Julie !" cried M. Antoine. 
 "Much she has to comphiin of; a woman to whom I 
 am giving everything, — fortune, position, and liberty ! " 
 
 " Yes, the liberty to die of sorrow 1 " 
 
192 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 '* Nonsense ! Do people die of love ? That is fine 
 talk for a lawyer ! Let her many to suit herself in 
 her own rank of life ; I will make no opposition, — slie 
 may select whom she pleases. I object to no one, except 
 tlie dauber. Before a fortnight has passed, she will have 
 opened her eyes, and will thank me. She will acknowl- 
 edge my greatness of soul, and will call me her benefac- 
 tor. The fact is, that you are all crazy together. I take 
 hundreds of thousands of francs out of my pocket, and 
 fling them about to a lot of ungrateful fools, and they turn 
 around and call me a bad relative, a hard-hearted fellow, 
 an old dog, an old miser, and I don't know what besides. 
 Upon my word of honor, the whole world seems to be 
 crazy, at present." 
 
 '' Nobody has called you those names, uncle ; no- 
 body has called you any names at all. There is no name 
 that would describe your extraordinary character ; and 
 no other man in the world has found out the secret of 
 making people curse the hand that enriches them." 
 
 " Come, you are making a speech ; you imagine you 
 are in court. Go along, you bore me ! Tell your Julien 
 whatever you please. I don't want to see either him, or 
 you, or anybody. I am going back into the country." 
 
 ^^ That means that you are going to shut yourself up 
 here, and barricade yourself against all the good reasons 
 that I could give you." 
 
 " Possibly. Now you know what a fine time your 
 good reasons will have waiting outside the door." 
 
 Marcel took good care not to tell his uncle that there 
 was a far simpler and cheaper way than the one he had 
 adopted of preventing the marriage to Avhich he was so 
 violently opposed : that, namely, of allowing Madam 
 d'Estrelle to lose her fortune, and trusting to the influ- 
 ence of her own prudent and generous reflections. Nor 
 did he consider it his duty to tell him that she had refused 
 his gift. 
 
 " After all," he thought to himself, '' who knows how 
 long tliis passion will last.? Julie may, perhaps, recover 
 from it alter a time ; and, in that event, she will not bo 
 displeased to find herself at liberty, and wealthy." 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 193 
 
 He drew up, along with M. Antoine, a simple condi- 
 tional release of all Madam d'Estrelle's debts, and suc- 
 ceeded in having this important modilication inserted in 
 the document, that, except with a person not hearing a 
 title, Madam d'Estrelle was free to contract a second mar- 
 riage with any one she chose. After M. Antoine had 
 signed this paper. Marcel put it into his pocket, quietly 
 resolving that he would not submit it to the countess, 
 until she should be more calm. 
 
 The conveyance of the house at Sevres to Julien and 
 his mother, together with an income of five thousand 
 francs, was in readiness. Marcel had a terrible struggle 
 to prevent Antoine from inserting a restriction in this 
 paper, similar to the one by which Julie was bound. lie 
 remonstrated that as she had promised not to marry 
 Julien, it was entirely useless to make him promise not 
 to marry her, 
 
 '^ But your Julie may take it into her head to renounce 
 her fortune,*' said M. Antoine ; " and then, if the other 
 has enough to live upon, I shall have accomplished a 
 pretty piece of work ! I shall have married them ! By 
 no means ! I must have a letter from that lady, in 
 which she promises, solemnly and religiously, never in all 
 her life to see that personage again. It must all be 
 stated in so many words. Women think there's a great 
 deal more in their little gilt-edged notes, than in all your 
 parchments. They are a gi-eat deal more afraid of scan- 
 dal than of the law. Yes, I must have that little love-letter 
 sent to my address, or I will do nothing." 
 
 " You shall have it," said Marcel. 
 
 lie left, and hastened to the pavilion. 
 
 Julien had not ventured to seek any information at the 
 hotel, and he was very much agitated. His mother had 
 gone to reconnoitre, and had reported that the house was 
 entirely closed on the side of the garden. He did not 
 know whether the dowager was still thens ; he knew 
 nothing of M. Antoine's visit, or of Julie's departure. 
 After confiding in Madam Thierry so fully, he was aston- 
 ished that she could not find time to send her a few lines, 
 in order to set her at ease about the consequeoces of the 
 13 
 
194 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 dowager's scandalous proceedings. He was anxiously 
 waiting for the evening, and dark suspicions were begin- 
 ning to creep into his mind. 
 
 "Who knows," he thought, " whether the dowager and 
 M. Antoine have not joined in a conspiracy to have Julie 
 carried off and confined in a convent, on a charge of mis- 
 demeanor } " 
 
 It was no longer easy to obtain lettres de cachet ; but, 
 by means of certain formalities, an ex-post facto judgment 
 could be procured, and an unlawful imprisonment legal- 
 ized. This would have been quite practicable in the present 
 case, since a love affair with a plebeian was still con- 
 sidered among the ruling classes a scandal such as a 
 family of rank might rightfully punish. 
 
 By the time Marcel arrived, tfulien was almost out of 
 his senses. Madam Thierry looked troubled and de- 
 jected. Marcel saw that this was not the moment to 
 speak plainly. 
 
 "There is news," he began, assuming a calm, and even 
 satisfied expression. " We were just about to sigu, when 
 uncle Antoine appeared amongst us, like a god out of tlie 
 clouds at the opera. He got angry, and had a quarrel 
 with the dowager, who up to that moment had had some 
 understanding with him against the interests of Madam 
 d'Estrelle. This showed him his mistake. He has re- 
 pented of all his foolishness, and offers you a splendid 
 indemnity ; indeed he is going to seize this occasion to 
 make up for all his shortcomings, and I must say that 
 he is acting with great disinterestedness. I hope you 
 will feel kindly towards him, not only on account of his 
 offer to you, but for his handsome proposition to Madam 
 d'Estrelle. He will pay her probably double the amount 
 offered by the dowager. He behaved so well, indeed, 
 that she considered it her duty to thank him, and to 
 leave the hotel at once, in compliance with his wish.** 
 
 " She is gone?'* cried Julien, turning pale. 
 
 " Certainly ! She has gone to stay a few days in the 
 country. What is there surprising in that ? " 
 
 " Ah, Marcel," said Madam Thierry, " you evidently 
 do not know — '* 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 '95 
 
 '* I do not desire to know anything outside of the very 
 important concerns that require all my attention," re- 
 plied Marcel, with decision. '' I have listened to-day to 
 a great many foolish remarks, to a great many injurious 
 and impertinent insinuations ; but I do not intend either 
 to believe or to remember any of them. The name of 
 Madam d'Estrelle is a sacred one to me ; but I have 
 advised her to keep out of sight for a few days." 
 
 " Keep out of sight ? " repeated Julien, whose appre- 
 hensions still continued. 
 
 " Farbleu I One would suppose that we were in 
 Madrid, and that somebody had been buried alive in 
 the convent cellar. Why are you so tragic about it? 
 I have only persuaded her to be dead, so to speak, for 
 a week or two, until I can ascertain the state of her 
 affairs, and adjust them. Let us be entirely quiet, and 
 show neither dissatisfaction nor uneasiness about her 
 absence. Why should we revive the evil designs of the 
 marchioness, just as M. Antoine has succeeded, for the 
 moment, in baffling them? Above all, we must be care- 
 ful not to act in such a way as to deprive Julie of the 
 protection and regard of our rich old friend. There is 
 no need of undertaking to explain that gentleman's sin- 
 gular mode of reasoning, for the devil himself could not 
 do it. We can, however, take advantage of his pecu- 
 liarities ; and no one here ought to think about himself. 
 The point is, to consider the good of Madam d'Estrelle." 
 
 Marcel now went into details, and referred to figures 
 which compelled Julien's attention. He showed that Julie, 
 by acting with prudence, could secure a modest compe- 
 tence, and that, by displaying too much pride, she would 
 lose it. So far, the plot formed against her by M. Antoine 
 and the marchioness had come to nothing ; they had been 
 waiting until she should provoke its explosion by trying 
 to resist the dowager's claim. It was M. Antoiue's duty 
 to protect Julie against the accusations which he him- 
 self had originated ; and he was the only person who 
 could do this, since his wealth provided him with suflicient 
 resources against the common enemy. He sliowed a 
 disposition to do what was right, he was repentant, after 
 
196 ANT ON r A. 
 
 his fashion • he had come to hate the marchioness, and 
 all that he asked was to be allowed to manage the whole 
 matter himself. It was absolutely necessary to acqui- 
 esce, and to wait silently upon his movements. 
 
 Julien v/as not altogether satisfied with this explana- 
 tion ; one thing still troubled him. Was not M. An- 
 toine trying to influence Madam d'Estrelle's plans, and to 
 get the control of her property, with the extravagant 
 idea of entrapping her into a marriage with himself? 
 Marcel reassured him entirely upon this point ; he gave 
 him his word of honor that the old sphinx had altogether 
 abandoned this project. Lastly, Julien asked Marcel 
 whether he could also give him his word that he had 
 advised Julie to depart thus suddenly ; whether she was 
 able to come back whenever she should see fit ; and if 
 she was perfectly convinced that her absence would be 
 advantageous to herself, and to herself exclusively. 
 
 Marcel could conscientiously reply that all this was 
 <^o. 
 
 •' You know, of course, where she is," continued 
 Julien. 
 
 ''I do," replied Marcel; "but I cannot tell, for she 
 made me promise not to. If she chooses to inform any 
 one else, she will write ; but as she desires to keep M. 
 Antoine and the dowager entirely ignorant of her where- 
 ahouts my opinion is that she had better have no con- 
 fidant except me. And now that I have explained 
 everything, let me tell you what compensation M. Antoine 
 proposes to give you for resigning your lease." 
 
 " Wait one moment," said Julien ; "was this compen- 
 sation insisted on by Madam d'Estrelle ? Is it not the 
 price of some additional torment inflicted upon her high 
 spirit, or of some sacrifice on her part?" 
 
 " There was no discussion whatever about it," said 
 Marcel; "M. Antoine stated his intentions himself, 
 without waiting for any one to make any demands, or to 
 propose any conditions. It is probable that he has in- 
 tended for a long time to endow you with this property, 
 for he owns the house at Sevres, and he gives it to you. 
 Here are the deeds." 
 
ANTON I A. 
 
 197 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieul** cried Madam Thierry, looking at 
 the papers, " aud an income too ! It seems like a dream, 
 — I am both rejoiced and alarmed ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Julien, who was still suspicious, " there is 
 something back of all this ; some trap, perhaps." 
 
 Marcel had a great deal of trouble in making them 
 accept the perfidious gift of M. Antoine ; and had to say, 
 and even to give his oath to it, that such was the express 
 desire of Madam d'Estrelle. Before he left them, how- 
 ever, they had become quite composed. Julien was still 
 anxious, but he concealed his apprehensions, so as not to 
 disturb his mother's joy at the idea of returning to the 
 home where she had lived so long and so happily. Mar- 
 cel now hurried to the hotel d'Estrelle, and directed 
 Camille to pack up whatever her mistress would need for 
 a short stay in the country. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu I " exclaimed Camille, in surprise ; 
 " aud did not the countess send for me to come and join 
 her?" 
 
 " It is unnecessary, for so short a time.'* 
 
 " But madame does not know how to put up her hair, 
 nor how to dress herself! Why, think of it ! A person 
 who has always been waited upon according to her 
 rank." 
 
 " She will find servants enough in the house where 
 she is staying." 
 
 " They must be poor people, at all events, if madame 
 thinks they can't afford to keep her servants for her. 
 Perhaps she is quite ruined herself. Oh dear, oh dear ! 
 Such a kind and generous mistress," 
 
 Camille began to cry, and her grief was perfectly sin- 
 cere ; but she added, notwithstanding, — 
 
 " And my wages, Mr. Attorney ; who will pay me? " 
 
 " I will pay everything to-morrow," said Marcel, who 
 had often witnessed similar demonstrations of sensibility 
 mingled with prudential considerations, — a state of mind 
 that is naturally developed by sudden disasters, *' Have 
 all the accounts of the household made out, and df you 
 take the keys until then. Be responsible for everything 
 until to-morrow." 
 
198 ANTON I A, 
 
 " Very well, monsieur, I will," answered the lady's 
 maid, beginning to sob again ; " but are we to leave 
 madam's employment? Is she not coming back at 
 all?" 
 
 " I did not say that, and I have received no orders to 
 dismiss you." 
 
 Marcel sent word to his wife that he would have no 
 time to return either to dinner or supper, and that she 
 need not expect him until ten or eleven at night. Then 
 he went back to the convent. Julie, after pouring out 
 all her life in tears, had risen, and bathed her face in 
 water ; but it was pale and cold as marble. She was 
 very quiet and depressed in manner, and seemed like a 
 dead person moving about. She revived a little on learn- 
 ing that Marcel had succeeded in misleading Julien, and 
 in quieting his suspicions sufficiently to induce him to 
 accept the means of living that M. Antoine had conveyed 
 to his mother and himself. At Marcel's request, and 
 under his dictation, she wrote a note to M. Antoine, en- 
 gaging never to see Julien again as long as she lived, on 
 condition that the house at Sevres, and the annuity, 
 should never be taken from him. She would not make 
 any similar condition about her own property, and Mar- 
 cel did not yet venture to speak to her about accepting 
 M. Antoine's release from her debts. For the rest, she 
 made no complaint, but looked worn out with fatigue ; 
 and when he took her hand, Marcel perceived that she 
 was feverish. He persuaded her to see his cousin, sister 
 Sainte-Juste, and arranged with the latter to have some- 
 one sleep in the next room ; nor did he leave until, in the 
 most fatherly manner, he had make every arrangement 
 for her comfort. 
 
 Julie had a quiet night; she was not one of those 
 strong natures that can maintain a long struggle. Her 
 conscience told her that she had done her duty, and her 
 first passionate outburst of sorrow had been so sudden and 
 violent, that she very soon yielded to exhaustion, and fell 
 asleep. The next morning, after thanking the person who 
 had watched near her, she stated that she wished to be 
 alone, and sent her away. She made her own toilette, 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 199 
 
 and finding that she was a little awkward in performing 
 this unaccustomed task, she resolved to form new habits, 
 and went to work at once to clear up her room, make her 
 bed, put her things in order, and establish herself in this 
 poor little cell, as if she had expected to spend all her life 
 there. All this she did almost mechanically, and without 
 either effort or reflection. 
 
 When everything was arranged, she sat down in a 
 chair, with her hands clasped on her lap, and remained 
 for a long time looking out of the open window, without 
 seeing anything, listening to the convent bells without 
 paying any attention to them, and not even remembering 
 to eat, although she had not taken anything for twenty- 
 four hours. A clap of thunder, exploding in the very 
 room, would not have made her tremble. 
 
 Towards noon, sister Sainte-Juste came in, and found 
 her absorbed in a melancholy reverie, which she mistook 
 for a state of beatitude. Some natures, when crushed by 
 affliction, are so sweet and gentle, that their actual suffer- 
 ing is unsuspected. The sister, however, in passing 
 through the little room that served as Julie's ante-cham- 
 ber and dining-room, noticed that the breakfast which tJie 
 servant had brought had grown cold, without bemg 
 touched. 
 
 " But you have forgotten to eat anything," she said to 
 Julie. 
 
 " No, my sister," replied the poor desolate creature, 
 unwilling to complain ; " I was waiting until my appetite 
 should return." 
 
 The nun persuaded her to sit down at the table, waited 
 upon her very kindly, and tried to divert her with her own 
 simple and insignificant gossip. Julie listened with inex- 
 haustible patience, and even exerted herself to show an in- 
 terest in all the minutiae of the recluse's life, in the details of 
 the establishment, in all the stupid little events with which 
 nuns in such a community occupy their leisure. What 
 difference did it make whether she listened to that or t4 
 something else ? Nobody could annoy or fatigue her any 
 more. Her soul seemed perfectly void, and was incapable 
 of receiving a new impression. 
 
200 ANTON I A, 
 
 TV hen Marcel came again in the afternoon, his cousin 
 said to him, — 
 
 •"*■ What made you tell me that this lady was ill, and in 
 trouble ? She slept well, and without a sound ; she break- 
 fasted reasonably well, although rather late, and she 
 showed great interest in conversing with me. She is very 
 amiable, and is not seriously unhappy. I will answer for 
 that — I know about such matters ! " 
 
 Marcel was alarmed at this patient sorrow incapable of 
 reaction. He had come to tell her what had happened 
 that morning at the hotel d'Estrelle ; but she made no in- 
 quiries, excepting about Julien and his mother. On 
 learning that they had moved, and would sleep that night 
 at Sevres, she was satisfied, and refused to hear anything 
 more. 
 
 " I do not want to hate anybody," she said ;• " such a feel- 
 ing would only injure me, and would do no good. Do not, 
 therefore, say anything more to me about M. Antoine for 
 several days. I beseech you, my friend, let me reconcile 
 myself to my lot as I best can. You see that I do not 
 rebel against it. That is as much as is necessary." 
 
 As time went on, she became more and more quiet. 
 She was extremely pale ; but the nun assured Marcel, 
 and with truth, that she ate and slept sufficiently. She 
 did nothing all day, and disliked to see any one, but con- 
 stantly affirmed, — and truly again, — that she did not 
 sulfer from ennui. Absorbed in thought, she was patient 
 and serene. Marcel could not understand anything about 
 such a case. He persuaded her to see the physician of 
 the convent, and he reported that her pulse was a little 
 feeble, and her complexion a little phlegmatic — an ex- 
 pression used at that time to denote a predominance of 
 lymph in the system. He prescribed quinine, and told 
 Marcel that nothing serious was the matter. 
 
 In fact, nothing was the matter, except that her soul 
 was quietly sinking, and her life fading away. She obe- 
 diently took the quinine, took walks in the convent-garden, 
 consented to receive visits from some of the nuns, who 
 thought her a very nice person, promised to read some 
 new books that Marcel brought her, but which she did not 
 
ANTONIA. 20I 
 
 open, and laid out a piece of embroidery which she did 
 not begin. So extremely quiet were her ways, that she 
 lived ahnost invisible in the convent, and continued 
 to fade away, slowly, without a crisis of any kind, but 
 steadily. 
 
 Marcel was deceived by her apparent tranquiUity. 
 Mistaking the sudden destruction of her will for an im- 
 mense force of will exerted in the struggle to conquer her 
 love, he tried to cure her with mistaken remedies, lie 
 occupied himself in endeavoring to restore her physical 
 health. Telling JuUe that he had purchased a little 
 country-house at Nanterre, which, in fact, was only rented, 
 he persuaded her to move there ; and, satisfied as to Ca- 
 milJe's discretion and devotion, sent her there too. He 
 furnished Camille with money enough to hire a good cook, 
 and made arrangements to supply the table of the countess 
 with more delicate and nourishing food than she had had 
 in the convent. The cottage was in a healthy situation, 
 the air was good, and it had quite a large garden, walled, 
 and not too much shaded to prevent the sun from warm- 
 ing it thoroughly. Books, work, innocent games, and 
 JuUe's harp (in those days every lady played more or less 
 upon this graceful instrument, and Marcel did not forget 
 to send hers to her new retreat) gave the drawing-room 
 a cheerful aspect. Camille, whom the lawyer had in- 
 structed, kept her mistress in ignorance about what had 
 happened at the hotel d'Estrelle, and of the condition of 
 her own property. She made her believe that ever^'thing 
 was extremely cheap at Nanterre, and that she might 
 therefore indulge herself in comforts, to a certain extent, 
 without exceeding the amount of her little revenue. Julie 
 chose to be poor, rather than to receive any favors from 
 M. Antoine. On this point, only. Marcel had found her 
 opposition invincible. He had had to tell her a down- 
 right falsehood, and to make her believe that M. Antoine 
 had taken possession of her hotel, her diamonds, and all 
 that she owned. 
 
 The diamonds, in reality, were safe in Marcel's hands ; 
 the hotel was kept in good repair ; the horses were in tho 
 stable, well groomed and fed, and the carriages in the 
 
202 ANTONIA. 
 
 coach-house. The servants had been paid off and dis« 
 charged, but with an understanding that for a certain 
 agreed term they should hold themselves in readiness to 
 return at any time when Madam d'Estrelle herself should 
 come back. The porter had charge of the house, and 
 tended and exercised" the horses ; his wife dusted, aired, 
 and closed the rooms. M. Antoine's head gardener had 
 charge of the flowers and the turf, and M. Antoine him- 
 self made the rounds of the place every morning. The 
 pavilion, deserted by Madam Thierry, was shut up and 
 silent. Otherwise, nothing was changed since Julie's de- 
 parture. All the furniture was in its place, and the sun 
 shone on the deserted threshold. 
 
 Two months thus passed away. Uncle Antoine acted 
 only as the guardian and business superintendent of the 
 hotel. He proposed to retain this office about the place 
 until such time as it should please Julie to resume the 
 management of her property, when he meant to deliver it 
 up to her unchanged, and even to see that any of her 
 household whom she wished to recall should be ready to 
 serve her. The porter had orders to inform visitors that 
 his mistress still retained the ownership of the property 
 temporarily, and had gone to inspect her estates in Beau- 
 voisis, with a view to adjust some final arrangements. 
 In other words. Marcel and M. Antoine, for the sake 
 of appearances, had agreed to represent the situation of 
 Madam d'Estrelle, as the coutinuation of a truce arranged 
 with her creditors. This state of things had already ex- 
 isted for two years, and it was therefore the best explana- 
 tion that could be given of her present position. It 
 vTDuld be easy enough to find some final statement, when 
 ever the countess should return. 
 
 Nevertheless, Julie's friends, the old Duke de Qiiesnoy, 
 the president's wife, Madame des Merges, the abbe de 
 Nivieres, etc., began to feel greatly surprised at not hear- 
 ing from her. Her sudden departure, — thanks to the 
 reports adroitly circulated by the lawyer, — had been 
 satisfactorily accounted for ; but why did she not write ? 
 She must be very lazy ; or, perhaps, she was ill. Was 
 she really in Boauvoisis? They asked these questiona 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 203 
 
 amoDg themselves, but the old Duke do Quesnoy had to 
 go to the waters of Vichy ; the president's wife was ab- 
 sorbed in attending to her daughter's .uarriage ; the abbo 
 was a good deal like a cat, which forgets all about a 
 house when the fire goes out on its hearth, and Madam 
 des Morges was indolence personified. The Marchioness 
 d'Estrelle was the only person who would have made 
 serious inquiries, and her malice was paralyzed by M. 
 Antoine, who threatened sharply to publish an account 
 of her conduct, and reclaim his money, if she entered into 
 any investigation, or ventured to make any unkind re- 
 mark about Julie. 
 
 In all that related to the reputation, the safety, and the 
 pecuniary interests of his victim, it cannot be denied, 
 therefore, that M. Antoine acted with remarkable good 
 faith, prudence, and devotion. He took counsel with 
 Marcel, discussed various plans, as if he were seeking to 
 promote the welfare of his own daughter, and followed 
 his advice with perfect exactitude. J3ut upon the main 
 question of all, — the union of the two lovers, — he was 
 inflexible ; Marcel tried, in vain, to soften him. When 
 pressed too hard about it, he got angry, sulked, and shut 
 the door in the lawyer's face ; so that, upon this point. 
 Marcel saw nothing in the future but indefinite delays. 
 
 Meanwhile, Madam Thierry and Julien were luxuri- 
 ously established in their pretty little house, where they 
 had found intact most of their furniture, and a number 
 of works of art of great value. The latter M. Antoine 
 was too ignorant to appreciate, and had quite disdained. 
 
 Jiilien felt no confidence in the unexpected generosity 
 of his relative, attended, as it had been, by so many mys- 
 terious circumstances, and for which he had been forbid- 
 den to thank him. He was so uneasy, indeed, about 
 the whole affair, that he would have refused the gift 
 altogether, if it had not been for the obvious duty of slc- 
 rific'ing his pride to insure his mother's comtort. Mate- 
 rially, they were really well off. The annuity of five 
 thousand francs enabled them to live in a modest way, 
 without waiting every week, in feverish anxiety, for the 
 proceeds of weary labor. Madam Thierry could not help 
 
204 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 feeling extreme delight in returning to her own house, 
 her dearest recollections, her old habits and her old ac- 
 quaintances. The circle that gathered around her was 
 less numerous than in the days when she used to keep an 
 open table, but it was composed of reliable people. Only 
 her true friends sought her out ; and, knowing that her 
 income was not large, they took pains to secure a good 
 sale for Julien's pictures. It is only when free from dis- 
 tress that one's talents can be used to advantage. Julicn 
 no longer found it necessary to fatigue himself with over- 
 work ; patronized by an intelligent and friendly coterie, 
 he achieved, without difficulty, an assured success. When 
 his mother expressed the secret dissatisfaction which she 
 still felt at being under obligation to M. Autoine, he was 
 able to console her. 
 
 " Don't be troubled," he said, " I will pay off all that 
 we owe him, and in spite of himself, if necessary. It is 
 only a question of time. Take comfort. You see that I 
 don't allow Julie's absence to make me unhappy, and that 
 1 am waiting an explanation of her conduct, confidently 
 and firmly." 
 
 Julien had not altered in behavior or manner, — not 
 even the expression of his face had changed, — since the 
 unhappy day of Julie's disappearance. At first, he be- 
 lieved every word that Marcel had told him ; but, when 
 be received no letter from the countess, his suspicions 
 began to be aroused. He made inquiries which satisfied 
 him that she was not in Beauvoisis, and gradually began to 
 paess some part of the fatal truth. Julie was free, — 
 there could be no doubt about that, — for Marcel had 
 sworn that she was so, repeatedly. But he refused to 
 swear, or even to afiirm anything about her state of 
 feeling ; upon that point, everything was left to the 
 artist's conjectures. Marcel persistently refused to be the 
 recipient of his cousin's confidence, and this made it easier 
 for him to elude his questions. The Machiavelian plot 
 of M. Antoine was too strange to occur to a straight- 
 forward mind like Julien's. Jealousy, without love, he 
 had never even conceived of; and he would have con- 
 sidered it an iusult to Julie, and a sort of sacrilege, to 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 205 
 
 admit that the old man was in love with her. Nor was 
 the old man in love with lier ; nothing is more certain 
 than that. And yet, notwithstanding, he was as jealous 
 of Julien as a tiger ; and it is true, also, that the most 
 implacable form of jealousy is that which is unaccom- 
 panied by love. Julien thought he was insane. Who 
 can conjecture the schemes of a crazy man ? 
 
 But, whatever these schemes may have been, he was 
 firmly pursuaded that they could not have had any cfl'ect 
 upon Julie's resolution. 
 
 " No ! " he said to himself; " no money consideration 
 could ever have weighed with a heart so noble. Julie 
 wishes to break off her engagement with me ; she be- 
 lieves this to be necessary, and, although at the cost of 
 great suffering, she severs the tie in silence. She is ap- 
 prehensive about her reputation ; the marchioness has 
 threatened to destroy it ; and her friends have persuadec 
 her that if she marries a plebeian, she can never regain 
 her social position. That is the opinion of the world. 
 Julie believed, for an instant, that she was superior to 
 such prejudices ; her love for me made her overestimate 
 her strength. Her character is proud and noble, but her 
 intellect, perhaps, is not very powerful ; and, at present, 
 she is exerting all her force of character in favor of 
 prejudices which destroy her love. Poor dear Julie ! 
 she must be unhappy, for she has a kind heart, and 
 must feel that I am suffering. But for herself, I am 
 almost certain that she wishes to forget me.*' 
 
 Marcel felt more hopeful about Julien's mental recovery 
 than that of the countess. He saw the young man as 
 seldom and for as short a time as possible, in order to 
 avoid his questions. One day, being obliged to come to 
 the house to report to his aunt on a matter of business 
 with which she had intrusted him, he found her alone. 
 
 " Where is Julien?" he asked her ; " in his studio? " 
 
 " No, he has taken to gardening. It seems to be a 
 consolation to him to sow and plant in this dear plot 
 of ground which we have recovered. He has been ip 
 trouble, Marcel, — in far greater trouble than you kuov 
 
2o6' ANTONIA, 
 
 of. He was in love with Madam d'Estrelle ; I was quite 
 right about that ; and even — " 
 
 '' Well, well," said Marcel, who wished to avoid any 
 disclosures, "it is all over now, is it not? There's an 
 end of it?" 
 
 " Oh yes," replied the widow, " I believe so. If he 
 has been deceiving me — . No, after all the hopes which 
 he entertained, he could not do so ; is it not true. Mar- 
 cel? He could not deceive the eyes of a mother who 
 adores him?" 
 
 '' Undoubtedly not. Good-night, and pleasant dreams, 
 aunt ! I will go and bid good-day to Julien." 
 
 " If he is deceiving his mother after the destruction of 
 his hopes," thought Marcel, as he looked for Julien in the 
 shrubbery, '' he's a devilish resolute fellow ! " 
 
 Julien was digging a trench to transplant some young 
 trees. He had on a linen smock, and was bare-headed. 
 Standing in the loose earth, with his hands resting on the 
 handle of his spade, — like a laborer pausing to take 
 breath, — he was in such a profound reverie that he did 
 not hear Marcel coming ; and the latter, seeing his profile, 
 was struck by the expression of his face. The grief 
 which had already altered Julie's beauty had not yet left 
 any traces upon that manly countenance, but he had the 
 sauie strained expression, — the same look of fixed, mel- 
 ancholy hopelessness, — which Marcel had noticed in her. 
 
 When Julien saw his cousin he smiled, but without any 
 start of surprise. It was precisely so, with this same 
 cold, patient smile, that Julie received him ; a smile sweet, 
 but terrible, like that which sometimes flits over the lips 
 of the dying. 
 
 '' That is bad," thought Marcel ; " he is devilish reso- 
 lute, that's the fact ; and yet he is, perhaps, the most un- 
 happy of the two." 
 
 So distressed did he feel, that he could not hide his 
 emotion. He was very fond of Julien, and his prudence 
 failed him. 
 
 ''What is the matter? " he said ; "you are unhappy ! " 
 
 " My friend, you know very well that I am unhappy," 
 answered the artist, quitting his spade, and walking 
 
ANTONIA. 207 
 
 under the trees with his cousin ; '' how could it possibly 
 be otherwise? You know there is a woman I am in 
 love with, — my mother has told you so. That woman 
 has disappeared. You need not tell me she will 
 return ; I know perfectly well that she must return. But 
 I know, also, that I ought never to enter her presence 
 again, — that she is dead to me." 
 
 " And — have you the courajre to accept your fate ? " 
 
 " Ah — if it is my duty ! You know one always ac- 
 cepts one's duty." 
 
 " One submits to it with more or less fortitude ; still, 
 a man is a man, and cannot help feeling." 
 
 " That is true I I suffer exceedingly, Marcel, but I 
 have kept my disappointment to myself hitherto, and 
 shall continue to do so ; you need have no doubt about 
 that. Why, then, do you refuse to help me a little? It 
 seems to me that you might do so. You have been very 
 cruel for the last two months." 
 
 " How can I help you?" inquired Marcel, who feared 
 that he would try and persuade him to reveal Julie's 
 retreat. 
 
 " Mon Dieu I " answered Julien, divining his friend's 
 thoughts, " you can tell me that she's happier than I 
 am. I will ask nothing more of you." 
 
 " But how should I know? " 
 
 " You see her two or three times a week. Come, my 
 friend, you have done your duty. Proving your de- 
 votion to her, and to me also, perhaps, you have endured 
 my distress with a terrible courage. But I have found 
 out some of your secrets. I learned yesterday, from your 
 eon, where she is living." 
 
 " Julio don't ku< w what he is talking about ; he don't 
 know her." 
 
 " He saw her one day at the theatre, and, although 
 he don't know her name, — he calls her " the country 
 client," — he has never forgotten her. Her grace and 
 sweetness made a great impression upon him, and he has 
 often talked to me about her." 
 
 "Well; goon." 
 
 *'• He went last Sunday to the fete at Nanterre, with a 
 
2o8 ANTONIA, 
 
 friend of his own age, did he not? You put him under 
 the care of the little fellow's parents." 
 
 '' Yes, it's true." 
 
 " The boys escaped from their elders for a few minutes, 
 and ran about the village. The little rogues were 
 tempted by a tree loaded with fruit, and hanging over 
 a low wall. Julio got upon his comrade's shoulders, 
 reached some of the boughs, and, while he was fdling his 
 pockets, saw a woman go by underneath, whom he 
 recognized. I know the street, and made him describe 
 the appearance of the house. Going to Nanterre, I made 
 inquiries, and learned that a Madame d'Erlange (that is 
 Julie, — she has taken an assumed name) was living there 
 with her maid ; that she never went out, but was under no 
 sort of surveillance, and was living alone by choice ; also, 
 that she was not supposed to be ill, although your son said 
 that she was changed. What is the meaning of all this ? 
 either she is a prisoner on parole, or is afraid of being im- 
 portuned by me. Marcel, tell me the real truth. If the 
 latter is the case, bring her home, I implore you, and 
 assure her that she need feel no anxiety ; tell her I 
 swear by all that is most sacred never to see her again. 
 Do you hear. Marcel ? Answer, and relieve me from the 
 torment of this uncertainty." 
 
 " Well, it is very much as you say," answered Mar- 
 cel, after a little hesitation ; " Madam d'Estrelle is a 
 prisoner on parole ; but the engagement into which she 
 has entered is with herself, and nobody can force her tc 
 keep it. She is free to return, but she cannot see you any 
 more." 
 
 '' Cannot, or does not wish to ? " 
 
 " She neither can, nor wishes to." 
 
 " Very well, Marcel. That is enough ! Inform her 
 of my determination to submit to her decision, and bring 
 her back from her banishment. She is poorly lodged 
 over there, and must be terribly lonely. Let her 
 return to her friends, her comforts, her liberty. Go at 
 once, won't you? Hasten ! Don't allow her to s?ifFer a 
 single moment longer upon my account ! " 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 209 
 
 "Very well, I will go," said Marcel ; " I'm going ; but 
 about yourself? " 
 
 " Don't think of me," cried Julien ; " what 1 haven't 
 you gone yet ? " 
 
 He cordially embraced Marcel, but, at the same time, 
 fairly put him out of the door by the shoulders. 
 
 As soon as he was out of sight, Julien went to his 
 mother. 
 
 " Well, mother," he said, with a cheerful countenance, 
 " things look better than I had hoped. Madam d'Estrelle 
 is not a captive, and she is soon coming home." 
 
 As he said this, he watched his mother. She uttered 
 an exclamation of joy, but at the same time a shadow 
 passed over her face. Julien sat down by her side, and 
 took both her hands. 
 
 "Tell me the truth,'* said he ; " the idea of this mar- 
 riage troubles you a little ? " 
 
 " How can I help earnestly desiring an event that 
 would make you happy? I was only a little startled, 
 because I thought you no longer hoped." 
 
 " I have been very resigned, as you advised. You 
 told me not to be discouraged, but to wait, and not to 
 think too much about her ; you warned me that she 
 would perhaps forget me, and that I ought then to forget 
 her." 
 
 " And you promised me that you would forget, if nec- 
 essary. 13 ut now I see that you are thinking of iicr 
 more than ever." 
 
 "And don't you think I have reasons for rejoicing? 
 Tell me frankly if I am deceiving myself; you ought to 
 prevent me from doing so." 
 
 "Ah, my child, what shall I tell you? She is an 
 adorable being ! I am like you, — I love her ; but will 
 she be happy with us ? " 
 
 " You know that M. Antoiue is doing almost as well by 
 her as by you ; that he has placed her above want. You 
 were afraid we would suffer on account of our pov- 
 erty, but that need no longer be feared. Now, what is it 
 that troubles you ? " 
 
 " Nothing, if she loves you I '* 
 14 
 
2IO ANTONIA. 
 
 " You sif^h as you say that. Do you doubt it ? " 
 
 " I have doubted it thus far, nor can you blame me ! 
 If I do her an injustice, it is your fault and hers. You 
 did not take me into your confidence, allow me to watch 
 the growth of your love, to follow its phases ; and when 
 you told me one morning, ' We love each other to dis- 
 traction,* I must say I thought your passion too sudden 
 to be very serious. It seemed to me that you hardly 
 knew each other ! When I confessed my love to your 
 father, he had been three years at work decorating 
 our house, and I had seen him every day. I had had 
 many good offers, and v^^as perfectly sure that I loved no- 
 body but him. Julie's position in regard to you is very 
 different. She has lived secluded, and has not yet 
 received proposals from persons of good position, whom 
 she might have loved. She was longing for affection, 
 and w^as suffering terribly from ennui, without acknowl- 
 edging it. She saw you, and esteemed you, as you deserve. 
 You pleased her, naturally. Peculiar circumstances have 
 thrown you together, and she imagined that she loved you 
 passionately. Did she deceive herself? The future will 
 show ; but she disappeared at the very moment when she 
 had promised to avow her engagement, and has let 
 you suffer and wait without sending you one word of 
 consolation. If I have doubted her, you must admit 
 that appearances are against her." 
 
 " You think, then, that her prejudices are stronger than 
 her love? You think she was not speaking the truth 
 when she told me with what enthusiasm she would em- 
 brace a humble position in life, and how little she cared 
 for rank and titles ? " 
 
 " I do not say that, I say that she may have deceived 
 herself about the strength of her attachment for you, and 
 the reality of her disgust for the world." 
 
 "And you would not be much surprised if you should 
 be told that you had judged correctly? " 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 " Nor much distressed ? " 
 
 " That would depend upon you ; I should be afflicted 
 in proportion to the bitterness of yoar regrets. If you 
 
ANTONIA. ail 
 
 bore the blow bravely, I should say that it was the best 
 thing that could have happened ; and that you will soma 
 day secure the love of a wiser and stronger woman." 
 
 " Poor Julie ! " thought Julien to himself, " even my 
 own mother regards her love for me as a mistake and 
 weakness." 
 
 " Well, mother," he continued aloud, " take comfort ! 
 She has renounced the dream we indulged in together ; 
 she no longer believes in it, and is only afraid I will 
 seek to recall it to her mind. All that you foresaw has 
 happened. Marcel has just been telling me about it, and 
 I have given him my word that I would never see her 
 again." 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! " cried Madam Thierry, startled and 
 alarmed ; " how can you tell me such a thing so quietly? 
 Can you really be so indifferent to her as that ? " 
 
 " You see for yourself. I was very much disturbed 
 the first few days, nor did I hide this from you ; but, as 
 time passed on, I have understood perfectly the silence 
 of Madam d'Estrelle. My tranquillity now is the result 
 of two months reflection. You need not be astonished, 
 therefore, and I hope you will believe that I have enough 
 pride and good sense to recover from any sorrow that I 
 may have felt." 
 
 Julien's firmness was not assumed, he spoke in perfect 
 good faith. But he did not confess the whole truth. He 
 was suffering too much to make even a half-way avowal 
 of his misery safe. It was absolutely necessary for him 
 to keep it entirely to himself. 
 
 In the evening it was very warm, and he went out to 
 take a swim in the river. He usually joined, for this 
 amusement, a few young artists engaged in the porcelain 
 manufactory, whom he was in the habit of assisting with 
 advice and instruction. But to-day, wishing to be alone, 
 he avoided them, and selected a solitary spot on the mar- 
 gin of a shady meadow. The weather was dull and 
 gloomy. He threw himself mechanically into the water, 
 and all of a sudden the thought came into his head, as he 
 was swimming along, — 
 
 '* I do not feel as if I could ever recover from this atro- 
 
212 ANT ONI A. 
 
 cious pain. If I should stop striking out for a few in. 
 stants, this water would swallow up my sorrow, and keep 
 the secret of my discouragement." 
 
 As these thoughts passed through his mind, he stopped 
 swimming, and sank quickly. But he rememhered his 
 mother's despair, and, as he touched bottom, sent himself 
 to the top again with one spring. He was a fine swim- 
 mer, and perhaps ran no risk in this trifling with death ; 
 but the temptation was powerful, and there is a terrible 
 fascination in the idea of suicide. Three times he 
 yielded, with more and more longing, and saved himself 
 with less and less resolution. A fourth time the bewil- 
 dering frenzy seized him, and with more violence than 
 ever. He threw himself upon the shore, frightened at 
 himself, and, lying upon the sand, cried, — 
 
 " My poor mother, pardon me ! " 
 
 Then he wept bitterly ; for the first time since his 
 father's death. 
 
 His tears afforded him no relief. The weeping of a 
 strong man is a frightful agony ; stifled cries, terrible 
 suffocations convulsed his frame. He blushed at his own 
 weakness, and at being obliged to confess that he could 
 not rally from it, and might, perhaps, never do so. He 
 returned home, discontented with himself, and almost 
 cursing the days of happiness that he had enjoyed. Then 
 he began to be angry ; and, while his mother was asleep, 
 he lingered alone in the garden, watching the lightning 
 that played along the horizon, and reproaching his mother 
 for loving him too much, and depriving him of the lib- 
 erty of disposing of himself. 
 
 " It is slavery," he cried, " to be always living for 
 somebody besides yourself. I have not even the right 
 to die. Why should I have a mother? Those are most 
 fortunate who have no ties. If they still desire to pre- 
 serve a life that is ruined, they can plunge into bewilder- 
 ing dissipation, into intoxicating debaucheries, and so find 
 forgetfulness. For my part, I have not even that right. 
 I cannot even have the consolation of being melancholy 
 and ill. I am to die by a slow fire, and with a smile ; 
 — to shed a tear is a crime ! I cannot breathe hard, 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 213 
 
 I c mnot have a dream, or speak in my sleep, but my 
 mother is up, ill herself with alarm. Nor can I make 
 any change in my way of living ; I cannot travel, try to 
 find forgetfalness or distraction in motion and fatigue ; 
 anything of that kind would make her unhappy. To live 
 without me would kill her. I must be either a hero or 
 saint, in order to keep my mother alive ! Happy are or- 
 phans and abandoned children ! They are not condemned 
 to carry a burden too great for their strength." 
 
 As soon as he had given way to this rebellion against 
 ftite, other blasphemies rushed into his mind. Why had 
 Julie come to interrupt his dream of devoted ness and vir- 
 tue? He had accepted all the obligations of his position, 
 and had fulfilled them thoroughly. What right had she 
 to take possession of his life, because weary of her own 
 solitude? Was it not wicked and cowardly in her to 
 have revealed to him the joys of heaven, — to him who 
 had neither hoped for nor asked her love, — only to leave 
 him afterwards to the humiliation of having believed in 
 her? 
 
 " You have made me a wretch ! " he cried, rage and 
 grief contending within him ; " you have robbed me of 
 my self-respect, of all love of my art ; you have made me 
 curse the love of my own mother, distrust my strength, 
 abandon myself to the stupid and shameful notion of sui- 
 cide ! It would serve you right if I should revenge 
 myself, — seek you out amid your friends, and reproach 
 you with the loss of my faith, my peace, my dignity. I 
 will do it, — yes ! You, also, shall be crushed by my 
 misery." 
 
 The idea of Julie's future life, such as it would prob- 
 ably be, occurred to him, and his heart was tortured by 
 all the pangs of jealousy. He saw her in the arms of 
 another, and thought of a hundred ways of murdering his 
 rival. 
 
 Going off into the fields, he wandered about at ran- 
 dom, until he found himself once more at the edge of the 
 water. The storm had become violent, and a tree, not 
 far off, was struck by lightning. He rushed up to it, 
 hoping that the same bolt would strike him. The raiu 
 
214 ANTONIA. 
 
 fell in torrents, but he scarcely felt it ; it was almost 
 daylight when he returned, ashamed lest any one should 
 see him in such a demented condition. He slept two 
 hours, and awoke exhausted, frightened at what had 
 taken place within him, and determined not to let him- 
 self be carried away again by the violence of a passion^ 
 whose extreme danger he had not before understood. It 
 was with a good deal of difficulty that he got up and took 
 breakfast with his mother. 
 
 '' Since love is the supreme good of life," he said to 
 her, " I had always believed that it must elevate and 
 sanctify. I see, however, that it is nothing but an exag- 
 gerated selfishness, and that it makes us either madmen 
 or fools. Love must be conquered, but it cannot be 
 broken off like a material chain ; it must be gradually 
 extinguished." 
 
 Julien had a violent attack of fever, and was delirious. 
 In his frenzy he revealed all his agony to his mother, 
 and she also, in her heart, cursed poor Julie. 
 
 Marcel, in the meanwhile, had gone to see Julie. 
 
 "Madam," said he, "you ought now to go back to 
 your house." 
 
 " Never, my friend," she replied, with her melancholy 
 sweetness. " I am very well off here ; living on my little 
 income, and with all I want, why should I be discon- 
 tented? Unless you obJ3Ct to having me remain in your 
 house — " 
 
 " The house is not mine. I deceived you as to that ; 
 but you can remain in it, unless you will do what I ask 
 you, out of regard for Julien." 
 
 " For Julien ? — How so ? " 
 
 " Julien knows where you are. He knows that it is 
 your wish not to see him again, and he has given his 
 oath that he will not attempt to disobey you. He sub- 
 mits entirely to a decision, whose motives he does not 
 know. You have, therefore, no reason for concealing 
 yourself any longer." 
 
 " Ah ! very well," said Julie, in a bewildered sort of 
 way ; — " but where shall I go ? " 
 
 " To Paris ; to your own home." 
 
ANTONIA. 215 
 
 '* I have no home." 
 
 " That is possible ; but you are supposed to be tempo- 
 rarily in possession of your hotel. You are supposed to 
 be arranging a settlement with M. Antoine. It is best 
 that you should be seen ; if you prolong your mysterious 
 absence too much, it will give rise to suspicions and cal- 
 umnies." 
 
 " What would people say ? " 
 
 " Whatever can be said of a woman who is supposed to 
 have something to hide." 
 
 " What difierence does it make to me?" 
 
 " For Julien's sake, you should guard your reputation. 
 So far we have succeeded in preventing any insinuations 
 from being made against you." 
 
 " Julien knows very well that I have nothing with 
 which to reproach myself." 
 
 " It is for that very reason that he will cut the throat 
 of the first man who says a word to your disadvantage." 
 
 " Let us go, then," said Julie, ringing for Camille. 
 *' I will do whatever you wish, my friend, provided I 
 never need see M. Antoine again." 
 
 " Do not say that, madam ; I had one single hope 
 left." 
 
 " Ah, you have one single hope left, have you ? " said 
 Julie, with her wistful smile. 
 
 " It would not be the truth to call it a very well-founded 
 one," answered Marcel, sadly ; " but I must not abandon 
 it, except at the last extremity. Do not deprive me of 
 the means of subduing the obstinacy of M. Antoine." 
 
 " To what purpose?" answered Julie. " Did you not 
 explain to me that it is a misfortune for a plebeian to 
 marry a woman of rank ; that in such a case his life be- 
 comes a torment, a martyrdom, a frightful struggle.?" 
 
 " Ah, madam, but if the plebeian is very wealthy, most 
 people would pardon you." 
 
 '* And so I must ask your uncle to enrich the man I 
 love ? I must dishonor myself in my own eyes, and per- 
 haps in Julien's, in order to obtain the pardon of a cruel 
 and heartless world. You ask too much of me. Marcel ; 
 you are taking advantage of my weakness and submis- 
 
2i6 ANT ON I A. 
 
 siveness. May God give me strength for one thing, — * 
 to resist you in this ; for, after such a shame, I should 
 feel that I had lived too long." 
 
 Poor Marcel was overwhelmed with fatigue and vexa- 
 tion. He had exhausted himself in running about, in 
 arguing, in efforts of all kinds, and all he had accom- 
 plished was to rescue his friends from poverty, and place 
 them in a condition of material comfort. As far as re- 
 gards their spiritual state he could do nothing ; and he 
 said to his wife that evening, — 
 
 " My good friend, nothing is falser than the real. I 
 have been trying to secure them the means of living, and 
 have only succeeded in killing them." 
 
 VIII, 
 
 JULIE returned to Paris and to her former luxury ; she 
 found her equipages, her jewels and servants awaiting 
 her. M. Antoine had been a faithful guardian, and the 
 hotel d'Estrelle was unchanged. She paid no attention to 
 anything. Marcel had vainly hoped that she would at 
 least feel some sort of instinctive happiness on being sur- 
 rounded once more by these familiar scenes. He was 
 alarmed, and almost vexed at her immovable indifference. 
 He had sent word of her return to such of her friends as 
 he could communicate with, and imagined that she would 
 feel obliged to arouse herself in their presence. She met 
 them, however, without emotion ; and when they ex- 
 pressed alarm at her paleness and evident exhaustion, she 
 attributed her changed appearance to a cold which she 
 had taken on the journey, and which had detained her in 
 the country longer than she expected. It was nothing, 
 she said ; she had been worse, and was now improving ; 
 and had preferred not to write, in order not to alarm any- 
 body. She promised to see her physician, and get well. 
 
 The Baroness d'Ancourt called a few days after her 
 arrival. 
 
ANT ONI A. 217 
 
 " I have treated you badly," she said. " I am sorry, 
 my dear Julie, and I have come to ask yom* pardon." 
 
 '' I have no ill feelings towards you," replied Madam 
 d'Estrelle. 
 
 " Oh, of course not, I know you are a great philos- 
 opher, or else a great saint. But you are a woman, too, 
 my friend. You have been persecuted, and you suffer." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 "Oh, mon Dieu ! You have been tormented by your 
 creditors so long, that you have become quite accustomed, 
 I know, to being persecuted by them. But it seems there 
 came a crisis when you were in danger of losing every- 
 thing. It is said that you have secured a further delay, 
 although with a great deal of difficulty, and with the cer- 
 tainty that they are only drawing back to make a surer 
 spring. You told Madam des Morges so, did you not? " 
 
 " Yes, it is true. I am only stajdng here while a final 
 adjustment is being made." 
 
 "But you will be able to save something for your 
 self?" 
 
 " I do not wish to retam any of M. d'Estrelle's prop- 
 erty. I ought to surrender it, and I prefer to." 
 
 " No wonder, then, that you are so pale and changed. 
 I was told that you were wonderfully resigned, and it is 
 perfectly true ; but y9u are ill with sorrow. You do 
 ^vrong, my dear friend, to reject the consolations of 
 friendship. You are playing a very grand part, but it 
 will kill you ! If I were in your place, I would make a 
 great lamentation and outcry. It would not help me at 
 all, I suppose, but it would be a comfort. And then I 
 should be talked about, society would feel an interest in 
 me, and it is always a consolation to attract attention. 
 You, on the contrary, are allowing yourself to be buried 
 alive without saying a single word ; and the world, which 
 is selfish, will forget that there is any such person in ex- 
 istence. Only yesterday evening, they were talking about 
 you at the Duchess de B — *s. ' That poor Madam d'Es- 
 trelle,* said some one, * she is quite ruined ; have you 
 heard about it? She won't have *he means of hiring a 
 fiacre to make calls.' 
 
2i8 ANT ON I A, 
 
 "'What?' said the Marquis de S — , 'must we see 
 such a pretty woman as that going about on foot ? Im- 
 possible ! Shocking ! Is she very unhappy ? ' — ' Not 
 at all/ answered Madam des Morges ; ' she says she 
 will do perfectly well. She is an astonishing person ! * 
 And then they changed the subject. The moment you 
 show that you have courage, nobody has any more com- 
 passion for you, and all the more since it is easiest to be 
 thinking only about one's self." 
 
 Julie only smiled. 
 
 " It frightens me to see you smile in that way ! " con- 
 tinued the baroness. " Do you know, my dear, I think 
 you are very ill. What is the use in being so reserved ? 
 If you are so very sensitive, you will grow careless about 
 yourself, and die, or languish along, and lose your beauty, 
 which is worse than dying. Take care of yourself, JuKe, 
 and do not give way as you are doing. We are not as 
 much deceived as you think, by your wonderful courage. 
 We all know perfectly well that it is impossible to lose a 
 fortune, without regret. Do you know, — I must repeat 
 it, even if it does vex you, — I think you made a great 
 mistake in not marrying that rich old man ; and perhaps 
 it is not too late to revoke your decision. Nobody would 
 blame you now ; when a woman is utterly ruined — " 
 
 "Are you commissioned to make me another offer 
 upon his part ? " said Julie, with a little bitterness. 
 
 " No, I have not seen him since the day we quarrelled 
 upon his account. He has called several times, but I 
 gave orders that he was not to be admitted. Don't, at 
 any rate, feel disgusted with the idea because I have 
 referred to it. K he should return to you, don't refuse 
 him ; and if he marries you, be sure that I wiU receive 
 him for your sake." 
 
 " You are too kind ! " said Julie. 
 
 " You insist on being stiff and proud with me, do you? 
 And yet I am your friend, and have proved it. I fought 
 a battle in your defence a little while ago. One of the 
 Marchioness d'Estrelle's friends, some cowardly fellow, 
 ventured to utter an insinuation against you in connection 
 with an insignificant painter, son of the famous Thierry, 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 219 
 
 — you know who I mean, — the artist who lived at the 
 end of your garden. I said that a woman like you would 
 never degrade herself out of pure frivolity, and ordered 
 him to be silent. I was promptly seconded by the abbe 
 de Nivieres, who stated that the young man did not even 
 know you ; that he had gone to live at Sevres with his 
 mother ; that he was a capital fellow, and that he declared 
 expressly that he had never seen Madam d'Estrelle the 
 whole time he had lived near her, and that this was the 
 truth. By the way, you used to take an interest in those 
 people, did you not — in the mother, at least? Do you 
 Rtill see them?" 
 
 *' She has no need of my services any longer, so that I 
 have no reason for seeing them." 
 
 " It is only your health, then, about which I feel very 
 much concerned, that is troubling you ? Stay, I am going 
 to spend a month in Chantilly ; suppose you accompany 
 me. We shall see a great deal of company, and it will 
 do you good. If you regain your pretty color, perhaps 
 we will find a husband for you." 
 
 The baroness at last took leave. Chattering, offering 
 her services, and lamenting over her friend to the very 
 step of her carriage, she made a great outcry against the 
 selfishness of the world, and all the while did not care 
 the least in the world for anybody except herself. 
 
 " Julie is a great deal too proud and suspicious," she 
 thought ; " I declare I won't call there again in a hurry. 
 She is vexatious enough. If she wants anything of me, 
 she knows where I am to be found." 
 
 It was pretty much the same with all Madame d'Es- 
 trelle's acquaintances. She had never realized, before, 
 the neglect into which those fall who abandon themselves ; 
 and she ceased all the more to care for. herself, because 
 her heart was withered by this indifference. 
 
 After passing several days in this way, without seem- 
 ing to consider about taking any measures of any kind, 
 she waked up, as it were, one morning, and said to 
 Marcel, — 
 
 " I have done as you wished. I have shown myself to 
 my friends, explained my absence, and informed them 
 
220 ANTONIA, 
 
 that I was soon going away again. It is time to wind 
 up my affairs definitely, and resign my house to M. An- 
 toine. My purpose is to live in one of the provinces, — 
 in some solitary place where no one knows me. Camille 
 will accompany me, and I shall take no one else. Will 
 you be so good as to direct me in selecting some lonely 
 neighborhood and exceedingly humble abode ? " 
 
 '' There is one great difficulty in the way," said Mar- 
 cel ; " M. Antoine will not allow any liquidation to be 
 made. His release in full is in my portfolio, and he has 
 no idea, so far, but that it has been accepted." 
 
 " And you received that release from him ! " cried 
 Julie, indignantly ; ^' he believes that I have accepted it ! 
 You were not courageous enough to tear it up, and throw 
 it in his face ! Ah, I beg your pardon, Marcel ! I forgot 
 that he is your kinsman, and that you must necessarily 
 treat him with respect. Very well ; give me the docu- 
 ment, and bring M. Antoine here. The transaction must 
 be closed to-day, and I will attend to it myself." 
 
 " Be careful, madam," said Marcel, encouraged by the 
 gleam of energy that Madam d'Estrelle displayed when 
 this one vulnerable point was touched ; '' M. Antoine is 
 himself extremely irritable, and it gratifies his vanity tc 
 feel that you are indebted to him. Do not quarrel with 
 him, for in that case he will revenge himself upon Julien." 
 
 " Is not Julien's fortune secured? " 
 
 '' Yes, if all the conditions of the agreement are ob- 
 served, but I should deceive you if I affirmed that M. 
 Antoine is aware of your refusal to accept your part of 
 them." 
 
 '' Oh, mon Dieul Marcel, into what a situation have 
 you brought me ! In your blind devotion to practical 
 matters, your obstinate determination to save me from 
 poverty, you have disgraced me ! This man believes that 
 I have sold my heart, — that he has bought it with his 
 money, and Julien, — he also must suppose that I have 
 betrayed my love for wealth ! Ah, it would have been 
 better if you had killed me ! I feel to-day distinctly that 
 I cannot endure such a life any longer, — that I must 
 die I" 
 
ANT ON I A. 221 
 
 Julie, who had not wept for a long time, sobbed as if 
 her heart would break. Marcel preferred to see her even 
 thus, rather than changed into a statue. Hoping that the 
 consequences of a violent crisis would be favorable, he 
 resolutely provoked one. 
 
 " Reproach me, curse me, if you choose," he said, 
 *' but I did it for Julien's sake." 
 
 " That is true," replied Julie, " and I was wrong to 
 find fault with you. You feel sure, then, if I should 
 offend M. Antoine by refusing his offer, that all he has 
 done for Julien will become a matter of uncertainty again ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly ; and, what is more, he would have 
 justice on his side. He is beginning to make me uneasy, 
 — so impatient is he becoming to have you proclaim his 
 merits, and cease being ashamed of accepting his kind- 
 ness. You must drink the cup ; it must be done, for the 
 love of Julien, — if indeed, as I suppose, that love still 
 exists." 
 
 " Do not say anything about that. I will drink it to 
 the very lees. But hovv are we to explain to the world 
 the generosity with which I am treated ? To what mo- 
 tive will it be attributed? People will think I have been 
 paying court to this old man, — that I have fascinated him 
 by some discreditable coquetry. Perhaps they will say 
 even worse ! " 
 
 " Yes, madam," said Marcel, who wished to make one 
 decisive experiment, in order to ascertain Julie's senti- 
 ments. " Evil speakers will say all that ; and I do not 
 see, now, how to prevent it. We will try ; but, if it can- 
 not be done, will your devotion to Julien enable you to 
 endure even this ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Madam d'Estrelle ; " I will endure to the 
 end. There is something to sign, is there not?" 
 
 And she thought to herself, — 
 
 *' Afterwards, I will kill myself." 
 
 " You will not have any new engagements to make," 
 said Marcel ; " but it will be necessary for you to receive 
 M. Antoine, and thank him. I am absolutely certain 
 that he will make Julien's fortune, if you will consent to 
 some sort of reconciliation." 
 
222 ANTONIA, 
 
 " Go and bring M. Antoine," said Julie. " I will kill 
 myself to-night," she said to herself, when Marcel had 
 gone. 
 
 Despair had so intensified Julie's love, that she v/as no 
 longer capable of reasoning calmly. She had accepted 
 the fate of a niartyr, and a martyr's enthusiasm was the 
 only feeling that still bound her to life. 
 
 She wrote to Julien : 
 
 " Here is the key of the pavilion. Come at mid- 
 night ; you will find me there. I am going a long jour- 
 ney, and want to bid you an eternal farewell." 
 
 This letter, with the key enclosed in it, she sealed, and 
 gave to the most trustworthy of her servants ; ordering 
 him to take a horse, to ride as fast as possible to Sevres, 
 and bring her an answer. It was now five o'clock in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 While waiting for M. Antoine, she went out into the 
 garden, and paused by the edge of the little lake. It was 
 not deep, but, if she chose to lie down in it, would an- 
 swer her purpose ! One who really wishes to die, can 
 always do it. The thought of suicide, which had tempted 
 Julien so violently a few days before, filled her mind with 
 a frightful tranquillity. 
 
 *' Nobody on earth cares for me except him," she said 
 to herself; " and, as I cannot be his, I owe no obligations 
 to any one else. An infernal hatred seized and stran- 
 gled me in the very bloom of my life, — in the very bloom 
 of my happiness. Not satisfied with robbing me of my 
 love and my liberty, they want to rob me of my honor as 
 well. Marcel said so ; I must be supposed to be the mis- 
 tress of this odious old man. Ah ! if Julien knew that, 
 vvhat a horror he would feel of the comfort which his 
 mother is enjoying ! And if she should suspect it herself! 
 — They shall never know it : I will make that sure ; my 
 death shall appear to be an accident. When I am out 
 of the way, there will be no excuse for changing the con- 
 tract. Julien will be rich and honored, and nobody will 
 ever guess at what a cost." 
 
 Then she remembered, once more, that it rested with 
 
ANTONIA, 223 
 
 Julien and herself to break all these chains, and marry in 
 spite of poverty. 
 
 *' Perhaps he would be happier so," she said ; " per- 
 haps my sacrificing myself will be only a misfortune to 
 him. But who can tell how far M. Antoine's hate would 
 carry him ! An irritable lunatic is capable of anything. 
 He might have him assassinated. Has he not secret 
 agents, spies, brigands, at his service ? " 
 
 Bewildered, she walked about the little lake, as if im- 
 patiently waiting the hour of her death. Then, remem- 
 bering that she was to see Julien again, a wild longing for 
 life seized her, and her heart beat as if it would break. 
 IShe felt no remorse, and not even a conscientious scruple 
 at violating an engagement forced from her by the most 
 cruel moral violence. 
 
 '• Oue who is going to die," she said to herself, " has 
 a right to protest, before God, against the iniquity of her 
 tormentors." 
 
 A violent reaction, like the ebullition of a quiet lake 
 below which a volcano has suddenly broken out, or the 
 sudden flashing up of an expiring flame, transformed he»- 
 sweet, yielding nature, and gave her, for the moment, ex- 
 traordinary strength. 
 
 She saw M. Antoine approaching with Marcel, and sat 
 down mechanically upon a stone bench, to receive them. 
 It was there that she had sat with the old man three months 
 before, when he had made her the strange and ridiculous 
 proposition whose rejection had cost her so dear. 
 
 As on that day, she heard a rustling among the leaves, 
 and saw the sparrow that Julien had tamed fluttering its 
 wings, and seeming to hesitate whether to perch on her 
 shoulder. The little creature had become rather wild 
 again. When Julien moved from the pavilion, it was 
 nowhere in sight, and he had left it, hoping that Julie, 
 whose long absence he had not foreseen, would be pleased 
 to find it there. Since her return, she had seen it several 
 times, not very far off*, friendly, and yet mistrustful, but 
 had tried in vain to coax it to come nearer. This time 
 it allowed itself to be caught, and she was holding it in 
 her hand when M. Antoine joined her. 
 
224 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 She smiled, and bade him good-day with a v/'ld expres* 
 sion, and he addressed her without knowing what he 
 said ; for, in spite of his tyrannical disposition, he could 
 not conquer his bashfulness at first meeting any one. After 
 his moment of incorrigible stammering, he could find 
 nothing better to say than this : 
 
 '' Well, you still have your tame sparrow, I see?" 
 
 " It is Julien's sparrow, and I love it," replied Julie. 
 " Do you want to kill it? Here it is." 
 
 The way in which she said this, her death-like pale- 
 ness, and the sort of fierce indifference with which she 
 held out the poor little bird, all warm with her kisses, 
 made a great impression upon M. Antoine. He looked 
 at Marcel, as if to ask, " Is she crazy?" and instead of 
 twisting the sparrow's neck, as he would have readily 
 done three months before, he pushed it away, saying, 
 awkwardly, — 
 
 " No matter ! keep it. It will not do any harm." 
 
 " You are so kind ! " said Julie, in the same dry, fever- 
 ish way. " You have come to receive my thanks, have 
 you not ? You are aware that I accept everything ; that 
 I am very happy ; that I no longer love anything nor any- 
 body ! that you have done me a very great service, and 
 can say to God every night, ' I have been good and great, 
 as You are Yourself.' " 
 
 M. Antoine stood with his mouth open ; too subtle to 
 believe that Madam d'Estrelle meant what she said, and 
 yet too coarse to understand her, he was uncertain 
 whether she intended to thank him or to laugh at him. 
 
 " She defies me to my face," he said aside to Marcel ; 
 " you rascal, you have fooled me ! " 
 
 *' No, uncle," answered Marcel, aloud ; " the countess 
 thanks you. But she is very ill, as you can see. Do not 
 require her to talk any longer." 
 
 Marcel had calculated that the alteration in Julie's ap- 
 pearance would make an impression upon M. Antoine, — 
 and it did make a vivid one. He gazed at her with a 
 strange expression, at once stupid, cruel, and timid, and 
 said to himself, with a joy not unmingled with terror, 
 " That is my doing." 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 225 
 
 " Madam," he said, after hesitating a moment, " I said 
 I would be revenged on you ; that I would make you ask 
 my pardon for your ofFeuces. Are you willing to end 
 the whole matter by confessing that you were in the 
 wrong ? That is all I require." 
 
 " What wrong have I done?" said Julie ; " explain it 
 to me, so that I may confess it." 
 
 Antoine was very much at a loss for an answer ; and, 
 as always happened with him when he could find nothing 
 sensible to say, his anger, — which he had almost for- 
 gotten, — suddenly revived. 
 
 " Ah ! You think you have done nothing to offend 
 me ! " he said ; " very well, mordi I You must ask my 
 pardon fairly and squarely, or I will have satisfaction out 
 of Julien." 
 
 " Must I ask your pardon on my knees?" asked Julie, 
 with a sort of sorrowful haughtiness in her tone. 
 
 "Well, what if I do require it?" answered the old 
 man, dizzy with anger, and still thinking himself defied. 
 
 " So be it, — have your will ! " said Madam d'Estrelle, 
 — and she knelt before him. 
 
 This was the crowning act of her martyrdom, — the 
 public expiation extorted from the innocent victim, as he 
 stands with halter on neck and torch in hand, before 
 mounting the pile. In this moment of sublime self- 
 immolation her troubled soul suddenly became calm, — 
 her countenance was transfigured, — she smiled the 
 ecstatic smile of a saint, and her eyes shone with an 
 ineffable sweetness, as if heaven had opened and was 
 reflected there. 
 
 Antoine could not understand this sudden change, and 
 it startled him. His anger ceased, — not because his 
 heart was softened, but under the influence of a feeling 
 of superstitious terror. 
 
 '' Very good," he said, " I am satisfied, and I pardon 
 Julien. Adieu ! " 
 
 He turned and fled. 
 
 Marcel paused for a moment to say a few encouraging 
 words to Julie, — which she did not hear, or did not try 
 to understand, — and then hastened after M. Antoine. 
 *5 
 
226 ANTONIA, 
 
 " Now, my good uncle," he said, in a bolder and 
 sharper tone than he had yet assumed to him, "you ought 
 really to be satisfied ; you have killed Madam d'Es- 
 trelle ! " 
 
 " Killed her?" said uncle Antoine, turning short upon 
 him. "What piece of stupidity is that? " 
 
 " The stupidity would be in thinking her joy and grat- 
 itude sincere. You cannot be such a fool. That woman 
 is desperate ; she is dying of sorrow." 
 
 " You lie ! you are all wrong, I tell you. She is still 
 angry, and the annoyances I have caused her to suffer 
 of late have made her ill with vexation. But she is 
 satisfied, at last, that it was all for the best ; she 
 pulls at the bit, but she knows I am saving her in spite 
 of herself." 
 
 " You are saving her from the chances of the future, — 
 that is perfectly true ; and you are taking the surest way 
 to do it, — by depriving her of life." 
 
 " Pshaw ! That's another subterfuge ! She caught 
 cold spending the nights in the garden with her lover ; 
 and she found it extremely tiresome in the convent of 
 Chaillot, and still more so in that old barrack at Nan- 
 terra, where she was absolutely alone. You see she 
 sought in vain to conceal herself, — I know every place 
 she has been in. I have not once lost track of her. 
 You can't cheat me ! I saw the convent physician ; he 
 told me that she was inclined to melancholy by her tem- 
 perament, and had no serious ailment. I saw her doctor 
 in Paris, and he said he could not understand anything 
 about her illness. The devil ! if it had been anything 
 serious he would have known what it was well enough. 
 For my part, I know what it is : she has had a disap- 
 pointment. That doesn't kill people, and I guarantee 
 that she is going to get well." 
 
 '' And I guarantee," said Marcel, " that if she is left 
 to the despair into which you have plunged her for an- 
 other week, she will be lost beyond recovery." 
 
 " Pho ! Then she is very much in love with the 
 dauber ? And is he thinking about her too ? " 
 
 " Julien is as ill as she, and in a conditiouof mind quite 
 
ANTONIA. 227 
 
 as alarmin*,'. I took pains to satisfy myself upon this 
 point, and succeeded in doing so with a great deal of 
 difficulty, for he is not a man to complain. As for her, ' 
 have not been able to make her speak a single word fo. 
 two months. To-day, I undertook to push her to thA 
 last extremity ; — I succeeded, and from this day I have 
 made up my mind as to my own course." 
 
 " Your course ? What do you mean ? What are you 
 going to do ? " 
 
 '^ To destroy a couple of papers that I have in my 
 pocket, — the release with which you intrusted me for 
 Madam d'Estrelle, and her promise never to see Julieu 
 again, — which I have never delivered to you. You both 
 of you put yourselves into my hands when you authorized 
 me to exchange these reciprocal obligations. I shall place 
 you on an equal footing by destroying them both. Then 
 the whole affair must be begun over again, and, as I am 
 aware of the intentions of both parties, I declare to you 
 that Madam d'Estrelle will accept nothing from you, and 
 that you may take possession of all her property at once 
 Up to this time, she has followed my advice implicitl}' ; 
 and, as I don't wish to see her die, 1 shall advise her to 
 retract all that she has thus far agreed to." 
 
 " Why, you abominable scoundrel ! " cried M. Antoine, 
 stopping short in the middle of the street, and speaking in 
 a loud voice. '' I don't know why I don't break my stick 
 over your shoulder ! " 
 
 " A scoundrel, when I return you all your money, and 
 reserve to my client only the right of living in poverty? 
 If that is so, go and bring a suit against me, carry the 
 affair into court, and cover yourself with ridicule and 
 disgrace ! " 
 
 " But, Julieu ! I have made Julien rich, you rascal. 
 I suspected as much all along ! You have extorted from 
 me — " 
 
 "Nothing at all! Julien has been seriously ill for 
 several days, and is so still. I hinted to his mother the 
 true state of the case, and she answered, 'Give all the 
 property back to M. Antoine, and let Julie be restored to 
 us.' You see, therefore, that you do not lose one penny, 
 
228 ANTONIA, 
 
 You will recover principal and interest, and we shall be 
 at liberty to live as we choose, without being bound hy 
 any stipulation, legal or private." 
 
 '' Why, you miserable wretch, you are completely 
 backing out ! I thought you were a reasonable man. 
 You took my view of the matter entirely ; you disap- 
 proved of the marriage, and were helping me establish 
 them comfortably." 
 
 ^' Yes, until I saw that this comfort was going to carry 
 them straight into their graves." 
 
 " They are a parcel of fools." 
 
 " Yes, uncle, they are : love is nothing but foolishness ; 
 but when it is incurable, we must yield to it ; for my 
 part, I yield." 
 
 " Very well," replied M. Antoine, pounding his three- 
 cornered hat down over his eyes with a desperate blow 
 of the fist. " Go and order that lady to clear out of her 
 house, — that is, out of my house, — this instant. I 
 shall go to Sevres, and turn the others out myself. If every 
 one of them is not in the street within two hours, I'll 
 send sheriffs' officers, policemen — I'll set the buildings 
 onfire — I'll — " 
 
 By this time he was running so fast that his foolish 
 threats could no longer be heard. Leaving Marcel in the 
 street, he rushed into his house, a capital caricature, al- 
 though he did not know it, of Orestes pursued by the 
 furies. Marcel followed quietly, without allowing him- 
 self to be alarmed, and forced his way in, although orders 
 had been already given that the master was not at 
 home. He had resolved to fight his way in, had it been 
 necessary. 
 
 '' You are going to Sevres, are you ? " he began ; " I'll 
 go with you." 
 
 " As you please," said uncle Antoine, gloomily. 
 " Have you notified Madam Julie to vacate my hotel?" 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Marcel, who saw that the old 
 man was completely beside himself, and had no idea how 
 short a time had elapsed since their altercation in the 
 street. 
 
 " Is she packing up .? Will she carry off — ? " 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 229 
 
 " Nothing," said Marcel ; " she leaves everything. 
 Are we ^^oing to Sevres ? Have you ordered a coach ? *' 
 
 *' My covered wagon and work-horse will go faster. 
 They are harnessing." 
 
 He sat down on the corner of a table, and remained 
 plunged in his own reflections. Marcel, who had deter- 
 mined not to lose sight of him, sat down opposite ; he 
 feared for his reason, and was also apprehensive that his 
 rage would suggest some diabolical trick to him by which 
 his friends would be victimized. When they started, it 
 was seven o'clock in the evening. Marcel was the first 
 to break the silence. 
 
 " What are we going to do at Sevres? " he said. 
 
 " You will see," answered M. Antoine. 
 
 After quarter of an hour, Marcel spoke again : 
 
 " It will do no good for you to go there. The papers 
 are at my office. All that is necessary is to destroy them, 
 and I give you notice that I will not permit you to make 
 an absurd scene with my aunt. She is in trouble, and 
 Julien is very ill, as I told you." 
 
 " And you lied like a dog ! " replied M. Antoine ; " see 
 there ! " 
 
 He pointed to a hired cabriolet that was just passing 
 them. In it sat Julien, pale and haggard, darkly frown- 
 ing, and with an abstracted but determined expression. 
 He had received Julie's note, had forced himself to rise, 
 and, desiring to question Marcel before keeping his 
 appointment, was on his way to Paris in good season. 
 
 '•If it is with him that you wish to speak," said Mar- 
 cel, "let us turn back. I wager anything that he is 
 going to my house." 
 
 " I don't want to speak to him," answered M. Antoine 
 ironically, " since he is dying." 
 
 " Did you think he looked well?" asked Marcel. 
 
 M. Antoine relapsed into his sinister silence, and they 
 drove on in the direction of Sevres. Did he really know 
 what he meant to do there ? To confess the truth, he 
 had not the least idea. His mind was in a terribly 
 confused state, and he was thinkin'^ about this fact^ 
 
230 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 and this alone, for he really began to be alarmed about 
 himself. 
 
 " After all," he thought, " I shall be the sickest of the 
 three, if I don't take care. Anger is a good thing, it 
 keeps a man alive, and strengthens him in his old age ; 
 an old man who allows others to manage him is done 
 for. Still, one must not indulge in too much at a time ; 
 I must be more quiet.'* 
 
 And upon this, with a power of will that would have 
 made him a remarkable man, if he had possessed better 
 tendencies, or had been better directed in life, he resolved 
 to take a nap, and actually slept quietly until the wagon 
 began to rumble over the pavements of Sevres. 
 
 Marcel had been tempted to try and turn back without 
 his uncle's knowing it, but it was a question whether 
 M. Antoine's servant would obey him ; and, in any event, 
 since Julien was out of the way, was it not the best plan 
 to wait and see what M. Antoine would have to say to 
 Madam Thierry? He was a good deal afraid of her. 
 Would he dare tell her to her face that he took back all 
 he had given ? 
 
 Sleep restored M. Antoine to himself, — that is, to his 
 chronic condition of deliberate aversions, jealous self-love, 
 and brooding resentment. They found Madam Thierry 
 standing before a beautiful portrait of her husband, as 
 if she had hoped, by gazing upon the serene and cheer- 
 ful countenance, to inspire herself with the confidence in 
 the future that had always characterized that charming 
 man. Marcel had but just time to step in first, and 
 warn her briefly : 
 
 '' M. Antoine is close at my heels," he said. " He is 
 furious ; but, with patience and firmness, you may still 
 be able to save everything." 
 
 " Mon Dieu I What shall I say ? " 
 
 " Tell him that you resign all his gifts, but that you 
 are grateful to him for them. Julie adores Julien. 
 Everything depends on my uncle, — he is coming." 
 
 " Shall you leave me alone with him?" 
 
 " Yes, he insists upon it : but I will stay clo?e by, and 
 be ready to interpose, if necessary." 
 
ANT ON I A. 231 
 
 He stepped quickly into a little cabinet, and, leaving 
 the door ajar, sat down and listened. M. Antoine came 
 into the drawing-room by the other door. He was less 
 timid now that he no longer felt Marcel's scrutinizing eye 
 fastened upon him. 
 
 " Your servant. Madam Andre," he said, as he came 
 in ; " are you alone ? " 
 
 Madam Thierry rose, answered that she was, and 
 politely invited him to sit down. 
 
 Her face also was greatly altered. She had been 
 watching with her son for several nights ; and now that 
 he had risen and departed in spite of her remonstrances, 
 she felt that the great crisis of his life drama was come. 
 
 " Is your son ill?" asked M. Antoine. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "Seriously?" 
 
 " God grant that he will recover.** 
 
 "Isheinbed?" 
 
 " He has just got up." 
 
 "Could I see him?" 
 
 " He has gone out, monsieur." 
 
 " Then he is not so very ill?" 
 
 " He was extremely so until last night ; since then he 
 has been a little better." 
 
 " What was the matter? " 
 
 " Fever and delirium." 
 
 " A sunstroke ? " 
 
 "No, monsieur." 
 
 " Trouble, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; great trouble.** 
 
 " Because he is in love ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " But it is a silly business, to be in love, when he 
 might be rich." 
 
 " That cannot be reasoned about, monsieur." 
 
 " Do you know that I came to make you a proposi- 
 tion?" 
 
 " No, I did not." 
 
 " If you will send your son to America, I will furnish 
 him with a handsome capital, I will direct his operations, 
 
233 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 and in ten years he will come honoie with an income of 
 thirty thousand francs." 
 
 "On what conditions, monsieur?" 
 
 " That he bids farewell to a certain lady of our ac- 
 quaintance ; nothing more than that." 
 
 " And if he refuses?" 
 
 " If he refuses, — and that is what I expect, for I 
 have been advised that it is likely, — in that event an 
 agreement entered into between a certain lady and my- 
 self respecting him becomes null and void." 
 
 " Very good, monsieur ; I understand. You have the 
 right to do what you choose with your own, and we 
 submit." 
 
 '' But you might resist, if you chose. You were not 
 consulted about accepting my gifts ; you did not know 
 cf the conditions agreed upon by Madam d'Estrelle 
 and myself. There is sufficient ground for a lawsuit, 
 and I shall be very likely to lose it, if my opponents act 
 in bad faith." 
 
 "If by your opponents you mean my son and myself, 
 make yourself perfectly easy, monsieur. We surrender 
 your benefactions without any hesitation whatever." 
 
 " Ah, yes, my benefactions ! They are burdensome to 
 you ; you are ashamed of them." 
 
 " As long as we did not know that they restrained the 
 liberty of one who is dear to us, we were not ashamed 
 of them; and even, — you may be assured," continued 
 Madam Thierry, making a great effort for her son's sake, 
 " we were grateful to you ; — if we had been certain that 
 we owed this generosity to your solicitude for our welfare, 
 we should have blessed your name. But whatever caused 
 your kindness, and however short its duration, it has 
 made us happy, notwithstanding our troubles and anx- 
 ieties, to see this house again, and to find ourselves in the 
 midst of our dearest recollections. You order us to 
 leave it, and we shall obey ; but I want to thank you for 
 myself — " 
 
 " You, madam ! " said Antoine, looking steadily at her. 
 
 " Yes, — to thank you for the two months that you 
 have allowed us to stay here. The thought of never re- 
 
ANT ON I A. 
 
 233 
 
 turning to iny home was always distressing to me : 
 henceforth it will be less so ; I shall remember this 
 short visit as a last beautiful dream casting a gleam of 
 sunshine over my life, and which I owe to you." 
 
 Madam Thierry had an agreeable voice and a pecu- 
 liarly refined accent, wliich were extremely attractive. 
 In his fits of anger, M. Antoine was in the habit of call- 
 ing her "The fine-spoken lady." He felt, nevertheless, 
 the influence of this sweet voice, still fresh and pure, 
 caressing his ear with kind and almost reverential words. 
 He did not understand the delicacy of her sentiments, 
 but he saw that she seemed humble and submissive ; and 
 this it was that he so eagerly craved. 
 
 " Come, Madam Andre," he said, in the gruff manner 
 which he was accustomed to assume when his anger be- 
 gan to be dissipated, " you know how to say exactly what 
 you want, but confess that in your heart you can't abide 
 me!" 
 
 " I hate nobody, monsieur ; but you oblige me to con- 
 fess that I am afraid of you ! " 
 
 Nothing could have been shrewder than this answer. 
 To inspire fear was, according to M. Antoine, the highest 
 attribute of power. Wonderfully softened, he said, in a 
 tone that was almost good-natured, — 
 
 " And what the devil makes you so afraid of me ? " 
 
 Madam Andre possessed the penetration peculiar to 
 women who have lived much in society, and the tact of a 
 mother arguing the cause of her child. Seeing how 
 important an advantage she had gained, she proceeded to 
 forget, — very opportunely, under the circumstances, — 
 that she was sixty years old, and courageously decided to 
 be a little coquettish, although M. Antoine was a man 
 with whom it was dangerous to be too condescending. 
 
 *' Brother," said she, " it was your fault if you did not 
 retain my confidence. I do not reproach you with having 
 betrayed it, for your intentions were good, and it was I 
 who did not understand them. I was very young, and 
 my unhappy position made me peculiarly sensitive. Ut- 
 terly inexperienced, I thought you were trying to persuade 
 me to abandon Andre, when — " 
 
234 
 
 ANTONIA, 
 
 "When, in reality, I was telling you in good faith to 
 save him." 
 
 " Yes, you were acting out of affection for him. I waa 
 blind, obstinate, — whatever you choose ; but you must 
 confess that it was your place to overlook my folly. You 
 ought to have treated me like the child that I was, and to 
 have become my brother again, as before." 
 
 "You want me to confess all that, do you? But you 
 always treated me haughtily afterwards — " 
 
 "Why didn't you laugh at my haughtiness? Why 
 didn't you take me by the hand, and say, ' Sister, you are 
 a little goose. Embrace me, and let bygones be bygones/ 
 That's what you ought to have done." 
 
 " What ! You think I ought — " 
 
 " The mosi reasonable is under an obligation to be the 
 most generous." 
 
 " And would you like matters arranged on that footinc; 
 now?" 
 
 " It is never too late to understand each other, and to 
 bring back kind feelings that should never have been cast 
 aside." 
 
 "Well, then, are you sorry now to think that you 
 wounded me?" 
 
 " I am sorry, and I ask your pardon. Will you grant 
 it?" 
 
 "Ah, diantre ! That is a different thing, my dear 
 lady I You are in want of me now ; — you want my 
 help ! " 
 
 " Yes, M. Antoine, I do. My son is crazy with grief. 
 Marry him to the woman he loves." 
 
 " Ah, there you are again ! " cried M. Antoine, flash- 
 ing out in another burst of rage. 
 
 " It is where we began," answered Madam Thierry ; 
 " I have asked but one thing of you since you came here, 
 — freedom of action for Madam d'Estrelle." 
 
 " Yes, and plenty of money besides, for everybody." 
 
 " No, no money ; nothing at all ! I told you we w^ere 
 ready to resign your property. If you will allow us to 
 rent this house of you, we will live here, and pay you the 
 rent, with pleasure. If you refuse, we must submit ta 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 235 
 
 your will. But let U8 depart without anger, and for- 
 give us for being happy ; for, if our hearts are only sat- 
 isfied with each other, and if we can only feel that our 
 happiness docs not annoy you, we shall be so in spite of 
 our trials and privations." 
 
 M. Antoine was conquered. Ashamed, he caught at 
 a last twi": of arjmment : 
 
 *' How proud you are ! " he said ; " it is always the 
 same thing, and you are all alike ! You haye a contempt 
 for the rich man's money ! You despise it ! ' Take it 
 back again,* you say ; ' we don't want any of it ; we 
 have no need of it ; we can live on the air ! What is 
 money, after all ? Mere pebbles, to an intelligent mind ! ' 
 And yet, my dear madam, money honestly earned by a 
 man who began life with nothing but his wits, ought to 
 be of some account ! It is the honey of a working bee ; 
 it is a tropical flower, made to bloom in an artificial cli- 
 mate by the patience and skill of the master gardener. 
 And you think it is worth nothing? With ail his genius, 
 my poor brother knew no better than to spend what he 
 worked like a drudge to obtain. I have a better way of 
 using my money : I keep it ; I increase it every day, 
 and I make people happy with it when I choose." 
 
 " But what are you coming at, M. Antoine ? " asked 
 Madam Thierry, to whom Marcel, through the door be- 
 hind the horticulturist, was making signs which she did 
 not understand. 
 
 " This is what I am coming at : that you are not so 
 good a mother as you imagine. You are very willing to 
 sacrifice everything else for your son, except your con- 
 tempt for the money I have given you. I believe you 
 think I stole my fortune ; I believe you think my money 
 has a bad smell." 
 
 '' But for heaven's sake why do you say that? What 
 makes you suppose that I esteem you less than you de- 
 serve ? ** 
 
 " Because if you really were a good motjber, instead of 
 talking such nonsense as that, you would say, ' Brother, 
 we are unfortunate, and you are rich ; you can save us. 
 We are a little foolish for wishing to pay court to Madam 
 
236 ANTONIA. 
 
 d*Esirelle, but that is no reason why you should leave us 
 without bread. Pardon us altogether, and once for all ! 
 Let us have the privilege of loving and of eating too ; if 
 your goodness humiliates us, so much the worse for us. 
 We know that you are a great man, — a magnificent 
 man ; you will take pity on us, and grant all that we ask ! * 
 There, Madam Andre, that is what you would say, — 
 that is what you would beg on your kuces, if necessary, 
 if you were really a good mother, instead of being a lady 
 of rank." 
 
 Madam Thierry was mute with astonishment. She 
 looked at Marcel, who, without being seen by M, An- 
 toine, was energetically telegraphing to her, by gesture 
 and pantomime, to yield to the old capitalist's fancy. The 
 poor lady felt a most painful reluctance, yet she did not 
 hesitate ; she glided down from her chair to her footstool, 
 and kneeling there, took both of M. Antoine's hands. 
 
 ^^ You are right, brother," she said, " I ought to do as 
 you say. I yield. Be the noblest of men ; pardon all ; 
 give us all ! " 
 
 *' You have done it at last, then ! And just in time ! " 
 cried M. Antoine, raising her ; " and when people are 
 reconciled they embrace, don't they? " 
 
 Madam Thierry embraced M. Antoine, and Marcel en- 
 tered Justin season to applaud. 
 
 " There, now, Mr. Pettifogger," said the amateur gar- 
 dener, " a pretty figure you cut ! A fine plan of opposi- 
 tion you had ! You were going to break and smash up 
 everything, to fling your client and your family into pov- 
 erty, and all for the sake of not surrendering to a rich man, 
 — a powerful man, — the natural enemy of poor people, 
 and of those who don't know how to make money ! A fine 
 lawyer you are, upon my word ! a lawyer who can secure 
 your clients nothing but love and dry bread ! Luckily, 
 the women have more sense. Here are two of them who 
 have been wishing me at the devil, and both of them 
 have gone down on their knees to me this very evening ! 
 Well, sister, this closes the whole matter. I will never 
 recall it to your mind, for I am a generous man ; and, 
 when people satisfy me, I know how to reward them. 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 237 
 
 Your son shall marry the pretty countess. I must turn 
 her out of her house to keep people from talking, but 
 I will give Julien the hotel d'Estrelle, and an ineomo 
 of twenty-five thousand francs, as a marriage portion. 
 That's the way I do things ! I know very well that you 
 have been acting to-day out of policy, — I haven't been 
 fooled as to that, — and that you will thank me to-morrow, 
 once for all, and forget everything. But no matter ; you 
 have done as I wished, — you have submitted, and I ask 
 no more." 
 
 " We will give you a great deal more," replied Madam 
 Thierry, " for you will not be able to refuse the affection 
 of warm and sincere hearts. You will experience a hap- 
 piness that you ought to have known before, but we will 
 try and make up for lost time." 
 
 " Oh, that's all talk," said M. Antoine ; " happiness 
 is in being your own master, and I don't want any one's 
 help to make me that. I don't like brats and senti- 
 mentality. I never was meant for the father of a family ; 
 but, if I had been born a king, I should have governed 
 my people excellently. To command has always been a 
 favorite idea of mine ; and I reign over the kingdom I 
 have, a great deal better than plenty of monarchs, who 
 don't know what they are about." 
 
 In spite of her anxiety as to what might be the reason 
 of Julien's absence, and her desire to send Marcel to find 
 him, Madam Thierry felt obliged to invite M. Antoine to 
 supper. 
 
 '' Oh ! " he said, " for my part, my supper consists of a 
 crust of hard bread and a glass of cheap wine. That is 
 my way ; I never cared much for eating." 
 
 What he wanted was set before him, and when he had 
 supped. Marcel hastened his departure. 
 
 " I am sure," he said to his aunt, " that Julien is wait- 
 ing for me at my house. He is probably impatient be- 
 cause I do not return ; but my wife will try and make 
 him comfortable, Julio will amuse him, and if he should 
 feel worse, you can depend upon it he will be well cared 
 for." 
 Julien was, in fact, excessively impatient, notwitlistand- 
 
238 ANTONIA. 
 
 ing all Madam MarcePs care and attention. Feeling very 
 weak when he reached the house, he had attempted to 
 eat a little, and to entertain himself with the prattle of his 
 little godson ; but when he heard the clock strike eleven, 
 and saw that Marcel did not return, he could no longer 
 endure his mortal suspense. Saying that his mother 
 would be uneasy if he did not return by midnight, and 
 promising to take a carriage to Sevres, he departed. In 
 fact, he proceeded on foot, and by a roundabout way, to the 
 rue de Babylone ; he thought it necessary to take every 
 precaution in order to guard against being seen and fol- 
 lowed, as before, by some of M. Antoine's agents. He 
 arrived, however, safely, and without attracting any ob- 
 servation. M. Antoine had maintained his espionage 
 upon Julie long enough to be quite certain that she and 
 Julien never met, and then had given it up. 
 
 As it struck twelve, Julien entered the pavilion and 
 found Julie there ; he had been waiting outside the door, 
 and she inside of it, for quarter of an hour. 
 
 At this very moment. Marcel, M. Antoine, and Madam 
 Thierry were entering Paris on their return from Sevres. 
 M. Antoine's frugal supper, and his not very entertaining 
 conversation, had exhausted the widow's patience. She 
 was anxious about her son, and insisted upon having a 
 seat in the wagon, so that she might join him at Marcel's 
 house. 
 
 Julien, before meeting Julie, had armed himself with 
 all his courage. He was expecting a painful explana- 
 tion, and had sworn to himself to show no anger, to 
 utter no reproaches, to betray no weakness ; and yet, as 
 he opened the door, his hand shook : overwhelmed by a 
 sudden passion of fury and despair, he hesitated, and 
 drew back ; but, on seeing him, Julie uttered a wild cry 
 of joy, threw her arras about his neck, and pressed him 
 passionately to her heart. It was so dark that neither 
 of them could see how changed the other was. Their 
 burning kisses made them forget the fever raging in 
 their veins. The fever of love, which revivifies, was 
 victorious over that which destroys. 
 
 Julien was the first to recover from this moment of 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 339 
 
 delirium. Alarmed, rather than intoxicated bj Julie*8 
 caresses, he suddenly repulsed her. 
 
 ''If you still love me," he said, "how can you consent 
 to leave me ? " 
 
 " Bah ! " she answered, " it is not, perhaps, for so 
 long." 
 
 " You wrote that you wanted to bid me an eternal 
 farewell ! " 
 
 " I do not know what I wrote ; I was out of my senses* 
 But it is not possible for those who love as we do to part 
 forever." 
 
 '' It is true then that you are going away ? — And will 
 you come back ? " 
 
 " Yes, — if I can. But do not talk about that. To- 
 night is our own ; give it all to love." 
 
 Amid their transports of happiness, Julien was again 
 seized with terror. In the passionate words that escaped 
 Julie there was a mysterious gloom, — a sinister fore- 
 boding, which seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. 
 
 "What is the matter with you?" he cried suddenly. 
 " You are deceiving me. Either you are going away, 
 or you think you are going to die ! You are ill ; I 
 know you are ; — the physicians have given you up, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " No, I give you my word that they promise to cure 
 me." 
 
 " Let me see your face ! I cannot see you ; let us go 
 out from here. I am afraid ! It seems to me, at mo- 
 ments, that I am dreaming, and that it is only your ghost 
 I am holding in my arms." 
 
 He carried her into the garden, but it was almost as 
 dark there as in the pavilion. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! I do not see you ; I cannot see your 
 face at all," cried Julien, devoured with anxiety. " Your 
 arms have grown thin, — you are wasted away. You 
 are like a shadow ; it seems to me that your feet do not 
 touch the ground. Tell me ; are you a dream ? Am I 
 here, close to you, in this garden where we have been so 
 happy? I am afraid I shall go mad ! " 
 
 They approached the little lake, in which the clear moon- 
 
240 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 less sky, with all its stars, was perfectly mirrored, and there 
 Julien saw that Madam d'Estrelle was pale ; the glirn^ 
 mering radiance of the water reflected upon her face, 
 made her seem even more wan than she really was. Her 
 great, hollow eyes, shining in the night with a glassy 
 brightness, showed him how thin she had become. 
 
 " You are dying ! " he cried ; '' I am sure of it ! That 
 is what made you send for me. Very well, Julie ; I will 
 never leave you again. If I must lose you, I will re- 
 ceive your last sigh, and I will die too." 
 
 " Oh no, Julien, you cannot ! — Your mother ! " 
 
 "She shall die with us then; will that satisfy you? 
 She wanted to die when she lost my father ; she said 
 BO, in spite of herself, in her first outbreak of sorrow, 
 and I know very well that she has continued to live only 
 for my sake. Since we three have only one soul, we will 
 depart together, and we will go to a world where the 
 purest love will not be considered a crime. There must 
 lae such a world for those who cannot understand the un- 
 just prejudices of this. Let us die, Julie, without any 
 remorse or vain regret. Give me your breath, — your 
 fever, — the death that is in your veins. I swear that I 
 will not survive you ! " 
 
 " Ah me ! " cried Julie, who could not repress the 
 passionate cry of her heart, " and I could have been 
 well." 
 
 " What did you say? " cried Julien, with an exclama- 
 tion of horror ; " you have taken poison I Tell me, — 
 have you ? I will know." 
 
 " No, no, I meant nothing ! " she said, drawing him 
 forward with a sudden, desperate grasp, that startled 
 him. 
 
 Bending over the edge of the water, she had seen the 
 vague reflection of her face and white dress, and had re- 
 membered that in an hour she would lie there, stretched 
 out, motionless, — dead. She had sworn it! In expia- 
 tion of her violated oath, she must die, and as the 
 price of Julien's prosperity. An agonizing fear of death 
 had made her tremble and draw back. 
 
 " What are you afraid of ? " he asked. " What did 
 
ANTONIA. 241 
 
 you see down there in the water? Wliat arc you think- 
 ing about now? And why did you start? Stay, — I 
 know ; you mean to die, now, at once, as soon as I am 
 gone away. But you must not. You are my wife. 
 Since you love me wholly, you are mine. I do not 
 know what oath you have taken, nor to what constraint 
 you have been subjected ; but I am your lover, your 
 husband, your master ; and I disallow all such obliga- 
 tions ! I will run away with you ; rather, I will carry 
 you away with me, as I have a right to do. I will not 
 allow you to die, and my mother shall live also, and give 
 you her blessing. I have strength enough to protect 
 you both ; no matter what hardships are before us, we 
 will meet them. Do not hesitate any longer. If you 
 are not strong enough to walk, I will carry you. Let 
 us go at once, Julie. The time has come when you must 
 acknowledge that no one except me has any rights over 
 your life." 
 
 He drew her away in the direction of the pavilion, and 
 as they again approached the water, the struggle between 
 her love and her remorse became so violent that she gave 
 a cry of horror, and clung to him with all her strength. 
 
 " I gave my word of honor to leave you," she said, 
 " and I have broken it. And I am bringing your mother 
 to poverty. Can you take away that reproach from me ? ** 
 
 "You are frantic," said Julien, ''Since you have 
 known my mother, have you seen her in want ? Will any 
 one cut my right arm off to prevent me from working ? If 
 so, I will work with my left ! Now I understand every- 
 thing. This was the revenge that M. Antoine threatened. 
 I ought to have guessed sooner why he gave us my father's 
 house ! Poor Julie ! You have sacrificed yourself for 
 our sake. But the contract is void : I have not given 
 my consent ; I have accepted nothing at all ; I submitted, 
 but without knowing anything of the circumstances. 
 Do not tremble so. I absolve you from your promise, 
 and woe to him who undertakes to remind you of it. If 
 you hesitate, or are alarmed, I shall think you are regret- 
 ting your fortune, and have less courage and less love 
 than I." 
 
 16 
 
242 ANTONIA. 
 
 " Ah ! that is what I was so afraid oft " said Julie ; 
 *' come, let us go ! But where ? How can I ever find 
 courage to go to your mother, and say, ' I bring you only 
 poverty and sorrow ? ' " 
 
 " Julie, if you doubt my mother, you no longer love 
 us!" 
 
 " Let us go, then, and find her. She shall decide for 
 me. Take me away, — save me ! " 
 
 Exhausted by so many emotions, Julie's strength quite 
 failed ; and, as he caught her in his arms, Julien saw that 
 she had fainted. There were no means of restoring her 
 in the pavilion ; he carried her back to her house and to 
 her own room, where she had left the door opening upon 
 the garden unfastened, and where he found a light burn- 
 ing. When he had placed Julie upon a sofa, she quickly 
 recovered her consciousness ; but, on attempting to rise, 
 she fell back, 
 
 " Ah, my friend ! " she said, " I cannot move. Am I 
 going to die ? Is it too late for you to save me ? Hark ! 
 There is some one knocking at the street-door, is there 
 not?" 
 
 " No," said Julien, who had heard nothing. 
 
 He tried to inspire her with a confidence that was be- 
 ginning to desert his own mind, when they were both of 
 them startled by a violent ringing at the outer door. 
 
 *' They are coming after me, — to carry me ofi*, per- 
 haps ! " cried Julie, bewildered with fear ; " they will 
 throw me into a convent ! The marchioness, — M. An- 
 toine, — one or both of them ! And I cannot move ! 
 Carry me away, Julien ! Hide me ! " 
 
 " Wait, wait ! " said Julien, who had opened an inner 
 door to listen ; " it is Marcel ; he is making a great up- 
 roar, and calling Camille. Something important has 
 happened, and he wants to warn you. Open the door, 
 and see him." 
 
 " I cannot ! " she answered in despair, after a vain 
 effort. 
 
 " Well, then, I will go," said Julien, resolutely ; "he 
 may just as well see me here, for I will not leave the 
 house without you." 
 
ANTONIA. 243 
 
 He hastened to the outer door, where Marcel was ring- 
 ing at a furious rate, and, before any of the servants 
 had time to rise and see what was wanted, Julien ad- 
 mitted Marcel and Madam Thierry, brought them in, and 
 closed the doors again. 
 
 " Ah, my child," cried Madam Thierry, " I was sure 
 that we should find you here ! Victory, my dear Julien, 
 my poor Julie ! Ah, I don't know what I am saying ; 
 you must get well now ; we bring you happiness ! *' 
 
 When Julie learned what had taken place at Sevres, 
 she revived like a dying plant in a shower of rain. Ht^r 
 nervous excitement passed off in joyful tears. As for 
 Julien, who had been dangerously ill the day before, and 
 utterly exhausted that very morning, he was like a paral- 
 ytic, cured by a fortunate stroke of lightning, who sud- 
 denly begins to walk and leap again. 
 
 After an hour of heartfelt happiness and congratula- 
 tions. Marcel committed Julie to Camille, who undertook 
 to keep the servants from babbling about this nocturnal 
 visit, and carried Madam Thierry home with him to get 
 a little rest. Julien had already made his escape by way 
 of the pavilion. Julie sank into a sweet and deep sleep 
 such as she had not known since her separation from 
 Julien. 
 
 Fortunately, M. Antoine, as we have said, had long 
 discontinued his watch upon the hotel d'Estrelle ; and 
 fortunately, also, the servants there were devoted and 
 discreet ; for if he had heard of the interview between 
 his relatives and Madam d'Estrelle, the consequences 
 might have been disastrous. He had signified his inten- 
 tion of informing the countess in person of her pardon, 
 but he was himself fatigued ; his nerves were unstrung ; 
 and he was, at the same time, in a great state of self-sat- 
 isfaction and pride. Accordingly he slept very soundly, 
 and did not get up until a quarter of an hour later than 
 usual. He made up for this, however, as soon as he was 
 on his feet, by flying into a state of extra activity, that 
 threw his whole household into alarm ; for M. Antoine 
 was a man energetic in giving orders, prompt in uttering 
 threats, and still more prompt in lifting bis cane against 
 
244 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 delinquents. In the twinkling of an eye the old hotel 
 de Melcy was opened, swept, and put in complete order. 
 Messengers were sent off in all directions, and at noon a 
 sumptuous dinner was served. His guests, assembled in 
 the great gilded saloon, awaited some mysterious event. 
 Marcel ushered in Madam Thierry and Madam d'Estrelle, 
 whom he had invited in behalf of the host. Julien had 
 also received an invitation, and was present. Julie was 
 welcomed by Madam d'Ancourt, and Madam des Morges, 
 with her daughter and son-in-law. The Duke de Ques- 
 noy had not yet returned, but the abbe de Nivieres was 
 on hand, resolved to eat for both of them. The presi- 
 dent's wife did not keep them waiting, and, lastly, Marcel 
 was empowered to present to the ladies a number of bot- 
 anists, both professional men and amateurs, whom M. 
 Antoine was accustomed to assemble around him on great 
 occasions. 
 
 " It's enough to make one die of laughter," said the 
 baroness to Julie, drawing her into the recess of a win- 
 dow. " The old gentleman sent me an express at six 
 o'clock in the morning, to invite me to be present at the 
 baptism of a rare plant which is to be called by his name ! 
 You can imagine what a temper I was in, at being waked 
 up for such a thing as that ! I was furious ! But when I 
 had read the postscript, stating that you were to be pres- 
 ent at the ceremony, I resolved to come. So, my dearest 
 friend, you are reconciled with your old neighbor ? Very 
 well, so much the better. You took my advice, and re- 
 signed yourself to your fate. That's right. Mr. Gar- 
 dener is not particularly agreeable, but five millions ! 
 Think of that!" 
 
 Julie's other friends took a different view of the matter. 
 They imagined that her creditor had been making a set- 
 tlement witli her in an amicable way, on terms satisfactory 
 to both parties ; and that they would be rendering Madam 
 d'Estrelle a service by accepting M. Antoine's invitation. 
 They questioned her, under this supposition, and she did 
 not undeceive them. 
 
 As for the savants, they were far from considering 
 the baptism of the new plant as a piece of puerile osten- 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 245 
 
 tatio 1. M. Antoine had made several interesting addi- 
 tions to horticulture. He had promoted the acclimation 
 of useful trees, and was justly entitled to have his name 
 recorded in the anuals of science. A good dinner, in such 
 cases, is never objectionable ; nor is the presence of a 
 number of agreeable ladies absolutely inconsistent with a 
 proper discussion of the grave interests of botany. 
 
 When all were assembled, M. Antoine assumed a 
 modest and good-natured manner ; always, on the rare 
 occasions when he displayed it, a sure indication that he 
 was certain of having achieved some great victory. He 
 phiced the company around a large table with an object 
 of considerable height concealed under a great dome of 
 white paper standing in the centre, and proceeded to draw 
 from his pocket a manuscript of his own inditing, very 
 short, fortunately, but which it was difficult to hear with- 
 out laughing, since it took unceremoniously the most 
 fearful liberties both with French and Latin. This trea- 
 tise began with " Ladies and Gentlemen ; " it proceeded 
 to discuss the importation and cultivation of the finest 
 known plants of the lily species, and ended thus : " Hav- 
 ing been so fortunate (in my opinion) as to obtain, raise, 
 and bring to perfect flowering a specimen, unique in 
 France, of a LiliaceaB, surpassing all those above enume- 
 rated in size, perfume and splendor, I call the attention 
 of the honorable company to the individual in question, 
 and invite them to give it a name." 
 
 As he ended the reading, M. Antoine, who was armed 
 with a long rod, dexterously lifted the paper-covering 
 from the object before him, and Julien uttered a cry of 
 surprise ; for there, fresh and blooming in all its glory, 
 he beheld the Antonia Thierrii. He thought, at first, 
 that it was a trick, — a perfect artificial imitation of the 
 original Antonia ; but as soon as the plant was released 
 from its covering, it exhaled a perfume that reminded 
 him, as well as Julie, of the happy hour of their first 
 meeting. A murmur of sincere admiration ran around 
 the table, and M. Antoine added : 
 
 " Learned gentlemen, you will please to know that this 
 plant has put forth two flower-stems ; one, a pretty fine 
 
246 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 one, in the end of May, which was broken off by acci» 
 dent, and is preserved in my herbarium ; the second in 
 August, twice as large and twice as luU as the other, 
 which has bloomed, as you see, on the tenth day of the 
 said month." 
 
 '' Baptize it, baptize it ! " cried Madam d'Ancourt. 
 " I would like to be the godmother of this beautiful lily ; 
 but I suppose somebody else — " 
 
 She paused, and looked over at Julie, good-naturedly, 
 and yet ironically. The savants, witliout noticing her, 
 unanimously proclaimed the name of Antonia Thierrii*' 
 
 " You are very good, gentlemen," said M. Antoine, blush- 
 ing with pleasure and stammering with emotion, " but 1 
 desire to suggest a modification. It is fair enough that 
 the plant should bear my name ; but I should like to join 
 to it the first name of a person who — of a lady — in 
 fact, I want to name it Julie- Antonia- Thierrii.^* 
 
 ^' It's rather long," observed Marcel ; " but then it's 
 such a tall plant ! " 
 
 *' Very good ; hurrah for the Julie- Antonia- Thierrii I " 
 answered the scientific gentlemen, with great readiness. 
 
 " There ! At last ! Bravo ! It is decided, then ! " 
 cried the Baroness d'Ancourt, in so loud a voice as to at- 
 tract the attention of the whole table. Pointing to Julie, 
 she clasped her plump, white hands, as a sign of an anti- 
 cipated marriage. 
 
 Everybody looked at Julie, whose vivid blush brought 
 back all the splendor of her beauty. 
 
 " Pardon me, baroness," said uncle Antoine, with a 
 sly expression ; "I deceived you when I applied to you 
 to make an offer of marriage in my behalf to the Countess 
 d'Estrelle. I wanted to see what you would say, and 
 you did not refuse ; on the contrary, you advised the 
 young lady to accept me. This decided me to propose to 
 her the person whom I really had in my mind ; for I said 
 to myself, ' If an old fellow like me is considered a proper 
 match for the young lady because I have money, my 
 nephew, who is youug, and who will inherit a large share 
 of my money, will stand a good chance of being really 
 accepted.' Accordingly, ladies and gentlemen, with the 
 
ANTONIA. 
 
 247 
 
 consent of Madam d'Estrelle, I announce that the various 
 discussions that have taken place between her and myself 
 are terminated, and that peace is concluded by the be- 
 trothal of Madam d'Estrelle and my nephew Julien 
 Thierry, whom I do myself the honor to present to 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, bah ! the young painter ! " cried Madam d'An- 
 court, irritated, without knowing why, at Julien*s good 
 looks and ardent expression. 
 
 "A painter?" cried Madam des Morges, greatly 
 shocked ; " ah, my dear, it was true then? " 
 
 " Yes, my friends, it was true," answered Julie, 
 bravely ; " we loved each other before we knew that M. 
 Antoine would rescue us from the poverty which threat- 
 ened us both." 
 
 " I declare that M. Antoine is a great man, and a true 
 philosopher ! " cried the abbe de Nivieres. *' If we could 
 only liave dinner ! " 
 
 " Let us go to dinner, ladies and gentlemen ! " replied 
 M. Antoine, offering Julie his arm ; " you will consider 
 this marriage a mesalliance for the countess, but each of 
 my nephews will have three millions, — that will polish 
 up the family, and my grand-nephews will be rich enough 
 to purchase titles." 
 
 This final argument had its effect upon Julie's friends, 
 who, after a little hesitation, offered her their congratula- 
 tions. She was obliged to accept the imputation of hav- 
 ing sacrificed the dignity of rank for wealth. But what 
 did it matter, after all? Julien knew what she really 
 felt. 
 
 Julie, — who was still in mourning for her father-in- 
 law, — went to Sevres to pass the rest of the summer. 
 Sevres is an oasis in Normandy, about two leagues from 
 Paris. Th» orchards have a rural perfume, and the hill- 
 sides, thickly dotted with rustic gardens, were just as 
 lovely, and more simple in those days than they are at 
 present. Not that we would undervalue the smiling villas 
 of the Sevres of to-day, with their splendid shade-trees, 
 their picturesque ravines, and bold precipices descending 
 abruptly to the river. The railroad has not yet robbed 
 
248 ANTONIA. 
 
 this woody region of all its poetry, and it is very delight- 
 ful to be able, in a quarter of an hour, to reach grassy 
 footpaths and meadows sloping to the water. From the 
 top of the hill, through the groves of trees grouped in the 
 foreground, you can see Paris, grandly outlined upon the 
 blue horizon. Three steps off, at the bottom of the ra- 
 vine, you lose sight altogether of the great city ; and, 
 escaping even from the glaring white of the villas, can 
 wander about in the real country, — a little old-fashioned, 
 hut fresh, serene, and everywhere gay with flowers. 
 
 Here Julie recovered her health, which for some time 
 was seriously impaired ; and before their marriage, as well 
 as after it, she and Julien were all in all to each other. 
 What society said and thought about their marriage, they 
 did not even wish to know. They had a sufiicient number 
 of real friends, and Madam Thierry was the happiest of 
 mothers. It is true that their repose was disturbed by 
 the political troubles, whose approach Julien had fore- 
 seen, although he had not anticipated such swift and 
 radical changes. Frank and generous, he made himself 
 extremely useful in the neighborhood bv his efforts to re- 
 lieve the misery of the poor, and to prevent them from 
 indulging in acts of fatal violence. For a long time he 
 preserved great influence over the workmen of the Sevres 
 factory, and those of the faubourg surrounding the hotel 
 d'Estrelle. On certain occasions he was overborne ; but 
 nothing could induce him to pursue a course that his con- 
 science disapproved, and he found himself threatened in 
 his turn, and on the point of being denounced as a sus- 
 picious person. The firmness with which he repelled these 
 suspicious, the generosity of his personal sacrifices, and 
 his confidence when in the midst of danger, saved him. 
 .Julie was not less brave : her character was transformed ; 
 she lost her timidity, and her mind was strengthened and 
 developed by her union with a noble and courageous 
 nature. She suffered great anguish at seeing num- 
 bers of her old friends seized by the revolutionary offi- 
 cials, in spite of all that Julie could do to protect them. 
 By wise advice and sensible measures she succeeded in 
 saving several of these victims. Two she concealed in 
 
ANTONIA. 249 
 
 her own house ; but she could not preserve the Baroness 
 d'Aiicourt, who betrayed herself by the very excess of 
 her terror, and suffered an extremely severe imprison- 
 ment. The unlucky Marchioness d'Estrelle could not 
 contain her fury at having to contribute her savings to 
 the forced loans, and perished on the scaffold. The Duke 
 de Quesnoy emigrated. The abbe de Nivieres, more pru- 
 dent, became a Jacobin. 
 
 After the Reign of Terror, the suppression of the 
 monopoly of the royal establishments enabled Julien to 
 accomplish a favorite design : to introduce, practically, 
 the industrial and artistic improvements, which, in his 
 leisure at Sevres, he had been studying and experiment- 
 ing on. He gained no profit by doing this, nor did he 
 desire any ; in fact, he lost money, but he succeeded in 
 elevating the condition of many poor families. Accord- 
 ingly he did not become rich, but his wife was happy in 
 seeing him pursue his artistic labors and take pleasure 
 in superintending the education of his children. 
 
 Marcel bought a little house at Sevres, near Julien's, 
 and the two families passed together as many holidays 
 and leisure days as the worthy lawyer, now an advocate, 
 and absorbed in business, could spare from his professional 
 duties. He acquired, by honest industry, a respectable for- 
 tune, and Julien learned to manage his property with the 
 prudence which his father had lacked. It was well he 
 did so, for M. Antoine's property was confiscated in the 
 Revolution. The old man, who felt no desire for family 
 ties, continued to live alone ; he was as gracious as his na- 
 ture allowed him to be with his relatives, whose gratitude 
 flattered his pride, but he refused to enter into any rela- 
 tions which could interfere with his own mode of life. 
 Having promised Marcel to abandon his idea of mar- 
 rying, he kept his word ; but another mania seized him. 
 He became interested in politics, and denounced with 
 equal fury whatever party chanced to be uppermost. 
 They were all, according to him, crazy, or blind, or 
 stupid. The king was too weak, the people were 
 too patient, the guillotine was by turns too idle or too 
 voracious. Finally, the swift succession of tragedies 
 
250 
 
 ANTONIA. 
 
 convulsing France seemed to confuse his mind, which 
 had always been unsound rather than evil disposed. He 
 changed his views, and, after advocating the most ultra 
 sans-culotte doctrines, became ridiculously conservative. 
 All these vagaries were quite harmless, for he attempted 
 no intrigues, but contented himself with railing against 
 people and events, on the few occasions when he made his 
 appearance in society. He was, however, denounced by 
 some workman whom he had ill-treated, and came very 
 near losing his head to pay for his unbridled bursts of ob- 
 scure eloquence. 
 
 Julien and Marcel, by persevering efforts, induced him 
 to quit the hotel de Melcy, where he was every day in 
 danger of bringing down a storm upon his head. They 
 kept him in concealment at Sevres, where he tormented 
 them greatly with his ill-humor, besides compromising 
 them more than once by his imprudence. His property 
 having been placed in sequestration, he only recovered 
 fragments of it ; but he supported this great loss with 
 much philosophy. He was like those pilots who curse 
 and swear during the storm, but who are quite calm 
 while trying to save something from the wreck. Julien 
 urged him to take back the property settled upon himself, 
 but he refused to touch it. His garden was not seized ; 
 and having ultimately recovered it almost untouched, he 
 resumed his old habits, and became relatively good- 
 humored. He lived in the hotel de Melcy until the year 
 1802, and was strong and active to the last. One day he 
 was found dead, sitting on a bench,in the sun, his watering- 
 pot half full by his side, and on his knee an unintelligible 
 manuscript, — the last lucubration of his exhausted brain. 
 He died without any warning. Only the day before, he 
 had said to Marcel, — 
 
 " Don't be alarmed ; the millions that you were to have 
 inherited from me, you shall have. Let me only live ten 
 years longer, and I will make a greater fortune than I 
 made before. I have a plan for a constitution that will 
 save France from further disturbance ; when that is set- 
 tled, I will give some attention to my own affairs, and re- 
 Bume my export trade." 
 
GEORGE SAND, 
 
 By JUSTIN M'CARTHY.' 
 
 Reprinted from " The Galaxy'* for May, 1870. 
 
 \JI7E are all of us probably inclined, now and then, to 
 waste a little time in vaguely speculating on what 
 might have happened if this or that particular event had 
 ^ot given a special direction to the career of some great 
 man or woman. If there had been an inch of difference 
 in the size of Cleopatra's nose ; if Hannibal had not lin- 
 gered at Capua ; if Cromwell had carried out his idea of 
 emigration ; if Napoleon Bonaparte had taken service 
 under the Turk, — and so on through all the old familiar 
 illustrations dear to the minor essayist and the debating 
 society. I have sometimes felt tempted thus to lose my- 
 self in speculating on what might have happened if the 
 woman whom all the world knows as George Sand had 
 been happily married in her youth to the husband of her 
 choice. Would she ever have taken to literature at all? 
 Would she, loving as she does, and as Frenchwomen so 
 rarely do, the changing face of inanimate nature, — the 
 fie)'ls, the flowers and the brooks, — have lived a peace- 
 
2 GEORGE SAND, 
 
 fill and obscure life in some happy country place, and 
 been content with home, and family, and love, and never 
 thought of fame ? Or if, thus happily married, she still 
 had allowed her genius to find an expression in liter- 
 ature, would she have written books with no passionate 
 purpose in them, — books which might have seemed 
 like those of a good Miss Mulock made perfect, — books 
 which Podsnap might have read with approval, and put 
 without a scruple into the hands of that modest young 
 person, his daughter? Certainly one cannot but think 
 that a different kind of early life would have given a 
 quite different complexion to the literary individuality of 
 George Sand. 
 
 Bulwer Lytton, in one of his novels, insists that true 
 genius is always quite independent of the individual suf- 
 ferings or joys of its possessor, and describes some 
 inspired youth in the novel as sitting down, while sorrow 
 is in his heart, and hunger gnawing at his vitals, to 
 throw off a sparkling and gladsome little fairy tale. 
 Now this is undoubtedly true, in general, of any high 
 order of genius ; but there are at least some great and 
 striking exceptions. Rousseau and Byron are, in modem 
 days, remarkable illustrations of genius, admittedly of a 
 very high rank, governed and guided almost wholly by 
 the individual fortunes of the men themselves. So, too, 
 must we speak of the genius of George Sand. Not 
 Eousseau, not even Byron, was in this sense more ego- 
 tistic than the woman who broke the chains of her ill- 
 assorted marriage with a crash that made its echoes 
 heard at last in every civilized country in the world. 
 Just as people are constantly quoting nous avons change 
 tout cela who never read a page of Moliere, or pour en- 
 courager les autres without even being aware that there 
 
GEORGE SAND. 3 
 
 IS a story of Voltaire's called " Candide," so there have 
 been thousands of passionate protests uttered in America 
 and Europe, for the last twenty years, by people who 
 never saw a volume of George Sand, and yet are only 
 echoing her sentiments and even repeating her words. 
 
 In a former number of The Galaxy^ I expressed 
 casually the opinion that George Sand is probably the 
 most influential writer of our day. I am still, and delib- 
 erately, of the same opinion. It must be remembered 
 that very few English or American authors have any 
 wide or deep influence over peoples who do not speak 
 English. Even of the very greatest authors this is true. 
 Compare, for example, the literary dominion of Shake- 
 speare with that of Cervantes. All nations who read 
 Shakespeare read Cervantes : in Stratford-upon-Avon 
 itself Don Quixote is probably as familiar a figure in 
 people's minds as Falstaff; but Shakespeare is little 
 known indeed to the vast majority of readers in the 
 country of Cervantes, in the land of Dante, or in that 
 of Racine and Victor Hugo. In something of the same 
 way we may compare the influence of George Sand with 
 that of even the greatest living authors of England and 
 America. What influence has Charles Dickens or 
 George Eliot outside the range of the English tongue? 
 But George Sand's genius has been felt as a power in 
 every country of the world where people read any man- 
 ner of books. It has been felt almost as Rousseau's 
 once was felt ; it has aroused anger, terror, pity, or 
 wild and rapturous excitement and admiration ; it has 
 rallied around it everyJnstinct in man or woman which 
 is revolutionary ; it has ranged against it all that is con- 
 servative. It is not so much a literary influence as a 
 great disorganizing force, riving the rocks of custom, 
 
4 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 resolving into their original elements the social combi* 
 nation which tradition and convention would declare to be 
 indissoluble. I am not now speaking merely of the sen- 
 timents which George Sand does or did entertain on the 
 subject of marriage. Divested of all startling effects 
 and thrilling dramatic illustrations, these sentiments 
 probably amounted to nothing more dreadful than the 
 belief that an unwedded union between two people who 
 love and are true to each other is less immoral than the 
 legal marriage of two uncongenial creatures who do not 
 love and probably are not true to each other. But the 
 grand, revolutionary idea which George Sand announced 
 was that of the social independence and equality of 
 woman, — the principle that woman is not made for man 
 in any other sense than as man is made for woman. 
 For the first time in the history of the world woman 
 spoke out for herself with a voice as powerful as that of 
 man. For the first time in the history of the world 
 woman spoke out as woman, not as the servant, the 
 satellite, the pupil, the plaything, or the goddess of man. 
 Now, I intend at present to write of George Sand 
 rather as an individual, or an influence, than as the 
 author of certain works of fiction. Criticism would now 
 be superfluously bestowed on the literary merits and 
 peculiarities of the great woman whose astonishing intel- 
 lectual activity has never ceased to produce, during the 
 last thirty years, works which take already a classical 
 place in French literature. If any reputation of our day 
 may be looked upon as established, we may thus regard 
 the reputation of George Sand. She is, beyond com- 
 parison, the greatest living novelist of France. She has 
 won this position by the most legitimate application of 
 the gifts of an artist. With all her marvellous fecundity, 
 
GEORGE SAND. ^ 
 
 ehe has hardly ever given to the world any work which 
 does not seem, at least, to have been the subject of the 
 most elaborate and patient care. The greatest tempta- 
 tion which tries a story-teller is perhaps the temptation 
 to rely on the attractiveness of story-telling, and to pay 
 little or no attention to style. Walter Scott's prose, for 
 example, if regarded as mere prose, is rambling, irreg- 
 ular, and almost worthless. Dickens's prose is as bad a 
 model for imitation as a musical performance which is 
 out of tune. Of course, I need hardly say that attention 
 to style is almost as characteristic of French authors in 
 general, as the lack of it is characteristic of English 
 authors ; but, even in France, the prose of George Sand 
 stands out conspicuous for its wonderful expressiveness 
 and force, its almost perfect beauty. Then, of all 
 modern French authors, — I might, perhaps, say of all 
 modern novelists of any country, — George Sand has 
 added to fiction, has annexed from the worlds of reality 
 and of imagination the greatest number of original char- 
 acters, — of what Emerson calls new organic creations. 
 Moreover, George Sand is, after Rousseau, the one only 
 great French author who has looked directly and lov- 
 ingly into the face of Nature, and learned the secrets 
 which skies and waters, fields and lanes, can teach to 
 the heart that loves them. Gifts such as these have won 
 her the almost unrivalled place which she holds in living 
 literature ; and she has conquered at last even the public 
 opinion which once detested and proscribed her. I 
 could therefore hope to add nothing to what has been 
 already said by criticism in regard to her merits as a 
 novelist. Indo gd, I think it p robab|y„t|j,fft,,t,,hfii majority 
 of readers in this country know more of Qeprge Sand 
 through the interpretation of tlie critics than through the\ 
 
6 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 pages of her books. And in her case criticism is so 
 nearly unanimous as to her literary merits, that I may 
 safely assume the public in general to have in their 
 minds a just recognition of her position as a novelist. 
 My object is rather to say something about the place 
 which George Sand has taken as a social revolutionist, 
 about the influence she has so long exercised over the 
 world, and about the woman herself. For she is assur- 
 edly the greatest champion of woman's rights, in one 
 sense, that the world has ever seen ; and she is, on the 
 ^ther hand, the one woman out of all the world who has 
 been most commonly pointed to as the appalling example 
 to scare doubtful and fluttering womanhood back into its 
 sheepfold of submissiveness and conventionality. There 
 is hardly a woman's heart anywhere in the civilized 
 world which has not felt the vibration of George Sand's 
 thrilling voice. Women who never saw one of her 
 books, — nay, who never heard even her nom de plume^ 
 have been stirred by emotions of doubt or fear, or repin- 
 ing or ambition, which they never would have known 
 but for George Sand, and perhaps but for George Sand's 
 uncongenial marriage. For, indeed, there is not now, 
 and has not been for twenty years, I venture to think, a 
 single "revolutionary" idea, as slow and steady-going 
 people would call it, afloat anywhere in Europe or Amer- 
 ica, on the subject of woman's relations to man, society, 
 and destiny, which is not due immediately to the influence 
 of George Sand, and to the influence of George Sand's 
 unhappy marriage upon George Sand herself. 
 
 The world has of late years grown used to this extra- 
 ordinary woman, and has lost much of the wonder and 
 terror with which it once regarded her. I can quite 
 remember, — younger people than I can i-emember,— • 
 
GEORGE SAND. 7 
 
 the time when all good and proper personages in Eng^ 
 land regarded the authoress of '' Indiana " as a sort of 
 feminine fiend, endowed with a hideous power for the 
 destruction of souls, and an inextinguishable thirst for 
 the slaughter of virtuous beliefs. I fancy a good deal 
 of this sentiment was due to the fearful reports wafted 
 across the seas, that this terrible woman had not merely 
 repudiated the marriage bond, but had actually put off 
 the garments sacred to womanhood. That George Sand 
 appeared in men's clothes was an outrage upon conse- 
 crated proprieties far more astonishing than any theo- 
 retical onslaught upon old opinions could be. Reformers, 
 indeed, should always, if they are wise in their gener- 
 ation, have a care of the proprieties. Many worthy peo- 
 ple can listen with comparative fortitude when sacred 
 and eternal truths are assailed, who are stricken with 
 horror when the ark of propriety is never so lightly \ 
 touched. George Sand's pantaloons were, therefore, I 
 regarded as the most appalling illustration of George I 
 Sand's wickedness. I well remember what excitement, | 
 scandal, and horror were created in the provincial town 
 where I lived, some twenty years ago, when the editor 
 of a local Panjandrum (to borrow Mr. Trollope's word) 
 insulted the feelings and the morals of his constituents 
 and subscribers by polluting his pages with a translation 
 from one of George Sand's shorter novels. Ah me ! the 
 little novel might, so far as morality was concerned, 
 have been written every word by Miss Phelps, or the 
 authoress of the " Ileir of Redcliff " ; it had not a word, 
 from beginning to end, which might not have been read 
 out to a Sunday-school of girls ; the translation was 
 made by a woman of the purest soul, and, in her own 
 locality, of the highest name ; and yet how virtue did 
 
5 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 shriek out against the publication ! The editor perse- 
 vered in the publishing of the novel, spurred on to bold- 
 ness by some of his very young and therefore fearless 
 coadjutors, who thought it delightful to confront public 
 opinion, and liked the notion of the stars in their courses 
 fighting against Sisera, and Sisera not being dismayed. 
 That charming, tender, touching little story ! I would 
 submit it to-day cheerfully to the verdict of a jury of 
 matrons, confident that it would be declared a fit and 
 proper publication. But at that time it was enough that 
 the story bore the odious name of George Sand ; public 
 opinion condemned it, and sent the magazine which ven- 
 tured to translate it to an early and dishonored grave. I 
 remember reading, about that time, a short notice of 
 George Sand by an English authoress of some talent 
 and culture, in which the Frenchwoman's novels were 
 described as so abominably filthy that even the denizens 
 of the Paris brothels were ashamed to be caught read- 
 ing them. Now, this declaration was made all in good 
 faith, in the simple good faith of that class of persons 
 who will pass wholesale and emphatic judgment upon 
 works of which they have never read a single page. 
 For I need hardly tell any intelligent person of to-day 
 that, whatever may be said of George Sand's doctrines, 
 she is no more open to the charge of indelicacy than the 
 authoress of " Romola." I cannot, myself, remember 
 any passage in George Sand's novels which can be called 
 indelicate ; and, indeed, her severest and most hostile 
 critics are fond of saying, not without a certain justice^ 
 that one of the worst characteristics of her works is thff 
 delicacy and beauty of her srtyle, which thus commends 
 to pure and innocent minds certain doctrines that, 
 broadly stated, would repel and shock them. Were I 
 
GEORGE SAND. 9 
 
 one of George Sand's inveterate opponents, this, or 
 something like it, is the ground I would take up. I 
 would say : " The welfare of the human family demands 
 that a marriage, legally made, shall never be questioned 
 or undone. Marriage is not a union depending on love 
 or congeniality, or any such condition. It is just as 
 sacred when made for money, or for ambition, or for 
 lust of the flesh, or for any other purpose, however ig- 
 noble and base, as when contracted in the spirit of the 
 purest mutual love. Here is a woman of great power 
 and daring genius, who says that the essential condition 
 of marriage is love and natural fitness ; that a legal 
 union of man and woman without this is no marriage at 
 all, but a detestable and disgusting sin. Now, the more 
 delicately, modestly, plausibly she can put this revolu- 
 Lionary and pernicious doctrine, the more dangerous she 
 becomes, and the more earnestly we ought to denounce 
 her." This was, in fact, what a great many persons did 
 oay ; and the protest was at least consistent and logical. 
 
 But horror is an emotion which cannot long live on 
 the old fuel, and even the world of English Philistinism 
 soon ceased to regard George Sand as a mere monster. 
 Any one now taking up " Indiana," for example, would 
 perhaps find it not quite easy to understand how the 
 book produced such an eff*ect. Our novel-writing women 
 of to-day commonly feed us on more fiery stuff than this. 
 Not to speak of such accomplished artists in impurity as 
 the lady who calls herself Ouida, and one or two others 
 of the same school, we have young women, only just pro- 
 moted from pantalettes, who can throw you off such glow, 
 ing chapters of passion and young desire as would make 
 the rhapsodies of " Indiana" seem very feeble milk-and- 
 water brewage by comparison. Indeed, except for some 
 
lO GEORGB SAND. 
 
 of the descriptions in the opening chapters, I fail to se« 
 any extraordinary merit in " Indiana " ; and toward the 
 end it seems to me to grow verbose, weak, and tiresome, 
 I" Leone Leoni " opens with one of the finest dramatic 
 outbursts of emotion known to the literature of modern 
 fiction ; but it soon wanders away into discursive weak- 
 ness, and only just toward the close brightens up into a 
 burst of lurid splendor. It is not those which I may call 
 the questionable novels of George Sand, — the novels 
 which were believed to illustrate in naked and appalling 
 simplicity her doctrines and her life, — that will bear up 
 her fame through succeeding generations. If every one 
 of the novels which thus in their time drew down the 
 thun lers of Society's denunciation were to be swept into 
 the wallet wherein Time, according to Shakespeare, car- 
 ries scraps for oblivion, George Sand would still remain 
 where she now is, — at the head of the French fiction of 
 her day. It is true, as Goethe says, that "miracle- 
 working pictures are rarely works of art." The books 
 which make the hair of the respectable public stand on 
 end are not often the works by which the fame of the 
 author is preserved for posterity. 
 
 It is a curious fact that, at the early time to which I 
 have been alluding, little or nothing was known in Eng- 
 land (or, I presume, in America) of the real life of 
 Aurora Amandine Dupin, who had been pleased to call 
 herself George Sand. People knew, or had heard, that 
 she had separated from her husband, that she had writ- 
 ten novels which depreciated the sanctity of legal mar 
 riage, and that she sometimes wore male costume in the 
 streets. This was enough. In England, at least, we 
 were ready to infer any enormity regarding a woman 
 who was unsound on the legal marriage question, and 
 
GEORGS SAND. H 
 
 who did not wear petticoats. What would have been 
 said had people then conunonly known half the stories 
 which were circulated in Paris, — half the extravagances 
 into which a passionate soul, and the stimulus of sudden 
 emancipation from restraint, had hurried the authoress 
 of '' Indiana " and " Lucrezia Floriani " ? For it must be 
 owned that the life of that woman was, in its earliei 
 years, a strange and wild phenomenon, hardly to be com- 
 prehended, perhaps, by American or English natures. I 
 have heard George Sand bitterly aiTaigned even by 
 persons who protested that they were at one with her as 
 regards the early sentiments which used to excite such 
 odium. I have heard her described by such as a sort of 
 Lamia of literature and passion, — a creature who could 
 seize some noble, generous, youthful heart, drain it of its 
 love, its aspirations, its profoundest emotions, and then 
 fling it, squeezed and lifeless, away. I have heard it 
 declared that George Sand made " copy " of the fierce 
 and passionate loves which she knew so well how to 
 awaken and to foster ; that she distilled the life-blood of 
 youth to obtain the mixture out of which she derived her 
 inspiration. The charge so commonly (I think unjustly) 
 made against Goethe, that he played with the girlish love 
 of Bettina and of others in order to obtain a subject for 
 literary dissection, is vehemently and deliberately urged 
 in an aggravated form, — in many aggravated forms, — 
 against George Sand. Where, such accusers ask, is that 
 young poet, endowed with a lyrical genius rare indeed in 
 the France of later days, — that young poet whose imag- 
 ination was at once so daring and so subtle, — w^ho might 
 have been Beranger and Heine in one, and have risen to 
 an atmosphere in which neither Beranger nor Heine ever 
 floated ? Where is he, and what evil influence was it which 
 
i2 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 sapped the strength of his nature, corrupted his geuius, 
 and prepared for him a premature and shameful grave ? 
 Where is that young musician, whose pure, tender, and 
 lofty strains sound sweetly and sadly in the ears, as the 
 very hymn and music of the Might^Have-Been, — where 
 is he now, and what was the seductive power which 
 made a plaything of him and then flung him away? 
 Here and there some man of stronger mould is pointed 
 out as one who was at the first conquered, and then 
 deceived and trifled with, but who ordered his stout heart 
 to bear, and rose superior to the hour, and lived to 
 retrieve his nature and make himself a name of respect ; 
 but the others, of more sensitive and perhaps finer organ- 
 izations, are only the more to be pitied because they were 
 so terribly in earnest. Seldom, even in the literary his- 
 ; tory of modern France, has there been a more strange 
 \ and shocking episode than the publication by George 
 Sand of the little book called " EUe et Lui," and the 
 \^^ rejoinder to it by Paul de Musset, called " Lui et Elle." 
 I can hardly be accused of straying into the regions of 
 private scandal when I speak of two books which had a 
 wide circulation, are still being read, and may be had, I 
 presume, in any New York book-store where French lit- 
 erature is sold. The former of the two books, " She 
 and He," was a story, or something which purported to 
 be a story, by George Sand, telling of two ill-assorted 
 beings whom fate had thrown together for awhile, and 
 of whom the woman was all tenderness, love, patience, 
 the man all egotism, selfishness, sensuousness, and eccen- 
 I tricity. The point of the whole business was to show 
 f how sublimely the woman suffered, and how wantonly 
 ' the man flung happiness away. Had it been merely a 
 piece of fiction, it must have been regarded by any 
 
GEORGB SAND. 13 
 
 healthy mind as a morbid, imwholesome, disagreeable 
 production, — a sin of the highest aesthetic kind against 
 true art, which must always, even in its pathos and it8 
 tragedy, leave on the mind exalted and delightful impres- 
 sions. But every one in Paris at once hailed the story 
 as a chapter of autobiography, as the author's vindication 
 of one episode in her own career, — a vindication at the 
 expense of a man who had gone down, ruined and lost, 
 to an early grave. Therefore the brother of the dead 
 man flung into literature a little book called " He and 
 She," in which a story, substantially the same in its out- 
 lines, is so told as exactly to reverse the conditions under 
 which the verdict of public opinion was sought. Very 
 curious indeed was the manner in which the same sub- 
 stance of facts was made to present the two principal 
 figures with complexions and characters so strangely 
 altered. In the woman's book the woman was made the 
 patient, loving, suffering victim ; in the man's reply this 
 same woman was depicted as the most utterly selfish and 
 depraved creature the human imagination could conceive. 
 Even if one had no other means whatever of forming an 
 estimate of the character of George Sand, it would be 
 hardly possible to accept as her likeness the hideous pic- 
 ture sketched by Paul de Musset. No woman, I am glad 
 to believe, ever existed in real life so utterly selfish, base, 
 and wicked as his bitter pen has drawn. I must say that 
 the thing is very cleverly done. The picture is at least 
 consistent with itself. As a character in romance it might 
 be pronounced original, bold, brilliant, and, in an artistic 
 sense, quite natural. There is something thoroughly 
 French in the easy and delicate force of the final touch 
 with which de Musset dismisses his hideous subject. 
 Having sketched this woman in tints that seem to flame 
 
14 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 across the eyes of the reader, — having described with 
 wonderful realism and power her affectation, her deceit, 
 her reckless caprices, her base and cruel coquetries, 
 her devouring wantonness, her soul-destroying arts, her 
 unutterable selfishness and egotism, — having, to use a 
 vulgar phrase, "turned her inside out," and told her 
 story backwards, — the author calmly explains that the 
 hero of the narrative in his dying hour called his brother 
 to his bedside, and enjoined him, if occasion should ever 
 arise, if the partner of his sin should ever calumniate 
 him in his grave, to vindicate his memory, and avenge 
 the treason practised upon him. " Of course," adds the 
 narrator, " the brother made the promise, — and I have 
 since heard that he has kept his word." I can hardly 
 hope to convey to the reader any adequate idea of the 
 effect produced on the mind by these few simple words 
 of compressed, whispered hatred and triumph, closing a 
 philippic, or a revelation, or a libel of such extraordinary 
 bitterness and ferocity. The whole episode is, I believe 
 and earnestly hope, without precedent or imitation in 
 literary controversy. Never, that I know of, has a living 
 woman been publicly exhibited to the world in a por- 
 traiture so hideous as that which Paul de Musset drew 
 of George Sand. Never, that I know of, has any woman 
 gone so near to deserving and justifying such a measure 
 of retaliation. 
 
 For if it be assumed, — and I suppose it never has been 
 disputed, — that in writing " Elle et Lui" George Sand 
 meant to describe herself and Alfred de Musset, it is hard 
 to conceive of any sin against taste and feeling, — against 
 art and morals, — more flagrant than such a publication. 
 The practice, to which French writers are so much ad- 
 dicted, of making " copy " of the private lives, charac- 
 
GEORGE SAND. 15 
 
 ters, and relationships of themselves and their friends, 
 seems to me in all cases utterly detestable. Lamartine*8 
 sins of this kind were grievous and glaring ; but were 
 they red as scarlet, they would seem whiter than snow 
 when compared with the lurid monstrosity of George 
 Sand*s assault on the memory of the dead poet who was 
 once her favorite. The whole affair, indeed, is so unlike 
 anything which could occur in America or in England, 
 that we can hardly find any canons by which to try it, or 
 any standard of punishment by which to regulate its cen- 
 sure. I allude to it now because it is the only substan- 
 tial evidence 1 know of which does fairly seem to justify 
 the worst of the accusations brought against George Sand ; 
 and I do not think it right, when writing for grown men 
 and women, who are supposed to have sense and judg- 
 ment, to affect not to know that such accusations are 
 made, or to pretend to think that it would be proper not 
 to allude to them. They have been put forward, replied 
 to, urged again, made the theme of all manner of contro- 
 versy in scores of French and in some English publica- 
 tions. Pray let it be distinctly understood that I am not 
 entering into any criticism of the morality of any part of 
 George Sand's private life. With that we have nothing 
 here to do, I am now dealing with the question, fairly 
 belonging to public controversy, whether the grent artist 
 did not deliberately deal with human hearts as the painter 
 of old is said to have done with a purchased slave, — in- 
 flicting torture in order the better to learn how to depict 
 the struggles and contortions of mortal agony. In an- 
 swer to such a question I can only point to " Lucrezia 
 Floriani " and to " Elle et Lui," and say that unless the 
 universal opinion of qualified critics be wrong, these books, 
 and others too, owe their piquancy and their dramatic 
 
l6 GEORGE SAND, 
 
 force to the anatomization of dead passions and discarded 
 lovers. We have all laughed over the pedantic surgeon in 
 Moliere*s " Malade Imaginaire," who invites his fiancee, 
 as a delightful treat, to see him dissect the body of a 
 woman. I am afraid that George Sand did sometime? 
 invite an admiring public to an exhibition yet mort 
 ghastly and revolting, — the dissection of the heart of h 
 dead lover. 
 
 But, in truth, we shall never judge George Sand and 
 her writings at all, if we insist on criticising them from 
 any point of view set up by the proprieties or even tha 
 moralities of Old Endand or New Endand. When the 
 passionate young woman, — in whose veins ran the wild 
 blood of Marshal Saxe, — found herself surrendered by 
 legality and prescription to a marriage bond against which 
 her soul revolted, society seemed for her to have resolved 
 itself into its original elements. Its conventionalities and 
 traditions contained nothing which she held herself bound 
 to respect. The world was not her friend, nor the world's 
 law. By one great decisive step she sundered herself 
 forever from the bonds of what we call '' society." She 
 had shaken the dust of convention from her feet ; the 
 world was all before her where to choose. No crea- 
 ture on earth is so absolutely free as the Frenchwoman 
 who has broken with society. There, then, stood this 
 daring young woman, on the threshold of a new, fresh, 
 and illimitable world ; a young woman gifted with 
 genius such as our later years have rarely seen, and 
 blessed or cursed with a nature so strangely uniting the 
 most characteristic qualities of man and woman, as to be 
 in itself quite unparalleled and unique. Just think of 
 it, — try to think of it ! Society and the world had no 
 longer any laws which she recognized. Nothing was 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 17 
 
 sacred ; nothing was settled. She had to evolve from her 
 own heart and brain her own law of life. What wonder 
 if she made some sad mistakes? Nay, is it not rather a 
 theme for wonder and admiration that she did somehow 
 come right at last ? I know of no one who seems to me 
 to have been open at once to the temptations of woman's 
 nature and man's nature, except this George Sand. Her 
 soul, — her brain, — her style may be described, from one 
 point of view, as exuberantly and splendidly feminine ; 
 yet no other woman has ever shown the same power of 
 understandings and entering into the nature of a man. If 
 Balzac is the only man who has ever thoroughly mastered 
 the mysteries of a woman's heart, George Sand is the 
 only woman, so far as I know, who has ever shown that 
 she could feel as a man can feel. I have read stray pas- 
 sages in her novels which I would confidently submit to 
 the criticism of any intelligent men unacquainted with 
 the text, convinced that they would declare that only a 
 man could have thus analyzed the emotions of manhood. 
 I have in my mind, just now especially, a passage in the 
 Qovel " Piccinino " which, were the authorship unknown, 
 would, I am satisfied, secure the decision of a jury of lit- 
 erary experts that the author must be a man. Now this 
 gift of entire appreciation of the feelings of a different 
 sex or race is, I take it, one of the rarest and highest 
 dramatic qualities. Especially is it difficult for a woman, 
 as our social life goes, to enter into the feelings of a man. 
 While men and women alike admit the accuracy of cer- 
 tain pictures of women drawn by such artists as Cer- 
 vantes, Moliere, Balzac, and Thackeray, there are few 
 women, — indeed, perhaps there are no women but one, — 
 Oy whom a man has been so painted as to challenge and 
 compel the recognition and acknowledgment of men. Id 
 J 
 
l8 GEORGE SAND, 
 
 " The Galaxy," some months ago, I wrote of a great 
 Englishwoman, the authoress of " Romola,'* and I ex- 
 pressed my conviction that on the whole she is entitled to 
 higher rank, as a novelist, than even the authoress of 
 " Consuelo." Many, very many men and women, for 
 whose judgment I have the highest respect, diifered 
 from me in this opinion. I still hold it, nevertheless ; 
 but I freely admit that George Eliot has nothing like the 
 dramatic insight which enables George Sand to enter into 
 the feelings and experiences of a man. I go so far as to 
 say that, having some knowledge of the literature of 
 fiction in most countries, I am not aware of the existence 
 of any woman but this one, who could draw a real, living, 
 struggling, passion-tortured man. All other novelists of 
 George Sand's sex, — even including Charlotte Bronte, — 
 draw only what I may call " women's men." If ever the 
 two natures could be united in one form, — if ever a 
 single human being could have the soul of man and the 
 soul of woman at once, — George Sand might be de- 
 scribed as that physical and psychological phenomenon. 
 Now the point to which I wish to direct attention, is the 
 peculiarity of the temptation to which a nature such as this 
 was necessarily exposed at every turn when, free of all re- 
 straint and a rebel against all conventionality, it confronted 
 the world and the world's law, and stood up, itself alone, 
 against the domination of custom and the majesty of tra- 
 dition. I claim, then, that when we have taken all these 
 considerations into account, we are bound to admit that 
 Aurora Dudevant deserves the generous recognition of 
 the world for the use which she made of her splendid 
 gifts. Her influence on French literature has been, on 
 the Avhole, a purifying and strengthening power. The 
 cynicism, the recklessness, the wanton, licentious disr»« 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 19 
 
 ^ard of any manner of principle, the debasing parade of 
 disbelief in any higher purpose or nobler restraint, which 
 are the shame and curse of modem French fiction, find 
 no sanction in the pages of George Sand. I remember 
 no passage in her works which gives the slightest encour- 
 agement to the " nothing new, and nothing true, and it 
 don't signify " code of ethics which has been so much in 
 fashion of late years. I find nothing in George Sand 
 which does not do homage to the existence of a principle 
 and a law in everything. This daring woman, who broke 
 with society so early and so conspicuously, has always in- 
 sisted, through every illustration, character, and catas- 
 trophe in her books, that the one only reality, the one only 
 thing that can endure, is the rule of right and of virtue. 
 Nor has she ever, that I can recollect, fallen into the en- 
 feebling and sentimental theory so commonly expressed in 
 the works of Victor Hugo, that the vague abstraction 
 society is always to bear the blame of the faults commit- 
 ted by the individual man or woman. Of all persons in 
 the world, Aurora Dudevant might be supposed most likely 
 to adopt this easy and complacent theory as her guiding 
 principle. She had every excuse, every reason for en- 
 deavoring to preach up the doctrine that our errors are 
 societ/s and our virtues our own. But I am not aware 
 that she ever taught any lesson save the lesson that men 
 and women must endeavor to be heroes and heroines for 
 themselves, heroes and heroines though all the world else 
 were craven, and weak, and selfish, and unprincipled. 
 Even that wretched and lamentable " Elle et Lui" affair, 
 utterly inexcusable as it is when we read between the lines 
 its secret history, has, at least, the merit of being an earn- 
 est and powerful protest against the egotistical and debas- 
 ing indulgence of moral weaknesses and eccentricities 
 
ao GEORGE SAND. 
 
 which mean and vulgar minds are apt to regard as tha 
 privilege of genius. " Stand upon your own ground ; bo 
 your own ruler ; look to yourself, not to your stars, for 
 your failure or success ; always make your standard a 
 lofty ideal, and try persistently to reach it, though all the 
 temptations of earth, and all the power of darkness strive 
 against you " — this, and nothing else, if I have read her 
 books rightly, is the moral taught by George Sand. She 
 may be wrong in her principle sometimes, but, at least, 
 she always has a principle. She has a profound and gen- 
 erous faith in the possibilities of human nature ; in the 
 capacity of man's heart for purity, self-sacrifice, and self- 
 redemption. Indeed, so far is she from holding counsel 
 with wilful weakness or sin, that I think she sometimes 
 falls into the noble error of painting her heroes as too 
 glorious in their triumph over temptation, in their subju- 
 gation of every passion and interest to the dictates of duty 
 and of honor. Take, for instance, that extraordinary 
 book which has just been given to the American public 
 in Miss Virginia Vaughan's excellent translation, ''Mau* 
 prat." If I understand that magnificent romance at all, 
 its purport is to prove that no human nature is ever 
 plunged into temptation beyond its own strength to resist, 
 provided that it really wills resistance ; that no character 
 is irretrievable, no error inexpiable, where there is sincere 
 resolve to expiate, and longing desire to retrieve. Take^ 
 again, that exquisite little story, " La Demiere Aldini " ;; 
 I do not know where one could find a finer illustration ot 
 the entire sacrifice of man's natural impulse, passion, in- 
 terest, to what might almost be called an abstract idea of 
 honor and principle. I have never read this little story 
 without wondering how many men one ever has known 
 who, placed in the same situation as that of Nello, tha 
 
^ GEORGE SAND, 21 
 
 hero, would have done the same thing ; and yet so simply 
 and naturally are the characters wrought out, and the in- 
 cidents described, that the idea of pompous, dramatic self- 
 sacrifice never enters the mind of the reader, and it seems 
 to him that Nello could not do otherwise than as he is 
 doing. I speak of these two stories particularly, because 
 in both of them there is a good deal of the world and the 
 flesh ; that is, both are stories of strong human passion 
 and temptation. Many of George Sand's novels, the 
 shorter ones especially, are as absolutely pure in moral 
 tone, as entirely free from even a taint or suggestion of 
 impurity, as they are perfect in style. Now, if we cannot 
 help knowing that much of this great woman's life was far 
 from being irreproachable, are we not bound to give her 
 all the fuller credit, because her genius, at least, kept so- 
 far the whiteness of its soul ? Revolutions are not to be 
 made with rose-water ; you cannot have omelettes without 
 breaking of eggs. I am afraid that great social revolu- 
 tionists are not often creatures of the most pure and per- 
 fect nature. It is not to patient Griselda you must look 
 for any protest against even the uttermost tyranny of so- 
 cial conventions. One thing I think may, at least, be 
 admitted as part of George Sand's vindication, — that the 
 marriage system in France is the most debased and debas- 
 ing institution existing in civilized society, now that the 
 buying and selling of slaves has ceased to be a tolerated 
 system. I hold that the most ardent advocates of the 
 irrevocable endurance of the marriage bond are bound, by 
 their very principles, to admit that, in protesting against 
 the so-called marriage system of France, George Sand 
 stood on the side of purity and right. Assuredly, she 
 often went into extravagances in the other direction. It 
 8eems to be the fate of all French reformers to rush sud* 
 
22 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 denly to extremes ; and we must remember that George 
 Sand was not a Bristol Quakeress, or a Boston transcend- 
 €ntalist, but a passionate Frenchwoman, the descendant 
 ■of one of the maddest votaries of love and war who ever 
 fitormed across the stage of European history. 
 
 Regarding George Sand, then, as an influence in litera- 
 ture, and on society, I claim for her at least four great 
 .and special merits : First, she insisted on calling public 
 attention to the true principle of marriage ; that is to say, 
 ■she put the question as it had not been put before. Of 
 course, the fundamental principle she would have enforced 
 is always being urged more or less feebly, more or less 
 sincerely ; but she made it her own question, and illumin- 
 ated it by the fervid, fierce rays of her genius and her 
 -passion. Secondly, her works are an exposition of the 
 tremendous reality of the feelings which people who call 
 themselves practical are apt to regard with indifference or 
 -contempt as mere sentiments. In the long run, the pas- 
 sions decide the life-question one way or the other. They 
 are the tide which, as you know or do not know how to 
 use it, will either turn your miU and float your boat, or 
 drown your fields and sweep away your dwellings. Life 
 •and society receive no impulse and no direction from the 
 influences out of which the novels of Dickens, or even of 
 Thackeray, are made up. These are but pleasant or ten- 
 der toying with the playthings and puppets of existence. 
 ■George Sand constrains us to look at the realities through 
 the medium of her fiction. Thirdly, she insists that man 
 can and shall make his own career ; not whine to the 
 stars, and rail out against the powers above, when he has 
 weakly or wantonly marred his own destiny. Fourthly, 
 — and this ought not to be considered her least service to 
 the literature of her country, — she has tried to teach 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 23 
 
 people to look at Nature with their own ey^s, and to invite 
 the true love of her to flow into their hearts. The great 
 service which Ruskin, with all his eccentricities and ex- 
 travagances, has rendered to English-speaking peoples by 
 teaching them to use their own eyes when they look at 
 clouds, and waters, and grasses, and hills, George Sand 
 has rendered to France. 
 
 I hold that these are virtues and services which 
 ought to outweigh even very grave personal and 
 artistic errors. We often hear that this or that great 
 poet or romancist has painted men as they are ; this 
 other as they ought to be. I think George Sand paints 
 men as they are, and also not merely as they ought to be, 
 but as they can be. The sum of the lesson taught by 
 her books is one of confidence in man's possibilities, and 
 hope in his steady progress. At the same time she is 
 entirely practical in her faith and her aspirations. She 
 never expects that the trees are to grow up into the 
 heavens, that men and women are to be other than men 
 and women. She does not want them to be other ; she 
 finds the springs and sources of their social regeneration 
 in the fact that they are just what they are, to begin 
 with. I am afraid some of the ladies who seem to base 
 their scheme of woman's emancipation and equality on the 
 assumption that, by some development of time or 
 process of schooling, a condition of things is to be 
 brought about where difference of sex is no longer to be 
 a disturbing power, will find small comfort or encourage- 
 ment in the writings of George Sand. She deals in 
 realities altogether ; the realities of life, even when they 
 are such as to shallow minds may seem mere sentiments 
 and ecstacies ; the realities of society, of suffering, of 
 passion, of inanimate nature. There is in her nothing 
 
24 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 unmeaning, nothing untrue ; there is in her much error, 
 doubtless, but no sham. 
 
 I believe George Sand is growing into a quiet and 
 beautiful old age. After a life of storm and stress, a life 
 which, metaphorically at least, was " worn by war and 
 passion," her closing years seem likely to be gilded with 
 the calm glory of an autumnal sunset. One is glad to 
 think of her thus happy and peaceful, accepting so 
 tranquilly the reality of old age, still laboring with hef 
 unwearied pen, still delighting in books, and landscapes, 
 and friends, and work. The world can well afford to 
 forget as soon as possible her literary and other errors. 
 Of the vast mass of romances, stories, plays, sketches, 
 criticisms, pamphlets, political articles, even, it is said, 
 ministerial manifestoes of republican days, which she 
 poured out, only a few comparatively will perhaps be 
 always treasured by posterity ; but these will be enough 
 to secure her a classic place. And she will not be 
 remembered by her writings alone. Hers is probably 
 the most powerful individuality displayed by any mod- 
 ern Frenchwoman. The influence of Madame Roland 
 was but a glittering unreality, that of Madame de 
 Stael only a boudoir and coterie success, when com- 
 pared with the power exercised over literature, human 
 feeling, and social law, by the energy, the courage, the 
 genius, even the very errors and extravagances of George 
 Sand. 
 
MO! 
 
 
 o 
 
 m 
 
 T 
 
 srn 
 rc 
 
 m 
 o 
 m 
 
 < 
 m 
 o 
 
 
 J^ 
 
 
 rr 
 
 -19 
 
 3jr- D > 
 n O m 1^ 
 s > z •- 
 
 
 X 
 
 o 
 
 O 
 > 
 
 Z 
 
 OS 
 
 Is 
 
 m Z "1 09 
 
 ?. T ^ o 
 
 
 s 
 
 -o 
 
 i^ 
 
 ?^n:?o 
 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 T ^ 
 
 y. ~ tn ^ 
 
 
 
 TO 
 
 
 
 
 C 
 </> 
 m 
 
 o 
 
 o 
 
 
 c r X •" 
 
 
 
 — ' 
 
 ro? 
 
 
 
 
 
 5f 
 
 H^ 
 
 Ln 
 
 
 To 
 
 1", m> 
 
 
 
 
 Q 5 
 
 r J (/if 
 
 
 
 
 -• J 
 
 
 
 
 
 D - 
 
 ' ^ 
 
 
 
 
 r-7 
 
 J^ 
 
 
 
 
 — • V 
 
 . ??o 
 
 
 
 
 —\ • 
 
 :]^ 
 
 
 
 
 Q C 
 
 
 
 
 
 -^ s 
 
 : s^^ 
 
 
 
 
 < E 
 
 cv< 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 - JK/» 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 < < 
 
 
 
 
 J 
 
 ,n (-T 
 
 
 
 ~ 
 
 a 
 
 S| 
 
 O 
 
 
 
 
 O 
 
 
 
 
 « 
 
 u 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 I—* 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 *^ 
 
 C 
 
 
 
 
 /— ^ 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 
 C-/ 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 CD 
 
 ni 
 
 
 
 
 OO 
 

 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 f^i^i^^^*^Mm