THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN EYES

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated by Ellen Marriage

PREPARER'S NOTE:

 The Girl with the Golden Eyes is the third part of a trilogy. Part one is entitled Ferragus and part two is The Duchesse de Langeais. The three stories are frequently combined under the title The Thirteen. 

 DEDICATION

 To Eugene Delacroix, Painter. 

 THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN EYES

One of those sights in which most horror is to be encountered is, surely, the general aspect of the Parisian populace--a people fearfulto behold, gaunt, yellow, tawny. Is not Paris a vast field inperpetual turmoil from a storm of interests beneath which are whirledalong a crop of human beings, who are, more often than not, reaped bydeath, only to be born again as pinched as ever, men whose twisted andcontorted faces give out at every pore the instinct, the desire, thepoisons with which their brains are pregnant; not faces so much asmasks; masks of weakness, masks of strength, masks of misery, masks ofjoy, masks of hypocrisy; all alike worn and stamped with the indeliblesigns of a panting cupidity? What is it they want? Gold or pleasure? Afew observations upon the soul of Paris may explain the causes of itscadaverous physiognomy, which has but two ages--youth and decay:youth, wan and colorless; decay, painted to seem young. In looking atthis excavated people, foreigners, who are not prone to reflection, experience at first a movement of disgust towards the capital, thatvast workshop of delights, from which, in a short time, they cannoteven extricate themselves, and where they stay willingly to becorrupted. A few words will suffice to justify physiologically thealmost infernal hue of Parisian faces, for it is not in mere sportthat Paris has been called a hell. Take the phrase for truth. Thereall is smoke and fire, everything gleams, crackles, flames, evaporates, dies out, then lights up again, with shooting sparks, andis consumed. In no other country has life ever been more ardent oracute. The social nature, even in fusion, seems to say after eachcompleted work: "Pass on to another!" just as Nature says herself. Like Nature herself, this social nature is busied with insects andflowers of a day--ephemeral trifles; and so, too, it throws up fireand flame from its eternal crater. Perhaps, before analyzing thecauses which lend a special physiognomy to each tribe of thisintelligent and mobile nation, the general cause should be pointed outwhich bleaches and discolors, tints with blue or brown individuals inmore or less degree. 

By dint of taking interest in everything, the Parisian ends by beinginterested in nothing. No emotion dominating his face, which frictionhas rubbed away, it turns gray like the faces of those houses uponwhich all kinds of dust and smoke have blown. In effect, the Parisian, with his indifference on the day for what the morrow will bring forth, lives like a child, whatever may be his age. He grumbles ateverything, consoles himself for everything, jests at everything, forgets, desires, and tastes everything, seizes all with passion, quits all with indifference--his kings, his conquests, his glory, hisidols of bronze or glass--as he throws away his stockings, his hats, and his fortune. In Paris no sentiment can withstand the drift ofthings, and their current compels a struggle in which the passions arerelaxed: there love is a desire, and hatred a whim; there's no truekinsman but the thousand-franc note, no better friend than thepawnbroker. This universal toleration bears its fruits, and in thesalon, as in the street, there is no one _de trop_, there is no oneabsolutely useful, or absolutely harmful--knaves or fools, men of witor integrity. There everything is tolerated: the government and theguillotine, religion and the cholera. You are always acceptable tothis world, you will never be missed by it. What, then, is thedominating impulse in this country without morals, without faith, without any sentiment, wherein, however, every sentiment, belief, andmoral has its origin and end? It is gold and pleasure. Take those twowords for a lantern, and explore that great stucco cage, that hivewith its black gutters, and follow the windings of that thought whichagitates, sustains, and occupies it! Consider! And, in the firstplace, examine the world which possesses nothing. 

The artisan, the man of the proletariat, who uses his hands, histongue, his back, his right arm, his five fingers, to live--well, thisvery man, who should be the first to economize his vital principle, outruns his strength, yokes his wife to some machine, wears out hischild, and ties him to the wheel. The manufacturer--or I know not whatsecondary thread which sets in motion all these folk who with theirfoul hands mould and gild porcelain, sew coats and dresses, beat outiron, turn wood and steel, weave hemp, festoon crystal, imitateflowers, work woolen things, break in horses, dress harness, carve incopper, paint carriages, blow glass, corrode the diamond, polishmetals, turn marble into leaves, labor on pebbles, deck out thought, tinge, bleach, or blacken everything--well, this middleman has come tothat world of sweat and good-will, of study and patience, withpromises of lavish wages, either in the name of the town's caprices orwith the voice of the monster dubbed speculation. Thus, these_quadrumanes_ set themselves to watch, work, and suffer, to fast, sweat, and bestir them. Then, careless of the future, greedy ofpleasure, counting on their right arm as the painter on his palette, lords for one day, they throw their money on Mondays to the _cabarets_which gird the town like a belt of mud, haunts of the most shamelessof the daughters of Venus, in which the periodical money of thispeople, as ferocious in their pleasures as they are calm at work, issquandered as it had been at play. For five days, then, there is norepose for this laborious portion of Paris! It is given up to actionswhich make it warped and rough, lean and pale, gush forth with athousand fits of creative energy. And then its pleasure, its repose, are an exhausting debauch, swarthy and black with blows, white withintoxication, or yellow with indigestion. It lasts but two days, butit steals to-morrow's bread, the week's soup, the wife's dress, thechild's wretched rags. Men, born doubtless to be beautiful--for allcreatures have a relative beauty--are enrolled from their childhoodbeneath the yoke of force, beneath the rule of the hammer, the chisel, the loom, and have been promptly vulcanized. Is not Vulcan, with hishideousness and his strength, the emblem of this strong and hideousnation--sublime in its mechanical intelligence, patient in its season, and once in a century terrible, inflammable as gunpowder, and ripewith brandy for the madness of revolution, with wits enough, in fine, to take fire at a captious word, which signifies to it always: Goldand Pleasure! If we comprise in it all those who hold out their handsfor an alms, for lawful wages, or the five francs that are granted toevery kind of Parisian prostitution, in short, for all the money wellor ill earned, this people numbers three hundred thousand individuals. Were it not for the _cabarets_, would not the Government be overturnedevery Tuesday? Happily, by Tuesday, this people is glutted, sleeps offits pleasure, is penniless, and returns to its labor, to dry bread, stimulated by a need of material procreation, which has become a habitto it. None the less, this people has its phenomenal virtues, itscomplete men, unknown Napoleons, who are the type of its strengthcarried to its highest expression, and sum up its social capacity inan existence wherein thought and movement combine less to bring joyinto it than to neutralize the action of sorrow. 

Chance has made an artisan economical, chance has favored him withforethought, he has been able to look forward, has met with a wife andfound himself a father, and, after some years of hard privation, heembarks in some little draper's business, hires a shop. If neithersickness nor vice blocks his way--if he has prospered--there is thesketch of this normal life. 

And, in the first place, hail to that king of Parisian activity, towhom time and space give way. Yes, hail to that being, composed ofsaltpetre and gas, who makes children for France during his laboriousnights, and in the day multiplies his personality for the service, glory, and pleasure of his fellow-citizens. This man solves theproblem of sufficing at once to his amiable wife, to his hearth, tothe _Constitutionnel_, to his office, to the National Guard, to theopera, and to God; but, only in order that the _Constitutionnel_, hisoffice, the National Guard, the opera, his wife, and God may bechanged into coin. In fine, hail to an irreproachable pluralist. Upevery day at five o'clock, he traverses like a bird the space whichseparates his dwelling from the Rue Montmartre. Let it blow orthunder, rain or snow, he is at the _Constitutionnel_, and waits therefor the load of newspapers which he has undertaken to distribute. Hereceives this political bread with eagerness, takes it, bears it away. At nine o'clock he is in the bosom of his family, flings a jest to hiswife, snatches a loud kiss from her, gulps down a cup of coffee, orscolds his children. At a quarter to ten he puts in an appearance atthe _Mairie_. There, stuck upon a stool, like a parrot on its perch, warmed by Paris town, he registers until four o'clock, with never atear or a smile, the deaths and births of an entire district. Thesorrow, the happiness, of the parish flow beneath his pen--as theessence of the _Constitutionnel_ traveled before upon his shoulders. Nothing weighs upon him! He goes always straight before him, takes hispatriotism ready made from the newspaper, contradicts no one, shoutsor applauds with the world, and lives like a bird. Two yards from hisparish, in the event of an important ceremony, he can yield his placeto an assistant, and betake himself to chant a requiem from a stall inthe church of which on Sundays he is the fairest ornament, where hisis the most imposing voice, where he distorts his huge mouth withenergy to thunder out a joyous _Amen_. So is he chorister. At fouro'clock, freed from his official servitude, he reappears to shed joyand gaiety upon the most famous shop in the city. Happy is his wife, he has no time to be jealous: he is a man of action rather than ofsentiment. His mere arrival spurs the young ladies at the counter;their bright eyes storm the customers; he expands in the midst of allthe finery, the lace and muslin kerchiefs, that their cunning handshave wrought. Or, again, more often still, before his dinner he waitson a client, copies the page of a newspaper, or carries to thedoorkeeper some goods that have been delayed. Every other day, at six, he is faithful to his post. A permanent bass for the chorus, hebetakes himself to the opera, prepared to become a soldier or an arab, prisoner, savage, peasant, spirit, camel's leg or lion, a devil or agenie, a slave or a eunuch, black or white; always ready to feign joyor sorrow, pity or astonishment, to utter cries that never vary, tohold his tongue, to hunt, or fight for Rome or Egypt, but always atheart--a huckster still. 

At midnight he returns--a man, the good husband, the tender father; heslips into the conjugal bed, his imagination still afire with theillusive forms of the operatic nymphs, and so turns to the profit ofconjugal love the world's depravities, the voluptuous curves ofTaglioni's leg. And finally, if he sleeps, he sleeps apace, andhurries through his slumber as he does his life. 

This man sums up all things--history, literature, politics, government, religion, military science. Is he not a livingencyclopaedia, a grotesque Atlas; ceaselessly in motion, like Parisitself, and knowing not repose? He is all legs. No physiognomy couldpreserve its purity amid such toils. Perhaps the artisan who dies atthirty, an old man, his stomach tanned by repeated doses of brandy, will be held, according to certain leisured philosophers, to behappier than the huckster is. The one perishes in a breath, and theother by degrees. From his eight industries, from the labor of hisshoulders, his throat, his hands, from his wife and his business, theone derives--as from so many farms--children, some thousands offrancs, and the most laborious happiness that has ever diverted theheart of man. This fortune and these children, or the children who sumup everything for him, become the prey of the world above, to which hebrings his ducats and his daughter or his son, reared at college, who, with more education than his father, raises higher his ambitious gaze. Often the son of a retail tradesman would fain be something in theState. 

Ambition of that sort carries on our thought to the second Parisiansphere. Go up one story, then, and descend to the _entresol_: or climbdown from the attic and remain on the fourth floor; in fine, penetrateinto the world which has possessions: the same result! Wholesalemerchants, and their men--people with small banking accounts and muchintegrity--rogues and catspaws, clerks old and young, sheriffs'clerks, barristers' clerks, solicitors' clerks; in fine, all theworking, thinking, and speculating members of that lower middle classwhich honeycombs the interests of Paris and watches over its granary, accumulates the coin, stores the products that the proletariat havemade, preserves the fruits of the South, the fishes, the wine fromevery sun-favored hill; which stretches its hands over the Orient, andtakes from it the shawls that the Russ and the Turk despise; whichharvests even from the Indies; crouches down in expectation of a sale, greedy of profit; which discounts bills, turns over and collects allkinds of securities, holds all Paris in its hand, watches over thefantasies of children, spies out the caprices and the vices of matureage, sucks money out of disease. Even so, if they drink no brandy, like the artisan, nor wallow in the mire of debauch, all equally abusetheir strength, immeasurably strain their bodies and their mindsalike, are burned away with desires, devastated with the swiftness ofthe pace. In their case the physical distortion is accomplishedbeneath the whip of interests, beneath the scourge of ambitions whichtorture the educated portion of this monstrous city, just as in thecase of the proletariat it is brought about by the cruel see-saw ofthe material elaborations perpetually required from the despotism ofthe aristocratic "_I will_. " Here, too, then, in order to obey thatuniversal master, pleasure or gold, they must devour time, hastentime, find more than four-and-twenty hours in the day and night, wastethemselves, slay themselves, and purchase two years of unhealthyrepose with thirty years of old age. Only, the working-man dies inhospital when the last term of his stunted growth expires; whereas theman of the middle class is set upon living, and lives on, but in astate of idiocy. You will meet him, with his worn, flat old face, withno light in his eyes, with no strength in his limbs, dragging himselfwith a dazed air along the boulevard--the belt of his Venus, of hisbeloved city. What was his want? The sabre of the National Guard, apermanent stock-pot, a decent plot in Pere Lachaise, and, for his oldage, a little gold honestly earned. _HIS_ Monday is on Sunday, hisrest a drive in a hired carriage--a country excursion during which hiswife and children glut themselves merrily with dust or bask in thesun; his dissipation is at the restaurateur's, whose poisonous dinnerhas won renown, or at some family ball, where he suffocates tillmidnight. Some fools are surprised at the phantasmagoria of the monadswhich they see with the aid of the microscope in a drop of water; butwhat would Rabelais' Gargantua, --that misunderstood figure of anaudacity so sublime, --what would that giant say, fallen from thecelestial spheres, if he amused himself by contemplating the motionsof this secondary life of Paris, of which here is one of the formulae?Have you seen one of those little constructions--cold in summer, andwith no other warmth than a small stove in winter--placed beneath thevast copper dome which crowns the Halle-auble? Madame is there bymorning. She is engaged at the markets, and makes by this occupationtwelve thousand francs a year, people say. Monsieur, when Madame isup, passes into a gloomy office, where he lends money till theweek-end to the tradesmen of his district. By nine o'clock he is atthe passport office, of which he is one of the minor officials. Byevening he is at the box-office of the Theatre Italien, or of any othertheatre you like. The children are put out to nurse, and only returnto be sent to college or to boarding-school. Monsieur and Madame liveon the third floor, have but one cook, give dances in a salon twelvefoot by eight, lit by argand lamps; but they give a hundred and fiftythousand francs to their daughter, and retire at the age of fifty, anage when they begin to show themselves on the balcony of the opera, ina _fiacre_ at Longchamps; or, on sunny days, in faded clothes on theboulevards--the fruit of all this sowing. Respected by theirneighbors, in good odor with the government, connected with the uppermiddle classes, Monsieur obtains at sixty-five the Cross of the Legionof Honor, and his daughter's father-in-law, a parochial mayor, inviteshim to his evenings. These life-long labors, then, are for the good ofthe children, whom these lower middle classes are inevitably driven toexalt. Thus each sphere directs all its efforts towards the sphereabove it. The son of the rich grocer becomes a notary, the son of thetimber merchant becomes a magistrate. No link is wanting in the chain, and everything stimulates the upward march of money. 

Thus we are brought to the third circle of this hell, which, perhaps, will some day find its Dante. In this third social circle, a sort ofParisian belly, in which the interests of the town are digested, andwhere they are condensed into the form known as _business_, theremoves and agitates, as by some acrid and bitter intestinal process, the crowd of lawyers, doctors, notaries, councillors, business men, bankers, big merchants, speculators, and magistrates. Here are to befound even more causes of moral and physical destruction thanelsewhere. These people--almost all of them--live in unhealthyoffices, in fetid ante-chambers, in little barred dens, and spendtheir days bowed down beneath the weight of affairs; they rise at dawnto be in time, not to be left behind, to gain all or not to lose, tooverreach a man or his money, to open or wind up some business, totake advantage of some fleeting opportunity, to get a man hanged orset him free. They infect their horses, they overdrive and age andbreak them, like their own legs, before their time. Time is theirtyrant: it fails them, it escapes them; they can neither expand it norcut it short. What soul can remain great, pure, moral, and generous, and, consequently, what face retain its beauty in this depravingpractice of a calling which compels one to bear the weight of thepublic sorrows, to analyze them, to weigh them, estimate them, andmark them out by rule? Where do these folk put aside theirhearts? . . . I do not know; but they leave them somewhere or other, when they have any, before they descend each morning into the abyss ofthe misery which puts families on the rack. For them there is no suchthing as mystery; they see the reverse side of society, whoseconfessors they are, and despise it. Then, whatever they do, owing totheir contact with corruption, they either are horrified at it andgrow gloomy, or else, out of lassitude, or some secret compromise, espouse it. In fine, they necessarily become callous to everysentiment, since man, his laws and his institutions, make them steal, like jackals, from corpses that are still warm. At all hours thefinancier is trampling on the living, the attorney on the dead, thepleader on the conscience. Forced to be speaking without a rest, theyall substitute words for ideas, phrases for feelings, and their soulbecomes a larynx. Neither the great merchant, nor the judge, nor thepleader preserves his sense of right; they feel no more, they applyset rules that leave cases out of count. Borne along by their headlongcourse, they are neither husbands nor fathers nor lovers; they glideon sledges over the facts of life, and live at all times at the highpressure conduced by business and the vast city. When they return totheir homes they are required to go to a ball, to the opera, intosociety, where they can make clients, acquaintances, protectors. Theyall eat to excess, play and keep vigil, and their faces becomebloated, flushed, and emaciated. 

To this terrific expenditure of intellectual strength, to suchmultifold moral contradictions, they oppose--not, indeed pleasure, itwould be too pale a contrast--but debauchery, a debauchery both secretand alarming, for they have all means at their disposal, and fix themorality of society. Their genuine stupidity lies hid beneath theirspecialism. They know their business, but are ignorant of everythingwhich is outside it. So that to preserve their self-conceit theyquestion everything, are crudely and crookedly critical. They appearto be sceptics and are in reality simpletons; they swamp their wits ininterminable arguments. Almost all conveniently adopt social, literary, or political prejudices, to do away with the need of havingopinions, just as they adapt their conscience to the standard of theCode or the Tribunal of Commerce. Having started early to become menof note, they turn into mediocrities, and crawl over the high placesof the world. So, too, their faces present the harsh pallor, thedeceitful coloring, those dull, tarnished eyes, and garrulous, sensualmouths, in which the observer recognizes the symptoms of thedegeneracy of the thought and its rotation in the circle of a specialidea which destroys the creative faculties of the brain and the giftof seeing in large, of generalizing and deducing. No man who hasallowed himself to be caught in the revolutions of the gear of thesehuge machines can ever become great. If he is a doctor, either he haspractised little or he is an exception--a Bichat who dies young. If agreat merchant, something remains--he is almost Jacques Coeur. DidRobespierre practise? Danton was an idler who waited. But who, moreover has ever felt envious of the figures of Danton andRobespierre, however lofty they were? These men of affairs, _parexcellence_, attract money to them, and hoard it in order to allythemselves with aristocratic families. If the ambition of theworking-man is that of the small tradesman, here, too, are the samepassions. The type of this class might be either an ambitiousbourgeois, who, after a life of privation and continual scheming, passes into the Council of State as an ant passes through a chink; orsome newspaper editor, jaded with intrigue, whom the king makes a peerof France--perhaps to revenge himself on the nobility; or some notarybecome mayor of his parish: all people crushed with business, who, ifthey attain their end, are literally _killed_ in its attainment. InFrance the usage is to glorify wigs. Napoleon, Louis XVI. , the greatrulers, alone have always wished for young men to fulfil theirprojects. 

Above this sphere the artist world exists. But here, too, the facesstamped with the seal of originality are worn, nobly indeed, but worn, fatigued, nervous. Harassed by a need of production, outrun by theircostly fantasies, worn out by devouring genius, hungry for pleasure, the artists of Paris would all regain by excessive labor what theyhave lost by idleness, and vainly seek to reconcile the world andglory, money and art. To begin with, the artist is ceaselessly pantingunder his creditors; his necessities beget his debts, and his debtsrequire of him his nights. After his labor, his pleasure. The comedianplays till midnight, studies in the morning, rehearses at noon; thesculptor is bent before his statue; the journalist is a marchingthought, like the soldier when at war; the painter who is the fashionis crushed with work, the painter with no occupation, if he feelshimself to be a man of genius, gnaws his entrails. Competition, rivalry, calumny assail talent. Some, in desperation, plunge into theabyss of vice, others die young and unknown because they havediscounted their future too soon. Few of these figures, originallysublime, remain beautiful. On the other hand, the flagrant beauty oftheir heads is not understood. An artist's face is always exorbitant, it is always above or below the conventional lines of what fools callthe _beau-ideal_. What power is it that destroys them? Passion. Everypassion in Paris resolves into two terms: gold and pleasure. Now, doyou not breathe again? Do you not feel air and space purified? Here isneither labor nor suffering. The soaring arch of gold has reached thesummit. From the lowest gutters, where its stream commences, from thelittle shops where it is stopped by puny coffer-dams, from the heartof the counting-houses and great workshops, where its volume is thatof ingots--gold, in the shape of dowries and inheritances, guided bythe hands of young girls or the bony fingers of age, courses towardsthe aristocracy, where it will become a blazing, expansive stream. But, before leaving the four territories upon which the utmost wealthof Paris is based, it is fitting, having cited the moral causes, todeduce those which are physical, and to call attention to apestilence, latent, as it were, which incessantly acts upon the facesof the porter, the artisan, the small shopkeeper; to point out adeleterious influence the corruption of which equals that of theParisian administrators who allow it so complacently to exist!

If the air of the houses in which the greater proportion of the middleclasses live is noxious, if the atmosphere of the streets belches outcruel miasmas into stuffy back-kitchens where there is little air, realize that, apart from this pestilence, the forty thousand houses ofthis great city have their foundations in filth, which the powers thatbe have not yet seriously attempted to enclose with mortar walls solidenough to prevent even the most fetid mud from filtering through thesoil, poisoning the wells, and maintaining subterraneously to Lutetiathe tradition of her celebrated name. Half of Paris sleeps amidst theputrid exhalations of courts and streets and sewers. But let us turnto the vast saloons, gilded and airy; the hotels in their gardens, therich, indolent, happy moneyed world. There the faces are lined andscarred with vanity. There nothing is real. To seek for pleasure is itnot to find _ennui_? People in society have at an early age warpedtheir nature. Having no occupation other than to wallow in pleasure, they have speedily misused their sense, as the artisan has misusedbrandy. Pleasure is of the nature of certain medical substances: inorder to obtain constantly the same effects the doses must be doubled, and death or degradation is contained in the last. All the lowerclasses are on their knees before the wealthy, and watch their tastesin order to turn them into vices and exploit them. Thus you see inthese folk at an early age tastes instead of passions, romanticfantasies and lukewarm loves. There impotence reigns; there ideas haveceased--they have evaporated together with energy amongst theaffectations of the boudoir and the cajolements of women. There arefledglings of forty, old doctors of sixty years. The wealthy obtain inParis ready-made wit and science--formulated opinions which save themthe need of having wit, science, or opinion of their own. Theirrationality of this world is equaled by its weakness and itslicentiousness. It is greedy of time to the point of wasting it. Seekin it for affection as little as for ideas. Its kisses conceal aprofound indifference, its urbanity a perpetual contempt. It has noother fashion of love. Flashes of wit without profundity, a wealth ofindiscretion, scandal, and above all, commonplace. Such is the sum ofits speech; but these happy fortunates pretend that they do not meetto make and repeat maxims in the manner of La Rochefoucauld as thoughthere did not exist a mean, invented by the eighteenth century, between a superfluity and absolute blank. If a few men of characterindulge in witticism, at once subtle and refined, they aremisunderstood; soon, tired of giving without receiving, they remain athome, and leave fools to reign over their territory. This hollow life, this perpetual expectation of a pleasure which never comes, thispermanent _ennui_ and emptiness of soul, heart, and mind, thelassitude of the upper Parisian world, is reproduced on its features, and stamps its parchment faces, its premature wrinkles, thatphysiognomy of the wealthy upon which impotence has set its grimace, in which gold is mirrored, and whence intelligence has fled. 

Such a view of moral Paris proves that physical Paris could not beother than it is. This coroneted town is like a queen, who, beingalways with child, has desires of irresistible fury. Paris is thecrown of the world, a brain which perishes of genius and leads humancivilization; it is a great man, a perpetually creative artist, apolitician with second-sight who must of necessity have wrinkles onhis forehead, the vices of a great man, the fantasies of the artist, and the politician's disillusions. Its physiognomy suggests theevolution of good and evil, battle and victory; the moral combat of'89, the clarion calls of which still re-echo in every corner of theworld; and also the downfall of 1814. Thus this city can no more bemoral, or cordial, or clean, than the engines which impel those proudleviathans which you admire when they cleave the waves! Is not Paris asublime vessel laden with intelligence? Yes, her arms are one of thoseoracles which fatality sometimes allows. The _City of Paris_ has hergreat mast, all of bronze, carved with victories, and for watchman--Napoleon. The barque may roll and pitch, but she cleaves the world, illuminates it through the hundred mouths of her tribunes, ploughs theseas of science, rides with full sail, cries from the height of hertops, with the voice of her scientists and artists: "Onward, advance!Follow me!" She carries a huge crew, which delights in adorning herwith fresh streamers. Boys and urchins laughing in the rigging;ballast of heavy _bourgeoisie_; working-men and sailor-men touchedwith tar; in her cabins the lucky passengers; elegant midshipmen smoketheir cigars leaning over the bulwarks; then, on the deck, hersoldiers, innovators or ambitious, would accost every fresh shore, andshooting out their bright lights upon it, ask for glory which ispleasure, or for love which needs gold. 

Thus the exorbitant movement of the proletariat, the corruptinginfluence of the interests which consume the two middle classes, thecruelties of the artist's thought, and the excessive pleasure which issought for incessantly by the great, explain the normal ugliness ofthe Parisian physiognomy. It is only in the Orient that the human racepresents a magnificent figure, but that is an effect of the constantcalm affected by those profound philosophers with their long pipes, their short legs, their square contour, who despise and hold activityin horror, whilst in Paris the little and the great and the mediocrerun and leap and drive, whipped on by an inexorable goddess, Necessity--the necessity for money, glory, and amusement. Thus, any face whichis fresh and graceful and reposeful, any really young face, is inParis the most extraordinary of exceptions; it is met with rarely. Should you see one there, be sure it belongs either to a young andardent ecclesiastic or to some good abbe of forty with three chins; toa young girl of pure life such as is brought up in certainmiddle-class families; to a mother of twenty, still full of illusions, as she suckles her first-born; to a young man newly embarked from theprovinces, and intrusted to the care of some devout dowager who keepshim without a sou; or, perhaps, to some shop assistant who goes to bedat midnight wearied out with folding and unfolding calico, and risesat seven o'clock to arrange the window; often again to some man ofscience or poetry, who lives monastically in the embrace of a fineidea, who remains sober, patient, and chaste; else to someself-contented fool, feeding himself on folly, reeking of health, in aperpetual state of absorption with his own smile; or to the soft andhappy race of loungers, the only folk really happy in Paris, whichunfolds for them hour by hour its moving poetry. 

Nevertheless, there is in Paris a proportion of privileged beings towhom this excessive movement of industries, interests, affairs, arts, and gold is profitable. These beings are women. Although they alsohave a thousand secret causes which, here more than elsewhere, destroytheir physiognomy, there are to be found in the feminine world littlehappy colonies, who live in Oriental fashion and can preserve theirbeauty; but these women rarely show themselves on foot in the streets, they lie hid like rare plants who only unfold their petals at certainhours, and constitute veritable exotic exceptions. However, Paris isessentially the country of contrasts. If true sentiments are rarethere, there also are to be found, as elsewhere, noble friendships andunlimited devotion. On this battlefield of interests and passions, just as in the midst of those marching societies where egoismtriumphs, where every one is obliged to defend himself, and which wecall _armies_, it seems as though sentiments liked to be complete whenthey showed themselves, and are sublime by juxtaposition. So it iswith faces. In Paris one sometimes sees in the aristocracy, set likestars, the ravishing faces of young people, the fruit of quiteexceptional manners and education. To the youthful beauty of theEnglish stock they unite the firmness of Southern traits. The fire oftheir eyes, a delicious bloom on their lips, the lustrous black oftheir soft locks, a white complexion, a distinguished caste offeatures, render them the flowers of the human race, magnificent tobehold against the mass of other faces, worn, old, wrinkled, andgrimacing. So women, too, admire such young people with that eagerpleasure which men take in watching a pretty girl, elegant, gracious, and embellished with all the virginal charms with which ourimagination pleases to adorn the perfect woman. If this hurried glanceat the population of Paris has enabled us to conceive the rarity of aRaphaelesque face, and the passionate admiration which such an onemust inspire at the first sight, the prime interest of our historywill have been justified. _Quod erat demonstrandum_--if one may bepermitted to apply scholastic formulae to the science of manners. 

Upon one of those fine spring mornings, when the leaves, althoughunfolded, are not yet green, when the sun begins to gild the roofs, and the sky is blue, when the population of Paris issues from itscells to swarm along the boulevards, glides like a serpent of athousand coils through the Rue de la Paix towards the Tuileries, saluting the hymeneal magnificence which the country puts on; on oneof these joyous days, then, a young man as beautiful as the dayitself, dressed with taste, easy of manner--to let out the secret hewas a love-child, the natural son of Lord Dudley and the famousMarquise de Vordac--was walking in the great avenue of the Tuileries. This Adonis, by name Henri de Marsay, was born in France, when LordDudley had just married the young lady, already Henri's mother, to anold gentleman called M. De Marsay. This faded and almost extinguishedbutterfly recognized the child as his own in consideration of the lifeinterest in a fund of a hundred thousand francs definitively assignedto his putative son; a generosity which did not cost Lord Dudley toodear. French funds were worth at that time seventeen francs, fiftycentimes. The old gentleman died without having ever known his wife. Madame de Marsay subsequently married the Marquis de Vordac, butbefore becoming a marquise she showed very little anxiety as to herson and Lord Dudley. To begin with, the declaration of war betweenFrance and England had separated the two lovers, and fidelity at allcosts was not, and never will be, the fashion of Paris. Then thesuccesses of the woman, elegant, pretty, universally adored, crushedin the Parisienne the maternal sentiment. Lord Dudley was no moretroubled about his offspring than was the mother, --the speedyinfidelity of a young girl he had ardently loved gave him, perhaps, asort of aversion for all that issued from her. Moreover, fathers can, perhaps, only love the children with whom they are fully acquainted, asocial belief of the utmost importance for the peace of families, which should be held by all the celibate, proving as it does thatpaternity is a sentiment nourished artificially by woman, custom, andthe law. 

Poor Henri de Marsay knew no other father than that one of the two whowas not compelled to be one. The paternity of M. De Marsay wasnaturally most incomplete. In the natural order, it is but for a fewfleeting instants that children have a father, and M. De Marsayimitated nature. The worthy man would not have sold his name had hebeen free from vices. Thus he squandered without remorse in gamblinghells, and drank elsewhere, the few dividends which the NationalTreasury paid to its bondholders. Then he handed over the child to anaged sister, a Demoiselle de Marsay, who took much care of him, andprovided him, out of the meagre sum allowed by her brother, with atutor, an abbe without a farthing, who took the measure of the youth'sfuture, and determined to pay himself out of the hundred thousandlivres for the care given to his pupil, for whom he conceived anaffection. As chance had it, this tutor was a true priest, one ofthose ecclesiastics cut out to become cardinals in France, or Borgiasbeneath the tiara. He taught the child in three years what he mighthave learned at college in ten. Then the great man, by name the Abbede Maronis, completed the education of his pupil by making him studycivilization under all its aspects: he nourished him on hisexperience, led him little into churches, which at that time wereclosed; introduced him sometimes behind the scenes of theatres, moreoften into the houses of courtesans; he exhibited human emotions tohim one by one; taught him politics in the drawing-rooms, where theysimmered at the time, explained to him the machinery of government, and endeavored out of attraction towards a fine nature, deserted, yetrich in promise, virilely to replace a mother: is not the Church themother of orphans? The pupil was responsive to so much care. Theworthy priest died in 1812, a bishop, with the satisfaction of havingleft in this world a child whose heart and mind were so well mouldedthat he could outwit a man of forty. Who would have expected to havefound a heart of bronze, a brain of steel, beneath external traits asseductive as ever the old painters, those naive artists, had given tothe serpent in the terrestrial paradise? Nor was that all. Inaddition, the good-natured prelate had procured for the child of hischoice certain acquaintances in the best Parisian society, which mightequal in value, in the young man's hand, another hundred thousandinvested livres. In fine, this priest, vicious but politic, scepticalyet learned, treacherous yet amiable, weak in appearance yet asvigorous physically as intellectually, was so genuinely useful to hispupil, so complacent to his vices, so fine a calculator of all kindsof strength, so profound when it was needful to make some humanreckoning, so youthful at table, at Frascati, at--I know not where, that the grateful Henri de Marsay was hardly moved at aught in 1814, except when he looked at the portrait of his beloved bishop, the onlypersonal possession which the prelate had been able to bequeath him(admirable type of the men whose genius will preserve the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, compromised for the moment by thefeebleness of its recruits and the decrepit age of its pontiffs; butif the church likes!). 

The continental war prevented young De Marsay from knowing his realfather. It is doubtful whether he was aware of his name. A desertedchild, he was equally ignorant of Madame de Marsay. Naturally, he hadlittle regret for his putative father. As for Mademoiselle de Marsay, his only mother, he built for her a handsome little monument in PereLachaise when she died. Monseigneur de Maronis had guaranteed to thisold lady one of the best places in the skies, so that when he saw herdie happy, Henri gave her some egotistical tears; he began to weep onhis own account. Observing this grief, the abbe dried his pupil'stears, bidding him observe that the good woman took her snuff mostoffensively, and was becoming so ugly and deaf and tedious that heought to return thanks for her death. The bishop had emancipated hispupil in 1811. Then, when the mother of M. De Marsay remarried, thepriest chose, in a family council, one of those honest dullards, picked out by him through the windows of his confessional, and chargedhim with the administration of the fortune, the revenues of which hewas willing to apply to the needs of the community, but of which hewished to preserve the capital. 

Towards the end of 1814, then, Henri de Marsay had no sentiment ofobligation in the world, and was as free as an unmated bird. Althoughhe had lived twenty-two years he appeared to be barely seventeen. As arule the most fastidious of his rivals considered him to be theprettiest youth in Paris. From his father, Lord Dudley, he had deriveda pair of the most amorously deceiving blue eyes; from his mother thebushiest of black hair, from both pure blood, the skin of a younggirl, a gentle and modest expression, a refined and aristocraticfigure, and beautiful hands. For a woman, to see him was to lose herhead for him; do you understand? to conceive one of those desireswhich eat the heart, which are forgotten because of the impossibilityof satisfying them, because women in Paris are commonly withouttenacity. Few of them say to themselves, after the fashion of men, the"_Je Maintiendrai_, " of the House of Orange. 

Underneath this fresh young life, and in spite of the limpid springsin his eyes, Henri had a lion's courage, a monkey's agility. He couldcut a ball in half at ten paces on the blade of a knife; he rode hishorse in a way that made you realize the fable of the Centaur; drove afour-in-hand with grace; was as light as a cherub and quiet as a lamb, but knew how to beat a townsman at the terrible game of _savate_ orcudgels; moreover, he played the piano in a fashion which would haveenabled him to become an artist should he fall on calamity, and owneda voice which would have been worth to Barbaja fifty thousand francs aseason. Alas, that all these fine qualities, these pretty faults, weretarnished by one abominable vice: he believed neither in man norwoman, God nor Devil. Capricious nature had commenced by endowing him, a priest had completed the work. 

To render this adventure comprehensible, it is necessary to add herethat Lord Dudley naturally found many women disposed to reproducesamples of such a delicious pattern. His second masterpiece of thiskind was a young girl named Euphemie, born of a Spanish lady, rearedin Havana, and brought to Madrid with a young Creole woman of theAntilles, and with all the ruinous tastes of the Colonies, butfortunately married to an old and extremely rich Spanish noble, DonHijos, Marquis de San-Real, who, since the occupation of Spain byFrench troops, had taken up his abode in Paris, and lived in the RueSt. Lazare. As much from indifference as from any respect for theinnocence of youth, Lord Dudley was not in the habit of keeping hischildren informed of the relations he created for them in all parts. That is a slightly inconvenient form of civilization; it has so manyadvantages that we must overlook its drawbacks in consideration of itsbenefits. Lord Dudley, to make no more words of it, came to Paris in1816 to take refuge from the pursuit of English justice, whichprotects nothing Oriental except commerce. The exiled lord, when hesaw Henri, asked who that handsome young man might be. Then, uponhearing the name, "Ah, it is my son. . . . What a pity!" he said. 

Such was the story of the young man who, about the middle of the monthof April, 1815, was walking indolently up the broad avenue of theTuileries, after the fashion of all those animals who, knowing theirstrength, pass along in majesty and peace. Middle-class matrons turnedback naively to look at him again; other women, without turning round, waited for him to pass again, and engraved him in their minds thatthey might remember in due season that fragrant face, which would nothave disadorned the body of the fairest among themselves. 

"What are you doing here on Sunday?" said the Marquis de Ronquerollesto Henri, as he passed. 

"There's a fish in the net, " answered the young man. 

This exchange of thoughts was accomplished by means of two significantglances, without it appearing that either De Ronquerolles or De Marsayhad any knowledge of the other. The young man was taking note of thepassers-by with that promptitude of eye and ear which is peculiar tothe Parisian who seems, at first, to see and hear nothing, but whosees and hears all. 

At that moment a young man came up to him and took him familiarly bythe arm, saying to him: "How are you, my dear De Marsay?"

"Extremely well, " De Marsay answered, with that air of apparentaffection which amongst the young men of Paris proves nothing, eitherfor the present or the future. 

In effect, the youth of Paris resemble the youth of no other town. They may be divided into two classes: the young man who has something, and the young man who has nothing; or the young man who thinks and hewho spends. But, be it well understood this applies only to thosenatives of the soil who maintain in Paris the delicious course of theelegant life. There exist, as well, plenty of other young men, butthey are children who are late in conceiving Parisian life, and whoremain its dupes. They do not speculate, they study; they _fag_, asthe others say. Finally there are to be found, besides, certain youngpeople, rich or poor, who embrace careers and follow them with asingle heart; they are somewhat like the Emile of Rousseau, of theflesh of citizens, and they never appear in society. The diplomaticimpolitely dub them fools. Be they that or no, they augment the numberof those mediocrities beneath the yoke of which France is bowed down. They are always there, always ready to bungle public or privateconcerns with the dull trowel of their mediocrity, bragging of theirimpotence, which they count for conduct and integrity. This sort ofsocial _prizemen_ infests the administration, the army, themagistracy, the chambers, the courts. They diminish and level down thecountry and constitute, in some manner, in the body politic, a lymphwhich infects it and renders it flabby. These honest folk call men oftalent immoral or rogues. If such rogues require to be paid for theirservices, at least their services are there; whereas the other sort doharm and are respected by the mob; but, happily for France, elegantyouth stigmatizes them ceaselessly under the name of louts. 

At the first glance, then, it is natural to consider as very distinctthe two sorts of young men who lead the life of elegance, the amiablecorporation to which Henri de Marsay belonged. But the observer, whogoes beyond the superficial aspect of things, is soon convinced thatthe difference is purely moral, and that nothing is so deceptive asthis pretty outside. Nevertheless, all alike take precedence overeverybody else; speak rightly or wrongly of things, of men, literature, and the fine arts; have ever in their mouth the Pitt andCoburg of each year; interrupt a conversation with a pun, turn intoridicule science and the _savant_; despise all things which they donot know or which they fear; set themselves above all by constitutingthemselves the supreme judges of all. They would all hoax theirfathers, and be ready to shed crocodile tears upon their mothers'breasts; but generally they believe in nothing, blaspheme women, orplay at modesty, and in reality are led by some old woman or an evilcourtesan. They are all equally eaten to the bone with calculation, with depravity, with a brutal lust to succeed, and if you plumbed fortheir hearts you would find in all a stone. In their normal state theyhave the prettiest exterior, stake their friendship at every turn, arecaptivating alike. The same badinage dominates their ever-changingjargon; they seek for oddity in their toilette, glory in repeating thestupidities of such and such actor who is in fashion, and commenceoperations, it matters not with whom, with contempt and impertinence, in order to have, as it were, the first move in the game; but, woebetide him who does not know how to take a blow on one cheek for thesake of rendering two. They resemble, in fine, that pretty white spraywhich crests the stormy waves. They dress and dance, dine and taketheir pleasure, on the day of Waterloo, in the time of cholera orrevolution. Finally, their expenses are all the same, but here thecontrast comes in. Of this fluctuating fortune, so agreeably flungaway, some possess the capital for which the others wait; they havethe same tailors, but the bills of the latter are still to pay. Next, if the first, like sieves, take in ideas of all kinds withoutretaining any, the latter compare them and assimilate all the good. Ifthe first believe they know something, know nothing and understandeverything, lend all to those who need nothing and offer nothing tothose who are in need; the latter study secretly others' thoughts andplace out their money, like their follies, at big interest. The oneclass have no more faithful impressions, because their soul, like amirror, worn from use, no longer reflects any image; the otherseconomize their senses and life, even while they seem, like the first, to be flinging them away broadcast. The first, on the faith of a hope, devote themselves without conviction to a system which has wind andtide against it, but they leap upon another political craft when thefirst goes adrift; the second take the measure of the future, soundit, and see in political fidelity what the English see in commercialintegrity, an element of success. Where the young man of possessionsmakes a pun or an epigram upon the restoration of the throne, he whohas nothing makes a public calculation or a secret reservation, andobtains everything by giving a handshake to his friends. The one denyevery faculty to others, look upon all their ideas as new, as thoughthe world had been made yesterday, they have unlimited confidence inthemselves, and no crueler enemy than those same selves. But theothers are armed with an incessant distrust of men, whom they estimateat their value, and are sufficiently profound to have one thoughtbeyond their friends, whom they exploit; then of evenings, when theylay their heads on their pillows, they weigh men as a miser weighs hisgold pieces. The one are vexed at an aimless impertinence, and allowthemselves to be ridiculed by the diplomatic, who make them dance forthem by pulling what is the main string of these puppets--theirvanity. Thus, a day comes when those who had nothing have something, and those who had something have nothing. The latter look at theircomrades who have achieved positions as cunning fellows; their heartsmay be bad, but their heads are strong. "He is very strong!" is thesupreme praise accorded to those who have attained _quibuscumqueviis_, political rank, a woman, or a fortune. Amongst them are to befound certain young men who play this _role_ by commencing with havingdebts. Naturally, these are more dangerous than those who play itwithout a farthing. 

The young man who called himself a friend of Henri de Marsay was arattle-head who had come from the provinces, and whom the young menthen in fashion were teaching the art of running through aninheritance; but he had one last leg to stand on in his province, inthe shape of a secure establishment. He was simply an heir who hadpassed without any transition from his pittance of a hundred francs amonth to the entire paternal fortune, and who, if he had not witenough to perceive that he was laughed at, was sufficiently cautiousto stop short at two-thirds of his capital. He had learned at Paris, for a consideration of some thousands of francs, the exact value ofharness, the art of not being too respectful to his gloves, learned tomake skilful meditations upon the right wages to give people, and toseek out what bargain was the best to close with them. He set store onhis capacity to speak in good terms of his horses, of his Pyreneanhound; to tell by her dress, her walk, her shoes, to what class awoman belonged; to study _ecarte_, remember a few fashionablecatchwords, and win by his sojourn in Parisian society the necessaryauthority to import later into his province a taste for tea and silverof an English fashion, and to obtain the right of despising everythingaround him for the rest of his days. 

De Marsay had admitted him to his society in order to make use of himin the world, just as a bold speculator employs a confidential clerk. The friendship, real or feigned, of De Marsay was a social positionfor Paul de Manerville, who, on his side, thought himself astute inexploiting, after his fashion, his intimate friend. He lived in thereflecting lustre of his friend, walked constantly under his umbrella, wore his boots, gilded himself with his rays. When he posed in Henri'scompany or walked at his side, he had the air of saying: "Don't insultus, we are real dogs. " He often permitted himself to remark fatuously:"If I were to ask Henri for such and such a thing, he is a good enoughfriend of mine to do it. " But he was careful never to ask anything ofhim. He feared him, and his fear, although imperceptible, reacted uponthe others, and was of use to De Marsay. 

"De Marsay is a man of a thousand, " said Paul. "Ah, you will see, hewill be what he likes. I should not be surprised to find him one ofthese days Minister of Foreign Affairs. Nothing can withstand him. "

He made of De Marsay what Corporal Trim made of his cap, a perpetualinstance. 

"Ask De Marsay and you will see!"

Or again:

"The other day we were hunting, De Marsay and I, He would not believeme, but I jumped a hedge without moving on my horse!"

Or again:

"We were with some women, De Marsay and I, and upon my word of honor, I was----" etc. 

Thus Paul de Manerville could not be classed amongst the great, illustrious, and powerful family of fools who succeed. He would oneday be a deputy. For the time he was not even a young man. His friend, De Marsay, defined him thus: "You ask me what is Paul? Paul? Why, Paulde Manerville!"

"I am surprised, my dear fellow, " he said to De Marsay, "to see youhere on a Sunday. "

"I was going to ask you the same question. "

"Is it an intrigue?"

"An intrigue. "

"Bah!"

"I can mention it to you without compromising my passion. Besides, awoman who comes to the Tuileries on Sundays is of no account, aristocratically speaking. "

"Ah! ah!"

"Hold your tongue then, or I shall tell you nothing. Your laugh is tooloud, you will make people think that we have lunched too well. LastThursday, here on the Terrasse des Feuillants, I was walking along, thinking of nothing at all, but when I got to the gate of the Rue deCastiglione, by which I intended to leave, I came face to face with awoman, or rather a young girl; who, if she did not throw herself at myhead, stopped short, less I think, from human respect, than from oneof those movements of profound surprise which affect the limbs, creepdown the length of the spine, and cease only in the sole of the feet, to nail you to the ground. I have often produced effects of thisnature, a sort of animal magnetism which becomes enormously powerfulwhen the relations are reciprocally precise. But, my dear fellow, thiswas not stupefaction, nor was she a common girl. Morally speaking, herface seemed to say: 'What, is it you, my ideal! The creation of mythoughts, of my morning and evening dreams! What, are you there? Whythis morning? Why not yesterday? Take me, I am thine, _et cetera_!'Good, I said to myself, another one! Then I scrutinize her. Ah, mydear fellow, speaking physically, my incognita is the most adorablefeminine person whom I ever met. She belongs to that feminine varietywhich the Romans call _fulva, flava_--the woman of fire. And in chief, what struck me the most, what I am still taken with, are her twoyellow eyes, like a tiger's, a golden yellow that gleams, living gold, gold which thinks, gold which loves, and is determined to take refugein your pocket. "

"My dear fellow, we are full of her!" cried Paul. "She comes heresometimes--_the girl with the golden eyes_! That is the name we havegiven her. She is a young creature--not more than twenty-two, and Ihave seen her here in the time of the Bourbons, but with a woman whowas worth a hundred thousand of her. "

"Silence, Paul! It is impossible for any woman to surpass this girl;she is like the cat who rubs herself against your legs; a white girlwith ash-colored hair, delicate in appearance, but who must have downythreads on the third phalanx of her fingers, and all along her cheeksa white down whose line, luminous on fine days, begins at her ears andloses itself on her neck. "

"Ah, the other, my dear De Marsay! She has black eyes which have neverwept, but which burn; black eyebrows which meet and give her an air ofhardness contradicted by the compact curve of her lips, on which thekisses do not stay, lips burning and fresh; a Moorish color that warmsa man like the sun. But--upon my word of honor, she is like you!"

"You flatter her!"

"A firm figure, the tapering figure of a corvette built for speed, which rushes down upon the merchant vessel with French impetuosity, which grapples with her and sinks her at the same time. "

"After all, my dear fellow, " answered De Marsay, "what has that got todo with me, since I have never seen her? Ever since I have studiedwomen, my incognita is the only one whose virginal bosom, whose ardentand voluptuous forms, have realized for me the only woman of my dreams--of my dreams! She is the original of that ravishing picture called_La Femme Caressant sa Chimere_, the warmest, the most infernalinspiration of the genius of antiquity; a holy poem prostituted bythose who have copied it for frescoes and mosiacs; for a heap ofbourgeois who see in this gem nothing more than a gew-gaw and hang iton their watch-chains--whereas, it is the whole woman, an abyss ofpleasure into which one plunges and finds no end; whereas, it is theideal woman, to be seen sometimes in reality in Spain or Italy, almostnever in France. Well, I have again seen this girl of the gold eyes, this woman caressing her chimera. I saw her on Friday. I had apresentiment that on the following day she would be here at the samehour; I was not mistaken. I have taken a pleasure in following herwithout being observed, in studying her indolent walk, the walk of thewoman without occupation, but in the movements of which one devinesall the pleasure that lies asleep. Well, she turned back again, shesaw me, once more she adored me, once more trembled, shivered. It wasthen I noticed the genuine Spanish duenna who looked after her, ahyena upon whom some jealous man has put a dress, a she-devil wellpaid, no doubt, to guard this delicious creature. . . . Ah, then theduenna made me deeper in love. I grew curious. On Saturday, nobody. And here I am to-day waiting for this girl whose chimera I am, askingnothing better than to pose as the monster in the fresco. "

"There she is, " said Paul. "Every one is turning round to look ather. "

The unknown blushed, her eyes shone; she saw Henri, she shut them andpassed by. 

"You say that she notices you?" cried Paul, facetiously. 

The duenna looked fixedly and attentively at the two young men. Whenthe unknown and Henri passed each other again, the young girl touchedhim, and with her hand pressed the hand of the young man. Then sheturned her head and smiled with passion, but the duenna led her awayvery quickly to the gate of the Rue de Castiglione. 

The two friends followed the young girl, admiring the magnificentgrace of the neck which met her head in a harmony of vigorous lines, and upon which a few coils of hair were tightly wound. The girl withthe golden eyes had that well-knitted, arched, slender foot whichpresents so many attractions to the dainty imagination. Moreover, shewas shod with elegance, and wore a short skirt. During her course sheturned from time to time to look at Henri, and appeared to follow theold woman regretfully, seeming to be at once her mistress and herslave; she could break her with blows, but could not dismiss her. Allthat was perceptible. The two friends reached the gate. Two men inlivery let down the step of a tasteful _coupe_ emblazoned witharmorial bearings. The girl with the golden eyes was the first toenter it, took her seat at the side where she could be best seen whenthe carriage turned, put her hand on the door, and waved herhandkerchief in the duennna's despite. In contempt of what might besaid by the curious, her handkerchief cried to Henri openly: "Followme!"

"Have you ever seen a handkerchief better thrown?" said Henri to Paulde Manerville. 

Then, observing a fiacre on the point of departure, having just setdown a fare, he made a sign to the driver to wait. 

"Follow that carriage, notice the house and the street where it stops--you shall have ten francs. . . . Paul, adieu. "

The cab followed the _coupe_. The _coupe_ stopped in the Rue SaintLazare before one of the finest houses of the neighborhood. 

De Marsay was not impulsive. Any other young man would have obeyed hisimpulse to obtain at once some information about a girl who realizedso fully the most luminous ideas ever expressed upon women in thepoetry of the East; but, too experienced to compromise his goodfortune, he had told his coachman to continue along the Rue SaintLazare and carry him back to his house. The next day, his confidentialvalet, Laurent by name, as cunning a fellow as the Frontin of the oldcomedy, waited in the vicinity of the house inhabited by the unknownfor the hour at which letters were distributed. In order to be able tospy at his ease and hang about the house, he had followed the exampleof those police officers who seek a good disguise, and bought upcast-off clothes of an Auvergnat, the appearance of whom he sought toimitate. When the postman, who went the round of the Rue Saint Lazarethat morning, passed by, Laurent feigned to be a porter unable toremember the name of a person to whom he had to deliver a parcel, andconsulted the postman. Deceived at first by appearances, thispersonage, so picturesque in the midst of Parisian civilization, informed him that the house in which the girl with the golden eyesdwelt belonged to Don Hijos, Marquis de San-Real, grandee of Spain. Naturally, it was not with the Marquis that the Auvergnat wasconcerned. 

"My parcel, " he said, "is for the marquise. "

"She is away, " replied the postman. "Her letters are forwarded toLondon. "

"Then the marquise is not a young girl who . . . ?"

"Ah!" said the postman, interrupting the _valet de chambre_ andobserving him attentively, "you are as much a porter as I'm . . . "

Laurent chinked some pieces of gold before the functionary, who beganto smile. 

"Come, here's the name of your quarry, " he said, taking from hisleather wallet a letter bearing a London stamp, upon which theaddress, "To Mademoiselle Paquita Valdes, Rue Saint Lazare, HotelSan-Real, Paris, " was written in long, fine characters, which spokeof a woman's hand. 

"Could you tap a bottle of Chablis, with a few dozen oysters, and a_filet saute_ with mushrooms to follow it?" said Laurent, who wishedto win the postman's valuable friendship. 

"At half-past nine, when my round is finished---- Where?"

"At the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin and the RueNeuve-des-Mathurins, at the _Puits sans Vin_, " said Laurent. 

"Hark ye, my friend, " said the postman, when he rejoined the valet anhour after this encounter, "if your master is in love with the girl, he is in for a famous task. I doubt you'll not succeed in seeing her. In the ten years that I've been postman in Paris, I have seen plentyof different kinds of doors! But I can tell you, and no fear of beingcalled a liar by any of my comrades, there never was a door somysterious as M. De San-Real's. No one can get into the house withoutthe Lord knows what counter-word; and, notice, it has been selected onpurpose between a courtyard and a garden to avoid any communicationwith other houses. The porter is an old Spaniard, who never speaks aword of French, but peers at people as Vidocq might, to see if theyare not thieves. If a lover, a thief, or you--I make no comparisons--could get the better of this first wicket, well, in the first hall, which is shut by a glazed door, you would run across a butlersurrounded by lackeys, an old joker more savage and surly even thanthe porter. If any one gets past the porter's lodge, my butler comesout, waits for you at the entrance, and puts you through across-examination like a criminal. That has happened to me, a merepostman. He took me for an eavesdropper in disguise, he said, laughingat his nonsense. As for the servants, don't hope to get aught out ofthem; I think they are mutes, no one in the neighborhood knows thecolor of their speech; I don't know what wages they can pay them tokeep them from talk and drink; the fact is, they are not to be got at, whether because they are afraid of being shot, or that they have someenormous sum to lose in the case of an indiscretion. If your master isfond enough of Mademoiselle Paquita Valdes to surmount all theseobstacles, he certainly won't triumph over Dona Concha Marialva, theduenna who accompanies her and would put her under her petticoatssooner than leave her. The two women look as if they were sewn to oneanother. "

"All that you say, worthy postman, " went on Laurent, after havingdrunk off his wine, "confirms me in what I have learned before. Uponmy word, I thought they were making fun of me! The fruiterer oppositetold me that of nights they let loose dogs whose food is hung up onstakes just out of their reach. These cursed animals think, therefore, that any one likely to come in has designs on their victuals, andwould tear one to pieces. You will tell me one might throw them downpieces, but it seems they have been trained to touch nothing exceptfrom the hand of the porter. "

"The porter of the Baron de Nucingen, whose garden joins at the topthat of the Hotel San-Real, told me the same thing, " replied thepostman. 

"Good! my master knows him, " said Laurent, to himself. "Do you know, "he went on, leering at the postman, "I serve a master who is a rareman, and if he took it into his head to kiss the sole of the foot ofan empress, she would have to give in to him. If he had need of you, which is what I wish for you, for he is generous, could one count onyou?"

"Lord, Monsieur Laurent, my name is Moinot. My name is written exactlylike _Moineau_, magpie: M-o-i-n-o-t, Moinot. "

"Exactly, " said Laurent. 

"I live at No. 11, Rue des Trois Freres, on the fifth floor, " went onMoinot; "I have a wife and four children. If what you want of medoesn't transgress the limits of my conscience and my official duties, you understand! I am your man. "

"You are an honest fellow, " said Laurent, shaking his hand. . . . 

"Paquita Valdes is, no doubt, the mistress of the Marquis de San-Real, the friend of King Ferdinand. Only an old Spanish mummy of eightyyears is capable of taking such precautions, " said Henri, when his_valet de chambre_ had related the result of his researches. 

"Monsieur, " said Laurent, "unless he takes a balloon no one can getinto that hotel. "

"You are a fool! Is it necessary to get into the hotel to havePaquita, when Paquita can get out of it?"

"But, sir, the duenna?"

"We will shut her up for a day or two, your duenna. "

"So, we shall have Paquita!" said Laurent, rubbing his hands. 

"Rascal!" answered Henri, "I shall condemn you to the Concha, if youcarry your impudence so far as to speak so of a woman before she hasbecome mine. . . . Turn your thoughts to dressing me, I am going out. "

Henri remained for a moment plunged in joyous reflections. Let us sayit to the praise of women, he obtained all those whom he deigned todesire. And what could one think of a woman, having no lover, whoshould have known how to resist a young man armed with beauty which isthe intelligence of the body, with intelligence which is a grace ofthe soul, armed with moral force and fortune, which are the only tworeal powers? Yet, in triumphing with such ease, De Marsay was bound togrow weary of his triumphs; thus, for about two years he had grownvery weary indeed. And diving deep into the sea of pleasures hebrought back more grit than pearls. Thus had he come, like potentates, to implore of Chance some obstacle to surmount, some enterprise whichshould ask the employment of his dormant moral and physical strength. Although Paquita Valdes presented him with a marvelous concentrationof perfections which he had only yet enjoyed in detail, the attractionof passion was almost _nil_ with him. Constant satiety had weakened inhis heart the sentiment of love. Like old men and peopledisillusioned, he had no longer anything but extravagant caprices, ruinous tastes, fantasies, which, once satisfied, left no pleasantmemory in his heart. Amongst young people love is the finest of theemotions, it makes the life of the soul blossom, it nourishes by itssolar power the finest inspirations and their great thoughts; thefirst fruits in all things have a delicious savor. Amongst men lovebecomes a passion; strength leads to abuse. Amongst old men it turnsto vice; impotence tends to extremes. Henri was at once an old man, aman, and a youth. To afford him the feelings of a real love, he neededlike Lovelace, a Clarissa Harlowe. Without the magic lustre of thatunattainable pearl he could only have either passions rendered acuteby some Parisian vanity, or set determinations with himself to bringsuch and such a woman to such and such a point of corruption, or elseadventures which stimulated his curiosity. 

The report of Laurent, his _valet de chambre_ had just given anenormous value to the girl with the golden eyes. It was a question ofdoing battle with some secret enemy who seemed as dangerous as he wascunning; and to carry off the victory, all the forces which Henricould dispose of would be useful. He was about to play in that eternalold comedy which will be always fresh, and the characters in which arean old man, a young girl, and a lover: Don Hijos, Paquita, De Marsay. If Laurent was the equal of Figaro, the duenna seemed incorruptible. Thus, the living play was supplied by Chance with a stronger plot thanit had ever been by dramatic author! But then is not Chance too, a manof genius?

"It must be a cautious game, " said Henri, to himself. 

"Well, " said Paul de Manerville, as he entered the room. "How are wegetting on? I have come to breakfast with you. "

"So be it, " said Henri. "You won't be shocked if I make my toilettebefore you?"

"How absurd!"

"We take so many things from the English just now that we might wellbecome as great prudes and hypocrites as themselves, " said Henri. 

Laurent had set before his master such a quantity of utensils, so manydifferent articles of such elegance, that Paul could not refrain fromsaying:

"But you will take a couple of hours over that?"

"No!" said Henri, "two hours and a half. "

"Well, then, since we are by ourselves, and can say what we like, explain to me why a man as superior as yourself--for you are superior--should affect to exaggerate a foppery which cannot be natural. Whyspend two hours and a half in adorning yourself, when it is sufficientto spend a quarter of an hour in your bath, to do your hair in twominutes, and to dress! There, tell me your system. "

"I must be very fond of you, my good dunce, to confide such highthoughts to you, " said the young man, who was at that moment havinghis feet rubbed with a soft brush lathered with English soap. 

"Have I not the most devoted attachment to you, " replied Paul deManerville, "and do I not like you because I know yoursuperiority? . . . "

"You must have noticed, if you are in the least capable of observingany moral fact, that women love fops, " went on De Marsay, withoutreplying in any way to Paul's declaration except by a look. "Do youknow why women love fops? My friend, fops are the only men who takecare of themselves. Now, to take excessive care of oneself, does itnot imply that one takes care in oneself of what belongs to another?The man who does not belong to himself is precisely the man on whomwomen are keen. Love is essentially a thief. I say nothing about thatexcess of niceness to which they are so devoted. Do you know of anywoman who has had a passion for a sloven, even if he were a remarkableman? If such a fact has occurred, we must put it to the account ofthose morbid affections of the breeding woman, mad fancies which floatthrough the minds of everybody. On the other hand, I have seen mostremarkable people left in the lurch because of their carelessness. Afop, who is concerned about his person, is concerned with folly, withpetty things. And what is a woman? A petty thing, a bundle of follies. With two words said to the winds, can you not make her busy for fourhours? She is sure that the fop will be occupied with her, seeing thathe has no mind for great things. She will never be neglected forglory, ambition, politics, art--those prostitutes who for her arerivals. Then fops have the courage to cover themselves with ridiculein order to please a woman, and her heart is full of gratitude towardsthe man who is ridiculous for love. In fine, a fop can be no fopunless he is right in being one. It is women who bestow that rank. Thefop is love's colonel; he has his victories, his regiment of women athis command. My dear fellow, in Paris everything is known, and a mancannot be a fop there _gratis_. You, who have only one woman, and who, perhaps, are right to have but one, try to act the fop! . . . You willnot even become ridiculous, you will be dead. You will become aforegone conclusion, one of those men condemned inevitably to do oneand the same thing. You will come to signify _folly_ as inseparably asM. De La Fayette signifies _America_; M. De Talleyrand, _diplomacy_;Desaugiers, _song_; M. De Segur, _romance_. If they once forsake theirown line people no longer attach any value to what they do. So, foppery, my friend Paul, is the sign of an incontestable power overthe female folk. A man who is loved by many women passes for havingsuperior qualities, and then, poor fellow, it is a question who shallhave him! But do you think it is nothing to have the right of goinginto a drawing-room, of looking down at people from over your cravat, or through your eye-glass, and of despising the most superior of menshould he wear an old-fashioned waistcoat? . . . Laurent, you arehurting me! After breakfast, Paul, we will go to the Tuileries and seethe adorable girl with the golden eyes. "

When, after making an excellent meal, the two young men had traversedthe Terrasse de Feuillants and the broad walk of the Tuileries, theynowhere discovered the sublime Paquita Valdes, on whose account somefifty of the most elegant young men in Paris where to be seen, allscented, with their high scarfs, spurred and booted, riding, walking, talking, laughing, and damning themselves mightily. 

"It's a white Mass, " said Henri; "but I have the most excellent ideain the world. This girl receives letters from London. The postman mustbe bought or made drunk, a letter opened, read of course, and alove-letter slipped in before it is sealed up again. The old tyrant, _crudel tirano_, is certain to know the person who writes the lettersfrom London, and has ceased to be suspicious of them. "

The day after, De Marsay came again to walk on the Terrasse desFeuillants, and saw Paquita Valdes; already passion had embellishedher for him. Seriously, he was wild for those eyes, whose rays seemedakin to those which the sun emits, and whose ardor set the seal uponthat of her perfect body, in which all was delight. De Marsay was onfire to brush the dress of this enchanting girl as they passed oneanother in their walk; but his attempts were always vain. But at onemoment, when he had repassed Paquita and the duenna, in order to findhimself on the same side as the girl of the golden eyes, when hereturned, Paquita, no less impatient, came forward hurriedly, and DeMarsay felt his hand pressed by her in a fashion at once so swift andso passionately significant that it was as though he had received theemotions surged up in his heart. When the two lovers glanced at oneanother, Paquita seemed ashamed, she dropped her eyes lest she shouldmeet the eyes of Henri, but her gaze sank lower to fasten on the feetand form of him whom women, before the Revolution, called _theirconqueror_. 

"I am determined to make this girl my mistress, " said Henri tohimself. 

As he followed her along the terrace, in the direction of the PlaceLouis XV. , he caught sight of the aged Marquis de San-Real, who waswalking on the arm of his valet, stepping with all the precautions dueto gout and decrepitude. Dona Concha, who distrusted Henri, madePaquita pass between herself and the old man. 

"Oh, for you, " said De Marsay to himself, casting a glance of disdainupon the duenna, "if one cannot make you capitulate, with a littleopium one can make you sleep. We know mythology and the fable ofArgus. "

Before entering the carriage, the golden-eyed girl exchanged certainglances with her lover, of which the meaning was unmistakable andwhich enchanted Henri, but one of them was surprised by the duenna;she said a few rapid words to Paquita, who threw herself into the_coupe_ with an air of desperation. For some days Paquita did notappear in the Tuileries. Laurent, who by his master's orders was onwatch by the hotel, learned from the neighbors that neither the twowomen nor the aged marquis had been abroad since the day upon whichthe duenna had surprised a glance between the young girl in her chargeand Henri. The bond, so flimsy withal, which united the two lovers wasalready severed. 

Some days later, none knew by what means, De Marsay had attained hisend; he had a seal and wax, exactly resembling the seal and waxaffixed to the letters sent to Mademoiselle Valdes from London; papersimilar to that which her correspondent used; moreover, all theimplements and stamps necessary to affix the French and Englishpostmarks. 

He wrote the following letter, to which he gave all the appearances ofa letter sent from London:--

 "MY DEAR PAQUITA, --I shall not try to paint to you in words the passion with which you have inspired me. If, to my happiness, you reciprocate it, understand that I have found a means of corresponding with you. My name is Adolphe de Gouges, and I live at No. 54 Rue de l'Universite. If you are too closely watched to be able to write to me, if you have neither pen nor paper, I shall understand it by your silence. If then, to-morrow, you have not, between eight o'clock in the morning and ten o'clock in the evening, thrown a letter over the wall of your garden into that of the Baron de Nucingen, where it will be waited for during the whole of the day, a man, who is entirely devoted to me, will let down two flasks by a string over your wall at ten o'clock the next morning. Be walking there at that hour. One of the two flasks will contain opium to send your Argus to sleep; it will be sufficient to employ six drops; the other will contain ink. The flask of ink is of cut glass; the other is plain. Both are of such a size as can easily be concealed within your bosom. All that I have already done, in order to be able to correspond with you, should tell you how greatly I love you. Should you have any doubt of it, I will confess to you, that to obtain an interview of one hour with you I would give my life. "

"At least they believe that, poor creatures!" said De Marsay; "butthey are right. What should we think of a woman who refused to bebeguiled by a love-letter accompanied by such convincing accessories?"

This letter was delivered by Master Moinot, postman, on the followingday, about eight o'clock in the morning, to the porter of the HotelSan-Real. 

In order to be nearer to the field of action, De Marsay went andbreakfasted with Paul, who lived in the Rue de la Pepiniere. At twoo'clock, just as the two friends were laughingly discussing thediscomfiture of a young man who had attempted to lead the life offashion without a settled income, and were devising an end for him, Henri's coachman came to seek his master at Paul's house, andpresented to him a mysterious personage who insisted on speakinghimself with his master. 

This individual was a mulatto, who would assuredly have given Talma amodel for the part of Othello, if he had come across him. Never didany African face better express the grand vengefulness, the readysuspicion, the promptitude in the execution of a thought, the strengthof the Moor, and his childish lack of reflection. His black eyes hadthe fixity of the eyes of a bird of prey, and they were framed, like avulture's, by a bluish membrane devoid of lashes. His forehead, lowand narrow, had something menacing. Evidently, this man was under theyoke of some single and unique thought. His sinewy arm did not belongto him. 

He was followed by a man whom the imaginations of all folk, from thosewho shiver in Greenland to those who sweat in the tropics, would paintin the single phrase: _He was an unfortunate man_. From this phrase, everybody will conceive him according to the special ideas of eachcountry. But who can best imagine his face--white and wrinkled, red atthe extremities, and his long beard. Who will see his lean and yellowscarf, his greasy shirt-collar, his battered hat, his green frockcoat, his deplorable trousers, his dilapidated waistcoat, hisimitation gold pin, and battered shoes, the strings of which wereplastered in mud? Who will see all that but the Parisian? Theunfortunate man of Paris is the unfortunate man _in toto_, for he hasstill enough mirth to know the extent of his misfortune. The mulattowas like an executioner of Louis XI. Leading a man to the gallows. 

"Who has hunted us out these two extraordinary creatures?" said Henri. 

"Faith! there is one of them who makes me shudder, " replied Paul. 

"Who are you--you fellow who look the most like a Christian of thetwo?" said Henri, looking at the unfortunate man. 

The mulatto stood with his eyes fixed upon the two young men, like aman who understood nothing, and who sought no less to divine somethingfrom the gestures and movements of the lips. 

"I am a public scribe and interpreter; I live at the Palais deJustice, and am named Poincet. "

"Good! . . . And this one?" said Henri to Poincet, looking towards themulatto. 

"I do not know; he only speaks a sort of Spanish _patois_, and he hasbrought me here to make himself understood by you. "

The mulatto drew from his pocket the letter which Henri had written toPaquita and handed it to him. Henri threw it in the fire. 

"Ah--so--the game is beginning, " said Henri to himself. "Paul, leaveus alone for a moment. "

"I translated this letter for him, " went on the interpreter, when theywere alone. "When it was translated, he was in some place which Idon't remember. Then he came back to look for me, and promised me two_louis_ to fetch him here. "

"What have you to say to me, nigger?" asked Henri. 

"I did not translate _nigger_, " said the interpreter, waiting for themulatto's reply. . . . 

"He said, sir, " went on the interpreter, after having listened to theunknown, "that you must be at half-past ten to-morrow night on theboulevard Montmartre, near the cafe. You will see a carriage there, inwhich you must take your place, saying to the man, who will wait toopen the door for you, the word _cortejo_--a Spanish word, which means_lover_, " added Poincet, casting a glance of congratulation uponHenri. 

"Good. "

The mulatto was about to bestow the two _louis_, but De Marsay wouldnot permit it, and himself rewarded the interpreter. As he was payinghim, the mulatto began to speak. 

"What is he saying?"

"He is warning me, " replied the unfortunate, "that if I commit asingle indiscretion he will strangle me. He speaks fair and he looksremarkably as if he were capable of carrying out his threat. "

"I am sure of it, " answered Henri; "he would keep his word. "

"He says, as well, " replied the interpreter, "that the person fromwhom he is sent implores you, for your sake and for hers, to act withthe greatest prudence, because the daggers which are raised above yourhead would strike your heart before any human power could save youfrom them. "

"He said that? So much the better, it will be more amusing. You cancome in now, Paul, " he cried to his friend. 

The mulatto, who had not ceased to gaze at the lover of Paquita Valdeswith magnetic attention, went away, followed by the interpreter. 

"Well, at last I have an adventure which is entirely romantic, " saidHenri, when Paul returned. "After having shared in a certain number Ihave finished by finding in Paris an intrigue accompanied by seriousaccidents, by grave perils. The deuce! what courage danger gives awoman! To torment a woman, to try and contradict her--doesn't it giveher the right and the courage to scale in one moment obstacles whichit would take her years to surmount of herself? Pretty creature, jumpthen! To die? Poor child! Daggers? Oh, imagination of women! Theycannot help trying to find authority for their little jests. Besides, can one think of it, Paquita? Can one think of it, my child? The deviltake me, now that I know this beautiful girl, this masterpiece ofnature, is mine, the adventure has lost its charm. "

For all his light words, the youth in Henri had reappeared. In orderto live until the morrow without too much pain, he had recourse toexorbitant pleasure; he played, dined, supped with his friends; hedrank like a fish, ate like a German, and won ten or twelve thousandfrancs. He left the Rocher de Cancale at two o'clock in the morning, slept like a child, awoke the next morning fresh and rosy, and dressedto go to the Tuileries, with the intention of taking a ride, afterhaving seen Paquita, in order to get himself an appetite and dine thebetter, and so kill the time. 

At the hour mentioned Henri was on the boulevard, saw the carriage, and gave the counter-word to a man who looked to him like the mulatto. Hearing the word, the man opened the door and quickly let down thestep. Henri was so rapidly carried through Paris, and his thoughtsleft him so little capacity to pay attention to the streets throughwhich he passed, that he did not know where the carriage stopped. Themulatto let him into a house, the staircase of which was quite closeto the entrance. This staircase was dark, as was also the landing uponwhich Henri was obliged to wait while the mulatto was opening the doorof a damp apartment, fetid and unlit, the chambers of which, barelyilluminated by the candle which his guide found in the ante-chamber, seemed to him empty and ill furnished, like those of a house theinhabitants of which are away. He recognized the sensation which hehad experienced from the perusal of one of those romances of AnneRadcliffe, in which the hero traverses the cold, sombre, anduninhabited saloons of some sad and desert spot. 

At last the mulatto opened the door of a _salon_. The condition of theold furniture and the dilapidated curtains with which the room wasadorned gave it the air of the reception-room of a house of ill fame. There was the same pretension to elegance, and the same collection ofthings in bad taste, of dust and dirt. Upon a sofa covered with redUtrecht velvet, by the side of a smoking hearth, the fire of which wasburied in ashes, sat an old, poorly dressed woman, her head capped byone of those turbans which English women of a certain age haveinvented and which would have a mighty success in China, where theartist's ideal is the monstrous. 

The room, the old woman, the cold hearth, all would have chilled loveto death had not Paquita been there, upon an ottoman, in a loosevoluptuous wrapper, free to scatter her gaze of gold and flame, freeto show her arched foot, free of her luminous movements. This firstinterview was what every _rendezvous_ must be between persons ofpassionate disposition, who have stepped over a wide distance quickly, who desire each other ardently, and who, nevertheless, do not knoweach other. It is impossible that at first there should not occurcertain discordant notes in the situation, which is embarrassing untilthe moment when two souls find themselves in unison. 

If desire gives a man boldness and disposes him to lay restraintaside, the mistress, under pain of ceasing to be woman, however greatmay be her love, is afraid of arriving at the end so promptly, andface to face with the necessity of giving herself, which to many womenis equivalent to a fall into an abyss, at the bottom of which theyknow not what they shall find. The involuntary coldness of the womancontrasts with her confessed passion, and necessarily reacts upon themost passionate lover. Thus ideas, which often float around souls likevapors, determine in them a sort of temporary malady. In the sweetjourney which two beings undertake through the fair domains of love, this moment is like a waste land to be traversed, a land without atree, alternatively damp and warm, full of scorching sand, traversedby marshes, which leads to smiling groves clad with roses, where Loveand his retinue of pleasures disport themselves on carpets of softverdure. Often the witty man finds himself afflicted with a foolishlaugh which is his only answer to everything; his wit is, as it were, suffocated beneath the icy pressure of his desires. It would not beimpossible for two beings of equal beauty, intelligence, and passionto utter at first nothing but the most silly commonplaces, untilchance, a word, the tremor of a certain glance, the communication of aspark, should have brought them to the happy transition which leads tothat flowery way in which one does not walk, but where one sways andat the same time does not lapse. 

Such a state of mind is always in proportion with the violence of thefeeling. Two creatures who love one another weakly feel nothingsimilar. The effect of this crisis can even be compared with thatwhich is produced by the glow of a clear sky. Nature, at the firstview, appears to be covered with a gauze veil, the azure of thefirmament seems black, the intensity of light is like darkness. WithHenri, as with the Spanish girl, there was an equal intensity offeeling; and that law of statics, in virtue of which two identicalforces cancel each other, might have been true also in the moralorder. And the embarrassment of the moment was singularly increased bythe presence of the old hag. Love takes pleasure or fright at all, allhas meaning for it, everything is an omen of happiness or sorrow forit. 

This decrepit woman was there like a suggestion of catastrophe, andrepresented the horrid fish's tail with which the allegorical geniusesof Greece have terminated their chimeras and sirens, whose figures, like all passions, are so seductive, so deceptive. 

Although Henri was not a free-thinker--the phrase is always a mockery--but a man of extraordinary power, a man as great as a man can bewithout faith, the conjunction struck him. Moreover, the strongest menare naturally the most impressionable, and consequently the mostsuperstitious, if, indeed, one may call superstition the prejudice ofthe first thoughts, which, without doubt, is the appreciation of theresult in causes hidden to other eyes but perceptible to their own. 

The Spanish girl profited by this moment of stupefaction to letherself fall into the ecstasy of that infinite adoration which seizesthe heart of a woman, when she truly loves and finds herself in thepresence of an idol for whom she has vainly longed. Her eyes were alljoy, all happiness, and sparks flew from them. She was under thecharm, and fearlessly intoxicated herself with a felicity of which shehad dreamed long. She seemed then so marvelously beautiful to Henri, that all this phantasmagoria of rags and old age, of worn red draperyand of the green mats in front of the armchairs, the ill-washed redtiles, all this sick and dilapidated luxury, disappeared. 

The room seemed lit up; and it was only through a cloud that one couldsee the fearful harpy fixed and dumb on her red sofa, her yellow eyesbetraying the servile sentiments, inspired by misfortune, or caused bysome vice beneath whose servitude one has fallen as beneath a tyrantwho brutalizes one with the flagellations of his despotism. Her eyeshad the cold glitter of a caged tiger, knowing his impotence and beingcompelled to swallow his rage of destruction. 

"Who is that woman?" said Henri to Paquita. 

But Paquita did not answer. She made a sign that she understood noFrench, and asked Henri if he spoke English. 

De Marsay repeated his question in English. 

"She is the only woman in whom I can confide, although she has sold mealready, " said Paquita, tranquilly. "My dear Adolphe, she is mymother, a slave bought in Georgia for her rare beauty, little enoughof which remains to-day. She only speaks her native tongue. "

The attitude of this woman and her eagerness to guess from thegestures of her daughter and Henri what was passing between them, weresuddenly explained to the young man; and this explanation put him athis ease. 

"Paquita, " he said, "are we never to be free then?"

"Never, " she said, with an air of sadness. "Even now we have but a fewdays before us. "

She lowered her eyes, looked at and counted with her right hand on thefingers of her left, revealing so the most beautiful hands which Henrihad ever seen. 

"One, two, three----"

She counted up to twelve. 

"Yes, " she said, "we have twelve days. "

"And after?"

"After, " she said, showing the absorption of a weak woman before theexecutioner's axe, and slain in advance, as it were, by a fear whichstripped her of that magnificent energy which Nature seemed to havebestowed upon her only to aggrandize pleasure and convert the mostvulgar delights into endless poems. "After----" she repeated. Her eyestook a fixed stare; she seemed to contemplate a threatening object faraway. 

"I do not know, " she said. 

"This girl is mad, " said Henri to himself, falling into strangereflections. 

Paquita appeared to him occupied by something which was not himself, like a woman constrained equally by remorse and passion. Perhaps shehad in her heart another love which she alternately remembered andforgot. In a moment Henri was assailed by a thousand contradictorythoughts. This girl became a mystery for him; but as he contemplatedher with the scientific attention of the _blase_ man, famished for newpleasures, like that Eastern king who asked that a pleasure should becreated for him, --a horrible thirst with which great souls are seized, --Henri recognized in Paquita the richest organization that Nature hadever deigned to compose for love. The presumptive play of thismachinery, setting aside the soul, would have frightened any other manthan Henri; but he was fascinated by that rich harvest of promisedpleasures, by that constant variety in happiness, the dream of everyman, and the desire of every loving woman too. He was infuriated bythe infinite rendered palpable, and transported into the mostexcessive raptures of which the creature is capable. All that he sawin this girl more distinctly than he had yet seen it, for she letherself be viewed complacently, happy to be admired. The admiration ofDe Marsay became a secret fury, and he unveiled her completely, throwing a glance at her which the Spaniard understood as though shehad been used to receive such. 

"If you are not to be mine, mine only, I will kill you!" he cried. 

Hearing this speech, Paquita covered her face in her hands, and criednaively:

"Holy Virgin! What have I brought upon myself?"

She rose, flung herself down upon the red sofa, and buried her head inthe rags which covered the bosom of her mother, and wept there. Theold woman received her daughter without issuing from her state ofimmobility, or displaying any emotion. The mother possessed in thehighest degree that gravity of savage races, the impassiveness of astatue upon which all remarks are lost. Did she or did she not loveher daughter? Beneath that mask every human emotion might brood--goodand evil; and from this creature all might be expected. Her gazepassed slowly from her daughter's beautiful hair, which covered herlike a mantle, to the face of Henri, which she considered with anindescribable curiosity. 

She seemed to ask by what fatality he was there, from what capriceNature had made so seductive a man. 

"These women are making sport of me, " said Henri to himself. 

At that moment Paquita raised her head, cast at him one of those lookswhich reach the very soul and consume it. So beautiful seemed she thathe swore he would possess such a treasure of beauty. 

"My Paquita! Be mine!"

"Wouldst thou kill me?" she said fearfully, palpitating and anxious, but drawn towards him by an inexplicable force. 

"Kill thee--I!" he said, smiling. 

Paquita uttered a cry of alarm, said a word to the old woman, whoauthoritatively seized Henri's hand and that of her daughter. Shegazed at them for a long time, and then released them, wagging herhead in a fashion horribly significant. 

"Be mine--this evening, this moment; follow me, do not leave me! Itmust be, Paquita! Dost thou love me? Come!"

In a moment he had poured out a thousand foolish words to her, withthe rapidity of a torrent coursing between the rocks, and repeatingthe same sound in a thousand different forms. 

"It is the same voice!" said Paquita, in a melancholy voice, which DeMarsay could not overhear, "and the same ardor, " she added. "So beit--yes, " she said, with an abandonment of passion which no words candescribe. "Yes; but not to-night. To-night Adolphe, I gave too littleopium to La Concha. She might wake up, and I should be lost. At thismoment the whole household believes me to be asleep in my room. In twodays be at the same spot, say the same word to the same man. That manis my foster-father. Cristemio worships me, and would die in tormentsfor me before they could extract one word against me from him. Farewell, " she said seizing Henri by the waist and twining round himlike a serpent. 

She pressed him on every side at once, lifted her head to his, andoffered him her lips, then snatched a kiss which filled them both withsuch a dizziness that it seemed to Henri as though the earth opened;and Paquita cried: "Enough, depart!" in a voice which told how littleshe was mistress of herself. But she clung to him still, still crying"Depart!" and brought him slowly to the staircase. There the mulatto, whose white eyes lit up at the sight of Paquita, took the torch fromthe hands of his idol, and conducted Henri to the street. He left thelight under the arch, opened the door, put Henri into the carriage, and set him down on the Boulevard des Italiens with marvelousrapidity. It was as though the horses had hell-fire in their veins. 

The scene was like a dream to De Marsay, but one of those dreamswhich, even when they fade away, leave a feeling of supernaturalvoluptuousness, which a man runs after for the remainder of his life. A single kiss had been enough. Never had _rendezvous_ been spent in amanner more decorous or chaste, or, perhaps, more coldly, in a spot ofwhich the surroundings were more gruesome, in presence of a morehideous divinity; for the mother had remained in Henri's imaginationlike some infernal, cowering thing, cadaverous, monstrous, savagelyferocious, which the imagination of poets and painters had not yetconceived. In effect, no _rendezvous_ had ever irritated his sensesmore, revealed more audacious pleasures, or better aroused love fromits centre to shed itself round him like an atmosphere. There wassomething sombre, mysterious, sweet, tender, constrained, andexpansive, an intermingling of the awful and the celestial, ofparadise and hell, which made De Marsay like a drunken man. 

He was no longer himself, and he was, withal, great enough to be ableto resist the intoxication of pleasure. 

In order to render his conduct intelligible in the catastrophe of thisstory, it is needful to explain how his soul had broadened at an agewhen young men generally belittle themselves in their relations withwomen, or in too much occupation with them. Its growth was due to aconcurrence of secret circumstances, which invested him with a vastand unsuspected power. 

This young man held in his hand a sceptre more powerful than that ofmodern kings, almost all of whom are curbed in their least wishes bythe laws. De Marsay exercised the autocratic power of an Orientaldespot. But this power, so stupidly put into execution in Asia bybrutish men, was increased tenfold by its conjunction with Europeanintelligence, with French wit--the most subtle, the keenest of allintellectual instruments. Henri could do what he would in the interestof his pleasures and vanities. This invisible action upon the socialworld had invested him with a real, but secret, majesty, withoutemphasis and deriving from himself. He had not the opinion which LouisXIV. Could have of himself, but that which the proudest of theCaliphs, the Pharoahs, the Xerxes, who held themselves to be of divineorigin, had of themselves when they imitated God, and veiledthemselves from their subjects under the pretext that their looksdealt forth death. Thus, without any remorse at being at once thejudge and the accuser, De Marsay coldly condemned to death the man orthe woman who had seriously offended him. Although often pronouncedalmost lightly, the verdict was irrevocable. An error was a misfortunesimilar to that which a thunderbolt causes when it falls upon asmiling Parisienne in some hackney coach, instead of crushing the oldcoachman who is driving her to a _rendezvous_. Thus the bitter andprofound sarcasm which distinguished the young man's conversationusually tended to frighten people; no one was anxious to put him out. Women are prodigiously fond of those persons who call themselvespashas, and who are, as it were accompanied by lions and executioners, and who walk in a panoply of terror. The result, in the case of suchmen, is a security of action, a certitude of power, a pride of gaze, aleonine consciousness, which makes women realize the type of strengthof which they all dream. Such was De Marsay. 

Happy, for the moment, with his future, he grew young and pliable, andthought of nothing but love as he went to bed. He dreamed of the girlwith the golden eyes, as the young and passionate can dream. Hisdreams were monstrous images, unattainable extravagances--full oflight, revealing invisible worlds, yet in a manner always incomplete, for an intervening veil changes the conditions of vision. 

For the next and succeeding day Henri disappeared and no one knew whathad become of him. His power only belonged to him under certainconditions, and, happily for him, during those two days he was aprivate soldier in the service of the demon to whom he owed histalismanic existence. But at the appointed time, in the evening, hewas waiting--and he had not long to wait--for the carriage. Themulatto approached Henri, in order to repeat to him in French a phrasewhich he seemed to have learned by heart. 

"If you wish to come, she told me, you must consent to have your eyesbandaged. "

And Cristemio produced a white silk handkerchief. 

"No!" said Henri, whose omnipotence revolted suddenly. 

He tried to leap in. The mulatto made a sign, and the carriage droveoff. 

"Yes!" cried De Marsay, furious at the thought of losing a piece ofgood fortune which had been promised him. 

He saw, moreover, the impossibility of making terms with a slave whoseobedience was as blind as the hangman's. Nor was it this passiveinstrument upon whom his anger could fall. 

The mulatto whistled, the carriage returned. Henri got in hastily. Already a few curious onlookers had assembled like sheep on theboulevard. Henri was strong; he tried to play the mulatto. When thecarriage started at a gallop he seized his hands, in order to masterhim, and retain, by subduing his attendant, the possession of hisfaculties, so that he might know whither he was going. It was a vainattempt. The eyes of the mulatto flashed from the darkness. The fellowuttered a cry which his fury stifled in his throat, released himself, threw back De Marsay with a hand like iron, and nailed him, so tospeak, to the bottom of the carriage; then with his free hand, he drewa triangular dagger, and whistled. The coachman heard the whistle andstopped. Henri was unarmed, he was forced to yield. He moved his headtowards the handkerchief. The gesture of submission calmed Cristemio, and he bound his eyes with a respect and care which manifested a sortof veneration for the person of the man whom his idol loved. But, before taking this course, he had placed his dagger distrustfully inhis side pocket, and buttoned himself up to the chin. 

"That nigger would have killed me!" said De Marsay to himself. 

Once more the carriage moved on rapidly. There was one resource stillopen to a young man who knew Paris as well as Henri. To know whitherhe was going, he had but to collect himself and count, by the numberof gutters crossed, the streets leading from the boulevards by whichthe carriage passed, so long as it continued straight along. He couldthus discover into which lateral street it would turn, either towardsthe Seine or towards the heights of Montmartre, and guess the name orposition of the street in which his guide should bring him to a halt. But the violent emotion which his struggle had caused him, the rageinto which his compromised dignity had thrown him, the ideas ofvengeance to which he abandoned himself, the suppositions suggested tohim by the circumstantial care which this girl had taken in order tobring him to her, all hindered him from the attention, which the blindhave, necessary for the concentration of his intelligence and theperfect lucidity of his recollection. The journey lasted half an hour. When the carriage stopped, it was no longer on the street. The mulattoand the coachman took Henri in their arms, lifted him out, and, putting him into a sort of litter, conveyed him across a garden. Hecould smell its flowers and the perfume peculiar to trees and grass. 

The silence which reigned there was so profound that he coulddistinguish the noise made by the drops of water falling from themoist leaves. The two men took him to a staircase, set him on hisfeet, led him by his hands through several apartments, and left him ina room whose atmosphere was perfumed, and the thick carpet of which hecould feel beneath his feet. 

A woman's hand pushed him on to a divan, and untied the handkerchieffor him. Henri saw Paquita before him, but Paquita in all her womanlyand voluptuous glory. The section of the boudoir in which Henri foundhimself described a circular line, softly gracious, which was facedopposite by the other perfectly square half, in the midst of which achimney-piece shone of gold and white marble. He had entered by a dooron one side, hidden by a rich tapestried screen, opposite which was awindow. The semicircular portion was adorned with a real Turkishdivan, that is to say, a mattress thrown on the ground, but a mattressas broad as a bed, a divan fifty feet in circumference, made of whitecashmere, relieved by bows of black and scarlet silk, arranged inpanels. The top of this huge bed was raised several inches by numerouscushions, which further enriched it by their tasteful comfort. Theboudoir was lined with some red stuff, over which an Indian muslin wasstretched, fluted after the fashion of Corinthian columns, in plaitsgoing in and out, and bound at the top and bottom by bands ofpoppy-colored stuff, on which were designs in black arabesque. 

Below the muslin the poppy turned to rose, that amorous color, whichwas matched by window-curtains, which were of Indian muslin lined withrose-colored taffeta, and set off with a fringe of poppy-color andblack. Six silver-gilt arms, each supporting two candles, wereattached to the tapestry at an equal distance, to illuminate thedivan. The ceiling, from the middle of which a lustre of unpolishedsilver hung, was of a brilliant whiteness, and the cornice was gilded. The carpet was like an Oriental shawl; it had the designs and recalledthe poetry of Persia, where the hands of slaves had worked on it. Thefurniture was covered in white cashmere, relieved by black andpoppy-colored ornaments. The clock, the candelabra, all were in whitemarble and gold. The only table there had a cloth of cashmere. Elegantflower-pots held roses of every kind, flowers white or red. In fine, the least detail seemed to have been the object of loving thought. Never had richness hidden itself more coquettishly to become elegance, to express grace, to inspire pleasure. Everything there would havewarmed the coldest of beings. The caresses of the tapestry, of whichthe color changed according to the direction of one's gaze, becomingeither all white or all rose, harmonized with the effects of the lightshed upon the diaphanous tissues of the muslin, which produced anappearance of mistiness. The soul has I know not what attractiontowards white, love delights in red, and the passions are flattered bygold, which has the power of realizing their caprices. Thus all thatman possesses within him of vague and mysterious, all his inexplicableaffinities, were caressed in their involuntary sympathies. There wasin this perfect harmony a concert of color to which the soul respondedwith vague and voluptuous and fluctuating ideas. 

It was out of a misty atmosphere, laden with exquisite perfumes, thatPaquita, clad in a white wrapper, her feet bare, orange blossoms inher black hair, appeared to Henri, knelt before him, adoring him asthe god of this temple, whither he had deigned to come. Although DeMarsay was accustomed to seeing the utmost efforts of Parisian luxury, he was surprised at the aspect of this shell, like that from whichVenus rose out of the sea. Whether from an effect of contrast betweenthe darkness from which he issued and the light which bathed his soul, whether from a comparison which he swiftly made between this scene andthat of their first interview, he experienced one of those delicatesensations which true poetry gives. Perceiving in the midst of thisretreat, which had been opened to him as by a fairy's magic wand, themasterpiece of creation, this girl, whose warmly colored tints, whosesoft skin--soft, but slightly gilded by the shadows, by I know notwhat vaporous effusion of love--gleamed as though it reflected therays of color and light, his anger, his desire for vengeance, hiswounded vanity, all were lost. 

Like an eagle darting on his prey, he took her utterly to him, set heron his knees, and felt with an indescribable intoxication thevoluptuous pressure of this girl, whose richly developed beautiessoftly enveloped him. 

"Come to me, Paquita!" he said, in a low voice. 

"Speak, speak without fear!" she said. "This retreat was built forlove. No sound can escape from it, so greatly was it desired to guardavariciously the accents and music of the beloved voice. However loudshould be the cries, they would not be heard without these walls. Aperson might be murdered, and his moans would be as vain as if he werein the midst of the great desert. "

"Who has understood jealousy and its needs so well?"

"Never question me as to that, " she answered, untying with a gestureof wonderful sweetness the young man's scarf, doubtless in order thebetter to behold his neck. 

"Yes, there is the neck I love so well!" she said. "Wouldst thouplease me?"

This interrogation, rendered by the accent almost lascivious, drew DeMarsay from the reverie in which he had been plunged by Paquita'sauthoritative refusal to allow him any research as to the unknownbeing who hovered like a shadow about them. 

"And if I wished to know who reigns here?"

Paquita looked at him trembling. 

"It is not I, then?" he said, rising and freeing himself from thegirl, whose head fell backwards. "Where I am, I would be alone. "

"Strike, strike! . . . " said the poor slave, a prey to terror. 

"For what do you take me, then? . . . Will you answer?"

Paquita got up gently, her eyes full of tears, took a poniard from oneof the two ebony pieces of furniture, and presented it to Henri with agesture of submission which would have moved a tiger. 

"Give me a feast such as men give when they love, " she said, "andwhilst I sleep, slay me, for I know not how to answer thee. Hearken! Iam bound like some poor beast to a stake; I am amazed that I have beenable to throw a bridge over the abyss which divides us. Intoxicate me, then kill me! Ah, no, no!" she cried, joining her hands, "do not killme! I love life! Life is fair to me! If I am a slave, I am a queentoo. I could beguile you with words, tell you that I love you alone, prove it to you, profit by my momentary empire to say to you: 'Take meas one tastes the perfume of a flower when one passes it in a king'sgarden. ' Then, after having used the cunning eloquence of woman andsoared on the wings of pleasure, after having quenched my thirst, Icould have you cast into a pit, where none could find you, which hasbeen made to gratify vengeance without having to fear that of the law, a pit full of lime which would kindle and consume you, until noparticle of you were left. You would stay in my heart, mine forever. "

Henri looked at the girl without trembling, and this fearless gazefilled her with joy. 

"No, I shall not do it! You have fallen into no trap here, but uponthe heart of a woman who adores you, and it is I who will be cast intothe pit. "

"All this appears to me prodigiously strange, " said De Marsay, considering her. "But you seem to me a good girl, a strange nature;you are, upon my word of honor, a living riddle, the answer to whichis very difficult to find. "

Paquita understood nothing of what the young man said; she looked athim gently, opening wide eyes which could never be stupid, so much waspleasure written in them. 

"Come, then, my love, " she said, returning to her first idea, "wouldstthou please me?"

"I would do all that thou wouldst, and even that thou wouldst not, "answered De Marsay, with a laugh. He had recovered his foppish ease, as he took the resolve to let himself go to the climax of his goodfortune, looking neither before nor after. Perhaps he counted, moreover, on his power and his capacity of a man used to adventures, to dominate this girl a few hours later and learn all her secrets. 

"Well, " said she, "let me arrange you as I would like. "

Paquita went joyously and took from one of the two chests a robe ofred velvet, in which she dressed De Marsay, then adorned his head witha woman's bonnet and wrapped a shawl round him. Abandoning herself tothese follies with a child's innocence, she laughed a convulsivelaugh, and resembled some bird flapping its wings; but he saw nothingbeyond. 

If it be impossible to paint the unheard-of delights which these twocreatures--made by heaven in a joyous moment--found, it is perhapsnecessary to translate metaphysically the extraordinary and almostfantastic impressions of the young man. That which persons in thesocial position of De Marsay, living as he lived, are best able torecognize is a girl's innocence. But, strange phenomenon! The girl ofthe golden eyes might be virgin, but innocent she was certainly not. The fantastic union of the mysterious and the real, of darkness andlight, horror and beauty, pleasure and danger, paradise and hell, which had already been met with in this adventure, was resumed in thecapricious and sublime being with which De Marsay dallied. All theutmost science or the most refined pleasure, all that Henri could knowof that poetry of the senses which is called love, was excelled by thetreasures poured forth by this girl, whose radiant eyes gave the lieto none of the promises which they made. 

She was an Oriental poem, in which shone the sun that Saadi, thatHafiz, have set in their pulsing strophes. Only, neither the rhythm ofSaadi, nor that of Pindar, could have expressed the ecstasy--full ofconfusion and stupefaction--which seized the delicious girl when theerror in which an iron hand had caused her to live was at an end. 

"Dead!" she said, "I am dead, Adolphe! Take me away to the world'send, to an island where no one knows us. Let there be no traces of ourflight! We should be followed to the gates of hell. God! here is theday! Escape! Shall I ever see you again? Yes, to-morrow I will seeyou, if I have to deal death to all my warders to have that joy. Tillto-morrow. "

She pressed him in her arms with an embrace in which the terror ofdeath mingled. Then she touched a spring, which must have been inconnection with a bell, and implored De Marsay to permit his eyes tobe bandaged. 

"And if I would not--and if I wished to stay here?"

"You would be the death of me more speedily, " she said, "for now Iknow I am certain to die on your account. "

Henri submitted. In the man who had just gorged himself with pleasurethere occurs a propensity to forgetfulness, I know not whatingratitude, a desire for liberty, a whim to go elsewhere, a tinge ofcontempt and, perhaps, of disgust for his idol; in fine, indescribablesentiments which render him ignoble and ashamed. The certainty of thisconfused, but real, feeling in souls who are not illuminated by thatcelestial light, nor perfumed with that holy essence from which theperformance of sentiment springs, doubtless suggested to Rousseau theadventures of Lord Edward, which conclude the letters of the _NouvelleHeloise_. If Rousseau is obviously inspired by the work of Richardson, he departs from it in a thousand details, which leave his achievementmagnificently original; he has recommended it to posterity by greatideas which it is difficult to liberate by analysis, when, in one'syouth, one reads this work with the object of finding in it the luridrepresentation of the most physical of our feelings, whereas seriousand philosophical writers never employ its images except as theconsequence or the corollary of a vast thought; and the adventures ofLord Edward are one of the most Europeanly delicate ideas of the wholework. 

Henri, therefore, found himself beneath the domination of thatconfused sentiment which is unknown to true love. There was needful, in some sort, the persuasive grip of comparisons, and the irresistibleattraction of memories to lead him back to a woman. True love rulesabove all through recollection. A woman who is not engraven upon thesoul by excess of pleasure or by strength of emotion, how can she everbe loved? In Henri's case, Paquita had established herself by both ofthese reasons. But at this moment, seized as he was by the satiety ofhis happiness, that delicious melancholy of the body, he could hardlyanalyze his heart, even by recalling to his lips the taste of theliveliest gratifications that he had ever grasped. 

He found himself on the Boulevard Montmartre at the break of day, gazed stupidly at the retreating carriage, produced two cigars fromhis pocket, lit one from the lantern of a good woman who sold brandyand coffee to workmen and street arabs and chestnut venders--to allthe Parisian populace which begins its work before daybreak; then hewent off, smoking his cigar, and putting his hands in his trousers'pockets with a devil-may-care air which did him small honor. 

"What a good thing a cigar is! That's one thing a man will never tireof, " he said to himself. 

Of the girl with the golden eyes, over whom at that time all theelegant youth of Paris was mad, he hardly thought. The idea of death, expressed in the midst of their pleasure, and the fear of which hadmore than once darkened the brow of that beautiful creature, who heldto the houris of Asia by her mother, to Europe by her education, tothe tropics by her birth, seemed to him merely one of those deceptionsby which women seek to make themselves interesting. 

"She is from Havana--the most Spanish region to be found in the NewWorld. So she preferred to feign terror rather than cast in my teethindisposition or difficulty, coquetry or duty, like a Parisian woman. By her golden eyes, how glad I shall be to sleep. "

He saw a hackney coach standing at the corner of Frascati's waitingfor some gambler; he awoke the driver, was driven home, went to bed, and slept the sleep of the dissipated, which for some queer reason--ofwhich no rhymer has yet taken advantage--is as profound as that ofinnocence. Perhaps it is an instance of the proverbial axiom, _extremes meet_. 

About noon De Marsay awoke and stretched himself; he felt the grip ofthat sort of voracious hunger which old soldiers can remember havingexperienced on the morrow of victory. He was delighted, therefore, tosee Paul de Manerville standing in front of him, for at such a timenothing is more agreeable than to eat in company. 

"Well, " his friend remarked, "we all imagined that you had been shutup for the last ten days with the girl of the golden eyes. "

"The girl of the golden eyes! I have forgotten her. Faith! I haveother fish to fry!"

"Ah! you are playing at discretion. "

"Why not?" asked De Marsay, with a laugh. "My dear fellow, discretionis the best form of calculation. Listen--however, no! I will not say aword. You never teach me anything; I am not disposed to make you agratuitous present of the treasures of my policy. Life is a riverwhich is of use for the promotion of commerce. In the name of all thatis most sacred in life--of cigars! I am no professor of social economyfor the instruction of fools. Let us breakfast! It costs less to giveyou a tunny omelette than to lavish the resources of my brain on you. "

"Do you bargain with your friends?"

"My dear fellow, " said Henri, who rarely denied himself a sarcasm, "since all the same, you may some day need, like anybody else, to usediscretion, and since I have much love for you--yes, I like you! Uponmy word, if you only wanted a thousand-franc note to keep you fromblowing your brains out, you would find it here, for we haven't yetdone any business of that sort, eh, Paul? If you had to fightto-morrow, I would measure the ground and load the pistols, so thatyou might be killed according to rule. In short, if anybody besidesmyself took it into his head to say ill of you in your absence, hewould have to deal with the somewhat nasty gentleman who walks in myshoes--there's what I call a friendship beyond question. Well, my goodfellow, if you should ever have need of discretion, understand thatthere are two sorts of discretion--the active and the negative. Negative discretion is that of fools who make use of silence, negation, an air of refusal, the discretion of locked doors--mereimpotence! Active discretion proceeds by affirmation. Suppose at theclub this evening I were to say: 'Upon my word of honor thegolden-eyed was not worth all she cost me!' Everybody would exclaimwhen I was gone: 'Did you hear that fop De Marsay, who tried to makeus believe that he has already had the girl of the golden eyes? It'shis way of trying to disembarrass himself of his rivals: he's nosimpleton. ' But such a ruse is vulgar and dangerous. However gross afolly one utters, there are always idiots to be found who will believeit. The best form of discretion is that of women when they want totake the change out of their husbands. It consists in compromising awoman with whom we are not concerned, or whom we do not love, in orderto save the honor of the one whom we love well enough to respect. Itis what is called the _woman-screen_. . . . Ah! here is Laurent. Whathave you got for us?"

"Some Ostend oysters, Monsieur le Comte. "

"You will know some day, Paul, how amusing it is to make a fool of theworld by depriving it of the secret of one's affections. I derive animmense pleasure in escaping from the stupid jurisdiction of thecrowd, which knows neither what it wants, nor what one wants of it, which takes the means for the end, and by turns curses and adores, elevates and destroys! What a delight to impose emotions on it andreceive none from it, to tame it, never to obey it. If one may ever beproud of anything, is it not a self-acquired power, of which one is atonce the cause and effect, the principle and the result? Well, no manknows what I love, nor what I wish. Perhaps what I have loved, or whatI may have wished will be known, as a drama which is accomplished isknown; but to let my game be seen--weakness, mistake! I know nothingmore despicable than strength outwitted by cunning. Can I initiatemyself with a laugh into the ambassador's part, if indeed diplomacy isas difficult as life? I doubt it. Have you any ambition? Would youlike to become something?"

"But, Henri, you are laughing at me--as though I were not sufficientlymediocre to arrive at anything. "

"Good Paul! If you go on laughing at yourself, you will soon be ableto laugh at everybody else. "

At breakfast, by the time he had started his cigars, De Marsay beganto see the events of the night in a singular light. Like many men ofgreat intelligence, his perspicuity was not spontaneous, as it did notat once penetrate to the heart of things. As with all natures endowedwith the faculty of living greatly in the present, of extracting, soto speak, the essence of it and assimilating it, his second-sight hadneed of a sort of slumber before it could identify itself with causes. Cardinal de Richelieu was so constituted, and it did not debar in himthe gift of foresight necessary to the conception of great designs. 

De Marsay's conditions were alike, but at first he only used hisweapons for the benefit of his pleasures, and only became one of themost profound politicians of his day when he had saturated himselfwith those pleasures to which a young man's thoughts--when he hasmoney and power--are primarily directed. Man hardens himself thus: heuses woman in order that she may not make use of him. 

At this moment, then, De Marsay perceived that he had been fooled bythe girl of the golden eyes, seeing, as he did, in perspective, allthat night of which the delights had been poured upon him by degreesuntil they had ended by flooding him in torrents. He could read, atlast, that page in effect so brilliant, divine its hidden meaning. Thepurely physical innocence of Paquita, the bewilderment of her joy, certain words, obscure at first, but now clear, which had escaped herin the midst of that joy, all proved to him that he had posed foranother person. As no social corruption was unknown to him, as heprofessed a complete indifference towards all perversities, andbelieved them to be justified on the simple ground that they werecapable of satisfaction, he was not startled at vice, he knew it asone knows a friend, but he was wounded at having served as sustenancefor it. If his presumption was right, he had been outraged in the mostsensitive part of him. The mere suspicion filled him with fury, hebroke out with the roar of a tiger who has been the sport of a deer, the cry of a tiger which united a brute's strength with theintelligence of the demon. 

"I say, what is the matter with you?" asked Paul. 

"Nothing!"

"I should be sorry, if you were to be asked whether you had anythingagainst me and were to reply with a _nothing_ like that! It would be asure case of fighting the next day. "

"I fight no more duels, " said De Marsay. 

"That seems to me even more tragical. Do you assassinate, then?"

"You travesty words. I execute. "

"My dear friend, " said Paul, "your jokes are of a very sombre colorthis morning. "

"What would you have? Pleasure ends in cruelty. Why? I don't know, andam not sufficiently curious to try and find out. . . . These cigarsare excellent. Give your friend some tea. Do you know, Paul, I live abrute's life? It should be time to choose oneself a destiny, to employone's powers on something which makes life worth living. Life is asingular comedy. I am frightened, I laugh at the inconsequence of oursocial order. The Government cuts off the heads of poor devils who mayhave killed a man and licenses creatures who despatch, medicallyspeaking, a dozen young folks in a season. Morality is powerlessagainst a dozen vices which destroy society and which nothing canpunish. --Another cup!--Upon my word of honor! man is a jester dancingupon a precipice. They talk to us about the immorality of the_Liaisons Dangereuses_, and any other book you like with a vulgarreputation; but there exists a book, horrible, filthy, fearful, corrupting, which is always open and will never be shut, the greatbook of the world; not to mention another book, a thousand times moredangerous, which is composed of all that men whisper into each other'sears, or women murmur behind their fans, of an evening in society. "

"Henri, there is certainly something extraordinary the matter withyou; that is obvious in spite of your active discretion. "

"Yes! . . . Come, I must kill the time until this evening. Let's tothe tables. . . . Perhaps I shall have the good luck to lose. "

De Marsay rose, took a handful of banknotes and folded them into hiscigar-case, dressed himself, and took advantage of Paul's carriage torepair to the Salon des Etrangers, where until dinner he consumed thetime in those exciting alternations of loss and gain which are thelast resource of powerful organizations when they are compelled toexercise themselves in the void. In the evening he repaired to thetrysting-place and submitted complacently to having his eyes bandaged. Then, with that firm will which only really strong men have thefaculty of concentrating, he devoted his attention and applied hisintelligence to the task of divining through what streets the carriagepassed. He had a sort of certitude of being taken to the RueSaint-Lazare, and being brought to a halt at the little gate in thegarden of the Hotel San-Real. When he passed, as on the first occasion, through this gate, and was put in a litter, carried, doubtless by themulatto and the coachman, he understood, as he heard the gravel gratebeneath their feet, why they took such minute precautions. He wouldhave been able, had he been free, or if he had walked, to pluck a twigof laurel, to observe the nature of the soil which clung to his boots;whereas, transported, so to speak, ethereally into an inaccessiblemansion, his good fortune must remain what it had been hitherto, adream. But it is man's despair that all his work, whether for good orevil, is imperfect. All his labors, physical or intellectual, aresealed with the mark of destruction. There had been a gentle rain, theearth was moist. At night-time certain vegetable perfumes are farstronger than during the day; Henri could smell, therefore, the scentof the mignonette which lined the avenue along which he was conveyed. This indication was enough to light him in the researches which hepromised himself to make in order to recognize the hotel whichcontained Paquita's boudoir. He studied in the same way the turningswhich his bearers took within the house, and believed himself able torecall them. 

As on the previous night, he found himself on the ottoman beforePaquita, who was undoing his bandage; but he saw her pale and altered. She had wept. On her knees like an angel in prayer, but like an angelprofoundly sad and melancholy, the poor girl no longer resembled thecurious, impatient, and impetuous creature who had carried De Marsayon her wings to transport him to the seventh heaven of love. There wassomething so true in this despair veiled by pleasure, that theterrible De Marsay felt within him an admiration for this newmasterpiece of nature, and forgot, for the moment, the chief interestof his assignation. 

"What is the matter with thee, my Paquita?"

"My friend, " she said, "carry me away this very night. Bear me to someplace where no one can answer: 'There is a girl with a golden gazehere, who has long hair. ' Yonder I will give thee as many pleasures asthou wouldst have of me. Then when you love me no longer, you shallleave me, I shall not complain, I shall say nothing; and yourdesertion need cause you no remorse, for one day passed with you, onlyone day, in which I have had you before my eyes, will be worth all mylife to me. But if I stay here, I am lost. "

"I cannot leave Paris, little one!" replied Henri. "I do not belong tomyself, I am bound by a vow to the fortune of several persons whostand to me, as I do to them. But I can place you in a refuge inParis, where no human power can reach you. "

"No, " she said, "you forget the power of woman. "

Never did phrase uttered by human voice express terror moreabsolutely. 

"What could reach you, then, if I put myself between you and theworld?"

"Poison!" she said. "Dona Concha suspects you already . . . And, " sheresumed, letting the tears fall and glisten on her cheeks, "it is easyenough to see I am no longer the same. Well, if you abandon me to thefury of the monster who will destroy me, your holy will be done! Butcome, let there be all the pleasures of life in our love. Besides, Iwill implore, I will weep and cry out and defend myself; perhaps Ishall be saved. "

"Whom will your implore?" he asked. 

"Silence!" said Paquita. "If I obtain mercy it will perhaps be onaccount of my discretion. "

"Give me my robe, " said Henri, insidiously. 

"No, no!" she answered quickly, "be what you are, one of those angelswhom I have been taught to hate, and in whom I only saw ogres, whilstyou are what is fairest under the skies, " she said, caressing Henri'shair. "You do not know how silly I am. I have learned nothing. Since Iwas twelve years old I have been shut up without ever seeing any one. I can neither read nor write, I can only speak English and Spanish. "

"How is it, then, that you receive letters from London?"

"My letters? . . . See, here they are!" she said, proceeding to takesome papers out of a tall Japanese vase. 

She offered De Marsay some letters, in which the young man saw, withsurprise, strange figures, similar to those of a rebus, traced inblood, and illustrating phrases full of passion. 

"But, " he cried, marveling at these hieroglyphics created by thealertness of jealousy, "you are in the power of an infernal genius?"

"Infernal, " she repeated. 

"But how, then, were you able to get out?"

"Ah!" she said, "that was my ruin. I drove Dona Concha to choosebetween the fear of immediate death and anger to be. I had thecuriosity of a demon, I wished to break the bronze circle which theyhad described between creation and me, I wished to see what youngpeople were like, for I knew nothing of man except the Marquis andCristemio. Our coachman and the lackey who accompanies us are oldmen. . . . "

"But you were not always thus shut up? Your health . . . ?"

"Ah, " she answered, "we used to walk, but it was at night and in thecountry, by the side of the Seine, away from people. "

"Are you not proud of being loved like that?"

"No, " she said, "no longer. However full it be, this hidden life isbut darkness in comparison with the light. "

"What do you call the light?"

"Thee, my lovely Adolphe! Thee, for whom I would give my life. All thepassionate things that have been told me, and that I have inspired, Ifeel for thee! For a certain time I understood nothing of existence, but now I know what love is, and hitherto I have been the loved oneonly; for myself, I did not love. I would give up everything for you, take me away. If you like, take me as a toy, but let me be near youuntil you break me. "

"You will have no regrets?"

"Not one"! she said, letting him read her eyes, whose golden tint waspure and clear. 

"Am I the favored one?" said Henri to himself. If he suspected thetruth, he was ready at that time to pardon the offence in view of alove so single minded. "I shall soon see, " he thought. 

If Paquita owed him no account of the past, yet the least recollectionof it became in his eyes a crime. He had therefore the sombre strengthto withhold a portion of his thought, to study her, even whileabandoning himself to the most enticing pleasures that ever peridescended from the skies had devised for her beloved. 

Paquita seemed to have been created for love by a particular effort ofnature. In a night her feminine genius had made the most rapidprogress. Whatever might be the power of this young man, and hisindifference in the matter of pleasures, in spite of his satiety ofthe previous night, he found in the girl with the golden eyes thatseraglio which a loving woman knows how to create and which a mannever refuses. Paquita responded to that passion which is felt by allreally great men for the infinite--that mysterious passion sodramatically expressed in Faust, so poetically translated in Manfred, and which urged Don Juan to search the heart of women, in his hope tofind there that limitless thought in pursuit of which so many huntersafter spectres have started, which wise men think to discover inscience, and which mystics find in God alone. The hope of possessingat last the ideal being with whom the struggle could be constant andtireless ravished De Marsay, who, for the first time for long, openedhis heart. His nerves expanded, his coldness was dissipated in theatmosphere of that ardent soul, his hard and fast theories meltedaway, and happiness colored his existence to the tint of the rose andwhite boudoir. Experiencing the sting of a higher pleasure, he wascarried beyond the limits within which he had hitherto confinedpassion. He would not be surpassed by this girl, whom a somewhatartificial love had formed all ready for the needs of his soul, andthen he found in that vanity which urges a man to be in all things avictor, strength enough to tame the girl; but, at the same time, urgedbeyond that line where the soul is mistress over herself, he losthimself in these delicious limboes, which the vulgar call so foolishly"the imaginary regions. " He was tender, kind, and confidential. Heaffected Paquita almost to madness. 

"Why should we not go to Sorrento, to Nice, to Chiavari, and pass allour life so? Will you?" he asked of Paquita, in a penetrating voice. 

"Was there need to say to me: 'Will you'?" she cried. "Have I a will?I am nothing apart from you, except in so far as I am a pleasure foryou. If you would choose a retreat worthy of us, Asia is the onlycountry where love can unfold his wings. . . . "

"You are right, " answered Henri. "Let us go to the Indies, there wherespring is eternal, where the earth grows only flowers, where man candisplay the magnificence of kings and none shall say him nay, as inthe foolish lands where they would realize the dull chimera ofequality. Let us go to the country where one lives in the midst of anation of slaves, where the sun shines ever on a palace which isalways white, where the air sheds perfumes, the birds sing of love andwhere, when one can love no more, one dies. . . . "

"And where one dies together!" said Paquita. "But do not let us startto-morrow, let us start this moment . . . Take Cristemio. "

"Faith! pleasure is the fairest climax of life. Let us go to Asia; butto start, my child, one needs much gold, and to have gold one must setone's affairs in order. "

She understood no part of these ideas. 

"Gold! There is a pile of it here--as high as that, " she said holdingup her hand. 

"It is not mine. "

"What does that matter?" she went on; "if we have need of it let ustake it. "

"It does not belong to you. "

"Belong!" she repeated. "Have you not taken me? When we have taken it, it will belong to us. "

He gave a laugh. 

"Poor innocent! You know nothing of the world. "

"Nay, but this is what I know, " she cried, clasping Henri to her. 

At the very moment when De Marsay was forgetting all, and conceivingthe desire to appropriate this creature forever, he received in themidst of his joy a dagger-thrust, which Paquita, who had lifted himvigorously in the air, as though to contemplate him, exclaimed: "Oh, Margarita!"

"Margarita!" cried the young man, with a roar; "now I know all that Istill tried to disbelieve. "

He leaped upon the cabinet in which the long poniard was kept. Happilyfor Paquita and for himself, the cupboard was shut. His fury waxed atthis impediment, but he recovered his tranquillity, went and found hiscravat, and advanced towards her with an air of such ferocious meaningthat, without knowing of what crime she had been guilty, Paquitaunderstood, none the less, that her life was in question. With onebound she rushed to the other end of the room to escape the fatal knotwhich De Marsay tried to pass round her neck. There was a struggle. Oneither side there was an equality of strength, agility, andsuppleness. To end the combat Paquita threw between the legs of herlover a cushion which made him fall, and profited by the respite whichthis advantage gave to her, to push the button of the spring whichcaused the bell to ring. Promptly the mulatto arrived. In a secondCristemio leaped on De Marsay and held him down with one foot on hischest, his heel turned towards the throat. De Marsay realized that, ifhe struggled, at a single sign from Paquita he would be instantlycrushed. 

"Why did you want to kill me, my beloved?" she said. De Marsay made noreply. 

"In what have I angered you?" she asked. "Speak, let us understandeach other. "

Henri maintained the phlegmatic attitude of a strong man who feelshimself vanquished; his countenance, cold, silent, entirely English, revealed the consciousness of his dignity in a momentary resignation. Moreover, he had already thought, in spite of the vehemence of hisanger, that it was scarcely prudent to compromise himself with the lawby killing this girl on the spur of the moment, before he had arrangedthe murder in such a manner as should insure his impunity. 

"My beloved, " went on Paquita, "speak to me; do not leave me withoutone loving farewell! I would not keep in my heart the terror which youhave just inspired in it. . . . Will you speak?" she said, stampingher foot with anger. 

De Marsay, for all reply, gave her a glance, which signified soplainly, "_You must die!_" that Paquita threw herself upon him. 

"Ah, well, you want to kill me! . . . If my death can give you anypleasure--kill me!"

She made a sign to Cristemio, who withdrew his foot from the body ofthe young man, and retired without letting his face show that he hadformed any opinion, good or bad, with regard to Paquita. 

"That is a man, " said De Marsay, pointing to the mulatto, with asombre gesture. "There is no devotion like the devotion which obeys infriendship, and does not stop to weigh motives. In that man youpossess a true friend. "

"I will give him you, if you like, " she answered; "he will serve youwith the same devotion that he has for me, if I so instruct him. "

She waited for a word of recognition, and went on with an accentreplete with tenderness:

"Adolphe, give me then one kind word! . . . It is nearly day. "

Henri did not answer. The young man had one sorry quality, for oneconsiders as something great everything which resembles strength, andoften men invent extravagances. Henri knew not how to pardon. That_returning upon itself_ which is one of the soul's graces, was anon-existent sense for him. The ferocity of the Northern man, withwhich the English blood is deeply tainted, had been transmitted tohim by his father. He was inexorable both in his good and evilimpulses. Paquita's exclamation had been all the more horrible to him, in that it had dethroned him from the sweetest triumph which had everflattered his man's vanity. Hope, love, and every emotion had beenexalted with him, all had lit up within his heart and hisintelligence, then these torches illuminating his life had beenextinguished by a cold wind. Paquita, in her stupefaction of grief, had only strength enough to give the signal for departure. 

"What is the use of that!" she said, throwing away the bandage. "If hedoes not love me, if he hates me, it is all over. "

She waited for one look, did not obtain it, and fell, half dead. Themulatto cast a glance at Henri, so horribly significant, that, for thefirst time in his life, the young man, to whom no one denied the giftof rare courage, trembled. "_If you do not love her well, if you giveher the least pain, I will kill you_. " such was the sense of thatbrief gaze. De Marsay was escorted, with a care almost obsequious, along the dimly lit corridor, at the end of which he issued by asecret door into the garden of the Hotel San-Real. The mulatto madehim walk cautiously through an avenue of lime trees, which led to alittle gate opening upon a street which was at that hour deserted. DeMarsay took a keen notice of everything. The carriage awaited him. This time the mulatto did not accompany him, and at the moment whenHenri put his head out of the window to look once more at the gardensof the hotel, he encountered the white eyes of Cristemio, with whom heexchanged a glance. On either side there was a provocation, achallenge, the declaration of a savage war, of a duel in whichordinary laws were invalid, where treason and treachery were admittedmeans. Cristemio knew that Henri had sworn Paquita's death. Henri knewthat Cristemio would like to kill him before he killed Paquita. Bothunderstood each other to perfection. 

"The adventure is growing complicated in a most interesting way, " saidHenri. 

"Where is the gentleman going to?" asked the coachman. 

De Marsay was driven to the house of Paul de Manerville. For more thana week Henri was away from home, and no one could discover either whathe did during this period, nor where he stayed. This retreat saved himfrom the fury of the mulatto and caused the ruin of the charmingcreature who had placed all her hope in him whom she loved as neverhuman heart had loved on this earth before. On the last day of theweek, about eleven o'clock at night, Henri drove up in a carriage tothe little gate in the garden of the Hotel San-Real. Four menaccompanied him. The driver was evidently one of his friends, for hestood up on his box, like a man who was to listen, an attentivesentinel, for the least sound. One of the other three took his standoutside the gate in the street; the second waited in the garden, leaning against the wall; the last, who carried in his hand a bunch ofkeys, accompanied De Marsay. 

"Henri, " said his companion to him, "we are betrayed. "

"By whom, my good Ferragus?"

"They are not all asleep, " replied the chief of the Devourers; "it isabsolutely certain that some one in the house has neither eaten nordrunk. . . . Look! see that light!"

"We have a plan of the house; from where does it come?"

"I need no plan to know, " replied Ferragus; "it comes from the room ofthe Marquise. "

"Ah, " cried De Marsay, "no doubt she arrived from London to-day. Thewoman has robbed me even of my revenge! But if she has anticipated me, my good Gratien, we will give her up to the law. "

"Listen, listen! . . . The thing is settled, " said Ferragus to Henri. 

The two friends listened intently, and heard some feeble cries whichmight have aroused pity in the breast of a tiger. 

"Your marquise did not think the sound would escape by the chimney, "said the chief of the Devourers, with the laugh of a critic, enchantedto detect a fault in a work of merit. 

"We alone, we know how to provide for every contingency, " said Henri. "Wait for me. I want to see what is going on upstairs--I want to knowhow their domestic quarrels are managed. By God! I believe she isroasting her at a slow fire. "

De Marsay lightly scaled the stairs, with which he was familiar, andrecognized the passage leading to the boudoir. When he opened the doorhe experienced the involuntary shudder which the sight of bloodshedgives to the most determined of men. The spectacle which was offeredto his view was, moreover, in more than one respect astonishing tohim. The Marquise was a woman; she had calculated her vengeance withthat perfection of perfidy which distinguishes the weaker animals. Shehad dissimulated her anger in order to assure herself of the crimebefore she punished it. 

"Too late, my beloved!" said Paquita, in her death agony, casting herpale eyes upon De Marsay. 

The girl of the golden eyes expired in a bath of blood. The greatillumination of candles, a delicate perfume which was perceptible, acertain disorder, in which the eye of a man accustomed to amorousadventures could not but discern the madness which is common to allthe passions, revealed how cunningly the Marquise had interrogated theguilty one. The white room, where the blood showed so well, betrayed along struggle. The prints of Paquita's hands were on the cushions. Here she had clung to her life, here she had defended herself, hereshe had been struck. Long strips of the tapestry had been torn down byher bleeding hands, which, without a doubt, had struggled long. Paquita must have tried to reach the window; her bare feet had lefttheir imprints on the edge of the divan, along which she must haverun. Her body, mutilated by the dagger-thrusts of her executioner, told of the fury with which she had disputed a life which Henri hadmade precious to her. She lay stretched on the floor, and in herdeath-throes had bitten the ankles of Madame de San-Real, who stillheld in her hand her dagger, dripping blood. The hair of the Marquisehad been torn out, she was covered with bites, many of which werebleeding, and her torn dress revealed her in a state of semi-nudity, with the scratches on her breasts. She was sublime so. Her head, eagerand maddened, exhaled the odor of blood. Her panting mouth was open, and her nostrils were not sufficient for her breath. There are certainanimals who fall upon their enemy in their rage, do it to death, andseem in the tranquillity of victory to have forgotten it. There areothers who prowl around their victim, who guard it in fear lest itshould be taken away from them, and who, like the Achilles of Homer, drag their enemy by the feet nine times round the walls of Troy. TheMarquise was like that. She did not see Henri. In the first place, shewas too secure of her solitude to be afraid of witnesses; and, secondly, she was too intoxicated with warm blood, too excited withthe fray, too exalted, to take notice of the whole of Paris, if Parishad formed a circle round her. A thunderbolt would not have disturbedher. She had not even heard Paquita's last sigh, and believed that thedead girl could still hear her. 

"Die without confessing!" she said. "Go down to hell, monster ofingratitude; belong to no one but the fiend. For the blood you gavehim you owe me all your own! Die, die, suffer a thousand deaths! Ihave been too kind--I was only a moment killing you. I should havemade you experience all the tortures that you have bequeathed to me. I--I shall live! I shall live in misery. I have no one left to love butGod!"

She gazed at her. 

"She is dead!" she said to herself, after a pause, in a violentreaction. "Dead! Oh, I shall die of grief!"

The Marquise was throwing herself upon the divan, stricken with adespair which deprived her of speech, when this movement brought herin view of Henri de Marsay. 

"Who are you?" she asked, rushing at him with her dagger raised. 

Henri caught her arm, and thus they could contemplate each other faceto face. A horrible surprise froze the blood in their veins, and theirlimbs quivered like those of frightened horses. In effect, the twoMenoechmi had not been more alike. With one accord they uttered thesame phrase:

"Lord Dudley must have been your father!"

The head of each was drooped in affirmation. 

"She was true to the blood, " said Henri, pointing to Paquita. 

"She was as little guilty as it is possible to be, " replied MargaritaEuphemia Porraberil, and she threw herself upon the body of Paquita, giving vent to a cry of despair. "Poor child! Oh, if I could bringthee to life again! I was wrong--forgive me, Paquita! Dead! and Ilive! I--I am the most unhappy. "

At that moment the horrible face of the mother of Paquita appeared. 

"You are come to tell me that you never sold her to me to kill, " criedthe Marquise. "I know why you have left your lair. I will pay youtwice over. Hold your peace. "

She took a bag of gold from the ebony cabinet, and threw itcontemptuously at the old woman's feet. The chink of the gold waspotent enough to excite a smile on the Georgian's impassive face. 

"I come at the right moment for you, my sister, " said Henri. "The lawwill ask of you----"

"Nothing, " replied the Marquise. "One person alone might ask for areckoning for the death of this girl. Cristemio is dead. "

"And the mother, " said Henri, pointing to the old woman. "Will you notalways be in her power?"

"She comes from a country where women are not beings, but things--chattels, with which one does as one wills, which one buys, sells, and slays; in short, which one uses for one's caprices as you, here, use a piece of furniture. Besides, she has one passion which dominatesall the others, and which would have stifled her maternal love, evenif she had loved her daughter, a passion----"

"What?" Henri asked quickly, interrupting his sister. 

"Play! God keep you from it, " answered the Marquise. 

"But whom have you, " said Henri, looking at the girl of the goldeneyes, "who will help you to remove the traces of this fantasy whichthe law would not overlook?"

"I have her mother, " replied the Marquise, designating the Georgian, to whom she made a sign to remain. 

"We shall meet again, " said Henri, who was thinking anxiously of hisfriends and felt that it was time to leave. 

"No, brother, " she said, "we shall not meet again. I am going back toSpain to enter the Convent of _los Dolores_. "

"You are too young yet, too lovely, " said Henri, taking her in hisarms and giving her a kiss. 

"Good-bye, " she said; "there is no consolation when you have lost thatwhich has seemed to you the infinite. "

A week later Paul de Manerville met De Marsay in the Tuileries, on theTerrasse de Feuillants. 

"Well, what has become of our beautiful girl of the golden eyes, yourascal?"

"She is dead. "

"What of?"

"Consumption. "

PARIS, March 1834-April 1835. 

ADDENDUM

 Note: The Girl with the Golden Eyes is the third part of a trilogy. Part one is entitled Ferragus and part two is The Duchesse de Langeais. In other addendum references all three stories are usually combined under the title The Thirteen. 

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Bourignard, Gratien-Henri-Victor-Jean-Joseph Ferragus

Dudley, Lord The Lily of the Valley A Man of Business Another Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve

Manerville, Paul Francois-Joseph, Comte de The Ball at Sceaux Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Marriage Settlement

Marsay, Henri de Ferragus The Duchesse of Langeais The Unconscious Humorists Another Study of Woman The Lily of the Valley Father Goriot Jealousies of a Country Town Ursule Mirouet A Marriage Settlement Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Letters of Two Brides The Ball at Sceaux Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve

Ronquerolles, Marquis de The Imaginary Mistress The Peasantry Ursule Mirouet A Woman of Thirty Another Study of Woman Ferragus The Duchesse of Langeais The Member for Arcis