[Illustration: _The Duc, the Duchesse, and the Doctor. _ ]

THE NABOB

BY

ALPHONSE DAUDET

TRANSLATED BY

GEORGE BURNHAM IVES

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

BRANDER MATTHEWS

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II. 

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1902

_Copyright, 1898, _

BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

_All rights reserved. _

University Press:

JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

XIII. A DAY OF SPLEEN 1

XIV. THE EXHIBITION 20

XV. MEMOIRS OF A CLERK. --IN THE RECEPTION-ROOM 42

XVI. A PUBLIC MAN 57

XVII. THE APPARITION 86

XVIII. THE JENKINS PEARLS 107

XIX. THE OBSEQUIES 135

XX. BARONESS HEMERLINGUE 163

XXI. THE SITTING 194

XXII. PARISIAN DRAMAS 230

XXIII. MEMOIRS OF A CLERK. --LAST SHEETS 255

XXIV. AT BORDIGHERA 267

XXV. THE FIRST NIGHT OF "RÉVOLTE" 287

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Duc, the Duchesse, and the Doctor _Frontispiece_

"'Don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you'" _Page_ 153

The First Night of "Révolte" " 287

From drawings by Lucius Rossi. 

THE NABOB. 

XIII. 

A DAY OF SPLEEN. 

Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain ever since the morning, a gray sky, so low that one can touch it with one's umbrella, dirty weather, puddles, mud, nothing but mud, in thick pools, in gleaming streaks alongthe edge of the sidewalks, driven back in vain by automatic sweepers, sweepers with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and carted away onenormous tumbrils which carry it slowly and in triumph through thestreets toward Montreuil; removed and ever reappearing, oozing betweenthe pavements, splashing carriage panels, horses' breasts, the clothingof the passers-by, soiling windows, thresholds, shop-fronts, until onewould think that all Paris was about to plunge in and disappear beneaththat depressing expanse of miry earth in which all things are jumbledtogether and lose their identity. And it is a pitiable thing to see howthat filth invades the spotless precincts of new houses, the copings ofthe quays, the colonnades of stone balconies. There is some one, however, whom this spectacle rejoices, a poor, ill, disheartenedcreature, who, stretched out at full length on the embroidered silkcovering of a divan, her head resting on her clenched fists, gazesgleefully out through the streaming window-panes and gloats over allthese ugly details:

"You see, my Fairy, this is just the kind of weather I wanted to-day. See them splash along. Aren't they hideous, aren't they filthy? Whatmud! It's everywhere, in the streets, on the quays, even in the Seine, even in the sky. Ah! mud is a fine thing when you're downhearted. Iwould like to dabble in it, to mould a statue with it, a statue onehundred feet high, and call it, 'My Ennui. '"

"But why do you suffer from ennui, my darling?" mildly inquires theex-ballet-dancer, good-natured and rosy, from her armchair, in which shesits very erect for fear of damage to her hair, which is even morecarefully arranged than usual. "Haven't you all that any one can need tobe happy?"

And she proceeds, in her placid voice, to enumerate for the hundredthtime her reasons for happiness, her renown, her genius, her beauty, allmen at her feet, the handsomest, the most powerful; oh! yes, the mostpowerful, for that very day--But an ominous screech, a heart-rendingwail from the jackal, maddened by the monotony of her desert, suddenlymakes the studio windows rattle and sends the terrified old chrysalisback into her cocoon. 

The completion of her group and its departure for the Salon has leftFelicia for a week past in this state of prostration, of disgust, ofheart-rending, distressing irritation. It requires all of the oldfairy's unwearying patience, the magic of the memories she evokes everymoment in the day, to make life endurable to her beside thatrestlessness, that wicked wrath which she can hear grumbling beneath thegirl's silences, and which suddenly bursts forth in a bitter word, in a_pah_! of disgust _àpropos_ of everything. Her group is hideous. No onewill speak of it. All the critics are donkeys. The public? an immense_goître_ with three stories of chin. And yet, a few Sundays ago, whenthe Duc de Mora came with the superintendent of Fine Arts to see herwork at the studio, she was so happy, so proud of the praise bestowed onher, so thoroughly delighted with her work, which she admired at adistance as if it were by another hand, now that the modelling-tool hadceased to form between her and her work the bond which tends to impairthe impartiality of the artist's judgment. 

But it is so every year. When the studio is robbed of the latest work, when her famous name is once more at the mercy of the public'sunforeseen caprice, Felicia's preoccupations--for she has then novisible object in life--stray through the empty void of her heart, ofher existence as one who has turned aside from the peaceful furrow, until she is once more intent upon another task. She shuts herself up, she refuses to see anybody. One would say that she is distrustful ofherself. The good Jenkins is the only one who can endure her duringthose crises. He even seems to take pleasure in them, as if he expectedsomething from them. And yet God knows she is not amiable to him. Onlyyesterday he remained two hours with the beautiful ennui-riddencreature, who did not so much as speak a single word to him. If that isthe sort of welcome she has in store for the great personage who doesthem the honor to dine with them--At that point the gentle Crenmitz, whohas been placidly ruminating all these things and gazing at the slendertoe of her tufted shoes, suddenly remembers that she has promised tomake a dish of Viennese cakes for the dinner of the personage inquestion, and quietly leaves the studio on the tips of her little toes. 

Still the rain, still the mud, still the beautiful sphinx, crouching inher seat, her eyes wandering aimlessly over the miry landscape. Of whatis she thinking? What is she watching on those muddy roads, growing dimin the fading light, with that frown on her brow and that lip curled indisgust? Is she awaiting her destiny? A melancholy destiny, to have goneabroad in such weather, without fear of the darkness, of the mud. 

Some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than Constance'smouse-like trot. The little servant, doubtless. And Felicia saysroughly, without turning:

"Go to bed. I am not at home to any one. "

"I should be very glad to speak with you if you were, " a voice repliedgood-naturedly. 

She starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sightof that unexpected visitor:

"Ah! it's you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"

"Very easily. All the doors are open. "

"I am not surprised. Constance has been like a madwoman ever sincemorning, with her dinner. "

"Yes, I saw. The reception room is full of flowers. You have--?"

"Oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. I don't know how I ever madeup my mind to it. Sit down here, beside me. I am glad to see you. "

Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed solovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion ofobjects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, hereyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habitoutlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then hertone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had hestayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Hadthey ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could. Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he hadoften talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day. 

"Really? With whom?"

"With--"

He was on the point of saying: "With Aline Joyeuse, " but somethingchecked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering thatname in the studio which had heard so many other names. There are somethings which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. Paulpreferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to theobject of his call. 

"With an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted greatpain. Tell me, why haven't you finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was asource of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust atthe Salon. He relied upon it. "

At the name of the Nabob she was slightly embarrassed. 

"It is true, " she said, "I broke my word. What do you expect? I am theslave of my whims. But it is my purpose to take it up again one of thesedays. See, the cloth thrown over it is all damp, so that the clay won'tdry. "

"And the accident? Ah! do you know, we hardly believed in that?"

"You were wrong. I never lie. A fall, a terrible crash. But the clay wasfresh, I easily repaired it. Look!"

She removed the cloth with a movement of her arm; the Nabob stood forth, with his honest face beaming with joy at being reproduced, and so true, so natural, that Paul uttered a cry of admiration. 

"Isn't it good?" she asked ingenuously. "A few touches there andthere--" She had taken the tool and the little sponge and pushed thestand into what little light there was. "It would be a matter of a fewhours; but it couldn't go to the Exhibition. This is the 22d; everythinghad to be sent in long ago. "

"Pshaw! With influence--"

She frowned, and the wicked, drooping expression played about her mouth. 

"True. The Duc de Mora's _protégée_. Oh! you need not excuse yourself. Iknow what people say of him, and I care as little for it as that!" Shethrew a pellet of clay which flattened out against the wall. "Perhaps, indeed, by dint of imagining what is not--But let us drop those vilethings, " she said, with a toss of her little aristocratic head. "I amanxious to give you pleasure, Minerva. Your friend shall go to the Salonthis year. "

At that moment the odor of caramel, of hot pastry invaded the studio, where the twilight was falling in fine, decolorized dust; and the Fairyappeared, with a plate of fritters in her hand, a true fairy, rejuvenated in gay attire, arrayed in a white tunic which affordedglimpses, beneath the yellowed lace, of her lovely old woman's arms, thecharm that is the last to die. 

"Look at my _kuchlen_, darling; see if they're not a success this time. Oh! I beg your pardon; I didn't see that you had company. Ah! It'sMonsieur Paul? Are you pretty well, Monsieur Paul? Pray taste one of mycakes. "

And the amiable old lady, to whom her costume seemed to impartextraordinary animation, came prancing forward, balancing her plate onthe ends of her doll-like fingers. 

"Let him alone, " said Felicia calmly. "You can offer him some atdinner. "

"At dinner!"

The dancer was so thunderstruck that she nearly overturned her prettycakes, which were as light and dainty and excellent as herself. 

"Why, yes, I am keeping him to dinner with us. Oh! I beg you, " she addedwith peculiar earnestness, seeing that the young man made a gesture ofrefusal, "I beg you, do not say no. You can do me a real service bystaying to-night. Come, I did not hesitate a moment ago, you know. "

She had taken his hand; really there seemed to be a strangedisproportion between her request and the anxious, imploring tone inwhich it was made. Paul still held back. He was not properly dressed. How could she expect him to stay? A dinner-party at which she was tohave other guests. 

"My dinner-party? Why, I will countermand the orders for it. That is theway I feel. We three will dine alone, you and I and Constance. "

"But, Felicia, my child, you can't think of doing such a thing. Upon myword! What about the--the other who will soon be here?"

"_Parbleu!_ I will write to him to stay at home. "

"Wretched girl, it is too late. "

"Not at all, It's just striking six. The dinner was to be at half-pastseven. You must send him this at once. "

She wrote a note, in haste, on a corner of the table. 

"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_ what a strange girl!" murmured the dancer, lostin bewilderment, while Felicia, enchanted, transfigured, joyously sealedher letter. 

"There, my excuses are all made. The sick-headache wasn't invented forKadour. Oh! how glad I am!" she added, when the letter had gone; "what adelightful evening we will have! Kiss me, Constance. This won't preventour doing honor to your _kuchlen_, and we shall enjoy seeing you in apretty gown that makes you look younger than I. "

Less than that would have induced the dancer to forgive this latest whimof her dear demon and the crime of _lèse-majesté_ in which she had madeher an accomplice. The idea of treating such a personage so cavalierly!No one else in the world would have done it, no one but her. As for Paulde Géry, he made no further attempt at resistance, being caught oncemore in the network from which he believed that he had set himself freeby absence, but which, as soon as he crossed the threshold of thestudio, suppressed his will and delivered him over, fast bound andconquered, to the sentiment that he was firmly resolved to combat. 

 * * * * *

It was evident that the dinner, a veritable gourmand's dinner, superintended by the Austrian even in its least important details, hadbeen prepared for a guest of first-rate consequence. From the highBerber chandeliers of carved wood, with seven branches, which shed aflood of light upon the richly embroidered cloth, to the long-neckedwine-jugs of curious and exquisite shape, the sumptuous tableappointments and the delicacy of the dishes, which were highly seasonedto an unusual degree, everything disclosed the importance of theexpected guest and the pains that had been taken to please him. Therewas no mistaking the fact that it was an artist's establishment. Littlesilverware, but superb china, perfect harmony without the slightestattempt at arrangement. Old Rouen, pink Sèvres, Dutch glass mounted inold finely-wrought pewter met on that table as on a stand of rareobjects collected by a connoisseur simply to gratify his taste. Theresult was some slight confusion in the household, dependent as it wasupon the chance of a lucky find. The exquisite oil-cruet had no stopper. The broken salt-cellar overflowed on the cloth, and every moment it was:"What has become of the mustard-pot? What has happened to that fork?"All of which troubled de Géry a little on account of the young mistressof the house, who, for her part, was not in the least disturbed. 

But something that made him even more ill at ease was his anxiety toknow who the privileged guest was whose place he had taken at thattable, whom they could entertain with such magnificence and at the sametime such utter lack of ceremony. In spite of everything he felt as ifthat countermanded guest were present, a constant affront to his owndignity. In vain did he try to forget him; everything reminded him ofhim, even to the holiday attire of the kindly Fairy, who sat oppositehim and who still retained some of the grand manners which she hadassumed in anticipation of the solemn occasion. The thought disturbedhim, poisoned his joy in being there. 

On the other hand, as is always the case in parties of two, whereharmony of mood is very rare, he had never seen Felicia so affectionate, in such merry humor. She was in a state of effervescent, almostchildlike gayety, one of those fervent outbursts of emotion which oneexperiences when some danger has passed, the reaction of a clear, blazing fire after the excitement of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily, teased Paul about his accent and what she called his bourgeois ideas. "For you are shockingly bourgeois, you know. But that is just what Ilike in you. It's on account of the contrast, I have no doubt, because Iwas born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always been fondof sedate, logical natures. "

"Oh! my dear, what do you suppose Monsieur Paul will think, when you sayyou were born under a bridge?" exclaimed the excellent Crenmitz, whocould not accustom herself to the exaggeration of metaphors, and alwaystook everything literally. 

"Let him think what he pleases, my Fairy. We haven't our eye on him fora husband. I am sure he would have none of that monster known as anartist wife. He would think he had married the devil. You are quiteright, Minerva. Art is a despot. One must give oneself to itunreservedly. You put into your work all the imagination, energy, honesty, conscience that you possess, so that you have no more of any ofthem as long as you live, and the completion of the work tosses youadrift, helpless and without a compass, like a dismasted hulk, at themercy of every wave. Such a wife would be a melancholy acquisition. "

"And yet, " the young man ventured timidly to observe, "it seems to methat art, however exacting it may be, cannot take entire possession ofthe woman. What would she do with her affections, with the craving forlove, for self-sacrifice, which is in her, far more than in man, themotive for every act?"

She mused a moment before replying. 

"You may be right, O wise Minerva! It is the truth that there are dayswhen my life rings terribly hollow. I am conscious of holes in it, unfathomable depths. Everything disappears that I throw in to fill themup. My noblest artistic enthusiasms are swallowed up in them and dieevery time in a sigh. At such times I think of marriage. A husband, children, a lot of children, tumbling about the studio, all their neststo look after, the satisfaction of the physical activity which islacking in our artistic lives, regular occupations, constant movement, innocent fun, which would compel one to play instead of always thinkingin the dark and the great void, to laugh at a blow to one's self-esteem, to be simply a happy mother on the day when the public casts one asideas a used-up, played-out artist. "

And in presence of that vision of domestic happiness the girl's lovelyfeatures assumed an expression which Paul had never before seen uponthem, and which took entire possession of him, gave him a mad longing tocarry away in his arms that beautiful wild bird dreaming of the dovecot, to protect her, to shelter her with the sure love of an honest man. 

She continued, without looking at him:

"I am not so flighty as I seem to be, you know. Ask my dear godmother ifI didn't keep straight up to the mark when she put me atboarding-school. But what a hurly-burly my life was after that! If youknew what a youth I had, if you knew how premature experience witheredmy mind, and what confusion there was, in my small girl's brain, betweenwhat was and was not forbidden, between reason and folly. Only art, which was constantly discussed and eulogized, stood erect in all thatruin, and I took refuge in that. That, perhaps, is why I shall never beanything but an artist, a woman apart from other women, a poor Amazonwith her heart held captive under her iron breastplate, rushing intobattle like a man, and condemned to live and die like a man. "

Why did he not say to her then:

"Beautiful warrior, lay aside your weapons, don the floating robe andthe charms of the sex to which you belong. I love you, I entreat you tomarry me that you may be happy and may make me happy too. "

Ah! this is why. He was afraid that the other, he who was to come todinner that night, you know, and who remained between them despite hisabsence, would hear him speak in that strain and would have the right tolaugh at him or to pity him for such a fervent outburst. 

"At all events, I promise you one thing, " she continued, "and that isthat if I ever have a daughter, I will try to make a true woman of herand not such a poor abandoned creature as I am. Oh! you know, my goodFairy, I do not mean that for you. You have always been kind to yourdemon, full of affection and care. Why just look at her, see how prettyshe is, how young she looks to-night. "

Enlivened by the repast, the lights, and one of those white dresseswhose reflection causes wrinkles to disappear, La Crenmitz was leaningback in her chair, holding on a level with her half-closed eyes a glassof Château-Yquem from the cellar of their neighbor the Moulin-Rouge; andher little pink face, her airy pastel-like costume reflected in thegolden wine, which loaned to it its sparkling warmth, recalled theformer heroine of the dainty suppers after the play, the Crenmitz of thegood old days, not an audacious hussy after the style of our modernoperatic stars, but entirely unaffected and nestling contentedly in hersplendor like a fine pearl in its mother-of-pearl shell. Felicia, whowas certainly determined to be agreeable to everybody that evening, ledher thoughts to the chapter of reminiscences, made her describe oncemore her triumphs in _Giselle_ and in the _Péri_, and the ovations fromthe audience, the visit of the princes to her dressing-room, and QueenAmélie's gift, accompanied by such charming words. The evocation ofthose glorious scenes intoxicated the poor Fairy, her eyes shone, theycould hear her little feet moving restlessly under the table as ifseized by a dancing frenzy. And, indeed, when the dinner was at an endand they had returned to the studio, Constance began to pace back andforth, to describe a dance-step or a pirouette, talking all the time, interrupting herself to hum an air from some ballet to which she kepttime with her head, then suddenly gathered herself together and with oneleap was at the other end of the studio. 

"Now she's off, " whispered Felicia to de Géry. "Watch. It will be worthyour while, for you are about to see La Crenmitz dance. "

It was a fascinating, fairy-like spectacle. Against the background ofthe enormous room, drowned in shadow and hardly lighted save through theround window from without, where the moon was climbing upward in a deepblue sky, a typical operatic sky, the famous dancer's figure stood outall white, a light, airy unsubstantial ghost, flying, rather thanspringing, through the air; then, standing upon her slender toes, upheldin the air by naught but her outstretched arms, her face raised in afleeting attitude in which nothing was visible but the smile, she camequickly forward toward the light, or receded with little jerky steps, sorapid that one constantly expected to hear the crash of glass and seeher glide backward up the slope of the broad moonbeam that shone aslantinto the studio. There was one fact that imparted a strange, poeticcharm to that fantastic ballet, and that was the absence of music, ofevery other sound than that of the measured footfalls, whose effect washeightened by the semi-darkness, of that quick, light patter no louderthan the fall of the petals from a dahlia, one by one. This lasted forsome minutes, then they could tell from the quickening of her breaththat she was becoming exhausted. 

"Enough, enough! Sit down, " said Felicia. 

Thereupon the little white ghost lighted on the edge of an armchair andsat there poised and ready to start anew, smiling and panting, untilsleep seized upon her, and began to sway and rock her softly to and frowithout disturbing her pretty attitude, like a dragon-fly on a willowbranch that drags in the water and moves with the current. 

As they watched her nodding in the chair, Felicia said:

"Poor little Fairy! that is the best and most serious thing in the wayof friendship, protection and guardianship that I have had during mylife. That butterfly acted as my godmother. Do you wonder now at thezigzags, the erratic flights of my mind? Lucky for me that I have clungto her. "

She added abruptly, with joyful warmth:

"Ah! Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that you came to-night. Youmustn't leave me alone so long again, you see. I need to have an uprightmind like yours by my side, to see one true face amid all the masksthat surround me. But you're fearfully bourgeois all the same, " sheadded laughingly, "and a provincial to boot. But never mind! you are theman that I most enjoy looking at all the same. And I believe that myliking for you is due mainly to one thing. You remind me of some one whowas the dearest friend of my youth, a serious, sensible little creaturelike yourself, bound fast to the commonplace side of existence, butmingling with it the element of idealism which we artists put aside forthe benefit of our work alone. Some things that you say seem to me tocome from her lips. You have a mouth built on the same antique model. Isthat what makes your words alike? I don't know about that, but youcertainly do resemble each other. I'll show you. "

As she sat opposite him at the table laden with sketches and albums, shebegan to draw as she talked, her face bending over the paper, herunmanageable curls shading her shapely little head. She was no longerthe beautiful crouching monster, with the frowning anxious face, lamenting her own destiny; but a woman, a true woman, who loves andseeks to charm. Paul forgot all his suspicions then, in presence of suchsincerity and grace. He was on the point of speaking, of pleading withher. It was the decisive moment. But the door opened and the littleservant appeared. Monsieur le Duc had sent to ask if Mademoiselle werestill suffering from her sick headache. 

"Just as much as ever, " she said testily. 

When the servant had gone, there was a moment's silence between them, afreezing pause. Paul had risen. She went on with her sketch, her headstill bent. 

He walked away a few steps, then returned to the table and asked gently, astonished to find that he was so calm:

"Was it the Duc de Mora who was to dine here?"

"Yes--I was bored--a day of spleen. Such days are very bad for me. "

"Was the duchess to come?"

"The duchess? No. I don't know her. "

"Well, if I were in your place, I would never receive in my house, at mytable, a married man whose wife I did not meet in society. You complainof being abandoned; why do you abandon yourself? When one is withoutreproach, one must keep oneself above suspicion. Do I offend you?"

"No, no, scold me, Minerva. I like your morality. It is frank andstraightforward; it doesn't squint like Jenkins'. As I told you, I needsome one to guide me. "

She held before him the sketch she had just finished. 

"See! there's the friend of whom I spoke to you. A deep, sure affectionwhich I was foolish enough to throw away, like the wasteful idiot I am. I always used to invoke her memory in moments of perplexity, when therewas some question to be decided or some sacrifice to be made. I wouldsay to myself: 'What will she think about it?' as we pause in our workto think of some great man, of one of our masters. You must fill thatplace for me. Will you?"

Paul did not answer. He was looking at Aline's portrait. It was she, itwas she to the life, her regular profile, her kindly, laughing mouth, and the long curl caressing the slender neck. Ah! all the Ducs de Moraon earth might come now. Felicia no longer existed for him. 

Poor Felicia, a creature endowed with superior powers, was much likethose sorceresses who weave and ravel the destinies of others withoutthe power to accomplish anything for their own happiness. 

"Will you give me this sketch?" he said almost inaudibly, in a voicethat trembled with emotion. 

"Very gladly; she is pretty, isn't she? Ah! if you should happen to meether, love her, marry her. She is worth more than all the rest. But, failing her, failing her--"

And the beautiful tamed sphinx looked up at him with her great tearful, laughing eyes, whose enigma was no longer insoluble. 

XIV. 

THE EXHIBITION. 

"Superb!"

"A tremendous success. Barye never did anything as fine. "

"And the bust of the Nabob! What a marvellous likeness! I tell you, Constance Crenmitz is happy. See her trotting about. "

"What! is that La Crenmitz, that little old woman in a fur cape? Isupposed she was dead twenty years ago. "

Oh! no; on the contrary, she is very much alive. Enchanted, rejuvenatedby the triumph of her goddaughter, who is decidedly _the_ success of theExhibition, she glides through the crowd of artists and people offashion grouped around the two points where Felicia's contributions areexhibited like two huge masses of black backs, variegated costumes, jostling and squeezing in their struggles to look. Constance, usually soretiring, makes her way into the front row, listens to the discussions, catches on the wing snatches of sentences, technical phrases which sheremembers, nods her head approvingly, smiles, shrugs her shoulders whenshe hears any slighting remark, longing to crush the first person whoshould fail to admire. 

Whether it be the excellent Crenmitz or another, you always see, at theopening of the Salon, that shadow prowling furtively about where peopleare conversing, with ears on the alert and an anxious expression;sometimes it is an old father who thanks you with a glance for a kindlyword said in passing, or assumes a despairing expression at the epigramwhich you hurl at a work of art and which strikes a heart behind you. Aface not to be omitted surely, if ever some painter in love with thingsmodern should conceive the idea of reproducing on canvas that perfectlytypical manifestation of Parisian life, the opening of the Salon in thatvast hothouse of statuary, with the yellow gravelled paths and the greatglass ceiling, beneath which, half-way from the floor, the galleries ofthe first tier stand forth, lined with heads bending over to look, andwith extemporized waving draperies. 

In a light that seems slightly cold and pale as it falls on the greendecorations of the walls, where the rays become rarefied, one would say, in order to afford the spectators an opportunity for concentration andaccuracy of vision, the crowd moves slowly back and forth, pauses, scatters over the benches, divided into groups, and yet mingling castesmore thoroughly than any other gathering, just as the fickle andchanging weather, at that time of year, brings together all sorts ofcostumes, so that the black lace and superb train of the great lady whohas come to observe the effect of her own portrait rub against theSiberian furs of the actress who has just returned from Russia andproposes that everybody shall know it. 

Here there are no boxes, no reserved seats, and that is what gives suchabiding interest and charm to this first view in broad daylight. Thereal society women can pass judgment at close quarters on the paintedbeauties that excite so much applause by artificial light; the tiny hat, latest shape, of the Marquise de Bois-l'Héry and her like brushesagainst the more than modest costume of some artist's wife or daughter, while the model who has posed for that lovely Andromeda near theentrance struts triumphantly by, dressed in a too short skirt, inwretched clothes tossed upon her beauty with the utmost lack of taste. They scrutinize one another, admire or disparage one another, exchangecontemptuous, disdainful or inquisitive glances, which suddenly becomefixed as some celebrity passes, the illustrious critic, for instance, whom we seem to see at this moment, serene and majestic, his powerfulface framed in long hair, making the circuit of the exhibits ofsculpture, followed by half a score of young disciples who hangbreathlessly upon his kindly dicta. Although the sound of voices is lostin that immense vessel, which is resonant only under the two archeddoorways of entrance and exit, faces assume extraordinary intensitythere, a character of energy and animation especially noticeable in thevast, dark recess of the restaurant, overflowing with a gesticulatingmultitude, the light hats of the women and the waiters' white apronsstanding out in bold relief against the background of dark clothing, andin the broad aisle in the centre, where the swarm of promenaders _envignette_ forms a striking contrast to the immobility of the statues, the unconscious palpitation with which their chalky whiteness and theirglorified attitudes are encompassed. 

There are gigantic wings spread for flight, a sphere upheld by fourallegorical figures, whose attitude, as if they were twirling theirburden, suggests a vague waltz measure, a marvel of equilibrium whichperfectly produces the illusion of the earth's revolution; and there arearms raised as a signal, bodies of heroic size, containing an allegory, a symbol that brings death and immortality upon them, gives them tohistory, to legend, to the ideal world of the museums which nationsvisit from curiosity or admiration. 

Although Felicia's bronze group had not the proportions of thoseproductions, its exceptional merit had procured for it the honor of aposition at one of the points of intersection of the aisles in thecentre, from which the public was standing respectfully aloof at thatmoment, staring over the shoulders of the line of attendants and policeofficers at the Bey of Tunis and his suite, a group of long burnous, falling in sculptural folds, which made them seem like living statuesconfronting the dead ones. The bey, who had been in Paris for a fewdays, the lion of all the first nights, had expressed a desire to seethe opening of the Salon. He was "an enlightened prince, a friend ofthe arts, " who possessed a gallery of amazing Turkish pictures on theBardo, and chromo-lithographic reproductions of all the battles of theFirst Empire. The great Arabian hound had caught his eye as soon as heentered the hall of sculpture. It was the _slougui_ to the life, thegenuine slender, nervous _slougui_ of his country, the companion of allhis hunts. He laughed in his black beard, felt the animal's loins, patted his muscles, seemed to be trying to rouse him, while, withdilated nostrils, protruding teeth, every limb outstretched andindefatigable in its strength and elasticity, the aristocratic beast, the beast of prey, ardent in love and in the chase, drunk with histwofold drunkenness, his eyes fixed on his victim, seemed to be alreadytasting the delights of his victory, with the end of his tongue hangingfrom his mouth, as he sharpened his teeth with a ferocious laugh. If youlooked only at him, you said to yourself: "He has him!" But a glance atthe fox reassured you at once. Under his lustrous, velvety coat, catlike, with his body almost touching the ground, skimming alongwithout effort, you felt that he was in truth a wizard, and his finehead with its pointed ears, which he turned toward the hound as he ran, had an ironical expression of security which clearly indicated the gifthe had received from the gods. 

While an inspector of the Beaux-Arts, who had hurried to the spot, withhis uniform all awry, and bald to the middle of his back, explained toMohammed the apologue of "The Dog and the Fox, " as told in thecatalogue, with this moral: "Suppose that they meet, " and the note: "Theproperty of the Duc de Mora, " the bulky Hemerlingue, puffing andperspiring beside his Highness, had great difficulty in persuading himthat that masterly production was the work of the lovely equestrian theyhad met in the Bois the day before. How could a woman with a woman'sweak hands so soften the hard bronze and give it the appearance offlesh? Of all the marvels of Paris that one caused the bey the mostprofound amazement. So he asked the official if there was nothing elseof the same artist's to see. 

"Yes, indeed, Monseigneur, another _chef-d'oeuvre_. If your Highnesswill come this way I will take you to it. "

The bey moved on with his suite. They were all fine specimens of theirrace, beautifully chiselled features and pure profiles, complexions of awarm pallor of which the snowy whiteness of the haik absorbed even thereflection. Magnificently draped, they contrasted strangely with thebusts which were ranged on both sides of the aisle they had taken, andwhich, perched on their high pedestals, exiled from their familiarsurroundings, from the environment in which they would doubtless haverecalled some engrossing toil, some deep affection, a busy andcourageous life, seemed very forlorn in the empty air about them andpresented the distressing aspect of people who had gone astray and werevery much ashamed to find themselves there. Aside from two or threefemale figures, well-rounded shoulders enveloped in petrified lace, hairreproduced in marble with the soft touch that gives the impression of apowdered head-dress, and a few profiles of children with simple lines, in which the polish of the stone seems like the moisture of life, therewere nothing but wrinkles, furrows, contortions and grimaces, our excessof toil and activity, our nervous paroxysms and our fevers contrastedwith that art of repose and noble serenity. 

The Nabob's ugliness, at all events, had in its favor its energy, thepeculiar characteristics of the adventurer and the _prolétaire_, andthat kindly expression so well rendered by the artist, who had takenpains to mix a supply of ochre with her plaster, thereby giving italmost the swarthy, sun-burned tone of the model. The Arabs, on seeingit, uttered a stifled exclamation: "Bon-Saïd!" (the father ofgood-luck). It was the Nabob's sobriquet at Tunis, the label of hisfortune, so to speak. The bey, for his part, thinking that someoneintended to make sport of him by bringing him thus face to face with thedetested _mercanti_, glanced suspiciously at the inspector. 

"Jansoulet?" he said in his guttural voice. 

"Yes, your Highness, Bernard Jansoulet, the new Deputy for Corsica. "

At that the bey turned to Hemerlingue, with a frown on his face. 

"Deputy?"

"Yes, Monseigneur, the news came this morning; but nothing is settledyet. "

And the banker, ill at ease and lowering his voice, added: "No FrenchChamber would ever admit that adventurer. "

No matter! the blow had been dealt at the bey's blind confidence in hisbaron-financier. Hemerlingue had declared so positively that the otherwould never be chosen, that they could act freely and without fear sofar as he was concerned. And lo! instead of the crushed, discreditedman, a representative of the nation towered before him, a deputy whosefigure in stone Parisians thronged to admire; for, from the Orientalsovereign's standpoint, as that public exhibition necessarily involvedthe idea of conferring honor upon the subject, that bust had all theprestige of a statue overlooking a public square. Hemerlingue, evenyellower than usual, inwardly accused himself of bungling andimprudence. But how could he have suspected such a thing? He had beenassured that the bust was not finished. And, indeed, it had arrived thatvery morning, and seemed overjoyed to be there, quivering with gratifiedpride, expressing contempt for its enemies with the good-natured smileof its curling lip. A veritable silent revenge for the disaster atSaint-Romans. 

For several minutes the bey, as cold and impassive as the carved image, stared at it without speaking, his forehead divided by a straight foldwherein his courtiers alone could read his wrath; then, after a fewwords spoken rapidly in Arabic, to order his carriages and collect hisscattered suite, he strode gravely toward the exit, without deigning tolook at anything else. Who can say what takes place in those augustbrains, surfeited with power? Even our western monarchs haveincomprehensible whims; but they are as nothing beside Orientalcaprices. Monsieur l'Inspecteur des Beaux-Arts, who had confidentlyexpected to show his Highness all over the Exhibition, and to earnthereby the pretty little red and green ribbon of the Order ofNicham-Iftikhar, never knew the secret of that sudden flight. 

Just as the white haiks disappeared under the porch, and just in time tocatch a glimpse of the fluttering of their last folds, the Nabob enteredthrough the centre door. That morning he had received the news: "Electedby an overwhelming majority;" and, after a sumptuous breakfast, at whichmany a toast had been drunk to the new Deputy for Corsica, he had comewith some of his guests, to show himself, to see himself as well, and toenjoy his new glory to the full. 

The first person he saw when he arrived was Felicia Ruys, leaningagainst the pedestal of a statue, receiving compliments and homage withwhich he hastened to mingle his own. She was dressed simply, in a blackembroidered gown trimmed with jet, tempering the severe simplicity ofher costume by its scintillating reflections and by the brilliancy of afascinating little hat adorned with the feathers of the _lophophore_, whose changing colors her hair, tightly curled over the forehead andparted at the neck in broad waves, seemed to prolong and to soften. 

A crowd of artists, of society folk hastened to pay their respects to sogreat genius allied to so great beauty; and Jenkins, bareheaded, swelling with effusive warmth, went about from one to another, extortingenthusiasm, but broadening the circle about that youthful renown, posingas both guardian and fugleman. Meanwhile, his wife was talking with theyoung woman. Poor Madame Jenkins! He had said to her in that brutalvoice which she alone knew: "You must go and speak to Felicia. " And shehad obeyed, restraining her emotion; for she knew now what lay hiddenbeneath that fatherly affection, although she avoided any explanationwith the doctor as if she were apprehensive of the result. 

After Madame Jenkins, the Nabob rushed to the artist's side, and takingher slender, neatly gloved hands in his two great paws expressed hisgratitude with a warmth that brought the tears to his own eyes. 

"You have done me a very great honor, Mademoiselle, to associate my namewith yours, my humble self with your triumph, and to prove to all thesevermin who are digging their claws into me that you don't believe in allthe slanderous reports that are current about me. Really, it issomething I can never forget. I might cover this magnificent bust withgold and diamonds and I should still be in your debt. "

Luckily for the good Nabob, who was more susceptible to emotion thaneloquent, he was obliged to make room for all those who were attractedby the refulgent talent, the artistic personality before their eyes:frantic enthusiasm which, for lack of words in which to express itself, disappears as it came; worldly admiration, inspired by kindly feeling, by an earnest desire to please, but whose every word is like a coldshower-bath; and then the hearty hand-clasps of rivals, of comrades, some very frank and cordial, others which communicate to you theinertness of their pressure; the tall, conceited zany whose absurdpraise ought to delight you beyond measure, and who, in order not tospoil you utterly, accompanies it with "a few trifling reservations;"and the man who, while overwhelming you with compliments, proves to youthat you do not know the first word of the trade; and the other goodfellow, full of business, who stops just long enough to whisper in yourear that "So-and-so, the famous critic, doesn't seem to be satisfied. "Felicia listened to it all with the utmost tranquillity, being raised byher triumph above the petty slurs of envy, and glowed with pride when arenowned veteran, some old associate of her father's, tossed her a "Welldone, little one!" which carried her back to the past, to the littlecorner that was always reserved for her in the paternal studio in thedays when she was beginning to carve out a little glory for herself inthe renown of the great Ruys. But as a whole the congratulations lefther quite unmoved, because she missed one which was more desirable inher eyes than all the rest, and which she was surprised that she had notyet received. Clearly she thought of him more than she had ever thoughtof any man before. Was this love at last, the great love that is so rarein the heart of an artist, who is incapable of abandoning herselfunreservedly to a sentiment, or was it simply a dream of an honest, bourgeois life, well protected against ennui, that vile ennui, theprecursor of storms, which she had so much reason to dread? In anyevent, she suffered herself to be deceived and had been living forseveral days in a state of delicious unrest, for love is so strong, sobeautiful, that its semblance, its mirage, takes us captive and may moveus as deeply as love itself. 

Has it ever happened to you, as you walked along the street, thinkingintently of some absent person very dear to your heart, to be warned ofhis approach by meeting one or more persons who bear a vague resemblanceto him, preparatory images, outline sketches of the face that is soon torise before you, which come forth from the crowd like successive appealsto your overstrained attention? These are magnetic, nervous phenomena atwhich we must not smile too broadly, because they constitute asusceptibility to suffering. Several times Felicia had fancied that sherecognized Paul de Géry's curly head in the ever-moving, ever-changingflow of visitors, when suddenly she uttered a cry of pleasure. It wasnot he, however, but some one who much resembled him, whose regular, tranquil face was always blended now in her thoughts with that of herfriend Paul, as the result of a resemblance rather moral than physical, and of the mild influence they both exerted over her mind. 

"Aline!"

"Felicia!"

Although nothing is more difficult of comprehension than the friendshipof two of society's queens, dividing salon royalty among themselves andlavishing flattering epithets, the petty graces of feminineeffusiveness, upon each other, the friendships of childhood retain inthe woman a frankness of demeanor which distinguishes them and makesthem recognizable among all other friendships; bonds woven in innocenceand woven firmly, like the pieces of needlework made by little girls, whereon an inexperienced hand has lavished thread and great knots;plants that have grown in virgin soil, past their bloom butdeeply-rooted and full of life and vigor. And what joy to turn back afew steps, hand in hand, --boarding-school Arguses, where are you?--withequal knowledge of the road and of its slightest windings, and with thesame wistful laugh. Standing a little apart, the two girls, who neededonly to stand face to face to forget five years of separation, talkedrapidly, recalling bygone days, while little Père Joyeuse, his ruddyface set off by a new cravat, drew himself up to his full height, proudbeyond words that his daughter should be so warmly greeted by acelebrity. Proud he certainly had reason to be, for that littleParisian, even beside her resplendent friend, retained her full valuefor charm and youth and luminous innocence, beneath her twenty years, her rich, golden girlhood, which the joy of meeting caused to put forthfresh flowers. 

"How happy you must be! I haven't seen anything; but I hear everybodysay that it is so beautiful. "

"Happy above all things to find you again, little Aline. It is such along time--"

"I should say as much, you bad girl. Whose fault is it?"

In the saddest recess of her memory Felicia found the date of therupture between them, coincident in her mind with another date when heryouth died in a never-to-be-forgotten scene. 

"What have you been doing all this time, my love?"

"Oh! always the same thing--nothing worth talking about. "

"Yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, little brave heart. Itis giving your life to others, is it not?"

But Aline was no longer listening. She was smiling affectionately at apoint straight before her, and Felicia, turning to see to whom thatsmile was addressed, saw Paul de Géry replying to Mademoiselle Joyeuse'sshy and blushing salutation. 

"Do you know each other, pray?"

"Do I know Monsieur Paul! I should think so. We talk of you oftenenough. Has he never told you?"

"Never. He is terribly sly--"

She stopped abruptly as a light flashed through her mind; and, paying noheed to de Géry, who came forward to do homage to her triumph, sheleaned hastily toward Aline and whispered to her. The other blushed, protested with smiles, with inaudible words: "How can you imagine such athing? At my age. A grandmamma!" And at last she grasped her father'sarm to escape that friendly raillery. 

When Felicia saw the two young people walk away side by side, when sherealized--what they themselves did not yet know--that they loved eachother, she felt as if everything about her were crumbling. And when herdream lay at her feet, in a thousand fragments, she began to stamp uponit in a rage. After all, he was quite right to prefer that little Alineto her. Would a respectable man ever dare to marry Mademoiselle Ruys?She with a home of her own, a family, nonsense! You are a strumpet'sdaughter, my dear; you must be a strumpet yourself, if you wish to beanything. 

The day was drawing near its close. The crowd, moving more rapidly thanbefore, with gaps here and there, was beginning to stream toward theexit, after eddying violently around the success of the year, surfeited, a little weary, but still excited by the artistic electricity with whichthe atmosphere was charged. A great ray of sunlight, the sunlight offour o'clock in the afternoon, illuminated the rosework of the windows, cast upon the gravelled paths rainbow-like beams that crept gently upthe bronze or marble of the statues, suffusing a lovely nude body withbright colors and giving to the vast museum something of the aspect of agarden. Felicia, absorbed in her profound, melancholy reverie, did notsee the man who came toward her, superb, refined, fascinating, throughthe throng of visitors, who respectfully opened a passage for him, whilethe name of "Mora" was whispered on every side. 

"Well, well, Mademoiselle, this is a grand triumph. I regret only onething, that is the unpleasant symbolism that you have concealed in yourmasterpiece. "

When she saw the duke standing before her, she shuddered. 

"Ah! yes, the symbolism, " she said, looking up at him with adisheartened smile; and, leaning against the pedestal of the great, voluptuous statue, near which they happened to be standing, with hereyes closed, like a woman who gives herself voluntarily or surrenders, she murmured in a low, very low voice:

"Rabelais lied, as all men lie. The real truth is that the fox can go nofarther, that he is at the end of his breath and his courage, ready tofall into the ditch, and if the hound persists in his pursuit--"

Mora started, became a little paler, as all the blood in his veinsrushed back to his heart. Two darkly flashing glances met, two wordswere swiftly exchanged with the ends of the lips; then the duke bowedlow and walked away with a step as brisk and light as if the gods werecarrying him. 

There was only one man in the palace as happy as he at that moment, andthat was the Nabob. Escorted by his friends, he occupied, filled themain aisle all by himself, talking in a loud tone, gesticulating, soproud that he seemed almost handsome, as if, by dint of gazing long athis bust in artless admiration, he had caught a little of the splendididealization with which the artist had softened the vulgarity of thetype. The head at an elevation of three-fourths, free from the highrolling collar, gave rise to contradictory opinions from the spectatorsconcerning the resemblance; and Jansoulet's name, which had beenrepeated so many times by the electoral urns, was echoed by theprettiest lips in Paris, by its most influential voices. Any other thanthe Nabob would have been embarrassed by hearing as he passed theexclamations of these curious bystanders, who were not always insympathy with him. But the platform and the springboard were congenialto that nature, which was always braver under the fire of staring eyes, like those women who are beautiful and clever only in society, and whomthe slightest admiration transfigures and perfects. 

When he felt that that delirious joy was subsiding, when he thought thathe had drained the cup of his proud intoxication, he had only to say tohimself: "Deputy! I am a deputy!" and the triumphal cup was brimmingfull once more. It meant the raising of the embargo from all hisproperty, the awakening from a nightmare of two months' duration, theblast of the mistral sweeping away all vexations, all anxieties, even tothe insult at Saint-Romans, heavily as it weighed on his memory. 

Deputy!

He laughed all by himself as he thought of the baron's face when heheard the news, of the bey's stupefaction when he was taken to look athis bust; and suddenly, at the thought that he was no longer a mereadventurer gorged with gold, arousing the senseless admiration of thevulgar like an enormous nugget in a money-changer's window, but that hewas entitled to be looked upon as one of the chosen exponents of thenational will, his good-natured, mobile face assumed an expression ofponderous gravity suited to the occasion, his mind was filled with plansfor the future, for reform, and the longing to profit by the lessons hehad lately learned from destiny. Already, mindful of the promise he hadmade de Géry, he exhibited a certain contemptuous coldness for thehungry herd that fawned servilely about his heels, and seemed to haveadopted deliberately a system of peremptory contradiction. He called theMarquis de Bois-l'Héry "my good fellow, " sharply imposed silence on theGovernor, whose enthusiasm was becoming scandalous, and was inwardlymaking a solemn vow that he would rid himself as speedily as possible ofall that begging, compromising horde of bohemians, when an excellentopportunity presented itself for him to begin to put his purpose inexecution. Moëssard, the handsome Moëssard, in a sky-blue cravat, paleand puffed-up like a white abscess, his bust confined in a tight frockcoat, seeing that the Nabob, after making the circuit of the hall ofsculpture a score of times, was walking toward the exit, forced his waythrough the crowd, sprang to his side and said, as he passed his armthrough Jansoulet's:

"You are to take me with you, you know--"

Of late, especially during the period of the election, he had assumed anauthority on Place Vendôme almost equal to Monpavon's, but moreimpudent; for, in respect of impudence, the queen's lover had not hisequal on the sidewalk that extends from Rue Drouot to the Madeleine. Buton this occasion he had a bad fall. The muscular arm that he graspedviolently shook itself free, and the Nabob answered him very shortly:

"I am very sorry, my dear fellow, but I have no seat to offer you. "

No seat, in a carriage as big as a house, which had often held five ofthem!

Moëssard gazed at him in utter stupefaction. 

"But I had something very urgent to say to you. On the subject of mylittle note. You received it, did you not?"

"To be sure, and Monsieur de Géry should have answered it this morning. What you ask is impossible. Twenty thousand francs!--_tonnerre de Dieu!_how fast you go. "

"It seems to me, however, that my services--" stammered the fop. 

"Have been handsomely paid. So it seems to me too. Two hundred thousandfrancs in five months! We will stop at that, if you please. You havelong teeth, young man; we must file them a bit. "

They exchanged these words as they walked along, pushed by the crowdwhich flocked like sheep through the door of exit. Moëssard stopped:

"That is your last word?"

The Nabob hesitated a second, seized by a presentiment of evil at sightof that pale, wicked mouth; then he remembered the promise he had givenhis friend. 

"That is my last word. "

"Very well, we will see, " said Beau Moëssard, while his cane cleft theair with a noise like a snake's hiss; and, turning on his heel, hestrode rapidly away like a man who has very important business awaitinghim. 

Jansoulet continued his triumphal march. On that day it would haverequired something much more serious to disturb the equilibrium of hishappiness; on the other hand he felt encouraged by the beginning sosuccessfully accomplished. 

The great vestibule was filled with a compact crowd, whom the approachof the hour for closing impelled toward the outer world, but whom one ofthe sudden downpours which seem an essential part of the opening of theSalon detained under the porch with its floor of hard-trodden gravel, like the entrance to the Circus where the lady-killers disportthemselves. It was a curious, thoroughly Parisian spectacle. 

Outside, the sunbeams shining through the rain, attaching to its limpidthreads those sharp, brilliant blades of light which justify the proverb"It rains halberds;" the young verdure of the Champs-Élysées, the clumpsof dripping, rustling rhododendrons, the carriages drawn up in line onthe avenue, the oilcloth capes of the coachmen, all the splendidaccoutrements of the horses to which the water and the sunbeams impartedvastly greater richness and effect, and everywhere a gleam of blue, theblue of the sky, smiling in the interval between two showers. 

Within, laughter, idle chatter, salutations, impatience, skirts turnedup, satins puffing vaingloriously over the narrow pleats of petticoatsand delicately striped silk stockings, oceans of fringe, of lace, offlounces, held with one hand in too heavy bundles, and torn beyondrecognition. Then, to connect the two sides of the picture, theprisoners framed by the arched doorway and standing in its dark shadow, with the vast background of light behind them, footmen running aboutunder umbrellas, shouting names of coachmen and names of masters, andcoupés slowly approaching, into which terrified couples hastily jump. 

"Monsieur Jansoulet's carriage!"

Everybody turned to look, but we know that that disturbed him butlittle. And while the honest Nabob posed for a moment, awaiting hispeople, amid those fashionable women, those famous men, that assortedgathering of all Paris which was present there with a name to fit eachof its figures, a slender, neatly-gloved hand was held out to him, andthe Duc de Mora, who was about to enter his coupé, said to him as hepassed, with the effusiveness that happiness gives to the most reservedof men:

"My congratulations, my dear deputy. "

It was said aloud, and every one could hear, --"My dear deputy. "

 * * * * *

There is in the life of every man a golden hour, a luminous mountain-topwhere all that he can hope for of prosperity, of joy, of triumph, awaitshim and is showered upon him. The mountain is more or less high, more orless precipitous and difficult to climb; but it exists equally for all, for the most powerful and the humblest. But, like the longest day of theyear, when the sun has reached the end of his upward journey and thenext day seems a first step toward winter, that _summum bonum_ of humanexistence is but a moment to be enjoyed, after which we have no choicebut to descend. Poor man! you must remember that late afternoon in May, that time of alternating rain and sunshine, you must fix its changingsplendor forever in your memory. It was the hour of your midsummer, whenthe flowers were blooming, the branches bending beneath their weight ofgolden fruit, and the crops whose gleanings you so recklessly threwaside, were fully ripe. The star will fade now, gradually receding anddescending, and soon will be incapable of piercing the woeful darknesswherein your destiny is about to be fulfilled. 

XV. 

MEMOIRS OF A CLERK. --IN THE RECEPTION-ROOM. 

There was a grand affair last Saturday on Place Vendôme. 

Monsieur Bernard Jansoulet, the new Deputy for Corsica, gave amagnificent evening party in honor of his election, with municipalguards at the door, the whole house illuminated and two thousandinvitations strewn broadcast through fashionable Paris. 

I was indebted to the distinction of my manners, to the resonance of myvoice, which the president of the administrative council has had achance to appreciate at the meetings of the _Caisse Territoriale_, forthe privilege of taking part in that sumptuous festivity, where I stoodfor three hours in the reception-room, amid flowers and draperies, dressed in scarlet and gold, with the majestic bearing peculiar topersons who exert some little authority, and with my calves exposed forthe first time in my life, and sent the name of each guest like thereport of a cannon into the long line of five salons, a resplendentfootman saluting each time with the _bing_ of his halberd on the floor. 

How many interesting observations I was able to make that evening, whatjocose sallies, what quips, all in most excellent taste, were tossedback and forth by the servants, concerning the people of fashion whopassed! I should never have heard anything so amusing with thevine-dressers of Montbars. I ought to say that the worthy M. Barreaucaused us all to be served with a hearty, well-irrigated lunch in hisoffice, which was filled to the ceiling with iced drinks andrefreshments, thereby putting every one of us in an excellent humor, which was maintained throughout the evening by glasses of punch andchampagne whisked from the salvers as they passed. 

The masters, however, were not so contented as we were. When I reachedmy post, at nine o'clock, I was struck by the anxious, nervous face ofthe Nabob, whom I spied walking with M. De Géry through thebrilliantly-lighted, empty salons, talking earnestly and gesticulatingwildly. 

"I will kill him, " he said, "I will kill him. "

The other tried to soothe him, then Madame appeared and they talkedabout something else. 

A magnificent figure of a woman, that Levantine, twice as powerful as Iam, and dazzling to look at with her diamond diadem, the jewels thatcovered her huge white shoulders, her back as round as her breast, herwaist squeezed into a breastplate of greenish gold, which extended inlong stripes the whole length of her skirt. I never saw anything sorich, so imposing. She was like one of those beautiful white elephantswith towers on their backs that we read about in books of travel. Whenshe walked, clinging painfully to the furniture, all her flesh shook andher ornaments jangled like old iron. With it all a very shrill littlevoice and a beautiful red face which a little negro boy kept fanning allthe time with a fan of white feathers as big as a peacock's tail. 

It was the first time that that indolent savage had made her appearancein Parisian society, and M. Jansoulet seemed very proud and very happythat she had consented to preside at his fête: a task that involved nogreat labor on the lady's part, however, for, leaving her husband toreceive his guests in the first salon, she went and stretched herselfout on the couch in the little Japanese salon, wedged between two pilesof cushions, and perfectly motionless, so that you could see her in thedistance, at the end of the line of salons, like an idol, under thegreat fan which her negro waved with a clocklike motion, as if bymachinery. These foreigners have the brass for you!

The Nabob's irritation had impressed me all the same, and as I saw hisvalet going downstairs four steps at a time, I caught him on the wingand whispered in his ear:

"What the deuce is the matter with your governor, Monsieur Noël?"

"It's the article in the _Messager_, " he replied, and I had to abandonthe idea of finding out anything more for the moment, as a loud ring atthe bell announced the arrival of the first carriage, and it wasfollowed by a multitude of others. 

Intent upon my business, giving close attention to the properpronunciation of the names given me and to making them ricochet fromsalon to salon, I thought of nothing else. It is no easy matter toannounce properly people who always think that their names must be wellknown, so that they simply murmur them through their closed lips as theypass, and then are surprised to hear you murder them in your mostsonorous tone and almost bear you a grudge for the unimpressiveentrances, greeted with faint smiles, that follow a bunglingannouncement. The task was made even more difficult at M. Jansoulet's bythe swarm of foreigners, Turks, Egyptians, Persians, Tunisians. I do notmention the Corsicans, who were also very numerous on that occasion, because, during my four years of service at the _Caisse Territoriale_, Ihave become accustomed to pronouncing those high-sounding, interminablenames, always followed by the name of a place: "Paganetti ofPorto-Vecchio, Bastelica of Bonifacio, Paianatchi of Barbicaglia. "

I enjoyed dwelling upon those Italian syllables, giving them their fullresonant value, and I could see by the stupefied expressions of thoseworthy islanders how surprised and delighted they were to be introducedin that fashion into the best continental society. But with the Turks, the pachas and beys and effendis, I had much more difficulty, and I mustoften have pronounced them awry, for M. Jansoulet, on two differentoccasions, sent word to me to pay more attention to the names given me, and especially to announce them more naturally. That command, uttered ina loud voice at the door of the reception-room with unnecessarybrutality, annoyed me exceedingly, and prevented me--shall I confessit?--from pitying the vulgar parvenu when I learned, during the evening, what sharp thorns had found their way into his bed of roses. 

From half-past ten till midnight the bell did not cease to ring, thecarriages to rumble under the porch, the guests to follow on oneanother's heels, deputies, senators, councillors of state, municipalcouncillors, who acted much more as if they were attending a meeting ofshareholders than an evening party in society. What did it all mean? Icould not succeed in puzzling it out, but a word from Nicklauss thedoor-keeper opened my eyes. 

"Do you notice, Monsieur Passajon, " said that worthy retainer, standingin front of me, halberd in hand, "do you notice how few ladies we have?"

_Pardieu!_ that was it. And we two were not the only ones who noticedit. At each new arrival, I heard the Nabob, who stood near the door, exclaim in consternation with the hoarse voice of a Marseillais with acold in his head:

"Alone?"

The guest would apologize in an undertone. _M-m-m-m-m-m_--his wife notvery well. Very sorry indeed. Then another would come; and the samequestion would bring the same reply. 

We heard that word "alone" so much, that at last we began to joke aboutit in the reception-room; outriders and footmen tossed it from one toanother when a new guest entered: "Alone!" And we laughed and enjoyedourselves. But M. Nicklauss, with his extended knowledge of society, considered that the almost universal abstention of the fair sex was byno means natural. 

"It must be the article in the _Messager_, " he said. 

Everybody was talking of that rascally article, and as each guest pausedbefore entering the salon to look himself over in the mirror with itsgarland of flowers, I overheard snatches of whispered dialogue of thissort:

"Have you read it?"

"It's a frightful thing. "

"Do you believe it can possibly be true?"

"I have no idea. At all events I preferred not to bring my wife. "

"I felt as you did. A man can go anywhere without compromising himself. "

"Of course. While a woman--"

Then they would go in, their crush hats under their arms, with theconquering air of married men unaccompanied by their wives. 

What was this newspaper article, this terrible article which threatenedso seriously the influence of such a wealthy man? Unfortunately myduties held me fast; I could not go down to the butlers pantry or thedressing-room, to talk with the coachmen, the footmen and outriders whomI saw standing at the foot of the stairs, amusing themselves by makingfun of the people who went up. What can you expect? The masters givethemselves too many airs. How could one help laughing to see the Marquisand Marquise de Bois-l'Héry sail by with a haughty air and emptystomachs, after all the stories we have heard about Monsieur's businessarrangements and Madame's dresses? And then the Jenkins family, soaffectionate, so united, the attentive doctor throwing a lace shawl overhis wife's shoulders for fear she may take cold in the hall; she, tricked out and smiling, dressed all in velvet, with a train yards long, leaning on her husband's arm as if to say: "How happy I am!" when I knowthat, ever since the death of the Irishwoman, his lawful wife, thedoctor has been thinking of getting rid of his old incubus so that hecan marry a young woman, and that the old incubus passes her nights indespair, in wearing away with tears what beauty she still has. 

The amusing part of it was that not one of them all suspected the quipsand jokes that were spit out at them as they passed, the vile thingsthat their trains swept up from the vestibule carpet, and the whole crewassumed disdainful airs fit to make one die with laughter. 

The two ladies I have named, the Governor's wife, a little Corsicanwoman whose heavy eyebrows, white teeth and ruddy cheeks, dark in thelower part, make her look like a clean-shaved Auvergnat--a clevercreature by the way, and always laughing except when her husband looksat other women--these with a few Levantines with diadems of gold orpearls, less resplendent than ours but in the same style, wives ofupholsterers, jewellers, dealers who supply the household regularly, with shoulders as extensive as shop-fronts and dresses in which thematerial was not sparingly used; and lastly, several wives of clerks atthe _Caisse Territoriale_, with rustling dresses and devil a sou intheir pockets, --such was the representation of the fair sex at thatfunction, some thirty ladies lost among myriads of black coats; onemight as well say that there were none at all there. From time to time, Cassagne, Laporte and Grandvarlet, who were carrying dishes, told uswhat was going on in the salons. 

"Ah! my children, if you could just see how gloomy, how mournful it is!The men don't move from the sideboards. The women are all sitting in acircle, way at the end, fanning themselves, without a word. La Grosse[1]doesn't speak to any one. I believe she's taking a snooze. Monsieur'sthe one who keeps things going. Père Passajon, a glass ofChâteau-Larose. It will set you up. "

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Fat Woman, or "Fatty. "

All those young fellows were delightful to me, and took a mischievouspleasure in doing the honors of the cellar so often and in such bumpersthat my tongue began to grow heavy and uncertain; as they said to me, intheir slightly familiar language: "You're spluttering, uncle. " Luckilythe last of the effendis had arrived and there was no one else toannounce; for it was of no use for me to struggle against it, every timeI walked between the hangings to launch a name into the salons, thechandeliers whirled round and round with hundreds of thousands ofdancing lights, and the floors became inclined planes as slippery andsteep as Russian mountains. I must have spluttered, that is sure. 

The fresh night air and repeated ablutions at the pump in the courtyardsoon got the better of that little indisposition, and when I betookmyself to the servants' quarters it had altogether disappeared. I founda large and merry party gathered around a _marquise_ of champagne, ofwhich all my nieces, in fine array, with fluffy hair and cravats of pinkribbon, took their full share, notwithstanding the fascinating littleshrieks and grimaces, which deceived no one. Naturally they were talkingabout the famous article, an article by Moëssard, it seems, full ofshocking disclosures concerning all sorts of degrading occupations thatthe Nabob was engaged in fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time of hisfirst stay in Paris. 

It was the third attack of that sort that the _Messager_ had publishedwithin a week, and that rascal Moëssard was malicious enough to send acopy of each number under cover to Place Vendôme. 

M. Jansoulet received it in the morning with his chocolate; and at thesame hour his friends and his enemies--for a man like the Nabob cannotbe indifferent to anybody--read it and discussed it, and adopted a lineof conduct toward him calculated not to compromise themselves. Thatday's article must have been well loaded; for Jansoulet the coachmantold us that in the Bois his master did not exchange ten salutations inten circuits of the lake, whereas ordinarily his hat is not on his headany more than a sovereign's when out for a drive. And when they returnedhome it was much worse. The three boys had just reached the house, allin tears and frightened to death, brought home from Bourdaloue Collegeby a good Father in their own interest, poor little fellows; they hadbeen given temporary leave of absence so that they might not hear anyunkind remarks, any cruel allusions in the parlor or the courtyard. Thereupon the Nabob flew into a terrible rage, so that he demolished awhole porcelain service, and it seems that, if it had not been for M. DeGéry, he would have gone off on the instant to break Moëssard's head. 

"And he would have done quite right, " said M. Noël, entering the room atthat moment; and he, too, was greatly excited. "There's not a singleword of truth in that villain's article. My master never came to Parisuntil last year. From Tunis to Marseille, and Marseille to Tunis, that'sall the travelling he did. But that scurvy journalist is taking hisrevenge on us for refusing him twenty thousand francs. "

"You made a very great mistake in doing that, " said M. Francis, Monpavon's Francis, valet to that old dandy, whose only tooth waggles inthe middle of his mouth whenever he says a word, but whom the youngladies look favorably upon all the same because of his fine manners. "Yes, you made a mistake. It is necessary to know how to handle peoplecarefully, as long as they are able to serve or injure us. Your Nabobturned his back on his friends too suddenly after his success; and, between you and me, my dear boy, he isn't strong enough to return suchblows as that. "

I thought I might venture to say a word. 

"It's quite true, Monsieur Noël, that your master isn't the same sincehis election. He has adopted a very different tone and manners. Daybefore yesterday at the _Territoriale_, he made such a hullabaloo as youcan't imagine. I heard him shout in the middle of the council meeting:'You have lied to me, you have robbed me and made me as much of a thiefas yourselves. Show me your books, you pack of rascals!' If he treatedMoëssard in that fashion, I don't wonder that he takes his revenge inhis newspaper. "

"But what does the article say, anyway?" inquired M. Barreau; "who hasread it?"

No one answered. Several had tried to buy the paper; but in Parisanything scandalous sells like hot cakes. At ten o'clock in the morningthere was not a copy of the _Messager_ to be had on the street. Thereupon one of my nieces, a sly hussy if ever there was one, had thehappy thought of looking in the pocket of one of the numerous top-coatshanging in long rows against the walls of the dressing-room. 

"Here you are!" said the merry creature triumphantly, drawing from thefirst pocket she searched a copy of the _Messager_, crumpled at thefolds as if it had been well read. 

"And here's another!" cried Tom Bois-l'Héry, who was investigating onhis own account. A third top-coat, a third _Messager_. And so it waswith them all; buried in the depths of the pocket, or with its titlesticking out, the paper was everywhere, even as the article was certainto be in every mind; and we imagined the Nabob upstairs, exchangingamiable sentences with his guests, who could have recited to him wordfor word the horrible things printed concerning him. We all laughedheartily at the idea; but we were dying to know the contents of thatinteresting page. 

"Here, Père Passajon, read it aloud to us. "

That was the general desire, and I complied with it. 

I do not know if you are like me, but when I read aloud I gargle with myvoice, so to speak, I introduce inflections and flourishes, so that I donot understand a word of what I read, like those public singers to whomthe meaning of the words they sing is of little consequence providedthat the notes are all there. It was called "The Flower Boat. " Adecidedly mixed-up story with Chinese names, relating to a very richmandarin, newly elevated to the first class, who had once kept a "flowerboat" moored on the outskirts of a town near a fortified gate frequentedby soldiers. At the last word of the article we knew no more than at thebeginning. To be sure, we tried to wink and to look very knowing; but, frankly, there was no ground for it. A genuine rebus without a key; andwe should still be staring at it, had not old Francis, who is the verydevil for his knowledge of all sorts of things, explained to us that thefortified gate with soldiers must mean the École Militaire, and that the"flower boat" had not so pretty a name as that in good French. And hesaid the name aloud, despite the ladies. Such an explosion ofexclamations, of "Ahs!" and "Ohs!" some saying: "I expected as much, "others: "It isn't possible. "

"I beg your pardon, " added Francis, who was formerly a trumpeter in the9th Lancers, Mora's and Monpavon's regiment, "I beg your pardon. Twentyyears ago or more I was in barracks at the École Militaire, and Iremember very well that there was near the barrier a dirty littledance-house called the Bal Jansoulet, with furnished rooms upstairs atfive sous the hour, to which we used to adjourn between dances. "

"You're an infernal liar!" cried M. Noël, fairly beside himself; "asharper and liar like your master. Jansoulet never came to Paris untilthis time. "

Francis was sitting a little outside of the circle we made around the"marquise, " sipping something sweet, because champagne is bad for hisnerves, and besides, it is not a _chic_ enough drink for him. He rosesolemnly, without putting down his glass, and, walking up to M. Noël, said to him, quietly:

"You lack good form, my dear fellow. The other evening, at your ownhouse, I considered your manners very vulgar and unbecoming. It servesno purpose to insult people, especially as I'm a fencing-master, and, ifwe should carry the thing any farther, I could put two inches of coldsteel into your body at whatever point I chose; but I am a good sort offellow, and instead of a sword-thrust I prefer to give you some advicewhich your master will do well to profit by. This is what I would do ifI were in your place; I would hunt up Moëssard and buy him withouthaggling over the price. Hemerlingue has given him twenty thousandfrancs to speak, I would offer him thirty thousand to hold his tongue. "

"Never, never!" roared M. Noël. "Instead of that I will go and wring themiserable bandit's neck. "

"You will wring nothing at all. Whether the story is true or false, youhave seen the effect of it to-night. That's a specimen of the pleasuresin store for you. What do you expect, my dear fellow? You have thrownaway your crutches and tried to walk alone too soon. That's all right ifyou're sure of yourself and firm on your legs; but when your footing isnot very good anyway, and in addition you are unlucky enough to haveHemerlingue at your heels, it's a bad business. And with it all yourmaster's beginning to be short of money; he has given notes to oldSchwalbach, and don't talk to me of a Nabob who gives notes. I am wellaware that you have heaps of millions over yonder in Tunis; but you willhave to have your election confirmed in order to get possession of them, and after a few more articles like the one to-day, I'll answer for itthat you won't succeed. You undertake to struggle with Paris, my boy, but you're not big enough, you know nothing about it. This isn't theOrient, and, although we don't wring the necks of people who offend us, or throw them into the water in leather bags, we have other ways ofputting them out of sight. Let your master beware, Noël. One of thesedays Paris will swallow him as I swallow this plum, without spitting outthe stone or the skin!"

Really the old man was most imposing, and, notwithstanding the paint onhis face, I began to feel some respect for him. While he was speaking weheard the music overhead, the singing provided for the entertainment ofthe guests, and out on the square the horses of the municipal guardsshaking their curb-chains. Our party must have been a very brilliantaffair from outside, with the myriads of candles and the illuminateddoorway. And when one thinks of the ruin that perhaps was beneath itall! We stood there in the vestibule like rats taking council togetherin the hold, when the vessel is beginning to take in water without thecrew suspecting it, and I saw plainly enough that everybody, footmen andlady's maids, would soon scamper away at the first alarm. Can it be thatsuch a catastrophe is possible? But in that case, what would become ofme and the _Territoriale_, and my advances and my back pay?

That Francis left me with cold shivers running down my back. 

XVI. 

A PUBLIC MAN. 

The luminous warmth of a bright May afternoon made the lofty windows ofthe hôtel de Mora as hot as the glass roof of a greenhouse; itstransparent hangings of blue silk could be seen from without between thebranches, and its broad terraces, where the exotic flowers, brought intothe air for the first time, ran like a border all the length of thequay. The great rakes scraping among the shrubs in the garden left onthe gravelled paths the light footprints of summer, while the softpattering of the water from the sprinklers on the green lawn seemed likeits revivifying song. 

All the magnificence of the princely abode shone resplendent in thepleasant mildness of the temperature, borrowing a grandiose beauty fromthe silence, the repose of that noonday hour, the only hour in the daywhen one did not hear carriages rumbling under the arches, the greatdoors of the reception-room opening and closing, and the constantvibration in the ivy on the walls caused by the pulling of bells toannounce somebody's coming in or going out, like the feverish throbbingof life in the house of a leader of society. It was well known thatuntil three o'clock the duke received at the department; that theduchess, a Swede still benumbed by the snow of Stockholm, had hardlyemerged from behind her somnolent bed-curtains; so that no one came, neither callers nor petitioners, and the footmen, perched likeflamingoes on the steps of the deserted stoop, alone enlivened the scenewith the slim shadows of their long legs and the yawning ennui of theiridleness. 

It happened however, on that day, that Jenkins' maroon-lined _coupé_ waswaiting in a corner of the courtyard. The duke, who had been feelingbadly the day before, felt still worse when he left the breakfast table, and lost no time in sending for the man of the pearls in order toquestion him concerning his singular condition. He had no pain anywhere, slept well and had his usual appetite; but there was a mostextraordinary sensation of weariness and of terrible cold, which nothingcould overcome. So it was that, at that moment, notwithstanding thelovely spring sunshine which flooded his room and put to shame the flameblazing on his hearth as in the depth of winter, the duke was shiveringin his blue firs, between his little screens, and as he wrote his nameon divers documents for a clerk from his office, on a low lacqueredtable that stood so near the fire that the lacquer came off in scales, he kept holding his benumbed fingers to the blaze, which might havescorched them on the surface without restoring circulation and life totheir bloodless rigidity. 

Was it anxiety caused by the indisposition of his illustrious patient?At all events Jenkins seemed nervous, excited, strode up and down theroom, prying and sniffing to right and left, trying to find in the airsomething that he believed to be there, something subtle and intangible, like the faint trace of a perfume or the invisible mark left by apassing bird. He could hear the wood snapping on the hearth, the soundof papers hastily turned, the duke's indolent voice, indicating in aword or two, always concise and clear, the answer to a letter of fourpages, and the clerk's respectful monosyllables: "Yes, Monsieur leMinistre. " "No, Monsieur le Ministre. " Outside, the swallows whistledmerrily over the water, and some one was playing a clarinet in thedirection of the bridges. 

"It is impossible, " said the minister abruptly, rising from his chair. "Take them away, Lartigues. You can come again, to-morrow. I can'twrite, I am too cold. Just feel my hands, doctor, and tell me if youwould not say they were just out of a pail of iced water. My whole bodyhas been like that for two days. It's absurd enough in such weather!"

"It doesn't surprise me, " growled the Irishman in a surly, short tone, very unusual in that mellifluous voice. 

The door had closed behind the young clerk, who carried away hisdocuments with a majestic stiffness of bearing, but was very happy, Ifancy, to feel that he was at liberty, and to have the opportunity, before returning to the department, to saunter for an hour or two inthe Tuileries, overflowing at that hour with spring dresses and prettygirls seated around the still unoccupied chairs of the musicians underthe flowering chestnut trees, which quivered from top to bottom with theglad thrill of the month of nests. He was not frozen, not he. 

Jenkins examined his patient without speaking, ausculted him, percussedhim, then, in the same rough tone, which might possibly be ascribed toanxious affection, to the irritation of the physician who finds that hisinstructions have been disregarded, he said:

"In God's name, my dear Duke, what sort of a life have you been leadinglately?"

He knew from ante-room gossips--the doctor did not despise them in thehouseholds of those of his patients with whom he was on intimateterms--he knew that the duke had a _new one_, that this caprice ofrecent date had taken possession of him, excited him to an unusualdegree, and that information, added to other observations made in otherdirections, had sown in Jenkins' mind a suspicion, a mad desire to knowthe name of this _new one_. That is what he was trying to read on hispatient's pale brow, seeking the subject of his thoughts rather than thecause of his illness. But he had to do with one of those faces peculiarto men who are successful with women, faces as hermetically sealed asthe caskets with secret compartments which contain women's jewels andletters, --one of those reticent natures locked with a cold, limpidglance, a glance of steel against which the most perspicacious cunningis powerless. 

"You are mistaken, Doctor, " replied His Excellency calmly, "I have notchanged my habits in any respect. "

"Very good! you have done wrong, Monsieur le Duc, " said the Irishmanbluntly, furious at his inability to discover anything. 

But the next moment, realizing that he had gone too far, he tempered hisill-humor and the brutality of his diagnosis with a bolus of trite, axiomatic observations. --He must be careful. Medicine was not magic. Thepower of the Jenkins Pearls was limited by human strength, thenecessities of advancing age, the resources of nature, which, unhappily, are not inexhaustible. The duke interrupted him nervously:

"Come, come, Jenkins, you know that I don't like fine phrases. Theydon't go with me. What is the matter with me? What is the cause of thiscoldness?"

"It's anæmia, exhaustion--a lowering of the oil in the lamp. "

"What must I do?"

"Nothing. Absolute rest. Eat and sleep, nothing more. If you could goand pass a few weeks at Grandbois--"

Mora shrugged his shoulders. 

"What about the Chamber, and the Council, and--Nonsense! as if it werepossible!"

"At all events, Monsieur le Duc, you must put on the drag, as someonesaid, you must absolutely give up--"

Jenkins was interrupted by the entrance of the usher, who glided softlyinto the room on tiptoe, like a dancing-master, and handed a letter anda card to the minister who was still shivering in front of the fire. When he saw that envelope, of a satiny shade of gray, and of peculiarshape, the Irishman involuntarily started, while the duke, having openedhis letter and glanced over it, rose to his feet full of animation, onhis cheeks the faint flush of factitious health which all the heat fromthe fire had failed to bring to them. 

"My dear Doctor, you must at any cost--"

The usher was standing near, waiting. 

"What is it?--Oh! yes, this card. Show him into the gallery, I will bethere in a moment. "

The Duc de Mora's gallery, which was open to visitors twice a week, wasto him a sort of neutral territory, a public place where he could seeanybody on earth without binding himself to anything or compromisinghimself. Then, when the usher had left the room:

"Jenkins, my good friend, you have already performed miracles for me. Iask you to perform another. Double my dose of the pearls, think upsomething, whatever you choose. But I must be in condition Sunday. Youunderstand, in perfect condition. "

And his hot, feverish fingers closed upon the little note he held with ashudder of longing. 

"Beware, Monsieur le Duc, " said Jenkins, very pale, his lips pressedtightly together, "I have no desire to alarm you beyond measureconcerning your weak state, but it is my duty--"

Mora smiled, a charming, mischievous smile. 

"Your duty and my pleasure are two, my good fellow. Let me burn my lifeat both ends if it amuses me. I have never had such a fine opportunityas I have now. "

He started. 

"The duchess!"

A door under the hangings had opened, giving passage to a dishevelledlittle head of fair hair, like a mass of vapor amid the laces andfurbelows of a royal _déshabillé_. 

"What is this I hear? You haven't gone out? Pray scold him, Doctor. Isn't he foolish to listen to his own fears so much? Just look at him. He looks in superb health. "

"There! You see, " said the duke, with a laugh, to the Irishman. "Aren'tyou coming in, Duchess?"

"No, I am going to take you away, on the contrary. My uncle d'Estainghas sent me a cage filled with birds from the Indies. I want to showthem to you. Marvels of all colors, with little eyes like black pearls. And so cold, so cold, almost as sensitive to cold as you are. "

"Let us go and see them, " said the minister. "Wait for me, Jenkins; Iwill come back. "

Then, realizing that he still had his letter in his hand, he tossed itcarelessly into the drawer of the little table on which he had beensigning documents, and went out behind the duchess, with the perfect_sang-froid_ of a husband accustomed to such manoeuvres. Whatmarvellously skilful workman, what incomparable maker of toys was ableto endow the human countenance with its flexibility, its wonderfulelasticity? Nothing could be prettier than that great nobleman's face, surprised with his adultery on his lips, the cheeks inflamed by thevision of promised delights, and suddenly assuming a serene expressionof conjugal affection; nothing could be finer than the hypocriticalhumility of Jenkins, his paternal smile in the duchess's presence, giving place instantly when he was left alone, to a savage expression ofwrath and hatred, a criminal pallor, the pallor of a Castaing or aLapommerais devising his sinister schemes. 

A swift glance at each of the doors, and in a twinkling he stood beforethe drawer filled with valuable papers, in which the little gold key wasallowed to remain with an insolent negligence that seemed to say:

"No one will dare. "

But Jenkins dared. 

The letter was there, on top of a pile of others. The texture of thepaper, the three words of the address dashed off in a plain, bold hand, and the perfume, that intoxicating, conjuring perfume, the very breathfrom her divine mouth. So it was true, his jealous love had not led himastray, nor her evident embarrassment in his presence for some timepast, nor Constance's mysterious, youthful airs, nor the superb bouquetsstrewn about the studio, as in the mysterious shadow of a sin. So thatindomitable pride had surrendered at last! But in that case why not tohim, Jenkins? He who had loved her so long, always in fact, who was tenyears younger than the other, and who certainly was no shiverer? Allthose thoughts rushed through his brain like arrows shot from a tirelessbow. And he stood there, riddled with wounds, torn with emotion, hiseyes blinded with blood, staring at the little cold, soft envelope whichhe dared not open for fear of removing one last doubt, when a rustlingof the hangings, which made him hastily toss the letter back and closethe smoothly-running drawer of the lacquer table, warned him thatsomebody had entered the room. 

"Hallo! is it you, Jansoulet? How came you here?"

"His Excellency told me to come and wait for him in his bedroom, "replied the Nabob, very proud to be thus admitted to the sanctuary ofthe private apartments, especially at an hour when the minister did notreceive. The fact was that the duke was beginning to show a genuine, sympathetic feeling for that savage. For several reasons: in the firstplace he liked audacious, pushing fellows, lucky adventurers. Was he notone himself? And then the Nabob amused him; his accent, his unvarnishedmanners, his flattery, a trifle unblushing and impudent, gave him arespite from the everlasting conventionality of his surroundings, fromthat scourge of administrative and court ceremonial which he held inhorror, --the conventional phrase, --in so great horror that he neverfinished the period he had begun. The Nabob, for his part, finished hisin unforeseen ways that were sometimes full of surprises; he was afirst-rate gambler too, losing games of écarté at five thousand francsthe turn, at the club on Rue Royale, without winking. And then he was soconvenient when one wanted to get rid of a picture, always ready to buy, no matter at what price. These motives of condescending amiability hadbeen reinforced latterly by a feeling of pity and indignation because ofthe persistent ferocity with which the poor fellow was being persecuted, because of the cowardly, merciless war upon him, which was carried on soskilfully that public opinion, always credulous, always putting out itsneck to see how the wind is blowing, was beginning to be seriouslyinfluenced. We must do Mora the justice to say that he was no followerof the crowd. When he saw the Nabob's face, always good-humored, butwearing a piteous, discomfited look, in a corner of the gallery, it hadoccurred to him that it was cowardly to receive him there, and he hadtold him to go up to his room. 

Jenkins and Jansoulet, being decidedly embarrassed in each other'spresence, exchanged a few commonplace words. Their warm friendship hadgrown sensibly cooler of late, Jansoulet having flatly refused anyfurther subsidy to the Work of Bethlehem, thereby leaving the enterpriseon the Irishman's hands; he was furious at that defection, much morefurious just then because he had been unable to open Felicia's letterbefore the intruder's arrival. The Nabob, for his part, was wonderingwhether the doctor was to be present at the conversation he wished tohave with the duke on the subject of the infamous allusions with whichthe _Messager_ was hounding him; he was anxious also to know whetherthose calumnies had cooled the all-powerful goodwill, which would be sonecessary to him in the confirmation of his election. The welcome he hadreceived in the gallery had partly quieted his fears; they vanishedaltogether when the duke returned and came toward him with outstretchedhand. 

"Well, well! my poor Jansoulet, I should say that Paris is making youpay dear for her welcome. What a tempest of scolding and hatred and badtemper!"

"Ah! Monsieur le Duc, if you knew--"

"I do know--I have read it all, " said the minister, drawing near thefire. 

"I trust that your Excellency doesn't believe those infamous stories. Atall events I have here--I have brought proofs. "

With his strong hairy hands trembling with emotion, he fumbled among thepapers in an enormous portfolio that he had under his arm. 

"Never mind--never mind. I know all about it. I know that, purposely ornot, they have confused you with another person whom family reasons--"

The duke could not restrain a smile in face of the utter bewilderment ofthe Nabob, who was astounded to find him so well informed. 

"A minister of State should know everything. But never fear. Yourelection shall be confirmed, all the same. And when it is onceconfirmed--"

Jansoulet drew a long breath of relief. 

"Ah! Monsieur le Duc, how much good you do me by talking to me thus. Iwas beginning to lose all my confidence. My enemies are so powerful! Andon top of all the rest there's another piece of ill-luck. Le Merquier, of all people, is assigned to make the report concerning my election. "

"Le Merquier?--the devil!"

"Yes, Le Merquier, Hemerlingue's confidential man, the vile hypocritewho converted the baroness, doubtless because his religion forbids himto have a Mohammedan for his mistress. "

"Fie, fie, Jansoulet!"

"What can you expect, Monsieur le Duc? You lose your temper sometimes, too. Just think of the position those villains are putting me in. A weekago my election should have been confirmed, and they have postponed themeeting of the committee purposely, because they know the terribleplight I am in, with all my fortune paralyzed, and the bey waiting forthe decision of the Chamber to know whether he can strip me clean ornot. I have eighty millions over there, Monsieur le Duc, and here I ambeginning to be in need of money. If this lasts a little longer--"

He wiped away the great drops of perspiration that were rolling down hischeeks. 

"Very well! I will make this matter of your confirmation my business, "said the minister with much animation. "I will write to What's-his-nameto hurry up his report; and even if I have to be carried to theChamber--"

"Is your Excellency ill?" queried Jansoulet in a tone of deep interest, in which there was no lack of sincerity, I promise you. 

"No--a little weakness. We are a little short of blood; but Jenkins isgoing to give us a new supply. Eh, Jenkins?"

The Irishman, who was not listening, made a vague gesture. 

"Thunder! And to think that I have too much blood!" And the Nabobloosened his cravat around his swollen neck, on the verge of apoplexywith excitement and the heat of the room. "If I could only let you havea little, Monsieur le Duc!"

"It would be fortunate for both of us, " rejoined the minister with atouch of irony. "For you especially; you are such a violent fellow andat this moment need to be so calm. Look out for that, Jansoulet. Be onyour guard against the traps, the fits of passion they would like todrive you into. Say to yourself now that you are a public man, standingon an elevation, and that all your gestures can be seen from a distance. The newspapers insult you; don't read them if you cannot conceal theemotion they cause you. Don't do what I did with my blind man on Pont dela Concorde, that horrible clarinet player, who has made my life aburden for ten years, whistling at me every day: _De tes fils, Norma_. Itried everything to make him go away, money, threats. Nothing wouldinduce him to go. The police? Oh! yes. With our modern ideas, to turn apoor blind man off his bridge would become a momentous affair. Theopposition newspapers would speak of it, the Parisians would make afable of it. _The Cobbler and the Financier_; _The Duke and theClarinet. _ I must resign myself to it. Indeed, it's my own fault. Ishould not have shown the fellow that he annoyed me. I am confident thatmy torture is half of his life now. Every morning he leaves his hovelwith his dog, his folding-stool and his horrible instrument, and says tohimself: 'Now I'll go and make life a burden to the Duc de Mora. ' Not aday does he miss, the villain. Look you! if I should open the window acrack, you would hear that deluge of shrill little notes above the noiseof the water and the carriages. Very well! this _Messager_ man is yourclarinet; if you let him see that his music wearies you, he will neverstop. By the way, my dear deputy, let me remind you that you have acommittee meeting at three o'clock, and I shall see you very soon in theChamber. "

Then, turning to Jenkins, he added: "You know what I asked you for, Doctor, --pearls for day after to-morrow. And well loaded!"

Jenkins started and shook himself, as if suddenly aroused from a dream. 

"I understand, my dear Duke; I'll supply you with breath--oh! breathenough to win the Derby. "

He bowed, and went away, laughing, a genuine wolf's laugh, showing hiswhite, parted teeth. The Nabob also took his leave, his heartoverflowing with gratitude, but not daring to allow that sceptic to seeanything of it, for any sort of demonstration aroused his distrust. Andthe Minister of State, left alone, crouching in front of the crackling, blazing fire, sheltered by the velvety warmth of his luxurious garments, lined on that day by the feverish caress of a lovely May sun, began toshiver anew, to shiver so violently that Felicia's letter, which he heldopen in his blue fingers and read with amorous zest, trembled with arustling noise as of silk. 

 * * * * *

A very peculiar situation is that of a deputy in the period whichfollows his election and precedes--as they say in Parliamentaryparlance--the verification of his credentials. It bears some resemblanceto the plight of a husband during the twenty-four hours between themarriage at the mayor's office and its consecration by the Church. Rights one cannot use, a semi-happiness, semi-privileges, the annoyanceof having to hold oneself in check in one direction or another, the lackof a definite standing. You are married without being married, a deputywithout being sure of it; but, in the case of the deputy, thatuncertainty is prolonged for days and weeks, and the longer it lasts themore problematical the result becomes; and it is downright torture forthe unfortunate representative on trial to be obliged to go to theChamber, to occupy a seat which he may not keep, to listen to debateswhose conclusion he is likely not to hear, to implant in his eyes andears the delightful memory of parliamentary sessions, with their oceanof bald or apoplectic heads, the endless noise of crumpled paper, theshouts of the pages, the drumming of paper knives on the tables, and thehum of private conversations, above which the orator's voice soars in atimid or vociferous solo with a continuous accompaniment. 

That situation, disheartening enough at best, was made worse for theNabob by the calumnious stones, whispered at first, now printed and putin circulation by thousands of copies, which resulted in his beingtacitly quarantined by his colleagues. At first he went about in thecorridors, to the library, to the restaurant, to the Salle desConférences, like the others, overjoyed to leave his footprints in everycorner of that majestic labyrinth; but, being a stranger to themajority, cut by some members of the club on Rue Royale, who avoidedhim, detested by the whole clerical coterie, of which Le Merquier wasthe leader, and by the financial clique, naturally hostile to thatbillionaire, with his power to cause a rise or fall in stocks, like thevessels of large tonnage which divert the channel in a harbor, hisisolation was simply emphasized by change of locality, and the samehostility accompanied him everywhere. 

His movements, his bearing were marked by a sort of constraint, ofhesitating distrust. He felt that he was watched. If he entered therestaurant for a moment, that great light room looking on the gardensof the presidency, which he liked because there, at the broad whitemarble counter laden with food and drink, the deputies laid aside theirimposing, high and mighty airs, the legislative haughtiness became moreaffable, recalled to naturalness by nature, he knew that a sneering, insulting item would appear in the _Messager_ the next morning, holdinghim up to his constituents as "a wine-bibber _emeritus_. "

They were another source of vexation to him, --those terribleconstituents. 

They came in flocks, invaded the Salle des Pas-Perdus, galloped about inall directions like excited little black kids, calling from one end tothe other of the echoing hall: "O Pé! O Tché!" inhaling with delight theodor of government, of administration that filled the air, making eyesat the ministers who passed, sniffing at their heels, as if some prebendwere about to fall from their venerable pockets, from their swollenportfolios; but crowding around "Moussiou" Jansoulet especially, with somany urgent petitions, demands, demonstrations, that, in order to ridhimself of that gesticulating mob at which everybody turned to look, andwhich made him seem like the delegate of a tribe of Touaregs in themidst of a civilized people, he was obliged to glance imploringly atsome usher who was skilled in the art of rescue under such circumstancesand would come to him in a great hurry and say, "that he was wantedimmediately in the eighth committee. " So that the poor Nabob, persecuted everywhere, driven from the corridors, the Pas-Perdus, therestaurant, had adopted the course of never leaving his bench, where hesat motionless and mute throughout the sitting. 

He had, however, one friend in the Chamber, --a deputy newly elected forDeux-Sèvres, named M. Sarigue, a poor fellow not unlike the inoffensive, ignoble animal whose name he bore, [2] with his sparse, red hair, hisfrightened eyes, his hopping gait in his white gaiters. He was so shythat he could not say two words without stammering, almost tongue-tied, incessantly rolling balls of chewing-gum around in his mouth, which putthe finishing touch to the viscosity of his speech; and every onewondered why such an impotent creature had cared to become a member ofthe Assembly, what delirious female ambition had spurred on to publicoffice a man so unfitted for the least important private function. 

FOOTNOTES:

[2] A _sarigue_ is an opossum. 

By an amusing manifestation of the irony of fate, Jansoulet, who wasintensely agitated by the uncertainty concerning his own confirmation, was chosen by the eighth committee to make the report on the Deux-Sèvreselection, and M. Sarigue, realizing his incapacity, full of a ghastlydread of being sent back in disgrace to his own fireside, prowled humblyand beseechingly around that tall, curly-haired worthy, whose broadshoulder-blades moved back and forth like the bellows of a forge underhis fine tightly fitting frock-coat, little suspecting that a poor, worried creature like himself was hidden beneath that solid envelope. 

As he worked at the report of the election at Deux-Sèvres, going overthe numerous protests, the charges of electoral trickery, banquetsgiven, money squandered, casks of wine broached in front of the mayor'soffice, the usual manoeuvres of an election in those days, Jansouletshuddered on his own account. "Why, I did all that!" he said to himselfin dismay. Ah! M. Sarigue need have no fear, he could never have put hishand upon a more kindly-disposed judge or a more indulgent one, for theNabob, moved to pity for his patient, knowing by experience how painfulthe agony of suspense is, did his work with all possible haste, and thehuge portfolio that he had under his arm when he left the hôtel de Mora, contained his report, all ready to be read to the Committee. 

Whether it was the thought of that first essay as a public officer, orthe duke's kind words, or the magnificent weather, which was keenlyenjoyed by that Southerner whose impressions were wholly physical, andwho was accustomed to transact business in the warm sunlight and beneaththe blue sky, --certain it is that the ushers of the Corps Législatifbeheld that day a superb and haughty Jansoulet whom they had not knownbefore. Old Hemerlingue's carriage, recognizable by the unusual width ofits doors, of which he caught a glimpse through the iron railing, wasall that was needed to put him in full possession of his naturalassurance and audacity. 

"The enemy is at hand. Attention!" As he walked through the Salle desPas-Perdus, he saw the financier talking in a corner with Le Merquier, the judge of his election, passed close by them and stared at them witha triumphant air which made them wonder: "What in God's name hashappened to him?"

Then, enchanted by his own _sang-froid_, he walked toward thecommittee-rooms, vast, high apartments, opening from both sides of along corridor, furnished with huge tables covered with green cloths andheavy chairs of uniform pattern which bore the stamp of wearisomesolemnity. He reached his destination. Men were standing about ingroups, discussing, gesticulating, exchanging salutations and grasps ofthe hand, throwing back their heads, like Chinese shadows, against thebright background of the windows. There were some who walked alone, withbacks bent, as if crushed by the weight of thoughts that furrowed theirbrows. Others whispered in one another's ears, imparting excessivelymysterious information of the utmost importance, putting a finger totheir lips, screwing up their eyes to enjoin secrecy. A provincialflavor distinguished them all, with differences of inflection, Southernexcitability, the drawling accent of the Centre, Breton sing-song, allblended in the same idiotic, strutting self-sufficiency; frock-coatsafter the style of Landerneau, mountain shoes, and home-spun linen; themonumental assurance of village clubs, local expressions, provincialismsabruptly imported into political and administrative language, the limp, colorless phraseology which invented "the burning questions returning tothe surface, " and "individualities without a commission. "

To see those worthies, excited or pensive as the case might be, youwould have said that they were the greatest breeders of ideas on earth;unluckily, on the days when the Chamber was in session they weretransformed, they clung coyly to their benches, as frightened asschool-boys under the master's ferule, laughing obsequiously at thejests of the man of wit who presided over them, or taking the floor toput forward the most amazing propositions, or for interruptions of thesort that make one think that it was not a type simply, but a whole racethat Henri Monnier stigmatized in his immortal sketch. Two or threeorators in the whole Chamber, the rest well skilled in the art ofplanting themselves before the fire in a provincial salon, after anexcellent repast at the prefect's table, and saying in a nasal tone:"The administration, Messieurs, " or "The Emperor's government, "--butincapable of going farther. 

On ordinary occasions the good-natured Nabob allowed himself to bedazzled by those attitudes, that clattering noise as of an emptyspinning-wheel; but to-day he found himself on a level with the others. As he sat at the centre of the green table, his portfolio before him, his two elbows firmly planted upon it, reading the report drawn by deGéry, the members of the committee stared at him in mute amazement. 

It was a clear, concise, rapid summary of their labors of the pastfortnight, in which they found their ideas so well expressed that theyhad great difficulty in recognizing them. Then, when two or three amongthem suggested that the report was too favorable, that he glided toolightly over certain protests that had reached the committee, the makerof the report spoke with surprising assurance, with the prolixity andexuberance of men of his province, proved that a deputy should not beheld responsible beyond a certain point for the imprudence of hiselectoral agents, that otherwise no election would stand against aninvestigation that was at all minute; and as, in reality, he waspleading his own cause, he displayed an irresistible warmth andconviction, taking care to let fly from time to time one of the longmeaningless substantives with a thousand claws, of the sort that thecommittee liked. 

The others listened, deep in thought, exchanging their impressions bynods of the head, drawing flourishes and faces on their blotting-padsthe better to fix their attention; a detail that harmonized with theschoolboy-like noise in the corridors, a muttering as of lessons beingrecited, and the flocks of sparrows chirping under the windows in aflagged courtyard surrounded by arches, a veritable school-yard. Thereport adopted, they sent for M. Sarigue to make some supplementaryexplanations. He appeared, pale-faced, abashed, stammering like acriminal before conviction, and you would have laughed to see thepatronizing, authoritative air with which Jansoulet encouraged andreassured him: "Be calm, my dear colleague. " But the members of theeighth committee did not laugh. They were all, or almost all, of theSarigue species, two or three being absolutely nerveless, afflicted withpartial loss of the power of speech. Such self-assurance, such eloquencehad aroused their enthusiasm. 

When Jansoulet left the Corps Législatif, escorted to his carriage byhis grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock. The superb weather, agorgeous sunset over by the Trocadéro, across the Seine, which shonelike burnished gold, tempted that robust plebeian, whom the conventionalproprieties of his position compelled to ride in a carriage and to weargloves, but who dispensed with them as often as possible, to return onfoot. He sent away his servants, and started across Pont de la Concorde, his leather satchel under his arm. He had known no such feeling ofcontentment since the first of May. Throwing back his shoulders, withhis hat tipped slightly back in the attitude he had noticed in men whowere worried, overdone with business, allowing all the toil-born feverof their brain to evaporate in the fresh air, as a factory dischargesits vapor into the gutter at the close of a day of labor, he walked onamong other figures like his own, evidently just from the pillaredtemple that faces the Madeleine beyond the monumental fountains of thesquare. As they passed, people turned and said: "They are deputies. " AndJansoulet felt a childlike joy, a vulgar joy compounded of ignoranceand ingenuous vanity. 

"Buy the _Messager_ evening edition. "

The words came from the newspaper booth at the end of the bridge, filledat that hour with piles of freshly printed sheets which two women werehastily folding and which smelt of the damp press, of the latest news, the triumph of the day or its scandal. Almost all the deputies purchaseda copy as they passed, and ran through it rapidly, hoping to find theirnames. Jansoulet, for his part, dreaded to see his and did not stop. Butsuddenly he thought: "Ought not a public man to be above such weaknessesas this? I am strong enough to read anything now. " He retraced his stepsand took a paper like his colleagues. He opened it very calmly at theplace usually occupied by Moëssard's articles. There was one there. Still the same title: _Chinoiseries_, and an M. For signature. 

"Aha!" said the public man, as unmoved and cold as marble, with a fine, scornful smile. Mora's lesson was still ringing in his ears, and even ifhe had forgotten it, the air from _Norma_ in jerky, ironical littlenotes not far away would have sufficed to remind him of it. But, howevercarefully we may make our calculations in the rush of events in ourlives, we must still reckon with the unforeseen; and that is why theNabob suddenly found himself blinded by a rush of blood to his eyes, while a cry of rage was stifled by the sudden contraction of his throat. His mother, his old Françoise, was dragged into the infamous jest ofthe "flower boat" at last. How well that Moëssard aimed, how well heknew the really sensitive spots in that heart, so innocently laid bare!

"Be calm, Jansoulet, be calm. "

In vain did he repeat the injunction in every tone, --anger, furiousanger, the drunkenness of blood demanding blood enveloped him. His firstimpulse was to stop a cab and hurl himself into it, in order to escapethe irritating street, to rid his body of the necessity of walking andchoosing a path--to stop a cab as for a wounded man. But at that hour ofgeneral home-coming the square was crowded with hundreds of victorias, calèches, coupés, descending from the resplendent glory of theArc-de-Triomphe toward the purple freshness of the Tuileries, crowdingclosely upon one another down the inclined surface of the avenue to thegreat cross-roads where the motionless statues, standing firmly on theirpedestals with their wreath-encircled brows, watched them diverge towardFaubourg Saint-Germain, Rue Royale and Rue de Rivoli. 

Jansoulet, newspaper in hand, made his way through the uproar, withoutthinking of it, bending his steps instinctively toward the club, wherehe went every day to play cards from six to seven. He was a public manstill; but intensely excited, talking aloud, stammering oaths andthreats in a voice that suddenly became soft once more as he thought ofthe dear old woman. --To think of rolling her in the mire too! Oh! if sheshould read it, if she could understand! What punishment could heinvent for such an infamous outrage? He reached Rue Royale, whereequipages of all sorts returning from the Bois bowled swiftly homeward, with whirling axles, visions of veiled women and children's curly heads, bringing a little vegetable mould to the pavements of Paris and whiffsof spring mingled with the perfume of rice-powder. In front of theMinistry of Marine, a phaeton perched very high upon slender wheels, bearing a strong resemblance to a huge field-spider, the little groomclinging behind and the two persons on the box-seat forming its body, came very near colliding with the sidewalk as it turned. 

The Nabob raised his head, and restrained an exclamation. 

Beside a painted hussy with red hair, wearing a tiny little hat withbroad ribbons, who, from her perch on her leather cushion, was drivingthe horse with her hands, her eyes, her whole made-up person, stifflyerect, yet leaning forward, sat Moëssard, Moëssard the dandy, pink-cheeked and painted like his companion, raised on the samedung-heap, fattened on the same vices. The strumpet and the journalist, and she was not the one of the two who sold herself most shamelessly!Towering above the women lolling in their calèches, the men who satopposite them buried under flounces, all the attitudes of fatigue andennui which they whose appetites are sated display in public as if inscorn of pleasure and wealth, they insolently exhibited themselves, shevery proud to drive the queen's lover, and he without the slightestshame beside that creature who flicked her whip at men in passage-ways, safe on her lofty perch from the salutary drag-nets of the police. Perhaps he found it necessary to quicken his royal mistress's pulses bythus parading under her windows with Suzanne Bloch, _alias_ Suze laRousse. 

"Hi! hi there!"

The horse, a tall trotter with slender legs, a genuine cocotte's horse, was returning from his digression, toward the middle of the street, withdancing steps, prancing gracefully up and down without going forward. Jansoulet dropped his satchel, and as if he had cast aside at the sametime all his gravity, his prestige as a public man, he gave a mightyleap and grasped the animal's bit, holding him fast with his stronghairy hands. 

An arrest on Rue Royale and in broad daylight; no one but that Tartarwould have dared do such a thing!

"Get down, " he said to Moëssard, whose face turned green and yellow inspots when he recognized him. "Get down at once. "

"Will you let go my horse, you fat beast!--Lash him, Suzanne, it's theNabob. "

She tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held in a powerfulgrasp, reared so suddenly that in another second the fragile vehiclewould have shot out all that it contained, like a sling. Thereupon, carried away by one of the furious fits of rage peculiar to thefaubourg, which in such girls as she scale off the varnish of theirluxury and their false skin, she struck the Nabob two blows with herwhip, which glided off the hard, tanned face, but gave it a ferociousexpression, accentuated by the short nose, slit at the end like ahunting terrier's, which had turned white. 

"Get down, or, by God, I will overturn the whole thing!"

In a confused mass of carriages, standing still because movement wasimpossible or slowly skirting the obstacle, with thousands of curiouseyes, amid the shouts of drivers and clashing of bits, two iron wristsshook the whole phaeton. 

"Jump down--jump, I say--don't you see he's going to tip us over? What agrip!"

And the girl gazed at the Hercules with interest. 

Moëssard had hardly put his foot to the ground, when, before he couldtake refuge on the sidewalk, where black _képis_ were hastening to thescene, Jansoulet threw himself upon him, lifted him by the nape of theneck like a rabbit, and exclaimed, heedless of his protestations, histerrified, stammering entreaties:

"Yes, yes, I'll give you satisfaction, you miserable scoundrel. Butfirst I propose to do to you what we do to dirty beasts so that theysha'n't come back again. "

And he began to rub him, to scrub his face mercilessly with hisnewspaper, which he held like a _tampon_ and with which he choked andblinded him and made great raw spots where the paint bled. They draggedhim from his hands, purple and breathless. If he had worked himself up alittle more, he would have killed him. 

The scuffle at an end, the Nabob pulled down his sleeves, which hadrisen to his elbows, smoothed his rumpled linen, picked up his satchelfrom which the papers relating to the Sarigue election had scattered asfar as the gutter, and replied to the police officers, who asked him hisname in order to prepare their report: "Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy forCorsica. "

A public man!

Not until then did he remember that he was one. Who would have suspectedit, to see him thus, out of breath and bareheaded, like a porter after astreet fight, under the inquisitive, coldly contemptuous glances of theslowly dispersing crowd?

XVII. 

THE APPARITION. 

If you wish for sincere, straightforward passion, if you wish foreffusive demonstrations of affection, laughter, the laughter of greathappiness, which differs from tears only in a very slight movement ofthe mouth, if you wish for the fascinating folly of youth illumined bybright eyes, so transparent that you can look to the very bottom of thesoul, there are all of those to be seen this Sunday morning in a housethat you know, a new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg. Theshow-case on the ground-floor is more brilliant than usual. The signsover the door dance about more airily than ever, and through the openwindows issue joyous cries, a soaring heavenward of happiness. 

"Accepted, it's accepted! Oh! what luck! Henriette, Élise, come, come!M. Maranne's play is accepted. "

André has known the news since yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of theNouveautés, sent for him to inform him that his play would be put inrehearsal at once and produced next month. They passed the eveningdiscussing the stage setting, the distribution of parts; and, as it wastoo late to knock at his neighbors' door when he returned from thetheatre, he waited for morning with feverish impatience, and as soon ashe heard signs of life below, the blinds thrown back against thehouse-front, he hurried down to tell his friends the good news. And nowthey are all together, the young ladies in modest _déshabillé_, theirhair hastily braided, and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcement hadsurprised in the act of shaving, presenting an astonishing bipartiteface beneath his embroidered night-cap, with one side shaved, the othernot. But the most excited of all is André Maranne, for you know what theacceptance of _Révolte_ meant to him, what agreement Grandmamma had madewith him. The poor fellow looks at her as if seeking encouragement inher eyes; and those eyes, kindly as always, and with a slight suggestionof raillery, seem to say to him: "Try, at all events. What do you risk?"He also glances, in order to give himself courage, at MademoiselleÉlise, pretty as a flower, her long lashes lowered. At last, making abold effort, he says, in a choking voice:

"Monsieur Joyeuse, I have a very serious communication to make to you. "

M. Joyeuse is surprised. 

"A communication? _Mon Dieu!_ you terrify me. "

And he too lowers his voice as he adds:

"Are these young ladies in the way?"

No. Grandmamma knows what is going on. Mademoiselle Élise, too, musthave a suspicion. That leaves only the children. Mademoiselle Henrietteand her sister are requested to retire, which they do at once, theformer with a majestic, annoyed air, like a worthy descendant of theSaint-Amands, the other, the little monkey Yaia, with a wild desire tolaugh, dissembled with difficulty. 

Profound silence ensues. Then the lover begins his little story. 

I should say that Mademoiselle Élise does in very truth suspectsomething, for as soon as their young neighbor spoke of a"communication, " she had taken her _Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket andplunged madly into the adventures of a certain Le Hutin, an excitingpassage which made the book tremble in her fingers. Surely there iscause for trembling in the dismay, the indignant amazement with which M. Joyeuse welcomes this request for his daughter's hand. 

"Is it possible? How did this come about? What an extraordinary thing!Whoever would have suspected anything of the sort!"

And suddenly the good man bursts into a roar of laughter. Well, no, thatis not true. He has known what was going on for a long while; some onetold him the whole story. 

Father knows the whole story! Then Grandmamma must have betrayed them. And the culprit comes forward smiling to meet the reproachful glancesthat are turned in her direction. 

"Yes, my dears, I did. The secret was too heavy. I could not keep it allby myself. And then father is so dear, one cannot conceal anything fromhim. "

As she says this, she leaps on the little man's neck, but it is largeenough for two, and when Mademoiselle Élise takes refuge there in herturn, there is an affectionate, fatherly hand extended to him whom M. Joyeuse looks upon thenceforth as his son. 

Silent embraces, long searching glances, melting or passionate, blissfulmoments which one would like to detain forever by the tips of theirfragile wings! They talk, they laugh softly as they recall certainincidents. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him at firstby rapping spirits, one day when he was alone in André's room. "How isbusiness, Monsieur Maranne?" the spirits inquired, and he answered inMaranne's absence: "Not so bad for the season, Messieurs Spirits. " Youshould see the mischievous air with which the little man repeats: "Notso bad for the season, " while Mademoiselle Élise, sadly confused at thethought that it was her father with whom she was corresponding that day, disappears beneath her flaxen curls. 

After the first excitement has passed and their voices are steady oncemore, they talk more seriously. It is certain that Madame Joyeuse, _née_de Saint-Amand, would never have consented to the marriage. AndréMaranne is not rich, far less of noble blood; but luckily the oldbook-keeper has not the same ideas of grandeur that his wife had. Theylove each other, they are young, healthy and virtuous, qualities whichconstitute a handsome dowry and one which the notary will not make aheavy charge for recording. The new household will take up its abode onthe floor above. They will continue the photographing business unlessthe receipts from _Révolte_ are enormous. (The _Imaginaire_ can betrusted to attend to that. ) In any event, the father will be always athand, he has a good place with his broker and some expert work at thePalais de Justice; if the small vessel sails always in the wake of thelarger one, all will go well, with the help of the waves, the wind andthe stars. 

A single question disturbs M. Joyeuse: "Will André's parents consent tothis marriage? How can Dr. Jenkins, rich and famous as he is--"

"Let us not speak of that man, " exclaims André, turning pale; "he's amiserable villain to whom I owe nothing, who is nothing to me. "

He pauses, a little embarrassed by this explosion of wrath, which hecould not hold back and cannot explain, and continues in a milder tone:

"My mother, who comes to see me sometimes, although she has beenforbidden to do so, was the first to be informed of our plans. Shealready loves Mademoiselle Élise like her own daughter. You will see, Mademoiselle, how good she is, and how lovely and charming. What amisfortune that she belongs to such a vile man, who tyrannizes over herand tortures her so far as to forbid her mentioning her son's name!"

Poor Maranne heaves a sigh which tells the whole story of the greatsorrow he conceals in the depths of his heart. But what melancholy canendure before the dear face illumined by fair curls and the radiantoutlook for the future? The serious questions decided, they can open thedoor and recall the banished children. In order not to fill those littleheads with thoughts beyond their years, they have agreed to say nothingof the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they mustdress in haste and eat their breakfast even more hurriedly, so that theycan pass the afternoon at the Bois, where Maranne will read his play tothem, awaiting the hour to go to Suresnes for a fish-dinner atKontzen's; a long programme of delights in honor of the acceptance of_Révolte_ and of another piece of good news which they shall know later. 

"Ah! indeed. What can it be?" query the two children with an innocentair. 

But if you fancy that they do not know what is in the wind, if you thinkthat, when Mademoiselle Élise struck three blows on the ceiling, theybelieved that she did it for the special purpose of inquiring about thephotographing business, you are even more ingenuous than Père Joyeuse. 

"Never mind, never mind, mesdemoiselles. Go and dress. "

Thereupon another refrain begins:

"What dress must I wear, Grandmamma? The gray?"

"Grandmamma, there's a ribbon gone from my hat. "

"Grandmamma, my child, I haven't any starched cravat. "

For ten minutes there is a constant going and coming around the charmingGrandmamma, constant appeals to her. Every one needs her, she keeps thekeys to everything, distributes the pretty, finely fluted white linen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the treasures which, when produced from bandboxes and cupboards and laid out upon the beds, spread throughout a house the sunshiny cheerfulness of Sunday. 

The laboring men, the people who work with their hands, alone know thejoy that comes with the end of each week, consecrated by the custom of anation. For those people, prisoners throughout the week, the crowdedlines of the almanac open at equal intervals in luminous spaces, inrefreshing whiffs of air. Sunday, the day that seems so long to worldlypeople, to the Parisians of the boulevard, whose fixed habits itderanges, and so melancholy to exiles without a family, is the day whichconstitutes to a multitude of people the only recompense, the only goalof six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail makes any difference to them;nothing will prevent them from going out, from closing the door of thedeserted workshop or the stuffy little lodging behind them. But when thespringtime takes a hand, when a May sun is shining as it is shining thismorning and Sunday can array itself in joyous colors, then indeed it isthe holiday of holidays. 

If you would appreciate it to the full, you must see it in the laboringquarters, in those dismal streets which it illumines, which it makesbroader by closing the shops, housing the great vans, leaving the spacefree for the romping of children with clean faces and in their bestclothes, and games of battledore mingled with circling flocks ofswallows under some porch in old Paris. You must see it in the swarming, fever-stricken faubourgs where from early morning you feel it hovering, soothing and grateful, over the silent factories, passing with the clangof bells and the shrill whistle of the locomotives, which give theimpression of a mighty hymn of departure and deliverance arising fromall the suburbs. Then you appreciate it and love it. 

O thou Parisian Sunday, Sunday of the working man and the humble, I haveoften cursed thee without reason, I have poured out floods of abusiveink upon thy noisy, effervescent joy, the dusty railway stations filledwith thy uproar, and the lumbering omnibuses which thou takest byassault, upon thy wine-shop ballads roared forth in spring-cartsbedecked with green and pink dresses, thy barrel-organs wheezing underbalconies in deserted court-yards; but to-day, renouncing my errors, Iexalt thee and bless thee for all the joy and relief thou bringest tocourageous, honorable toil, for the laughter of the children who acclaimthee, for the pride of happy mothers dressing their little ones in thyhonor, for the dignity which thou dost keep alive in the dwellings ofthe lowliest, for the gorgeous apparel put aside for thee in the depthsof the old crippled wardrobe; above all I bless thee for all thehappiness which thou didst bring in full measure that morning to thegreat new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg. 

The toilets completed, the breakfast hastily swallowed, [3] they areputting on their hats in front of the mirror in the salon. Grandmamma iscasting her eye around for the last time, sticking in a pin here, retying a ribbon there, adjusting the paternal cravat; but, while allthe little party are pawing the floor impatiently, beckoned out of doorsby the beauty of the day, suddenly their gayety is clouded by a ring atthe door-bell. 

FOOTNOTES:

[3] There is in the text at this point a play upon words which it isimpossible to render in English. "Les toilettes terminées, le déjeunerfini, pris sur le pouce--et sur le pouce de ces demoiselles vous pensezce qu'il peut tenir, " etc. , that is to say: "the breakfast at an end, taken upon the thumb--and you can imagine how much the thumbs of thoseyoung ladies would hold. " To eat _sur le pouce_ (eat upon the thumb)means to eat hastily, without taking time to sit down. 

"Suppose we don't go to the door?" the children suggest. 

And what relief, what a shout of joy when friend Paul appears!

"Come quick, quick; let us tell you the good news!"

He knew before anybody else that the play was accepted. He had haddifficulty enough in making Cardailhac read it, for at the first sightof the "little lines, " as he called the verses, he wanted to send themanuscript to the Levantine and her _masseur_, as he did with all therubbish that was sent to him. But Paul was careful not to speak of hisintervention. As for the other great event, which was not mentionedbecause of the children, he guessed it without difficulty from thetremulous happiness of Maranne, whose fair hair stood straight on endover his forehead, --because the poet constantly thrust both handsthrough it, as he always did in his moments of joy, --from the slightlyembarrassed demeanor of Élise, and from the triumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who stood proudly erect in his spotless linen, with all thehappiness of his dear ones written on his face. 

Grandmamma alone preserved her usual tranquil bearing; but one detectedin her, in the zeal with which she waited upon her sister, a moreaffectionate warmth than usual, a wish to make her attractive. And itwas delightful to see that girl of twenty intent upon beautifyinganother, without envy or regret, with something of the sweetrenunciation of a mother celebrating her daughter's young love in memoryof her own bygone happiness. Paul saw it, indeed he was the only one whosaw it; but, while he gazed in admiration at Aline, he asked himselfsadly if there would ever be room in that motherly heart for other thanfamily attachments, for interests outside of the tranquil circle oflight in which Grandmamma presided so prettily over the work-table inthe evening. 

Love, as we know, is a poor blind boy, bereft of speech and hearing aswell, and with no other guide than prescience, divination, the nervousfaculties of the invalid. Really, it is pitiful to see him wander about, feeling his way, faltering at every step, tapping with his fingers theprojections upon which he depends for guidance, with the distrustfulawkwardness of an infirm old man. At the very moment when he wasmentally casting a doubt upon Aline's susceptibility, Paul, havinginformed his friends that he was about to leave Paris for a journey ofseveral days, of several weeks perhaps, did not notice the girl's suddenpallor, did not hear the sorrowful exclamation from her discreet lips:

"You are going away?"

He was going away, he was going to Tunis, very uneasy at the idea ofleaving his poor Nabob in the midst of his bloodthirsty pack ofpursuers; however, Mora's friendship reassured him somewhat, and, moreover, the journey was absolutely necessary. 

"And what about the _Territoriale_?" asked the old book-keeper, alwaysrecurring to his fixed idea. "How does that stand? I see thatJansoulet's name is still at the head of the administrative council. Can't you get him out of that Ali Baba's cave? Beware, beware!"

"Ah! I know it, Monsieur Joyeuse. But in order to get out of it withhonor, we must have money, much money, must sacrifice two or threemillions more; and we haven't them. That is why I am going to Tunis, totry and extort from the bey's rapacity a small portion of the greatfortune which he so unjustly withholds. At this moment I have somechance of success, whereas a little later perhaps--"

"Go at once then, my dear boy, and if you return with a bag full ofmoney as I trust you will, attend first of all to the Paganetti gang. Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest will be enoughto blow the whole thing into the air, to demand an inquiry; and you knowas well as I what an inquiry would disclose. On reflection, " added M. Joyeuse, wrinkling his brow, "I am surprised that Hemerlingue in hishatred of you has not secretly procured a few shares--"

He was interrupted by the concert of maledictions, of imprecations whichthe name of Hemerlingue always called forth from all those young people, who hated the corpulent banker for the injury he had done their fatherand for the injury he wished to do the worthy Nabob, who was adored inthat household for Paul de Géry's sake. 

"Hemerlingue, the heartless creature! Villain! Wicked man!"

But, amid that chorus of outcries, the _Imaginaire_ worked out histheory of the stout baron becoming a shareholder in the _Territoriale_in order to drag his enemy before the courts. And we can imagine AndréMaranne's stupefaction, knowing absolutely nothing of the affair, whenhe saw M. Joyeuse turn toward him, his face purple and swollen withrage, and point his finger at him with these terrible words:

"The greatest rascal here is yourself, monsieur!"

"O papa, papa! what are you saying?"

"Eh? What's that?--Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear André. I imaginedthat I was in the examining magistrate's office, confronting thatvillain. It's my infernal brain that is forever rushing off to thedevil. "

A roar of laughter rang out through all the open windows, mingling withthe rumbling of innumerable carriages and the chatter of gayly-dressedcrowds on Avenue des Ternes; and the author of _Révolte_ took advantageof the diversion to inquire if they did not propose to start soon. Itwas late--the good places in the Bois would all be taken. 

"The Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" exclaimed Paul de Géry. 

"Oh! our Bois is not the same as yours, " replied Aline with a smile. "Come with us, and you will see. "

 * * * * *

Has it ever happened to you, when you were walking alone and incontemplative mood, to lie flat on your face in the grassy underbrush ofa forest, amid the peculiar vegetation, of many and varying species, that grows between the fallen autumn leaves, and to let your eyes strayalong the level of the earth before you? Gradually the idea of heightvanishes, the interlaced branches of the oaks above your head form aninaccessible sky, and you see a new forest stretching out beneath theother, opening its long avenues pierced by a mysterious green light andlined by slender or tufted shrubs ending in round tops of exotic or wildaspect, stalks of sugar-cane, the graceful rigidity of palms, slendercups holding a drop of water, girandoles bearing little yellow lightswhich flicker in the passing breeze. And the miraculous feature of itall is that beneath those slender stalks live miniature plants andmyriads of insects whose existence, seen at such close quarters, revealsall its mysteries to you. An ant, staggering like a woodcutter under hisburden, drags a piece of bark larger than himself; a beetle crawls alonga blade of grass stretched like a bridge from trunk to trunk; while, beneath a tall fern standing by itself in a clearing carpeted withvelvety moss, some little blue or red creature waits, its antennæ on thealert, until some other beast, on its way thither by some deserted path, arrives at the rendezvous under the gigantic tree. It is a small forestbeneath the large one, too near the ground for the latter to perceiveit, too humble, too securely hidden to be reached by its grand orchestraof songs and tempests. 

A similar phenomenon takes place in the Bois de Boulogne. Behind thoseneat, well-watered gravelled paths, where long lines of wheels movingslowly around the lake draw a furrow by constant wear throughout theday, with the precision of a machine, behind that wonderfulstage-setting of verdure-covered walls, of captive streams, offlower-girt rocks, the real forest, the wild forest, with its luxuriantunderbrush, advances and recedes, forming impenetrable shadows traversedby narrow paths and rippling brooks. That is the forest of the lowly, the forest of the humble, the little forest under the great. And Paul, who knew nothing of the aristocratic resort save the long avenues, thegleaming lake as seen from the back seat of a carriage or from the topof a break in the dust of a return from Longchamps, was amazed to seethe deliciously secluded nook to which his friends escorted him. 

It was on the edge of a pond that lay mirrorlike beneath the willows, covered with lilies and lentils, with great patches of white here andthere, where the sun's rays fell upon the gleaming surface, and streakedwith great tendrils of _argyronètes_ as with lines drawn by diamondpoints. 

They had seated themselves, to listen to the reading of the play, on thesloping bank, covered with verdure already dense, although made up ofslender plants, and the pretty attentive faces, the skirts spread outupon the grass made one think of a more innocent and chaste Decameron ina reposeful atmosphere. To complete the picture of nature at itsloveliest, the distant rustic landscape, two windmills could be seenthrough an opening between the branches, turning in the direction ofSuresnes, while, of the dazzling gorgeous vision to be seen at everycross-road in the Bois, naught reached them save a confused endlessrumbling, to which they finally became so accustomed that they did nothear it at all. The poet's voice alone, fresh and eloquent, rose in thesilence, the lines came quivering forth, repeated in undertones by otherdeeply-moved lips, and there were murmured words of approval, andthrills of emotion at the tragic passages. Grandmamma, indeed, was seento wipe away a great tear. But that was because she had no embroidery inher hand. 

The first work! That is what _Révolte_ was to André--the first work, always too copious and diffuse, into which the author tosses first ofall a whole lifetime of ideas and opinions, pressing for utterance likewater against the edge of a dam, and which is often the richest, if notthe best, of an author's productions. As for the fate that awaited it, no one could say what it might be; and the uncertainty that hoveredabout the reading of the drama added to his emotion the emotion of eachof his auditors, the white-robed hopes of Mademoiselle Élise, M. Joyeuse's fanciful hallucinations and the more positive desires ofAline, who was already in anticipation installing her sister in thenest, rocked by the winds but envied by the multitude, of an artist'shousehold!

Ah! if one of those pleasure-seekers circling the lake for the hundredthtime, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habit, had chanced to put asidethe branches, how surprised he would have been at that picture! Butwould he have suspected all the passion and dreams and poetry and hopethat were contained in that little nook of verdure hardly larger thanthe denticulated shadow of a fern on the moss?

"You were right, I did not know the Bois, " said Paul in an undertone toAline, as she leaned on his arm. 

They were following a narrow sheltered path, and as they talked theywalked very rapidly, far in advance of the others. But it was not PèreKontzen's terrace nor his crisp fritters that attracted them. No, thenoble verses they had heard had carried them to a great height, and theyhad not yet descended. They walked straight on toward the ever-recedingend of the path, which broadened at its extremity into a luminous glory, a dust of sunbeams, as if all the sunshine of that lovely day awaitedthem at the edge of the woods. Paul had never felt so happy. The lightarm resting on his, the childlike step by which his own was guided, would have made life as sweet and pleasant to him as that walk upon themossy carpet of a green path. He would have told the young girl as much, in words as simple as his feelings, had he not feared to alarm Aline'sconfidence, caused doubtless by the feeling which she knew that heentertained for another, and which seemed to forbid any thought of lovebetween them. 

Suddenly, directly in front of them, a group of equestrians stood outagainst the bright background, at first vague and indistinct, thentaking shape as a man and woman beautifully mounted and turning into themysterious path among the shafts of gold, the leafy shadows, the myriadspecks of light with which the ground was dotted, which they displacedas they cantered forward, and which ran in fanciful designs from thehorses' breasts to the Amazon's veil. They rode slowly, capriciously, and the two young people, who had stepped into the bushes, could seeperfectly as they passed quite near to them, with a creaking of newleather, a jangling of bits tossed proudly and white with foam as aftera wild gallop, two superb horses bearing a human couple compelled toride close together by the narrowing of the path; he supporting with onearm the flexible form moulded into a waist of dark cloth, she, with herhand on her companion's shoulder and her little head, in profile--hiddenbeneath the tulle of her half-fallen veil--resting tenderly thereon. That amorous entwining, cradled by the impatience of the steeds, restiveunder the restraint imposed upon their fiery spirits, that kiss, causingthe reins to become entangled, that passion riding through the woods inhunting costume, in broad daylight, with such contempt of publicopinion, would have sufficed to betray the duke and Felicia, even thoughthe haughty and fascinating appearance of the Amazon, and the high-bredease of her companion, his pallid cheeks slightly flushed by theexercise and Jenkins' miraculous pearls, had not already led to theirrecognition. 

It was not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the Bois on Sunday. He, like his master, loved to show himself to the Parisians, to keep hispopularity alive in all public places; and then the duchess neveraccompanied him on that day, and he could draw rein without restraint atthe little châlet of Saint-James, known to all Paris, whose pink turretspeering out among the trees school-boys pointed out to one another withwhispered comments. But only a madwoman, a shameless creature like thatFelicia, would advertise herself thus, destroy her reputation forever. The sound of hoofs and of rustling bushes dying away in the distance, bent weeds standing erect, branches thrust aside resuming theirplaces--that was all that remained of the apparition. 

"Did you see?" Paul was the first to ask. 

She had seen and she had understood, despite her virtuous innocence, fora blush overspread her features, caused by the shame we feel for thesins of those we love. 

"Poor Felicia!" she whispered, pitying not only the poor abandonedcreature who had passed before them, but him as well whom that fall fromgrace was certain to strike full in the heart. The truth is that Paul deGéry was in no wise surprised by that meeting, which confirmed someprevious suspicions and the instinctive repulsion he had felt for theseductive creature at their dinner-party some days before. But it seemedsweet to him to be pitied by Aline, to feel her sympathy in theincreased tenderness of her voice, in the arm that leaned more heavilyupon his. Like children who play at being ill for the joy of beingpetted by their mothers, he allowed the comforter to do her utmost tosoothe his disappointment, to talk to him of his brothers, of the Nabob, and of the impending journey to Tunis, a beautiful country, so it wassaid. "You must write to us often, and write long letters about theinteresting things you see and about the place you live in. For we cansee those who are far away from us better when we can form an idea oftheir surroundings. "--Chatting thus, they reached the end of the shadypath, at a vast clearing where the tumult of the Bois was in full blast, carriages and equestrians alternating, and the crowd tramping in afleecy dust which gave it, at that distance, the appearance of adisorderly flock of sheep. Paul slackened his pace, emboldened by thatlast moment of solitude. 

"Do you know what I am thinking?" he said, taking Aline's hand; "thatany one would enjoy being unhappy for the sake of being comforted byyou. But, precious as your sympathy is to me, I cannot allow you toexpend your emotion upon an imaginary grief. No, my heart is not broken, but, on the contrary, more alive, more vigorous than before. And if Ishould tell you what miracle has preserved it, what talisman--"

He placed before her eyes a little oval frame surrounding a profilewithout shading, a simple pencil sketch in which she recognized herself, surprised to find that she was so pretty, as if reflected in the magicmirror of Love. Tears came to her eyes, although she knew not why, --anopen spring whose pulsing flood caused her chaste heart to beat fast. 

"This portrait belongs to me. It was made for me. But now, as I am onthe point of going away, I am assailed by a scruple. I prefer not tokeep it except from your own hands. So take it, and if you find aworthier friend, one who loves you with a deeper, truer love than mine, I authorize you to give it to him. "

She had recovered from her confusion, and replied, looking de Géry inthe face with affectionate gravity:

"If I listened to nothing but my heart, I should not hesitate to answeryou; for, if you love me as you say you do, I am sure that I love you noless. But I am not free, I am not alone in life, --look!"

She pointed to her father and sisters who were motioning to them in thedistance and hurrying to overtake them. 

"Even so! And I?" said Paul eagerly. "Have I not the same duties, thesame burdens? We are like two widowed heads of families. Will you notlove mine as dearly as I love yours?"

"Do you mean it? Is it true? You will let me stay with them? I shall beAline to you and still be Grandmamma to all our children? Oh! then, "said the dear creature, beaming with joy and radiance, "then here is mypicture, I give it to you. And, with it, all my heart, and forever. "

XVIII. 

THE JENKINS PEARLS. 

About a week after his adventure with Moëssard, --a new complication inhis sadly muddled affairs, --Jansoulet, on leaving the Chamber oneThursday, ordered his coachman to drive him to the hôtel de Mora. He hadnot been there since the fracas on Rue Royale, and the idea of appearingbefore the duke caused something of the same panicky sensation beneathhis tough epidermis that a schoolboy feels on being summoned before themaster after a scuffle in the class-room. However, it was necessary tosubmit to the embarrassment of that first interview. It was currentlyreported in the committee rooms that Le Merquier had completed hisreport, a masterpiece of logic and ferocity, recommending that Jansouletbe unseated, and that he was certain to carry his point off-hand unlessMora, whose power in the Assembly was so great, should himself issuecontrary orders. A serious crisis, as will be seen, and one that causedhis cheeks to burn with fever as he studied the expression of hisfeatures and his courtier-like smiles in the bevelled mirrors of hiscoupé, striving to prepare an adroit entry into the presence, --one ofhis masterstrokes of amiable impudence which had served him so well withAhmed and thus far with the French statesman, --the whole accompanied bya rapid beating of the heart and the shivering sensation between theshoulders which precedes decisive steps, even when taken in a carriagewith gilded panels. 

When he reached the mansion on the river bank, he was greatly surprisedto see that the footman on the quay, as on the days of great receptions, ordered the carriages to turn into Rue de Lille in order to leave onegateway free for exit. He said to himself, a little disturbed in mind:"What is going on?" Perhaps a concert given by the duchess, a charitybazaar, or some festivity from which Mora had left him out because ofthe scandal caused by his last adventure. And his anxiety augmentedwhen, after crossing the court of honor amid the tumult of slammingcarriage-doors and a constant, dull rumbling on the gravel, he hadascended the steps and found himself in the vast reception-room filledto overflowing with a great throng who were allowed to pass none of theinner doors, but whose anxious steps centred about the table of theservant in attendance, where all the famous names of aristocratic Pariswere being inscribed. It seemed as if a sudden blast of disaster hadpassed through the house, swept away something of its superbtranquillity and allowed unrest and danger to creep into itswell-being. 

"What a misfortune!"

"Ah! yes, it is terrible. "

"And so sudden!"

The people around him exchanged such phrases as they met. A thoughtpassed swiftly through Jansoulet's mind. 

"Is the duke ill?" he asked a servant. 

"Ah! monsieur. He is dying. He cannot live through the night. "

If the roof of the palace had fallen in upon his head, it would not havecrushed him more completely. He saw red butterflies whirling aroundbefore his eyes, then staggered and fell upon the velvet-covered benchbeside the great cage of monkeys, who, over-excited by all the turmoil, clung in a bunch to the bars, hanging by their tails or by their littlelong-thumbed hands, and in their frightened inquisitiveness assailedwith the most extravagant grimaces of their race the stout bewilderedman, who sat staring at the floor and repeating to himself aloud: "I amlost! I am lost!"

The duke was dying. He had been taken suddenly ill on Sunday whilereturning from the Bois. He had felt an intolerable burning sensationwhich seemed to outline, as with a red-hot iron, the whole internalstructure of his body, alternating with chills and numbness and longperiods of drowsiness. Jenkins, being summoned at once, prescribed somesedative remedies. The next day the pains returned, more intense thanbefore, and followed by the same icy torpor, also intensified, as iflife were leaving him by fierce leaps and bounds, uprooted. No one inthe household was at all disturbed. "The day after Saint-James, " callerswhispered to one another in the reception-room, and Jenkins' handsomeface retained its serenity. He mentioned the duke's indisposition to buttwo or three persons in his morning round of visits, and so lightly thatno one thought anything of it. 

Mora himself, despite his extreme weakness, and although he felt as ifhis head were absolutely empty, "not an idea behind his forehead, " as heexpressed it, was very far from suspecting the gravity of his condition. Not until the third day, when, upon waking in the morning, he saw aslender thread of blood that had flowed from his mouth over his beardand reddened his pillow, did that refined dandy shudder, that fastidiouscreature who held in horror all forms of human misery, especiallydisease, and who saw it creeping upon him stealthily with itsdefilement, its weaknesses and with the self-abandonment which is thefirst concession to death. Monpavon, entering the room in Jenkins' wake, caught the suddenly perturbed expression of the great nobleman broughtface to face with the terrible truth, and was at the same time horrifiedby the ravages made in a few hours on Mora's emaciated face, where allthe wrinkles belonging to his age, appearing suddenly, mingled with thewrinkles caused by suffering, with the depression of muscles whichindicates serious internal lesions. He took Jenkins aside while the finegentleman's servants were supplying him with what he required to makehis toilet in bed, a whole outfit of silver and crystal in strikingcontrast with the yellow pallor of the invalid. 

"Look you, Jenkins--the duke is very ill. "

"I am afraid so, " said the Irishman, in an undertone. 

"What's the matter with him?"

"What he apparently wanted, _parbleu_!" exclaimed the other, in a sortof frenzy. "A man can't be young with impunity at his age. This passionof his will cost him dear. "

Some evil thought triumphed in him for the moment, but he instantlyimposed silence upon it, and, completely transformed, puffing out hischeeks as if his head were filled with water, he sighed profoundly as hepressed the old nobleman's hands:

"Poor duke! Poor duke! Ah! my friend, I am in despair. "

"Have a care, Jenkins, " said Monpavon coldly, withdrawing his hands. "You are assuming a terrible responsibility. What! the duke is as ill asyou say, ps--ps--ps. See no one? No consultation?"

The Irishman threw up his arms as if to say: "What's the use?"

The other insisted. It was absolutely essential that Brisset, Jousselin, Bouchereau, all the great men should be called in. 

"But you will frighten him to death. "

Monpavon inflated his breast, the old foundered charger's only pride. 

"My dear fellow, if you had seen Mora and myself in the trenches atConstantine--ps--ps--Never lowered our eyes--Don't know what fear means. Send word to your confrères, I will undertake to prepare him. "

The consultation took place that evening behind closed doors, the dukehaving demanded that it be kept secret through a curious feeling ofshame because of his illness, because of the suffering that dethronedhim and reduced him to the level of other men. Like those African kingswho conceal themselves in the depths of their palaces to die, he wouldhave liked the world to believe that he had been taken away, transfigured, had become a god. Then, too, above all, he dreaded thecompassion, the condolence, the emotion with which he knew that hispillow would be surrounded, the tears that would be shed, because hewould suspect that they were insincere, and because, if sincere, theywould offend him even more by their grimacing ugliness. 

He had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, whatever waslikely to move him, to disturb the harmonious equilibrium of his life. Everybody about him was aware of it and the orders were to keep at adistance all the cases of distress, all the despairing appeals that weremade to Mora from one end of France to the other, as to one of thosehouses of refuge in the forest in which a light shines at night and atwhich all those who have lost their way apply for shelter. Not that hewas hard to the unfortunate, perhaps indeed he felt that he was tooreadily susceptible to pity, which he regarded as an inferior sentiment, a weakness unworthy of the strong, and for the same reason that hedenied it to others, dreaded it for himself, lest it impair his courage. So that no one in the palace, save Monpavon and Louis the valet, knewthe purpose of the visit of those three persons who were mysteriouslyushered into the presence of the Minister of State. Even the duchessherself was in ignorance. Separated from her husband by all the barriersthat life in the most exalted political and social circles placesbetween the husband and wife in such exceptional establishments, shesupposed that he was slightly indisposed, ill mainly in his imagination, and had so little suspicion of an impending catastrophe that, at thevery hour when the physicians were ascending the half-darkened grandstaircase, her private apartments at the other end of the palace werebrilliantly illuminated for an informal dancing-party, one of those_white balls_ which the ingenuity of idle Paris was just beginning tointroduce. 

That consultation was, like all consultations, grim and solemn. Doctorsno longer wear the huge wigs of Molière's day, but they still assume thesame portentous gravity of priests of Isis or astrologers, bristlingwith cabalistic formulæ accompanied by movements of the head which lackonly the pointed cap of an earlier age to produce a laughable effect. Onthis occasion the scene borrowed an imposing aspect from thesurroundings. In the vast room, transformed, magnified as it were, bythe master's immobility, those solemn faces approached the bed uponwhich the light was concentrated, revealing amid the white linen and thepurple curtains a shrivelled face, pale from the lips to the eyes, butenveloped with serenity as with a veil, as with a winding-sheet. Theconsulting physicians talked in low tones, exchanged a furtive glance, an outlandish word or two, remained perfectly impassive without movingan eyebrow. But that mute, unmeaning expression characteristic of thedoctor and the magistrate, that solemnity with which science and justiceencompass themselves in order to conceal their weakness or theirignorance, had no power to move the duke. 

Sitting on his bed, he continued to talk tranquilly, with that slightlyexalted expression in which the thought seems to soar upward as if toescape, and Monpavon coolly replied to him, hardening himself againsthis emotion, taking a last lesson in breeding from his friend, whileLouis, in the background, leaned against the door leading to theduchess's apartments, the type of the silent servitor, in whom heedlessindifference is a duty. 

The agitated, the feverish member of the party was Jenkins. 

Overflowing with obsequious respect for "his illustrious confrères, " ashe unctuously called them, he prowled about their conference and triedto take part in it; but his confrères kept him at a distance, hardlyanswered him, or answered him haughtily, as Fagon--Louis theFourteenth's Fagon--might have answered some charlatan who had beensummoned to the royal bedside. Old Bouchereau especially looked askanceat the inventor of the Jenkins Pearls. At last, when they had thoroughlyexamined and questioned their patient, they withdrew for deliberation toa small salon, all in lacquer-work, with gleaming highly-colored wallsand ceiling, filled with an assortment of pretty trifles, whoseuselessness contrasted strangely with the importance of the discussion. 

A solemn moment, the agony of the accused man awaiting the decision ofhis judges, life, death, reprieve or pardon!

With his long white hand Mora continued to caress his moustache, hisfavorite gesture, to talk with Monpavon about the club and thegreen-room at the Variétés, asking for news of the proceedings in theChamber and what progress had been made in the matter of the Nabob'selection--all with perfect coolness and without the slightestaffectation. Then, fatigued doubtless, or fearing that his glance, whichconstantly returned to the portière opposite through which the decree offate was presently to come forth, should betray the emotion that lurkedat the bottom of his heart, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and did not open them again until the doctors returned. Still the samecold, ominous faces, veritable faces of judges with the terrible word ofhuman destiny on their lips, the Final word, which the courts pronouncewithout emotion, but which the doctors, all of whose skill and learningit baffles, evade and seek to convey by circumlocution. 

"Well, messieurs, what says the Faculty?" inquired the sick man. 

There were a few hypocritical, stammered words of encouragement, vaguerecommendations; then the three learned men hastily took their leave, eager to be gone, to avoid any responsibility for the impendingdisaster. Monpavon rushed after them. Jenkins remained by the bedside, overwhelmed by the brutal truths he had heard during the consultation. In vain had he put his hand upon his heart, quoted his famous motto. Bouchereau had not spared him. This was not the first of the Irishman'spatients whom he had seen fall suddenly to pieces thus; but he trustedthat Mora's death would be a salutary warning to people in society, andthat the prefect of police, as the result of this great calamity, wouldsend the "dealer in cantharides, " to advertise his aphrodisiacs on theother side of the Channel. 

The duke realized that neither Jenkins nor Louis would tell him the realresult of the consultation. He did not press them, therefore, butsubmitted to their assumed confidence, even pretended to share it and tobelieve all that they told him. But when Monpavon returned, he calledhim to his bedside, and, undaunted by the falsehood that was visibleeven under the paint of that wreck, he said:

"Oh! no wry faces, I beg. Between you and me, let us have the truth. What do they say?--I am in a bad way, am I not?"

Monpavon prefaced his reply by a significant pause; then roughly, cynically, for fear of showing emotion at the words:

"Damnation, my poor Auguste!"

The duke received it between the eyes without winking. 

"Ah!" he said, simply. 

He twisted his moustache mechanically; but his features did not change. And in an instant his resolution was formed. 

That the poor wretch who dies in the hospital, without home or kindred, with no other name than the number of his bed, should accept death as adeliverance or submit to it as a last trial, that the old peasant whofalls asleep, bent double, worn out and stiff-jointed, in his dark, smoke-begrimed mole-hole, should go thence without regret, that heshould relish in anticipation the taste of the cool earth he has turnedand returned so many times, one can understand. And yet how many of themare attached to existence by their very misery, how many exclaim as theycling to their wretched furniture, to their rags: "I do not want todie, " and go with their nails broken and bleeding from that last wrench!But there was nothing of the sort here. 

To have everything and to lose everything. What an upheaval!

In the first silence of that awful moment, while he listened to themuffled music of the duchess's ball at the other end of the palace, thethings that still bound that man to life--power, honors, wealth, all themagnificence that surrounded him--must have seemed to him to be alreadyfar away in an irrevocable past. It required courage of a veryexceptional temper to resist such a blow without the slightest outburstof self-love. No one was present save the friend, the physician, theservant, three intimate acquaintances, who were familiar with all hissecrets; the lights being turned low left the bed in shadow, and thedying man could have turned his face to the wall and given vent to hisemotion unseen. But no. Not a second of weakness, of fruitlessdemonstrations. Without breaking a branch of the chestnut trees in thegarden, without withering a flower in the great hall of the palace, Death, muffling his footsteps in the heavy carpets, had opened thatgreat man's door and motioned to him: "Come!" And he replied, simply, "Iam ready. " A fit exit for a man of the world, unforeseen, swift andnoiseless. 

A man of the world! Mora was nothing else. Passing smoothly throughlife, arrayed in mask and gloves and breastplate, the breastplate ofwhite satin worn by fencing-masters on days of great exhibitions, keeping his fighting costume ever clean and spotless, sacrificingeverything to that irreproachable exterior which served him instead of acoat of mail, he had metamorphosed himself into a statesman, passingfrom the salon to a vaster stage, and made in truth a statesman of thefirst order simply by virtue of his qualities as a leader of society, the art of listening and smiling, knowledge of men, scepticism and_sang-froid_. That _sang-froid_ did not leave him at the supreme moment. 

With his eyes upon the brief, limited time which still remained to him, for his dark-browed visitor was in haste and he could feel on his facethe wind from the door which he had not closed, he thought of nothingbut making good use of that time and fulfilling all the obligations ofan end like his own, which should leave no devotion unrewarded, shouldcompromise no friend. He made a list of the few persons whom he wishedto see and to whom messengers were sent at once; then he asked for hischief clerk, and when Jenkins suggested that he was overtiring himself, "Will you promise me that I shall wake to-morrow morning? I have a spasmof strength at this moment. Let me make the most of it. "

Louis asked if he should warn the duchess. The duke, before replying, listened to the strains from the ball that came floating in through theopened windows, prolonged in the darkness by an invisible bow; then hesaid:

"Let us wait a little. I have something to do first. "

He bade them move to his bedside the little lacquer table, intendinghimself to sort out the letters to be destroyed; but, finding that hisstrength was failing, he called Monpavon: "Burn everything, " he said tohim in a feeble voice, and added, when he saw him going toward thefireplace, where a bright fire was burning, notwithstanding the fineweather:

"No--not here. There are too many of them. Some one might come. "

Monpavon lifted the light desk and motioned to the valet to carry alight for him. But Jenkins darted forward:

"Stay, Louis, the duke may need you. "

He took possession of the lamp; and they stole cautiously along the longcorridor, exploring the reception-rooms, the galleries, where thefireplaces were filled with artificial plants with no trace of ashes, wandering like ghosts in the silence and darkness of the vast dwelling, alive only over yonder at the right where pleasure sang like a bird on aroof that is about to fall. 

"There's no fire anywhere. What are we to do with all this stuff?" theyasked each other, sorely perplexed. One would have said they were twothieves dragging away a safe which they were unable to open. At lastMonpavon, out of patience, walked with an air of resolution to a certaindoor, the only one they had not yet opened. 

"Faith, we'll do the best we can! As we can't burn them, we'll drownthem. Show me a light, Jenkins. "

And they entered. 

Where were they? Saint-Simon, describing the downfall of one of thesesovereign existences, the utter confusion of ceremonials, of dignities, of grandeurs caused by death, especially by sudden death, Saint-Simonalone could have told you. With his delicate, carefully-kept hands theMarquis de Monpavon pumped. The other passed him torn letters, bundlesof letters, soft as satin, many-hued, perfumed, adorned with ciphers, crests, banderoles with mottoes, covered with fine, close, scrawling, enlaced, persuasive chirography; and all those delicate pages whirledround and round in the eddying stream of water which crumpled and soiledthem and washed away the pale ink before allowing them to disappear witha gurgling hiccough at the bottom of the filthy sink. 

There were love-letters and love-letters of all sorts, from the note ofthe adventuress--"I saw you pass at the Bois yesterday, Monsieur leDuc, "--to the aristocratic reproaches of the mistress before the last, the wailing of the abandoned, and the page still fresh with recentconfidences. Monpavon was familiar with all these mysteries, gave a nameto each of them: "That's from Madame Moor"--"Ah! Madame d'Athis. " Aconfused mass of coronets and initials, passing whims and old habits, sullied at that moment by being thrown together promiscuously, allswallowed up in that ghastly place, by lamplight, with a noise as of anintermittent deluge, going to oblivion by a shameful road. SuddenlyJenkins paused in his work of destruction. Two letters on pearl-graysatin paper trembled in his fingers. 

"Who's that?" queried Monpavon, at sight of the unfamiliar hand and theIrishman's nervous excitement. "Ah! doctor, if you mean to readeverything we shall never finish. "

Jenkins, with burning cheeks, his two letters in his hand, was consumedby a fierce longing to carry them away in order to gloat over them athis leisure, to torture himself with delicious pain by reading them, perhaps also to use that correspondence as a weapon against theimprudent creature who had signed it. But the marquis's rigid demeanorfrightened him. How could he divert his attention, get rid of him? Anopportunity presented itself unsought. A tiny sheet, written in asenile, tremulous hand, had found its way between those same letters, and attracted the attention of the charlatan, who said with an artlessexpression:

"Oho! here's something that doesn't look like a billet-doux. 'My dearduke, help, I am drowning! The Cour des Comptes has stuck its nose intomy affairs again'--"

"What the devil's that you're reading?" exclaimed Monpavon abruptly, snatching the letter from his hands. And in an instant, thanks to Mora'snegligence in allowing such private letters to lie around, the terribleplight in which he would be left by his protector's death came to hismind. In his grief he had not as yet thought of it. He said to himselfthat, amid his preparations for leaving the world, the duke might verywell forget him; and, leaving Jenkins to finish alone the drowning ofDon Juan's casket, he returned hurriedly to the bedroom. As he was aboutto enter, the sound of voices detained him behind the lowered portière. It was Louis's voice, as whining as that of a pauper under a porch, trying to move the duke to pity for his distress and asking hispermission to take a few rolls of gold that were lying in a drawer. Oh!what a hoarse, wearied, hardly audible reply, in which one could feelthe effort of the sick man compelled to turn in his bed, to remove hiseyes from a distant point already clearly distinguished:

"Yes, yes--take them. But for God's sake let me sleep! let me sleep!"

Drawers opened and closed, a hurried, panting breath. Monpavon heard nomore, but retraced his steps without entering the room. The servant'sferocious greed had given his pride the alarm. Anything rather thandegrade himself to that point. 

The slumber for which Mora begged so persistently, the lethargy, tospeak more accurately, lasted a whole night and morning, with partialawakenings caused by excruciating pain which yielded each time tosoporifics. They did nothing for him except to try to make his lastmoments comfortable, to help him over that last step which it requiressuch a painful effort to pass. His eyes had opened during that time, butthey were already dim, staring into emptiness at wavering shadows, indistinct forms, like those which a diver sees quivering in the vaguedepths of the water. On Thursday afternoon, about three o'clock, herecovered consciousness completely, and, recognizing Monpavon, Cardailhac and two or three other close friends, smiled at them andbetrayed in a word his sole preoccupation:

"What do people say of this in Paris?"

People said many things, diverse and contradictory; but one thing wascertain, that they talked of nothing else, and the report which had beencirculated through the city that morning, that Mora was at death'sdoor, had put the streets, the salons, the cafés, the studios in aferment, revived political questions in the newspaper offices, in theclubs, and even in porters' lodges and on the omnibuses, wherever opennewspapers furnished a pretext for comment on that startling item ofnews. 

This Mora was the most brilliant incarnation of the Empire. The part ofa building that we see from afar is not its foundation, be it solid ortottering, not its architectural features, but the slender, gildedarrow, fancifully carved and perforated, added for the gratification ofthe eye. What people saw of the Empire in France and throughout Europewas Mora. When he fell, the structure was stripped of all its elegance, marred by a long irreparable crack. And how many existences wereinvolved in that sudden fall, how many fortunes shattered by the aftereffects of the catastrophe! Not one so completely as that of the stoutman sitting motionless on the monkeys' bench in the reception-roombelow. 

To the Nabob that man's death meant his own death, his ruin, the end ofeverything. He was so thoroughly conscious of it that when he wasinformed, on entering the house, of the Duke's desperate condition, heindulged in no whining or wry faces of any sort, simply the savageejaculation of human selfishness: "I am lost!" And the words cameconstantly to his lips, he repeated them instinctively each time thatall the horror of his position came over him in sudden flashes, --as inthose dangerous mountain storms, when a sharp flash of lightningillumines the abyss to the very bottom, with the jagged projections ofthe walls and the clumps of bushes scattered here and there to supplythe rents and bruises of the fall. 

The rapid keenness of vision that accompanies cataclysms spared him nodetail. He saw that he was almost certain to be unseated now that Morawould not be at hand to plead his cause; and the consequences of defeat, bankruptcy, poverty and something worse, for these incalculablefortunes, when they crumble away, always keep a little of a man's honorunder the ruins. But what thorns, what brambles, what bruises, whatcruel wounds before reaching the end! In a week the Schwalbach notes tobe paid, that is to say eight hundred thousand francs, Moëssard's claimfor damages--he demanded a hundred thousand francs or would apply to theChamber for authority to institute criminal process against him--anothermore dangerous suit begun by the families of two little martyrs ofBethlehem against the founders of the establishment; and, in addition toall the rest, the complications of the _Caisse Territoriale_. A singleray of hope, Paul de Géry's negotiations with the bey, but so vague, soproblematical, so far away!

"Ah! I am lost! I am lost!"

In the vast apartment no one noticed his trouble. That crowd ofsenators, deputies, councillors of state, all the leading men in thegovernment, went and came around him without seeing him, held mysteriousconferences and rested their elbows in anxious importance on the twowhite marble mantels that faced each other. So many disappointed, betrayed, over-hasty ambitions met in that visit _in extremis_, thatselfish anxiety predominated over every other form of preoccupation. 

The faces, strangely enough, expressed neither pity nor grief, rather asort of wrath. All those people seemed to bear the duke a grudge fordying, as if for turning his back upon them. Such remarks as this wereheard: "It's not at all strange after such a life!" And, standing at thelong windows, the gentlemen called one another's attention to somedainty coupé drawing up amid the constant stream of carriages going andcoming outside, while a gloved hand, its lace sleeve brushing againstthe door, handed a folded card to the footman who brought herinformation of the invalid's condition. 

From time to time one of the intimates of the palace, one of those whomthe dying man had sent for, appeared for a moment in the throng, gave anorder, then vanished, leaving the terrified expression of his facereflected upon a score of others. Jenkins showed himself in that way fora moment, cravat untied, waistcoat open, cuffs soiled and rumpled, inall the disarray of the battle he was waging upstairs against a terribleopponent. He was at once surrounded, pressed with questions. Certainlythe monkeys flattening their short noses against the bars of the cage, awed by the unusual uproar and very attentive to what was taking place, as if they were making a careful study of human expression, had amagnificent model in the Irish doctor. His grief was superb, the noblegrief of a strong man, which compressed his lips and made his breastheave. 

"The death-agony has begun, " he said dolefully. "It is only a matter ofhours now. "

And, as Jansoulet drew near, he said to him in an emphatic tone:

"Ah! my friend, what a man! What courage! He has forgotten nobody. Onlya little while ago he spoke to me about you. "

"Really?"

"'Poor Nabob!'" he said, "'how is his election coming on?'"

And that was all. He had said nothing more. 

Jansoulet hung his head. What had he expected, in heaven's name? Was itnot enough that a man like Mora should have thought of him at such amoment? He returned to his seat on the bench, relapsed into his formerstate of prostration, galvanized by a moment of wild hope, sat thereheedless of the fact that the vast apartment was becoming almostentirely deserted, and did not notice that he was the last and onlyvisitor remaining until he heard the servants talking aloud in thefading light. 

"I have had enough--my service here is done. "

"For my part I shall stay with the duchess. "

And those plans, those decisions anticipating the master's death by somehours, doomed the noble duke even more surely than the Faculty had done. 

The Nabob realized then that it was time for him to withdraw, but hedetermined first to write his name on the register. He went to thetable and leaned far over in order to see clearly. The page was full. Ablank space was pointed out to him, below a name written in small, threadlike characters, as if by fingers too stout for the pen, and, whenhe had signed, Hemerlingue's name overshadowed his, crushed it, entangled it in an insidious flourish. Superstitious like the true Latinthat he was, he was impressed by the omen and carried the terror of itaway with him. 

Where should he dine? At the club? On Place Vendôme? And hear nothingtalked of but this death which engrossed his thoughts! He preferred totrust to chance, to go straight ahead like all those who are beset by apersistent idea which they try to escape by walking. It was a warm, balmy evening. He walked on and on along the quays till he reached thetree-lined paths of the Cours-la-Reine, then returned to the combinationof freshly-watered streets and odor of fine dust which characterizesfine evenings in Paris. At that uncertain hour everything was deserted. Here and there girandoles were lighted for concerts, gas-jets flaredamong the foliage. The rattle of plates and glasses from a restaurantsuggested to him the idea of entering. 

The robust creature was hungry notwithstanding his anxiety. His dinnerwas served under a verandah with walls of glass, lined with foliage andfacing the great porch of the Palais de l'Industrie, where the duke, inpresence of a thousand persons, had saluted him as deputy. The refinedand aristocratic face appeared to his mind's eye in the dark archway, while at the same time he saw him lying yonder on his white pillow; and, suddenly, as he stared at the bill of fare the waiter handed him, henoticed with a sort of stupefaction that it was dated May 20th. So not amonth had passed since the opening of the Salon. It seemed to him as ifit were ten years since that day. Gradually, however, the excellentrepast warmed and comforted his heart. In the passage he heard some ofthe waiters talking:

"Is there any news of Mora? It seems he's very sick. "

"Nonsense! He'll pull through. Such fellows as he are the only ones whohave any luck. "

Hope is anchored so firmly to the human entrails that, despite whatJansoulet had seen and heard, those few words, assisted by two bottlesof burgundy and divers _petits verres_ sufficed to restore his courage. After all, people had been known to recover when they were as far gone. Doctors often exaggerate the danger in order to gain more credit foraverting it. "Suppose I go and see?" He returned to the hôtel de Mora, full of illusions, appealing to the luck that had stood him in goodstead so many times in his life. And in truth there was something in theappearance of the princely abode to justify his hope. It wore thetranquil, reassuring aspect of ordinary evenings, from the avenue withlights burning at equal intervals, to the main doorway, at which anenormous carriage of antique shape was waiting. 

In the reception-room, where there were no signs of excitement, twogreat lamps were burning. A footman was asleep in a corner, the usherwas reading in front of the fire. He glanced at the new arrival over hisspectacles, but said nothing to him, and Jansoulet dared ask noquestions. Piles of newspapers lay on the table in wrappers addressed tothe duke, apparently tossed there as useless. The Nabob opened one andtried to read; but a rapid, gliding step, a sing-song murmuring made himraise his eyes, and he saw a white-haired, stooping old man, decked outwith finery like an altar, who was praying as he walked with longpriest-like strides, his red cassock spread out like a train over thecarpet. It was the Archbishop of Paris, accompanied by two assistants. The vision with its murmur as of an icy wind passed swiftly beforeJansoulet, was engulfed by the great chariot and disappeared, carryingaway his last hope. 

"A question of propriety, my dear fellow, " said Monpavon, suddenlyappearing at his side. "Mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideas ofWhat's-his-name--Thingamy--you know whom I mean! Eighteenth century. Butit's very bad for the masses, if a man in his position--ps--ps--ps--Ah!he was head and shoulders above all of us--ps--ps--irreproachablebreeding. "

"So, it's all over, is it?" said Jansoulet desperately. "There's no morehope?"

Monpavon motioned to him to listen. A carriage rumbled heavily along theavenue on the quay. The bell rang several times in quick succession. The marquis counted aloud: "One, two, three, four--" At the fifth herose. 

"There's no hope now. There comes the other, " he said, alluding to theParisian superstition to the effect that a visit from the sovereign wasalways fatal to the dying. The servants hurried from all directions, threw the folding-doors wide open and formed a lane, while the usher, his hat _en bataille_ announced with a resounding blow of his pike uponthe floor the passage of two august personages, of whom Jansoulet caughtonly a confused glimpse behind the servants, but whom he saw through along vista of open doors ascending the grand staircase, preceded by avalet carrying a candelabrum. The woman was erect and haughty, envelopedin her black Spanish mantilla; the man clung to the stair-rail, walkedmore slowly and as if fatigued, the collar of his light top-coatstanding up from a back slightly bent, which was shaken by convulsivesobs. 

"Let us be off, Nabob. Nothing more to be done here, " said the old beau, taking Jansoulet by the arm and leading him out. He stopped on thethreshold, raised his hand, and waved a little salute with the tips ofhis gloves toward him who lay dying above. "_Bojou_, dea' boy. " The toneand gesture were worldly, irreproachable; but the voice trembled alittle. 

The club on Rue Royale, renowned for its card-playing, had rarely seenso terrible a game as it saw that night. It began at eleven o'clock andwas still in progress at five in the morning. Enormous sums lay on thegreen cloth, changed hands and direction, heaped up, scattered, reunited; fortunes were swallowed up in that colossal game, and at itsclose the Nabob, who had started it to forget his fears in the capricesof luck, after extraordinary alternations, somersaults of fortunecalculated to make a neophyte's hair turn white, withdrew with winningsof five hundred thousand francs. They said five millions on theboulevard the next day, and every one cried shame, especially the_Messager_, which gave up three-quarters of its space to an articleagainst certain adventurers who are tolerated in clubs, and who causethe ruin of the most respectable families. 

Alas! Jansoulet's winnings hardly represented the amount of the firstSchwalbach notes. 

During that insane game, although Mora was its involuntary cause, and, as it were, its soul, his name was not once mentioned. NeitherCardailhac nor Jenkins appeared. Monpavon had taken to his bed, moreaffected than he chose to have people think. They were without news fromthe sick-room. 

"Is he dead?" Jansoulet wondered as he left the club, and he wasconscious of an impulse to go and see before returning home. It was nolonger hope that impelled him, but that unhealthy, nervous sort ofcuriosity which attracts the poor, ruined, shelterless victims of aconflagration to the débris of their home. 

Although it was still very early, the pink flush of dawn still lingeringin the air, the whole mansion was open as if for a solemn departure. Thelamps were still smoking on the mantels, the air was filled with dust. The Nabob walked on through inexplicable solitude as far as the firstfloor, where he at last heard a familiar voice, Cardailhac's, dictatingnames, and the scratching of pens on paper. The skilful organizer of thefêtes for the bey was arranging with the same zeal the funeralceremonial of the Duc de Mora. Such activity! His Excellency had diedduring the evening; in the morning ten thousand letters were alreadyprinted, and everybody in the house who knew how to hold a pen was busywith the addresses. Without passing through those extemporized offices, Jansoulet made his way to the reception-room, usually so thronged, to-day all the chairs empty. In the centre of the room, on a table, layMonsieur le Duc's hat and gloves and cane, always ready in the event ofhis going out unexpectedly, to save him the trouble of an order. Thearticles that we wear retain something of ourselves. The curve of thehat-rim recalled the curl of the moustaches, the light gloves were readyto grasp the flexible, strong Chinese bamboo, everything seemed toquiver and live, as if the duke were about to appear, to put out hishand as he talked, take them up and go out. 

Oh! no, Monsieur le Duc was not going out. Jansoulet had only to walk tothe bedroom door, which stood ajar, to see lying on the bed, three stepsabove the floor--the same platform even after death--a rigid, haughtyform, a motionless, aged profile, transformed by the gray beard that hadgrown in a night; kneeling against the sloping pillow, her face buriedin the white sheets, was a woman whose fair hair fell neglected abouther shoulders, ready to fall under the shears of eternal widowhood; apriest, too, and a nun stood absorbed in meditation in that atmosphereof the death vigil, wherein the weariness of sleepless nights is blendedwith the mumbling of prayers and whispering in the shadow. 

That room, in which so many ambitions had felt their wings expand, inwhich so many hopes and disappointments had had their day, was givenover to the tranquillity of death. Not a sound, not a sigh. But, earlyas it was, over in the direction of Pont de la Concorde, a shrill, piercing little clarinet soared above the rumbling of the firstcarriages; but its vigorous mockery was wasted thenceforth upon the manwho lay sleeping there, revealing to the terrified Nabob the image ofhis own destiny, cold, discolored, ready for the grave. 

Others than Jansoulet saw that death-chamber under even more dismalcircumstances. The windows thrown wide open. The night air from thegarden entering freely in a brisk current. A form upon trestles; thatform, the body just embalmed. The head hollowed out, filled with asponge, the brain in a bucket. The weight of that statesman's brain wasreally extraordinary. It weighed--it weighed--The newspapers of the daygave the figures. But who remembers them to-day?

XIX. 

THE OBSEQUIES. 

"Don't weep, my fairy; you take away all my courage. Come, you will bemuch happier when you no longer have your horrible demon. You are goingback to Fontainebleau to tend your hens. Brahim's ten thousand francswill be enough to give you a start. And after that have no fear; when Iam once there, I'll send you money. As this bey wants some of mysculpture, I shall make him pay well for it, be sure of that. I shallreturn rich, rich. Who knows? Perhaps a sultana?"

"Yes, you will be a sultana, --but I shall be dead, and I shall never seeyou again. "

And honest Crenmitz in her despair huddled in a corner of the cab, sothat her companion might not see her weep. 

Felicia was leaving Paris. She was trying to escape the horriblemelancholy, the ominous heart-sickness in which Mora's death had plungedher. What a terrible blow for the haughty girl! Ennui, spite had drivenher into that man's arms; pride, modesty, she had given all to him, andnow he had carried it all away, leaving her withered for life, a widowwithout tears, without mourning, without dignity. Two or three visits toSaint-James, a few evenings in the back of a box at some small theatre, behind the grating where forbidden, shamefaced pleasure concealsitself, --those were the only memories bequeathed to her by that liaisonof two weeks, that loveless sin, wherein not even her pride hadsucceeded in satisfying itself by the notoriety of a scandal in highlife. The fruitless, ineffaceable stain, the senseless fall into thegutter of a woman who cannot walk, and upon whom the ironical pity ofthe passers-by weighs heavily when she tries to rise. 

For a moment she contemplated suicide, but was deterred by the thoughtthat it might be attributed to despairing love. She saw in anticipationthe sentimental emotion of the salons, the absurd figure that hersupposed passion would cut amid the duke's innumerable conquests, andupon her grave, dug so near the other, the Parma violets, stripped oftheir petals by the dandified Moëssards of journalism. There remainedthe resource of travel, one of those journeys to countries so distantthat they expatriate even the thoughts. Unluckily, she lacked money. Thereupon she remembered that, on the day following her success at theSalon, old Brahim Bey had come to see her, to make magnificent proposalsto her in his master's name for divers great works to be executed atTunis. She had said no at the moment, refusing to be tempted by Orientalprices, by a munificent hospitality, by the promise of the finestcourtyard on the Bardo for a studio, surrounded by arches carved likeexquisite lace. But now she was willing to accept. She had but to make asign, the bargain was concluded at once, and after an exchange ofdespatches, a hasty packing-up, and closing the house, she started forthe railway-station as if she were going away for a week, surprisedherself by her prompt decision, pleased in all the adventurous andartistic portions of her nature by the prospect of a new life in astrange land. 

The bey's pleasure yacht was to await her at Genoa; and, closing hereyes in the cab, she saw in anticipation the white stones of an Italianharbor enclosing an iridescent sea, where the sunlight had a gleam ofthe Orient, where everything sang joyously, even to the swelling sailsupon the deep. It so happened that on that day Paris was muddy andmurky, drowned by one of those continuous downpours of rain which seemto have been made for it alone, to have ascended in clouds from itsriver, its steam, its monster breath, only to descend again in streamsfrom its roofs, its gutters, the innumerable windows of its attics. Felicia was in haste to escape from that depressing Paris, and herfeverish impatience vented itself upon the driver for not drivingfaster, upon the horses, --two genuine broken-down cab-horses, --and uponan inexplicable multitude of carriages and omnibuses jammed together atthe approaches to Pont de la Concorde. 

"Go on, driver, go on. "

"I can't, Madame, --it's the funeral. "

She put her head out of the window and instantly withdrew it, in dismay. A double line of soldiers marching with guns reversed, a wilderness ofhelmets, of heads uncovered while an interminable procession passed. Itwas Mora's funeral procession. 

"Don't stay here. Drive around some other way, " she cried to the driver. 

The vehicle turned painfully, tearing itself away with regret from thatsuperb spectacle for which Paris had been waiting four days, rolled backup the avenue, into Rue Montaigne, and down Boulevard Malesherbes, at anunwilling, crawling trot, to the Madeleine. There the crowd was greater, more compact. In the heavy mist, the brightly lighted windows of thechurch, the muffled strains of the funeral chants behind the blackhangings, which were in such profusion that they concealed even theshape of the Greek temple, filled the whole square with reminders of theservice then in progress, while the greater part of the huge processionstill crowded Rue Royale as far as the bridges, --a long black lineconnecting the defunct statesman with the iron fence of the CorpsLégislatif through which he had so often passed. Beyond the Madeleinethe roadway of the boulevard was entirely empty, kept clear by two linesof soldiers, who forced the spectators back to the sidewalks, black withpeople; all the stores closed, and the balconies, despite the rain, overflowing with bodies leaning far forward in the direction of thechurch, as if to watch the passage of a herd of fat cattle, or thereturn of victorious troops. Paris, greedy of spectacles, makes aspectacle of everything indifferently, of civil war or of the burial ofa statesman. 

Once more the cab must retrace its steps, make another détour, and wecan fancy the ill-humor of the driver and his beasts, Parisians allthree at heart, and furious at being deprived of such a fine show. Thereupon, through the silent deserted streets, all the life of Parishaving betaken itself to the great artery of the boulevard, began acapricious, aimless journey, the senseless loitering of a cab hired bythe hour, reaching the extreme limits of Faubourg Saint-Martin, FaubourgSaint-Denis, returning toward the centre, and always finding at the endof every circuit, every stratagem, the same obstacle lying in wait, thesame crowd, some off-shoot of the black procession seen vaguely at theend of a street, defiling slowly in the rain to the sound of muffleddrums, a dull heavy sound like that made by earth falling bit by bitinto a hole. 

What torture for Felicia! It was her sin, her remorse passing throughthe streets of Paris in all that solemn pomp, that funerealmagnificence, that public mourning reflected even in the clouds; and theproud girl rebelled against the affront that circumstances put upon her, fled from it to the depths of the carriage, where she remained withclosed eyes, overwhelmed, while old Crenmitz, believing that it was hergrief which so affected her nerves, strove to comfort her, wept herselfover their separation, and withdrawing into the other corner, left thecab-window in full possession of the great Algerian _slougui_, hisdelicate nostrils sniffing the air and his forepaws resting despoticallyon the sill with heraldic rigidity. 

At last, after a thousand interminable détours, the cab suddenlystopped, moved slowly forward again amid shouts and insults, was thenpushed this way and that, lifted from the ground, its equilibriumthreatened by the trunks on its roof, and finally halted for good andall, as if anchored. 

"_Bon Dieu!_ What a crowd!" murmured La Crenmitz in terror. 

Felicia emerged from her torpor. 

"Where in heaven's name are we?"

Beneath a colorless, smoky sky, with a fine network of rain drawn likegauze over the reality of things, lay a great square, filled with ahuman ocean flowing in from all the adjoining streets, immobilizedaround a lofty column which towered above that sea of heads like thegigantic mast of a sinking ship. Cavalry in troops, with drawn sabres, artillery in batteries lined the sides of an open pathway, a completewarlike host awaiting him who was soon to pass, --perhaps to try torescue him, to carry him off by force from the redoubtable foe in whosepower he was. Alas! cavalry charges, cannonades were of no avail. Theprisoner was firmly bound, protected by a threefold wall of solid wood, of metal and of velvet, inaccessible to shot and shell, and not at thehands of those soldiers could he hope for deliverance. 

"Drive on. I do not wish to remain here, " said Felicia frantically, pulling the driver's dripping cape, seized with a mad fear at thethought of the nightmare that pursued her, of what she could hearapproaching with a ghastly rolling of drums, still distant but drawingnearer momentarily. But, at the first movement of the wheels, the shoutsand hooting began anew. Thinking that they would allow him to cross thesquare, the driver had with great difficulty forced his way to the frontrank of the crowd, which had closed in behind him and refused to allowhim to turn back. It was impossible to advance or retreat She mustremain there, endure those alcoholic breaths, those inquisitive glances, kindled in anticipation of an exceptionally fine spectacle, and eyeingwith interest the fair traveller who was decamping "with such a pile o'trunks as that!" and a cur of that size to protect her. La Crenmitz washorribly frightened; Felicia, for her part, had but one thought, that hewas about to pass, that she would be in the front rank to see him. 

Suddenly there was a loud shout: "Here he comes!" then a great silencefell upon the square, which had shaken off the burden of three wearyhours of waiting. 

He was coming!

Felicia's first impulse was to lower the curtain on her side, the sideon which the procession was to pass. But, when she heard the drumsclose at hand, seized with a nervous frenzy at her inability to escapethat obsession, or, it may be, infected by the unhealthy curiosity thatencompassed her, she raised the curtain with a jerk, and her pale, ardent little face appeared, resting on both hands, at the window. 

"Very good! you will have it so; I am looking at you. "

It was the most magnificent funeral one can imagine, the last honorspaid in all their vain pomp, as sonorous and as hollow as the rhythmicaccompaniment upon asses' skins draped in crape. First, the whitesurplices of the clergy indistinctly seen amid the black trappings ofthe first five carriages; then, drawn by six black horses, veritablehorses of Erebus, as black, as slow, as sluggish as its flood, came thefuneral car, all bedecked with plumes and fringe, embroidered withsilver, with heavy tears, with heraldic coronets surmounting giganticM's, a prophetic initial which seemed to be that of Death (_Mort_)itself, of the Duchess Death decorated with eight _fleurons_. Such amass of canopies and heavy draperies concealed the ignoble framework ofthe hearse that it shivered and swayed from top to bottom at every step, as if oppressed by the majesty of its dead. On the casket lay the sword, the coat, the embroidered hat, garments of state which had never beenused, resplendent with gold and pearl in the dark chapel formed by thehangings, amid the beautiful display of fresh flowers which told thatthe season was spring despite the sulkiness of the sky. Ten pacesbehind came the people of the duke's household; and then, in solitarymajesty, an official in a cloak carrying the decorations, a veritableshow-case of all the orders in the known world, crosses, ribbons of allhues, which more than covered the black velvet cushion fringed withsilver. 

The master of ceremonies came next, at the head of the committee of theCorps Législatif, a dozen or more deputies chosen by lot, in their midstthe tall figure of the Nabob, dressed for the first time in his officialcostume, as if satirical fortune had chosen to give the representativeon trial a foretaste of all the joys of parliamentary life. The friendsof the deceased, who came next in line, formed a very limitedcontingent, exceedingly well chosen to lay bare the superficiality andemptiness of the existence of that great personage, reduced to thecompanionship of a theatrical manager thrice insolvent, a picture-dealerenriched by usury, a nobleman of unsavory reputation and a fewhigh-livers and boulevard idlers unknown to fame. Thus far everybody wason foot and bareheaded; in the parliamentary committee a few black silkskull caps had been timidly donned as they approached the populousquarters. After the friends came the carriages. 

At the obsequies of a great warrior, it is customary to include in thefuneral procession the hero's favorite horse, his battle-horse, compelled to adapt to the snail-like pace of the cortège the prancinggait which survives the smell of gunpowder and the waving of standards. On this occasion Mora's great coupé, the "eight-spring" affair whichcarried him to social or political gatherings, occupied the place ofthat companion in victory, its panels draped in black, its lanternsenveloped in long, light streamers of crêpe, which floated to the groundwith an indescribable undulatory feminine grace. That was a new idea forfunerals, those veiled lanterns, the supreme manifestation of _chic_ inmourning; and it was most fitting for that dandy to give one last lessonin style to the Parisians who flocked to his funeral as to a Longchampsof death. 

Three more masters of ceremonies, then came the impassive officialdisplay, always the same for marriages, deaths, baptisms, openings ofParliament, receptions by the sovereign, --the interminable procession ofstate carriages, with gleaming panels, great mirrors, gaudy, gold-bespangled liveries, which passed amid the dazzled throngs, reminding them of fairy tales, the equipages of Cinderella, and arousingthe same _Ohs_! of admiration that ascend and burst with the bombs atdisplays of fireworks. And in the crowd there was always an obligingpolice officer, of an erudite petty bourgeois with nothing to do, on thewatch for public ceremonials, to name aloud all the people in thecarriages as they passed with their proper escorts of dragoons, cuirassiers or _gardes de Paris_. 

First the representatives of the Emperor, the Empress, all the imperialfamily; then, in hierarchical order, scientifically worked out, theslightest departure from which might have caused a serious conflictbetween the various bodies of the government, the members of the PrivyCouncil, the marshals, the admirals, the grand chancellor of the Legionof Honor, the Senate, the Corps Législatif, the Council of State, thewhole of the judicial and educational departments, whose costumes, furred robes and wigs carried you back to the days of old Paris; theyseemed pompous, superannuated, out of place in the sceptical era of theblouse and the black coat. 

 * * * * *

Felicia, to avoid thought, fixed her eyes persistently on thatmonotonous procession, of exasperating length, and gradually a sort oftorpor stole over her, as if on a rainy day she were turning the leavesof an album with colored plates lying on the table of a dreary salon, ahistory of state costumes from the earliest times to our own day. Allthose people, seen in profile, sitting erect and motionless behind thewide glass panels, bore a close resemblance to the faces of people inthe colored fashion-plates displayed as near as possible to thesidewalk, so that we may lose nothing of their gold embroidery, theirpalm-leaves, their gold lace and braid; manikins intended to gratify thecuriosity of the vulgar and exposing themselves with an air of heedlessindifference. 

Indifference! That was the most marked characteristic of that funeral. You felt it everywhere, on the faces and in the hearts of the mourners, not only among all those functionaries, most of whom had known the dukeby sight only, but in the ranks of those on foot between his hearse andhis coupé, his closest friends and those who were in daily attendanceupon him. Indifferent, yes, cheerful, was the corpulent minister, vice-president of the Council, who grasped the cords of the pall firmlyin his powerful hand, accustomed to pound the desk of the tribune, andseemed to be drawing it forward, in greater haste than the horses andthe hearse to consign to his six feet of earth his enemy of twentyyears' standing, his constant rival, the obstacle to all his ambitions. The other three dignitaries did not press forward with so much of thevigor of a led horse, but the long streamers were held listlessly intheir wearied or distraught hands, significantly nerveless. Indifferentthe priests by profession. Indifferent the servants, whom he nevercalled anything else than "What's-your-name, "[4] and whom he treatedlike things. Indifferent, too, was M. Louis, whose last day of servitudeit was--an enfranchised slave rich enough to pay his ransom. Even amonghis intimates that freezing coldness had made its way. And yet some ofthem were much attached to him. But Cardailhac was too much occupied insuperintending the order and progress of the ceremonial to give way tothe slightest emotion, which was quite foreign to his nature moreover. Old Monpavon, although he was struck to the heart, would have consideredthe slightest crease in his linen breastplate, the slightest bending ofhis tall figure, as lamentably bad form, altogether unworthy hisillustrious friend. His eyes remained dry, as sparkling as ever, for theFuneral Pageant furnishes the tears for state mourning, embroidered insilver on black cloth. Some one was weeping, however, among the membersof the committee, but that some one was shedding ingenuous tears on hisown account. Poor Nabob, melted by the music and the display, it seemedto him that he was burying all his fortune, all his ambition for dignityand renown. And even that was one variety of indifference. 

FOOTNOTES:

[4] _Chose_--literally _thing. _

In the public the gratification of a gorgeous spectacle, the joy ofmaking a Sunday of a weekday, dominated every other feeling. As theprocession passed along the boulevards, the spectators on the balconiesalmost applauded; here, in the populous quarters, irreverence manifesteditself even more frankly. Coarse chaff, vulgar comments on the dead manand his doings, with which all Paris was familiar, laughter called forthby the broad-brimmed hats of the rabbis and the solemn "mugs" of thecouncil of wise men, filled the air between two drum-beats. With feet inthe water, dressed in blouses and cotton caps, the head uncovered fromhabit, poverty, forced labor, idleness and strikes watched with a sneerthe passing of that dweller in another sphere, that brilliant duke nowshorn of all his honors, who never in his life perhaps had visited thatextremity of the city. But here he is! To reach the spot to whicheverybody goes, one must follow the road that everybody follows:Faubourg Saint-Antoine, Rue de la Roquette, to that mammoth toll-gateopen so wide into the infinite. And _dame_! it is pleasant to see thatnoblemen like Mora, dukes and ministers, all take the same road to thesame destination. That equality in death consoles one for many unjustthings in life. To-morrow the bread will seem not so dear, the winebetter, the tools less heavy, when one can say to oneself on rising:"Well, that old Mora had to come to it like everybody else. "

The procession dragged along, even more tiresome than lugubrious. Now itwas the choral societies, deputations from the Army and Navy, officersof all arms of the service, herded together in front of a long line ofempty carriages, mourning carriages, gentlemen's carriages, parading incompliance with etiquette; then came the troops in their turn, and Ruede la Roquette, that long street running through the filthy faubourg, already swarming with people as far as the eye could see, swallowed up awhole army, infantry, dragoons, lancers, carabineers, heavy guns withmuzzles in the air, all ready to bark, shaking pavements andwindow-panes, but unable to drown the rolling of the drums, a sinister, barbarous sound, which transported Felicia's imagination to theobsequies of African monarchs, where thousands of immolated victimsattend the soul of a prince so that it may not enter the kingdom ofspirits alone, and made her think that perhaps that ostentatious, interminable procession was about to descend and disappear in asupernatural grave vast enough to hold it all. 

"Now, and in the hour of our death. Amen!" murmured La Crenmitz, whilethe cab rattled across the empty square, where Liberty, in solid gold, seemed to be taking a magic flight in space; and the old dancer's prayerwas perhaps the only sincere note of true emotion uttered throughout thevast space covered by the funeral. 

 * * * * *

All the discourses are at an end, three long discourses as cold as thecavern into which the dead man has descended, three official harangueswhich have afforded the orators an opportunity to proclaim in very loudtones their devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times thecannon have awakened the numerous echoes of the cemetery, shaken thewreaths of jet and immortelles, the light _ex-votos_ hanging at thecorners of burial lots, and while a reddish cloud floats upward andrevolves amid the odor of powder across the city of the dead, minglinggradually with the smoke from the factories of the plebeian quarter, thecountless multitude also disperses, scattering through the slopingstreets, the long stairways gleaming white among the verdure, with aconfused murmur as of waves beating against the rocks. Purple robes, black robes, blue and green coats, gold ornaments, slender swords whichtheir wearers adjust while marching, return hastily to the carriages. Dignified salutations, meaning smiles are exchanged, while the mourningequipages rumble along the paths at a gallop, displaying lines ofblack-coated drivers, with rounded backs, hats _en bataille_, capesfloating in the wind caused by their swift pace. 

The general feeling is one of relief at the close of a long andfatiguing exhibition, a legitimate eagerness to lay aside theadministrative harness, the ceremonious costumes, to loosen the belts, the high collars and the stocks, to relax the features which, no lessthan the bodies, have been wearing fetters. 

Short and stout, dragging his bloated legs with difficulty, Hemerlinguehurried toward the exit, declining the offers that were made him of aseat in various carriages, knowing well that only his own was adapted tothe weight of his dropsical body. 

"Baron, baron, this way. There's a seat for you. "

"No, thanks. I am walking the numbness out of my legs. "

And, in order to avoid these proposals, which at length annoyed him, hetook a cross-path that was almost deserted, too deserted in fact, for hehad hardly entered it when he regretted having done so. Ever since hehad entered the cemetery, he had had but one absorbing thought, the fearof coming face to face with Jansoulet, whose violent temper he knewwell, and who might forget the majesty of the spot and repeat thescandalous scene of Rue Royale in Père-Lachaise. Two or three timesduring the ceremony he had seen his former partner's great head emergefrom the mass of colorless types of which the attendant throng waslargely composed, and move toward him, evidently seeking him, actuatedby a desire for a meeting. In the main avenue yonder there would bepeople at hand in case of accident, while here--_Brr!_ It was thatanxiety which caused him to force his short steps, his panting breath;but in vain. As he turned in his fear of being followed, the Nabob'stall form and broad shoulders appeared at the entrance of the path. Itwas impossible for the bulky creature to walk in the narrow spacebetween the tombs, which were packed so closely that there was hardlyroom to kneel. The rich, rain-soaked earth slipped and gave way underhis feet. He adopted the plan of walking on with an indifferent air, hoping that the other would not recognize him. But a hoarse, powerfulvoice behind him called:

"Lazare!"

The capitalist's name was Lazare. He made no reply but tried to overtakea group of officers who were walking a long way in front of him. 

"Lazare! O Lazare!"

Just as in the old days on the quay at Marseille. He was tempted tohalt, under the influence of an old habit, but the thought of hisinfamous conduct, of all the injury he had inflicted on the Nabob andwas still attempting to inflict on him, suddenly came to his mind with ahorrible fear, amounting to frenzy, when a hand of iron brought himabruptly to a standstill. The sweat of cowardice drenched his limp andnerveless limbs, his face turned still yellower, his eyes winked inanticipation of the terrible blow he expected to receive, while hisgreat arms were raised instinctively to ward it off. 

"Oh! don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you, " said Jansouletsadly. "I come simply to ask you to cease your designs on me. "

[Illustration: "'_Don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you. _'"]

He paused to take breath. The banker, stupefied and dismayed, opened hisround owl's eyes to their fullest extent in face of that suffocatingemotion. 

"Listen, Lazare, you are the stronger in this war we have been carryingon so long. I am on the ground at your feet. My shoulders have touched. Now be generous, spare your old chum. Have mercy on me, I say, havemercy on me. "

That Southerner, subdued and softened by the pomp of the funeralceremony, trembled in every limb. Hemerlingue, facing him, was hardlymore courageous. The dismal music, the open tomb, the orations, thecannonading, and the lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all hadcombined to move the stout baron to the depths of his being. His formercomrade's voice completed the awakening of such human qualities as stillremained in that bundle of gelatine. 

His old chum! It was the first time in ten years, since their fallingout, that he had seen him at such close quarters. How many things thoseswarthy features, those powerful shoulders ill-suited to anembroidered coat, recalled to his mind! The thin woollen blanket, fullof holes, in which they both rolled themselves up to sleep on the deckof the _Sinai_, the rations fraternally shared, the long walks throughthe scorched country about Marseille, where they stole great onions andate them on the bank of a ditch, the dreams, the projects, the sous putinto the common purse, and, when fortune began to smile on them, theantics they played together, the dainty little suppers at which theytold each other everything, with their elbows on the table. 

How can two people ever fall out when they know each other so well, whenthey have lived like twins clinging to a thin, strong nurse, poverty, sharing her soured milk and her rough caresses! Such thoughts, long toanalyze, passed through Hemerlingue's mind like a flash of lightning. Almost instinctively he let his heavy hand fall into the hand the Nabobheld out to him. Something of the animal nature stirred in them both, stronger than their antipathy, and those two men, who had been tryingfor ten years to ruin and dishonor each other, began to talk togetherheart to heart. 

Generally, when friends meet after a long separation, the first effusivegreetings at an end, they remain silent as if they had nothing to telleach other, whereas it is the very abundance of things, theirprecipitate struggle for utterance that prevents their coming forth. Thetwo former partners had reached that stage; but Jansoulet held thebanker's arm very tight, fearing that he might escape him, might resistthe kindly impulses that he had aroused in him. 

"You are in no hurry, are you? We might walk a moment or two if youchoose. It has stopped raining, it will do us good--we shall be twentyyears younger. "

"Yes, it's a pleasant thing, " said Hemerlingue; "but I can't walk long, my legs are heavy. "

"True, your poor legs. See, there's a bench yonder. Let's go and sitdown. Lean on me, old fellow. "

And the Nabob, with brotherly solicitude, led him to one of the benchesplaced at intervals against the tombs, for the convenience of thoseinconsolable mourners who make the cemetery their usual resort. Hearranged him comfortably, encompassed him with a protecting glance, sympathized with him in his infirmity, and, the conversation following acourse very natural in such a place, they talked of their health, of theapproach of old age. One was dropsical, the other subject to rushes ofblood to the head. Both were taking the Jenkins Pearls, --a dangerousremedy, witness Mora's sudden taking off. 

"Poor duke!" said Jansoulet. 

"A great loss to the country, " rejoined the banker, in a grief-strickentone. 

Whereupon the Nabob ingenuously exclaimed:

"To me, above all others to me, for if he had lived--Ah! you have allthe luck, you have all the luck! And then, you know, you are so strong, so very strong, " he added, fearing that he had wounded him. 

The baron looked at him and winked, so drolly that his little blacklashes disappeared in his yellow flesh. 

"No, " he said, "I'm not the strong one. It's Marie!"

"Marie?"

"Yes, the baroness. At the time of her baptism she dropped her old name, Yumina, for Marie. She's a real woman. She knows more about the bankthan I do, and about Paris and business generally. She manageseverything in the concern. "

"You are very fortunate, " sighed Jansoulet. 

His melancholy was most eloquent touching Mademoiselle Afchin'sdeficiencies. After a pause the baron continued:

"Marie has a bitter grudge against you, you know. She won't like it whenshe knows that we have been talking together. "

He contracted his heavy eyebrows as if he regretted the reconciliationat the thought of the conjugal scene it would bring upon him. 

"But I have never done anything to her, " stammered Jansoulet. 

"Ah! but you haven't been very polite to her, you know. Think of theinsult put upon her at the time of our wedding-call. Your wife sendingword to us that she didn't receive former slaves! As if our friendshipshould not have been stronger than any prejudice. Women don't forgetsuch things. "

"But I had nothing to do with it, old fellow. You know how proud thoseAfchins are. "

He was not proud, poor man. His expression was so piteous, so imploringat sight of his friend's frowning brow, that the baron took pity on him. The cemetery had a decidedly softening effect on the baron!

"Listen, Bernard, there's only one thing that will do any good. If youwish that we should be friends as we used to be, that these handshakesthat we have exchanged should not be wasted, you must induce my wife tobe reconciled to you. Without that it's of no use. When MademoiselleAfchin shut her door in our faces, you let her do it, didn't you? It'sthe same with me; if Marie should say to me when I go home: 'I don'twant you to be friends, ' all my protestations wouldn't prevent me fromthrowing you overboard. For there's no friendship that amounts toanything. The best thing in the world is to have peace in your ownhouse. "

"But what am I to do, then?" queried the Nabob, in dismay. 

"That's what I'm going to tell you. The baroness is at home everySaturday. Come with your wife and call on her day after to-morrow. Youwill find the best people in Paris at the house. Nothing will be saidabout the past. The ladies will talk dresses and bonnets, say what womensay to each other. And then it will be all settled. We shall be friendsagain as in the old days; and if you're in the hole, why, we'll pull youout. "

"Do you think so? It's a fact that I am in very deep, " said the other, shaking his head. 

Once more Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared between his cheeks, like two flies in butter. 

"_Dame!_ yes, I've played pretty close. You don't lack skill. Thatstroke of loaning fifteen millions to the bey was very shrewd. Ah!you're a cool one; but you don't hold your cards right. Others can seeyour hand. "

Thus far they had spoken in undertones, as if awed by the silence of thegreat necropolis; but gradually selfish interests raised their tones, even amid the proofs of their nothingness displayed upon all those flatstones covered with dates and figures, as if death were simply a matterof time and reckoning, the desired solution of a problem. 

Hemerlingue enjoyed seeing his friend so humble, he gave him adviceconcerning his business affairs, with which he seemed to be thoroughlyacquainted. According to his view, the Nabob could still get out of hisdifficulties in very good shape. Everything depended on the confirmationof his election, on having another card to play. Then it must be playedjudiciously. But Jansoulet had no confidence. In losing Mora he had losteverything. 

"You have lost Mora, but you have found me. One's worth as much as theother, " said the baron, calmly. 

"But no, you see yourself it's impossible. It's too late. Le Merquierhas finished his report. It's a terrible report, so it seems. "

"Very well! if he's finished his report, he must draw another, not sounfavorable. "

"How can that be?"

The baron stared at him in amazement. 

"Come, come, you're losing your hold! Why, by giving him one, two, threehundred thousand francs, if necessary. "

"What do you mean? Le Merquier, that upright man--'My conscience, ' as heis called. "

At that, Hemerlingue fairly roared with laughter, which echoed among therecesses of the neighboring mausoleums, little wonted to such lack ofrespect. 

"'My conscience, ' 'an upright man, ' Ah! you amuse me. Can it be that youdon't know that that conscience belongs to me, and that--"

He checked himself and looked behind, a little disturbed by a noise heheard. 

"Listen. "

It was the echo of his laughter, tossed back from the depths of a tomb, as if that idea of Le Merquier's conscience amused even the dead. 

"Suppose we walk a little, " he said, "it begins to feel cold on thisbench. "

Thereupon, as they walked among the tombs, he explained to him with acertain pedantic conceit that in France bribes played as important apart as in the Orient. Only more ceremony was used here. "Take LeMerquier for instance. Instead of giving him your money outright in abig purse as you would do with a _seraskier_, you beat around the bush. The fellow likes pictures. He is always trading with Schwalbach, whouses him as a bait to catch Catholic customers. Very good! you offer hima picture, a souvenir to hang on a panel in his cabinet. It all dependson getting your money's worth. However, you shall see. I'll take you tohim myself. I'll show you how the thing is done. "

And, delighted to observe the wonderment of the Nabob, who exaggeratedhis surprise in order to flatter him, and opened his eyes admiringly, the banker elaborated his lesson, delivering a veritable lecture uponParisian and worldly philosophy. 

"You see, old fellow, the thing that you must be more careful about thananything else in Paris, is keeping up appearances! You have never givenenough attention to that. You go about with your waistcoat unbuttoned, hail fellow well met, telling your business to everybody, showingyourself just as you are. You act as if you were in Tunis, among thebazaars or the _souks_. That's how you got yourself into trouble, mygood Bernard. "

He stopped to take breath, unable to go any farther. He had expendedmore steps and more words in an hour than he usually did in a year. Theynoticed then that chance had led them back, while they talked, towardsthe place of sepulture of the Moras, on the summit of an open plateaufrom which they could see, above myriads of crowded roofs, Montmartreand Les Buttes Chaumont in the distance like vague white billows. These, with the hill of Père-Lachaise, accurately represented the threeundulations, following one another at equal intervals, of which eachforward impulse of the sea consists at flood tide. In the hollowsbetween, lights were already twinkling, like ship's lanterns, throughthe ascending purple haze; chimneys towered aloft like masts or funnelsof steamers belching forth smoke; and whirling it all about in itsundulating motion, the Parisian ocean seemed to be bringing it nearer tothe dark shore in successive series of three bounds, each time lessenergetic than the last. The sky had become much brighter, as it oftendoes toward the close of rainy days, a boundless sky, tinged with thehues of dawn, against which, upon the family tomb of the Moras, fourallegorical figures stood forth, imploring, contemplative, pensive, thedying day exaggerating the sublimity of their attitudes. Naught remainedof the orations, the perfunctory official condolences. The trampledgrass all around, masons occupied in washing the spots of plaster fromthe threshold, were all that recalled the recent interment. 

Suddenly the door of the ducal cavern closed in all its metallicponderosity. Thenceforth the former minister of State was alone, quitealone, in the darkness of his night, more dense than that just creepingup from the garden below, invading the winding avenues, the stairwayssurrounding the bases of columns, pyramids, crypts of every kind, whosesummits died more slowly. Gravediggers, all white with the chalkywhiteness of dried bones, passed with their tools and their baskets. Stealthy mourners, tearing themselves away regretfully from tears andprayer, crept along the hedges, brushing them in their silent flight, like the flight of night-birds, while on the outskirts of Père-Lachaisevoices arose, melancholy voices announcing the hour for closing. Thecemetery day was done. The city of the dead, given back to nature, became an immense forest with cross-roads marked by crosses. In theheart of a valley lights shone in the windows of a keeper's house. Ashiver ran through the air and lost itself in whisperings at the end ofinterlaced paths. 

"Let us go, " said the two old comrades, yielding gradually to theinfluence of the twilight, which seemed colder there than elsewhere;but, before they turned away, Hemerlingue, following out his thought, pointed to the monument, with the draperies and outstretched hands ofthe carved figures like wings at the four corners:

"There was a man who understood all about keeping up appearances. "

Jansoulet took his arm to assist him in the descent. 

"Oh! yes, he was strong. But you are stronger than anybody else, " hesaid in his fervid Gascon accent. 

Hemerlingue did not protest. 

"I owe it all to my wife. So I urge you to make your peace with her, because if you don't--"

"Oh! never fear--we will come Saturday; but you will go with me to LeMerquier. "

And as the two silhouettes, one tall and square-shouldered, the othershort and stout, disappeared in the windings of the great labyrinth, asJansoulet's voice, guiding his friend, with a "This way, oldfellow--lean on me, " gradually died away, a stray beam of the settingsun fell upon the plateau behind them, and lighted the colossal bust ofBalzac looking after them with its expressive face, its noble brow fromwhich the long hair was brushed back, its powerful and sarcastic lip. 

XX. 

BARONESS HEMERLINGUE. 

At the farther end of the long archway beneath which were the offices ofHemerlingue and Son, a dark tunnel which Père Joyeuse had for ten yearsbedecked and illumined with his dreams, a monumental staircase withwrought-iron rail, a staircase of old Paris, ascended to the left, leading to the baroness's salons, whose windows looked on the courtyardjust above the counting-room, so that, during the warm season, wheneverything was open, the chink of the gold pieces, the noise made bypiles of crowns toppling over on the counters, slightly deadened by therich hangings at the long windows, formed a sort of commercialaccompaniment to the subdued conversations carried on by worldlyCatholicism. 

That detail was responsible for the peculiar physiognomy of that salon, no less peculiar than the woman who presided over it, mingling a vagueodor of the sacristy with the excitement of the Bourse and the mostconsummate worldliness, heterogeneous elements which constantly met andcame in contact there, but remained separate, just as the Seineseparates the noble Catholic faubourg under whose auspices the notoriousconversion of the Moslem woman took place, from the financial quartersin which Hemerlingue's life and his associations were located. Levantinesociety, which is quite numerous in Paris, consisting principally ofGerman Jews, bankers or commission merchants, who, after making enormousfortunes in the Orient, continue in business here in order not to losethe habit of it, was very regular in its attendance on the baroness'sdays. Tunisians sojourning in Paris never failed to call upon the wifeof the great banker, who was in favor at home, and old Colonel Brahim, the bey's chargé d'affaires, with his drooping lips and his lustrelesseyes, took his nap every Saturday in the corner of the same divan. 

"Your salon smells of burning flesh, my goddaughter, " the old Princessede Dions said laughingly to the newly-christened Marie, whom she andMaître Le Merquier had held at the baptismal font; but the presence ofthat crowd of heretics, Jews, Mussulmans and even renegades, those fatwomen with pimply faces, gaudily dressed, loaded down with gold andearrings, "veritable bales" of finery, did not prevent FaubourgSaint-Germain from calling upon, surrounding and watching over the youngneophyte, the plaything of those noble dames, a very pliant, very dociledoll, whom they took about and exhibited, quoting her _naïve_evangelical remarks, especially interesting by way of contrast to herpast. Perhaps there found its way into the hearts of those amiablepatronesses the hope of encountering in that company fresh from theOrient an opportunity to make a new conversion, to fill the aristocraticmission chapel once more with the touching spectacle of one of thosebaptisms of adults, which carry you back to the early days of the faith, to the banks of the Jordan, and are soon followed by the firstcommunion, the rebaptizing, the confirmation, all affording pretexts forthe godmother to accompany her goddaughter, to guide that young soul, tolook on at the ingenuous transports of a new-born faith, and at the sametime to display costumes deftly varied and shaded to suit the brilliancyor the solemnity of the ceremony. But it does not often happen that abaron prominent in financial circles brings to Paris an Armenian slavewhom he has made his lawful wife. 

A slave! That was the stain in the past of that woman of the Orient, purchased long ago in the slave-mart at Adrianople for the Emperor ofMorocco, then, upon the Emperor's death and the dispersion of his harem, sold to the young Bey Ahmed. Hemerlingue had married her on her exitfrom that second seraglio, but was unable to induce society to receiveher in Tunis, where no woman, be she Moor, Turk, or European, will everconsent to treat a former slave as an equal, by virtue of a prejudicenot unlike that which separates the Creole from the most perfectlydisguised quadroon. There is an invincible repugnance there on thatsubject, which the Hemerlingue family found even in Paris, where theforeign colonies form little clubs overflowing with localsusceptibilities and traditions. Thus Yumina passed two or three yearsin utter solitude, of which she was able to turn to good account all thebitterness of heart and all the leisure hours; for she was an ambitiouswoman of extraordinary strength of will and obstinacy. She learned theFrench language thoroughly, said adieu forever to her embroideredjackets and pink silk trousers, succeeded in adapting her figure and hergait to European garb, to the embarrassment of long skirts; and oneevening, at the opera, displayed to the marvelling Parisians the figure, still a little uncivilized, but elegant, refined and so original, of afemale Mussulman in a décolleté costume by Léonard. 

The sacrifice of her religion followed close upon that of her costume. Madame Hemerlingue had long since abandoned all Mohammedan practices, when Maître Le Merquier, the intimate friend of the family and hercicerone in Paris, pointed out that a formal conversion of the baronesswould open to her the doors of that portion of Parisian society whichseems to have become more and more difficult of access, in proportion asthe society all around it has become more democratic. FaubourgSaint-Germain once conquered, all the rest would follow. And so itproved that when, after the sensation occasioned by the baptism, itbecame known that the greatest names of France did not disdain toassemble at Baroness Hemerlingue's Saturdays, Mesdames Guggenheim, Fuernberg, Caraïscaki, Maurice Trott, all wives of Fez millionaires andillustrious in the market-places of Tunis, renounced their prejudicesand prayed to be admitted to the ex-slave's receptions. Madame Jansouletalone, newly landed in France with a stock of Oriental ideas impedingcirculation in her mind, as her nargileh, her ostrich eggs and all therest of her Tunisian trash impeded it in her apartments, protestedagainst what she called impropriety, cowardice, and declared that shewould never step foot inside "that creature's" doors. Immediately aslight retrograde movement took place among Mesdames Guggenheim, Caraïscaki, and other bales of finery, as always happens in Pariswhenever obstinate resistance from some quarter to the regularizing ofan irregular state of affairs leads to regrets and defections. They hadadvanced too far to withdraw, but they determined that the value oftheir complaisance, of the sacrifice of their prejudices should be morefully understood; and Baroness Marie realized the difference simply fromthe patronizing tone of the Levantines, who called her "my dearchild--my good girl, " with haughty condescension not unmingled withcontempt. Thereafter her hatred of the Jansoulets knew no bounds, acomplicated, savage, seraglio hatred, with strangling and secretdrowning at the end, an operation rather more difficult of performancein Paris than on the shores of the Lake of El-Baheira, but she wasalready preparing the bow-string and stout bag. 

That implacable hatred being well known and understood, we can imaginethe surprise and excitement in that exotic corner of society, when itwas reported that not only did the stout Afchin--as those ladies calledher--consent to meet the baroness, but was to call first upon her on hernext Saturday. You may be sure that neither the Fuernbergs nor theTrotts proposed to miss that occasion. The baroness for her part did allthat she could to give the utmost possible publicity to that solemn actof reparation, wrote notes and made calls and played her cards so wellthat, notwithstanding the fact that the season was very far advanced, Madame Jansoulet, if she had arrived at the mansion in FaubourgSaint-Honoré about four o'clock, might have seen before the lofty archedgateway, beside the Princesse de Dions' quiet livery of the color ofdead leaves, and many genuine coats of arms, the showy, pretentiouscrests, the multi-colored wheels of a multitude of financiers' equipagesand the tall powdered lackeys of the Caraïscakis. 

Above, in the reception-rooms, there was the same strange and gorgeousmedley. There was a constant going and coming over the carpets of thefirst two rooms, which were quite deserted, a rustling of silk dressesto and from the boudoir, where the baroness received, dividing herattentions and her cajoleries between the two very distinct camps; onone side dark dresses, modest in appearance, whose richness wasdiscernible to none but practised eyes, on the other a tumultuousspringtime of bright colors, expansive waists, diamonds in profusion, floating sashes, styles for exportation, wherein one could detect a sortof regretful longing for a warmer climate and a luxurious, ostentatiouslife. Fans waving majestically here, discreet whispering there. Very fewmen, two or three youths, very thoughtful, silent and inactive, suckingthe heads of their canes, several stooping figures, standing behindtheir wives' broad backs, talking with their heads lowered as if theywere discussing smuggling expeditions; in a corner the beautiful, patriarchal beard and violet hood of an orthodox Armenian bishop. 

The baroness, in her efforts to bring these discordant social elementstogether and to keep her salons full until the famous interview, constantly moved about, carried on ten different conversations at once, raising her soft, melodious voice to the purring pitch thatdistinguishes Oriental women, --a wheedling, seductive voice, and a mindas supple as her waist, opening all sorts of subjects, and, asconvention requires, mingling fashions and sermons on charity, theatresand auction sales, --the scandalmonger and the confessor. She possessed agreat personal charm in addition to this acquired science ofentertaining, a science visible even in her very simple black dress, which brought out in relief her cloistral pallor, her houri-like eyes, her smooth, glossy hair, parted above a narrow, unwrinkled brow, --a browwhose mystery was accentuated by the too thin lips, closing to thecurious the whole varied, adventurous past of that ex-odalisque, who wasof no age, had no knowledge of the date of her birth, did not rememberthat she had ever been a child. 

Clearly, if the absolute power of evil, very rarely found in women, whomtheir impressionable physical nature subjects to so many varyingcurrents, could exist in a human soul, it would be found in the soul ofthat slave trained to concessions and fawning, rebellious but patient, and thoroughly self-controlled, like all those whom the habit of wearinga veil lowered over their eyes has accustomed to lying without dangerand without scruple. 

At that moment no one could have suspected the agony of suspense fromwhich she was suffering, to see her kneeling in front of the princess, agood-humored old woman, of unceremonious manners, of whom La Fuernbergconstantly said: "Well, if she's a princess!"

"Oh! godmother, don't go yet, I beg you!"

She overwhelmed her with all sorts of fascinating little tricks ofaction and expression, without acknowledging, of course, that she wasdetermined to detain her until Jansoulet's arrival, in order to make hercontribute to her triumph. 

"You see, " said the good woman, pointing to the Armenian, sitting, majestic and solemn, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I have to takepoor monseigneur to the _Grand-Saint-Christophe_ to buy medals. He couldnever do it without me. "

"But I want you to stay. You must. Just a few minutes more. "

And the baroness glanced furtively toward the gorgeous, old-fashionedclock hanging in a corner of the salon. 

Five o'clock already, and the stout Afchin did not come. The Levantinesbegan to laugh behind their fans. Luckily, tea had just been served, andSpanish wines, and a quantity of delicious Turkish cakes, which werefound nowhere else, and the receipts for which, brought to Paris by theex-slave, are preserved in harems, as certain secrets connected with thefinest confectionery are preserved in our convents. That made adiversion. Hemerlingue, who came from his office from time to time onSaturdays to pay his respects to the ladies, was drinking a glass ofmadeira at the small table on which the refreshments were served, talking with Maurice Trott, formerly Said-Pacha's bath-master, when hiswife, always mild and tranquil externally, approached him. He knew whatfierce wrath must be hidden beneath that impenetrable calm, and he askedher timidly, in an undertone:

"No one?"

"No one. You see to what an outrage you have exposed me!"

She smiled, her eyes half-closed, as she removed with the ends of herfingers a crumb that had lodged in his long black whiskers; but hertransparent little nostrils quivered with awe-inspiring eloquence. 

"Oh! she will come, " said the banker, with his mouth full. "I am sureshe will come. "

A rustling of silk, of a train being adjusted in the adjoining room, caused the baroness to turn her head quickly. To the great delight ofthe cluster of "bales" in one corner, who were watching everything, itwas not she who was expected. 

She bore but little resemblance to Mademoiselle Afchin, the tall, graceful blonde, with the tired features and irreproachable toilet, worthy in every respect to bear a name as illustrious as that of Dr. Jenkins. In the last two or three months the beautiful Madame Jenkinshad changed greatly, had grown much older. There comes a time in thelife of a woman who has long retained her youth, when the years whichhave passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle write themselvesdown pitilessly all at once in ineffaceable marks. We no longer say whenwe see her: "How lovely she is!" but, "She must have been very lovely. "And that cruel fashion of speaking of the past, of referring to adistant period what was a visible fact but yesterday, constitutes abeginning of old age and of retirement, --a substitution of reminiscencesfor all past triumphs. Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor'swife instead of Madame Jansoulet, or was the discredit which the Duc deMora's death had brought upon the fashionable doctor destined tooverflow upon her who bore his name? There was something of both thosecauses, and perhaps of another as well, in the cold welcome which thebaroness accorded Madame Jenkins. A murmured greeting, a few hurriedwords, and she returned to the battalion of noble dames who werenibbling away with great zest. The salon became animated under theinfluence of the Spanish wines. People no longer whispered; theytalked. Lamps were brought in and imparted additional brilliancy to theoccasion, but announced that it was very near its end, as severalpersons who had no interest in the great event were already movingtoward the door. And the Jansoulets did not come. 

Suddenly there was a heavy, hurried step. The Nabob appeared, alone, buttoned into his black frock-coat, correctly gloved and cravatted, butwith distorted features and haggard eye, still trembling from theterrible scene in which he had just taken part. 

She had refused to come. 

In the morning he had told Madame's women to have her dressed at threeo'clock, as he was accustomed to do whenever he took the Levantineabroad with him, for he found it necessary to impart motion to thatindolent creature, who, being incapable of assuming any responsibilitywhatsoever, allowed others to think, to decide and to act for her, although she was quite willing to go wherever he chose, when she wasonce started. And he relied upon that willingness to enable him to takeher to Hemerlingue's house. But when, after breakfast, Jansoulet, fullydressed, magnificent, perspiring in his struggles to put on his gloves, sent to ask if Madame would soon be ready, he was told that Madame wasnot going out. It was a serious crisis, so serious that, discarding themediation of valets and maids, through whom their conjugal interviewswere usually conducted, he ran upstairs four stairs at a time, andentered the Levantine's luxurious apartments like a gust of the mistral. 

She was still in bed, clad in the ample open-work tunic in silk of twocolors, which the Moors call a _djebba_, and in one of theirgold-embroidered caps from which her beautiful heavy black mane escapedin tangled masses around her moon-like face, flushed by the hearty mealshe had just finished. The sleeves of the _djebba_ were turned back, disclosing two enormous, shapeless arms, laden with bracelets, with longslender chains wandering amid a wilderness of little mirrors, redchaplets, boxes of perfume, microscopic pipes, cigarette cases, thetrivial toy-shop display of a Moorish beauty at her hour for rising. 

The bedroom, heavy with the opium-laden, suffocating odor of Turkishtobacco, presented the same disorderly aspect. Negresses went in andout, slowly removing their mistress's coffee service, her favoritegazelle was lapping a cup which he had overturned on the carpet with hisslender nose, while the dark-browed Cabassu, seated at the foot of thebed with touching familiarity, was reading aloud to Madame a drama inverse soon to be produced at Cardaillac's theatre. The Levantine wasamazed, absolutely stupefied by the work. 

"My dear, " she said to Jansoulet, in her thick Flemish accent, "I don'tknow what our manager is thinking about. I am just reading that play, _Révolte_, that he is so crazy over. Why, it's a frightful thing! It'snever been on the stage. "

"What do I care for your stage?" cried Jansoulet fiercely, despite allhis respect for the daughter of the Afchins. "What! you're not dressed, yet? Weren't you told that we were going out?"

She had been told, but she had begun to read this idiotic play. 

"We will go out to-morrow, " she said in her sleepy tone. 

"To-morrow! Impossible! We are expected to-day without fail. A veryimportant visit. "

"Where are we to go, pray?"

He hesitated a second, then answered:

"To Hemerlingue's. "

She looked up at him with her great eyes, convinced that he was laughingat her. Thereupon he told her of his meeting with the baron at Mora'sfuneral and the agreement they had made. 

"Go there if you choose, " she said coldly; "but you know me very littleif you think that I, an Afchin, will ever set foot inside that slave'sdoor. "

Cabassu, seeing the turn that the discussion was taking, had prudentlydisappeared in an adjoining room, the five books of _Révolte_ in a pileunder his arm. 

"Stay, " said the Nabob to his wife, "it is clear that you don'tunderstand the terrible plight I am in. Listen. "

Heedless of the maids and negresses, with the Oriental's sovereignindifference for the servant class, he began to draw the picture of hisgreat embarrassment, his property in Tunis seized, his credit in Parislost, his whole life hanging in suspense on the decision of the Chamber, Hemerlingue's influence with the man who was to make the report, and theabsolute necessity of sacrificing all self-love to such momentousinterests. He talked with great warmth, eager to persuade her, to takeher with him. But she replied, simply: "I will not go, " as if it were amatter of an expedition of no possible consequence, so long that it waslikely to tire her. 

"Come, come, it isn't possible that you would say such a thing, " hecontinued, quivering with excitement. "Remember that my fortune is atstake, the future of your children, the very name you bear. Everythingis staked on this one concession, which you cannot refuse to make. "

He might have talked thus for hours, he would still have been met by thesame determined, invincible obstinacy. A Mademoiselle Afchin could notcall upon a slave. 

"I tell you, madame, " he exclaimed, savagely, "that slave is worth morethan you. By her shrewdness she has doubled her husband's wealth, whileyou on the contrary--"

For the first time in the twelve years of their married life Jansouletdared to oppose his wife's will. Was he ashamed of that crime of_lèse-majesté_ or did he realize that such a declaration might dig animpassable abyss between them? At all events he changed his tone at onceand knelt beside the low bed, with the affectionate, smiling tone oneemploys to make children listen to reason. 

"My dear little Marthe, I implore you--get up and dress yourself. It'sfor your own interest that I ask you to do it, for your luxury, for yourcomfort. What will become of you if, by a mere whim, by naughtywilfulness, we are to be reduced to poverty?"

The word "poverty" conveyed absolutely no meaning to the Levantine. Youcould speak of it before her as you speak of death before smallchildren. It failed to move her, as she had no idea what it was. At allevents she was obstinately determined to remain in bed in her _djebba_, for, to emphasize her decision, she lighted a fresh cigarette from theone she had just finished, and while the Nabob enveloped his "darlinglittle wife" in apologies and prayers and supplications, promising her adiadem of pearls a hundred times more beautiful than hers if she wouldcome, she watched the heady smoke float up to the painted ceiling andwrapped herself in it as in imperturbable tranquillity. Finally, in faceof that persistent refusal, that silence, that forehead upon which hedetected the barrier of unconquerable obstinacy, Jansoulet gave rein tohis wrath and drew himself up to his full height. 

"Very good, " said he, "I say you shall. "

He turned to the negresses:

"Dress your mistress, at once. "

And the boor that he really was, the son of the Southern junk-dealercoming to the surface in that crisis, which moved him to the depths ofhis being, he threw back the bedclothes with a brutal, contemptuousgesture, tossing the innumerable gewgaws they held to the floor, andforcing the half-naked Levantine to jump to her feet with a promptitudemost remarkable in that bulky personage. She roared under the outrage, gathered the folds of her tunic about her misshapen bust, fixed herlittle cap crosswise over her falling hair, and began to blackguard herhusband. 

"Never, you hear me, never--you shall never drag me to that--"

Filth poured from her heavy lips as from the mouth of a drain. Jansouletmight well have believed that he was in one of the frightful dens alongthe water front in Marseille, listening to a quarrel between aprostitute and a _nervi_, or looking on at some open-air fracas betweenGenoese, Maltese and Provençal women gleaning on the quay around bags ofgrain in process of unloading, and reviling each other at full speed ineddies of golden dust. She was the typical seaport Levantine, thespoiled, neglected child, who from her terrace, or from her gondola, inthe evening, has heard sailors cursing one another in all the languagesof the Latin seas, and has remembered everything. The wretched manstared at her, horrified and dismayed at what she compelled him to hear, at her grotesque figure, foaming at the mouth and sputtering:

"No, I won't go--no, I won't go!"

And she was the mother of his children, an Afchin!

Suddenly, at the thought that his fate was in that woman's hands, thatshe had only to put on a dress to save him, and that time was flying, that it would soon be too late, a gust of crime rushed to his brain, distorted all his features. He rushed at her, opening and closing hishands with such a terrible expression that the daughter of the Afchins, in deadly terror, darted toward the door through which the _masseur_ hadjust left the room, calling:

"Aristide!"

That cry, that voice, his wife's evident intimacy with hislieutenant--Jansoulet stopped, his frantic anger passed away, and herushed from the room, throwing the doors open, more eager to escape thedisaster and the horror whose presence he felt in his own house, than togo elsewhere to seek the help that had been promised him. 

A quarter of an hour later he made his appearance at Hemerlingue's, making a despairing gesture in the banker's direction as he entered, andapproached the baroness, stammering the ready-made phrase that he hadheard repeated so often on the evening of his own ball: "His wife wasvery ill--in despair that she could not--" She did not give him time tofinish, but rose slowly, like a long, slender snake in the crosswisefolds of her clinging skirt, and said, in her schoolgirl accent, withoutlooking at him: "Oh! _I_ knew--_I_ knew;" then moved away and paid nofurther heed to him. He tried to accost Hemerlingue, but that gentlemanseemed deeply absorbed in his conversation with Maurice Trott. Thereuponhe went and sat down beside Madame Jenkins, whose isolation was no lessmarked than his. But, while he talked with the poor woman, who was aslanguid as he himself was preoccupied, he watched the baroness do thehonors of that salon, so much more comfortable than his own great gildedhalls. 

The guests were taking their leave. Madame Hemerlingue escorted some ofthe ladies to the door, bent her head beneath the benediction of theArmenian bishop, bowed smilingly to the young dandies with canes, bestowed upon every one the proper variety of salutation, with perfectself-possession; and the poor devil could not avoid a mental comparisonbetween that Oriental slave become such a thorough Parisian, of suchmarked distinction in the most refined society on earth, and that otherwoman, the European enervated by the Orient, brutalized by Turkishtobacco and bloated by a life of sloth. His ambition, his pride as ahusband were disappointed, humiliated in that union of which he now sawthe peril and the emptiness, the last cruel blow of destiny whichdeprived him even of the refuge of domestic happiness against all hispublic misfortunes. 

Gradually the salons became empty. The Levantines disappeared one afteranother, each leaving an immense void in her place. Madame Jenkins hadgone, and only two or three women, strangers to Jansoulet, remained, among whom the mistress of the house seemed to be seeking refuge fromhim. But Hemerlingue was at liberty, and the Nabob joined him just as hewas sidling furtively away in the direction of his offices, which wereon the same floor opposite the state apartments. Jansoulet went out withhim, forgetting in his confusion to salute the baroness; and when theywere safely out on the landing, arranged as a reception-room, thecorpulent Hemerlingue, who had been very cold and reserved so long as hefelt his wife's eye upon him, assumed a somewhat more open expression. 

"It's a great pity, " he said in a low tone, as if he were afraid ofbeing overheard, "that Madame Jansoulet would not come. "

Jansoulet replied with a gesture of despair and savage helplessness. 

"Too bad--too bad!" said the other, blowing his nose and feeling in hispocket for his key. 

"Look here, old fellow, " said the Nabob, taking his arm, "because ourwives don't hit it off together, is no reason--That doesn't prevent ourremaining friends. What a nice little chat we had the other day, eh?"

"To be sure, " said the baron, withdrawing his hand to unlock the door, which opened noiselessly, disclosing the lofty private office with itsone lamp burning in front of the capacious, empty armchair. 

"Ya didon, Mouci, "[5] said the poor Nabob, trying to jest, and resortingto the _sabir_ patois to remind his old chum of all the pleasantreminiscences they had overhauled the day before. "Our visit to LeMerquier still holds. The picture we were going to offer him, you know. What day shall we go?"

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Ah! I say, Monsieur. 

"Ah! yes, Le Merquier. To be sure. Well, very soon. I will write you. "

"Sure? You know it's very urgent. "

"Yes, yes, I'll write you. Adieu. "

And the fat man closed his door hastily as if he feared that his wifemight appear. 

Two days later the Nabob received a note from Hemerlingue, almostundecipherable with its little fly-tracks, complicated by abbreviationsmore or less commercial, behind which the ex-sutler concealed hisabsolute lack of orthography:

"MON CH/ANC/CAM/--Je ne puis décid/t'accom/ chez Le Merq/. Trop d'aff/ence mom/. D'aill/v/ ser/mieux seuls pour caus/. Vas-y carrém/. On t'att/. R/Cassette, tous les mat/de 8 à 10. 

"A toi cor/

"HEM/. "[6]

FOOTNOTES:

[6] "MY DEAR OLD COMRADE, --I cannot see my way to accompanying you tosee Le Merquier. Too busy just now. Indeed, you will do better to talkwith him alone. Go there openly. You are expected. Rue Cassette, everymorning, 8 to 10. 

"Yours cordially, "HEMERLINGUE. "

Below, by way of postscript, in a hand equally fine, but much clearer, was written very legibly:

"A religious picture, if possible. "

What was he to think of that letter? Was it dictated by realfriendliness or polite dissimulation? At all events, further hesitationwas out of the question. The time was very short. So Jansoulet made abrave effort, for Le Merquier frightened him sadly, and went to hisoffice one morning. 

This strange Paris of ours, in its population and its varied aspects, seems like a map of the whole world. We find in the Marais narrowstreets with old, carved, vermiculated doors, with overhanging gables, with balconies _en moucharabies_, which make one think of oldHeidelberg. Faubourg Saint-Honoré where it is broadest, near the Russianchurch with its white minarets and golden balls, recalls a bit ofMoscow. On Montmartre there is a picturesque, crowded spot that is pureAlgiers. Low, clean little houses, with their copper-plates on thedoors, and their private gardens, stand in line along typical Englishstreets between Neuilly and the Champs-Élysées; while the whole circuitof the apse of Saint-Sulpice, Rue Férou, Rue Cassette, lying placidly inthe shadow of the great towers, roughly paved, with knockers on thefront doors, seems to have been transplanted from some pious provincialcity, --Tours or Orléans for instance, in the neighborhood of thecathedral and the bishop's palace, where tall trees tower above thewalls and sway to the music of the bells and the responses. 

There, in the vicinity of the Catholic club, of which he had been chosenhonorary president, lived Maître Le Merquier, advocate, Deputy for Lyon, man of business of all the great religious communities of France, andthe man whom Hemerlingue, in pursuance of an idea of great profundityfor that bulky individual, had intrusted with the legal affairs of hisfirm. 

Arriving about nine o'clock at an ancient mansion, whose ground-floorwas occupied by a religious publishing house sleeping peacefully in itsodor of the sacristy and of coarse paper for printing miracles, andascending the broad staircase, the walls of which were whitewashed likethose of a convent, Jansoulet felt permeated with that provincial andCatholic atmosphere wherein the memories of his Southern past revived, childish impressions still fresh and intact, thanks to his long exile, impressions which the son of Françoise had had neither time nor occasionto disown since his arrival in Paris. Worldly hypocrisy had assumed allits different shapes before him, tried all its masks, except that ofreligious integrity. So that he refused in his own mind to believe inthe venality of a man who lived in such surroundings. Ushered into theadvocate's waiting-room, a large parlor with curtains of starched muslinas fine as that of which surplices are made, its only ornament a largeand beautiful copy of Tintoret's _Dead Christ_ over the door, hisuncertainty and anxiety changed to indignant conviction. It was notpossible. He had been misled touching Le Merquier. Surely it was animpudent slander, such as Paris is so ready to spread; or perhaps theywere laying another one of those wicked traps for him, against which hehad done nothing but stumble for six months past. No, that timidconscience renowned at the Palais de Justice and the Chamber, thatcold, austere man could not be dealt with like those coarse, pot-belliedpashas, with their loose belts and floating sleeves so convenient asreceptacles for purses of sequins. He would expose himself to a shamefulrefusal, to the natural revolt of outraged honor, if he should attemptsuch methods of bribery. 

The Nabob said this to himself as he sat on the oak bench that ranaround the room, polished by serge gowns and the rough broadcloth ofcassocks. Notwithstanding the early hour, several persons beside himselfwere waiting. A Dominican striding back and forth, ascetic and serene offace, two nuns buried in their hoods, telling their beads on longrosaries which measured their time of waiting, priests from the dioceseof Lyon, recognizable from the shape of their hats, and other persons ofstern and meditative mien seated by the great table of black wood whichstood in the centre of the room, and turning the leaves of some of thoseedifying periodicals which are printed on the hill of Fourvières, the_Echoes from Purgatory_, or _Marie's Rose-bush_, and which give aspremiums to yearly subscribers papal indulgences, absolution for futuresins. A few words in a low voice, a stifled cough, the faint murmuringof the two sisters' prayer reminded Jansoulet of the confused, farawaysensation of hours of waiting around the confessional, in a corner ofhis village church, when the great religious festivals were drawingnear. 

At last it came his turn to enter the sanctum, and if any shadow ofdoubt concerning Maître Le Merquier remained in his mind, that doubtvanished when he saw that high-studded office, simple and severe inappearance, --although somewhat more decorated than the waiting-room--ofwhich the advocate made a framework for his rigid principles and hislong, thin, stooping, narrow-shouldered person, eternally squeezed intoa black coat too short in the sleeves, from which protruded two flat, square, black hands, two clubs of India ink covered with swollen veinslike hieroglyphics. In the clerical deputy's sallow complexion, thecomplexion of the Lyonnais turned mouldy between his two rivers, therewas a certain animation, due to his varying expression, sometimessparkling but impenetrable behind his spectacles, more frequently keen, suspicious and threatening over those same spectacles, and surrounded bythe retreating shadow which follows the arch of the eyebrow when the eyeis raised and the head low. 

After a greeting that was almost cordial in comparison with the coldsalutation which the two colleagues exchanged at the Chamber, an "I wasexpecting you, " uttered with a purpose perhaps, the advocate waved theNabob to the chair near his desk, bade the smug domestic, dressed inblack from head to foot, not to "tighten the sack-cloth with thescourge, " but to stay away until the bell should ring for him, arrangeda few scattered papers, and then, crossing his legs, burying himself inhis armchair in the crouching attitude of the man who is making ready tolisten, who becomes all ears, he took his chin in his hand and sat withhis eyes fixed on a long curtain of green ribbed velvet that fell fromthe ceiling to the floor opposite him. 

It was a decisive moment, an embarrassing situation. But Jansoulet didnot hesitate. It was one of the poor Nabob's boasts that he understoodmen as well as Mora. And the keen scent, which, he said, had neverdeceived him, warned him that he was at that moment in presence of arigid, immovable honesty, a conscience of solid rock unassailable bypick-axe or powder. "My conscience!" So he suddenly changed hisprogramme, cast aside the stratagems, the equivocal hints, in which hisopen, courageous nature was wallowing about, and with head erect andheart laid bare, talked to that upright man in a language which he wasbuilt to understand. 

"Do not be surprised, my dear colleague, "--his voice trembled at first, but soon became firm in his conviction of the justice of his cause--"donot be surprised that I have come to see you here instead of simplyasking to be heard by the third committee. The explanations that I haveto put before you are of such a delicate and confidential nature that itwould have been impossible for me to give them in a public place, beforemy assembled colleagues. "

Maître Le Merquier looked at the curtain over his spectacles with an airof dismay. Evidently the conversation was taking an unexpected turn. 

"I do not touch upon the substance of the question, " continued theNabob. "I am sure that your report is impartial and just, such a reportas your conscience must have dictated. But certain disgusting slandershave been set on foot concerning myself, to which I have not replied, and which may have influenced the opinion of the committee. That is thesubject on which I wish to speak to you. I know the confidence whichyour colleagues repose in you, Monsieur Le Merquier, and that, when Ihave convinced you, your word will be sufficient and I shall not beobliged to parade my distress before the full committee. You know thecharge. I refer to the most horrible, the most shameful one. There areso many that one might make a mistake among them. My enemies have givennames, dates, addresses. Be it so! I bring you the proofs of myinnocence. I lay them before you, before you only; for I have thegravest reasons for keeping this whole affair secret. "

Thereupon he showed the advocate a certificate from the consulate atTunis that in twenty years he had left the principality but twice, thefirst time to see his father who lay dying at Bourg-Saint-Andéol, thesecond time to pay a visit of three days at his Château of Saint-Romanswith the bey. 

"How does it happen that with such a decisive document in my hands Ihave not cited my defamers before the courts to contradict them and putthem to shame? Alas! Monsieur, there are family bonds that cut into theflesh. I had a brother, a poor weak spoiled creature, who rolled for along while in the filth of Paris, left his intelligence and his honorhere. Did he really descend to that stage of degradation at which I havebeen placed in his name? I have not dared to ascertain. What I can sayis that my poor father, who knew more about it than any one else in thefamily, whispered to me when he was dying: 'Bernard, your brother iskilling me. I am dying of shame, my child. '"

He paused for a moment, compelled by his suffocating emotion, thencontinued:

"My father died, Monsieur Le Merquier, but my mother is still alive, andit is for her sake, for her repose, that I have recoiled, that I stillrecoil from making public my justification. Thus far the filth that hasbeen thrown at me has not splashed upon her. It does not extend outsidea certain social circle, a special class of newspapers, from which thedear woman is a thousand leagues away. But the courts, a law-suit, meansthe parading of our misfortune from one end of France to the other, the_Messager_ articles printed by every newspaper, even those in theretired little place where my mother lives. The slander itself, mydefence, both her children covered with shame at one blow, the familyname--the old peasant woman's only pride--tarnished forever. That wouldbe too much for her. And really it seems to me that one is enough. Thatis why I have had the courage to hold my peace, to tire out my enemies, if possible, by my silence. But I need some one to answer for me in theChamber, I wish to deprive it of the right to eject me for reasonsdishonoring to me, and as it selected you to report upon my election, Ihave come to tell everything to you, as to a confessor, a priest, beggingyou not to divulge a word of this conversation, even in the interest ofmy cause. I ask nothing but that, my dear colleague, --absolute reticenceon this subject; for the rest I rely upon your justice and your loyalty. "

He rose, prepared to go, and Le Merquier did not stir, still questioningthe green hanging in front of him, as if seeking there an inspirationfor his reply. At last, --

"It shall be as you wish, my dear colleague, " he said. "This confidenceshall remain between ourselves. You have told me nothing, I have heardnothing. "

The Nabob, still all aflame with his eloquent outburst, which, as itseemed to him, called for a cordial response, a warm grasp of the hand, had a strangely uneasy feeling. That cold manner, that absent expressionweighed so heavily upon him, that he was already walking to the doorwith the awkward salutation of unwelcome visitors. But the otherdetained him. 

"Stay a moment, my dear colleague. How eager you are to leave me! A fewmoments more, I beg. I am too happy to converse with such a man as you. Especially as we have more than one common bond. Our friend Hemerlinguetells me that you, like myself, are much interested in pictures. "

Jansoulet started. The two words "Hemerlingue" and "pictures, " meetingso unexpectedly in the same sentence, brought back all his doubts, allhis perplexity. He did not surrender even then, however, but left LeMerquier to put his words forward, one in front of another, feeling theground for his stumbling advance. He had heard much of his honorablecolleague's gallery. Would it be presumptuous for him to ask the favorof being admitted to--?

"Nonsense! why, I should be too highly honored, " said the Nabob, tickledin the most sensitive--because it had been the most expensive--part ofhis vanity; and, glancing about at the walls of the study, he added inthe tone of a connoisseur:

"You have some fine examples yourself. "

"Oh!" said the other modestly, "a few poor canvases. Pictures are sodear in these days--it's a taste so hard to gratify, a genuinelyluxurious passion. A Nabob's passion, " he added with a smile and astealthy glance over his spectacles. 

They were two prudent gamblers face to face; Jansoulet, however, wassomewhat at fault in that novel situation, in which he was obliged towalk warily, he who knew of no other mode of action than by bold, audacious strokes. 

"When I think, " murmured the advocate, "that I have spent ten yearscovering these walls, and that I still have this whole panel to fill!"

In truth, in the most conspicuous part of the high partition there wasan empty space, a vacated space rather, for a great gilt-headed nailnear the ceiling showed the visible, almost clumsy trace of the trapset for the poor innocent, who foolishly allowed himself to be taken init. 

"My dear Monsieur Le Merquier, " he said, in an engaging, affable tone, "I have a _Virgin_ by Tintoret just the size of your panel. "

It was impossible to read anything in the advocate's eyes, which had nowtaken refuge behind their gleaming shelter. 

"Permit me to hang it there, opposite your desk. It will give you anexcuse for thinking of me sometimes--"

"And for mitigating the strictures of my report, eh, Monsieur?" cried LeMerquier, springing to his feet, a threatening figure, with his hand onthe bell. "I have seen many shameless performances in my life, but neveranything equal to this. Such offers to me, in my own house!"

"But, my dear colleague, I swear--"

"Show him out, " said the advocate to the surly servant who entered theroom at that moment; and from the centre of his office, the doorremaining open, before the whole parlor, where the prayers had ceased, he pursued Jansoulet, --who turned his back and hastened, mumblingincoherently, toward the outer door--with these crushing words:

"You have insulted the honor of the whole Chamber in my person, Monsieur. Our colleagues shall be informed of it this very day; and, this additional offence being added to the others, you will learn toyour sorrow that Paris is not the Orient, and the human conscience isnot shamefully traded in and bartered here as it is there. "

Thereupon, having driven the money-changer from the temple, the just manclosed his door, and approaching the green curtain, said in a tone whichsounded sweet as honey after his pretended anger:

"Was that about right, Baronne Marie?"

XXI. 

THE SITTING. 

That morning there was not, as usual, a grand breakfast-party at number32 Place Vendôme. So that about one o'clock you might have seen M. Barreau's majestic paunch arrayed in white linen displaying itself atthe entrance to the porch, surrounded by four or five scullions in theirpaper caps and as many grooms in Scotch caps, --an imposing group, whichgave the sumptuous mansion the appearance of a hostelry, where the wholestaff was taking a breath of fresh air between two arrivals. Theresemblance was made complete by the cab stopping in front of the doorand the driver lifting down an old-fashioned leather trunk, while a tallold woman in a yellow cap, an erect figure with a little green shawlover her shoulders, leaped lightly to the sidewalk, a basket on her arm, and looked carefully at the number, then approached the group ofservants and asked if that was where M. Bernard Jansoulet lived. 

"This is the place, " was the reply. "But he isn't in. "

"That's no matter, " said the old woman, very naturally. 

She returned to the driver, bade him put her trunk under the porch, andpaid him, at once replacing her purse in her pocket with a gesture thatsaid much for provincial distrust. 

Since Jansoulet had been Deputy for Corsica, his servants had seen somany strange, foreign-looking creatures alight at his door that theywere not greatly surprised at sight of that sun-burned woman, with eyeslike glowing coals, bearing much resemblance in her simple head-dress toa genuine Corsican, some old psalm-singer straight from the underbrush, but distinguished from newly-arrived islanders by the ease andtranquillity of her manners. 

"What do you say, the master isn't in?" she said with an intonationwhich is much more frequently heard by the hands on a farm, on a _mas_in her province, than by the impertinent lackeys of a great Parisianhousehold. 

"No, the master isn't in. "

"And the children?"

"They're taking their lesson. You can't see them. "

"And Madame?"

"She's asleep. No one enters her room before three o'clock. "

That seemed to surprise the good woman a little, that any one could stayin bed so late; but the sure instinct which, in default of education, acts as a guide to intelligent natures, prevented her from saying so tothe servants, and she at once asked to speak to Paul de Géry. 

"He is travelling. "

"Bompain Jean-Baptiste then?"

"He's at the Chamber with Monsieur. "

Her great gray eyebrows contracted. 

"No matter; take my trunk upstairs all the same. "

And, with a malicious little twitching of the eye, a touch of pride, ofvengeance for the insolent glances turned upon her, she added:

"I am his mother. "

Scullions and grooms stood aside respectfully. M. Barreau raised hiscap:

"I was saying to myself that I had seen Madame somewhere. "

"That's just what I was saying to myself too, my boy, " said MèreJansoulet, shuddering at the memory of the ill-fated festivities inhonor of the bey. 

"My boy!"--to M. Barreau, to a man of his importance! That instantlyplaced her very high in the esteem of that little circle. 

Ah! grandeurs and splendors did not dazzle her, the brave-hearted oldwoman. She was no opéra-comique Mère Boby going into ecstasies over thegildings and fine trinkets; the vases of flowers on every landing of thestaircase she ascended behind her trunk, the hall-lamps supported bybronze statues, did not prevent her noticing that there was a finger'sdepth of dust on the stair-rail and that the carpet was torn. Theyescorted her to the apartments on the second floor, reserved for theLevantine and the children, and there, in a room used as a linen closet, which was evidently near the school-room, for she could hear a murmur ofchildish voices, she waited, all alone, her basket on her knees, for herBernard to return, for her daughter-in-law to awake, or for the greatjoy of embracing her grandchildren. Nothing could be better adapted thanwhat she saw around her to give her an idea of the confusion of ahousehold given over to servants, where the oversight of the housewifeand her far-seeing activity are lacking. In huge wardrobes, all wideopen, linen was heaped up pell-mell in shapeless, bulging, totteringpiles, --fine sheets, Saxony table linen crumbled and torn, and the locksprevented from working by some stray piece of embroidery which nobodytook the trouble to remove. And yet many servants passed through thatlinen closet, --negresses in yellow madras, who hastily seized a napkinor a table-cloth, heedlessly trampled on those domestic treasuresscattered all about, dragged to the end of the room on their great flatfeet lace flounces cut from a long skirt which a maid had cast aside, thimble here, scissors there, as a piece of work to be taken up again. 

The semi-rustic artisan, which Mère Jansoulet had not ceased to be, wassadly grieved at the sight, wounded in the respect, the affection, theinoffensive mania which is inspired in the provincial housewife by thewardrobe filled with linen, piece by piece, to the very top, full ofrelics of the poor past, its contents increasing gradually in quantityand in quality, the first visible symptom of comfortable circumstances, of wealth in a house. Again, that woman always had the distaff in herhand from morning till night, and if the house-keeper was indignant, thespinster could have wept as at a profanation. Finally, unable to endureit longer, she rose, abandoned her patient, watchful attitude, andstooping over, her little green shawl displaced by every movement, beganactively to pick up, smooth and fold with care that beautiful linen, asshe did on the lawns at Saint-Romans, when she indulged in the amusementof a grand washing, employing twenty women, the baskets overflowing withsnow-white folds, the sheets flapping in the morning breeze on the longdrying lines. She was deeply engrossed in that occupation, which madeher forget her journey, Paris, even the place where she was, when astout, thickset man, heavily bearded, in varnished boots, and a velvetjacket covering the chest and shoulders of a bull, entered the linencloset. 

"Ah! Cabassu. "

"You here, Madame Françoise! This is a surprise, " said the _masseur_, opening wide his great Japanese idol's eyes. 

"Why, yes, good Cabassu, it's me. I've just come. And I'm at workalready, as you see. It made my heart bleed to see all this mess. "

"So you've come for the sitting, have you?"

"What sitting?"

"Why, the great sitting of the Corps Législatif. This is the day. "

"Faith, no. What difference do you suppose that can make to me? I don'tunderstand anything about such things. No, I came because I wanted toknow my little Jansoulets, and then, I was beginning to be uneasy. I'vewritten two or three times now without getting any answer. I was afraidthere might be a child sick, or that Bernard's business was in a badway--all sorts of uncomfortable ideas. I had an attack of great blackanxiety, and I started. Everybody's well here, so they tell me?"

"Why, yes, Madame Françoise. Everybody 's exceedingly well, thank God!"

"And Bernard? His business? Is it going along to suit him?"

"Oh! you know a man always has his little crosses in this life; however, I don't think he has any reason to complain. But now I think of it, youmust be hungry. I'll go and send you something to eat. "

He was about to ring, much more self-assured and at home than the oldmother. But she checked him. 

"No, no, I don't need anything. I still have some of my luncheon left. "

She placed two figs and a crust of bread, taken from her basket, on thetable, and continued to talk as she ate:

"And what about your affairs, little one? It seems to me you've sprucedup mightily since the last time you came to the Bourg. What linen, whatclothes! What department are you in?"

"I am professor of massage, " said Aristide gravely. 

"You a professor!" she exclaimed, with respectful amazement; but shedared not ask him what he taught, and Cabassu, somewhat embarrassed byher questions, hastened to change the subject. 

"Suppose I go and fetch the children? Hasn't any one told them theirgrandmother was here?"

"I didn't want to take them away from their work. But I believe thelesson is over now. Listen. "

On the other side of the door they heard the impatient stamping ofschool children longing to be dismissed, eager for room and air; and theold woman listened with delight to the fascinating sounds that increasedher maternal longing ten-fold, but prevented her from doing anything tosatisfy it. At last the door opened. First the tutor appeared, an abbéwith a pointed nose and prominent cheek-bones, whom we have seen at thestate breakfasts of an earlier day. Having fallen out with his bishop, the ambitious ecclesiastic had left the diocese where he formerlyexercised the priestly functions, and, in his precarious position as anirregular member of the clergy--for the clergy has its own Bohemia--wasglad of the opportunity to teach the little Jansoulets, recentlyexpelled from Bourdaloue. With the same solemn, arrogant mien, as of oneoverburdened with responsibility, which the great prelates intrustedwith the education of the Dauphins of France might assume, he stalkedin front of three little fellows, curled and gloved, with oblong hatsand short jackets, leather bags slung over their shoulders, and long redstockings reaching to the middle of the leg, the costume of the completevelocipedist about to mount his machine. 

"Children, " said Cabassu, the intimate friend of the family, "this isMadame Jansoulet, your grandmother, who has come to Paris on purpose tosee you. "

They halted, very much astonished, arranged according to height, andexamined that withered old face between the yellow barbs of the cap, that strange costume, unfamiliar in its simplicity; and theirgrandmother's astonishment answered theirs, increased by heart-rendingdisappointment and by the embarrassment she felt in presence of thoselittle gentlemen, who were as stiff and disdainful as the marquises, thecounts and the prefects on circuit whom her son used to bring to her atSaint-Romans. In obedience to their tutor's injunction, "to salute theirvenerable grandmother, " they came up one by one and gave her one of thesame little handshakes with arms close to their sides of which they haddistributed so many among the garrets; indeed, that good woman with theearth-colored face, and neat but very simple clothes, reminded them oftheir charitable visits from Collège Bourdaloue. They felt betweenherself and them the same strangeness, the same distance, which nomemory, no word from their parents had ever lessened. The abbé realizedher embarrassment, and, to banish it, launched forth upon a speechdelivered with the throaty voice, the violent gestures common to thosemen who always think that they have below them the ten steps leading toa pulpit:

"Lo, the day has come, Madame, the great day when Monsieur Jansoulet isto confound his enemies. _Confundantur hostes mei, quia injusteiniquitatem fecerunt in me_, --because they have persecuted me unjustly. "

The old woman bowed devoutly to the Church Latin; but her face assumed avague expression of uneasiness at the idea of enemies and persecutions. 

"Those enemies are numerous and powerful, noble lady, but let us not bealarmed beyond measure. Let us have confidence in the decrees of heavenand the justice of our cause. God is in the midst of it and it shall notbe shaken. _In medio ejus non commovebitur. _"

A gigantic negro, resplendent in new gold lace, interrupted them toannounce that the velocipedes were ready for the daily lesson on theterrace of the Tuileries. Before leaving the room, the children solemnlyshook once more the wrinkled, calloused hand of their grandmother, whowas watching them walk away, utterly bewildered and with a sore heart, when, yielding to an adorable, spontaneous impulse, the youngest of thethree, having reached the door, suddenly turned, pushed the great negroaside, and plunged head foremost, like a little buffalo, into MèreJansoulet's skirts, throwing his arms around her and holding up to herhis smooth brow splashed with brown curls, with the sweet grace of thechild who offers his caress like a flower. Perhaps the little fellow, being nearer the nest and its warmth, the nurse's cradling lap and_patois_ ballads, had felt the waves of maternal love of which theLevantine deprived him flowing toward his little heart. The old"Grandma" shuddered from head to foot in her surprise at thatinstinctive embrace. 

"Oh my darling--my darling!" seizing the curly, silky little head whichreminded her of another, and kissing it frantically. Then the childreleased himself and ran away without a word, his hair wet with hottears. 

Left alone with Cabassu, the mother, whom that kiss had consoled, askedfor an explanation of the priest's words. --Had her son many enemies, pray?

"Oh!" said Cabassu, "it is not at all surprising in his position. "

"But what's all this about this being a great day, and this 'sitting'you all talk about?"

"Why, yes! This is the day when we're to know whether Bernard is to be adeputy or not. "

"What? Isn't he one yet? Why, I have told it everywhere in theneighborhood, and I illuminated Saint-Romans a month ago. So I was madeto tell a lie!"

The _masseur_ had much difficulty in explaining to her the parliamentaryformality of testing the validity of elections. She listened with onlyone ear, feverishly pulling over the linen. 

"And that's where my Bernard is at this moment?"

"Yes, Madame. "

"Are women allowed to go into this Chamber?--Then why isn't his wifethere? For I can understand that it's a great affair for him. On such aday as to-day he will need to feel that all those he loves are besidehim. Look you, my boy, you must take me to this sitting. Is it veryfar?"

"No, very near. Only it must have begun before this. And then, " addedthe Giaour, a little embarrassed, "this is the hour when Madame needsme. "

"Ah! Do you teach her this thing that you're professor of? What do youcall it?"

"Massage. It comes down to us from the ancients. There, she's ringingher bell now. Some one will come to call me. Do you want me to tell herthat you are here?"

"No, no, I prefer to go to the Chamber at once. "

"But you have no card of admission, have you?"

"Bah! I'll say that I am Jansoulet's mother and that I have come to hearmy son tried. "

Poor mother! she did not know how truly she described his position. 

"Wait a moment, Madame Françoise. Let me, at least, send some one toshow you the way. "

"Oh! do you know, I've never been able to get used to these servantpeople. I've a tongue in my head. There are people in the streets; Ishall find my way well enough. "

He made one last attempt, without disclosing the whole of his thought:

"Be careful. His enemies will speak against him in the Chamber. You willhear things that will hurt you. "

Oh! the lovely smile of maternal faith and pride with which sheanswered:

"Don't I know better than all those people what my son is worth? Isthere anything that could make me unjust to him? If so, I must be amighty ungrateful woman. Nonsense!"

And, with a threatening shake of her cap, she departed. 

Straight as a statue, with head erect, the old woman strode along underthe arches she had been told to follow, somewhat disturbed by theincessant rumbling of carriages and by her slow progress, unaccompaniedby the movement of her faithful distaff, which had not quitted her forfifty years. All these suggestions of enmity, of persecution, thepriest's mysterious words, Cabassu's dark hints, excited and terrifiedher. She found therein an explanation of the presentiments which hadtaken possession of her so firmly as to tear her away from her habitsand her duties, the superintendence of the Château and the care of herinvalid. Strangely enough, by the way, since fortune had cast upon herson and her that cloak of gold with its heavy folds, Mère Jansoulet hadnever become accustomed to it, and was always expecting the suddendisappearance of their splendor. Who could say that the final crash wasnot really beginning now? And suddenly, amid these gloomy thoughts, theremembrance of the childish scene of a moment before, of the little onerubbing against her drugget skirt, caused her wrinkled lips to swell ina loving smile, and, in her joy, she murmured in her _patois_:

"Oh! that little fellow!"

A vast, magnificent, dazzling square, two sheaves of water flying upwardin silver dust, then a great stone bridge, and at the further end asquare building with statues in front of it, and an iron gateway wherecarriages were standing, people passing through and a knot of policeofficers. That was the place. She made her way bravely through the crowdas far as a high glass door. 

"Your card, my good woman?"

The good woman had no card, but she said simply to one of the usherswith red lapels who were acting as doorkeepers:

"I am Bernard Jansoulet's mother; I have come to attend my boy'ssitting. "

It was in very truth her boy's sitting; for in that crowd besieging thedoors, in the crowd that filled the corridors, the hall, the galleries, the whole palace, the same name was whispered everywhere, accompanied bysmiles and muttered comments. A great scandal was expected, shockingrevelations by the spokesman of the committee which would doubtless leadto some violent outburst on the part of the savage thus brought to bay;and people crowded thither as to a first performance or the argument ofa famous cause. The old mother certainly could not have made herselfheard in the midst of that throng, if the train of gold left by theNabob wherever he passed, and marking his royal progress, had not madeeverything smooth for her. She followed an usher through that labyrinthof corridors, folding doors, empty, echoing rooms, filled with a buzzingnoise which circulated through the air in the building and passed outthrough its walls, as if the very stones were impregnated with thatverbosity and added the echoes of bygone days to those of all the voicesof to-day. Passing through a corridor, she spied a little dark manshouting and gesticulating to the attendants:

"Tell Moussiou Jansoulet zat I am ze deputy-mayor of Sarlazaccio, zat Ihave been sentenced to five month in prison for him. Zat deserves a cardfor ze sitting, _Corps de Dieu_!"

Five months in prison on her son's account. How could that be? Anxiousbeyond words, she arrived at last, with a ringing in her ears, at alanding where there were divers little doors like those of furnishedlodgings or theatre boxes, surmounted by different inscriptions:"Senators' Gallery, " "Gallery of the Diplomatic Corps, " "Members'Gallery. " She entered, seeing nothing at first but four or five rows ofbenches crowded with people; then, on the opposite side of the hall, faraway, other galleries equally crowded, separated from her by a vast openspace; she leaned, still standing, against the wall, amazed to be there, bewildered, confused. A puff of hot air striking her in the face, thehum of voices ascending from below drew her down the sloping floor ofthe gallery, toward the edge of a yawning pit, so to speak, in thecentre of the great vessel, where her son must be. Oh, how she wouldhave liked to see him! Thereupon, making herself as small as possible, playing about her with her elbows, sharp and hard as her distaff, sheglided, wormed herself along between the wall and the benches, heedlessof the outbursts of wrath she aroused, of the contemptuous glances ofthe women in gorgeous array, whose laces and spring dresses she crushed. For it was a distinctly fashionable society gathering. 

Indeed, Mère Jansoulet recognized by his inflexible shirtfront andaristocratic nose the dandified marquis who had visited at Saint-Romans, and who bore so felicitously the name of a gorgeous bird; but he did notlook at her. Having thus advanced a few rows, she was checked by theback of a man sitting, an enormous back which completely blocked herpath, prevented her from going farther. Luckily, however, by leaningforward a little, she could see almost the whole hall; and thosesemi-circular rows of desks where the deputies stood in groups, thegreen hangings on the walls, that pulpit at the rear occupied by a manwith a bald head and stern features, all in the quiet gray light fallingfrom above, made her think of a recitation about to commence, precededby the moving about and chattering of restless pupils. 

One thing attracted her attention, the persistence with which all eyesseemed to be turned in the same direction, to be fixed upon the samepoint of attraction; and as she followed that current of curiositywhich magnetized the whole assemblage, the floor as well as thegalleries, she saw what everybody was staring at so earnestly; it washer son. 

In the Jansoulets' province there still exists in some old churches, atthe back of the choir, half-way up from the crypt, a little stone box, to which lepers were admitted to listen to the services, exhibiting tothe curious and fearful throng their pitiable brute-like figurescowering against the holes cut in the wall. Françoise well rememberedhaving seen, in the village in which she was brought up, the leper, theterror of her childhood, listening to the mass in his stone cage, lostin the shadow and in reprobation. When she saw her son sitting alone, far back, with his face in his hands, that picture came to her mind. "One would say he was a leper, " muttered the peasant woman. And in verytruth the poor Nabob was a moral leper, upon whom his millions broughtfrom the Orient were at that moment imposing the torments of a terribleand mysterious exotic disease. As it happened, the bench upon which hehad chosen his seat showed several gaps due to leaves of absence orrecent deaths; and while the other deputies talked and laughed together, making signs to one another, he sat silent, apart, the object of theearnest scrutiny of the whole Chamber, --a scrutiny which Mère Jansouletfelt to be ironical, ill-disposed, and which burned her as it passed. How could she let him know that she was there, close at hand, that onefaithful heart was beating not far from his? for he avoided turningtoward that gallery. One would have said that he felt that it washostile, that he was afraid of seeing discouraging things there. Suddenly, at the ringing of a bell on the president's desk, a thrill ranthrough the assemblage, every head was bent forward in the attentiveattitude that immobilizes the features, and a thin man with spectacles, suddenly rising to his feet amid that multitude of seated men--aposition which gave him at once the authority of attitude--said, as heopened the pile of papers which he held in his hand:

"Messieurs, I rise in the name of your third committee, to recommend toyou that the election in the second district of the department ofCorsica be declared void. "

In the profound silence following that sentence, which Mère Jansouletdid not understand, the stout creature sitting in front of her began towheeze violently, and suddenly a lovely woman's face, in the front rowof the gallery, turned to make him a rapid sign of intelligence andsatisfaction. Her pale brow, thin lips and eyebrows that seemed tooblack in the white frame of the hat, produced in the good old woman'seyes, although she could not tell why, the painful impression of thefirst lightning flash when the storm is beginning and the apprehensionof the thunderbolt follows the rapid meeting of the fluids. 

Le Merquier read his report. The slow, lifeless, monotonous voice, theLyonnais accent, soft and drawling, with which the advocate kept timeby a movement of the head and shoulders almost like an animal, presenteda striking contrast to the savage conciseness of the conclusions. First, a rapid sketch of the electoral irregularities. Never had universalsuffrage been treated with such primitive, uncivilized disrespect. AtSarlazaccio, where Jansoulet's opponent seemed likely to carry the day, the ballot-box was destroyed during the night preceding the counting. The same thing, or almost the same, happened at Lévie, at Saint-André, at Avabessa. And these offences were committed by the mayors themselves, who carried the boxes to their houses, broke the seals and tore up theballots, under cover of their municipal authority. On all sides fraud, intrigue, even violence. At Calcatoggio an armed man, blunderbuss inhand, stood at the window of an inn just opposite the mayor's officethroughout the election; and whenever a supporter of Sébastiani, Jansoulet's opponent, appeared on the square, the man pointed his weaponat him: "If you go in, I'll blow out your brains!" Moreover, when we seepolice commissioners, justices of the peace, sealers of weights andmeasures daring to transform themselves into electoral agents, intimidating and seducing a people notorious for their subjection to allthese tyrannical little local influences, have we not proof positive ofunbridled license? Why, even the priests, consecrated pastors, ledastray by their zealous interest in the poor-box and the maintenance oftheir impoverished churches, preached a veritable crusade in favor ofJansoulet's election. But an even more powerful, although lessrespectable, influence was set at work for the good cause, --theinfluence of bandits. "Yes, bandits, Messieurs, I am not jesting. "--Andthereupon followed a sketch in bold colors of Corsican banditti ingeneral and the Piedigriggio family in particular. 

The Chamber listened with close attention and with considerableuneasiness. The fact was that it was an official candidate whose actionswere being thus described, and those strange electoral morals wereindigenous in that privileged island, the cradle of the imperial family, and so intimately connected with the destiny of the dynasty that anattack on Corsica seemed to react upon the sovereign. But when it wasobserved that the new minister of State, Mora's successor and bitterenemy, sitting on the government benches, seemed overjoyed at the rebukeadministered to a creature of the defunct statesman, and smiledcomplacently at Le Merquier's stinging persiflage, all embarrassmentinstantly disappeared and the ministerial smile, repeated on threehundred mouths, soon increased to scarce-restrained laughter, thelaughter of crowds dominated by any rod, by whomsoever held, which theslightest sign of approbation from the master causes to burst forth. Inthe galleries, which were as a general rule but little indulged withpicturesque incidents, and were entertained by these stories of banditsas by a genuine novel, there was general gayety, a radiant animationenlivened the faces of all the women, overjoyed to be able to appearpretty without jarring upon the solemnity of the place. Little lighthats quivered in all their bright-hued plumes, round arms encircled withgold leaned on the rail in order to listen more at their ease. Thesolemn Le Merquier had imparted to the sitting the entertainment of aplay, had introduced the little comical note permitted at charitableconcerts as a lure to the profane. 

Impassive and cold as ice, despite his triumph, he continued to read ina voice as dismal and penetrating as a Lyonnais shower. 

"Now, Messieurs, we ask ourselves how it was that a stranger, aProvençal recently returned from the Orient, entirely ignorant of theinterests and needs of that island where he had never been seen beforethe elections, the true type of what the Corsicans contemptuously call'a continental'--how did this man succeed in arousing such enthusiasm, devotion so great as to lead to crime, to profanation? His wealth willanswer the question, his vile gold thrown into the faces of theelectors, stuffed by force into their pockets with a shameless cynicismof which we have innumerable proofs. "--Then came the endless series ofaffidavits: "I, the undersigned, Croce (Antoine), do testify, in theinterest of truth, that Nardi, commissioner of police, came to our houseone evening and said to me, 'Hark ye, Croce (Antoine), I swear to you bythe flame of yonder lamp that, if you vote for Jansoulet, you shall havefifty francs to-morrow morning, '"--And this: "I, the undersigned, Lavezzi (Jacques-Alphonse), declare that I refused with scorn seventeenfrancs offered me by the mayor of Pozzo-Negro to vote against my cousinSébastiani. "--It is probable that for three francs more Lavezzi(Jacques-Alphonse) would have devoured his scorn in silence. But theChamber did not go so deep as that. 

It was moved to indignation, was that incorruptible Chamber. Itmuttered, it moved about restlessly on its soft benches of red velvet, it uttered noisy exclamations. There were "Ohs!" of stupefaction, eyeslike circumflex accents, sudden backward movements, or appalled, discouraged gestures, such as the spectacle of human degradationsometimes calls forth. And observe that the majority of those deputieshad used the identical electoral methods, that there were on thosebenches heroes of the famous "rastels, " of those open-air banquets atwhich begarlanded and beribboned calves were borne aloft in triumph asat Gargantua's kermesses. They naturally cried out louder than theothers, turned in righteous wrath toward the high, solitary bench wherethe poor leper sat motionless, listening, his head in his hands. Butamid the general hue and cry, a single voice arose in his favor, a low, unpractised voice, rather a sympathetic buzzing than speech, in whichcould be vaguely distinguished the words: "Great services rendered toCorsica. Extensive enterprises. _Caisse Territoriale. _"

The man who spoke thus falteringly was a little fellow in whitegaiters, with an albino's face and scanty hair that stood erect inbunches. But that tactless friend's interruption simply furnished LeMerquier with a pretext for an immediate and natural transition. Ahideous smile parted his flabby lips. "The honorable Monsieur Sariguerefers to the _Caisse Territoriale_; we proceed to answer him. " ThePaganetti den of thieves seemed to be, in truth, very familiar to him. In a few concise, keen words he threw light into the inmost depths ofthat dark lair, pointed out all the snares, all the pitfalls, thewindings, the trap-doors, like a guide waving his torch above theunderground dungeons of some hideous _in pace_. He spoke of thepretended quarries, the railroads on paper, the imaginary steamboats, vanished in their own smoke. The ghastly desert of Taverna was notforgotten, nor the old Genoese tower that served as an office for theMaritime Agency. But the detail that rejoiced the heart of the Chamberabove all else was the description of a burlesque ceremonial organizedby the Governor for driving a tunnel through Monte-Rotondo, --a giganticundertaking still in the air, postponed from year to year, requiringmillions of money and thousands of arms, which had been inaugurated withgreat pomp a week before the election. The report described the affaircomically, the blow of the pick delivered by the candidate on the flankof the great mountain covered with primeval forests, the prefect'sspeech, the blessing of the standards amid shouts of "Vive BernardJansoulet!" and two hundred workmen going to work at once, working dayand night for a week, and then--as soon as the election wasover--abandoning the piles of broken rock heaped around an absurdexcavation, an additional place of refuge for the redoubtable prowlersin the thickets. The trick was played. After extorting money so longfrom the shareholders, the _Caisse Territoriale_ had been made to serveas a means of capturing the votes of the electors, --"And now, Messieurs, here is one last detail with which I might well have begun, in order tospare you the distressing story of this electoral burlesque. I learnthat a judicial inquiry into the Corsican concern has been opened thisvery day, and that a searching expert examination of its books will veryprobably lead to one of those financial scandals, too frequent, alas! inour day, in which you will not, for the honor of this Chamber, permitone of your members to be involved. "

Upon that unexpected disclosure the reporter paused a moment to drawbreath, like an actor emphasizing the effect of his words; and in thedramatic silence which suddenly settled down upon the whole assemblage, the sound of a closing door was heard. It was Paganetti, the governor, who had hastily left his seat in one of the galleries, with pale face, round eyes, and mouth puckered for a whistle, like Mr. Punch when he hasdetected in the air the near approach of a violent blow. Monpavon, unmoved, puffed out his breastplate. The stout man wheezed violentlyinto the flowers on his wife's little white hat. 

Mère Jansoulet gazed at her son. 

"I spoke of the honor of the Chamber, Messieurs, --I have something moreto say on that subject. "

Le Merquier was no longer reading. After the reporter, the orator cameupon the stage, the judge rather. His face was devoid of expression, hisglance averted, and nothing lived, nothing stirred in his long body, butthe right arm, that long, bony arm in its short sleeve, which movedmechanically up and down like a sword of justice, and punctuated the endof each sentence with the cruel and inexorable gesture of beheading. Andit was in truth a veritable execution at which that audience was lookingon. The orator would have been glad to omit from consideration thescandalous legends, the mystery that hovered over the amassing of thatcolossal fortune in distant lands, far from all supervision. But therewere in the candidate's life certain points difficult to explain, certain details--He hesitated, seemed to be selecting his words withgreat care, then, as if recognizing the impossibility of formulating thedirect charge, he continued: "Let us not degrade the discussion, Messieurs. You have understood me, you know to what infamousreports, --to what calumnies I would that I might say, --I allude; buttruth compels me to declare that when Monsieur Jansoulet, being summonedbefore our third committee, was called upon to controvert the chargesmade against him, his explanations were so vague that, while we werepersuaded of his innocence, our scrupulous regard for your honor led usto reject a candidate tainted with ordure of that sort. No, that manshould not be allowed to sit among you. Indeed, what would he do here?Having resided so long in the Orient, he has forgotten the laws, themorals, the customs of his own country. He believes in the hastyadministration of justice, bastinadoes in the public streets; he reliesupon abuses of power, and, what is still worse, upon the venality, thecowering degradation of all mankind. He is the merchant who thinks thateverything can be bought if he offers enough for it, --even the votes ofelectors, even the consciences of his colleagues. "

You should have seen the artless admiration with which those estimableportly deputies, torpid with good living, listened to that ascetic, thatman of another epoch, as if some Saint-Jérôme had come forth from thedepths of his thebaid to overwhelm with his burning eloquence, in theSenate of the Empire of the East, the unblushing profligacy ofprevaricators and extortioners. How fully they understood the noblesobriquet of "My Conscience, " which the Palais de Justice bestowed uponhim, and which suited him so well with his great height and his woodengestures! In the galleries the enthusiasm was even greater. Pretty facesleaned forward to see him, to drink in his words. Murmurs of approvalran along the benches, waving bouquets of all shades of color, like thewind blowing through a field of grain in flower. A woman's voiceexclaimed in a slight foreign accent: "Bravo! bravo!"

And the mother?

Standing motionless, absorbed by her eager desire to understandsomething of that courtroom phraseology, of those mysterious allusions, she was like the deaf-mutes who detect what is said in their presenceonly by the movement of the lips, by the expression of the face. Now, one had only to look at her son and Le Merquier to understand whatinjury one was inflicting upon the other, what treacherous poisonedmeaning fell from that long harangue upon the poor devil who might havebeen thought to be asleep, save for the quivering of his broad shouldersand the clenching of his hands in his hair, in which they rioted madly, while concealing his face. Oh! if she could have called to him fromwhere she stood: "Don't be afraid, my son! If they all despise you, yourmother loves you. Let us go away together. What do we care for them?"And for a moment she could almost believe that what she said to him thusin the depths of her heart reached him by virtue of some mysteriousintuition. He had risen, shaken his curly head, with its flushed cheeks, and its thick lips quivering nervously with a childish longing to burstinto tears. But, instead of leaving his bench, he clung to it, his greathands crushing the wooden rail. The other had finished; now it was histurn to reply. 

"Messieurs--" he said. 

He stopped instantly, dismayed by the hoarse, horribly dull and vulgarsound of his voice, which he heard for the first time in public. And inthat pause, tormented by twitchings of the face, by fruitless efforts tofind the intonation he sought, he must needs summon strength to make hisdefence. And if the poor man's agony was touching to behold, the oldmother up yonder, leaning forward, breathing hard, moving her lipsnervously as if to assist him to find his words, sent back to him afaithful imitation of his torture. Although he could not see her, havinghis face turned away from that gallery which he intentionally avoided, that maternal breath, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes gave himlife at last, and the fetters suddenly dropped from his speech and hisgestures. 

"First of all, Messieurs, let me say that I do not come here to defendmy election. If you believe that electoral morals have not always beenthe same in Corsica, that all the irregularities committed must beattributed to the corrupting influence of my money and not to theuncivilized and passionate nature of a people, reject me; it will bejustice and I shall not murmur. But there is something else than myelection involved in this matter; accusations have been made whichattack my honor, which bring it directly in question, and to those aloneI propose to reply. " His voice gradually became stronger, stilltrembling and indistinct, but with now and then a thrilling note such aswe sometimes hear in voices whose original harshness has undergone somechanges. He sketched his life very rapidly, his early days, hisdeparture for the Orient. You would have said that it was one of theeighteenth century tales of barbarian pirates scouring the Latin seas, of beys and fearless Provençaux, dark as crickets, who always end bymarrying some sultana and "taking the turban, " according to the oldMarseillais expression. "For my part, " said the Nabob, with hisingenuous smile, "I had no need to take the turban to enrich myself, Icontented myself with importing into that land of indolence and utterheedlessness the activity, the pliability of a Frenchman from the South, and I succeeded in a few years in making one of the fortunes that aremade nowhere else except in those infernally hot countries whereeverything is huge, hurried, out of proportion, where flowers grow in anight, where a single tree produces a whole forest. The excuse for suchfortunes lies in the use that is made of them, and I undertake to saythat no favorite of destiny ever tried harder than I did to earnforgiveness for his wealth. I did not succeed. "--No, indeed, he had notsucceeded. From all the gold he had sown with such insane lavishness hehad reaped naught but hatred and contempt. Hatred! Who else could boastof having stirred up so much of that as he, as a vessel stirs up the mudwhen its keel touches bottom? He was too rich; that took the place inhim of all sorts of vices, of all sorts of crimes, and singled him outfor anonymous acts of vengeance, for cruel and persistent animosities. 

"Ah! Messieurs, " cried the poor Nabob, raising his clenched fists, "Ihave known poverty, I have struggled with it hand to hand, and it is aterrible struggle, I give you my word. But to struggle against wealth, to defend one's happiness, one's honor, one's peace of mind, feeblyprotected by piles of gold pieces which topple over and crush one, is afar more ghastly, more heart-sickening task. Never, in the gloomiest ofmy days of destitution, did I suffer the torture, the agony, thesleeplessness with which fortune has overwhelmed me, this horriblefortune which I abhor and which suffocates me! I am known as the Nabobin Paris. Nabob is not the proper name for me, but Pariah, a socialpariah stretching out his arms, wide open, to a society that will havenone of him. "

Printed upon paper these words may seem cold; but there, before thewhole Chamber, that man's defence seemed to be instinct with an eloquentand imposing serenity, which aroused astonishment at first, coming fromthat clown, that upstart, unread, uneducated, with his Rhone boatman'svoice and his street porter's bearing, and afterward moved his auditorsstrangely by its unrefined, uncivilized character, utterly at variancewith all parliamentary traditions. Already tokens of approval hadmanifested themselves among the benches, accustomed to submit to thecolorless, monotonous downpour of administrative language. But at thatcry of frenzy and despair hurled at wealth by the unfortunate man whomit held in its toils, whom it drenched and drowned in its floods ofgold, and who struggled against it, calling for help from the depths ofhis Pactolus, the whole Chamber rose with fervent applause, with handsoutstretched as if to give the unhappy Nabob those tokens of esteemwhich he seemed to covet so earnestly, and at the same time to save himfrom shipwreck. Jansoulet was conscious of it, and, warmed by thatmanifestation of sympathy, he continued, with head erect and assuredglance:

"You have just been told, Messieurs, that I am not worthy to sit amongyou. And the man who told you that was the very last man from whom Ishould have expected it, for he alone knows the painful secret of mylife; he alone was able to speak for me, to justify me and convince you. He did not choose to do it. Very good! I will make the attempt, whateverit may cost me. Outrageously calumniated as I have been before the wholecountry, I owe to myself, I owe to my children this publicjustification, and I have decided to make it. "

With that he turned abruptly toward the gallery where he knew that theenemy was watching him, and stopped suddenly, horror-stricken. Directlyin front of him, behind the baroness's pale, malicious little face, hismother, his mother whom he believed to be two hundred leagues away fromthe terrible storm, stood leaning against the wall, gazing at him, holding toward him her divine face streaming with tears, but proud andradiant none the less in her Bernard's great success. For it was agenuine success of sincere, eminently human emotion, which a few wordsmore would change into a triumph. --"Go on! Go on!" men shouted from allsides of the Chamber, to reassure him, to encourage him. But Jansouletdid not speak. And yet he had very little to say to justify himself:"Calumny wilfully confused two names. My name is Bernard Jansoulet. Theother's name was Jansoulet Louis. " Not another word. 

But that was too much in his mother's presence, as she was stillignorant of her oldest son's dishonor. It was too much for the familyrespect and unity. 

He fancied he could hear his old father's voice: "I am dying of shame, my son. "--Would not she die of shame too, if he were to speak? He methis mother's smile with a sublime glance of renunciation; then hecontinued in a dull voice and with a gesture of discouragement:

"Excuse me, Messieurs, this explanation is decidedly beyond my strength. Order an investigation into my life, open to all and in the broad lightof day, for any one can understand my every act. I swear to you that youwill find nothing therein which should debar me from sitting among therepresentatives of my country. "

The amazement, the disappointment at that surrender, which seemed to allthe sudden downfall of great effrontery when brought to bay, were beyondall bounds. There was a moment of excitement on the benches, theconfusion of a standing vote, which the Nabob watched listlessly in theuncertain light from the stained glass windows, as the condemned manwatches the surging crowd from the platform of the scaffold; then, afterthe suspense of a century which precedes a supreme moment, the presidentannounced amid profound silence, in the simplest manner imaginable:

"Monsieur Bernard Jansoulet's election is declared void. "

Never was a man's life cut short with less solemnity or pother. 

Mère Jansoulet, up yonder in her gallery, understood nothing except thatshe could see gaps on the benches all around, --that people were gettingup and going away. Soon no one remained with her save the fat man andthe lady in the white hat, who were leaning over the rail and gazingcuriously at Bernard, who seemed to be preparing to go, for he was verycalmly packing thick bundles of papers into a great portfolio. Hispapers arranged, he rose and left his seat. --Ah! the lives of those whosit in high places sometimes have very cruel moments. Gravely, heavily, under the eyes of the whole Chamber, he must redescend the steps he hadclimbed at the price of so much toil and money, only to be hurled backto their foot by an inexorable fatality. 

It was that for which the Hemerlingues were waiting, following withtheir eyes to its last stage that heart-rending, humiliating exit whichpiles upon the back of the rejected one something of the shame andhorror of an expulsion; then, as soon as the Nabob had disappeared, theylooked at each other with a silent laugh and left the gallery, the oldwoman not daring to ask them to enlighten her, being warned by herinstinct of the bitter hostility of those two. Left alone, she gave allher attention to something else that was being read, convinced that herson's interests were still under discussion. There was talk ofelections, of counting ballots, and the poor mother, leaning forwardover the rail in her shabby cap, knitting her thick eyebrows, would havelistened religiously to the report on the Sarigue election to the veryend, had not the usher who had admitted her come to tell her that it wasall over and that she had better go. 

"Really? It's all over?" she said, rising as if with regret. 

And she added, timidly, in a low tone:

"Did he--did he win?"

It was so ingenuous, so touching, that the usher had not the slightestinclination to laugh. 

"Unfortunately no, Madame. Monsieur Jansoulet did not win. But why didhe stop after he made such a good start? If it's true that he was neverin Paris before and that another Jansoulet did all they accuse him of, why didn't he say so?"

The old mother turned very pale and clung to the stair-rail. 

She had understood. 

Bernard's sudden pause when he caught sight of her, the sacrifice he hadoffered her so simply with the eloquent glance of a murdered beast cameto her mind; by the same blow the shame of the Elder, of the favoritechild, was confounded with the other's downfall, a two-edged maternalsorrow, which tore her heart whichever way she turned. Yes, yes, it wasfor her sake that he had forborne to speak. But she would not acceptsuch a sacrifice. He must return at once and explain himself to thedeputies. 

"My son? where is my son?"

"Below, Madame, in his carriage. It was he who sent me to look for you. "

She darted in front of the usher, walking rapidly, talking aloud, jostling against little black-faced, bearded men who were gesticulatingin the corridors. After the Salle des Pas-Perdus, she passed through agreat ante-chamber, circular in shape, where servants, drawn uprespectfully in line, formed a living, bedizened dado on the high barewall. From there she could see, through the glass doors, the irongateway outside, the crowd, and among other waiting carriages theNabob's. The peasant woman as she passed recognized her enormousneighbor of the gallery talking with the sallow man in spectacles whohad declaimed against her son and was receiving all sorts ofcongratulations and warm grasps of the hand for his speech. Hearing thename of Jansoulet pronounced with an accompaniment of mocking, well-satisfied laughter, she slackened her long stride. 

"At all events, " said a young dandy with the face of a dissolute woman, "he didn't prove wherein our charges are false. "

At that the old woman made a jagged hole through the group andexclaimed, taking her stand in front of Moëssard:

"What he didn't tell you I will tell you. I am his mother, and it's myduty to speak. "

She interrupted herself to seize Le Merquier's sleeve as he was slinkingaway. 

"You, above all, you bad man, you are going to listen to me. What haveyou against my child? Don't you know who he is? Wait a moment and let metell you. "

She turned to the journalist:

"I had two sons, Monsieur--"

Moëssard was no longer there. She returned to Le Merquier:

"Two sons, Monsieur--"

Le Merquier had disappeared. 

"Oh! listen to me, some one, I entreat you, " said the poor mother, throwing her hands and her words about, to recall, to detain herauditors; but they all fled, melted away, disappeared, deputies, reporters, strange and mocking faces to whom she insisted upon tellingher story by main force, heedless of the indifference which greeted hersorrows and her joys, her maternal pride and affection expressed in ajargon of her own. And while she rushed about and labored thus, intensely excited, her cap awry, at once grotesque and sublime like allchildren of nature in the drama of civilization, calling to witness toher son's uprightness and the injustice of men even the footmen whosecontemptuous impassiveness was more cruel than all the rest, Jansoulet, who had come to look for her, being anxious at her non-appearance, suddenly stood beside her. 

"Take my arm, mother. You must not stay here. "

He spoke very loud, with a manner so composed and calm that all laughterceased, and the old woman, suddenly quieted, supported by the firmpressure of that arm, clinging to which the last trembling of herindignation vanished, left the palace between two respectful lines ofpeople. A sublime though rustic couple, the son's millions illuminingthe mother's peasantry like the relics of a saint enclosed in a goldenshrine, they disappeared in the bright sunlight, in the splendor of thegorgeous carriage, brutal irony in presence of that sore distress, astriking example of the ghastly poverty of wealth. 

They sat side by side on the back seat, for they dreaded to be seen, andat first they did not speak. But as soon as the carriage had started, assoon as they had left behind the sorrowful Calvary where his honorremained on the gibbet, Jansoulet, at the end of his strength, laid hishead against his mother's shoulder, hid his face in a fold of the oldgreen shawl, and there, shedding hot tears, his whole body shaken bysobs, the cry of his infancy came once more to his lips, his _patois_wail when he was a little child: "Mamma! mamma!"

XXII. 

PARISIAN DRAMAS. 

"Que l'heure est donc brèveQu'on passe en aimant!C'est moins qu'un moment, Un peu plus qu'un rêve. "[7]

In the half-light of the great salon clad in its summer garb, filledwith flowers, the plush furniture swathed in white covers, thechandeliers draped in gauze, the shades lowered and the windows open, Madame Jenkins sits at the piano, picking out the last production of thefashionable musician of the day; a few sonorous chords accompany theexquisite lines, a melancholy _Lied_ in unequal measures, which seems tohave been written for the serious sweetness of her voice and the anxiousstate of her mind. 

"Le temps nous enlève, Notre enchantement, "[8]

sighs the poor woman, moved by the sound of her own lament; and whilethe notes fly away through the courtyard of the mansion, tranquil asusual, where the fountain is playing in the midst of a clump ofrhododendrons, the singer interrupts herself, her hands prolonging thechord, her eyes fixed on the music, but her glance far, far away. Thedoctor is absent. The interests of his business and his health havebanished him from Paris for a few days, and, as frequently happens insolitude, the fair Madame Jenkins' thoughts have assumed that seriouscast, that analytical tendency which sometimes makes a brief separationfatal to the most united households. United they had not been for a longtime. They met only at table, before the servants, hardly spoke to eachother, unless he, the man of oleaginous manners, chose to indulge insome brutal, uncivil remark concerning her son, her years which werebeginning to tell upon her at last, or a dress which was not becoming toher. Always gentle and serene, she forced back her tears, submitted toeverything, pretended not to understand; not that she loved him still, after so much cruel and contemptuous treatment, but it was the oldstory, as Joe the coachman said, of "an old incubus who wants to bemarried. " Heretofore a terrible obstacle, the life of the legitimatespouse, had prolonged a shameful situation. Now that the obstacle nolonger existed, she wanted to put an end to the comedy, because ofAndré, who might any day be forced to despise his mother, because of theworld which they had been deceiving for ten years, so that she neverwent into society without a sinking at the heart, dreading the welcomethat would be accorded her on the morrow of a disclosure. To her hints, her entreaties, Jenkins had replied at first with vague phrases, withgrandiloquent gestures: "Do you doubt me? Isn't our engagement sacred?"

FOOTNOTES:

[7] "How swift flies the hour We pass in love's pleasures! 'Tis less than a moment, Scarce more than a dream. "

[8] "Time tears from our grasp Our blissful enchantment. "

He also dwelt upon the difficulty of keeping secret a ceremony of suchimportance. Then he had taken refuge in malevolent silence, big withchilling anger and violent resolutions. The duke's death, the checkthereby administered to his insane vanity, had dealt the last blow; fordisaster, which often brings together hearts that are ripe for a mutualunderstanding, consummates and completes disunion. And that was agenuine disaster. The popularity of the Jenkins Pearls suddenlyarrested, the very thorough exposure of the position of the foreignphysician, the charlatan, by old Bouchereau in the journal of theAcademy, caused the leaders of society to gaze at one another in alarm, even paler from terror than from the absorption of arsenic into theirsystems, and the Irishman had already felt the effect of thosebewilderingly sudden changes of the wind which make Parisianinfatuations so dangerous. 

It was for that reason, doubtless, that Jenkins had deemed it advisableto disappear for some time, leaving Madame to continue to frequent thesalons that were still open, in order to feel the pulse of publicopinion and hold it in awe. It was a cruel task for the poor woman, whofound everywhere something of the same cold, distant reception she hadmet with at Hemerlingue's. But she did not complain, hoping in this wayto earn her marriage, to knit between him and herself, as a last resort, the painful bond of pity, of trials undergone in common. And as she knewthat she was always in demand in society because of her talent, becauseof the artistic entertainment she furnished at select parties, beingalways ready to lay her long gloves and her fan on the piano, as aprelude to some portion of her rich repertory, she labored constantly, passed her afternoons turning over new music, selecting by preferencemelancholy and complicated pieces, the modern music which is no longercontent to be an art but is becoming a science, and is much betteradapted to the demands of our nervous fancies, our anxieties, than tothe demands of sentiment. 

 "C'est moins qu'un moment, Un pen plus qu'un rêve. Le temps nous enlève Notre enchantement. "

A flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, whobrought her mistress a card: "Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_. "

The gentleman was waiting. He insisted on seeing Madame. 

"Did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?"

She had told him; but it was Madame with whom he wished to speak. 

"With me?"

With a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card, that unfamiliar, harsh name: "Heurteux. " Who could he be?

"Very well; show him in. "

Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_, coming from the bright sunlight into thesemi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguishhis surroundings. She, on the contrary, distinguished very clearly astiff, wooden figure, grizzly whiskers, a protruding under-jaw, one ofthose brigands of the Law whom we meet in the outskirts of the Palais deJustice, and who seem to have been born fifty years old, with a bitterexpression about the mouth, an envious manner, and morocco satchelsunder their arms. He sat down on the edge of the chair to which shewaved him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had left theroom, then opened his satchel with great deliberation, as if to look fora paper. Finding that he did not speak, she began in an impatient tone:

"I must inform you, Monsieur, that my husband is away and that I am notfamiliar with any of his business matters. "

Unmoved, with his hand still fumbling among his documents, the manreplied:

"I am quite well aware that Monsieur Jenkins is away, Madame--" he laidparticular stress on the words "Monsieur Jenkins, "--"especially as Icome from him. "

She stared at him in terror. 

"From him?"

"Alas! yes, Madame. The doctor--as you are doubtless aware--is in a veryembarrassed position for the moment. Unfortunate operations on theBourse, the downfall of a great financial institution in which he hadfunds invested, the heavy burden of the Work of Bethlehem now resting onhim alone, all these disasters combined have compelled him to form anheroic resolution. He is selling his house, his horses, everything thathe owns, and has given me a power of attorney to that end. "

He had found at last what he was looking for, one of those stampedpapers, riddled with memoranda and words erased and interlined, intowhich the unfeeling law sometimes crowds so much cowardice andfalsehood. Madame Jenkins was on the point of saying: "But I was here. Iwould have done whatever he wished, carried out all his orders, " whenshe suddenly realized, from the visitor's lack of constraint, hisself-assured, almost insolent manner, that she too was involved in thatgeneral overturn, in that throwing overboard of the expensive house anduseless chattels, and that her departure would be the signal for thesale. 

She rose abruptly. The man, still seated, continued:

"What I still have to say, Madame, "--Oh! she knew, she could havedictated what he still had to say--"is so painful, so delicate--MonsieurJenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, and, fearing to expose you tothe perils and hazards of the new life upon which he is entering, totake you away from a son of whom you are very fond, and in whoseinterest it will be better perhaps--"

She no longer heard or saw him, but, given over to despair, to madnessperhaps, while he lost himself in involved sentences, she listened to avoice within persistently singing the air which haunted her in thatterrible crash, as the drowning man's eyes retain the image of the lastobject upon which they rested. 

 "Le temps nous enlève Notre enchantement. "

Suddenly her pride returned to her. 

"Let us put an end to this, Monsieur. All your circumlocution and yourfine words are simply an additional insult. The truth is that I am to bedriven out, turned into the street like a servant. "

"O Madame! Madame! The situation is painful enough, let us not embitterit by words. In working out his _modus vivendi_, Monsieur Jenkins partsfrom you, but he does it with death in his heart, and the propositions Iam instructed to make to you are a sufficient proof of his feeling foryou. In the first place, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized toallow you to take--"

"Enough, " said she. 

She rushed to the bell:

"I am going out. My hat, my cloak at once, --something, no matter what. Iam in a hurry. "

And while her servant went to bring what she required, she added:

"Everything here belongs to Monsieur Jenkins. Let him dispose of it ashe will. I will take nothing from him--do not insist--it is useless. "

The man did not insist. His errand being performed, the rest was oflittle consequence to him. 

Coolly, without excitement, she carefully adjusted her hat in front ofthe mirror, the servant attaching the veil and arranging the folds ofthe cape over her shoulders; then she looked around for a moment to seeif she had forgotten anything that was of value to her. No, nothing; herson's letters were in her pocket; she never parted from them. 

"Does Madame wish the carriage?"

"No. "

And she left the house. 

It was about five o'clock. At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was passingthrough the iron gateway of the Corps Législatif, his mother on his arm;but, painful as was the drama that was being enacted there, this one farsurpassed it in that respect, being more sudden, more unforeseen, devoidof the slightest solemnity, one of the private domestic dramas whichParis improvises every hour in the day; and it may be that that gives tothe air we breathe in Paris that vibrating, quivering quality whichexcites the nerves. The weather was superb. The streets in those wealthyquarters, as broad and straight as avenues, shone resplendent in thelight, which was already beginning to fade, enlivened by open windows, by flower-laden balconies, by glimpses of verdure toward the boulevards, light and tremulous between the harsh, rigid lines of stone. MadameJenkins' hurried steps were bent in that direction, as she hastenedalong at random in a pitiable state of bewilderment. What a horribledownfall! Five minutes ago, rich, encompassed by all the respect andcomforts of a luxurious existence. Now, nothing! Not even a roof toshelter her, not even a name! The street. 

Where was she to go? What would become of her?

At first she had thought of her son. But to confess her sin, to blushbefore the child who respected her, to weep before him while deprivingherself of the right to be consoled, was beyond her strength. No, therewas nothing left for her but death. To die as soon as possible, to avoidshame by disappearing utterly, the inevitable end of situations fromwhich there is no escape. But where to die? And how? There were so manyways of turning one's back on life! And as she walked along she reviewedthem all in her mind. All around her was overflowing life, the charmthat Paris lacks in winter, the open-air display of its splendor, itsrefined elegance, visible at that hour of the day and that season of theyear around the Madeleine and its flower-market, in a space marked offby the fragrance of the roses and carnations. On the broad sidewalk, where gorgeous toilets were displayed, blending their rustling with thecool quivering of the leaves, there was something of the pleasure of ameeting in a salon, an air of acquaintance among the promenaders, smilesand quiet greetings as they passed. And suddenly Madame Jenkins, anxiousconcerning the distress depicted on her features, and concerning whatpeople might think to see her hurrying along with that heedless, preoccupied manner, slackened her pace to the saunter of a simplepromenader, and stopped to look at the shop windows. The bright-colored, gauzy window displays all spoke of travelling, of the country: lighttrains for the fine gravel of the park, hats wrapped about with gauze asa protection against the sun at the seashore, fans, umbrellas, purses. Her eyes gazed at all those gewgaws without seeing them; but anindistinct, pale reflection in the clear glass showed her her own bodylying motionless on a bed in a furnished lodging, the leaden sleep of anarcotic in her head, or outside the walls yonder, displacing the mudbeneath some boat. Which was the better?

She hesitated, comparing the two; then, having formed her decision, walked rapidly away with the resolute stride of the woman who tearsherself regretfully from the artful temptations of the shop-window. Asshe hurried along, the Marquis de Monpavon, vivacious and superb, with aflower in his buttonhole, saluted her at a distance with the grandflourish of the hat so dear to the vanity of woman, the acme of elegancein the way of street salutations, the hat raised high in air above arigid head. She answered with the polite greeting of the true Parisian, hardly expressed by an imperceptible movement of the figure and a smilein the eyes; and, seeing that exchange of worldly courtesies amid thespringtime merrymaking, no one would have suspected that the samesinister thought guided the footsteps of those two, who met by chance onthe road they were both following, in opposite directions, but aimingfor the same goal. 

The prediction of Mora's valet with regard to the marquis was fulfilled:"We may die or lose our power, then you will be called to account and itwill be a terrible time. " It was a terrible time. With the utmostdifficulty the ex-receiver-general had obtained an extension of afortnight in which to reimburse the Treasury, clinging to one lastchance, that Jansoulet's election would be confirmed, and that, havingrecovered his millions, he would come once more to his assistance. Thedecision of the Chamber had deprived him of that supreme hope. As soonas he heard of it, he returned very calmly to the club and went up tohis room where Francis was impatiently waiting to hand him an importantpaper that had arrived during the day. It was a notice to SieurLouis-Marie-Agénor de Monpavon to appear the next day at the office ofthe examining magistrate. Was that addressed to the director of the_Caisse Territoriale_ or to the defaulting ex-receiver-general? In anyevent, the employment at the outset of the brutal method of formalsummons, instead of a quiet notification, was sufficiently indicative ofthe seriousness of the affair and the firm determination of theauthorities. 

In the face of such an extremity, which he had long foreseen andexpected, the old beau's course was determined in advance. A Monpavon inthe police-court, a Monpavon librarian at Mazas! Never! He put all hisaffairs in order, destroyed papers, carefully emptied his pockets, inwhich he placed only a few ingredients taken from his toilet-table, andall in such a perfectly calm and natural way that when he said toFrancis as he left the room: "Going to take a bath. Beastly Chamber. Poisonous dirt, " the servant believed what he said. Indeed, the marquisdid not lie. After standing through that long and exciting sitting ofthe Chamber in the dust of the gallery, his legs ached as if he had spenttwo nights in a railway carriage; and as his resolve to die blended withhis longing for a good bath, it occurred to the old sybarite to go tosleep in a bath-tub like What's-his-name--Thingamy--ps--ps--ps--andother famous characters of antiquity. It is doing him no more thanjustice to say that not one of those Stoics went forth to meet deathmore tranquilly than he. 

Adorned with a white camellia with which, as he passed, the prettyflower-girl at the club decorated the buttonhole above his rosette as anofficer of the Legion of Honor, he was walking lightly up Boulevard desCapucines, when the sight of Madame Jenkins disturbed his serenity for amoment. He noticed a youthful air about her, a flame in her eyes, asomething so alluring that he stopped to look at her. Tall and lovely, her long black gauze dress trailing behind, her shoulders covered by alace mantle over which a garland of autumn leaves fell from her hat, shepassed on, disappeared amid the throng of other women no less stylishthan she, in a perfumed atmosphere; and the thought that his eyes wereabout to close forever on that attractive spectacle, which he enjoyed asa connoisseur, saddened the old beau a little and diminished theelasticity of his walk. But a few steps farther on a meeting of anothersort restored all his courage. 

A shabby, shamefaced man, dazzled by the bright light, was crossing theboulevard; it was old Marestang, ex-senator, ex-minister, who was sodeeply compromised in the affair of the _Tourteaux de Malte_, that, notwithstanding his age, his services, and the great scandal of such aprosecution, he had been sentenced to two years' imprisonment andstricken from the rolls of the Legion of Honor, where he was numberedamong the great dignitaries. The affair was already ancient history, andthe poor devil, a portion of his sentence having been remitted, had justcome from prison, dejected, ruined, lacking even the wherewithal to gildhis mental distress, for he had been compelled to disgorge. Standing onthe edge of the sidewalk, he waited, hanging his head, until thereshould be an opportunity to cross the crowded street, sorely embarrassedby that enforced halt on the most frequented corner of the boulevards, caught between the foot-passengers and the stream of open carriagesfilled with familiar faces. Monpavon, passing near him, surprised hisrestless, timid glance, imploring recognition and at the same timeseeking to avoid it. The idea that he might some day be reduced to thatdegree of humiliation caused him to shudder with disgust. "Nonsense! Asif it were possible!" And, drawing himself up, inflating hisbreastplate, he walked on, with a firmer and more determined stride thanbefore. 

Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death. He goes thither by thelong line of the boulevards, all aflame in the direction of theMadeleine, treading once more the springy asphalt like any loiterer, hisnose in the air, his hands behind his back. He has plenty of time, thereis nothing to hurry him, --the hour for the rendezvous is within hiscontrol. At every step he smiles, wafts a patronizing little greetingwith the ends of his fingers, or performs the great flourish of the hatof a moment ago. Everything charms him, fascinates him, from therumbling of the watering-carts to the rattle of the blinds at the doorsof cafés which overflow to the middle of the sidewalk. The approach ofdeath gives him the acute faculties of a convalescent, sensitive to allthe beauties, all the hidden poesy of a lovely hour in summer in theheart of Parisian life, --of a lovely hour which will be his last, andwhich he would like to prolong until night. That is the reason, doubtless, why he passes the sumptuous establishment where he usuallytakes his bath; nor does he pause at the Chinese Baths. He is too wellknown hereabout. All Paris would know what had happened the sameevening. There would be a lot of ill-bred gossip in clubs and salons, much spiteful comment on his death; and the old fop, the man ofbreeding, wishes to spare himself that shame, to plunge and be swallowedup in the uncertainty and anonymity of suicide, like the soldiers who, on the day after a great battle, are reported neither as living, woundedor dead, but simply as missing. That is why he had been careful to keepnothing upon him that might lead to his identification or furnish anyprecise information for the police reports, and why he seeks thedistant, out-of-the-way quarters of the vast city, where the ghastly butcomforting confusion of the common grave will protect him. Already theaspect of the boulevards has changed greatly. The crowd has becomecompact, more active and engrossed, the houses smaller and covered withbusiness signs. When he has passed Portes Saint-Martin and Saint-Denis, through which the swarming overflow of the faubourgs streams at allhours of the day, the provincial character of the city becomesaccentuated. The old beau no longer sees any one whom he knows and canboast of being a stranger to all. 

The shopkeepers, who stare curiously at him, with his display of linen, his fine frock-coat, his erect figure, take him for some famous actorout for a little healthful exercise before the play, on the oldboulevard, the scene of his earliest triumphs. The wind is cooler, thetwilight darkens distant objects, and while the long street is stillflooded with light in those portions through which he has passed, thelight fades at every step. So it is with the past when its rays fallupon him who looks back and regrets. It seems to Monpavon that he isentering the darkness. He shivers a little, but does not lose courage, and walks on with head erect and unfaltering gait. 

Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death. Now he enters thecomplicated labyrinth of noisy streets where the rumble of theomnibuses blends with the thousand and one industries of the workingquarters, where the hot smoke from the factories is mingled with thefever of a whole population struggling against hunger. The air quivers, the gutters smoke, the buildings tremble as the heavy drays pass andcollide at the corners of the narrow streets. Suddenly the marquisstops; he has found what he wanted. Between a charcoal dealer's darkshop and an undertaker's establishment, where the spruce boards leaningagainst the wall cause him to shudder, is a porte-cochère surmounted bya sign, the word "BATHS" on a dull lantern. He enters and crosses a damplittle garden where a fountain weeps in a basin of artificial rockwork. That is just the dismal retreat he has been seeking. Who will ever dreamof thinking that the Marquis de Monpavon came to that place to cut histhroat? The house is at the end of the garden, a low house with greenshutters, a glass door, and the false villa-like air that they all have. He orders a bath, plenty of towels, walks along the narrow corridor, andwhile the bath is being prepared, listening to the running water behindhim, he smokes his cigar at the window, gazes at the flower-garden withits spindling lilacs, and the high wall that incloses it. 

Adjoining it is a great yard, the yard of a fire-engine house with agymnasium, whose poles and swings and horizontal bars, seen indistinctlyover the wall, have the look of gibbets. A bugle rings out in the yard, and that blast carries the marquis back thirty years, reminds him of hiscampaigns in Algeria, the lofty ramparts of Constantine, Mora's arrivalin the regiment, and duels, and select card-parties. Ah! how well lifebegan! What a pity that those infernal cards--Ps--ps--ps--However, it'sworth something to have saved one's breeding. 

"Monsieur, " said the attendant, "your bath is ready. "

 * * * * *

At that moment Madame Jenkins, pale and gasping for breath, enteredAndré's studio, drawn thither by an instinct stronger than her will, bythe feeling that she must embrace her child before she died. And yet, when she opened the door--he had given her a duplicate key--it was arelief to her to see that he had not returned, that her excitement, increased by a long walk, an unusual experience in her luxurious life asa woman of wealth, would have time to subside. No one in the room. Buton the table the little note that he always left when he went out, sothat his mother, whose visits, because of Jenkins' tyranny, had becomemore and more infrequent and brief, might know where he was, and eitherwait for him or join him. Those two had not ceased to love each otherdearly, profoundly, despite the cruel circumstances which compelled themto introduce into their relations as mother and son the precautions, theclandestine mystery of a different kind of love. 

"I am at my rehearsal, " said the little note to-day, "I shall returnabout seven. "

That attention from her son, whom she had not been to see for threeweeks, and who persisted in expecting her none the less, brought to themother's eyes a flood of tears which blinded her. One would have saidthat she had entered a new world. It was so light, so peaceful, so high, that little room which caught the last gleam of daylight on its windows, which was all aflame with the last rays of the sun already sinking belowthe horizon, and which seemed, like all attic rooms, carved out of apiece of sky, with its bare walls, decorated only by a large portrait, her own; nothing but her own portrait smiling in the place of honor andanother in a gilt frame on the table. Yes, in very truth, the humblelittle lodging, which was still so light when all Paris was becomingdark, produced a supernatural impression upon her, despite the povertyof its scanty furniture, scattered through two rooms, its common chintzcoverings, and its mantel adorned with two great bunches of hyacinths, the flowers that are drawn through the streets by cartloads in themorning. What a lovely, brave, dignified life she might have led therewith her André! And in a moment, with the rapidity of a dream, sheplaced her bed in one corner, her piano in another, saw herself givinglessons, taking charge of the house, to which she brought her share ofenthusiasm and courageous cheerfulness. How could she have failed tounderstand that that should be the duty, the pride of her widowhood?What blindness, what shameful weakness!

A sad mistake, doubtless, but one for which much extenuation might havebeen found in her easily influenced, affectionate nature, in theadroitness and knavery of her accomplice, who talked constantly ofmarriage, concealing from her the fact that he was not free himself, andwhen at last he was obliged to confess, drawing such a picture of theunrelieved gloom of his life, of his despair, of his love, that the poorcreature, already so seriously involved in the eyes of the world, incapable of one of those heroic efforts which place one above falsesituations, had yielded at last, had accepted that twofold existence, atonce so brilliant and so wretched, resting everything upon a lie thathad lasted ten years. Ten years of intoxicating triumphs andindescribable anxiety, ten years during which she had never sung withoutthe fear of being betrayed between two measures, during which theslightest remark concerning irregular establishments wounded her like anallusion to her own case, during which the expression of her face hadgradually assumed that air of gentle humility, of a culprit demandingpardon. Then the certainty of being abandoned at some time had ruinedeven those borrowed joys, had caused her luxurious surroundings towither and fade; and what agony, what suffering she had silentlyundergone, what never-ending humiliations, down to the last and mosthorrible of all!

While she reviews her life thus sorrowfully in the cool evening air andthe peaceful calm of the deserted house, ringing laughter, an outburstof joyous youthful spirits ascends from the floor below; andremembering André's confidences, his last letter, in which he told herthe great news, she tries to distinguish among those unfamiliar, youthful voices that of her daughter Élise, her son's fiancée, whom shedoes not know, whom she will never know. That thought, which completesthe voluntary disherison of the mother, adds to the misery of her lastmoments and fills them with such a flood of remorse and regret that, notwithstanding her determination to be brave, she weeps and weeps. 

The night falls gradually. Great streaks of shadow strike the slopingwindows, while the sky, immeasurable in its depth, becomes colorless, seems to recede into the darkness. The roofs mass for the night assoldiers do for an attack. The clocks gravely tell each other the hour, while the swallows circle about in the neighborhood of a hidden nest andthe wind makes its usual incursion among the ruins in the oldlumber-yard. Tonight it blows with a wailing noise like the sea, with ashudder of fog; it blows from the river as if to remind the wretchedwoman that that is where she must go. Oh! how she shivers in her lacemantle at the thought! Why did she come here to revive her taste forlife, which would be impossible after the confession she would be forcedto make? Swift footsteps shake the staircase, the door is thrown open;it is André. He is singing, he is happy, and in a great hurry, for he isexpected to dine with the Joyeuses. A glimmer of light, quick, so thatthe lover may beautify himself. But, as he scratches the match, hedivines the presence of some one in the studio, a shadow moving amongthe motionless shadows. 

"Who's there?"

Something answers, something like a stifled laugh or a sob. He thinks itis his young neighbors, a scheme of the "children" to amuse themselves. He draws near. Two hands, two arms seize him, are wound about him. 

"It is I. "

And in a feverish voice, which talks hurriedly in self-defence, shetells him that she is about to start on a long journey, and that beforestarting--

"A journey. Where are you going, pray?"

"Oh! I don't know. We are going ever so far away, --to his own country onsome business of his. "

"What! you won't be here for my play? It's to be given in three days. And then, right after it, my wedding. Nonsense! he can't prevent yourbeing present at my wedding. "

She excuses herself, invents reasons, but her burning hands, which herson holds in his, her unnatural voice, convince André that she is nottelling the truth. He attempts to light the candles, but she preventshim. 

"No, no, we don't need a light. It is better this way. Besides, I haveso many preparations still to make; I must go. "

They are both standing, ready for the parting; but André will not lether go until he has made her confess what the matter is, what tragicanxiety causes the wrinkles on that lovely face, in which the eyes--isit an effect of the twilight?--gleam with fierce brilliancy. 

"Nothing--no, nothing, I promise you. Only the thought that I cannotshare in your joys, your triumphs. But you know that I love you, you donot doubt your mother, do you? I have never passed a day withoutthinking of you. Do you do as much; keep a place in your heart for me. And now kiss me, and let me go at once. I have delayed too long. "

A moment more and she will not have strength to do what she still has todo. She rushes toward the door. 

"I say no, you shall not go. I have a feeling that some extraordinarything is taking place in your life that you don't wish to tell me. Youare in great sorrow, I am sure of it. That man has done some shamefulthing to you. "

"No, no; let me go, let me go. "

But on the contrary, he holds her, holds her fast. 

"Come, what is the matter? Tell me, tell me--"

Then, under his breath, in a low, loving voice, like a kiss:

"He has left you, has he not?"

The unhappy creature shudders, struggles. 

"Don't ask me any questions. I will not tell you anything. Adieu!"

And he rejoins, straining her to his heart:

"What can you tell me that I do not know already, my poor mother? Didn'tyou understand why I left his house six months ago?"

"You know?"

"Everything. And this that has happened to you to-day I have longforeseen and hoped for. "

"Oh! wretched, wretched woman that I am, why did I come?"

"Because this is your proper place, because you owe me ten years of mymother. You see that I must keep you. "

He says this kneeling in front of the couch upon which she has thrownherself in a flood of tears and with the last plaintive outcries of herwounded pride. For a long while she weeps thus, her son at her feet. Andlo! the Joyeuses, anxious at André's non-appearance, come up in a bodyin search of him. There is a veritable invasion of innocent faces, waving curls, modest costumes, rippling gayety, and over the whole groupshines the great lamp, the good old lamp with the huge shade, which M. Joyeuse solemnly holds aloft as high and as straight as he can, in theattitude of a _canephora_. They halt abruptly, dumbfounded, at sight ofthat pale, sad woman who gazes, deeply moved, at all those smiling, charming creatures, especially at Élise, who stands a little behind theothers, and whose embarrassment in making that indiscreet visit stampsher as the _fiancée_. 

"Élise, kiss our mother and thank her. She has come to live with herchildren. "

Behold her entwined in all those caressing arms, pressed to four littlewomanly hearts which have long lacked a mother's support, behold hermade welcome with sweet cordiality in the circle of light cast by thefamily lamp, broadened a little so that she can find room there, can dryher eyes, obtain warmth and light for her heart at that sturdy flamewhich rises without a flicker, even in that little artist's studio underthe roof, where the storm howled so fiercely just now, the terriblestorm that must be at once forgotten. 

The man who is breathing his last yonder, lying in a heap in the bloodybath-tub, has never known that sacred flame. Selfish and hard-hearted, he lived to the last for show, puffing out his superficial breastplatewith a blast of vanity. And that vanity was the best that there was inhim. It was that which kept him on his feet and jaunty and swaggering solong, that which clenched his teeth on the hiccoughs of his death agony. In the damp garden the fountain drips sadly. The firemen's bugle soundsthe curfew. "Just go up to number 7, " says the mistress of theestablishment, "he's a long while over his bath. " The attendant goes upand utters a shriek of horror: "O Madame, he 's dead--but it isn't thesame man. " They run to the spot, and no one, in truth, can recognize thefine gentleman who entered just now in this lifeless doll, with its headhanging over the side of the bath-tub, the rouge mingling with the bloodthat moistens it, and every limb relaxed in utter weariness of the partplayed to the very end, until it killed the actor. Two slashes of therazor across the magnificent, unwrinkled breastplate, and all hisfactitious majesty has burst like a bubble, has resolved itself intothis nameless horror, this mass of mud and blood and ghastly, streakedflesh, wherein lies unrecognizable the model of good-breeding, MarquisLouis-Marie-Agénor de Monpavon. 

XXIII. 

MEMOIRS OF A CLERK. --LAST SHEETS. 

I here set down, in haste and with an intensely agitated pen, theshocking events of which I have been the plaything for some days past. This time it is all up with the _Territoriale_ and all my ambitiousdreams. Protests, levies, police-raids, all our books in the custody ofthe examining magistrate, the Governor a fugitive, our directorBois-l'Héry at Mazas, our director Monpavon disappeared. My head is in awhirl with all these disasters. And to think that, if I had followed thewarnings of sound common-sense, I should have been tranquilly settled atMontbars six months ago, cultivating my little vineyard, with no otherpreoccupation than watching the grapes grow round and turn to the colorof gold in the pleasant Burgundian sunshine, and picking from the vines, after a shower, the little gray snails that make such an excellentfricassee. With the results of my economy I would have built, on thehigh land at the end of the vineyard, on a spot that I can see at thismoment, a stone summer-house like M. Chalmette's, so convenient for anafternoon nap, while the quail are singing all around among the vines. But no, constantly led astray by treacherous illusions, I longed to makea fortune, to speculate, to try banking operations on a grand scale, totie my fortune to the chariot of the successful financiers of the day;and now here I am at the most melancholy stage of my history, clerk in aruined counting-house, intrusted with the duty of answering a horde ofcreditors, of shareholders drunk with rage, who pour out the vilestinsults upon my white hairs and would fain hold me responsible for theNabob's ruin and the governor's flight. As if I were not as cruelly hitmyself, with my four years' back pay which I lose once more, and myseven thousand francs of money advanced, all of which I intrusted tothat villain, Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio. 

But it was written that I should drink the cup of humiliation andmortification to the dregs. Was I not forced to appear before theexamining magistrate, I, Passajon, formerly apparitor to the Faculty, with my record of thirty years of faithful service and the ribbon of anofficer of the Academy! Oh! when I saw myself ascending that stairway atthe Palais de Justice, so long and broad, with no rail to cling to, Ifelt my head going round and my legs giving way under me. That was whenI had a chance to reflect, as I passed through those halls, black withlawyers and judges, with here and there a high green door, behind whichI could hear the impressive sounds of courts in session; and up above, in the corridor where the offices of the examining magistrates are, during the hour that I had to wait on a bench where I had prison vermincrawling up my legs, while I listened to a lot of thieves, pickpocketsand girls in Saint-Lazare caps, talking and laughing with Gardes deParis, and the ringing of the muskets on the floor of the corridors, andthe dull rumbling of prison vans. I realized then the danger of_combinazioni_, and that it was not always well to laugh at M. Gogo. 

One thing comforted me somewhat, however, and that was that, as I hadnever taken part in the deliberations of the _Territoriale_, I was in noway responsible for its transactions and swindles. But explain this. When I was in the magistrate's office, facing that man in a velvet capwho stared at me from the other side of the table with his littlecrooked eyes, I had such a feeling that I was being explored andsearched and turned absolutely inside out that, in spite of myinnocence, I longed to confess. To confess what? I have no idea. Butthat is the effect that justice produces. That devil of a man sat forfive long minutes staring at me without speaking, turning over a packageof papers covered with a coarse handwriting that seemed familiar to me, then said to me abruptly, in a tone that was at once cunning and stern:

"Well, Monsieur Passajon! How long is it since we played the drayman'strick?"

The memory of a certain little peccadillo, in which I had taken part indays of distress, was so distant that at first I did not understand; buta few words from the magistrate proved to me that he was thoroughlyposted as to the history of our bank. That terrible man knew everything, to the most trivial, the most secret details. 

Who could have given him such accurate information?

And with it all he was very sharp, very abrupt, and when I attempted toguide the course of justice by some judicious observations, he had acertain insolent way of saying: "None of your fine phrases, " which wasthe more wounding to me, at my age, with my reputation as a finespeaker, because we were not alone in his office. A clerk sat near me, writing down my deposition, and I could hear some one behind turningover the leaves of some great book. The magistrate asked me all sorts ofquestions about the Nabob, the time when he had made his contributions, where we kept our books, and all at once, addressing the person whom Idid not see, he said:

"Show us the cash-book, Monsieur l'Expert. "

A little man in a white cravat brought the great volume and placed it onthe table. It was M. Joyeuse, formerly cashier for Hemerlingue and Son. But I had no time to present my respects to him. 

"Who did that?" the magistrate asked me, opening the book at a placewhere a leaf had been torn out. "Come, do not lie about it. "

I did not lie, for I had no idea, as I never concerned myself about thebooks. However, I thought it my duty to mention M. De Géry, the Nabob'ssecretary, who used often to come to our offices at night and shuthimself up alone in the counting-room for hours at a time. Thereuponlittle Père Joyeuse turned red with anger. 

"What he says is absurd, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Monsieur deGéry is the young man I mentioned to you. He went to the _Territoriale_solely for the purpose of keeping an eye on affairs there, and felt toodeep an interest in poor Monsieur Jansoulet to destroy the receipts forhis contributions, the proofs of his blind but absolute honesty. However, Monsieur de Géry, who has been detained a long while in Tunis, is now on his way home, and will soon be able to afford all necessaryexplanations. "

I felt that my zeal was likely to compromise me. 

"Be careful, Passajon, " said the judge very sternly. "You are here onlyas a witness; but if you try to give the investigation a wrong turn youmay return as a suspect. "--Upon my word the monster seemed to desireit. --"Come, think, who tore out this page?"

Thereupon I very opportunely remembered that, a few days before leavingParis, our Governor had told me to bring the books to his house, wherethey had remained until the following day. The clerk made a note of mydeclaration, whereupon the magistrate dismissed me with a wave of thehand, warning me that I must hold myself at his disposal. When I was atthe door he recalled me:

"Here, Monsieur Passajon, take this; I have no further use for it. "

He handed me the papers he had been consulting while he questioned me;and my confusion can be imagined when I saw on the cover the word"_Memoirs_" written in my roundest hand. I had myself furnished justicewith weapons, with valuable information which the suddenness of ourcatastrophe had prevented me from rescuing from the general cleaning outexecuted by the police in our offices. 

My first impulse, on returning, was to tear these tale-bearing sheets inpieces; then, after reflection, having satisfied myself that there wasnothing in these _Memoirs_ to compromise me, I decided, instead ofdestroying them, to continue them, with the certainty of makingsomething out of them some day or other. There is no lack in Paris ofnovelists without imagination, who have not the art of introducinganything but true stories in their books, and who will not be sorry tobuy a little volume of facts. That will be my way of revenging myself onthis crew of high-toned pirates with whom I have become involved, to myshame and to my undoing. 

It was necessary, however, for me to find some way of occupying myleisure time. Nothing to do at the office, which has been utterlydeserted since the legal investigation began, except to pile upsummonses of all colors. I have renewed my former practice of writingfor the cook on the second floor, Mademoiselle Séraphine, from whom Iaccept some trifling supplies which I keep in the safe, once more apantry. The Governor's wife also is very kind to me and stuffs mypockets whenever I go to see her in her fine apartments in the Chausséed'Antin. Nothing is changed there. The same magnificence, the samecomfort; furthermore, a little baby three months old, the seventh, and asuperb nurse, whose Normandy cap creates a sensation when they drive inthe Bois de Boulogne. I suppose that when people are once fairly startedon the railway of fortune they require a certain time to slacken theirspeed or come to a full stop. And then, too, that thief of a Paganetti, to guard against accidents, had put everything in his wife's name. Perhaps that is why that jabbering Italian has taken a vow of affectionfor him which nothing can weaken. He is a fugitive, he is in hiding; butshe is fully convinced that her husband is a little St. John inguilelessness, a victim of his kindness of heart and credulity. Youshould hear her talk: "You know him, Moussiou Passajon. You know whetherhe is _e_scrupulous. Why, as true as there's a God, if my husband haddone the dishonest things they accuse him of, I myself--do you hearme--I myself would have put a gun in his hands, and I would have said:'Here, Tchecco, blow your head off!'" And the way she opens the nostrilsin her little turned-up nose, and her round black eyes, like two ballsof jet, makes you feel that that little Corsican from Île Rousse wouldhave done as she says. I tell you that damned Governor must be a shrewdfellow to deceive even his wife, to act a part in his own house, wherethe cleverest let themselves be seen as they are. 

Meanwhile all these people are living well; Bois-l'Héry at Mazas has hismeals sent from the Café Anglais, and Uncle Passajon is reduced toliving on odds and ends picked up in kitchens. However, we must notcomplain too much. There are those who are more unfortunate than we, M. Francis, for instance, whom I saw at the _Territoriale_ this morning, pale and thin, with disgraceful linen and ragged cuffs, which hecontinues to pull down as a matter of habit. 

I was just in the act of broiling a bit of bacon in front of the fire inthe directors' room, my cover being laid on the corner of a marquetrytable with a newspaper underneath in order not to soil it. I invitedMonpavon's valet to share my frugal repast; but, because he has waitedon a marquis, that fellow fancies that he's one of the nobility, and hethanked me with a dignified air, which made me want to laugh when Ilooked at his hollow cheeks. He began by telling me that he was stillwithout news of his master, that they had sent him away from the club onRue Royale where all the papers were under seal and crowds of creditorsswooping down like flocks of swallows on the marquis's trifling effects. "So that I find myself a little short, " added M. Francis. That meantthat he had not a sou in his pocket, that he had slept two nights on thebenches along the boulevards, waked every minute by policemen, compelled to get up, to feign drunkenness in order to obtain anothershelter. As for eating, I believe that he had not done that for a longwhile, for he stared at the food with hungry eyes that made one's heartache, and when I had forcibly placed a slice of bacon and a glass ofwine in front of him, he fell on them like a wolf. The blood instantlycame to his cheeks, and as he ate he began to chatter and chatter. 

"Do you know, Père Passajon, " he said between two mouthfuls, "I knowwhere he is--I've seen him. "

He winked slyly. For my part, I stared at him in amazement. 

"In God's name, what have you seen, Monsieur Francis?"

"The marquis, my master--yonder in the little white house behind NotreDame. " He did not say the morgue, because that is a too vulgar word. "Iwas very sure I should find him there. I went straight there the nextday. And there he was. Oh! very well hidden, I promise you. No one buthis valet de chambre could have recognized him. His hair all gray, histeeth gone, and his real wrinkles, his sixty-five years that he used tofix up so well. As he lay there on that marble slab with the faucetdripping on him, I fancied I saw him at his dressing table. "

"And you said nothing?"

"No, I had known his intentions on that subject for a long while. I lethim go out of the world quietly, in the English fashion, as he wantedto do. All the same, he might have given me a bit of bread before hewent, when I had been in his service twenty years. "

Suddenly he brought his fist down upon the table in a rage:

"When I think that, if I had chosen, I might have entered Mora's serviceinstead of Monpavon's, that I might have had Louis's place! There was alucky dog! Think of the rolls of a thousand he nabbed at his duke'sdeath!--And the clothes the duke left, shirts by the hundred, adressing-gown in blue fox-skin worth more than twenty thousand francs!And there's that Noël, he must have lined his pockets! Simply by makinghaste, _parbleu!_ for he knew it couldn't last long. And there's nothingto be picked up on Place Vendôme now. An old gendarme of a mother whomanages everything. They're selling Saint-Romans, they're selling thepictures. Half of the house is to let. It's the end of everything. "

I confess that I could not help showing my satisfaction; for, after all, that wretched Jansoulet is the cause of all our misfortunes. A man whoboasted of being so rich and talked about it everywhere. The public wastaken in by it, like the fish that sees scales shining in a net. He haslost millions, I grant you; but why did he let people think he hadplenty more? They have arrested Bois-l'Héry, but he's the one theyshould have arrested. --Ah! if we had had another expert, I am sure itwould have been done long ago. --Indeed, as I said to Francis, one hasonly to look at that parvenu of a Jansoulet to see what he amounts to. Such a face, like a high and mighty brigand!

"And so common, " added the former valet. 

"Not the slightest moral character. "

"Utter lack of breeding. --However, he's under water, and Jenkins too, and many others with them. "

"What! the doctor too? That's too bad. Such a polite, pleasant man!"

"Yes, there's another man that's being sold out. Horses, carriages, furniture. The courtyard at his house is full of placards and soundsempty as if death had passed that way. The château at Nanterre's forsale. There were half a dozen 'little Bethlehems' left, and they packedthem off in a cab. It's the crash, I tell you, Père Passajon, a crashthat we may not see the end of, perhaps, because we're both old, but itwill be complete. Everything's rotten; everything must burst!"

It was horrible to see that old flunkey of the Empire, gaunt andstooping, covered with filth and crying like Jeremiah: "This is theend, " with his toothless mouth wide open like a great black hole. I wasafraid and ashamed before him, I longed to see his back; and I thoughtto myself: "O Monsieur Chalmette! O my little vineyard at Montbars!"

Same date. 

Great news! Madame Paganetti came this afternoon mysteriously andbrought me a letter from the Governor. He is in London, just about tostart a magnificent enterprise. Splendid offices in the finest part ofthe city; a stock company with superb prospects. He requests me to joinhim there, "happy, " he says, "to repair in that way the wrong that hasbeen done me. " I shall have twice the salary I had at the_Territoriale_, with lodgings and fuel thrown in, five shares in the newcompany, and all my back pay in full. Only a trifling advance to be madefor travelling expenses and some few importunate debts in the quarter. _Vive la joie!_ my fortune is assured. I must write to the notary atMontbars to raise some money on my vineyard. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

AT BORDIGHERA. 

As M. Joyeuse had informed the examining magistrate, Paul de Géry was onhis way home from Tunis after an absence of three weeks. Threeinterminable weeks, passed in struggling amid a network of intrigues, ofplots cunningly devised by the powerful enmity of the Hemerlingues, wandering from office to office, from department to department, throughthat vast _résidence_ on the Bardo, where all the different departmentsof the State are collected in the same frowning enclosure, bristlingwith culverins, under the immediate supervision of the master, like hisstables and his harem. Immediately on his arrival Paul had learned thatthe Chamber of Justice was beginning to hear the Jansoulet case insecret, --a mockery of a trial, lost beforehand; and the Nabob's closedcounting-rooms on the Marine Quay, the seals placed upon his cash boxes, his vessels lying at anchor in the harbor of Goletta, the guard of_chaouchs_ around his palaces, already denoted a species of civil death, an intestacy as to which there would soon be nothing left to do butdivide the spoils. 

Not a champion, not a friend in that greedy pack; even the Frankishcolony seemed not displeased at the downfall of a courtier who had solong obstructed all the roads to favor by occupying them himself. It wasabsolutely hopeless to think of rescuing that victim from the bey'sclutches in the absence of a signal triumph in the Chamber of Deputies. All that de Géry could hope to do was to save a few spars from thewreck, and even that required haste, for he expected from day to day tobe advised of his friend's complete discomfiture. 

He took the field, therefore, and went about his operations with anactivity which nothing could abate, neither Oriental cajolery, thatrefined honey-sweet courtesy beneath which lurk savage ferocity anddissolute morals, nor the hypocritically indifferent smiles, nor thedemure airs, the folded arms which invoke divine fatalism when humanfalsehood fails of its object. The _sang-froid_ of that cool-headedlittle Southerner, in whom all the exuberant qualities of his countrymenwere condensed, stood him in at least as good stead as his perfectfamiliarity with the French law, of which the Code of Tunis is simply adisfigured copy. 

By adroit manoeuvring and circumspection, and in spite of theintrigues of Hemerlingue _fils_, who had great influence at the Bardo, he succeeded in exempting from confiscation the money loaned by theNabob a few months before, and in extorting ten millions out of fifteenfrom the rapacious Mohammed. On the morning of the very day when thatsum was to be paid over to him he received a despatch from Parisannouncing that the election was annulled. He hurried at once to thepalace, desirous to reach there in advance of the news; and on hisreturn, with his ten millions in drafts on Marseille safely bestowed inhis pocket-book, he passed Hemerlingue's carriage on the road, its threemules tearing along at full speed. The gaunt, owl-like face was radiant. As de Géry realized that if he remained only a few hours longer at Tunishis drafts would be in great danger of being confiscated, he engaged hispassage on an Italian packet that was to sail for Genoa the next day andpassed the night on board, and his mind was not at rest until he saw thewhite terraces of Tunis at the upper end of its bay, and the cliffs ofCape Carthage fading from sight behind him. When they entered the harborof Genoa, the packet, as it ran alongside the wharf, passed close to alarge yacht flying the Tunisian flag among a number of small flags withwhich she was decorated. De Géry was greatly excited, thinking for amoment that he was pursued and that on going ashore he might have ascuffle with the Italian police like a common pickpocket. But no, theyacht was lying quietly at anchor, her crew were scrubbing the deck andrepainting the red mermaid that formed her figurehead as if somepersonage of importance were expected on board. Paul had no curiosity toascertain who that personage might be; he simply rode across the marblecity and returned by the railway which runs from Genoa to Marseille, following the coast; a marvellous road, where you pass from the inkydarkness of tunnels into the dazzling splendor of the blue sea, but sonarrow that accidents are very frequent. 

At Savona the train stopped and the passengers were told that they couldgo no farther, as one of the small bridges across the streams that rushdown from the mountain into the sea had broken down during the night. They must wait for the engineer and workmen who had been summoned bytelegraph, stay there half a day perhaps. It was early morning. TheItalian town was just awaking in one of those hazy dawns which promiseextreme heat during the day. While the passengers scattered, seekingrefuge in hotels or restaurants, or wandering about the town, de Géry, distressed by the delay, tried to find some way of avoiding the loss often hours or more. He thought of poor Jansoulet, whose honor and whoselife might perhaps be saved by the money he was bringing, of his dearAline, the thought of whom had not left him once during his journey, anymore than the portrait she had given him. Suddenly it occurred to him tohire one of the _calesinos_, four-horse vehicles which make the journeyfrom Genoa to Nice along the Italian Corniche, a fascinating drive oftentaken by foreigners, lovers, and gamblers who have been lucky at Monaco. The driver agreed to be at Nice early; but even though he should reachthere no sooner than by waiting for the train, the impatient travellerfelt an immense longing to be relieved of the necessity of pacing thestreets, to know that the space between him and his desire decreasedwith every revolution of the wheels. 

Ah! on a lovely June morning, at our friend Paul's age and with one'sheart overflowing with love as his was, to fly along the white Cornicheroad behind four horses, is to feel an intoxication of travel that wordscannot describe. On the left, at a depth of a hundred feet, lies the seaflecked with foam, from the little round bays along the shore to thehazy horizon where the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky melttogether; red or white sails, like birds with a single wing spread tothe breeze, the slender silhouettes of steamers with a little smoketrailing behind like a farewell, and along the beaches, of which youcatch glimpses as the road winds, fishermen no larger than sea-mews intheir boats, lying at anchor, which look like nests. Then the roaddescends, follows a rapid downward slope along the base of cliffs andheadlands almost perpendicular. The cool breeze from the water reachesyou there, blends with the thousand little bells on the harnesses, whileat the right, on the mountain-side, the pines and green oaks rise tierabove tier, with gnarled roots protruding from the sterile soil, andcultivated olive-trees in terraces, as far as a broad ravine, white androcky, bordered with green plants which tell of the passage of thewaters, the dry bed of a torrent up which toil laden mules, sure oftheir footing among the loose shingle, where a washerwoman stoops besidea microscopic pool, a few drops remaining from the great winterfreshets. From time to time you rumble through the one street of avillage, or rather of a small town of historic antiquity, grown rustywith too much sunshine, the houses crowded closely together andconnected by dark archways, a network of covered lanes which climb thesheer cliff with snatches of light from above, openings like the mouthsof mines affording glimpses of broods of children with curly hair like ahalo about their heads, baskets of luscious fruit, a woman descendingthe rough pavements with a pitcher on her head or a distaff in her hand. Then, at a corner of the street, the blue twinkling of the waves, immensity once more. 

But as the day wore on, the sun, mounting higher in the heavens, scattered its beams over the sea just emerging from its mists, heavywith sleep, dazed, motionless, with a quartz-like transparence, andmyriads of rays fell upon the water as if arrow-points had pricked it, making a dazzling reflection, doubled in intensity by the whiteness ofthe cliffs and the soil, by a veritable African sirocco which raised thedust in a spiral column as the carriage passed. They reached thehottest, the most sheltered portions of the Corniche, --a genuinelytropical temperature, where dates, cactus, the aloe, with its tall, candelabra-like branches, grow in the fields. When he saw those slendertrunks, that fantastic vegetation shooting up in the white, hot air, when he felt the blinding dust crunching under the wheels like snow, deGéry, his eyes partly closed, half-dreaming in that leaden noondayheat, fancied that he was making once more the tiresome journey fromTunis to the Bardo, which he had made so often in a strange medley ofLevantine chariots, brilliant liveries, _meahris_ with long neck andhanging lip, gayly-caparisoned mules, young asses, Arabs in rags, half-naked negroes, great functionaries in full dress, with theirescorts of honor. Should he find yonder, where the road skirts gardensof palm-trees, the curious, colossal architecture of the bey's palace, its close-meshed window gratings, its marble doors, its _moucharabies_cut out of wood and painted in vivid colors? It was not the Bardo, butthe pretty village of Bordighera, divided like all those on the coastinto two parts, the _Marine_ lying along the shore, and the upper town, connected by a forest of statuesque palms with slender stalks anddrooping tops, --veritable rockets of verdure, showing stripes of bluethrough their innumerable regular clefts. 

The unendurable heat and the exhaustion of the horses compelled thetraveller to halt for two or three hours at one of the great hotels thatline the road and, from early in November, bring to that wonderfullysheltered little village all the luxurious life and animation of anaristocratic winter resort. But at that time of year the _Marine_ ofBordighera was deserted, save for a few fishermen, who were invisible atthat hour. The villas and hotels seemed dead, all their blinds andshades being closely drawn. The new arrival was led through long, cool, silent passages, to a large salon facing north, evidently a part of oneof the full suites which are generally let for the season, as it wasconnected with other rooms on either side by light doors. Whitecurtains, a carpet, the semi-comfort demanded by the English even whentravelling, and in front of the windows, which the innkeeper threw wideopen as a lure to the visitor, to induce him to make a more extendedhalt, the magnificent view of the mountain. An astonishing calm reignedin that huge, deserted inn, with no steward, no cook, noattendants, --none of the staff arrived until the first cool days, --andgiven over to the care of a native spoil-sauce, an expert in _stoffatos_and _risottos_, and to two stable-boys, who donned the regulation blackcoat, white cravat and pumps at meal hours. Luckily, de Géry proposed toremain there only an hour or two, --long enough to breathe, to rest hiseyes from the glare of burnished silver and to free his heavy head fromthe helmet with the painful chin-strap that the sun had placed upon it. 

From the couch on which he lay, the beautiful landscape, terraces oflight, quivering olive-trees, orange-groves of darker hue, their leavesgleaming as if wet in the moving rays, seemed to come down to his windowin tiers of verdure of different shades, amid which the scattered villasstood forth in dazzling whiteness, among them Maurice Trott, thebanker's, recognizable by the capricious richness of its architectureand the height of its palm-trees. The Levantine's palace, whose gardensextended to the very windows of the hotel, had sheltered for severalmonths past an artistic celebrity, the sculptor Bréhat, who was dying ofconsumption and owed the prolongation of his life to that princelyhospitality. This proximity of a famous moribund, of which the landlordwas very proud and which he would have been glad to charge in hisbill, --the name of Bréhat, which de Géry had so often heard mentionedwith admiration in Felicia Ruys' studio, led his thoughts back to thelovely face with the pure outlines, which he had seen for the last timein the Bois de Boulogne, leaning upon Mora's shoulder. What had becomeof the unfortunate girl when that support had failed her? Would thelesson profit her in the future? And, by a strange coincidence, while hewas thinking thus of Felicia, a great white grey-hound went friskingalong a tree-lined avenue in the sloping garden before him. One wouldhave said that it was Kadour himself, --the same short hair, the samefierce, slender red jaws. Paul, at his open window, was assailed in aninstant by all sorts of visions, sweet and depressing. Perhaps thesuperb scenery before him, the lofty mountain up which a blue shadow wasrunning, tarrying in all the inequalities of the ground, assisted thevagabondage of his thought. Under the orange and lemon trees, set out instraight lines for cultivation, stretched vast fields of violets inclose, regular clusters, traversed by little irrigating canals, whosewalls of white stone made sharp breaks in the luxuriant verdure. 

An exquisite odor arose, of violets fermented in the sun, a hot boudoirperfume, enervating, weakening, which called up before de Géry's eyesfeminine visions, Aline, Felicia, gliding across the enchantedlandscape, in that blue-tinted atmosphere, that elysian light whichseemed to be the visible perfume of such a multitude of flowers in fullbloom. A sound of doors closing made him open his eyes. Some one hadentered the adjoining room. He heard a dress brushing against the thinpartition, the turning of leaves in a book in which the reader seemed tofeel no absorbing interest; for he was startled by a long sigh ending ina yawn. Was he still asleep, still dreaming? Had he not heard the cry ofthe "jackal in the desert, " so thoroughly in harmony with the heavy, scorching temperature without? No. Nothing more. He dozed again; andthis time all the confused images that haunted him took definite shapein a dream, a very lovely dream. 

He was taking his wedding journey with Aline. A fascinating bride shewas. Bright eyes, overflowing with love and faith, which knew only him, looked at none but him. In that same hotel parlor, on the other side ofthe centre table, the sweet girl was sitting in a white _négligé_morning costume which smelt of violets and of the dainty lace of thetrousseau. One of those wedding-journey breakfasts, served immediatelyafter rising, in sight of the blue sea and the clear sky which tingewith azure the glass from which you drink, the eyes into which you gaze, the future, life and the vast expanse of space. Oh! what superbweather, what a divine, youth-renewing light, and how happy they were!

And suddenly, amid their kisses, their intoxicating bliss, Aline becamesad. Her lovely eyes were dimmed with tears. "Felicia is there, " shesaid, "you will not love me any more. " And he laughed at her:"Felicia, --here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes, she is there. " Trembling, shepointed to the adjoining room, where he heard Felicia's voice, mingledwith fierce barking. "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, indignant voice of one who seeks to remain concealed andsuddenly finds that she is discovered. 

Awakened with a start, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in theempty room, beside a table at which no one else was sitting, his lovelydream flown away through the window to the great hillside which filledthe whole field of vision and seemed to stoop toward the house. But hereally heard the barking of a dog in the adjoining room and repeatedblows on the door. 

"Open the door. It is I--Jenkins. "

Paul sat up on his couch in speechless amazement. Jenkins in that house?How could that be? To whom was he talking? What voice was about to replyto him? There was no reply. A light step walked to the door and the boltwas nervously drawn back. 

"At last I have found you, " said the Irishman, entering the room. 

And in truth, if he had not taken pains to announce himself, Paul, hearing it through the partition, would never have attributed thatbrutal, hoarse, savage tone to the oily-mannered doctor. 

"At last I have found you, after eight days of searching, of rushingfrantically from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that youhadn't gone, as the yacht was still in the roads. And I was on the pointof investigating all the hotels along the shore when I rememberedBréhat. I thought that you would want to stop and see him as you passed. So I came here. It was he who told me that you were at this house. "

To whom was he speaking? What extraordinary obstinacy the person showedin not replying! At last a rich, melancholy voice, which Paul knew well, made the heavy resonant air of the hot afternoon vibrate in its turn. 

"Well! yes, Jenkins, here I am. What of it, pray?"

Paul could see through the wall the disdainful, drooping mouth, curledin disgust. 

"I have come to prevent you from going, from perpetrating this folly. "

"What folly? I have work to do in Tunis. I must go there. "

"Why, you can't think of such a thing, my dear child. "

"Oh! enough of your paternal airs, Jenkins. I know what is hiddenunderneath. Pray talk to me as you did just now. I prefer you as thebulldog, rather than as the fawning cur. I'm less afraid of you. "

"Very good! I tell you that you must be mad to go to that country allalone, young and lovely as you are. "

"Why, am I not always alone? Would you have me take Constance, at herage?"

"What about me?"

"You?" She emphasized the word with a most satirical laugh. "And Paris?and your patients? Deprive Paris of its Cagliostro! No, indeed, never!"

"I am thoroughly resolved, however, to follow you wherever you go, " saidJenkins, with decision. 

There was a moment's pause. Paul wondered if it were very dignified inhim to listen to this discussion, which seemed pregnant with terribledisclosures. But, in addition to his fatigue, an unconquerable curiosityglued him to his place. It seemed to him that the engrossing enigma bywhich he had been so long puzzled and disturbed, to which his mind stillheld by the end of its veil of mystery, was about to speak at last, toreveal itself, to disclose the woman, sorrowful or perverse, hiddenbeneath the shell of the worldly artist. So he remained perfectly still, holding his breath, but with no need to listen closely; for the others, believing themselves alone in the hotel, allowed their passions andtheir voices to rise without restraint. 

"After all, what do you want of me?"

"I want you. "

"Jenkins!"

"Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me ever to utter such words beforeyou; but others than I have said them to you and more too--"

Two nervous steps brought her nearer to the apostle, placed thebreathless contempt of her retort close to his broad sensual face. 

"And if that were true, villain! If I were unable to defend myselfagainst disgust and ennui, if I did lose my pride, is it for you tomention it? As if you were not the cause of it, as if you had notwithered and saddened my life forever. "

And three swift, burning words revealed to the horrified Paul de Gérythe shocking scene of that assault disguised by loving guardianship, against which the girl's spirit and mind and dreams had had to struggleso long, and which had left her the incurable depression of prematuresorrow, a loathing for life almost before it had begun, and that curl atthe corner of the lip like the visible wreck of a smile. 

"I loved you, --I love you. Passion carries everything before it, "Jenkins replied in a hollow voice. 

"Very well, love me, if it amuses you. For my part, I hate you, not onlybecause of the injury you have done me and all the beliefs and laudableenthusiasms that you killed in me, but because you represent what arethe most execrable and hideous things under the sun to me, hypocrisy andfalsehood. Yes, in that worldly masquerade, that mass of falsepretences, of grimaces, of cowardly, indecent conventions which havesickened me so thoroughly that I am running away, exiling myself inorder to avoid seeing them, that I prefer to them the galleys, thegutter, or to walk the street as a prostitute, your mask, O sublimeJenkins, is the one that inspires the greatest horror in me. You havecomplicated our French hypocrisy, which consists mainly in smiles andcourtesies, with your effusive English handshakes, your cordial anddemonstrative loyalty. Everybody is taken in by it. People speak of'honest Jenkins, ' 'excellent, worthy Jenkins. ' But I know you, my man, and for all your fine motto, so insolently displayed on your envelopes, on your seal, your cuff-buttons, your hat-buckles and the panels of yourcarriages, I always see the knave that you are, showing everywherearound the edges of your disguise. "

Her voice hissed between her clenched teeth with an indescribably savageintonation; and Paul expected some frantic outburst on the part ofJenkins, rebelling against such a storm of insults. But no. Thatexhibition of hatred and contempt on the part of the woman he lovedevidently caused him more sorrow than anger; for he answered low, in atone of heart-broken gentleness:--

"Ah! you are cruel. If you knew how you hurt me! Hypocrite, yes, it istrue; but a man isn't born that way, he becomes so perforce, in face ofthe harsh vicissitudes of life. When you have the wind against you andwant to go ahead, you tack. I tacked. Charge it to my miserablebeginnings, to an unsuccessful entrance on the stage, and agree at leastthat one thing in me has never lied: my passion! Nothing has succeededin repelling it, neither your contempt, nor your insults, nor all thatI read in your eyes, which have never once smiled on me in all theseyears. And it is my passion which gives me strength, even after what Ihave just heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen. You informed me oneday that you needed a husband, some one to watch over you while you wereat work, to relieve poor, worn-out Crenmitz from sentry duty. Those wereyour own words, which tore my heart then because I was not free. Noweverything is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?"

"What about your wife?" cried the girl, while Paul asked himself thesame question. 

"My wife is dead. "

"Dead? Madame Jenkins? Is that true?"

"You never knew the one to whom I refer. The other was not my wife. WhenI met her, I was already married, in Ireland. Years ago. A horriblemarriage, entered into with a rope around my neck. My dear, attwenty-five this alternative was presented to me: imprisonment for debtor Miss Strang, a pimply-faced, gouty old maid, the sister of amoney-lender who had advanced me five hundred francs to pay for mymedical studies. I preferred the jail; but weeks and months of itexhausted my courage and I married Miss Strang, who brought me as herdowry--my note of hand. You can imagine what my life was between thosetwo monsters who adored each other. A jealous, sterile wife. The brotherspying upon me, following me everywhere. I might have fled. But onething detained me. The money-lender was said to be enormously rich. Iproposed at all events to secure the profits of my cowardice. You see, Itell you everything. However, I was well punished. Old Strang diedinsolvent; he was a gambler, and had ruined himself without saying aword. Thereupon I placed my wife's rheumatism in an asylum and came toFrance. I had to begin life anew, to struggle with poverty once more. But I had on my side experience, hatred and contempt for mankind, andfreedom, for I did not suspect that the horrible ball and chain of thatinfernal union would continue to impede my steps at a distance. Luckilyit's all over, and I am free at last. "

"Yes, Jenkins, free. But why doesn't it occur to you to marry the poorcreature who has shared your life so long, humble and devoted to you aswe have all seen her?"

"Oh!" he said with a burst of sincere feeling, "between my two galleys Ibelieve I preferred the other, where I could show my indifference or myhatred without restraint. But the ghastly comedy of conjugal love, ofunwearying happiness, when for so many years I have loved no one butyou, thought of no one but you! There's no such torture on earth. If Ican judge by my own experience, the poor woman must have shouted withrelief and joy when we separated. That is the only farewell greeting Ihoped for from her. "

"But who forced you to use such restraint. "

"Paris, society, the world. Being married according to public opinion, we were bound by it. "

"And now you are no longer so bound?"

"Now there is one thing that overshadows everything else, the thought oflosing you, of seeing you no more. Oh! when I learned of your flight, when I saw the sign: TO LET, on your door, I felt that the time forposes and grimaces had gone by, that there was nothing for me to do butto pack up and rush after my happiness, which you were carrying away. You left Paris, I did the same. Everything in your house was sold;everything in my house is to be sold. "

"And she?" rejoined Felicia, with a shudder. "She, the irreproachablecompanion, the virtuous woman whom no one has ever suspected, where willshe go? what will she do? And you have come to propose to me to take herplace? A stolen place, and in what a hell! Aha! And our motto, honestJenkins, virtuous Jenkins, what are we to do with that? 'Do good withouthope, ' old man!"

At that sneer, stinging as a blow from a whip, which must have left itsmark in red on his face, the wretch rejoined, gasping for breath:

"Enough, enough; do not mock me so. It is too horrible, after all thathas gone. In God's name doesn't it touch you to be loved as I love you, sacrificing everything to you, wealth, honor, reputation? Come, look atme. However carefully applied my mask may have been, I have torn it offfor you, I have torn it off before all the world. And now, look! here isthe hypocrite!"

There was a dull sound as of two knees falling upon the floor. And madwith love, stammering, humbling himself before her, he implored her toconsent to marry him, to give him the right to go everywhere with her, to defend her; then words failed him, his voice was choked by apassionate sob, so deep, so heart-rending, that it might well havetouched any heart, especially in presence of that gorgeous scenery lyingimpassive in the perfumed, enervating heat. But Felicia was not moved, and her manner was still haughty as she said brusquely: "Enough of this, Jenkins, what you ask is impossible. We have nothing to conceal fromeach other; and after your confidences of a moment ago, I propose totell you something which it wounds my pride to tell, but which yourpersistence seems to me to deserve. I was Mora's mistress. "

Paul was not unprepared for that. And yet that sweet voice burdened withsuch a confession was so sad amid the intoxicating aromas of that lovelyblue atmosphere, that his heart was sorely oppressed, and he had in hismouth the taste of tears left by an unavowed regret. 

"I knew it, " replied Jenkins in a hollow voice. "I have here the lettersyou wrote him. "

"My letters?"

"Oh! I will give them back to you; take them. I know them by heart, bydint of reading and re-reading them. That is the kind of thing thathurts when one is in love. But I have undergone other tortures. When Ithink that it was I--" he paused, he was suffocating--"I who wasdestined to furnish combustion for your flames, to warm that frozenlover, to send him to you, ardent and rejuvenated! Ah! he made away withthe pearls, I tell you. It was of no use for me to say no, he alwayswanted more. At last I went mad. 'You want to burn, villain. Well, burn!'"

 * * * * *

Paul sprang to his feet in dismay. Was he about to hear the confessionof a crime?

But he had not to undergo the shame of listening further. 

A sharp knock, on his door this time, warned him that the _calesino_ wasready. 

"Hallo! Signor Francese. "

There was profound silence in the adjoining room, then a hurriedwhispering. There was somebody close by, who was listening tothem!--Paul de Géry rushed downstairs. He longed to be far away fromthat hotel parlor, to escape the haunting memory of the horrors that hadbeen disclosed to him. 

As the post-chaise started, he saw, between the cheap white curtainsthat hang at every window in the South, a pale face with the hair of agoddess and great blazing eyes, watching for him to pass. But a glanceat Aline's portrait soon banished that disturbing vision, and, curedforever of his former passion, he travelled until evening through anenchanted country with the pretty bride of the breakfast, who carriedaway in the folds of her modest dress, of her maidenly cloak, all theviolets of Bordighera. 

[Illustration: "_The First Night of 'Révolte. '_"]

CHAPTER XXV

THE FIRST NIGHT OF "RÉVOLTE. "

"Ready for the first act!"

That cry from the stage manager, standing, with his hands at his mouthlike a trumpet, at the foot of the actors' stairway, soars upward in itslofty well, rolls hither and thither, loses itself in the recesses ofpassage-ways filled with the noise of closing doors and hurriedfootsteps, of despairing calls to the wig-maker and the dressers, whileon the landings of the different floors, slowly and majestically, holding their heads perfectly still for fear of disarranging theslightest detail of their costumes, all the characters of the first actof _Révolte_ appear one by one, clad in elegant modern ball costumes, with much creaking of new shoes, rustling of silk trains, and clankingof handsome bracelets pushed up by the gloves in process of beingbuttoned. They all seem excited, nervous, pale under their paint, andlittle shivers pass in waves of shadow over the skilfully preparedvelvety flesh of shoulders drenched with white lead. They talk butlittle, their mouths are dry. The most self-assured, while affecting tosmile, have in their eyes and their voices the hesitation ofabsent-mindedness, that feeling of apprehension of the battle before thefootlights which will always be one of the most potent attractions ofthe actor's profession, its piquancy, its ever-recurring springtime. 

On the crowded stage, where scene-shifters and machinists are runninghither and thither, jostling one another in the soft, snowy light fromthe wings, soon to give place, when the curtain rises, to the brilliantlight from the theatre, Cardailhac in black coat and white cravat, hishat cocked over one ear, casts a last glance over the arrangement of thescenery, hastens the workmen, compliments the _ingénue_, humming a tunethe while, radiant and superb. To see him, no one would ever suspect theterrible anxieties by which his mind is beset. As he was involved withall the others in the Nabob's downfall, in which his stock company wasswallowed up, he is staking his little all on the play to be given thisevening, and will be forced--if it does not succeed--to leave thismarvellous scenery, these rich stuffs at a hundred francs the yard, unpaid for. His fourth failure is staring him in the face. But, deucetake it! our manager has confidence. Success, like all the monsters thatfeed on man, loves youth; and this unknown author whose name is entirelynew on the posters, flatters the gambler's superstitions. 

André Maranne is not so confident. As the time for the performance drawsnear, he loses faith in his work, dismayed by the sight of the crowdedhall, which he surveys through a hole in the curtain as through thesmall end of a stereoscope. 

A magnificent audience, filling the hall to the ceiling, despite thelateness of the season and the fashionable taste for going early to thecountry; for Cardailhac, the declared foe of nature and the country, whoalways struggles to keep Parisians in Paris as late as possible, hassucceeded in filling his theatre, in making it as brilliant as inmid-winter. Fifteen hundred heads swarming under the chandeliers, erect, leaning forward, turned aside, questioning, with a great abundance ofshadows and reflections; some massed in the dark corners of the pit, others brilliantly illuminated by the reflection of the white walls ofthe lobby shining through the open doors of the boxes; a first-nightaudience, always the same, that collective brigand from the theatricalcolumns of the newspapers, who goes everywhere and carries by assaultthose much-envied places when some claim to favor or the exercise ofsome public function does not give them to him. 

In the orchestra-stalls, lady-killers, clubmen, glistening craniums withbroad bald streaks fringed with scanty hair, light gloves, hugeopera-glasses levelled at the boxes. In the galleries, a medley ofcastes and fine dresses, all the names well known at functions of thesort, and the embarrassing promiscuousness which seats the chaste, modest smile of the virtuous woman beside the eyes blazing with kohl andthe lips streaked with vermilion of the other kind. White hats, pinkhats, diamonds and face paint. Higher up, the boxes present the samescene of confusion: actresses and courtesans, ministers, ambassadors, famous authors, critics solemn of manner and frowning, lying back intheir chairs with the impassive gloom of judges beyond the reach ofcorruption. The proscenium boxes are ablaze with light and splendor, occupied by celebrities of the world of finance, décolletée, bare-armedwomen, gleaming with jewels like the Queen of Sheba when she visited theKing of the Jews. But one of those great boxes on the left is entirelyunoccupied, and attracts general attention by its peculiar decoration, lighted by a Moorish lantern at the rear. Over the whole assemblagehovers an impalpable floating dust, the flickering of the gas, whichmingles its odor with all Parisian recreations, and its short, sharpwheezing like a consumptive's breath, accompanying the slow waving offans. And with all the rest, ennui, deathly ennui, the ennui of seeingthe same faces always in the same seats, with their affectations ortheir defects, the monotony of society functions, which results everywinter in turning Paris into a backbiting provincial town, more gossipyand narrow-minded than the provinces themselves. 

Maranne noticed that sullen humor, that evident weariness on the part ofthe audience, and as he reflected upon the change that would be wroughtby the success of his drama in his modest life, now made up entirely ofhopes, he asked himself, in an agony of dread, what he could do to bringhis thoughts home to that multitude of human beings, to force them tolay aside their preoccupied manner, to set in motion in that vast thronga single current which would attract to him those distraught glances, those minds, now scattered over all the notes in the key-board and sodifficult to bring into harmony. Instinctively he sought friendly faces, a box opposite the stage filled by the Joyeuse family; Élise and theyounger girls in front, and behind them Aline and their father, a lovelyfamily group, like a bouquet dripping with dew in a display ofartificial flowers. And while all Paris was asking disdainfully: "Whoare those people?" the poet placed his destiny in those littlefairy-like hands, newly gloved for the occasion, which would boldly givethe signal for applause when it was time. 

"Clear the stage!" Maranne has barely time to rush into the wings; andsuddenly he hears, far, very far away, the first words of his play, rising, like a flock of frightened birds, in the silence and immensityof the theatre. A terrible moment! Where should he go? What would becomeof him? Should he remain there leaning against a post, with earsstrained and a feeling of tightness at his heart; to encourage theactors when he was so in need of encouragement himself? He prefers toconfront the danger face to face, and he glides through a little doorinto the lobby outside the boxes and stops at a box on the first tierwhich he opens softly. --"Sh!--it's I. " Some one is sitting in theshadow, a woman whom all Paris knows, and who keeps out of sight. Andrétakes his place beside her, and sitting side by side, invisible to all, the mother and son, trembling with excitement, watch the performance. 

The audience was dumbfounded at first. The Théâtre des Nouveautés, situated at the heart of the boulevard, where its main entrance was ablaze of light, among the fashionable restaurants and select clubs, --atheatre to which small parties used to adjourn after a choice dinner tohear an act or two of something racy, had become in the hands of itsclever manager the most popular of all Parisian play-houses, with nowell-defined speciality but providing a little of all sorts, from thespectacular fairy-play which exhibits the women in scant attire, to thegreat modern drama which does the same for our morals. Cardailhac wasespecially bent upon justifying his title of "manager of theNouveautés, "[9] and since the Nabob's millions had been behind theundertaking, he had striven to give the frequenters of the boulevardsome dazzling surprises. That of this evening surpassed them all: theplay was in verse--and virtuous. 

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Novelties. 

A virtuous play!

The old monkey had realized that the time had come to try that _coup_, and he tried it. After the first moments of amazement, and a fewmelancholy ejaculations here and there in the boxes: "Listen! it's inverse!" the audience began to feel the charm of that elevating, healthywork, as if someone had shaken over it, in that rarefied atmosphere, some cool essence, pleasant to inhale, an elixir of life perfumed withthe wild thyme of the hillsides. 

"Ah! this is fine--it is restful. "

That was the general exclamation, a thrill of comfort, a bleat ofsatisfaction accompanying each line. It was restful to the corpulentHemerlingue, puffing in his proscenium box on the ground floor, as in asty of cherry-colored satin. It was restful to tall Suzanne Bloch, inher antique head-dress with crimps peeping out from under a diadem ofgold; and Amy Férat beside her, all in white like a bride, sprigs oforange-blossoms in her hair dressed _à la chien_, it was restful to her, too. 

There were numbers of such creatures there, some very stout with anunhealthy stoutness picked up in all sorts of seraglios, triple-chinnedand with an idiotic look; others absolutely green despite their rouge, as if they had been dipped in a bath of that arsenite of copper known tocommerce as "Paris green, " so faded and wrinkled that they kept out ofsight in the back of their boxes, letting nothing be seen save a bit ofwhite arm or a still shapely shoulder. Then there were old beaux, limpand stooping, of the type then known as little _crevés_, with protrudingneck and hanging lips, incapable of standing straight, or of uttering aword without a break. And all these people exclaimed as one man: "Thisis fine--it is restful. " Beau Moëssard hummed it like a tune under hislittle blond moustache, while his queen in a first tier box oppositetranslated it into her barbarous foreign tongue. Really it was restfulto them. But they did not say why they needed rest, from whatheart-sickening toil, from what enforced task as idlers and utterlyuseless creatures. 

All these well-disposed murmurs, confused and blended, began to give thetheatre the aspect that it wore on great occasions. Success was in theair, faces became brighter, the women seemed embellished by thereflection of the prevailing enthusiasm, of glances as thrilling asapplause. André, sitting beside his mother, thrilled with an unfamiliarpleasure, with that proud delight which one feels in stirring theemotions of a crowd, even though it be as a street-singer in thefaubourgs, with a patriotic refrain and two tremulous notes in one'svoice. Suddenly the whispering redoubled, changed into a tumult. Peoplebegan to move about and laugh sneeringly. What was happening? Someaccident on the stage? André, leaning forward in dismay toward hisactors, who were no less surprised than himself, saw that all theopera-glasses were levelled at the large proscenium box, empty untilthen, which some one had just entered and had taken his seat there, bothelbows on the velvet rail, opera-glass in hand, in ominous solitude. 

The Nabob had grown twenty years older in ten days. Those impulsiveSouthern natures, rich as they are in enthusiastic outbursts, inirresistible spurts of flame, collapse more utterly than others. Sincehis rejection by the Chamber the poor fellow had remained shut up inhis own room, with the curtains drawn, refusing to see the daylight orto cross the threshold beyond which life awaited him, engagements he hadentered into, promises made, a wilderness of protests and summonses. TheLevantine having gone to some watering-place, attended by her masseurand her negresses, absolutely indifferent to the ruin of thefamily, --Bompain, the man in the fez, aghast amid the constant demandsfor money, being utterly at a loss to know how to approach hisunfortunate employer, who was always in bed and turned his face to thewall as soon as any one mentioned business to him, --the old mother wasleft alone to struggle with the disaster, with the limited, guilelessknowledge of a village widow, who knows what a stamped paper is, and asignature, and who considers honor the most precious possession onearth. Her yellow cap appeared on every floor of the great mansion, overlooking the bills, introducing reforms among the servants, heedlessof outcries and humiliations. At every hour in the day the good womancould be seen striding along Place Vendôme, gesticulating, talking toherself, saying aloud: "Bah! I'll go and see the bailiff. " And she neverconsulted her son except when it was indispensable, and then only in afew concise words, careful to avoid looking at him. To arouse Jansouletfrom his torpor nothing less would suffice than a despatch from Paul deGéry at Marseille, announcing his arrival with ten millions. Tenmillions, that is to say, failure averted, a possibility of standingerect once more, of beginning life anew. And behold our Southerner, rebounding from the depths to which he had fallen, drunk with joy andhope. He ordered the windows to be thrown open, newspapers to bebrought. What a magnificent opportunity that first night of _Révolte_would afford him to show himself to the Parisians, who believed that hehad gone under, to re-enter the great eddying whirlpool through thefolding doors of his box at the Nouveautés! His mother, warned by aninstinctive dread, made a slight effort to hold him back. Paristerrified her now. She would have liked to take her child away to somesecluded corner in the South, to care for him with the Elder, both illwith the disease of the great city. But he was the master. It wasimpossible to resist the will of that man whom wealth had spoiled. Shehelped him to dress, "made him handsome, " as she laughingly said, andwatched him not without a certain pride as he left the house, superb, revivified, almost recovered from the terrible prostration of the lastfew days. 

Jansoulet quickly remarked the sensation caused by his presence in thetheatre. Being accustomed to such exhibitions of curiosity, he usuallyresponded to them without the least embarrassment, with his kindly, expansive smile; but this time the manifestation was unfriendly, almostinsulting. 

"What!--is that he?"

"There he is!"

"What impudence!"

Such exclamations went up from the orchestra stalls, mingled with manyothers. The seclusion and retirement in which he had taken refuge forthe past few days had left him in ignorance of the public exasperationin his regard, the sermons, the dithyrambs with which the newspaperswere filled on the subject of his corrupting wealth, articles writtenfor effect, hypocritical verbiage to which public opinion resorts fromtime to time to revenge itself on the innocent for all its concessionsto the guilty. It was a terrible disappointment, which caused him atfirst more pain than anger. Deeply moved, he concealed his distressbehind his opera-glass, turning three-fourths away from the audience andgiving close attention to the slightest details of the performance, butunable to avoid the scandalized scrutiny of which he was the victim, andwhich made his ears ring, his temples throb, and covered the dimmedlenses of his opera-glass with multi-colored circles, whirling about inthe first vagaries of apoplexy. 

When the act came to an end and the curtain fell, he remained, withoutmoving, in that embarrassed attitude; but the louder whispering, nolonger restrained by the stage dialogue, and the persistency of certaincurious persons who changed their seats in order to obtain a better viewof him, compelled him to leave his box, to rush out into the lobby likea wild beast fleeing from the arena through the circus. 

Under the low ceiling, in the narrow circular passage common in theatrelobbies, he stumbled upon a compact crowd of dandies, newspaper men, women in gorgeous hats, tightly laced, laughers by trade, shrieking withidiotic laughter as they leaned against the wall. From the open boxes, which sought a breath of fresh air from that swarming, noisy corridor, issued broken, confused fragments of conversation:

"A delightful play. It is so fresh and clean!"

"That Nabob! What insolence!"

"Yes, it really is very restful. One feels the better for--"

"How is it he hasn't been arrested yet?"

"A very young man, it seems; this is his first play. "

"Bois-l'Héry at Mazas!--It isn't possible. There's the marchioness justopposite us in the first gallery, with a new hat. "

"What does that prove? She's plying her trade of _lanceuse_. That's avery pretty hat, by the way--the colors of Desgranges' horse. "

"And Jenkins? What has become of Jenkins?"

"At Tunis with Felicia. Old Brahim saw them both. It seems that the beyhas taken a decided liking to the pearls. "

"_Bigre!_"

Farther on, sweet voices whispered:

"Go, father, do go. See how entirely alone he is, poor man. "

"But I don't know him, children. "

"Even so, just a bow. Something to show him that he isn't utterlyabandoned. "

Whereupon a little old gentleman, in a white cravat, with a very redface, darted to meet the Nabob and saluted him with a respectfulflourish of his hat. How gratefully, with what an eager, pleasant smile, was that single salutation returned, that salutation from a man whomJansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, but who, nevertheless, exerted a very great influence upon his destiny; for, except for PèreJoyeuse, the president of the council of the _Territoriale_ wouldprobably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois-l'Héry. So it isthat in the network of modern society, that vast labyrinth of selfishinterests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all castescommunicate between themselves, mysteriously connected by hidden bonds, from the most elevated to the humblest existences; therein lies theexplanation of the variegated coloring, the complication of this studyof manners, the assemblage of scattered threads of which the writer witha regard for truth is compelled to make the groundwork of his drama. 

Glances cast vaguely into the air, steps turned aimlessly aside, hatspulled abruptly over the eyes, in ten minutes the Nabob was subjected toall the outward manifestations of that terrible ostracism of Parisiansociety, where he had neither kindred nor substantial connections of anysort, and where contempt isolated him more surely than respect isolatesa sovereign when paying a visit. He staggered with embarrassment andshame. Some one said aloud: "He has been drinking, " and all that thepoor man could do was to go back into the salon of his box and close thedoor. Ordinarily that little _retiro_ was filled during the entr'acteswith financiers and journalists. They laughed and talked and smokedthere, making a great uproar; the manager always came to pay hisrespects to his partner. That evening, not a soul. And the absence ofCardailhac, with his keen scent for success, showed Jansoulet the fullmeasure of his disgrace. 

"What have I done to them? Why is it that Paris will no longer haveanything to do with me?"

He questioned himself thus in a solitude which was emphasized by thesounds all about, the sudden turning of keys in the doors of boxes, theinnumerable exclamations of an amused crowd. Then suddenly the newnessof his luxurious surroundings, the odd shadows cast by the Moorishlantern on the brilliant silk covering of the couch and the hangingsreminded him of the date of his arrival. Six months! Only six monthssince he arrived in Paris! Everything consumed and vanished in sixmonths! He relapsed into a sort of torpor from which he was aroused byenthusiastic applause and bravos. Clearly this play of _Révolte_ was agreat success. They had now reached the powerful, satirical passages;and the virulent declamation, a little emphatic in tone but relieved bya breath of youth and sincerity, made every heart beat fast after theidyllic effusions of the first act. Jansoulet determined to look andlisten with the rest. After all, the theatre belonged to him. His seatin that proscenium box had cost him more than a million; surely theleast he was entitled to was the privilege of occupying it. 

Behold him seated once more at the front of his box. In the hall aheavy, suffocating heat, stirred but not dissipated by the waving fans, their glittering spangles mingling their reflections with the impalpableoutbreathings of the silence. The audience listened intently to anindignant and spirited passage against the pirates, so numerous at thatperiod, who had become cocks of the roost after long haunting thedarkest corners to rob all who passed. Certainly Maranne, when he wrotethose fine lines, had had nobody less in his mind than the Nabob. Butthe audience saw in them an allusion to him; and while a triple salvo ofapplause greeted the end of the tirade, all eyes were turned toward thebox on the left, with an indignant, openly insulting movement. The poorwretch, pilloried in his own theatre! A pillory that had cost him sodear! That time he did not seek to avoid the affront, but settledhimself resolutely on his seat, with folded arms, and defied that crowd, which stared at him with its hundreds of upturned, sneering faces, thatvirtuous All-Paris which took him for a scapegoat and drove him forthafter loading all its crimes upon him. 

A pretty assemblage, in sooth, for such an exhibition! Opposite, the boxof an insolvent banker, the wife and the lover side by side in front, the husband in the shadow, neglected and grave. At one side the frequentcombination of a mother who has married her daughter according to her(the mother's) own heart, and to make the man she loved her son-in-law. Contraband couples too, courtesans flaunting the price of their shame, diamonds in circlets of flame riveted around arms and necks likedog-collars, stuffing themselves with bonbons, which they swallowed ingluttonous, beastly fashion because an exhibition of the animal naturein woman pleases those who pay for it. And those groups of effeminatefops, with low collars and painted eyebrows, whose embroidered lawnshirts and white satin corsets aroused admiration in the guest chambersat Compiègne; _mignons_ of Agrippa's day, who called one another: "Myheart, " or "My dear love. " Scandal and wickedness in every form, consciences sold or for sale, the vice of an epoch devoid of grandeur ororiginality, attempting to copy the freaks of all other epochs, andcontributing to the Jardin Bullier that duchess, the wife of a ministerof state, who rivalled the most shameless dancers of that resort. Andthey were the people who turned their back upon him, who cried out tohim: "Begone! You are unworthy. "

"I unworthy! Why, I am worth a hundred times more than the whole of you, vile wretches! You reproach me with my millions. In God's name, whohelped me squander them?--Look you, you cowardly, treacherous friend, hiding in the corner of your box your fat carcass like a sick pasha's! Imade your fortune as well as my own in the days when we sharedeverything like brothers. --And you, sallow-faced marquis, I paid ahundred thousand francs at the club to prevent your being expelled indisgrace. --I covered you with jewels, you hussy, so letting people thinkyou were my mistress, because that is good form in our circle, and neverasked you for anything in return. --And you, brazen-faced journalist, with no other brains than the dregs of your inkstand, and with as manyleprous spots on your conscience as your queen has on her skin, youconsider that I didn't pay you what you were worth, and that's thesecret of your insults. --Yes, yes, look at me, _canaille_! I am proud. Iam better than you. "

All that he said thus to himself, in a frenzy of wrath, visible in thetrembling of his thick, pallid lips, the unhappy man, upon whom madnesswas swooping down, was, perhaps, on the point of shouting aloud in thesilence, of pouring out a flood of maledictions upon that insulting mob, and, who can say? of leaping down into the midst of them and killingsome one, ah! God's blood! of killing some one, when he felt a lighttouch on his shoulder; and he saw a blond head, a frank, grave face, andtwo outstretched hands which he grasped convulsively, like a drowningman. 

"Ah! my dear--my dear--" stammered the poor man. But he had no strengthto say more. That grateful emotion coming upon him in the midst of hisfrenzy, melted it into a sob of tears, of blood, of choking speech. Hisface became purple. He motioned: "Take me away. " And, leaning on Paul deGéry's arm, he stumbled through the door of his box and fell to thefloor in the lobby. 

"Bravo! bravo!" shouted the audience at the conclusion of the actor'stirade; and there was a noise as of a hail-storm, an enthusiasticstamping, --while the great inert body, borne by scene-shifters, passedthrough the brilliantly-lighted wings, obstructed by men and womencrowding around the entrances to the stage, excited by the atmosphere ofsuccess, and hardly noticing the passage of that lifeless victim carriedin men's arms like the victim of a street affray. They laid him on acouch in the property room, Paul de Géry by his side with a physicianand two attendants who were eager to help. Cardailhac, who was very busywith the performance, had promised to come and see how he was gettingon, "in a moment, after the fifth act. "

Bloodletting upon bloodletting, cupping, plasters, nothing produced evena twitching of the skin in the sick man, who was insensible to all themethods of resuscitation usually resorted to in cases of apoplexy. Arelaxation of every fibre of his being seemed to give him over to death, to prepare his body for the rigidity of the corpse; and that in the mostdismal place on earth, chaos lighted by a dark lantern, where all thedébris of plays that had been performed, gilded furniture, hangings withgorgeous fringe, carriages, strong boxes, card-tables, discarded flightsof stairs and banisters, were heaped together pell-mell under the dust, among ropes and pulleys, a wilderness of damaged, broken, demolished, cast-off stage properties. Bernard Jansoulet, as he lay amid thatwreckage, his shirt torn away from his chest, at once bleeding andbloodless, was the typical shipwrecked victim of life, bruised and castashore with the pitiable débris of his artificial splendor broken andscattered by the Parisian whirlpool. Paul, broken-hearted, gazed sadlyat that face with its short nose, retaining in its inert condition thewrathful yet kindly expression of an inoffensive creature who tried todefend himself before dying, but had no time to bite. He blamed himselffor his inability to serve him to any useful purpose. What had become ofthat fine project of his of leading Jansoulet through the quagmires, ofsaving him from ambuscades? All that he had been able to do was torescue a few millions, and even those came too late. 

 * * * * *

The windows were opened on the balcony overlooking the boulevard, thenat its full tide of noise and animation, and blazing with light. Thetheatre was surrounded with rows of gas-jets, a circle of flame lightingup the most obscure recesses where flickering lanterns gleamed likestars travelling through the dark sky. The play was done. The audiencewas leaving the theatre. The dark throng moved in a compact mass downthe steps and scattered to right and left along the white sidewalks, tospread through the city the news of a great success and the name of anunknown author, who would be illustrious and famous on the morrow. Amost enjoyable evening, causing the restaurant windows to blaze withdelight and the streets to be filled with long lines of belatedcarriages. That holiday uproar, of which the poor Nabob had been so fondand which was well adapted to the giddy whirl of his existence, arousedhim for a second. His lips moved, and his staring eyes, turned toward deGéry, assumed in presence of death a sorrowful, imploring, rebelliousexpression, as if to call upon him to bear witness to one of thegreatest, the most cruel acts of injustice that Paris ever committed. 

THE END. 

[Illustration: Publishers mark]

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=George Sand's Works in English. =

 MAUPRAT. ANTONIA. THE BAGPIPERS. MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. THE SNOW MAN. NANON. THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 

As to "Mauprat, " if there were any doubts as to George Sand's power, itwould forever set them at rest. --_Harper's Monthly. _

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=Little Classics, by George Sand. =

 FADETTE. FRANCOIS THE WAIF. THE DEVIL'S POOL. THE MASTER MOSAIC WORKERS. 

Translated by Jane Minot Sedgwick, Ellery Sedgwick, and Charlotte C. Johnston. With etched frontispieces by Abot and an etched portrait ofTitian. 

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Studies of rustic life, of which "La Petite Fadette, " "François leChampi, " and "La Mare au Diable" are the chief, and which some of heradmirers regard as her greatest works. --_George Saintsbury, in Chambers'Cyclopædia. _

No description is needed of works so well known as "La Petite Fadette, ""La Mare au Diable, " and "François le Champi. " Like Wordsworth, with theinward eye she sees into the life of things. --_Encyclopædia Britannica. _

"The Master Mosaic Workers" is _one of the most delightful of historicalnovels_, and gives a vivid picture of the life in Venice at the timewhen Titian, Tintoretto, and Giorgione were in their zenith, and whenthe famous mosaics which still adorn St. Mark's were beingmade. --_Literary World. _

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=George Sand's Convent Life. =

Translated from "L'Histoire de ma Vie" by Maria Ellery McKaye. 

These brief chapters from a fragmentary autobiography of the famousFrench author have been translated from the published memoirs, and aremuch more familiar in France than here. They relate to George Sand'sgirlhood, and cover only a few years, and yet are written with thatvivid and picturesque charm peculiar to all her writings. They show us, with much force and interest, the kind of life which young girls led inconvents seventy years ago. --_N. Y. Times. _

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=The New Library Molière. =

TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 

TRANSLATOR OF BALZAC'S NOVELS. 

_With Preface to Molière's Works by Honoré de Balzac, Criticisms on theAuthor by Sainte-Beuve, Portraits by Coypel and Mignard, and decorativeTitlepages. _

=Arrangement of the Plays. =

 Vol. I. The Misanthrope; Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Vol. II. Tartuffe; Les Précieuses Ridicules; George Dandin. Vol. III. Les Femmes Savantes; Le Malade Imaginaire. Vol. IV. L'Avare; Don Juan; Les Fâcheux. Vol. V. L'École des Femmes; L'École des Maris; Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. Vol. VI. L'Étourdi; Le Mariage Forcé; Le Médecin Malgré Lui; La Critique de l'École des Femmes. 

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All are familiar with Miss Wormeley's admirable English version ofBalzac; and we know of no greater praise in behalf of her recenttranslation of Molière than to say it betrays the same knowledge, skill, and insight that has made her name famous among the lovers of highliterature. While it is undoubtedly true that the student of Molièrewould turn by preference to the original, it is equally true that thosewho cannot read his works in their native form are now indebted to MissWormeley for an appreciation of Sainte-Beuve's declaration "that to loveMolière is to love uprightness and health of mind, in others as well asin ourselves. " She did a splendid service for two literatures by heradmirable English rendering of the author whom many regard as France'sfirst novelist, and now she continues by an equally excellenttranslation of the works of the genius to whom is conceded with stillgreater unanimity the rank of France's first dramatist. And by a happythought Miss Wormeley avails herself, for the presentation of Molière toAmerican readers, of the eloquent tribute which Balzac paid to him inhis preface to his own edition of Molière, issued in his younger days. The translator also calls attention to the singular parallel afforded inthe lives of the two writers. These "fathers of the 'Comedy of HumanLife' and of realism, " she says, "died at the same age (fifty-one); thefame of both was of little more than fifteen years' duration in theirlifetime; both died of the toil to which their genius impelled them; andboth are going down with ever-brightening lustre to posterity. "--_BostonBudget. _

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=BRICHANTEAU, ACTOR=. 

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M. Jules Claretie has had a wide acquaintance with actors. He has had anopportunity of studying them still more closely since he has been themanager of the Comédie Française. Brichanteau is charming because he isalways treading the boards, because he believes in good faith that hislife is a drama, in which he plays the principal part. The work iswritten with a sprightly and witty pen. --FRANCISQUE SARCEY. 

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=Alphonse Daudet in English=. 

=New Uniform Edition of the Novels, Romances, and Memoirs of AlphonseDaudet, the greatest French Writer since Victor Hugo=. Newly Translatedby Katharine Prescott Wormeley, Translator of Balzac's Novels; JaneMinot Sedgwick, Translator of George Sand; Charles de Kay, and others. 

=Printed from large clear type, with Frontispieces. Twenty volumes. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top. $1. 50 per volume=. 

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_Arrangement of the volumes. _

ALPHONSE DAUDET. By Léon Daudet. To which is added"My Brother and Myself, " by Ernest Daudet 1 vol. 

FROMONT AND RISLER 1 vol. 

THE NABOB 2 vols. 

KINGS IN EXILE 1 vol. 

NUMA ROUMESTAN 1 vol. 

THE LITTLE PARISH and ROBERT HELMONT 1 vol. 

LITTLE WHAT'S HIS NAME 1 vol. 

TARTARIN OF TARASCON and TARTARIN ON THE ALPS 1 vol. 

PORT TARASCON and LA BELLE NIVERNAISE 1 vol. 

THIRTY YEARS IN PARIS, etc. 1 vol. 

THE IMMORTAL, etc 1 vol. 

SOUVENIRS OF A MAN OF LETTERS and ARTISTS' WIVES 1 vol. 

THE EVANGELIST and ROSE AND NINETTE 1 vol. 

JACK 2 vols. 

MONDAY TALES 1 vol. 

LETTERS FROM MY MILL, etc 1 vol. 

SAPPHO 1 vol. 

THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY 1 vol. 

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Of the brilliant group of men who have made contemporaneous Frenchliterature, of that coterie toward which the eyes of all the readingworld have been turned with admiration and interest during the last halfa century, Daudet was the greatest. He was the most universal, the mostoriginal, the most human. --_From an Article in The Book Buyer, by L. VanVorst. _

Has, perhaps, transferred bodily into his writings more actual events, related in the newspapers, in the court-house, or in society, than anyother writer of the present age. Of some of his novels one hardly daresay that they are works of fiction; their characters are men and womenof our time; they do in the book almost exactly what they had done inreal life. --_Prof. Adolph Cohn, in The Bookman. _

He is a novelist to his finger-tips. No one has such grace, suchlightness and brilliancy of execution. --_Henry James, in The Century. _

The slightest pages from his pen will preserve the vibration of his soulso long as our tongue exists imperishable. He is the author of twentymasterpieces. --ÉMILE ZOLA. 

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