The Works of

 Guy de Maupassant

 VOLUME VIII

 PIERRE ET JEAN

 AND OTHER STORIES

 _ILLUSTRATED_

 NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY

 NEW YORK

 COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY

 BIGELOW, SMITH & CO. 

 * * * * *

CONTENTS

PIERRE ET JEAN. 

DREAMS

MOONLIGHT

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

A DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

THE CAKE

A LIVELY FRIEND

THE ORPHAN

THE BLIND MAN

A WIFE'S CONFESSION

RELICS OF THE PAST

THE PEDDLER

THE AVENGER

ALL OVER

LETTER FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

MOTHER AND SON

THE SPASM

A DUEL

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO

AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

A WARNING NOTE

THE HORRIBLE

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

BESIDE A DEAD MAN

AFTER

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

BOITELLE

 * * * * *

OF "THE NOVEL"

I do not intend in these pages to put in a plea for this little novel. On the contrary, the ideas I shall try to set forth will ratherinvolve a criticism of the class of psychological analysis which Ihave undertaken in _Pierre et Jean_. I propose to treat of novels ingeneral. 

I am not the only writer who finds himself taken to task in the sameterms each time he brings out a new book. Among many laudatoryphrases, I invariably meet with this observation, penned by the samecritics: "The greatest fault of this book is that it is not, strictlyspeaking, a novel. "

The same form might be adopted in reply:

"The greatest fault of the writer who does me the honor to review meis that he is not a critic. "

For what are, in fact, the essential characteristics of a critic?

It is necessary that, without preconceived notions, prejudices of"School, " or partisanship for any class of artists, he shouldappreciate, distinguish, and explain the most antagonistic tendenciesand the most dissimilar temperaments, recognizing and accepting themost varied efforts of art. 

Now the Critic who, after reading _Manon Lescaut_, _Paul andVirginia_, _Don Quixote_, _Les Liaisons dangereuses_, _Werther_, _Elective Affinities_ (_Wahlverwandschaften_), _Clarissa Harlowe_, _Émile_, _Candide_, _Cinq-Mars_, _René_, _Les Trois Mousquetaires_, _Mauprat_, _Le Père Goriot_, _La Cousine Bette_, _Colomba_, _Le Rougeet le Noir_, _Mademoiselle de Maupin_, _Notre-Dame de Paris_, _Salammbo_, _Madame Bovary_, _Adolphe_, _M. De Camors_, _l'Assommoir_, _Sapho_, etc. , still can be so bold as to write "This or that is, oris not, a novel, " seems to me to be gifted with a perspicacitystrangely akin to incompetence. Such a critic commonly understands bya novel a more or less improbable narrative of adventure, elaboratedafter the fashion of a piece for the stage, in three acts, of whichthe first contains the exposition, the second the action, and thethird the catastrophe or _dénouement_. 

And this method of construction is perfectly admissible, but oncondition that all others are accepted on equal terms. 

Are there any rules for the making of a novel, which, if we neglect, the tale must be called by another name? If _Don Quixote_ is a novel, then is _Le Rouge et le Noir_ a novel? If _Monte Christo_ is a novel, is _l'Assommoir_? Can any conclusive comparison be drawn betweenGoethe's _Elective Affinities_, _The Three Mousqueteers_, by Dumas, Flaubert's _Madame Bovary_, _M. De Camors_ by Octave Feuillet, and_Germinal_, by Zola? Which of them all is The Novel? What are thesefamous rules? Where did they originate? Who laid them down? And invirtue of what principle, of whose authority, and of what reasoning?

And yet, as it would appear, these critics know in some positive andindisputable way what constitutes a novel, and what distinguishes itfrom other tales which are not novels. What this amounts to is thatwithout being producers themselves they are enrolled under a School, and that, like the writers of novels, they reject all work which isconceived and executed outside the pale of their esthetics. Anintelligent critic ought, on the contrary, to seek out everythingwhich least resembles the novels already written, and urge youngauthors as much as possible to try fresh paths. 

All writers, Victor Hugo as much as M. Zola, have insistently claimedthe absolute and incontrovertible right to compose--that is to say, toimagine or observe--in accordance with their individual conception oforiginality, and that is a special manner of thinking, seeing, understanding, and judging. Now the critic who assumes that "thenovel" can be defined in conformity with the ideas he has based on thenovels he prefers, and that certain immutable rules of constructioncan be laid down, will always find himself at war with the artistictemperament of a writer who introduces a new manner of work. A criticreally worthy of the name ought to be an analyst, devoid ofpreferences or passions; like an expert in pictures, he should simplyestimate the artistic value of the object of art submitted to him. Hisintelligence, open to everything, must so far supersede hisindividuality as to leave him free to discover and praise books whichas a man he may not like, but which as a judge he must dulyappreciate. 

But critics, for the most part, are only readers; whence it comes thatthey almost always find fault with us on wrong grounds, or complimentus without reserve or measure. 

The reader, who looks for no more in a book than that it shouldsatisfy the natural tendencies of his own mind, wants the writer torespond to his predominant taste, and he invariably praises a work ora passage which appeals to his imagination, whether idealistic, gay, licentious, melancholy, dreamy, or positive, as "striking" or "wellwritten. "

The public as a whole is composed of various groups, whose cry to uswriters is:

"Comfort me. "

"Amuse me. "

"Touch me. "

"Make me dream. "

"Make me laugh. "

"Make me shudder. "

"Make me weep. "

"Make me think. "

And only a few chosen spirits say to the artist:

"Give me something fine in any form which may suit you best, accordingto your own temperament. "

The artist makes the attempt; succeeds or fails. 

The critic ought to judge the result only in relation to the nature ofthe attempt; he has no right to concern himself about tendencies. Thishas been said a thousand times already; it will always need repeating. 

Thus, after a succession of literary schools which have given usdeformed, superhuman, poetical, pathetic, charming or magnificentpictures of life, a realistic or naturalistic school has arisen, whichasserts that it shows us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing butthe truth. 

All these theories of art must be recognized as of equal interest, andwe must judge the works which are their outcome solely from the pointof view of artistic value, with an _a priori_ acceptance of thegeneral notions which gave birth to each. To dispute the author'sright to produce a poetical work or a realistic work, is to endeavorto coerce his temperament, to take exception to his originality, toforbid his using the eyes and wits bestowed on him by Nature. Toblame him for seeing things as beautiful or ugly, as mean or epic, asgracious or sinister, is to reproach him for not being made on this orthat pattern, and for having eyes which do not see exactly as ourssee. 

Let him be free by all means to conceive of things as he pleases, provided he is an artist. Let us rise to poetic heights to judge anidealist, and then prove to him that his dream is commonplace, ordinary, not mad or magnificent enough. But if we judge amaterialistic writer, let us show him wherein the truth of lifediffers from the truth in his book. 

It is self-evident that schools so widely different must have adopteddiametrically opposite processes in composition. 

The novelist who transforms truth--immutable, uncompromising, anddispleasing as it is--to extract from it an exceptional and delightfulplot, must necessarily manipulate events without an exaggeratedrespect for probability, molding them to his will, dressing andarranging them so as to attract, excite, or affect the reader. Thescheme of his romance is no more than a series of ingeniouscombinations, skillfully leading to the issue. The incidents areplanned and graduated up to the culminating point and effect of theconclusion, which is the crowning and fatal result, satisfying thecuriosity aroused from the first, closing the interest, and ending thestory so completely that we have no further wish to know what happenedon the morrow to the most engaging actors in it. 

The novelist who, on the other hand, proposes to give us an accuratepicture of life, must carefully eschew any concatenation of eventswhich might seem exceptional. His aim is not to tell a story to amuseus, or to appeal to our feelings, but to compel us to reflect, and tounderstand the occult and deeper meaning of events. By dint of seeingand meditating he has come to regard the world, facts, men, and thingsin a way peculiar to himself, which is the outcome of the sum total ofhis studious observation. It is this personal view of the world whichhe strives to communicate to us by reproducing it in a book. To makethe spectacle of life as moving to us as it has been to him, he mustbring it before our eyes with scrupulous exactitude. Hence he mustconstruct his work with such skill, it must be so artful under sosimple a guise, that it is impossible to detect and sketch the plan, or discern the writer's purpose. 

Instead of manipulating an adventure and working it out in such a wayas to make it interesting to the last, he will take his actor oractors at a certain period of their lives, and lead them by naturalstages to the next. In this way he will show either how men's mindsare modified by the influence of their environment, or how theirpassions and sentiments are evolved; how they love or hate, how theystruggle in every sphere of society, and how their interestsclash--social interests, pecuniary interests, family interests, political interests. The skill of his plan will not consist inemotional power or charm, in an attractive opening or a stirringcatastrophe, but in the happy grouping of small but constant factsfrom which the final purpose of the work may be discerned. If withinthree hundred pages he depicts ten years of a life so as to show whatits individual and characteristic significance may have been in themidst of all the other human beings which surrounded it, he ought toknow how to eliminate from among the numberless trivial incidents ofdaily life all which do not serve his end, and how to set in a speciallight all those which might have remained invisible to lessclear-sighted observers, and which give his book caliber and value asa whole. 

It is intelligible that this method of construction, so unlike the oldmanner which was patent to all, must often mislead the critics, andthat they will not all detect the subtle and secret wires--almostinvisibly fine--which certain modern artists use instead of the onestring formerly known as the "plot. "

In a word, while the novelist of yesterday preferred to relate thecrises of life, the acute phases of the mind and heart, the novelistof to-day writes the history of the heart, soul, and intellect intheir normal condition. To achieve the effects he aims at--that is tosay, the sense of simple reality, and to point the artistic lesson heendeavors to draw from it--that is to say, a revelation of what hiscontemporary man is before his very eyes, he must bring forward nofacts that are not irrefragible and invariable. 

But even when we place ourselves at the same point of view as theserealistic artists, we may discuss and dispute their theory, whichseems to be comprehensively stated in these words: "The whole Truthand nothing but the Truth. " Since the end they have in view is tobring out the philosophy of certain constant and current facts, theymust often correct events in favor of probability and to the detrimentof truth; for

"Le vrai peut quelquefois, n'être pas le vraisemblable. " (Truth maysometimes not seem probable. )

The realist, if he is an artist, will endeavor not to show us acommonplace photograph of life, but to give us a presentment of itwhich shall be more complete, more striking, more cogent than realityitself. To tell everything is out of the question; it would require atleast a volume for each day to enumerate the endless, insignificantincidents which crowd our existence. A choice must be made--and thisis the first blow to the theory of "the whole truth. "

Life, moreover, is composed of the most dissimilar things, the mostunforeseen, the most contradictory, the most incongruous; it ismerciless, without sequence or connection, full of inexplicable, illogical, and contradictory catastrophes, such as can only be classedas miscellaneous facts. This is why the artist, having chosen hissubject, can only select such characteristic details as are of use toit, from this life overladen with chances and trifles, and rejecteverything else, everything by the way. 

To give an instance from among a thousand. The number of persons who, every day, meet with an accidental death, all over the world, is veryconsiderable. But how can we bring a tile onto the head of animportant character, or fling him under the wheels of a vehicle in themiddle of a story, under the pretext that accident must have its due?

Again, in life there is no difference of foreground and distance, andevents are sometimes hurried on, sometimes left to lingerindefinitely. Art, on the contrary, consists in the employment offoresight, and elaboration in arranging skillful and ingenioustransitions, in setting essential events in a strong light, simply bythe craft of composition, and giving all else the degree of relief, inproportion to their importance, requisite to produce a convincingsense of the special truth to be conveyed. 

"Truth" in such work consists in producing a complete illusion byfollowing the common logic of facts and not by transcribing thempell-mell, as they succeed each other. 

Whence I conclude that the higher order of Realists should rather callthemselves Illusionists. 

How childish it is, indeed, to believe in this reality, since to eachof us the truth is in his own mind, his own organs. Our own eyes andears, taste and smell, create as many different truths as there arehuman beings on earth. And our brains, duly and differently informedby those organs, apprehend, analyze, and decide as differently as ifeach of us were a being of an alien race. Each of us, then, has simplyhis own illusion of the world--poetical, sentimental, cheerful, melancholy, foul, or gloomy, according to his nature. And the writerhas no other mission than faithfully to reproduce this illusion, withall the elaborations of art which he may have learnt and have at hiscommand. The illusion of beauty--which is merely a conventional terminvented by man! The illusion of ugliness--which is a matter ofvarying opinion! The illusion of truth--never immutable! The illusionof depravity--which fascinates so many minds! All the great artistsare those who can make other men see their own particular illusion. 

Then we must not be wroth with any theory, since each is simply theoutcome, in generalizations, of a special temperament analyzingitself. 

Two of these theories have more particularly been the subject ofdiscussion, and set up in opposition to each other instead of beingadmitted on an equal footing: that of the purely analytical novel, and that of the objective novel. 

The partisans of analysis require the writer to devote himself toindicating the smallest evolutions of a soul, and all the most secretmotives of our every action, giving but a quite secondary importanceto the act and fact in itself. It is but the goal, a simple milestone, the excuse for the book. According to them, these works, at once exactand visionary, in which imagination merges into observation, are to bewritten after the fashion in which a philosopher composes a treatiseon psychology, seeking out causes in their remotest origin, tellingthe why and wherefore of every impulse, and detecting every reactionof the soul's movements under the promptings of interest, passion, orinstinct. 

The partisans of objectivity--odious word--aiming, on the contrary, atgiving us an exact presentment of all that happens in life, carefullyavoid all complicated explanations, all disquisitions on motive, andconfine themselves to let persons and events pass before our eyes. Intheir opinion, psychology should be concealed in the book, as it is inreality, under the facts of existence. 

The novel as conceived of on these lines gains in interest; there ismore movement in the narrative, more color, more of the stir of life. 

Hence, instead of giving long explanations of the state of mind of anactor in the tale, the objective writer tries to discover the actionor gesture which that state of mind must inevitably lead to in thatpersonage, under certain given circumstances. And he makes him sodemean himself from one end of the volume to the other, that all hisactions, all his movements shall be the expression of his inmostnature, of all his thoughts, and all his impulses or hesitancies. Thusthey conceal psychology instead of flaunting it; they use it as theskeleton of the work, just as the invisible bony framework is theskeleton of the human body. The artist who paints our portrait doesnot display our bones. 

To me it seems that the novel executed on this principle gains also insincerity. It is, in the first place, more probable, for the personswe see moving about us do not divulge to us the motives from whichthey act. 

We must also take into account the fact that, even if by closeobservation of men and women we can so exactly ascertain theircharacters as to predict their behavior under almost anycircumstances, if we can say decisively: "Such a man, of such atemperament, in such a case, will do this or that"; yet it does notfollow that we could lay a finger, one by one, on all the secretevolutions of his mind--which is not our own; all the mysteriouspleadings of his instincts--which are not the same as ours; all themingled promptings of his nature--in which the organs, nerves, blood, and flesh are different from ours. 

However great the genius of a gentle, delicate man, guileless ofpassions and devoted to science and work, he never can so completelytransfuse himself into the body of a dashing, sensual, and violentman, of exuberant vitality, torn by every desire or even by everyvice, as to understand and delineate the inmost impulses andsensations of a being so unlike himself, even though he may veryadequately foresee and relate all the actions of his life. 

In short, the man who writes pure psychology can do no more than puthimself in the place of all his puppets in the various situations inwhich he places them. It is impossible that he should change hisorgans, which are the sole intermediary between external life andourselves, which constrain us by their perceptions, circumscribe oursensibilities, and create in each of us a soul essentially dissimilarto all those about us. Our purview and knowledge of the world, and ourideas of life, are acquired by the aid of our senses, and we cannothelp transferring them, in some degree, to all the personages whosesecret and unknown nature we propose to reveal. Thus, it is alwaysourselves that we disclose in the body of a king or an assassin, arobber or an honest man, a courtesan, a nun, a young girl, or a coarsemarket woman; for we are compelled to put the problem in this personalform: "If _I_ were a king, a murderer, a prostitute, a nun, or amarket woman, what should _I_ do, what should _I_ think, how should_I_ act?" We can only vary our characters by altering the age, thesex, the social position, and all the circumstances of life, of that_ego_ which nature has in fact inclosed in an insurmountable barrierof organs of sense. Skill consists in not betraying this _ego_ to thereader, under the various masks which we employ to cover it. 

Still, though on the point of absolute exactitude, pure psychologicalanalysis is impregnable, it can nevertheless produce works of art asfine as any other method of work. 

Here, for instance we have the _Symbolists_. And why not? Theirartistic dream is a worthy one; and they have this especiallyinteresting feature: that they know and proclaim the extremedifficulty of art. 

And, indeed, a man must be very daring or foolish to write at allnowadays. And so many and such various masters of the craft, of suchmultifarious genius, what remains to be done that has not been done, or what to say that has not been said? Which of us all can boast ofhaving written a page, a phrase, which is not to be found--orsomething very like it--in some other book? When we read, we who areso soaked in (French) literature that our whole body seems as it werea mere compound of words, do we ever light on a line, a thought, whichis not familiar to us, or of which we have not had at least some vagueforecast?

The man who only tries to amuse his public by familiar methods, writesconfidently, in his candid mediocrity, works intended only for theignorant and idle crowd. But those who are conscious of the weight ofcenturies of past literature, whom nothing satisfies, whom everythingdisgusts because they dream of something better, to whom the bloom isoff everything, and who always are impressed with the uselessness, thecommonness of their own achievements--these come to regard literaryart as a thing unattainable and mysterious, scarcely to be detectedsave in a few pages by the greatest masters. 

A score of phrases suddenly discovered thrill us to the heart like astartling revelation; but the lines which follow are just like allother verse, the further flow of prose is like all other prose. 

Men of genius, no doubt, escape this anguish and torment because theybear within themselves an irresistible creative power. They do not sitin judgment on themselves. The rest of us, who are no more thanpersevering and conscientious workers, can only contend againstinvincible discouragement by unremitting effort. 

Two men by their simple and lucid teaching gave me the strength to tryagain and again: Louis Bouilhet and Gustave Flaubert. 

If I here speak of myself in connection with them, it is because theircounsels, as summed up in a few lines, may prove useful to some youngwriters who may be less self-confident than most are when they maketheir _début_ in print. Bouilhet, whom I first came to know somewhatintimately about two years before I gained the friendship of Flaubert, by dint of telling me that a hundred lines--or less--if they arewithout a flaw and contain the very essence of the talent andoriginality of even a second-rate man, are enough to establish anartist's reputation, made me understand that persistent toil and athorough knowledge of the craft, might, in some happy hour oflucidity, power, and enthusiasm, by the fortunate occurrence of asubject in perfect concord with the tendency of our mind, lead to theproduction of a single work, short but as perfect as we can make it. Then I learned to see that the best-known writers have hardly everleft us more than one such volume; and that needful above all else isthe good fortune which leads us to hit upon and discern, amid themultifarious matter which offers itself for selection, the subjectwhich will absorb all our faculties, all that is of worth in us, allour artistic powers. 

At a later date, Flaubert, whom I had occasionally met, took a fancyto me. I ventured to show him a few attempts. He read them kindly andreplied: "I cannot tell whether you will have any talent. What youhave brought me proves a certain intelligence; but never forget this, young man: talent--as Chateaubriand[1] says--is nothing but longpatience. Go and work. "

[Footnote 1: The idea did not originate with Chateaubriand. ]

I worked; and I often went to see him, feeling that he liked me, forhe had taken to calling me, in jest, his disciple. For seven years Iwrote verses, I wrote tales, I even wrote a villainous play. Nothingof all this remains. The master read it all; then, the next Sundaywhile we breakfasted together, he would give me his criticisms, driving into me by degrees two or three principles which sum up thedrift of his long and patient exhortations: "If you have anyoriginality, " said he, "you must above all things bring it out; if youhave not you must acquire it. "

Talent is long patience. 

Everything you want to express must be considered so long, and soattentively, as to enable you to find some aspect of it which no onehas yet seen and expressed. There is an unexplored side to everything, because we are wont never to use our eyes but with the memory of whatothers before us have thought of the things we see. The smallest thinghas something unknown in it; we must find it. To describe a blazingfire, a tree in a plain, we must stand face to face with that fire orthat tree, till to us they are wholly unlike any other fire or tree. Thus we may become original. 

Then, having established the truth that there are not in the wholeworld two grains of sand, two flies, two hands, or two nosesabsolutely alike, he would make me describe in a few sentences someperson or object, in such a way as to define it exactly, anddistinguish it from every other of the same race or species. 

"When you pass a grocer sitting in his doorway, " he would say, "aporter smoking his pipe, or a cab stand, show me that grocer and thatporter, their attitude and their whole physical aspect, including, asindicated by the skill of the portrait, their whole moral nature, insuch a way that I could never mistake them for any other grocer orporter; and by a single word give me to understand wherein one cabhorse differs from fifty others before or behind it. "

I have explained his notions of style at greater length in anotherplace; they bear a marked relation to the theory of observation I havejust laid down. Whatever the thing we wish to say, there is but oneword to express it, but one verb to give it movement, but oneadjective to qualify it. We must seek till we find this noun, thisverb, and this adjective, and never be content with getting very nearit, never allow ourselves to play tricks, even happy ones, or haverecourse to sleights of language to avoid a difficulty. The subtlestthings may be rendered and suggested by applying the hint conveyed inBoileau's line:

"D'un mot mis en sa place enseigna le pouvoir. " "He taught the powerof a word put in the right place. "

There is no need for an eccentric vocabulary to formulate every shadeof thought--the complicated, multifarious, and outlandish words whichare put upon us nowadays in the name of artistic writing; but everymodification of the value of a word by the place it fills must bedistinguished with extreme clearness. Give us fewer nouns, verbs, andadjectives, with almost inscrutable shades of meaning, and let us havea greater variety of phrases, more variously constructed, ingeniouslydivided, full of sonority and learned rhythm. Let us strive to beadmirable in style, rather than curious in collecting rare words. 

It is in fact more difficult to bend a sentence to one's will and makeit express everything--even what it does not say, to fill it full ofimplications of covert and inexplicit suggestions, than to invent newexpressions, or seek out in old and forgotten books all those whichhave fallen into disuse and lost their meaning, so that to us they areas a dead language. 

The French tongue, to be sure, is a pure stream, which affectedwriters never have and never can trouble. Each age has flung into thelimpid waters its pretentious archaisms and euphuisms, but nothing hasremained on the surface to perpetuate these futile attempts andimpotent efforts. It is the nature of the language to be clear, logical, and vigorous. It does not lend itself to weakness, obscurity, or corruption. 

Those who describe without duly heeding abstract terms, those who makerain and hail fall on the _cleanliness_ of the window panes, may throwstones at the simplicity of their brothers of the pen. The stones mayindeed hit their brothers, who have a body, but will never hurtsimplicity--which has none. 

GUY DE MAUPASSANT. 

LA GUILLETTE, ETRETAT, September, 1887. 

PIERRE ET JEAN

CHAPTER I

"Tschah!" exclaimed old Roland suddenly, after he had remainedmotionless for a quarter of an hour, his eyes fixed on the water, while now and again he very slightly lifted his line sunk in the sea. 

Madame Roland, dozing in the stern by the side of Madame Rosémilly, who had been invited to join the fishing-party, woke up, and turningher head to look at her husband, said:

"Well, well! Gérome. "

And the old fellow replied in a fury:

"They do not bite at all. I have taken nothing since noon. Only menshould ever go fishing. Women always delay the start till it is toolate. "

His two sons, Pierre and Jean, who each held a line twisted round hisforefinger, one to port and one to starboard, both began to laugh, andJean remarked:

"You are not very polite to our guest, father. "

M. Roland was abashed, and apologized. 

"I beg your pardon, Madame Rosémilly, but that is just like me. Iinvite ladies because I like to be with them, and then, as soon as Ifeel the water beneath me, I think of nothing but the fish. "

Madame Roland was now quite awake, and gazing with a softened look atthe wide horizon of cliff and sea. 

"You have had good sport, all the same, " she murmured. 

But her husband shook his head in denial, though at the same time heglanced complacently at the basket where the fish caught by the threemen were still breathing spasmodically, with a low rustle of clammyscales and struggling fins, and dull, ineffectual efforts, gasping inthe fatal air. Old Roland took the basket between his knees and tiltedit up, making the silver heap of creatures slide to the edge that hemight see those lying at the bottom, and their death-throes becamemore convulsive, while the strong smell of their bodies, a wholesomereek of brine, came up from the full depths of the creel. The oldfisherman sniffed it eagerly, as we smell at roses, and exclaimed:

"Cristi! But they are fresh enough!" and he went on: "How many did youpull out, doctor?"

His eldest son, Pierre, a man of thirty, with black whiskers trimmedsquare like a lawyer's, his moustache and beard shaved away, replied:

"Oh, not many; three or four. "

The father turned to the younger. "And you, Jean?" said he. 

Jean, a tall fellow, much younger than his brother, fair, with a fullbeard, smiled and murmured:

"Much the same as Pierre--four or five. "

Every time they told the same fib, which delighted father Roland. Hehad hitched his line round a row-lock, and folding his arms heannounced:

"I will never again try to fish after noon. After ten in the morningit is all over. The lazy brutes will not bite; they are taking theirsiesta in the sun. " And he looked round at the sea on all sides, withthe satisfied air of a proprietor. 

He was a retired jeweler who had been led by an inordinate love ofseafaring and fishing to fly from the shop as soon as he had madeenough money to live in modest comfort on the interest of his savings. He retired to le Havre, bought a boat, and became an amateur skipper. His two sons, Pierre et Jean, had remained at Paris to continue theirstudies, and came for the holidays from time to time to share theirfather's amusements. 

On leaving school, Pierre, the elder, five years older than Jean, hadfelt a vocation to various professions and had tried half a dozen insuccession, but, soon disgusted with each in turn, he started afreshwith new hopes. Medicine had been his last fancy, and he had set towork with so much ardor that he had just qualified after an unusuallyshort course of study, by a special remission of time from theminister. He was enthusiastic, intelligent, fickle, but obstinate, full of Utopias and philosophical notions. 

Jean, who was as fair as his brother was dark, as deliberate as hisbrother was vehement, as gentle as his brother was unforgiving, hadquietly gone through his studies for the law and had just taken hisdiploma as a licentiate, at the time when Pierre had taken his inmedicine. So they were now having a little rest at home, and bothlooked forward to settling at Havre if they could find a satisfactoryopening. 

But a vague jealousy, one of those dormant jealousies which grow upbetween brothers or sisters and slowly ripen till they burst, on theoccasion of a marriage perhaps, or of some good fortune happening toone of them, kept them on the alert in a sort of brotherly andnon-aggressive animosity. They were fond of each other, it is true, but they watched each other. Pierre, five years old when Jean wasborn, had looked with the eyes of a little petted animal at that otherlittle animal which had suddenly come to lie in his father's andmother's arms and to be loved and fondled by them. Jean, from hisbirth, had always been a pattern of sweetness, gentleness, and goodtemper, and Pierre had by degrees begun to chafe at everlastinglyhearing the praises of this great lad whose sweetness in his eyes wasindolence, whose gentleness was stupidity, and whose kindliness wasblindness. His parents, whose dream for their sons was somerespectable and undistinguished calling, blamed him for so oftenchanging his mind, for his fits of enthusiasm, his abortivebeginnings, and all his ineffectual impulses toward generous ideas andthe liberal professions. 

Since he had grown to manhood they no longer said in so many words:"Look at Jean and follow his example, " but every time he heard themsay "Jean did this--Jean does that, " he understood their meaning andthe hint the words conveyed. 

Their mother, an orderly soul, a thrifty and rather sentimental womanof the middle class, with the soul of a soft-hearted book-keeper, wasconstantly quenching the little rivalries between her two big sons towhich the petty events of their life in common gave rise day by day. Another little circumstance, too, just now disturbed her peace ofmind, and she was in fear of some complication; for in the course ofthe winter, while her boys were finishing their studies, each in hisown line, she had made the acquaintance of a neighbor, Mme. Rosémilly, the widow of a captain of a merchantman who had died at sea two yearsbefore. The young widow--quite young, only three-and-twenty--a womanof strong intellect who knew life by instinct as the free animals do, as though she had seen, gone through, understood, and weighed everyconceivable contingency, and judged them with a wholesome, strict, andbenevolent mind, had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chatfor an hour in the evening with these friendly neighbors, who wouldgive her a cup of tea. 

Father Roland, always goaded on by his seafaring craze, would questiontheir new friend about the departed captain; and she would talk ofhim, and his voyages, and his old-world tales, without hesitation, like a resigned and reasonable woman who loves life and respectsdeath. 

The two sons on their return, finding the pretty widow quite at homein the house forthwith began to court her, less from any wish to charmher than from the desire to cut each other out. 

Their mother, being practical and prudent, sincerely hoped that one ofthem might win the young widow, for she was rich; and then she wouldhave liked that the other should not be grieved. 

Mme. Rosémilly was fair, with blue eyes, a mass of light waving hair, fluttering at the least breath of wind, and an alert, daring, pugnacious little way with her, which did not in the least answer tothe sober method of her mind. 

She already seemed to like Jean best, attracted, no doubt, by anaffinity of nature. This preference, however, she betrayed only by analmost imperceptible difference of voice and look and also byoccasionally asking his opinion. She seemed to guess that Jean's viewswould support her own, while those of Pierre must inevitably bedifferent. When she spoke of the doctor's ideas on politics, art, philosophy, or morals, she would sometimes say: "Your crotchets. " Thenhe would look at her with the cold gleam of an accuser drawing up anindictment against woman--all women, poor weak things. 

Never till his sons came home had M. Roland invited her to join hisfishing expeditions, nor had he ever taken his wife; for he liked toput off before daybreak, with his ally, Captain Beausire, a mastermariner retired, whom he had first met on the quay at high tides andwith whom he had struck up an intimacy, and the old sailor Papagris, known as Jean Bart, in whose charge the boat was left. 

But one evening of the week before, as Mme. Rosémilly, who had beendining with them, remarked, "It must be great fun to go out fishing, "the jeweler, flattered on his passion, and suddenly fired with thewish to impart it, to make a convert after the manner of priests, exclaimed: "Would you like to come?"

"To be sure I should. "

"Next Tuesday?"

"Yes, next Tuesday. "

"Are you the woman to be ready to start at five in the morning?"

She exclaimed in horror:

"No, indeed: that is too much. "

He was disappointed and chilled, suddenly doubting her true vocation. However, he said:

"At what hour can you be ready?"

"Well--at nine?"

"Not before?"

"No, not before. Even that is very early. "

The old fellow hesitated; he certainly would catch nothing, for whenthe sun has warmed the sea the fish bite no more; but the two brothershad eagerly pressed the scheme, and organized and arranged everythingthere and then. 

So on the following Tuesday the _Pearl_ had dropped anchor under thewhite rocks of Cape la Héve; they had fished till mid-day, then theyhad slept awhile, and then fished again without catching anything; andthen it was that father Roland, perceiving, rather late, that all thatMme. Rosémilly really enjoyed and cared for was the sail on the sea, and seeing that his lines hung motionless, had uttered in a spirit ofunreasonable annoyance, that vehement "Tschah!" which applied as muchto the pathetic widow as to the creatures he could not catch. 

Now he contemplated the spoil--his fish--with the joyful thrill of amiser; and seeing as he looked up at the sky that the sun was gettinglow: "Well, boys, " said he, "suppose we turn homeward. "

The young men hauled in their lines, coiled them up, cleaned the hooksand stuck them into corks, and sat waiting. 

Roland stood up to look out like a captain:

"No wind, " said he. "You will have to pull, young 'uns. "

And suddenly extending one arm to the northward, he exclaimed:

"Here comes the packet from Southampton. "

Away over the level sea, spread out like a blue sheet, vast andsheeny and shot with flame and gold, an inky cloud was visible againstthe rosy sky in the quarter to which he pointed, and below it theycould make out the hull of the steamer, which looked tiny at such adistance. And to the southward other wreaths of smoke, numbers ofthem, could be seen, all converging toward the Havre pier, nowscarcely visible as a white streak with the light-house, upright, likea horn, at the end of it. 

Roland asked: "Is not the _Normandie_ due to-day?" And Jean replied:

"Yes, to-day. "

"Give me my glass. I fancy I see her out there. "

The father pulled out the copper tube, adjusted it to his eye, soughtthe speck, and then, delighted to have seen it, exclaimed:

"Yes, yes, there she is. I know her two funnels. Would you like tolook, Mme. Rosémilly?"

She took the telescope and directed it toward the Atlantic horizon, without being able, however, to find the vessel, for she coulddistinguish nothing--nothing but blue, with a colored halo round it, acircular rainbow--and then all manner of queer things, winkingeclipses which made her feel sick. 

She said as she returned the glass:

"I never could see with that thing. It used to put my husband in quitea rage; he would stand for hours at the window watching the shipspass. "

Old Roland, much put out, retorted:

"Then it must be some defect in your eye, for my glass is a very goodone. "

Then he offered it to his wife. 

"Would you like to look?"

"No, thank you. I know beforehand that I could not see through it. "

Mme. Roland, a woman of eight-and-forty, but who did not look it, seemed to be enjoying this excursion and this waning day more than anyof the party. 

Her chestnut hair was only just beginning to show streaks of white. She had a calm, reasonable face, a kind and happy way with her whichit was a pleasure to see. Her son Pierre was wont to say that she knewthe value of money, but this did not hinder her from enjoying thedelights of dreaming. She was fond of reading, of novels and poetry, not for their value as works of art, but for the sake of the tendermelancholy mood they would induce in her. A line of poetry, often buta poor one, often a bad one, would touch the little chord, as sheexpressed it, and give her the sense of some mysterious desire almostrealized. And she delighted in these faint emotions which brought alittle flutter to her soul, otherwise as strictly kept as a ledger. 

Since settling at Havre she had become perceptibly stouter, and herfigure, which had been very supple and slight, had grown heavier. 

This day on the sea had been delightful to her. Her husband, withoutbeing brutal, was rough with her, as a man who is the despot of hisshop is apt to be rough, without anger or hatred; to such men to givean order is to swear. He controlled himself in the presence ofstrangers, but in private he let loose and gave himself terrible vent, though he was himself afraid of every one. She, in sheer horror of theturmoil, of scenes, of useless explanations, always gave way and neverasked for anything; for a very long time she had not ventured to askRoland to take her out in the boat. So she had joyfully hailed thisopportunity, and was keenly enjoying the rare and new pleasure. 

From the moment when they started she surrendered herself completelybody and soul, to the soft, gliding motion over the waves. She was notthinking; her mind was not wandering through either memories or hopes;it seemed to her as though her heart, like her body, was floating onsomething soft and liquid and delicious which rocked and lulled it. 

When their father gave the word to return, "Come, take your places atthe oars!" she smiled to see her sons, her two great boys, take offtheir jackets and roll up their shirt-sleeves on their bare arms. 

Pierre, who was the nearest to the two women, took the stroke oar, Jean the other, and they sat waiting till the skipper should say:"Give way!" For he insisted on everything being done according tostrict rule. 

Both at once, as if by a single effort, they dipped the oars and layback, pulling with all their might, and then a struggle began todisplay their strength. They had come out easily, under sail, but thebreeze had died away, and the masculine pride of the two brothers wassuddenly aroused by the prospect of measuring their powers. When theywent out alone with their father they plied the oars without anysteering, for Roland would be busy getting the lines ready, while hekept a lookout in the boat's course, guiding it by a sign or a word:"Easy, Jean, and you, Pierre, put your back into it. " Or he would say, "Now, then, number one; come, number two--a little elbow grease. "Then the one who had been dreaming pulled harder, the one who had gotexcited eased down, and the boat's head came round. 

But to-day they meant to display their biceps. Pierre's arms werehairy, somewhat lean but sinewy; Jean's were round and white and rosy, and the knot of muscles moved under the skin. 

At first Pierre had the advantage. With his teeth set, his brow knit, his legs rigid, his hands clenched on the oar, he made it bend fromend to end at every stroke, and the _Pearl_ was veering landward. Father Roland, sitting in the bows, so as to leave the stern seat tothe two women, wasted his breath shouting, "Easy, number one; pullharder, number two!" Pierre pulled harder in his frenzy, and "numbertwo" could not keep time with his wild stroke. 

At last the skipper cried: "Stop her!" The two oars were liftedsimultaneously, and then by his father's orders Jean pulled alone fora few minutes. But from that moment he had it all his own way; he greweager and warmed to his work, while Pierre, out of breath andexhausted by his first vigorous spurt, was lax and panting. Four timesrunning father Roland made them stop while the elder took breath, soas to get the boat into her right course again. Then the doctorhumiliated and fuming, his forehead dropping with sweat, his cheekswhite, stammered out:

"I cannot think what has come over me; I have a stitch in my side. Istarted very well, but it has pulled me up. "

Jean asked: "Shall I pull alone with both oars for a time?"

"No, thanks, it will go off. "

And their mother, somewhat vexed, said:

"Why, Pierre, what rhyme or reason is there in getting in such astate. You are not a child. "

And he shrugged his shoulders and set to once more. 

Mme. Rosémilly pretended not to see, not to understand, not to hear. Her fair head went back with an engaging little jerk every time theboat moved forward, making the fine wayward hairs flutter about hertemples. 

But father Roland presently called out:

"Look, the _Prince Albert_ is catching us up!"

They all looked round. Long and low in the water, with her two rakingfunnels and two yellow paddle-boxes like two round cheeks, theSouthampton packet came plowing on at full steam, crowded withpassengers under open parasols. Its hurrying, noisy paddle-wheelsbeating up the water, which fell again in foam, gave it an appearanceof haste as of a courier pressed for time, and the upright stem cutthrough the water, throwing up two thin translucent waves which glidedoff along the hull. 

When it had come quite near the _Pearl_, father Roland lifted his hat, the ladies shook their handkerchiefs, and half a dozen parasolseagerly waved on board the steamboat responded to this salute as shewent on her way, leaving behind her a few broad undulations on thestill and glassy surface of the sea. 

There were other vessels, each with its smoky cap, coming in fromevery part of the horizon toward the short white jetty, whichswallowed them up, one after another, like a mouth. And the fishingbarks and lighter craft with broad sails and slender masts, stealingacross the sky in tow of inconspicuous tugs, were coming in, fasterand slower, toward the devouring ogre, who from time to time seemed tohave had a surfeit, and spewed out to the open sea another fleet ofsteamers, brigs, schooners, and three-masted vessels with theirtop-weight of tangled antlers. The hurrying steam-ships flew off tothe right and left over the smooth bosom of the ocean, while sailingvessels, cast off by the pilot-tugs which had hauled them out, laymotionless, dressing themselves from the mainmast to the fore-top incanvas, white or brown, and ruddy in the setting sun. 

Mme. Roland, with her eyes half-shut, murmured: "Good heavens, howbeautiful the sea is!"

And Mme. Rosémilly replied with a long sigh, which, however, had nosadness in it:

"Yes, but it is sometimes very cruel, all the same. "

Roland exclaimed:

"Look, there is the _Normandie_ just going in. A big ship, isn't she?"

Then he described the coast opposite, far, far away, on the other sideof the mouth of the Seine--that mouth extended over twenty kilometers, said he. He pointed out Villerville, Trouville, Houlgate, Luc, Arromanches, the little river of Caen, and the rocks of Calvados whichmake the coast unsafe as far as Cherbourg. Then he enlarged on thequestion of the sand banks in the Seine, which shift at every tide sothat the pilots of Quilleboeuf are at fault if they do not surveythe channel every day. He bid them notice how the town of Havredivided Upper from Lower Normandy. In Lower Normandy the shore slopeddown to the sea in pasture-lands, fields, and meadows. The coast ofUpper Normandy, on the contrary, was steep, a high cliff, ravined, cleft and towering, forming an immense white rampart all the way toDunkirk, while in each hollow a village or a port lay hidden: Etretat, Fécamp, Saint-Valery, Tréport, Dieppe, and the rest. 

The two women did not listen. Torpid with comfort and impressed by thesight of the ocean covered with vessels rushing to and fro like wildbeasts about their den, they sat speechless, somewhat awed by thesoothing and gorgeous sunset. Roland alone talked on without end; hewas one of those whom nothing can disturb. Women, whose nerves aremore sensitive, sometimes feel, without knowing why, that the sound ofuseless speech is as irritating as an insult. 

Pierre and Jean, who had calmed down, were rowing slowly, and the_Pearl_ was making for the harbor, a tiny thing among those hugevessels. 

When they came alongside of the quay, Papagris, who was waiting there, gave his hand to the ladies to help them out, and they took the wayinto the town. A large crowd--the crowd which haunts the pier everyday at high tide--was also drifting homeward. Mme. Roland and Mme. Rosémilly led the way, followed by the three men. As they went up therue de Paris they stopped now and then in front of a milliner's orjeweler's shop, to look at a bonnet or an ornament; then after makingtheir comments they went on again. In front of the Place de la BourseRoland paused, as he did every day, to gaze at the docks full ofvessels--the _Bassin du Commerce_, with other docks beyond, where thehuge hulls lay side by side, closely packed in rows, four or fivedeep. And masts innumerable; along several kilometers of quays theendless masts, with their yards, poles, and rigging, gave this greatgap in the heart of the town the look of a dead forest. Above thisleafless forest the gulls were wheeling, and watching to pounce, likea falling stone, on any scraps flung overboard; a sailor boy, fixing apulley to a cross-beam, looked as if he had gone up therebird's-nesting. 

"Will you dine with us without any sort of ceremony, just that we mayend the day together?" said Mme. Roland to her friend. 

"To be sure I will, with pleasure; I accept equally without ceremony. It would be dismal to go home and be alone this evening. "

Pierre, who had heard, and who was beginning to be restless under theyoung woman's indifference, muttered to himself: "Well, the widow istaking root now, it would seem. " For some days past he had spoken ofher as "the widow. " The word, harmless in itself, irritated Jeanmerely by the tone given to it, which to him seemed spiteful andoffensive. 

The three men spoke not another word till they reached the thresholdof their own house. It was a narrow one, consisting of a ground-floorand two floors above, in the rue Belle-Normande. The maid, Joséphine, a girl of nineteen, a rustic servant-of-all-work at low wages, giftedto excess with the startled, animal expression of a peasant, openedthe door, went upstairs at her master's heels to the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, and then said:

"A gentleman called--three times. "

Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and swearing, cried out:

"Who do you say called, in the devil's name?"

She never winced at her master's roaring voice, and replied:

"A gentleman from the lawyer's. "

"What lawyer?"

"Why M'sieu' Canu--who else?"

"And what did this gentleman say?"

"That M'sieu' Canu will call in himself in the course of the evening. "

Maître Lecanu was M. Roland's lawyer, and in a way his friend, managing his business for him. For him to send word that he would callin the evening, something urgent and important must be in the wind;and the four Rolands looked at each other, disturbed by theannouncement as folks of small fortune are wont to be at anyintervention of a lawyer, with its suggestions of contracts, inheritance, law-suits--all sorts of desirable or formidablecontingencies. The father, after a few moments of silence, muttered:

"What on earth can it mean?"

Mme. Rosémilly began to laugh. 

"Why, a legacy, of course. I am sure of it. I bring good luck. "

But they did not expect the death of any one who might leave themanything. 

Mme. Roland who had a good memory for relationships, began to thinkover all their connections on her husband's side and on her own, totrace up pedigrees and the ramifications of cousinship. 

Before even taking off her bonnet she said:

"I say, father" (she called her husband "Father" at home, andsometimes "Monsieur Roland" before strangers), "tell me, do youremember who it was that Joseph Lebru married for the second time?"

"Yes--a little girl named Dumenil, stationer's daughter. "

"Had they any children?"

"I should think so! four or five at least. "

"Not from that quarter, then. "

She was quite eager already in her search; she caught at the hope ofsome added ease dropping from the sky. But Pierre, who was very fondof his mother, who knew her to be somewhat visionary and feared shemight be disappointed, a little grieved, a little saddened if the newswere bad instead of good, checked her:

"Do not get excited, mother; there is no rich American uncle. For mypart I should sooner fancy that it is about a marriage for Jean. "

Every one was surprised at the suggestion, and Jean was a littleruffled by his brother's having spoken of it before Madame Rosémilly. 

"And why for me rather than for you? The hypothesis is verydisputable. You are the elder; you, therefore, would be the first tobe thought of. Besides, I do not wish to marry. "

Pierre smiled sneeringly:

"Are you in love, then?"

And the other, much put out, retorted:

"Is it necessary that a man should be in love because he does not careto marry yet?"

"Ah, there you are! That 'yet' sets it right; you are waiting. "

"Granted that I am waiting, if you will have it so. "

But old Roland who had been listening and cogitating, suddenly hitupon the most probable solution. 

"Bless me! what fools we are to be racking our brains. Maître Lecanuis our very good friend; he knows that Pierre is looking out for amedical partnership and Jean for a lawyer's office, and he has foundsomething to suit one of you. "

This was so obvious and likely that every one accepted it. 

"Dinner is ready, " said the maid. And they all hurried off to theirrooms to wash their hands before sitting down to table. 

Ten minutes after they were at dinner in the little dining-room on theground-floor. 

At first they were silent; but presently Roland began again inamazement at this lawyer's visit. 

"For after all, why did he not write? Why should he have sent hisclerk three times? Why is he coming himself?"

Pierre thought it quite natural. 

"An immediate decision is required, no doubt; and perhaps there arecertain confidential conditions which it does not do to put intowriting. "

Still, they were all puzzled, and all four a little annoyed at havinginvited a stranger, who would be in the way of their discussing anddeciding on what should be done. 

They had just gone upstairs again when the lawyer was announced. Roland flew to meet him:

"Good-evening, my dear Maître, " said he, giving his visitor the titlewhich in France is the official prefix to the name of every lawyer. 

Mme. Rosémilly rose. 

"I am going, " she said. "I am very tired. "

A faint attempt was made to detain her; but she would not consent, andwent home without either of the three men offering to escort her asthey always had done. 

Mme. Roland did the honors eagerly to their visitor. 

"A cup of coffee, Monsieur?"

"No, thank you. I have this moment done dinner. "

"A cup of tea, then?"

"Thank you, I will not refuse presently. First we must attend tobusiness. "

The total silence which succeeded this remark was broken only by theregular ticking of the clock, and below stairs the clatter ofsaucepans which the girl was cleaning--too stupid even to listen atthe door. 

The lawyer went on:

"Did you, in Paris, know a certain M. Maréchal--Léon Maréchal?"

M. And Mme. Roland both exclaimed at once: "I should think so!"

"He was a friend of yours?"

Roland replied: "Our best friend, monsieur, but a fanatic for Paris;never to be got away from the boulevard. He was head clerk in theexchequer office. I have never seen him since I left the capital, andlatterly we had ceased writing to each other. When people are farapart, you know--"

The lawyer gravely put in:

"M. Maréchal is deceased. "

Both man and wife responded with the little movement of painedsurprise, genuine or false, but always ready, with which such news isreceived. 

Maître Lecanu went on:

"My colleague in Paris has just communicated to me the main item ofhis will, by which he makes your son Jean--Monsieur Jean Roland--hissole legatee. "

They were all too much amazed to utter a single word. Mme. Roland wasthe first to control her emotions and stammered out:

"Good heavens! Poor Léon--our poor friend! Dear me! Dear me! Dead!"

The tears started to her eyes, a woman's silent tears, drops of grieffrom her very soul, which trickle down her cheeks and seem so verysad, being so clear. But Roland was thinking less of the loss than ofthe prospect announced. Still, he dared not at once inquire into theclauses of the will and the amount of the fortune, so to work aroundto these interesting facts he asked. 

"And what did he die of, poor Maréchal?"

Maître Lecanu did not know in the least. 

"All I know is, " said he, "that, dying without any direct heirs, hehas left the whole of his fortune--about twenty thousand francs a year($3, 840) in three per cents--to your second son, whom he has knownfrom his birth up, and judges worthy of the legacy. If M. Jean shouldrefuse the money, it is to go to the foundling hospitals. "

Old Roland could not conceal his delight and exclaimed:

"Sacristi! It is the thought of a kind heart. And if I had no heir Iwould not have forgotten him; he was a true friend. "

The lawyer smiled. 

"I was very glad, " he said, "to announce the event to you myself. Itis always a pleasure to be the bearer of good news. "

It had not struck him that this good news was that of the death of afriend, of Roland's best friend; and the old man himself had suddenlyforgotten the intimacy he had just spoken of with so much conviction. 

Only Mme. Roland and her sons still looked mournful. She, indeed, wasstill shedding a few tears, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, which she then pressed to her lips to smother her deep sobs. 

The doctor murmured:

"He was a good fellow, very affectionate. He often invited us to dinewith him--my brother and me. "

Jean, with wide-open, glittering eyes, laid his hand on his handsomefair beard, a familiar gesture with him, and drew his fingers down itto the tip of the last hairs, as if to pull it longer and thinner. Twice his lips parted to utter some decent remark, but after longmeditation he could only say this:

"Yes, he was certainly fond of me. He would always embrace me when Iwent to see him. "

But his father's thoughts had set off at a gallop--galloping roundthis inheritance to come; nay, already in hand; this money lurkingbehind the door which would walk in quite soon, to-morrow, at a wordof consent. 

"And there is no possible difficulty in the way?" he asked. "Nolawsuit--no one to dispute it?"

Maître Lecanu seemed quite easy. 

"No; my Paris correspondent states that everything is quite clear. M. Jean has only to sign his acceptance. "

"Good. Then--then the fortune is quite clear?"

"Perfectly clear. "

"All the necessary formalities have been gone through?"

"All. "

Suddenly the old jeweler had an impulse of shame--obscure, instinctive, and fleeting; shame of his eagerness to be informed, andhe added:

"You understand when I ask all these questions so immediately it is tosave my son disagreeables which he might not foresee. Sometimes thereare debts, embarrassing liabilities, what not! And a legatee findshimself in an inextricable thorn bush. After all, I am not theheir--but I think first of the little 'un. "

They were accustomed to speak of Jean among themselves as the "littleone, " though he was much bigger than Pierre. 

Suddenly Mme. Roland seemed to wake from a dream, to recall someremote fact, a thing almost forgotten that she had heard long ago, andof which she was not altogether sure. She inquired doubtingly:

"Were you not saying that our poor friend Maréchal had left hisfortune to my little Jean?"

"Yes, madame. "

And she went on simply:

"I am much pleased to hear it; it proves that he was attached to us. "

Roland had risen. 

"And would you wish, my dear sir, that my son should at once sign hisacceptance?"

"No--no, M. Roland. To-morrow, at my office to-morrow, at two o'clock, if that suits you. "

"Yes, to be sure--yes, indeed, I should think so. "

Then Mme. Roland, who had also risen and who was smiling after hertears, went up to the lawyer, and laying her hand on the back of hischair while she looked at him with the pathetic eyes of a gratefulmother, she said:

"And now for that cup of tea, Monsieur Lecanu?"

"Now I will accept it with pleasure, madame. "

The maid, on being summoned, brought in first some dry biscuits indeep tin boxes, those crisp, insipid English cakes which seem to havebeen made for a parrot's beak, and soldered into metal cases for avoyage round the world. Next she fetched some little gray linendoilies, folded square, those tea-napkins which in thrifty familiesnever get washed. A third time she came in with the sugar basin andcups; then she departed to heat the water. They sat waiting. 

No one could talk; they had too much to think about and nothing tosay. Mme. Roland alone attempted a few commonplace remarks. She gavean account of the fishing excursion, and sang the praises of the_Pearl_ and of Mme. Rosémilly. 

"Charming! charming!" the lawyer said again and again. 

Roland, leaning against the marble mantelshelf as if it were winterand the fire burning, with his hands in his pockets and his lipspuckered for a whistle, could not keep still, tortured by theinvincible desire to give vent to his delight. The two brothers, intwo armchairs that matched, one on each side of the center-table, stared in front of them, in similar attitudes full of dissimilarexpression. 

At last the tea appeared. The lawyer took a cup, sugared it, and drankit, after having crumbled into it a little cake which was too hard tocrunch. Then he rose, shook hands, and departed. 

"Then it is understood, " repeated Roland. "To-morrow, at your place, at two?"

"Quite so. To-morrow, at two. "

Jean had not spoken a word. 

When their guest had gone, silence fell again till father Rolandclapped his two hands on his younger son's shoulders, crying:

"Well, you devilish lucky dog! You don't embrace me!"

Then Jean smiled. He embraced his father, saying:

"It had not struck me as indispensable. "

The old man was beside himself with glee. He walked about the room, strummed on the furniture with his clumsy nails, turned about on hisheels, and kept saying:

"What luck! what luck! Now, that is really what I call luck!"

Pierre asked:

"Then you used to know this Maréchal well?"

And his father replied:

"I believe you! Why, he used to spend every evening at our house. Surely you remember he used to fetch you from school on half-holidays, and often took you back again after dinner. Why, the very day whenJean was born it was he who went for the doctor. He had beenbreakfasting with us when your mother was taken ill. Of course we knewat once what it meant, and he set off post-haste. In his hurry he tookmy hat instead of his own. I remember that because we had a good laughover it afterward. It is very likely that he may have thought of thatwhen he was dying, and as he had no heir he may have said to himself:'I remember helping to bring that youngster into the world, so I willleave him my savings. '"

Mme. Roland, sunk in a deep chair, seemed lost in reminiscences oncemore. She murmured, as though she were thinking aloud:

"Ah, he was a good friend, very devoted, very faithful, a rare soul inthese days. "

Jean got up. 

"I shall go out for a little walk, " he said. 

His father was surprised and tried to keep him; they had much to talkabout, plans to be made, decisions to be formed. But the young maninsisted, declaring that he had an engagement. Besides, there would betime for settling everything before he came into possession of hisinheritance. So he went away, for he wished to be alone to reflect. Pierre, on his part, said that he too was going out, and after a fewminutes followed his brother. 

As soon as he was alone with his wife, father Roland took her in hisarms, kissed her a dozen times on each cheek, and replying to areproach she had often brought against him, said:

"You see, my dearest, it would have been of no good to stay any longerin Paris and work for the children till I dropped, instead of cominghere to recruit my health, since fortune drops on us from the skies. "

She was quite serious. 

"It drops from the skies on Jean, " she said. "But Pierre?"

"Pierre? But he is a doctor; he will make plenty of money; besides, his brother will surely do something for him. "

"No, he would not take it. Besides, this legacy is for Jean, only forJean. Pierre will find himself at a great disadvantage. "

The old fellow seemed perplexed: "Well, then, we will leave him rathermore in our will. "

"No; that again would not be quite just. "

"Drat it all!" he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do in the matter?You always hit on a whole heap of disagreeable ideas. You must spoilall my pleasures. Well, I am going to bed. Good-night. All the same, Icall it good luck, jolly good luck!"

And he went off, delighted in spite of everything, and without a wordof regret for the friend so generous in his death. 

Mme. Roland sat thinking again, in front of the lamp which was burningout. 

CHAPTER II

As soon as he got out, Pierre made his way to the Rue de Paris, thehigh-street of Havre, brightly lighted up, lively and noisy. Therather sharp air of the seacoast kissed his face, and he walkedslowly, his stick under his arm and his hands behind his back. He wasill at ease, oppressed, out of heart, as one is after hearingunpleasant tidings. He was not distressed by any definite thought, andhe would have been puzzled to account, on the spur of the moment, forthis dejection of spirit and heaviness of limb. He was hurt somewhere, without knowing where; somewhere within him there was a pin-point ofpain--one of these almost imperceptible wounds which we cannot lay afinger on, but which incommode us, tire us, depress us, irritate us--aslight and occult pang, as it were a small seed of distress. 

When he reached the square in front of the theater, he was attractedby the lights in the Café Tortoni, and slowly bent his steps to thedazzling façade; but just as he was going in he reflected that hewould meet friends there and acquaintances--people he would beobliged to talk to; and fierce repugnance surged up in him for thiscommonplace good-fellowship over coffee cups and liqueur glasses. So, retracing his steps, he went back to the high-street leading to theharbor. 

"Where shall I go?" he asked himself, trying to think of a spot heliked which would agree with his frame of mind. He could not think ofone, for being alone made him feel fractious, yet he could not bear tomeet any one. As he came out on the Grand Quay he hesitated once more;then he turned toward the pier; he had chosen solitude. 

Going close by a bench on the breakwater he sat down, tired already ofwalking and out of humor with his stroll before he had taken it. 

He said to himself: "What is the matter with me this evening?" And hebegan to search in his memory for what vexation had crossed him, as wequestion a sick man to discover the cause of his fever. 

His mind was at once irritable and sober; he got excited, then hereasoned, approving or blaming his impulses; but in time primitivenature at last proved the stronger; the sensitive man always had theupper hand over the intellectual man. So he tried to discover what hadinduced this irascible mood, this craving to be moving without wantinganything, this desire to meet some one for the sake of differing fromhim, and at the same time this aversion for the people he might seeand the things they might say to him. 

And then he put the question to himself, "Can it be Jean'sinheritance?"

Yes, it was certainly possible. When the lawyer had announced the newshe had felt his heart beat a little faster. For, indeed, one is notalways master of one's self; there are sudden and pertinaciousemotions against which a man struggles in vain. 

He fell into meditation on the physiological problem of the impressionproduced on the instinctive element in man, and giving rise to acurrent of painful or pleasurable sensations diametrically opposed tothose which the thinking man desires, aims at, and regards as rightand wholesome, when he has risen superior to himself by thecultivation of his intellect. He tried to picture to himself the frameof mind of a son who has inherited a vast fortune, and who, thanks tothat wealth, may now know many long-wished-for delights which theavarice of his father had prohibited--a father, nevertheless, belovedand regretted. 

He got up and walked on to the end of the pier. He felt better, andglad to have understood, to have detected himself, to have unmasked_the other_ which lurks in us. 

"Then I was jealous of Jean, " thought he. "That is really vilely mean. And I am sure of it now, for the first idea which came into my headwas that he would marry Madame Rosémilly. And yet I am not in lovemyself with that priggish little goose, who is just the woman todisgust a man with good sense and good conduct. So it is the mostgratuitous jealousy, the very essence of jealousy, which is merelybecause it is! I must keep an eye on that!"

By this time he was in front of the flagstaff, whence the depth ofwater in the harbor is signaled, and he struck a match to read thelist of vessels signaled in the roadstead and coming in with the nexthigh tide. Ships were due from Brazil, from La Plata, from Chili andJapan, two Danish brigs, a Norwegian schooner, and a Turkishsteamship--which startled Pierre as much as if it had read a Swisssteamship; and in a whimsical vision he pictured a great vesselcrowded with men in turbans climbing the shrouds in loose trousers. 

"How absurd, " thought he. "But the Turks are a maritime people, too. "

A few steps further on he stopped again, looking out at the roads. Onthe right, above Sainte-Adresse, the two electric lights of Cape laHève, like monstrous twin Cyclops, shot their long and powerful beamsacross the sea. Starting from two neighboring centers, the twoparallel shafts of light, like the colossal tails of two comets, fellin a straight and endless slope from the top of the cliff to theuttermost horizon. Then, on the two piers, two more lights, thechildren of these giants, marked the entrance to the harbor; and faraway on the other side of the Seine others were in sight, many others, steady or winking, flashing or revolving, opening and shutting likeeyes--the eyes of the ports--yellow, red, and green, watching thenight-wrapped sea covered with ships; the living eyes of thehospitable shore saying, merely by the mechanical and regular movementof their eyelids: "I am here. I am Trouville; I am Honfleur; I am theAudemer River. " And high above all the rest, so high that from thisdistance it might be taken for a planet, the airy light-house ofEtouville showed the way to Rouen across the sand banks at the mouthof the great river. 

Out on the deep water, the limitless water, darker than the sky, starsseemed to have fallen here and there. They twinkled in the night haze, small, close to shore or far away--white, red, and green, too. Mostof them were motionless; some, however, seemed to be scudding onward. These were the lights of the ships at anchor or moving about in searchof moorings. 

Just at this moment the moon rose behind the town; and it, too, lookedlike some huge, divine pharos lighted up in the heavens to guide thecountless fleet of stars in the sky. Pierre murmured, almost speakingaloud: "Look at that! And we let our bile rise for two-pence!"

On a sudden, close to him, in the wide, dark ditch between the twopiers, a shadow stole up, a large shadow of fantastic shape. Leaningover the granite parapet, he saw that a fishing-boat had glided in, without the sound of a voice or the splash of a ripple, or the plungeof an oar, softly borne in by its broad, tawny sail spread to thebreeze from the open sea. 

He thought to himself: "If one could but live on board that boat, whatpeace it would be--perhaps!"

And then a few steps further again, he saw a man sitting at the veryend of the breakwater. 

A dreamer, a lover, a sage--a happy or a desperate man? Who was it? Hewent forward, curious to see the face of this lonely individual, andhe recognized his brother. 

"What, is it you, Jean?"

"Pierre! You? What has brought you here?"

"I came out to get some fresh air. And you?"

Jean began to laugh. 

"I too came out for fresh air. " And Pierre sat down by his brother'sside. 

"Lovely--isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, lovely. "

He understood from the tone of voice that Jean had not looked atanything. He went on:

"For my part, whenever I come here I am seized with a wild desire tobe off with all those boats, to the north or the south. Only to thinkthat all those little sparks out there have just come from theuttermost ends of the earth, from the lands of great flowers andbeautiful olive or copper colored girls, the lands of humming-birds, of elephants, of roaming lions, of negro kings, from all the landswhich are like fairy tales to us who no longer believe in the WhiteCat or the Sleeping Beauty. It would be awfully jolly to be able totreat one's self to an excursion out there; but, then, it would cost agreat deal of money, no end--"

He broke off abruptly, remembering that his brother had that moneynow; and released from care, released from laboring for his dailybread, free, unfettered, happy, and light-hearted, he might go whitherhe listed, to find the fair-haired Swedes or the brown damsels ofHavana. And then one of those involuntary flashes which were commonwith him, so sudden and swift that he could neither anticipate them, nor stop them, nor qualify them, communicated, as it seemed to him, from some second, independent, and violent soul, shot through hisbrain. 

"Bah! He is too great a simpleton; he will marry that littleRosémilly. " He was standing up now. "I will leave you to dream of thefuture. I want to be moving. " He grasped his brother's hand and addedin a heavy tone:

"Well, my dear old boy, you are a rich man. I am very glad to havecome upon you this evening to tell you how pleased I am about it, howtruly I congratulate you, and how much I care for you. "

Jean, tender and soft-hearted, was deeply touched. 

"Thank you, my good brother--thank you!" he stammered. 

And Pierre turned away with his slow step, his stick under his arm, and his hands behind his back. 

Back in the town again, he once more wondered what he should do, beingdisappointed of his walk and deprived of the company of the sea by hisbrother's presence. He had an inspiration. "I will go and take a glassof liqueur with old Marowsko, " and he went off toward the quarter ofthe town known as Ingouville. 

He had known old Marowsko--_le père Marowsko_, he called him--in thehospitals in Paris. He was a Pole, an old refugee, it was said, whohad gone through terrible things out there, and who had come to plyhis calling as a chemist and druggist in France after passing a freshexamination. Nothing was known of his early life, and all sorts oflegends had been current among the indoor and outdoor patients andafterwards among his neighbors. This reputation as a terribleconspirator, a nihilist, a regicide, a patriot ready for anything andeverything, who had escaped death by a miracle, had bewitched PierreRoland's lively and bold imagination; he had made friends with the oldPole, without, however, having ever extracted from him any revelationas to his former career. It was owing to the young doctor that thisworthy had come to settle at Havre, counting on the large custom whichthe rising practitioner would secure him. Meanwhile he lived verypoorly in his little shop, selling medicines to the small tradesmenand workmen in his part of the town. 

Pierre often went to see him and chat with him for an hour afterdinner, for he liked Marowsko's calm look and rare speech, andattributed great depth to his long spells of silence. 

A single gas-burner was alight over the counter crowded with phials. Those in the window were not lighted, from motives of economy. Behindthe counter, sitting on a chair with his legs stretched out andcrossed, an old man, quite bald, with a large beak of a nose which, asa prolongation of his hairless forehead, gave him a melancholylikeness to a parrot, was sleeping soundly, his chin resting on hisbreast. He woke at the sound of the shop-bell, and recognizing thedoctor, came forward to meet him, holding out both hands. 

His black frock coat, streaked with stains of acids and syrups, wasmuch too wide for his lean little person, and looked like a shabby oldcassock; and the man spoke with a strong Polish accent which gave achildlike character to his thin voice, the lisping note andintonations of a young thing learning to speak. 

Pierre sat down, and Marowsko asked him: "What news, dear doctor?"

"None. Everything as usual, everywhere. "

"You do not look very gay this evening. "

"I am not often gay. "

"Come, come, you must shake that off. Will you try a glass ofliqueur?"

"Yes, I do not mind. "

"Then I will give you something new to try. For these two months Ihave been trying to extract something from currants, of which only asyrup has been made hitherto--well, and I have done it. I haveinvented a very good liqueur--very good indeed; very good. "

And quite delighted, he went to a cupboard, opened it, and picked outa bottle which he brought forth. He moved and did everything in jerkygestures, always incomplete; he never quite stretched out his arm, norquite put out his legs; nor made any broad and definite movements. Hisideas seemed to be like his actions; he suggested them, promised them, sketched them, hinted at them, but never fully uttered them. 

And indeed, his great end in life seemed to be the concoction ofsyrups and liqueurs. "A good syrup or a good liqueur is enough to makea fortune, " he would often say. 

He had compounded hundreds of these sweet mixtures without eversucceeding in floating one of them. Pierre declared that Marowskoalways reminded him of Marat. 

Two little glasses were fetched out of the back shop and placed on themixing-board. Then the two men scrutinized the color of the fluid byholding it up to the gas. 

"A fine ruby, " Pierre declared. 

"Isn't it?" Marowsko's old parrot-face beamed with satisfaction. 

The doctor tasted, smacked his lips, meditated, tasted again, meditated again, and spoke:

"Very good--capital; and quite new in flavor. It is a find, my dearfellow. "

"Ah, really? Well, I am very glad. "

Then Marowsko took counsel as to baptizing the new liqueur. He wantedto call it "Extract of currants, " or else "_Fine Groseille_, " or"_Grosélia_, " or again "_Groséline_. " Pierre did not approve of eitherof these names. 

Then the old man had an idea:

"What you said just now would be very good, very good: 'Fine Ruby. '"But the doctor disputed the merit of this name, though it hadoriginated with him. He recommended simply "Groseillette, " whichMarowsko thought admirable. 

Then they were silent, and sat for some minutes without a word underthe solitary gas-lamp. At last Pierre began, almost in spite ofhimself: "A queer thing has happened at home this evening. A friend ofmy father's, who is lately dead, has left his fortune to my brother. "

The druggist did not at first seem to understand, but after thinkingit over he hoped that the doctor had half the inheritance. When thematter was clearly explained to him he appeared surprised and vexed;and to express his dissatisfaction at finding that his young friendhad been sacrificed, he said several times over:

"It will not look well. "

Pierre, who was relapsing into nervous irritation, wanted to know whatMarowsko meant by this phrase. 

Why would it not look well? What was there to look badly in the factthat his brother had come into the money of a friend of the family?

But the cautious old man would not explain further. 

"In such a case the money is left equally to the two brothers, and Itell you, it will not look well. "

And the doctor, out of all patience, went away, returned to hisfather's house, and went to bed. For some time yet he could hear Jeanmoving softly about the adjoining room, and then, after drinking twoglasses of water, he fell asleep. 

CHAPTER III

The doctor awoke next morning firmly resolved to make his fortune. Several times already he had come to the same determination withoutfollowing up the reality. At the outset of all his trials of some newcareer the hopes of rapidly acquired riches kept up his efforts andconfidence, till the first obstacle, the first check, threw him into afresh path. Snug in bed between the warm sheets, he lay meditating. How many medical men had become wealthy in quite a short time! Allthat was needed was a little knowledge of the world; for in the courseof his studies he had learnt to estimate the most famous physicians, and he judged them all to be asses. He was certainly as good as they, if not better. If by any means he could secure a practice among thewealth and fashion of Havre, he could easily make a hundred thousandfrancs a year. And he calculated with great exactitude what hiscertain profits must be. He would go out in the mornings to visit hispatients; at the very moderate average of ten a day, at twenty francseach, that would mount up to seventy-two thousand francs a year atleast, or even seventy-five thousand; for ten patients was certainlybelow the mark. In the afternoon he would be at home to, say, anotherten patients, at ten francs each--thirty-six thousand francs. Here, then, in round numbers, was an income of twenty thousand francs. Oldpatients, or friends whom he would charge only ten francs for a visit, or see at home for five, would perhaps make a slight reduction onthis sum total, but consultations with other physicians and variousincidental fees would make up for that. 

Nothing would be easier than to achieve this by skillful advertisingremarks in the _Figaro_ to the effect that the scientific faculty ofParis had their eye on him, and were interested in the cures effectedby the modest young practitioner of Havre! And he would be richer thanhis brother, richer and more famous; and satisfied with himself, forhe would owe his fortune solely to his own exertions; and liberal tohis old parents, who would be justly proud of his fame. He would notmarry, would not burden his life with a wife who would be in his way, but then he might make love. He felt so sure of success that he sprangout of bed as though to grasp it on the spot, and he dressed to go andsearch through the town for rooms to suit him. 

Then, as he wandered about the streets, he reflected how slight arethe causes which determine our actions. Any time these three weeks hemight and ought to have come to this decision, which, beyond a doubt, the news of his brother's inheritance had abruptly given rise to. 

He stopped before every door where a placard proclaimed that "fineapartments" or "handsome rooms" were to be let; announcements withoutan adjective he turned from with scorn. Then he inspected them with alofty air, measuring the height of the rooms, sketching the plan inhis note-book, with the passages, the arrangements of the exits, explaining that he was a medical man and had many visitors. He musthave a broad and well-kept staircase; nor could he be any higher upthan the first floor. 

After having written down seven or eight addresses and scribbled twohundred notes, he got home to breakfast a quarter of an hour too late. 

In the hall he heard the clatter of plates. Then they had begunwithout him! Why? They were never wont to be so punctual. He wasnettled and put out, for he was somewhat thin-skinned. As he went inRoland said to him:

"Come, Pierre, make haste, devil take you! You know we have to be atthe lawyer's at two o'clock. This is not the day to be dawdlingabout. "

Pierre sat down without replying, after kissing his mother and shakinghands with his father and brother; and he helped himself from the deepdish in the middle of the table to the cutlet which had been kept forhim. It was cold and dry, probably the least tempting of them all. Hethought that they might have left it on the hot plate till he came in, and not lose their heads so completely as to have forgotten theirother son, their eldest. 

The conversation, which his entrance had interrupted, was taken upagain at the point where it had ceased. 

"In your place, " Mme. Roland was saying to Jean, "I will tell you whatI should do at once. I should settle in handsome rooms so as toattract attention; I should rise on horseback and select one or twointeresting cases to defend and make a mark in court. I would be asort of amateur lawyer, and very select. Thank God you are out of alldanger of want, and if you pursue a profession, it is, after all, onlythat you may not lose the benefit of your studies, and because a manought never to sit idle. "

Old Roland, who was peeling a pear, exclaimed:

"Christi! In your place I should buy a nice yacht, a cutter on thebuild of our pilot-boats. I would sail as far as Senegal in such aboat as that. "

Pierre, in his turn, spoke his views. After all, said he, it was nothis wealth which made the moral worth, the intellectual worth of aman. To a man of inferior mind it was only a means of degradation, while in the hands of a strong man it was a powerful lever. They, tobe sure, were rare. If Jean were a really superior man, now that hecould never want he might prove it. But then he must work a hundredtimes harder than he would have done in other circumstances. Hisbusiness now must be not to argue for or against the widow and theorphan, and pocket his fees for every case he gained, but to become areally eminent legal authority, a luminary of the law. And he added inconclusion:

"If I were rich wouldn't I dissect no end of bodies!"

Father Roland shrugged his shoulders. 

"That is all very fine, " he said. "But the wisest way of life is totake it easy. We are not beasts of burden, but men. If you are bornpoor you must work; well, so much the worse; and you do work. Butwhere you have dividends! You must be a flat if you grind yourself todeath. "

Pierre replied haughtily:

"Our notions differ. For my part, I respect nothing on earth butlearning and intellect; everything else is beneath contempt. "

Mme. Roland always tried to deaden the constant shocks between fatherand son; she turned the conversation, and began talking of a murdercommitted the week before at Bolbec Nointot. Their minds wereimmediately full of the circumstances under which the crime had beencommitted, and absorbed by the interesting horror, the attractivemystery of crime, which, however commonplace, shameful, anddisgusting, exercises a strange and universal fascination over thecuriosity of mankind. Now and again, however, old Roland looked at hiswatch. "Come, " said he, "it is time to be going. "

Pierre sneered. 

"It is not yet one o'clock, " he said. "It really was hardly worthwhile to condemn me to eat a cold cutlet. "

"Are you coming to the lawyer's?" his mother asked. 

"I? No. What for?" he replied dryly. "My presence is quiteunnecessary. "

Jean sat silent, as though he had no concern in the matter. When theywere discussing the murder at Bolbec he, as a legal authority, had putforward some opinions and uttered some reflections on crime andcriminals. Now he spoke no more; but the sparkle in his eye, thebright color in his cheeks, the very gloss of his beard seemed toproclaim his happiness. 

When the family had gone, Pierre, alone once more, resumed hisinvestigations in the apartments to let. After two or three hoursspent in going up and down stairs, he at last found, in the BoulevardFrançois, a pretty set of rooms; a spacious entresol with two doors ontwo different streets, two drawing-rooms, a glass corridor, where hispatients while they waited, might walk among flowers, and a delightfuldining-room with a bow-window looking out over the sea. 

When it came to taking it, the terms--three thousand francs--pulledhim up; the first quarter must be paid in advance, and he had nothing, not a penny to call his own. 

The little fortune his father had saved brought him in about eightthousand francs a year, and Pierre had often blamed himself for havingplaced his parents in difficulties by his long delay in deciding on aprofession, by forfeiting his attempts and beginning fresh courses ofstudy. So he went away, promising to send his answer within two days, and it occurred to him to ask Jean to lend him the amount of thisquarter's rent, or even of a half-year, fifteen hundred francs, assoon as Jean should have come into possession. 

"It will be a loan for a few months at most, " he thought. "I shallrepay him, very likely, before the end of the year. It is a simplematter, and he will be glad to do so much for me. "

As it was not yet four o'clock, and he had nothing to do, absolutelynothing, he went to sit in the public gardens; and he remained a longtime on a bench, without an idea in his brain, his eyes fixed on theground, crushed by weariness amounting to distress. 

And yet this was how he had been living all these days since hisreturn home, without suffering so acutely from the vacuity of hisexistence and from inaction. How had he spent his time from rising inthe morning till bed-time?

He had loafed on the pier at high tide, loafed in the streets, loafedin the cafés, loafed at Marowsko's, loafed everywhere. And on a suddenthis life, which he had endured till now, had become odious, intolerable. If he had had any pocket-money he would have taken acarriage for a long drive in the country, along by the farm-ditchesshaded by beech and elm trees; but he had to think twice of the costof a glass of beer or a postage-stamp, and such an indulgence was outof his ken. It suddenly struck him how hard it was for a man of pastthirty to be reduced to ask his mother, with a blush, for atwenty-franc piece every now and then; and he muttered, as he scoredthe gravel with the ferrule of his stick:

"Christi, if I only had money!"

And again the thought of his brother's legacy came into his head likethe sting of a wasp; but he drove it out indignantly, not choosing toallow himself to slip down that descent to jealousy. 

Some children were playing about in the dusty paths. They were fairlittle things with long hair, and they were making little mounds ofsand with the greatest gravity and careful attention, to crush them atonce by stamping on them. 

It was one of those gloomy days with Pierre when we pry into everycorner of our souls and shake out every crease. 

"All our endeavors are like the labors of those babies, " thought he. And then he wondered whether the wisest thing in life were not tobeget two or three of these little creatures and watch them grow upwith complacent curiosity. A longing for marriage breathed on hissoul. A man is not so lost when he is not alone. At any rate, he hearssome one stirring at his side in hours of trouble or of uncertainty;and it is something only to be able to speak on equal terms to a womanwhen one is suffering. 

Then he began thinking of women. He knew very little of them, neverhaving had any but very transient connections as a medical student, broken off as soon as the month's allowance was spent, and renewed orreplaced by another the following month. And yet there must be somevery kind, gentle, and comforting creatures among them. Had not hismother been the good sense and saving grace of his own home? How gladhe would be to know a woman, a true woman. 

He started up with a sudden determination to go and call on Mme. Rosémilly. But he promptly sat down again. He did not like that woman. Why not? She had too much vulgar and sordid common sense; besides, didshe not seem to prefer Jean? Without confessing it to himself toobluntly, this preference had a great deal to do with his low opinionof the widow's intellect; for, though he loved his brother, he couldnot help thinking him somewhat mediocre and believing himself thesuperior. However, he was not going to sit there till nightfall; andas he had done on the previous evening, he anxiously asked himself:"What am I going to do?"

At this moment he felt in his soul the need of a melting mood, ofbeing embraced and comforted. Comforted--for what? He could not haveput it into words; but he was in one of those hours of weakness andexhaustion when a woman's presence, a woman's kiss, the touch of ahand, the rustle of a petticoat, a soft look out of black or blueeyes, seem the one thing needful, there and then, to our heart. Andthe memory flashed upon him of a little barmaid at a beer-house, whomhe had walked home with one evening, and seen again from time to time. 

So once more he rose, to go and drink a bock with the girl. Whatshould he say to her? What would she say to him? Nothing, probably. But what did that matter? He would hold her hand for a few seconds. She seemed to have a fancy for him. Why, then, did he not go to seeher oftener?

He found her dozing on a chair in the beer-shop, which was almostdeserted. Three men were drinking and smoking with their elbows on theoak tables; the book-keeper in her desk was reading a novel, while themaster, in his shirt-sleeves, lay sound asleep on a bench. 

As soon as she saw him the girl rose eagerly, and coming to meet him, said:

"Good-day, monsieur--how are you?"

"Pretty well; and you?"

"I--oh, very well. How scarce you make yourself. "

"Yes. I have very little time to myself. I am a doctor, you know. "

"Indeed! You never told me. If I had known that--I was out of sortslast week and I would have sent for you. What will you take?"

"A bock. And you?"

"I will have a bock too since you are game to treat me. "

She had addressed him with the familiar _tu_, and continued to use it, as if the offer of a drink had tacitly conveyed permission. Then, sitting down opposite each other, they talked for a while. Every nowand then she took his hand with the light familiarity of girls whosekisses are for sale, and looking at him with inviting eyes, she said:

"Why don't you come here oftener? I like you very much, sweetheart. "

He was already disgusted with her; he saw how stupid she was, andcommon, smacking of low life. A woman, he told himself, should appearto us in a dream, or such a glory as may poetize her vulgarity. 

Next she asked him:

"You went by the other morning with a handsome fair man, wearing a bigbeard. Is he your brother?"

"Yes, he is my brother. "

"Awfully good-looking. "

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, indeed; and he looks like a man who enjoys life, too. "

What strange craving impelled him on a sudden to tell thistavern-wench about Jean's legacy? Why should this thing, which he keptat arm's-length when he was alone, which he drove from him for fear ofthe torment it brought upon his soul, rise to his lips at this moment?And why did he allow it to overflow them, as if he needed once more toempty out his heart to some one, gorged as it was with bitterness?

He crossed his legs and said:

"He has wonderful luck, that brother of mine. He has just come into alegacy of twenty thousand francs a year. "

She opened those covetous blue eyes of hers very wide. 

"Oh! and who left him that? His grandmother or his aunt?"

"No. An old friend of my parents'. "

"Only a friend! Impossible! And you--did he leave you nothing?"

"No. I knew him very slightly. "

She sat thinking some minutes; then, with an odd smile on her lips, she said:

"Well, he is a lucky dog, that brother of yours, to have friends ofthat pattern. My word! and no wonder he is so unlike you. "

He longed to slap her, without knowing why; and he asked with pinchedlips: "And what do you mean by saying that?"

She had put on a stolid, innocent face. 

"O--h, nothing. I mean he has better luck than you. "

He tossed a franc piece on the table and went out. 

Now he kept repeating the phrase: "No wonder he is so unlike you. "

What had her thought been, what had been her meaning under thosewords? There was certainly some malice, some spite, something shamefulin it. Yes, that hussy must have fancied, no doubt, that Jean wasMaréchal's son. The agitation which came over him at the notion ofthis suspicion cast at his mother was so violent that he stood still, looking about him for some place where he might sit down. In front ofhim was another café. He went in, took a chair, and as the waiter cameup, "A bock, " he said. 

He felt his heart beating, his skin was goose-flesh. And then therecollection flashed upon him of what Marowsko had said the eveningbefore. "It will not look well. " Had he had the same thought, the samesuspicion as this baggage? Hanging his head over the glass, he watchedthe white froth as the bubbles rose and burst, asking himself: "Is itpossible that such a thing should be believed?"

But the reasons which might give rise to this horrible doubt in othermen's minds now struck him, one after another, as plain, obvious, andexasperating. That a childless old bachelor should leave his fortuneto a friend's two sons was the most simple and natural thing in theworld; but that he should leave the whole of it to one alone--ofcourse people would wonder, and whisper, and end by smiling. How wasit that he had not foreseen this, that his father had not felt it? Howwas it that his mother had not guessed it? No; they had been toodelighted at this unhoped-for wealth for the idea to come near them. And besides, how should these worthy souls have ever dreamed ofanything so ignominious?

But the public--their neighbors, the shopkeepers, their own tradesmen, all who knew them--would not they repeat the abominable thing, laughat it, enjoy it, make game of his father and despise his mother?

And the barmaid's remark that Jean was fair and he dark, that theywere not in the least alike in face, manner, figure, or intelligence, would now strike every eye and every mind. When any one spoke ofRoland's son, the question would be: "Which, the real or the false?"

He rose, firmly resolved to warn Jean, and put him on his guardagainst the frightful danger which threatened their mother's honor. 

But what could Jean do? The simplest thing, no doubt, would be torefuse the inheritance, which would then go to the poor, and to tellall friends or acquaintances who had heard of the bequest that thewill contained clauses and conditions impossible to subscribe to, which would have made Jean not inheritor but merely a trustee. 

As he made his way home he was thinking that he must see his brotheralone, so as not to speak of such a matter in the presence of hisparents. On reaching the door he heard a great noise of voices andlaughter in the drawing-room, and when he went in he found CaptainBeausire and Mme. Rosémilly, whom his father had brought home andengaged to dine with them in honor of the good news. Vermouth andabsinthe had been served to whet their appetites, and every one hadbeen at once put into good spirits. Captain Beausire, a funny littleman who had become quite round by dint of being rolled about at sea, and whose ideas also seemed to have been worn round, like the pebblesof a beach, while he laughed with his throat full of _r_'s, lookedupon life as a capital thing, in which everything that might turn upwas good to take. He clinked his glass against father Roland's, whileJean was offering two freshly filled glasses to the ladies. Mme. Rosémilly refused, till Captain Beausire, who had known her husband, cried:

"Come, come, madame, _bis repetita placent_, as we say in the lingo, which is as much as to say two glasses of vermouth never hurt any one. Look at me; since I have left the sea, in this way I give myself anartificial roll or two every day before dinner; I add a littlepitching after my coffee, and that keeps things lively for the rest ofthe evening. I never rise to a hurricane, mind you, never, never. I amtoo much afraid of damage. "

Roland, whose nautical mania was humored by the old mariner, laughedheartily, his face flushed already and his eye watery from theabsinthe. He had a burly shopkeeping stomach--nothing but stomach--inwhich the rest of his body seemed to have got stowed away; the flabbypaunch of men who spend their lives sitting, and who have neitherthighs, nor chest, nor arms, nor neck; the seat of their chairs havingaccumulated all their substance in one spot. Beausire, on thecontrary, though short and stout, was as tight as an egg and as hardas a cannon-ball. 

Mme. Roland had not emptied her glass and was gazing at her son Jeanwith sparkling eyes, happiness had brought a color to her cheeks. 

In him too the fullness of joy had now blazed out. It was a settledthing, signed and sealed; he had twenty thousand francs a year. In thesound of his laugh, in the fuller voice with which he spoke, in hisway of looking at the others, his more positive manners, his greaterconfidence, the assurance given by money was at once perceptible. 

Dinner was announced, and as the old man was about to offer his arm toMme. Rosémilly, his wife exclaimed:

"No, no, father. Everything is for Jean to-day. "

Unwonted luxury graced the table. In front of Jean, who sat in hisfather's place, an enormous bouquet of flowers intermingled withribbon favors--a bouquet for a really great occasion--stood up like acupola dressed with flags, and was flanked by four high dishes, onecontaining a pyramid of splendid peaches; the second, a monumentalcake gorged with whipped cream and covered with pinnacles of sugar--acathedral in confectionery; the third, slices of pine-apple floatingin clear syrup; and the fourth unheard-of lavishness--black grapesbrought from the warmer south. 

"The devil!" exclaimed Pierre as he sat down. "We are celebrating theaccession of Jean the Rich. "

After the soup, Madeira was passed round, and already every one wastalking at once. Beausire was giving the history of a dinner he hadeaten at San Domingo at the table of a negro general. Old Roland waslistening, and at the same time trying to get in, between thesentences, his account of another dinner, given by a friend of his atMendon, after which every guest was ill for a fortnight. Mme. Rosémilly, Jean, and his mother were planning an excursion tobreakfast at Saint Jouin, from which they promised themselves thegreatest pleasure; and Pierre was only sorry that he had not dinedalone in some pot-house by the sea, so as to escape all this noise andlaughter and glee which fretted him. He was wondering how he could nowset to work to confide his fears to his brother, and induce him torenounce the fortune he had already accepted and of which he wasenjoying the intoxicating foretaste. It would be hard on him, nodoubt; but it must be done; he could not hesitate; their mother'sreputation was at stake. 

The appearance of an enormous shade-fish threw Roland back on fishingstories. Beausire told some wonderful tales of adventure on theGaboon, at Sainte-Marie, in Madagascar, and above all, off the coastsof China and Japan, where the fish are as queer-looking as thenatives. And he described the appearance of these fishes--their gogglegold eyes, their blue or red bellies, their fantastic fins like fans, their eccentric crescent-shaped tails--with such droll gesticulationthat they all laughed till they cried as they listened. 

Pierre alone seemed incredulous, muttering to himself: "True enough, the Normans are the Gascons of the north!"

After the fish came a vol-au-vent; then a roast fowl, a salad, Frenchbeans with a Pithiviers lark-pie. Mme. Rosémilly's maid-servant helpedto wait on them, and the fun rose with the number of glasses of winethey drank. When the cork of the first champagne bottle was drawnwith a pop, father Roland, highly excited, imitated the noise with histongue and then declared: "I like that noise better than apistol-shot. "

Pierre, more and more fractious every moment, retorted with a sneer:

"And yet it is perhaps a greater danger for you. "

Roland, who was on the point of drinking, set his full glass down onthe table again, and asked:

"Why?"

He had for some time been complaining of his health, of heaviness, giddiness, frequent and unaccountable discomfort. The doctor replied:

"Because the bullet might very possibly miss you, while the glass ofwine is dead certain to hit you in the stomach. "

"And what then?"

"Then it scorches your inside, upsets your nervous system, makes thecirculation sluggish, and leads the way to the apoplectic fit whichalways threatens a man of your build. "

The jeweler's incipient intoxication had vanished like smoke beforethe wind. He looked at his son with fixed, uneasy eyes, trying todiscover whether he was making game of him. 

But Beausire exclaimed:

"Oh, these confounded doctors! They all sing the same tune; eatnothing, drink nothing, never make love or enjoy yourself; it allplays the devil with your precious health. Well, all I can say is Ihave done all these things, sir, in every quarter of the globe, wherever and as often as I have had the chance, and I am none theworse. "

Pierre answered with some asperity:

"In the first place, captain, you are a stronger man than my father;and in the next, all free livers talk as you do till the daywhen--when they come back no more to say to the cautious doctor: 'Youwere right. ' When I see my father doing what is worst and mostdangerous for him, it is but natural that I should warn him. I shouldbe a bad son if I did otherwise. "

Mme. Roland, much distressed, now put in her word: "Come, Pierre, whatails you? For once it cannot hurt him? Think of what an occasion it isfor him, for all of us. You will spoil his pleasure and make us allunhappy. It is too bad of you to do such a thing. "

He muttered, as he shrugged his shoulders:

"He can do as he pleases. I have warned him. "

But father Roland did not drink. He sat looking at his glass full ofthe clear and luminous liquor while its light soul, its intoxicatingsoul, flew off in tiny bubbles mounting from its depths in hurriedsuccession to die on the surface. He looked at it with the suspiciouseye of a fox smelling at a dead hen and suspecting a trap. He askeddoubtfully: "Do you think it will really do me much harm?" Pierre hada pang of remorse and blamed himself for letting his ill-humor punishthe rest:

"No, " said he. "Just for once you may drink it; but do not take toomuch, or get into the habit of it. "

Then old Roland raised his glass, but still he could not make up hismind to put it to his lips. He contemplated it regretfully, withlonging and with fear; then he smelt it, tasted it, drank it in sips, swallowing them slowly, his heart full of terrors, of weakness andgreediness; and then, when he had drained the last drop, of regret. 

Pierre's eye suddenly met that of Mme. Rosémilly; it rested on himclear and blue, far-seeing and hard. And he read, he knew, the precisethought which lurked in that look, the indignant thought of thissimple and right-minded little woman; for the look said: "You arejealous--that is what you are. Shameful!"

He bent his head and went on with his dinner. 

He was not hungry and found nothing nice. A longing to be off harassedhim, a craving to be away from these people, to hear no more of theirtalking, jests, and laughter. 

Father Roland meanwhile, to whose head the fumes of the wine wererising once more, had already forgotten his son's advice and waseyeing a champagne-bottle with a tender leer as it stood, still nearlyfull, by the side of his plate. He dared not touch it for fear ofbeing lectured again, and he was wondering by what device or trick hecould possess himself of it without exciting Pierre's remark. A ruseoccurred to him, the simplest possible. He took up the bottle with anair of indifference, and holding it by the neck, stretched his armacross the table to fill the doctor's glass, which was empty; then hefilled up all the other glasses, and when he came to his own he begantalking very loud, so that if he poured anything into it they mighthave sworn it was done inadvertently. And in fact no one took anynotice. 

Pierre, without observing it, was drinking a good deal. Nervous andfretted, he every minute raised to his lips the tall crystal funnelwhere the bubbles were dancing in the living, translucent fluid. Helet the wine slip very slowly over his tongue, that he might feel thelittle sugary sting of the fixed air as it evaporated. 

Gradually a pleasant warmth glowed in his frame. Starting from thestomach as from a focus, it spread to his chest, took possession ofhis limbs, and diffused itself throughout his flesh, like a warm andcomforting tide, bringing pleasure with it. He felt better now, lessimpatient, less annoyed, and his determination to speak to his brotherthat very evening faded away; not that he thought for a moment ofgiving it up, but simply not to disturb the happy mood in which hefound himself. 

Beausire presently arose to propose a toast. Having bowed to thecompany, he began:

"Most gracious ladies and gentlemen, we have met to do honor to ahappy event which has befallen one of our friends. It used to be saidthat Fortune was blind, but I believe that she is only short-sightedor tricksy, and that she has lately brought a good pair of glasseswhich enabled her to discover in the town of Havre the son of ourworthy friend Roland, skipper of the _Pearl_. "

Every one cried bravo and clapped their hands, and the elder Rolandrose to reply. After clearing his throat, for it felt thick and histongue was heavy, he stammered out:

"Thank you, captain, thank you--for myself and my son. I shall neverforget your behavior on this occasion. Here's good luck to you!"

His eyes and nose were full of tears, and he sat down, finding nothingmore to say. 

Jean, who was laughing, spoke in his turn:

"It is I, " said he, "who ought to thank my friends here, my excellentfriends, " and he glanced at Mme. Rosémilly, "who have given me such atouching evidence of their affection. But it is not by words that Ican prove my gratitude. I will prove it to-morrow, every hour of mylife, always, for our friendship is not one of those which fade away. "

His mother, deeply moved, murmured: "Well said, my boy. "

But Beausire cried out:

"Come, Mme. Rosémilly, speak on behalf of the fair sex. "

She raised her glass, and in a pretty voice, slightly touched withsadness, she said: "I will pledge you to the memory of MonsieurMaréchal. "

There was a few moments' lull, a pause for decent meditation, as afterprayer. Beausire, who always had a flow of compliment, remarked:

"Only a woman ever thinks of these refinements. " Then turning tofather Roland: "And who was this Maréchal, after all? You must havebeen very intimate with him. "

The old man, emotional with drink, began to whimper, and in a brokenvoice he said:

"Like a brother, you know. Such a friend as one does not maketwice--we were always together--he dined with us every evening--andwould treat us to the play--I need say no more--no more--no more. Atrue friend--a real true friend--wasn't he, Louise?"

His wife merely answered: "Yes; he was a faithful friend. "

Pierre looked at his father and then at his mother, then, as thesubject changed, he drank some more wine. He scarcely remembered theremainder of the evening. They had coffee, then liqueurs, and theylaughed and joked a great deal. At about midnight he went to bed, hismind confused and his head heavy; and he slept like a brute till ninenext morning. 

CHAPTER IV

These slumbers, lapped in champagne and chartreuse, had soothed andcalmed him, no doubt, for he awoke in a very benevolent frame of mind. While he was dressing he appraised, weighed, and summed up theagitations of the past day, trying to bring out quite clearly andfully their real and occult causes, those personal to himself as wellas those from outside. 

It was, in fact, possible that the girl at the beer-shop had had anevil suspicion--a suspicion worthy of such a hussy--on hearing thatonly one of the Roland brothers had been made heir to a stranger; buthave not such natures as she always similar notions, without a shadowof foundation, about every honest woman? Do they not, whenever theyspeak, vilify, calumniate, and abuse all whom they believe to beblameless? Whenever a woman who is above imputation is mentioned intheir presence, they are as angry as if they were being insulted, andexclaim: "Ah, yes, I know your married women; a pretty sort they are!Why, they have more lovers than we have, only they conceal it becausethey are such hypocrites. Oh, yes, a pretty sort, indeed!"

Under any other circumstances he would certainly not have understood, not have imagined the possibility of such an insinuation against hispoor mother, who was so kind, so simple, so excellent. But his spiritseethed with the leaven of jealousy that was fermenting within him. His own excited mind, on the scent, as it were, in spite of himself, for all that could damage his brother, had even perhaps attributed tothe tavern barmaid an odious intention of which she was innocent. Itwas possible that his imagination had, unaided, invented this dreadfuldoubt--his imagination, which he never controlled, which constantlyevaded his will and went off, unfettered, audacious, adventurous, andstealthy, into the infinite world of ideas, bringing back now and thensome which were shameless and repulsive, and which it buried in him, in the depths of his soul, in its most fathomless recesses, likesomething stolen. His heart, most certainly, his own heart had secretsfrom him; and had not that wounded heart discerned in this atrociousdoubt a means of depriving his brother of the inheritance of which hewas jealous? He suspected himself now, cross-examining all themysteries of his mind as bigots search their consciences. 

Mme. Rosémilly, though her intelligence was limited, had certainly awoman's instinct, scent, and subtle intuitions. And this notion hadnever entered her head, since she had, with perfect simplicity, drunkthe blessed memory of the deceased Maréchal. She was not the woman tohave done this if she had had the faintest suspicion. Now he doubtedno longer; his involuntary displeasure at his brother's windfall offortune and his religious affection for his mother had magnified hisscruples--very pious and respectable scruples, but exaggerated. As heput this conclusion into words in his own mind he felt happy, as atthe doing of a good action; and he resolved to be nice to every onebeginning with his father, whose manias, and silly statements, andvulgar opinions, and too conspicuous mediocrity were a constantirritation to him. 

He came in not late for breakfast, and amused all the family by hisfun and good-humor. 

His mother, quite delighted, said to him:

"My little Pierre, you have no notion how humorous and clever you canbe when you choose. "

And he talked, putting things in a witty way, and making them laugh byingenious hits at their friends. Beausire was his butt, and Mme. Rosémilly a little, but in a very judicious way, not too spiteful. Andhe thought as he looked at his brother: "Stand up for her, you muff. You may be as rich as you please, I can always eclipse you when I takethe trouble. "

As they drank their coffee he said to his father:

"Are you going out in the _Pearl_ to-day?"

"No, my boy. "

"May I have her with Jean Bart?"

"To be sure, as long as you like. "

He bought a good cigar at the first tobacconist's and went down to thequay with a light step. He glanced up at the sky, which was clear andluminous, of a pale blue, freshly swept by the sea breeze. 

Papagris, the boatman, commonly called Jean Bart, was dozing in thebottom of the boat, which he was required to have in readiness everyday at noon when they had not been out fishing in the morning. 

"You and I together, mate, " cried Pierre. He went down the iron ladderof the quay and leaped into the vessel. 

"Which way is the wind?" he asked. 

"Due east still, M'sieu Pierre. A fine breeze out at sea. "

"Well, then, old man, off we go!"

They hoisted the foresail and weighed anchor; and the boat, feelingherself free, glided slowly down toward the jetty on the still waterof the harbor. The breath of wind that came down the street caught thetop of the sail so lightly as to be imperceptible, and the _Pearl_seemed endowed with life--the life of a vessel driven on by amysterious latent power. Pierre took the tiller, and, holding hiscigar between his teeth, he stretched his legs on the bunk, and withhis eyes half-shut in the blinding sunshine, he watched the greattarred timbers of the breakwater as they glided past. 

When they reached the open sea, round the nose of the north pier whichhad sheltered them, the fresher breeze puffed in the doctor's face andon his hands, like a somewhat icy caress, filled his chest, which rosewith a long sigh to drink it in, and swelling the tawny sail, tiltedthe _Pearl_ on her beam and made her more lively. Jean Bart hastilyhauled up the jib, and the triangle of canvas, full of wind, lookedlike a wing; then, with two strides to the stern, he let out thespanker, which was close-reefed against its mast. 

Then, along the hull of the boat, which suddenly heeled over and wasrunning at top speed, there was a soft, crisp sound of water hissingand rushing past. The prow ripped up the sea like the share of aplough gone mad, and the yielding water it turned up curled over andfell white with foam, as the ploughed soil, heavy and brown, rolls andfalls in a ridge. At each wave they met--and there was a short, chopping sea--the _Pearl_ shivered from the point of the bowsprit tothe rudder, which trembled under Pierre's hand; when the wind blewharder in gusts, the swell rose to the gunwale as if it would overflowinto the boat. A coal brig from Liverpool was lying at anchor, waitingfor the tide; they made a sweep round her stern and went to look ateach of the vessels in the roads one after another; then they putfurther out to look at the unfolding line of coast. 

For three hours Pierre, easy, calm, and happy, wandered to and froover the dancing waters, guiding the thing of wood and canvas, whichcame and went at his will, under the pressure of his hand, as if itwere a swift and docile winged creature. 

He was lost in day-dreams, the dreams one has on horseback or on thedeck of a boat; thinking of his future, which should be brilliant, andthe joys of living intelligently. On the morrow he would ask hisbrother to lend him fifteen hundred francs for three months, that hemight settle at once in the pretty rooms on the Boulevard François, 1er. 

Suddenly the sailor said: "The fog is coming up, M'sieu Pierre. Wemust go in. "

He looked up and saw to the northward a gray shade, filmy but dense, blotting out the sky and covering the sea; it was sweeping down onthem like a cloud fallen from above. He tacked for the land and madefor the pier, scudding before the wind and followed by the flying fog, which gained upon them. When it reached the _Pearl_, wrapping her inits intangible density, a cold shudder ran over Pierre's limbs, and asmell of smoke and mold, the peculiar smell of a sea fog, made himclose his mouth that he might not taste the cold, wet vapor. By thetime the boat was at her usual moorings in the harbor the whole townwas buried in this fine mist, which did not fall but yet wettedeverything like rain, and glided and rolled along the roofs andstreets like the flow of a river. Pierre, with his hands and feetfrozen, made haste home and threw himself on his bed to take a naptill dinner-time. When he made his appearance in the dining-room hismother was saying to Jean:

"The glass corridor will be lovely. We will fill it with flowers. Youwill see. I will undertake to care for them and renew them. When yougive a party the effect will be quite fairy like. "

"What in the world are you talking about?" the doctor asked. 

"Of a delightful apartment I have just taken for your brother. It isquite a find; an entresol looking out on two streets. There are twodrawing-rooms, a glass passage, and a little circular dining-room, perfectly charming for a bachelor's quarters. "

Pierre turned pale. 

"Where is it?" he asked. 

"Boulevard François, 1er. "

There was no possibility for doubt. He took his seat in such a stateof exasperation that he longed to exclaim: "This is really too much!Is there nothing for any one but him?"

His mother, beaming, went on talking: "And only fancy, I got it fortwo thousand eight hundred francs a year. They asked three thousand, but I got a reduction of two hundred francs on taking for three, six, or nine years. Your brother will be delightfully housed there. Anelegant home is enough to make the fortune of a lawyer. It attractsclients, charms them, holds them fast, commands respect, and showsthem that a man who lives in such good style expects a good price forhis words. "

She was silent for a few seconds and then went on:

"We must look out for something suitable for you; much lesspretentious, since you have nothing, but nice and pretty all the same. I assure you it will be to your advantage. "

Pierre replied contemptuously:

"For me! Oh, I shall make my way by hard work and learning. "

But his mother insisted: "Yes, but I assure you that to be well lodgedwill be of use to you nevertheless. "

About half-way through the meal he suddenly asked:

"How did you first come to know this man Maréchal?"

Old Roland looked up and racked his memory:

"Wait a bit; I scarcely recollect. It is such an old story now. Ah, yes, I remember. It was your mother who made acquaintance with him inthe shop, was it not, Louise? He first came to order something, andthen he called frequently. We knew him as a customer before we knewhim as a friend. "

Pierre, who was eating beans, sticking his fork into them one by oneas if he were spitting them, went on:

"And when was it that you made his acquaintance?"

Again Roland sat thinking, but he could remember no more and appealedto his wife's better memory. 

"In what year was it, Louise? You surely have not forgotten, you whoremember everything. Let me see--it was in--in--in fifty-five orfifty-six? Try to remember. You ought to know better than I. "

She did in fact think it over for some minutes, and then replied in asteady voice and with calm decision:

"It was in fifty-eight, old man. Pierre was three years old. I amquite sure that I am not mistaken, for it was in that year that thechild had scarlet fever, and Maréchal, whom we then knew but verylittle, was of the greatest service to us. "

Roland exclaimed:

"To be sure--very true; he was really invaluable. When your mother washalf-dead with fatigue and I had to attend to the shop, he would go tothe chemist's to fetch your medicine. He really had the kindest heart!And when you were well again, you cannot think how glad he was and howhe petted you. It was from that time that we became such greatfriends. "

And this thought rushed into Pierre's soul, as abrupt and violent as acannon-ball rending and piercing it: "Since he knew me first, since hewas so devoted to me, since he was so fond of me and petted me somuch, since I--_I_ was the cause of this great intimacy with myparents, why did he leave all his money to my brother and nothing tome?"

He asked no more questions and remained gloomy; absent-minded ratherthan thoughtful, feeling in his soul a new anxiety as yet undefined, the secret germ of a new pain. 

He went out early, wandering about the streets once more. They wereshrouded in the fog which made the night heavy, opaque, and nauseous. It was like a pestilential rock dropped on earth. It could be seenswirling past the gas-lights, which it seemed to put out at intervals. The pavement was as slippery as on a frosty night after a rain, andall sorts of evil smells seemed to come up from the bowels of thehouses--the stench of cellars, drains, sewers, squalid kitchens--tomingle with the horrible savor of this wandering fog. 

Pierre, with his shoulders up and his hands in his pockets, not caringto remain out of doors in the cold, turned into Marowsko's. Thedruggist was asleep as usual under the gas-light, which kept watch. Onrecognizing Pierre, for whom he had the affection of a faithful dog, he shook off his drowsiness, went for two glasses, and brought out the_Groseillette_. 

"Well, " said the doctor, "how is the liqueur getting on?"

The Pole explained that four of the chief cafés in the town had agreedto have it on sale, and that two papers, the _Northcoast Pharos_ andthe _Havre Semaphore_, would advertise it, in return for certainchemical preparations to be supplied to the editors. 

After a long silence Marowsko asked whether Jean had come definitelyinto possession of his fortune; and then he put two or three otherquestions vaguely referring to the same subject. His jealous devotionto Pierre rebelled against this preference. And Pierre felt as thoughhe could hear him thinking; he guessed and understood, read in hisaverted eyes and in the hesitancy of his tone, the words which rose tohis lips but were not spoken--which the druggist was too timid or tooprudent and cautious to utter. 

At this moment, he felt sure, the old man was thinking: "You ought notto have suffered him to accept this inheritance which will make peoplespeak ill of your mother. "

Perhaps, indeed, Marowsko believed that Jean was Maréchal's son. Ofcourse he believed it! How could he help believing it when the thingmust seem so possible, so probable, self-evident? Why, he himself, Pierre, her son--had not he been for these three days past fightingwith all the subtlety at his command to cheat his reason, fightingagainst this hideous suspicion?

And suddenly the need to be alone, to reflect, to discuss the matterwith himself--to face boldly, without scruple or weakness, thispossible but monstrous thing--came upon him anew, and so imperativethat he rose without even drinking his glass of _Groseillette_, shookhands with the astounded druggist and plunged out into the foggystreets again. 

He asked himself: "What made this Maréchal leave all his fortune toJean?"

It was not jealousy now which made him dwell on this question, not therather mean but natural envy which he knew lurked within him, and withwhich he had been struggling these three days, but the dread of anoverpowering horror; the dread that he himself should believe Jean, his brother, was that man's son. 

No. He did not believe it; he could not even ask himself the questionwhich was a crime! Meanwhile he must get rid of this faint suspicion, improbable as it was, utterly and for ever. He craved for light, forcertainty--he must win absolute security in his heart, for he loved noone in the world but his mother. And as he wandered alone through thedarkness he would rack his memory and his reason with a minute searchthat should bring out the blazing truth. Then there would be an end tothe matter; he would not think of it again--never. He would go andsleep. 

He argued thus: "Let me see: first to examine the facts; then I willrecall all I know about him, his behavior to my brother and to me. Iwill seek out the causes which might have given rise to thispreference. He knew Jean from his birth? Yes, but he had known mefirst. If he had loved my mother silently, unselfishly, he wouldsurely have chosen me, since it was through me, through my scarletfever, that he became so intimate with my parents. Logically, then, heought to have preferred me, to have had a keener affection forme--unless it were that he felt an instinctive attraction andpredilection for my brother as he watched him grow up. "

Then, with desperate tension of brain and of all the powers of hisintellect, he strove to reconstitute from memory the image of thisMaréchal, to see him, to know him, to penetrate the man whom he hadseen pass by him, indifferent to his heart during all those years inParis. 

But he perceived that the slight exertion of walking somewhatdisturbed his ideas, dislocated their continuity, weakened theirprecision, clouded his recollection. To enable him to look at the pastand at unknown events with so keen an eye that nothing should escapeit, he must be motionless in a vast and empty space. And he made uphis mind to go and sit on the jetty as he had done that other night. As he approached the harbor he heard, out at sea, a lugubrious andsinister wail like the bellowing of a bull, but more long-drawn andsteady. It was the roar of a fog-horn, the cry of a ship lost in thefog. A shiver ran through him, chilling his heart; so deeply did thiscry of distress thrill his soul and nerves that he felt as if he haduttered it himself. Another and a similar voice answered with suchanother moan, but further away; then, close by, the fog-horn on thepier gave out a fearful sound in answer. Pierre made for the jettywith long steps, thinking no more of anything, content to walk on intothis ominous and bellowing darkness. 

When he had seated himself at the end of the breakwater he closed hiseyes, that he might not see the two electric lights, now blurred bythe fog, which make the harbor accessible at night, and the red glareof the light on the south pier, which was, however, scarcely visible. Turning half-round, he rested his elbows on the granite and hid hisface in his hands. 

Though he did not pronounce the word with his lips, his mind keptrepeating: "Maréchal--Maréchal, " as if to raise and challenge theshade. And on the black background of his closed eyelids, he suddenlysaw him as he had known him: a man of about sixty, with a white beardcut in a point and very thick eyebrows, also white. He was neithertall nor short, his manner was pleasant, his eyes gray and soft, hismovements gentle, his whole appearance that of a good fellow, simpleand kindly. He called Pierre et Jean "my dear children, " and had neverseemed to prefer either, asking them both together to dine with him. And then Pierre, with the pertinacity of a dog seeking a lost scent, tried to recall the words, gestures, tones, looks, of this man who hadvanished from the world. By degrees he saw him quite clearly in hisrooms in the rue Tronchet, where he received his brother and himselfat dinner. 

He was waited on by two maids, both old women who had been in thehabit--a very old one, no doubt--of saying "Monsieur Pierre" and"Monsieur Jean. " Maréchal would hold out both hands, the right handto one of the young men, the left to the other, as they happened tocome in. 

"How are you, my children?" he would say. "Have you any news of yourparents? As for me, they never write to me. "

The talk was quiet and intimate, of commonplace matters. There wasnothing remarkable in the man's mind, but much that was winning, charming, and gracious. He had certainly been a good friend to them, one of those good friends of whom we think the less because we feelsure of them. 

Now, reminiscences came readily to Pierre's mind. Having seen himanxious from time to time, and suspecting his student'simpecuniousness, Maréchal had of his own accord offered and lent himmoney, a few hundred francs perhaps, forgotten by both, and neverrepaid. Then this man must always have been fond of him, always havetaken an interest in him, since he thought of his needs. Wellthen--well then--why leave his whole fortune to Jean? No, he had nevershown any more marked affection for the younger than for the elder, had never been more interested in one than in the other, or seemed tocare more tenderly for this one or that one. Well then--well then--hemust have had some strong secret reason for leaving everything toJean--everything--and nothing to Pierre. 

The more he thought, the more he recalled the past few years, the moreextraordinary, the more incredible was it that he should have madesuch a difference between them. And an agonizing pang of unspeakableanguish piercing his bosom made his heart beat like a fluttering rag. Its springs seemed broken, and the blood rushed through in a flood, unchecked, tossing it with wild surges. 

Then in an undertone, as a man speaks in a nightmare, he muttered: "Imust know. My God! I must know. "

He looked further back now, to an earlier time, when his parents hadlived in Paris. But the faces escaped him, and this confused hisrecollections. He struggled above all to see Maréchal with light, orbrown, or black hair. But he could not; the later image, his face asan old man, blotted out all others. However, he remembered that he hadbeen slighter, and had a soft hand, and that he often brought flowers. Very often--for his father would constantly say: "What, anotherbouquet! But this is madness, my dear fellow; you will ruin yourselfin roses. " And Maréchal would say: "No matter; I like it. "

And suddenly his mother's voice and accent, his mother's as she smiledand said: "Thank you, my kind friend, " flashed on his brain, soclearly that he could have believed he heard her. She must have spokenthose words very often that they should remain thus graven on herson's memory. 

So Maréchal brought flowers; he, the gentleman, the rich man, thecustomer, to the humble shop-keeper, the jeweler's wife. Had he lovedher? Why should he have made friends with these tradespeople if he hadnot been in love with the wife? He was a man of education and fairlyrefined tastes. How many a time had he discussed poets and poetry withPierre. He did not appreciate these writers from an artistic point ofview, but with sympathetic and responsive feeling. The doctor hadoften smiled at his emotions which had struck him as rather silly; nowhe plainly saw that this sentimental soul could never, never have beenthe friend of his father, who was so matter-of-fact, so narrow, soheavy, to whom the word "Poetry" meant idiocy. 

This Maréchal then, being young, free, rich, ready for any form oftenderness, went by chance into the shop one day, having perhapsobserved its pretty mistress. He had bought something, had come again, had chatted, more intimately each time, paying by frequent purchasesfor the right of a seat in the family, of smiling at the young wifeand shaking hands with the husband. 

And what next--what next--good God--what next?

He had loved and petted the first child, the jeweler's child, till thesecond was born; then, till death, he had remained impenetrable; andwhen his grave was closed, his flesh dust, his name erased from thelist of the living, when he himself was quiet and forever gone, havingnothing to scheme for, to dread or to hide, he had given his wholefortune to the second child! Why?

The man had all his wits; he must have understood and foreseen that hemight, that he almost infallibly must, give grounds for thesupposition that the child was his. He was casting obloquy on a woman. How could he have done this if Jean were not his son?

And suddenly a clear and fearful recollection shot through his brain. Maréchal was fair--fair like Jean. He now remembered a littleminiature portrait he had seen formerly in Paris, on the drawing-roomchimney-shelf, and which had since disappeared. Where was it? Lost, orhidden away? Oh, if he could but have it in his hands for one minute!His mother kept it perhaps in the unconfessed drawer where love-tokenswere treasured. 

His misery at this thought was so intense that he uttered a groan, oneof those brief moans wrung from the breast by a too intolerable pang. And immediately, as if it had heard him, as if it had understood andanswered him, the fog-horn on the pier bellowed out close to him. Itsvoice, like that of a fiendish monster, more resonant than thunder--asavage and appalling roar contrived to drown the clamor of the windand waves--spread through the darkness, across the sea, which wasinvisible under its shroud of fog. And again, through the mist, farand near, responsive cries went up to the night. They were terrifying, these calls given forth by the great blind steam-ships. 

Then all was silent once more. 

Pierre had opened his eyes and was looking about him, startled to findhimself here, roused from his nightmare. 

"I am mad, " thought he, "I suspect my mother. " And a surge of love andemotion, of repentance and prayer and grief, welled up in his heart. His mother! Knowing her as he knew her, how could he ever havesuspected her? Was not the soul, was not the life of thissimple-minded, chaste, and loyal woman clearer than water? Could anyone who had seen and known her ever think of her but as abovesuspicion? And he, her son, had doubted her! Oh, if he could but havetaken her in his arms at that moment, how he would have kissed andcaressed her, and gone on his knees to crave pardon. 

Would she have deceived his father--she?

His father!--A very worthy man no doubt, upright and honest inbusiness, but with a mind which had never gone beyond the horizon ofhis shop. How was it that this woman, who must have been verypretty--as he knew, and it could still be seen--gifted, too, with adelicate, tender, emotional soul, have accepted a man so unlikeherself as a suitor and a husband? Why inquire? She had married, asyoung French girls do marry, the youth with a little fortune proposedto her by their relations. They had settled at once in their shop inthe Rue Montmartre; and the young wife, ruling over the desk, inspiredby the feeling of a new home, and the subtle and sacred sense ofinterests in common which fills the place of love, and even of regard, by the domestic hearth of most of the commercial houses of Paris, hadset to work with all her superior and active intelligence, to make thefortune they hoped for. And so her life had flowed on, uniform, peaceful and respectable, but loveless. 

Loveless?--was it possible then that a woman should not love? That ayoung and pretty woman, living in Paris, reading books, applaudingactresses for dying of passion on the stage, could live from youth toold age, without once feeling her heart touched? He would not believeit of any one else; why should she be different from all others, though she was his mother?

She had been young, with all the poetic weaknesses which agitate theheart of a young creature. Shut up, imprisoned in the shop, by theside of a vulgar husband who always talked of trade, she had dreamedof moonlight nights, of voyages, of kisses exchanged in the shades ofevening. And then, one day a man had come in, as lovers do in books, and had talked as they talk. 

She had loved him. Why not? She was his mother. What then? Must a manbe blind and stupid to the point of rejecting evidence because itconcerns his mother? And she had been frail. Why, yes, since this manhad had no other love, since he had remained faithful to her when shewas far away and growing old. Why yes, since he had left all hisfortune to his son--their son!

And Pierre started to his feet, quivering with such rage that helonged to kill some one. With his arm outstretched, his hand wideopen, he wanted to hit, to bruise, to smash, to strangle! Whom?Everyone; his father, his brother, the dead man, his mother!

He hurried off homeward. What was he going to do?

As he passed a turret close to the signal mast the strident howl ofthe fog-horn went off in his very face. He was so startled that henearly fell, and shrank back as far as the granite parapet. Thesteamer which was the first to reply seemed to be quite near and wasalready at the entrance, the tide having risen. 

Pierre turned round and could discern its red eye dim through the fog. Then, in the broad light of the electric lanterns, a huge black shadowcrept up between the piers. Behind him the voice of the lookout man, the hoarse voice of an old retired sea-captain, shouted:

"What ship?" And out of the fog the voice of the pilot standing ondeck--not less hoarse--replied:

"The Santa Lucia. "

"Where from?"

"Italy. "

"What port?"

"Naples. "

And before Pierre's bewildered eyes rose as he fancied, the fierypennon of Vesuvius, while, at the foot of the volcano, fire-fliesdanced in the orange-groves of Sorrento or Castellamare. How often hadhe dreamed of these familiar names as if he knew the scenery. Oh, ifhe might but go away, now at once, never mind whither, and never comeback, never write, never let any one know what had become of him! Butno, he must go home--home to his father's house, and go to bed. 

He would not. Come what might he would not go in; he would stay theretill daybreak. He liked the roar of the fog-horns. He pulled himselftogether and began to walk up and down like an officer on watch. 

Another vessel was coming in behind the other, huge and mysterious. AnEnglish Indiaman, homeward bound. 

He saw several more come in, one after another, out of theimpenetrable vapor. Then, as the damp became quite intolerable, Pierreset out toward the town. He was so cold that he went into a sailors'tavern to drink a glass of grog, and when the hot and pungent liquorhad scorched his mouth and throat he felt a hope revive within him. 

Perhaps he was mistaken. He knew his own vagabond unreason so well! Nodoubt he was mistaken. He had piled up the evidence as a charge isdrawn up against an innocent person, whom it is always so easy toconvict when we wish to think him guilty. When he should have slept hewould think differently. 

Then he went in and to bed, and by sheer force of will he at lastdropped asleep. 

CHAPTER V

But the doctor's frame lay scarcely more than an hour or two in thetorpor of troubled slumbers. When he awoke in the darkness of hiswarm, closed room, he was aware, even before thought was awake in him, of the painful oppression, the sickness of heart which the sorrow wehave slept on leaves behind it. It is as though the disaster of whichthe shock merely jarred us at first, had, during sleep, stolen intoour very flesh, bruising and exhausting it like a fever. Memoryreturned to him like a blow, and he sat up in bed. Then slowly, one byone, he again went through all the arguments which had wrung his hearton the jetty while the fog-horns were bellowing. The more he thoughtthe less he doubted. He felt himself dragged along by his logic to theinevitable certainty, as by a clutching, strangling hand. 

He was thirsty and hot, his heart beat wildly. He got up to open hiswindow and breathe the fresh air, and as he stood there a low soundfell on his ear through the wall. Jean was sleeping peacefully, andgently snoring. He could sleep! He had no presentiment, no suspicions!A man who had known their mother left him all his fortune; he took themoney and thought it quite fair and natural! He was sleeping, rich andcontented, not knowing that his brother was gasping with anguish anddistress. And rage boiled up in him against this heedless and happysleeper. 

Only yesterday he would have knocked at his door, have gone in, andsitting by the bed, would have said to Jean, scared by the suddenwaking:

"Jean, you must not keep this legacy which by to-morrow may havebrought suspicion and dishonor on our mother. "

But to-day he could say nothing; he could not tell Jean that he didnot believe him to be their father's son. Now he must guard, must burythe shame he had discovered, hide from every eye the stain which hehad detected and which no one must perceive, not even hisbrother--especially not his brother. 

He no longer thought about the vain respect of public opinion. Hewould have been glad that all the world should accuse his mother ifonly he, he alone, knew her to be innocent! How could he bear to livewith her every day, believing as he looked at her that his brother wasthe child of a stranger?

And how calm and serene she was, nevertheless, how sure of herself shealways seemed! Was it possible that such a woman as she, pure of souland upright in heart, should fall, dragged astray by passion, and yetnothing ever appear afterward of her remorse and the stings of atroubled conscience? Ah, but remorse must have tortured her, long agoin the earlier days, and then have faded out, as everything fades. Shehad surely bewailed her sin, and then, little by little, had almostforgotten it. Have not all women, all, this fault of prodigiousforgetfulness which enables them, after a few years, hardly torecognize the man to whose kisses they have lent their lips? The kissstrikes like a thunder-bolt, the love passes away like a storm, andthen life, like the sky, is calm once more, and begins again as itwas before. Do you ever remember a cloud?

Pierre could no longer endure to stay in the room! This house, hisfather's house, crushed him. He felt the roof weigh on his head, andthe walls suffocate him. And as he was very thirsty he lighted hiscandle to go to drink a glass of fresh water from the filter in thekitchen. 

He went down the two flights of stairs; then, as he was coming upagain with the water-bottle filled, he sat down, in his nightshirt, ona step of the stairs where there was a draught, and drank, without atumbler, in long pulls like a runner who is out of breath. When heceased to move the silence of the house touched his feelings; then, one by one, he could distinguish the faintest sounds. First there wasthe ticking of the clock in the dining-room which seemed to growlouder every second. Then he heard another snore, an old man's snore, short, labored and hard, his father beyond doubt; and he writhed atthe idea, as if it had but this moment sprung upon him, that these twomen, sleeping under the same roof--father and son--were nothing toeach other! Not a tie, not the very slightest, bound them together, and they did not know it! They spoke to each other affectionately, they embraced each other, they rejoiced and lamented together over thesame things, just as if the same blood flowed in their veins. And twomen born at opposite ends of the earth could not be more alien to eachother than this father and son. They believed they loved each other, because a lie had grown up between them. This paternal love, thisfilial love, were the outcome of a lie--a lie which could not beunmasked, and which no one would ever know but he, the true son. 

But yet, but yet--if he were mistaken? How could he make sure? Oh, ifonly some likeness, however slight, could be traced between his fatherand Jean, one of those mysterious resemblances which run from anancestor to the great-great-grandson, showing that the whole race arethe offspring of the same kiss. To him, a medical man, so little wouldsuffice to enable him to discern this--the curve of a nostril, thespace between the eyes, the character of the teeth or hair; nayless--a gesture, a trick, a habit, an inherited taste, any mark ortoken which a practiced eye might recognize as characteristic. 

He thought long, but could remember nothing; no, nothing. But he hadlooked carelessly, observed badly, having no reason for spying suchimperceptible indications. 

He got up to go back to his room and mounted the stairs with a slowstep, still lost in thought. As he passed the door of his brother'sroom he stood stock still, his hand put out to open it. An imperativeneed had just come over him to see Jean at once, to look at him at hisleisure, to surprise him in his sleep, while the calm countenance andrelaxed features were at rest and all the grimace of life put off. Thus he might catch the dormant secret of his physiognomy, and if anyappreciable likeness existed it would not escape him. 

But supposing Jean were to wake, what could he say? How could heexplain this intrusion?

He stood still, his fingers clenched on the door-handle, trying todevise a reason, an excuse. Then he remembered that a week ago he hadlent his brother a phial of laudanum to relieve a fit of toothache. He might himself have been in pain this night and have come to findthe drug. So he went in with a stealthy step, like a robber. Jean, hismouth open, was sunk in deep, animal slumbers. His beard and fair hairmade a golden patch on the white linen; he did not wake, but he ceasedsnoring. 

Pierre, leaning over him, gazed at him with hungry eagerness. No, thisyoungster was not in the least like Roland; and for the second timethe recollection of the little portrait of Maréchal, which hadvanished, recurred to his mind. He must find it! When he should see itperhaps he should cease to doubt!

His brother stirred, conscious no doubt of a presence, or disturbed bythe light of the taper on his eyelids. The doctor retired on tiptoe tothe door which he noiselessly closed; then he went back to his room, but not to bed again. 

Day was long in coming. The hours struck one after another on thedining-room clock, and its tone was a deep and solemn one, as thoughthe little piece of clockwork had swallowed a cathedral bell. Thesound rose through the empty staircase, penetrating through walls anddoors, and dying away in the rooms where it fell on the torpid ears ofthe sleeping household. Pierre had taken to walking to and fro betweenhis bed and the window. What was he going to do? He was too much upsetto spend this day at home. He wanted still to be alone, at any ratetill the next day, to reflect, to compose himself, to strengthenhimself for the common every-day life which he must take up again. 

Well, he would go over to Trouville to see the swarming crowd on thesands. That would amuse him, change the air of his thoughts, and givehim time to inure himself to the horrible thing he had discovered. Assoon as morning dawned he made his toilet and dressed. The fog hadvanished and it was fine, very fine. As the boat for Trouville did notstart till nine, it struck the doctor that he must greet his motherbefore starting. 

He waited till the hour at which she was accustomed to get up, andthen went downstairs. His heart beat so violently as he touched herdoor that he paused for breath. His hand as it lay on the lock waslimp and tremulous, almost incapable of the slight effort of turningthe handle to open it. He knocked. His mother's voice inquired:

"Who is there?"

"I--Pierre. "

"What do you want?"

"Only to say good morning, because I am going to spend the day atTrouville with some friends. "

"But I am still in bed. "

"Very well, do not disturb yourself. I shall see you this evening, when I come in. "

He hoped to get off without seeing her, without pressing on her cheekthe false kiss which it made his heart sick to think of. But shereplied:

"No. Wait a moment. I will let you in. Wait till I get into bedagain. "

He heard her bare feet on the floor and the sound of the bolt drawnback. Then she called out:

"Come in. "

He went in. She was sitting up in bed, while, by her side, Roland, with a silk handkerchief by way of nightcap and his face to the wall, still lay sleeping. Nothing ever woke him but a shaking hard enough topull his arm off. On the days when he went fishing it was Joséphine, rung up by Papagris at the hour fixed, who roused her master from hisstubborn slumbers. 

Pierre as he went toward his mother, looked at her with a sudden senseof never having seen her before. She held up her face, he kissed eachcheek, and then sat down in a low chair. 

"It was last evening that you decided on this excursion?" she asked. 

"Yes, last evening. "

"Will you return to dinner?"

"I do not know. At any rate do not wait for me. "

He looked at her with stupefied curiosity. This woman was his mother!All those features, seen daily from childhood, from the time when hiseye could first distinguish things, that smile, that voice--so wellknown, so familiar, abruptly struck him as new, different from whatthey had always been to him hitherto. He understood now that, lovingher, he had never looked at her. All the same it was very really she, and he knew every little detail of her face; still, it was the firsttime he clearly identified them all. His anxious attention, scrutinizing her face which he loved, recalled a difference, aphysiognomy he had never before discerned. 

He rose to go; then, suddenly yielding to the invincible longing toknow which had been gnawing at him since yesterday, he said:

"By the way, I fancy I remember that you used to have, in Paris, alittle portrait of Maréchal, in the drawing-room. "

She hesitated for a second or two, or at least he fancied shehesitated; then she said:

"To be sure. "

"What has become of the portrait?"

She might have replied more readily:

"That portrait--stay; I don't exactly know--perhaps it is in my desk. "

"It would be kind of you to find it. "

"Yes, I will look for it. What do you want it for?"

"Oh, it was not for myself. I thought it would be a natural thing togive it to Jean, and that he would be pleased to have it. "

"Yes, you are right; that is a good idea. I will look for it, as soonas I am up. "

And he went out. 

It was a blue day, without a breath of wind. The folks in the streetsseemed in good spirits, the merchants going to business, the clerksgoing to their office, the girls going to their shop. Some sang asthey went, exhilarated by the bright weather. 

The passengers were already going on board the Trouville boat; Pierretook a seat aft on a wooden bench. 

He asked himself:

"Now was she uneasy at my asking for the portrait or only surprised?Has she mislaid it, or has she hidden it? Does she know where it is, or does she not? If she has hidden it--why?"

And his mind, still following up the same line of thought from onededuction to another, came to this conclusion:

That portrait--of a friend, of a lover, had remained in thedrawing-room in a conspicuous place, till one day when the wife andmother perceived, first of all and before any one else, that it bore alikeness to her son. Without doubt she had for a long time been on thewatch for this resemblance; then, having detected it, having noticedits beginnings, and understanding that any one might, any day, observeit too, she had one evening removed the perilous little picture andhad hidden it, not daring to destroy it. 

Pierre recollected quite clearly now that it was long, long beforethey left Paris that the miniature had vanished. It had disappeared, he thought, about the time when Jean's beard was beginning to grow, which had made him suddenly and wonderfully like the fair young manwho smiled from the picture frame. 

The motion of the boat as it put off disturbed and dissipated hismeditations. He stood up and looked at the sea. The little steamer, once outside the piers, turned to the left, and puffing and snortingand quivering, made for a distant point visible through the morninghaze. The red sail of a heavy fishing-bark, lying motionless on thelevel waters, looked like a large rock standing up out of the sea. Andthe Seine, rolling down from Rouen, seemed a wide inlet dividing twoneighboring lands. They reached the harbor of Trouville in less thanan hour, and as it was the time of day when the world was bathing, Pierre went to the shore. 

From a distance it looked like a garden full of gaudy flowers. Allalong the stretch of yellow sand, from the pier as far as the RochesNoires, sunshades of every hue, hats of every shape, dresses of everycolor, in groups outside the bathing huts, in long rows by the marginof the waves, or scattered here and there, really looked like immensebouquets on a vast meadow. And the Babel of sounds--voices near andfar ringing thin in the light atmosphere, shouts and cries of childrenbeing bathed, clear laughter of women--all made a pleasant, continuousdin, mingling with the unheeding breeze, and breathed with the airitself. 

Pierre walked on among all this throng, more lost, more remote fromthem, more isolated, more drowned in his torturing thoughts, than ifhe had been flung overboard from the deck of a ship a hundred milesfrom shore. He passed by them and heard a few sentences withoutlistening; and he saw, without looking, how the men spoke to thewomen, and the women smiled at the men. Then, suddenly, as if he hadawoke, he perceived them all; and hatred of them all surged up in hissoul, for they seemed happy and content. 

Now, as he went, he studied the groups, wandering round them full of afresh set of ideas. All these many-hued dresses which covered thesands like nosegays, these pretty stuffs, those showy parasols, thefictitious grace of tightened waists, all the ingenious devices offashion from the smart little shoe to the extravagant hat, theinsinuating charm of gesture, voice and smile, all the coquettish airsin short displayed on this sea-shore, suddenly struck him asstupendous efflorescences of female depravity. All these bedizenedwomen aimed at pleasing, bewitching, and deluding some man. They haddressed themselves out for men--for all men--all excepting the husbandwhom they no longer needed to conquer. They had dressed themselves outfor the lover of yesterday and the lover of to-morrow, for thestranger they might meet and notice or were perhaps on the lookoutfor. 

And these men sitting close to them, eye to eye and mouth to mouth, invited them, hunted them like game, coy and furtive notwithstandingthat it seemed so near and so easy to capture. This wide shore was, then, no more than a love-market--some drove a hard bargain for theirkisses while others only promised them. And he reflected that it waseverywhere the same, all the world over. 

His mother had done what others did--that was all. Others? No. Forthere were exceptions--many, very many. These women he saw about him, rich, giddy, love-seeking, belonged on the whole to the class offashionable and showy women of the world, some indeed to the lessrespectable sisterhood, for on these sands, trampled by the legion ofidlers, the tribe of virtuous, home-keeping women were not to be seen. 

The tide was rising, driving the foremost rank of visitors graduallylandward. He saw the various groups jump up and fly, carrying theirchairs with them, before the yellow waves as they rolled up edged witha lacelike frill of foam. The bathing-machines too were being pulledup by horses, and along the planked way which formed the promenaderunning along the shore from end to end, there was now an increasingflow, slow and dense, of well-dressed people in two opposite streamselbowing and mingling. Pierre, made nervous and exasperated by thisbustle, made his escape into the town, and went to get his breakfastat a modest tavern on the skirts of the fields. 

When he had finished with coffee, he stretched his legs on a coupleof chairs under a lime tree in front of the house, and as he hadhardly slept the night before, he presently fell into a doze. Afterresting for some hours he shook himself, and finding that it was timeto go on board again he set out, tormented by a sudden stiffness whichhad come upon him during his long nap. Now he was eager to be at homeagain; to know whether his mother had found the portrait of Maréchal. Would she be the first to speak of it, or would he be obliged to askfor it again? If she waited to be questioned further it must bebecause she had some secret reason for not showing the miniature. 

But when he was at home again, and in his room, he hesitated aboutgoing down to dinner. He was too wretched. His revolted soul had notyet had time to calm down. However, he made up his mind to it, andappeared in the dining-room just as they were sitting down. 

All their faces were beaming. 

"Well, " said Roland, "are you getting on with your purchases? I do notwant to see anything till it is all in its place. "

And his wife replied: "Oh, yes. We are getting on. But it takes muchconsideration to avoid buying things that do not match. The furniturequestion is an absorbing one. "

She had spent the day in going with Jean to cabinet-makers andupholsterers. Her fancy was for rich materials, rather splendid, tostrike the eye at once. Her son, on the contrary, wished for somethingsimple and elegant. So in front of everything put before them they hadeach repeated their arguments. She declared that a client, adefendant, must be impressed; that as soon as he is shown into hiscounsel's waiting-room he should have a sense of wealth. 

Jean, on the other hand, wishing to attract only an elegant andopulent class, was anxious to captivate persons of refinement by hisquiet and perfect taste. 

And this discussion, which had gone on all day, began again with thesoup. 

Roland had no opinion. He repeated: "I do not want to hear anythingabout it. I will go and see it when it is all finished. "

Mme. Roland appealed to the judgment of her elder son. 

"And you, Pierre, what do you think of the matter?"

His nerves were in a state of such intense excitement that he wouldhave liked to reply with an oath. However, he only answered in a drytone quivering with annoyance:

"Oh, I am quite of Jean's mind. I like nothing so well as simplicity, which, in matters of taste, is equivalent to rectitude in matters ofconduct. "

His mother went on:

"You must remember that we live in a city of commercial men, wheregood taste is not to be met with at every turn. "

Pierre replied:

"What does that matter? Is that a reason for living as fools do? If myfellow-townsmen are stupid and ill-bred, need I follow their example?A woman does not misconduct herself because her neighbor has alover. "

Jean began to laugh. 

"You argue by comparisons which seem to have been borrowed from themaxims of a moralist. "

Pierre made no reply. His mother and his brother reverted to thequestion of stuffs and armchairs. 

He sat looking at them, as he had looked at his mother in the morningbefore starting for Trouville; looking at them as a stranger who wouldstudy them, and he felt as though he had really suddenly come into afamily of which he knew nothing. 

His father, above all, amazed his eye and his mind. That flabby, burlyman, happy and besotted, was his own father! No, no; Jean was not inthe least like him. 

His family!

Within these two days an unknown and malignant hand, the hand of adead man, had torn asunder and broken, one by one, all the ties whichhad held these four human beings together. It was all over, allruined. He had now no mother--for he could no longer love her now thathe could not revere her with that perfect, tender, and pious respectwhich a son's love demands; no brother--since his brother was thechild of a stranger; nothing was left him but his father, that coarseman whom he could not love in spite of himself. 

And he suddenly broke out:

"I say, mother, have you found that portrait?"

She opened her eyes in surprise. 

"What portrait?"

"The portrait of Maréchal. "

"No--that is to say--yes--I have not found it, but I think I knowwhere it is. "

"What is that?" asked Roland. And Pierre answered:

"A little likeness of Maréchal which used to be in the drawing-room inParis. I thought that Jean might be glad to have it. "

Roland exclaimed:

"Why, yes, to be sure; I remember it perfectly. I saw it again lastweek. Your mother found it in her desk when she was tidying thepapers. It was on Thursday or Friday. Do you remember, Louise? I wasshaving myself when you took it out and laid it on a chair by yourside with a pile of letters of which you burnt half. Strange, isn'tit, that you should have come across that portrait only two or threedays before Jean heard of his legacy? If I believed in presentiments Ishould think that this was one. "

Mme. Roland calmly replied:

"Yes, I know where it is. I will fetch it presently. "

Then she had lied! When she had said that very morning to her son, whohad asked her what had become of the miniature: "I don't exactlyknow--perhaps it is in my desk"--it was a lie! She had seen it, touched it, handled it, gazed at it but a few days since; and then shehad hidden it away again in the secret drawer with those letters--hisletters. 

Pierre looked at the mother who had lied to him; looked at her withthe concentrated fury of a son who had been cheated, robbed of hismost sacred affection, and with the jealous wrath of a man who, afterlong being blind, at last discovers a disgraceful betrayal. If he hadbeen that woman's husband--and not her child--he would have grippedher by the wrists, seized her by the shoulders or the hair, have flungher on the ground, have hit her, hurt her, crushed her! And he mightsay nothing, do nothing, show nothing, reveal nothing. He was her son;he had no vengeance to take. And he had not been deceived. 

Nay, but she had deceived his tenderness, his pious respect. She owedto him to be without reproach, as all mothers owe it to theirchildren. If the fury that boiled within him verged on hatred it wasthat he felt her to be even more guilty toward him than toward hisfather. 

The love of man and wife is a voluntary compact in which the one whoproves weak is guilty only of perfidy; but when the wife is a motherher duty is a higher one, since nature has intrusted her with a race. If she fails then she is cowardly, worthless, infamous. 

"I do not care, " said Roland suddenly, stretching out his legs underthe table, as he did every evening while he sipped his glass ofblack-currant brandy, "You may do worse than live idle when you have asnug little income. I hope Jean will have us to dinner in style now. Hang it all! if I have an indigestion now and then I cannot help it. "

Then turning to his wife he added:

"Go and fetch that portrait, little woman, as you have done yourdinner. I should like to see it again myself. "

She rose, took a taper, and went. Then, after an absence which Pierrethought long, though she was not away more than three minutes, Mme. Roland returned smiling, and holding an old-fashioned gilt frame bythe ring. 

"Here it is, " said she, "I found it at once. "

The doctor was the first to put forth his hand; he took the picture, and holding it a little away from him, he examined it. Then, fullyaware that his mother was looking at him, he slowly raised his eyesand fixed them on his brother to compare the faces. He could hardlyrefrain, in his violence, from saying: "Dear me! How like Jean!" Andthough he dared not utter the terrible words, he betrayed his thoughtby his manner of comparing the living face with the painted one. 

They had, no doubt, details in common; the same beard, the same brow;but nothing sufficiently marked to justify the assertion: "This is thefather and that the son. " It was rather a family likeness, arelationship of physiognomies in which the same blood courses. Butwhat to Pierre was far more decisive than the common aspect of thefaces, was that his mother had risen, had turned her back, and waspretending, too deliberately, to be putting the sugar basin and theliqueur bottle away in a cupboard. She understood that he knew, or atany rate had his suspicions. 

"Hand it on to me, " said Roland. 

Pierre held out the miniature and his father drew the candle towardhim to see it better; then he murmured in a pathetic tone:

"Poor fellow! To think that he was like that when we first knew him!Cristi! How time flies! He was a good-looking man, too, in those days, and with such a pleasant manner--was not he, Louise?"

As his wife made no answer he went on:

"And what an even temper! I never saw him put out. And now it is allat an end--nothing left of him--but what he bequeathed to Jean. Well, at any rate you may take your oath that that man was a good andfaithful friend to the last. Even on his deathbed he did not forgetus. "

Jean, in his turn, held out his hand for the picture. He gazed at itfor a few minutes and then said regretfully:

"I do not recognize it at all. I only remember him with white hair. "

He returned the miniature to his mother. She cast a hasty glance atit, looking away again as if she were frightened; then in her usualvoice, she said:

"It belongs to you now, my little Jean, as you are his heir. We willtake it to your new rooms. " And when they went into the drawing-roomshe placed the picture on the chimney-shelf by the clock, where it hadformerly stood. 

Roland filled his pipe; Pierre and Jean lighted cigarettes. Theycommonly smoked them, Pierre while he paced the room, Jean, sunk in adeep armchair, with his legs crossed. Their father always sat astrideon a chair and spit from afar into the fireplace. 

Mme. Roland, on a low seat by a little table on which the lamp stood, embroidered, or knitted, or marked linen. 

This evening she was beginning a piece of worsted work, intended forJean's lodgings. It was a difficult and complicated pattern, andrequired all her attention. Still, now and again, her eye, which wascounting the stitches, glanced up swiftly and furtively at the littleportrait of the dead as it leaned against the clock. And the doctor, who was striding to and fro across the little room in four or fivesteps, met his mother's look at each turn. 

It was as though they were spying on each other; and acute uneasiness, intolerable to be borne, clutched at Pierre's heart. He was saying tohimself--at once tortured and glad:

"She must be in misery at this moment if she knows that I guess!" Andeach time he reached the fireplace he stopped for a few seconds tolook at Maréchal's fair hair, and show quite plainly that he washaunted by a fixed idea. So that this little portrait, smaller than anopened palm, was like a living being, malignant and threatening, suddenly brought into this house and this family. 

Presently the street-door bell rang. Mme. Roland, always soself-possessed, started violently, betraying to her doctor son theanguish of her nerves. Then she said: "It must be Mme. Rosémilly"; andher eye again anxiously turned to the mantelshelf. 

Pierre understood, or thought he understood, her fears and misery. Awoman's eye is keen, a woman's wit is nimble, and her instinctssuspicious. When this woman who was coming in should see the miniatureof a man she did not know, she might perhaps at the first glancediscover the likeness between this face and Jean. Then she would knowand understand everything. 

He was seized with a dread, a sudden and horrible dread of this shamebeing unveiled, and, turning about just as the door opened, he tookthe little painting and slipped it under the clock without being seenby his father and brother. 

When he met his mother's eyes again they seemed to him altered, dim, and haggard. 

"Good evening, " said Mme. Rosémilly. "I have come to ask you for a cupof tea. "

But while they were bustling about her and asking after her health, Pierre made off, the door having been left open. 

When his absence was perceived they were all surprised. Jean, annoyedfor the young widow, who, he thought, would be hurt, muttered: "What abear!"

Mme. Roland replied: "You must not be vexed with him; he is not verywell to-day and tired with his excursion to Trouville. "

"Never mind, " said Roland, "that is no reason for taking himself offlike a savage. "

Mme. Rosémilly tried to smooth matters by saying:

"Not at all, not at all. He has gone away in the English fashion;people always disappear in that way in fashionable circles if theywant to leave early. "

"Oh, in fashionable circles, I dare say, " replied Jean. "But a mandoes not treat his family _à l'Anglaise_, and my brother has donenothing else for some time past. "

CHAPTER VI

For a week or two nothing occurred at the Rolands'. The father wentfishing; Jean, with his mother's help, was furnishing and settlinghimself; Pierre, very gloomy, never was seen excepting at mealtimes. 

His father having asked him one evening:

"Why the deuce do you always come in with a face as cheerful as afuneral? This is not the first time I have remarked it"--the doctorreplied:

"The fact is I am terribly conscious of the burden of life. "

The old man had not a notion what he meant, and with an aggrievedlook he went on: "It really is too bad. Ever since we had the goodluck to come into this legacy, every one seems unhappy. It is asthough some accident had befallen us, as if we were in mourning forsome one. "

"I am in mourning for some one, " said Pierre. 

"You are? For whom?"

"For some one you never knew, and of whom I was too fond. "

Roland imagined that his son alluded to some girl with whom he had hadsome love passages, and he said:

"A woman, I suppose. "

"Yes, a woman. "

"Dead?"

"No. Worse. Ruined!"

"Ah!"

Though he was startled by this unexpected confidence, in his wife'spresence too, and by his son's strange tone about it, the old man madeno further inquiries, for in his opinion such affairs did not concerna third person. 

Mme. Roland affected not to hear; she seemed ill and was very pale. Several times already her husband, surprised to see her sit down as ifshe were dropping into her chair, and to hear her gasp as if she couldnot draw her breath, had said:

"Really, Louise, you look very ill; you tire yourself too much withhelping Jean. Give yourself a little rest. Sacristi! The rascal is inno hurry, as he is a rich man. "

She shook her head without a word. 

But to-day her pallor was so great that Roland remarked on it again. 

"Come, come, " said he, "this will not do at all, my dear old woman. You must take care of yourself. " Then, addressing his son, "You surelymust see that your mother is ill. Have you questioned her, at anyrate?"

Pierre replied: "No; I had not noticed that there was anything thematter with her. "

At this Roland was angry. 

"But it stares you in the face, confound you! What on earth is thegood of your being a doctor if you cannot even see that your mother isout of sorts? Why, look at her, just look at her. Really, a man mightdie under his very eyes and this doctor would never think there wasanything the matter!"

Mme. Roland was panting for breath, and so white that her husbandexclaimed:

"She is going to faint. "

"No, no, it is nothing--I shall get better directly--it is nothing. "

Pierre had gone up to her and was looking at her steadily. 

"What ails you?" he said. And she repeated in an undertone:

"Nothing, nothing--I assure you, nothing. "

Roland had gone to fetch some vinegar; he now returned and handing thebottle to his son he said:

"Here--do something to ease her. Have you felt her heart?"

As Pierre bent over to feel her pulse she pulled away her hand sovehemently that she struck it against a chair which was standing by. 

"Come, " said he in icy tones, "let me see what I can do for you, asyou are ill. "

Then she raised her arm and held it out to him. Her skin was burning, the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps. 

"You are certainly ill, " he murmured. "You must take something toquiet you. I will write you a prescription. " And as he wrote, stoopingover the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quickbreathing and suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her. Shewas weeping, her hands covering her face. 

Roland, quite distracted, asked her:

"Louise, Louise, what is the matter with you? What on earth ails you?"

She did not answer, but seemed racked by some deep and dreadful grief. Her husband tried to take her hands from her face, but she resistedhim, repeating:

"No, no, no. "

He appealed to his son. 

"But what is the matter with her? I never saw her like this. "

"It is nothing, " said Pierre, "she is a little hysterical. "

And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to see her suffering thus, as if this anguish mitigated his resentment and diminished hismother's load of opprobrium. He looked at her as a judge satisfiedwith his day's work. 

Suddenly she rose, rushed to the door with such a swift impulse thatit was impossible to forestall or to stop her, and ran off to lockherself into her room. 

Roland and the doctor were left face to face. 

"Can you make head or tail of it?" said the father. 

"Oh, yes, " said the other. "It is a little nervous disturbance, notalarming or surprising; such attacks may very likely recur from timeto time. "

They did in fact recur, almost every day; and Pierre seemed to bringthem on with a word, as if he had the clue to her strange and newdisorder. He would discern in her face a lucid interval of peace andwith the willingness of a torturer would, with a word, revive theanguish that had been lulled for a moment. 

But he, too, was suffering, as cruelly as she. It was dreadful pain tohim that he could no longer love her nor respect her, that he must puther on the rack. When he had laid bare the bleeding wound which he hadopened in her woman's, her mother's heart, when he felt how wretchedand desperate she was, he would go out alone, wander about the town, so torn by remorse, so broken by pity, so grieved to have thushammered her with his scorn as her son, that he longed to flinghimself into the sea and put an end to it all by drowning himself. 

Ah! How gladly, now, would he have forgiven her. But he could not, forhe was incapable of forgetting. If only he could have desisted frommaking her suffer; but this again he could not, suffering as he didhimself. He went home to his meals, full of relenting resolutions;then, as soon as he saw her, as soon as he met her eye--formerly soclear and frank, now so evasive, frightened, and bewildered--he struckat her in spite of himself, unable to suppress the treacherous wordswhich would rise to his lips. 

The disgraceful secret, known to them alone, goaded him up againsther. It was as a poison flowing in his veins and giving him an impulseto bite like a mad dog. 

And there was no one in the way now to hinder his reading her; Jeanlived almost entirely in his new apartments, and only came home todinner and to sleep every night at his father's. 

He frequently observed his brother's bitterness and violence, andattributed them to jealousy. He promised himself that some day hewould teach him his place and give him a lesson, for life at home wasbecoming very painful as a result of these constant scenes. But as henow lived apart he suffered less from this brutal conduct, and hislove of peace prompted him to patience. His good fortune, too, hadturned his head, and he scarcely paused to think of anything which hadno direct interest for himself. He would come in full of fresh littleanxieties, full of the cut of a morning-coat, of the shape of a felthat, of the proper size for his visiting-cards. And he talkedincessantly of all the details of his house--the shelves fixed in hisbedroom cupboard to keep linen on, the pegs to be put up in theentrance hall, the electric bells contrived to prevent illicitvisitors to his lodgings. 

It had been settled that on the day when he should take up his abodethere they should make an excursion to Saint Jouin, and return afterdining there, to drink tea in his rooms. Roland wanted to go by water, but the distance and the uncertainty of reaching it in a sailing-boatif there should be a head-wind, made them reject his plan, and a breakwas hired for the day. 

They started by ten to get there to breakfast. The dusty high road layacross the plain of Normandy, which, by its gentle undulations, dottedwith farms embowered in trees, wears the aspect of an endless park. Inthe vehicle, as it jogged on at the slow trot of a pair of heavyhorses, sat the four Rolands, Mme. Rosémilly, and Captain Beausire, all silent, deafened by the rumble of the wheels, and with their eyesshut to keep out the clouds of dust. 

It was harvest-time. Alternating with the dark hue of clover and theraw green of beetroot, the yellow corn lighted up the landscape withgleams of pale gold; the fields looked as if they had drunk in thesunshine which poured down on them. Here and there the reapers were atwork, and in the plots where the scythe had been put in the men mightbe seen see-sawing as they swept the level soil with the broad, wing-shaped blade. 

After a two-hours' drive the break turned off to the left, past awindmill at work--a melancholy, gray wreck, half rotten and doomed, the last survivor of its ancient race; then it went into a pretty innyard, and drew up at the door of a smart little house, a hostelryfamous in those parts. 

The mistress, well known as "La belle Alphonsine, " came smiling to thethreshold, and held out her hand to the two ladies who hesitated totake the high step. 

Some strangers were already at breakfast under a tent by a grass plotshaded by apple trees--Parisians, who had come from Etretat; and fromthe house came sounds of voices, laughter, and the clatter of platesand pans. 

They were eating in a room, as the outer dining halls were all full. Roland suddenly caught sight of some shrimping nets hanging againstthe wall. 

"Ah! ha!" cried he, "you catch prawns here?"

"Yes, " replied Beausire. "Indeed it is the place on all the coastwhere most are taken. "

"First rate! Suppose we try to catch some after breakfast. "

As it happened it would be low tide at three o'clock, so it wassettled that they should all spend the afternoon among the rocks, hunting prawns. 

They made a light breakfast, as a precaution against the tendency ofblood to the head when they should have their feet in the water. Theyalso wished to reserve an appetite for dinner, which had been orderedon a grand scale and to be ready at six o'clock, when they came in. 

Roland could not sit still for impatience. He wanted to buy the netsspecially constructed for fishing prawns, not unlike those used forcatching butterflies in the country. Their name on the French coast is_lanets_; they are netted bags on a circular wooden frame, at the endof a long pole. Alphonsine, still smiling, was happy to lend them. Then she helped the two ladies to make an impromptu change of toilet, so as not to spoil their dresses. She offered them skirts, coarseworsted stockings and hemp shoes. The men took off their socks andwent to the shoemaker's to buy wooden shoes instead. 

Then they set out, the nets over their shoulders and creels on theirbacks. Mme. Rosémilly was quite sweet in this costume, with anunexpected charm of countrified audacity. The skirt which Alphonsinehad lent her, coquettishly tucked up and firmly stitched so as toallow of her running and jumping fearlessly on the rocks, displayedher ankle and lower calf--the firm calf of a strong and agile littlewoman. Her dress was loose to give freedom to her movements, and tocover her head she had found an enormous garden hat of coarse yellowstraw with an extravagantly broad brim; and to this, a bunch oftamarisk pinned in to cock it on one side, gave a very dashing andmilitary effect. 

Jean, since he had come into his fortune, had asked himself every daywhether or no he should marry her. Each time he saw her he made up hismind to ask her to be his wife, and then, as soon as he was aloneagain, he considered that by waiting he would have time to reflect. She was now less rich than he, for she had but twelve thousand francsa year; but it was in real estate, in farms and lands near the docksin Havre; and this by-and-by might be worth a great deal. Theirfortunes were thus approximately equal, and certainly the young widowattracted him greatly. 

As he watched her walking in front of him that day he said to himself:

"I must really decide; I cannot do better, I am sure. "

They went down a little ravine, sloping from the village to the cliff, and the cliff, at the end of this comb, rose about eighty meters abovethe sea. Framed between the green slopes to the right and left, agreat triangle of silvery blue water could be seen in the distance, and a sail, scarcely visible, looked like an insect out there. Thesky, pale with light, was so merged into one with the water that itwas impossible to see where one ended and the other began; and the twowomen, walking in front of the men, stood out against this brightbackground, their shapes clearly defined in their closely-fittingdresses. 

Jean, with a sparkle in his eye, watched the smart ankle, the neatleg, the supple waist, and the coquettish broad hat of Mme. Rosémillyas they fled away before him. And this flight fired his ardor, urginghim on to the sudden determination which comes to hesitating and timidnatures. The warm air, fragrant with seacoast odors--gorse, cloverand thyme, mingling with the salt smell of the rocks at lowtide--excited him still more, mounting to his brain; and every momenthe felt a little more determined, at every step, at every glance hecast at the alert figure; he made up his mind to delay no longer, totell her that he loved her and hoped to marry her. The prawn-fishingwould favor him by affording him an opportunity; and it would be apretty scene too, a pretty spot for love-making--their feet in a poolof limpid water while they watched the long feelers of the shrimpslurking under the wrack. 

When they had reached the end of the comb and the edge of cliff, theysaw a little footpath slanting down the face of it; and below them, about half-way between the sea and the foot of the precipice, anamazing chaos of enormous boulders tumbled over and piled one abovethe other on a sort of grassy and undulating plain which extended asfar as they could see to the southward, formed by an ancient landslip. On this long shelf of brushwood and grass, disrupted, as it seemed, bythe shocks of a volcano, the fallen rocks seemed the wreck of a greatruined city which had once looked out on the ocean, sheltered by thelong white wall of the overhanging cliff. 

"That is fine!" exclaimed Mme. Rosémilly, standing still. Jean hadcome up with her, and with a beating heart offered his hand to helpher down the narrow steps cut in the rock. 

They went on in front, while Beausire, squaring himself on his littlelegs, gave his arm to Mme. Roland, who felt giddy at the gulf beforeher. 

The two young people who led the way, went fast till on a sudden theysaw, by the side of a wooden bench which afforded a resting placeabout half-way down the slope, a thread of clear water, springing froma crevice in the cliff. It fell into a hollow as large as a washingbasin which it had worn in the stone; then, falling in a cascade, hardly two feet high, it trickled across the footpath, which it hadcarpeted with cresses, and was lost among the briars and grass on theraised shelf where the boulders were piled. 

"Oh, I am so thirsty!" cried Mme. Rosémilly. 

But how could she drink? She tried to catch the water in her hand, butit slipped away between her fingers. Jean had an idea; he placed astone on the path and on this she knelt down to put her lips to thespring itself, which was thus on the same level. 

When she raised her head, covered with myriads of tiny drops, sprinkled all over her face, her hair, her eyelashes, and her dress, Jean bent over her and murmured: "How pretty you look!"

She answered in the tone in which she might have scolded a child:

"Will you be quiet!"

These were the first words of flirtation they had ever exchanged. 

"Come, " said Jean, much agitated. "Let us go on before they come upwith us. "

For in fact they could see quite near them now, Captain Beausire'sback as he came down, stern foremost, so as to give both hands to Mme. Roland; and further up, further off, Roland still letting himselfslip, lowering himself on his hams and clinging on with both his handand elbows at the speed of a tortoise, Pierre keeping in front of himto watch his movements. 

The path, now less steep, was here almost a road, zigzagging betweenthe huge rocks which had at some former time rolled from the hilltop. Mme. Rosémilly and Jean set off at a run and they were soon on thebeach. They crossed it and reached the rocks, which stretched in along and flat expanse covered with seaweed, and broken by endlessgleaming pools. The ebbed waters lay beyond, very far away, acrossthis plain of slimy weed, of a black and shining olive-green. 

Jean rolled up his trousers above his calf, and his sleeves to hiselbows, that he might get wet without caring; then saying: "Forward!"he leaped boldly into the first tidepool they came to. 

The lady, more cautious, though fully intending to go in too, presently, made her way round the little pond, stepping timidly, forshe slipped on the grassy weed. 

"Do you see anything?" she asked. 

"Yes, I see your face reflected in the water. "

"If that is all you see, you will not have good fishing. "

He murmured tenderly in reply:

"Of all fishing it is that I should like best to succeed in. "

She laughed: "Try; you will see how it will slip through your net. "

"But yet--if you will?"

"I will see you catch prawns--and nothing else--for the moment. "

"You are cruel--let us go a little further; there are none here. "

He gave her his hand to steady her on the slippery rocks. She leanedon him rather timidly, and he suddenly felt himself overpowered bylove and insurgent with passion, as if the fever that had beenincubating in him had waited till to-day to declare its presence. 

They soon came to a deeper rift, in which long slender weeds, fantastically tinted, like floating green and rose-colored hair, wereswaying under the quivering water as it trickled off to the distantsea through some invisible crevice. 

Mme. Rosémilly cried out: "Look, look, I see one, a big one. A verybig one, just there!" He saw it too, and stepped boldly into the poolthough he got wet up to the waist. But the creature, waving its longwhiskers, gently retired in front of the net. Jean drove it toward theseaweed, making sure of his prey. When it found itself blockaded itrose with a dart over the net, shot across the mere, and was gone. Theyoung woman, who was watching the chase in great excitement, could nothelp exclaiming: "Oh! Clumsy!"

He was vexed, and without a moment's thought dragged his net over ahole full of weed. As he brought it to the surface again he saw in itthree large transparent prawns, caught blindfold in their hidingplace. 

He offered them in triumph to Mme. Rosémilly, who was afraid to touchthem, for fear of the sharp, serrated crest which arms their heads. However, she made up her mind to it, and taking them up by the tips oftheir long whiskers she dropped them one by one into her creel, with alittle seaweed to keep them alive. Then, having found a shallower poolof water, she stepped in with some hesitation, for the cold plunge ofher feet took her breath away, and began to fish on her own account. She was dextrous and artful, with the light hand and the hunter'sinstinct, which are indispensable. At almost every dip she caught upsome prawns, beguiled and surprised by her ingeniously gentlepursuit. 

Jean now caught nothing; but he followed her, step by step, touchedher now and again, bent over her, pretended great distress at his ownawkwardness, and besought her to teach him. 

"Show me, " he kept saying. "Show me how. "

And then, as their two faces were reflected side by side in water soclear that the black weeds at the bottom made a mirror, Jean smiled atthe face which looked up at him from the depth, and now and then fromhis finger tips blew it a kiss which seemed to light upon it. 

"Oh! how tiresome you are!" she exclaimed. "My dear fellow, you shouldnever do two things at once. "

He replied: "I am only doing one--loving you. "

She drew herself up and said gravely:

"What has come over you these ten minutes; have you lost your wits?"

"No, I have not lost my wits. I love you, and at last I dare to tellyou so. "

They were at this moment both standing in the salt pool wet half-wayup to their knees and with dripping hands, holding their nets. Theylooked into each other's eyes. 

She went on in a tone of amused annoyance. 

"How very ill-advised to tell me so here and now. Could you not waittill another day instead of spoiling my fishing?"

"Forgive me, " he murmured, "but I could not longer hold my peace. Ihave loved you a long time. To-day you have intoxicated me and I lostmy reason. "

Then suddenly she seemed to have resigned herself to talk business andthink no more of pleasure. 

"Let us sit down on that stone, " said she, "we can talk morecomfortably. " They scrambled up a rather high boulder, and when theyhad settled themselves side by side in the bright sunshine, she beganagain:

"My good friend, you are no longer a child, and I am not a young girl. We both know perfectly well what we are about and we can weigh theconsequences of our actions. If you have made up your mind to makelove to me to-day I must naturally infer that you wish to marry me. "

He was not prepared for this matter-of-fact statement of the case, andhe answered blandly:

"Why, yes. "

"Have you mentioned it to your father and mother?"

"No; I wanted to know first whether you would accept me. "

She held out her hand, which was still wet, and as he eagerly claspedit:

"I am ready and willing, " she said. "I believe you to be kind andtrue-hearted. But remember, I should not like to displease yourparents. "

"Oh, do you think that my mother has never foreseen it, or that shewould be as fond of you as she is if she did not hope that you and Ishould marry?"

"That is true. I am a little disturbed. "

They said no more. He, for his part, was amazed at her being so littledisturbed, so rational. He had expected pretty little flirting ways, refusals which meant yes, a whole coquettish comedy of love chequeredby prawn-fishing in the splashing water. And it was all over; he waspledged, married with twenty words. They had no more to say about itsince they were agreed, and they now sat, both somewhat embarrassed bywhat had so swiftly passed between them; a little perplexed, indeed, not daring to speak, not daring to fish, not knowing what to do. 

Roland's voice rescued them. 

"This way, this way, children. Come and watch Beausire. The fellow ispositively clearing out the sea!"

The captain had, in fact, had a wonderful haul. Wet above his hips, hewaded from pool to pool, recognizing the likeliest spots at a glance, and searching all the hollows hidden under seaweed, with a steady slowsweep of his net. And the beautiful transparent, sandy-gray prawnsskipped in his palm as he picked them out of the net with a dry jerkand put them into his creel. Mme. Rosémilly, surprised and delighted, remained at his side, almost forgetful of her promise to Jean, whofollowed them in a dream, giving herself up entirely to the childishenjoyment of pulling the creatures out from among the wavingseagrasses. 

Roland suddenly exclaimed:

"Ah, here comes Mme. Roland to join us. "

She had remained at first on the beach with Pierre, for they hadneither of them any wish to play at running about among the rocks andpaddling in the tide-pools; and yet they had felt doubtful aboutstaying together. She was afraid of him, and her son was afraid of herand of himself; afraid of his own cruelty, which he could not control. But they sat down side by side on the stones. And both of them, underthe heat of the sun, mitigated by the sea breeze, gazing at the wide, fair horizon of blue water streaked and shot with silver, thought asif in unison: "How delightful this would have been--once. "

She did not venture to speak to Pierre, knowing that he would returnsome hard answer; and he dared not address his mother, knowing that inspite of himself he should speak violently. He sat twitching thewater-worn pebbles with the end of his cane, switching them andturning them over. She, with a vague look in her eyes, had picked upthree or four little stones and was slowly and mechanically droppingthem from one hand into the other. Then her unsettled gaze, wanderingover the scene before her, discerned, among the weedy rocks, her sonJean fishing with Mme. Rosémilly. She looked at them, watching theirmovements, dimly understanding, with motherly instinct, that they weretalking as they did not talk every day. She saw them leaning over sideby side when they looked into the water, standing face to face whenthey questioned their hearts, then scrambled up the rock and seatedthemselves to come to an understanding. Their figures stood out verysharply, looking as if they were alone in the middle of the widehorizon, and assuming a sort of symbolic dignity in that vast expanseof sky and sea and cliff. 

Pierre, too, was looking at them, and a harsh laugh suddenly brokefrom his lips. Without turning to him Mme. Roland said:

"What is it?"

He spoke with a sneer. 

"I am learning. Learning how a man lays himself out to be cozened byhis wife. "

She flushed with rage, exasperated by the insinuation she believed wasintended. 

"In whose name do you say that?"

"In Jean's, by heaven! It is immensely funny to see those two. "

She murmured in a low voice, tremulous with feeling: "O Pierre, howcruel you are. That woman is honesty itself. Your brother could notfind a better. "

He laughed aloud, a hard, satirical laugh:

"Ha! hah! hah! Honesty itself! All wives are honesty itself, --and allhusbands are--betrayed. " And he shouted with laughter. 

She made no reply, but rose, hastily went down the sloping beach, andat the risk of tumbling into one of the rifts hidden by the seaweed, of breaking a leg or an arm, she hastened, almost running, plungingthrough the pools without looking, straight to her other son. 

Seeing her approach, Jean called out:

"Well, mother? So you have made the effort?"

Without a word she seized him by the arm, as if to say: "Save me, protect me!"

He saw her agitation, and greatly surprised he said:

"How pale you are; what is the matter?"

She stammered out:

"I was nearly falling; I was frightened at the rocks. "

So then Jean guided her, supported her, explained the sport to herthat she might take an interest in it. But as she scarcely heeded him, and as he was bursting with the desire to confide in some one, he ledher away and in a low voice said to her:

"Guess what I have done!"

"But--what--I don't know. "

"Guess. "

"I cannot. I don't know. "

"Well, I have told Mme. Rosémilly that I wish to marry her. "

She did not answer, for her brain was buzzing, her mind in suchdistress that she could scarcely take it in. She echoed: "Marry her?"

"Yes. Have I done well? She is charming, do not you think?"

"Yes, charming. You have done very well. "

"Then you approve?"

"Yes, I approve. "

"But how strangely you say so. I could fancy that--that you were notglad. "

"Yes, indeed, I am--very glad. "

"Really and truly?"

"Really and truly. "

And to prove it she threw her arms round him and kissed him heartilywith warm motherly kisses. Then, when she had wiped her eyes, whichwere full of tears, she observed upon the beach a man lying flat atfull length like a dead body, his face hidden against the stones; itwas the other one, Pierre, sunk in thought and desperation. 

At this she led her little Jean further away, quite to the edge of thewaves, and there they talked for a long time of this marriage on whichhe had set his heart. 

The rising tide drove them back to rejoin the fishers, and then theyall made their way to the shore. They roused Pierre, who pretended tobe sleeping; and then came a long dinner washed down with many kindsof wine. 

CHAPTER VII

In the break, on their way home, all the men dozed excepting Jean. Beausire and Roland dropped every five minutes on to a neighbor'sshoulder which repelled them with a shove. Then they sat up, ceased tosnore, opened their eyes, muttered "a lovely evening!" and almostimmediately fell over on the other side. 

By the time they reached Havre their drowsiness was so heavy that theyhad great difficulty in shaking it off, and Beausire even refused togo to Jean's rooms where tea was waiting for them. He had to be setdown at his own door. 

The young lawyer was to sleep in his new abode for the first time; andhe was full of rather puerile glee which had suddenly come over him, at being able, that very evening to show his betrothed the rooms shewas so soon to inhabit. 

The maid had gone to bed, Mme. Roland having declared that she herselfwould boil the water and make the tea, for she did not like theservants to be kept up for fear of fire. 

No one had yet been into the lodgings but herself, Jean, and theworkmen, that the surprise might be the greater at their being sopretty. 

Jean begged them all to wait a moment in the ante-room. He wanted tolight the lamps and candles, and he left Mme. Rosémilly in the darkwith his father and brother; then he cried! "Come in!" opening thedouble door to its full width. 

The glass gallery, lighted by a chandelier and little colored lampshidden among palms, india-rubber plants and flowers, was first seenlike a scene on the stage. There was a spasm of surprise. Roland, dazzled by such luxury, muttered an oath, and felt inclined to claphis hands as if it were a pantomime scene. They then went into thefirst drawing-room, a small room hung with dead gold and furnished tomatch. The larger drawing-room--the lawyer's consulting-room, verysimple, hung with light salmon-color, was dignified in style. 

Jean sat down in his armchair in front of his writing-table loadedwith books, and in a solemn, rather stilted tone, he began:

"Yes, madame, the letter of the law is explicit, and, assuming theconsent I promised you, it affords me absolute certainty that thematter we discussed will come to a happy conclusion within threemonths. "

He looked at Mme. Rosémilly, who began to smile and glanced at Mme. Roland. Madame Roland took her hand and pressed it. Jean, in highspirits, cut a caper like a schoolboy, exclaiming: "Hah! How well thevoice carries in this room; it would be capital for speaking in. "

And he declaimed:

"If humanity alone, if the instinct of natural benevolence which wefeel toward all who suffer, were the motive of the acquittal we expectof you, I should appeal to your compassion, gentlemen of the jury, toyour hearts as fathers and as men; but we have law on our side, and itis the point of law only which we shall submit to your judgment. "

Pierre was looking at this home which might have been his, and he wasrestive under his brother's frolics, thinking him really too silly andwitless. 

Mme. Roland opened a door on the right. 

"This is the bedroom, " said she. 

She had devoted herself to its decoration with all her mother's love. The hangings were of Rouen cretonne imitating old Normandy chintz, andthe Louis XV design--a shepherdess, in a medallion held in the beaksof a pair of doves--gave the walls, curtains, bed, and armchairs afestive, rustic style that was extremely pretty!

"Oh, how charming!" Mme. Rosémilly exclaimed, becoming a littleserious as they entered the room. 

"Do you like it?" asked Jean. 

"Immensely. "

"You cannot imagine how glad I am. "

They looked at each other for a second, with confiding tenderness inthe depths of their eyes. 

She had felt a little awkward, however, a little abashed, in this roomwhich was to be hers. She noticed as she went in that the bed was alarge one, quite a family bed, chosen by Mme. Roland, who had no doubtforeseen and hoped that her son should soon marry; and this motherlyforesight pleased her, for it seemed to tell her that she was expectedin the family. 

When they had returned to the drawing-room Jean abruptly threw openthe door to the left, showing the circular dining-room with threewindows, and decorated to imitate a Chinese lantern. Mother and sonhad here lavished all the fancy of which they were capable, and theroom, with its bamboo furniture, its mandarins, jars, silk hangingsglistening with gold, transparent blinds threaded with beads lookinglike drops of water, fans nailed to the wall to drape the hangingson, screens, swords, masks, cranes made of real feathers, and a myriadtrifles in china, wood, paper, ivory, mother of pearl, and bronze, hadthe pretentious and extravagant aspect which unpracticed hands anduneducated eyes inevitably stamp on things which need the utmost tact, taste, and artistic education. Nevertheless it was the most admired;only Pierre made some observations with rather bitter irony which hurthis brother's feelings. 

Pyramids of fruit stood on the table and monuments of cakes. No onewas hungry; they picked at the fruit and nibbled at the cakes ratherthan ate them. Then, at the end of about an hour, Mme. Rosémillybegged to take leave. It was decided that old Roland should accompanyher home and set out with her forthwith; while Madame Roland, in themaid's absence, should cast a maternal eye over the house and see thather son had all he needed. 

"Shall I come back for you?" asked Roland. 

She hesitated a moment and then said: "No, dear old man; go to bed. Pierre will see me home. "

As soon as they were gone she blew out the candles, locked up thecakes, the sugar, and liqueurs in a cupboard of which she gave the keyto Jean; then she went into the bedroom, turned down the bed, saw thatthere was fresh water in the water-bottle, and that the window wasproperly closed. 

Pierre and Jean had remained in the little outer drawing-room; theyounger still sore under the criticism passed on his taste, and theelder chafing more and more at seeing his brother in this abode. Theyboth sat smoking without a word. Pierre suddenly started to his feet. 

"Cristi!" he exclaimed. "The widow looked very jaded this evening. Long excursions do not improve her. "

Jean felt his spirit rising with one of those sudden and furious rageswhich boil up in easy-going natures when they are wounded to thequick. He could hardly find breath to speak, so fierce was hisexcitement, and he stammered out:

"I forbid you ever again to say 'the widow' when you speak of Mme. Rosémilly. "

Pierre turned on him haughtily:

"You are giving me an order, I believe. Are you gone mad by anychance?"

Jean had pulled himself up. 

"I am not gone mad, but I have had enough of your manners to me. "

Pierre sneered: "To you? And are you any part of Mme. Rosémilly?"

"You are to know that Mme. Rosémilly is about to become my wife. "

Pierre laughed the louder. 

"Ah! ha! Very good. I understand now why I should no longer speak ofher as 'the widow. ' But you have taken a strange way of announcingyour engagement. "

"I forbid any jesting about it. Do you hear? I forbid it. "

Jean had come close up to him, pale, and his voice quivering withexasperation at this irony leveled at the woman he loved and hadchosen. 

But on a sudden Pierre turned equally furious. All the accumulation ofimpotent rage, of suppressed malignity, of rebellion choked down forso long past, all his unspoken despair mounted to his brain, bewildering it like a fit. 

"How dare you? How dare you? I order you to hold your tongue--do youhear? I order you. "

Jean, startled by his violence, was silent for a few seconds, tryingin the confusion of mind which comes of rage to hit on the thing, thephrase, the word, which might stab his brother to the heart. He wenton, with an effort to control himself that he might aim true, and tospeak slowly that the words might hit more keenly:

"I have known for a long time that you were jealous of me, ever sincethe day when you first began to talk of 'the widow' because you knewit annoyed me. "

Pierre broke into one of those strident and scornful laughs which werecommon with him:

"Ah! ah! Good Heavens! Jealous of you? I? I? And of what? Good God! Ofyour person or your mind?"

But Jean knew full well that he had touched the wound in his soul. 

"Yes, jealous of me--jealous from your childhood up. And it becamefury when you saw that this woman liked me best and would have nothingto say to you. "

Pierre, stung to the quick by this assumption, stuttered out:

"I? I? Jealous of you? And for the sake of that goose, that gaby, thatsimpleton?"

Jean, seeing that he was aiming true, went on:

"And how about the day when you tried to pull me round in the_Pearl_? And all you said in her presence to show off? Why you arebursting with jealousy? And when this money was left to me you weremaddened, you hated me, you showed it in every possible way, and madeevery one suffer for it; not an hour passes that you do not spit outthe bile that is choking you. "

Pierre clenched his fist in his fury with an almost irresistibleimpulse to fly at his brother and seize him by the throat. 

"Hold your tongue, " he cried. "At least say nothing about that money. "

Jean went on:

"Why your jealousy oozes out at every pore. You never say a word to myfather, my mother, or me that does not declare it plainly. You pretendto despise me because you are jealous. You try to pick a quarrel withevery one because you are jealous. And now that I am rich you can nolonger contain yourself; you have become venomous, you torture ourpoor mother as if she were to blame!"

Pierre had retired step by step as far as the fireplace, his mouthhalf open, his eyes glaring, a prey to one of those mad fits ofpassion in which crime is committed. 

He said again in a lower tone, gasping for breath: "Hold yourtongue--for God's sake hold your tongue!"

"No! For a long time I have been wanting to give you my whole mind!you have given me an opening--so much the worse for you. I love thewoman; you know it, and laugh her to scorn in my presence--so much theworse for you. But I will break your viper's fangs, I tell you. Iwill make you treat me with respect. "

"With respect--you?"

"Yes--me. "

"Respect you? You who have brought shame on us all by your greed. "

"You say--? Say it again--again. "

"I say that it does not do to accept one man's fortune when another isreputed to be your father. "

Jean stood rigid, not understanding, dazed by the insinuation hescented. 

"What? Repeat that once more. "

"I say--what everybody is muttering, what every gossip isblabbing--that you are the son of the man who left you his fortune. Well, then--a decent man does not take money which brings dishonor onhis mother. "

"Pierre! Pierre! Pierre! Think what you are saying. You? It is you whogive utterance to this infamous thing?"

"Yes, I. It is I. Have you not seen me crushed with woe this monthpast, spending my nights without sleep and my days in lurking out ofsight like an animal? I hardly know what I am doing or what willbecome of me, so miserable am I, so crazed with shame and grief; forfirst I guessed--and now I know it. "

"Pierre! Be silent. Mother is in the next room. Remember she mayhear--she must hear. "

But Pierre felt that he must unburden his heart. He told Jean all hissuspicions, his arguments, his struggles, his assurance, and thehistory of the portrait--which had again disappeared. He spoke inshort broken sentences almost without coherence--the language of asleep-walker. 

He seemed to have quite forgotten Jean, and his mother in theadjoining room. He talked as if no one were listening, because he musttalk, because he had suffered too much and smothered and closed thewound too tightly. It had festered like an abscess and the abscess hadburst, splashing every one. He was pacing the room in the way healmost always did, his eyes fixed on vacancy, gesticulating in afrenzy of despair, his voice choked with tearless sobs and revulsionsof self-loathing; he spoke as if he were making a confession of hisown misery and that of his nearest kin, as though he were casting hiswoes to the deaf, invisible winds which bore away his words. 

Jean, distracted and almost convinced on a sudden by his brother'sblind vehemence, was leaning against the door behind which, as heguessed, their mother had heard them. 

She could not get out, she must come through this room. She had notcome; then it was because she dared not. 

Suddenly Pierre stamped his foot:

"I am a brute, " he cried, "to have told you this. "

And he fled, bare-headed, down the stairs. 

The noise of the front-door closing with a slam roused Jean from thedeep stupor into which he had fallen. Some seconds had elapsed, longerthan hours, and his spirit had sunk into the numb torpor of idiocy. Hewas conscious, indeed, that he must presently think and act, but hewould wait, refusing to understand, to know, to remember, out of fear, weakness, cowardice. He was one of those procrastinators who puteverything off till the morrow; and when he was compelled to come to adecision then and there, still he instinctively tried to gain a fewminutes. 

But the perfect silence which now reigned, after Pierre'svociferations, the sudden stillness of walls and furniture, with thebright light of six wax candles and two lamps, terrified him sogreatly that he suddenly longed to make his escape too. 

Then he roused his brain, roused his heart, and tried to reflect. 

Never in his life had he had to face a difficulty. There are men wholet themselves glide onward like running water. He had been duteousover his tasks for fear of punishment, and had got through his legalstudies with credit because his existence was tranquil. Everything inthe world seemed to him quite natural and never aroused his particularattention. He loved order, steadiness, and peace, by temperament, hisnature having no complications; and face to face with thiscatastrophe, he found himself like a man who has fallen into the waterand cannot swim. 

At first he tried to be incredulous. His brother had told a lie, outof hatred and jealousy. But yet, how could he have been so vile as tosay such a thing of their mother if he had not himself been distraughtby despair? Besides, stamped on Jean's ear, on his sight, on hisnerves, on the inmost fibers of his flesh, were certain words, certaintones of anguish, certain gestures of Pierre's, so full of sufferingthat they were irresistibly convincing; as incontrovertible ascertainty itself. 

He was too much crushed to stir or even to will. His distress becameunbearable; and he knew that behind the door was his mother who hadheard everything and was waiting. 

What was she doing? Not a movement, not a shudder, not a breath, not asigh revealed the presence of a living creature behind that panel. Could she have run away? But how? If she had run away--she must havejumped out of the window into the street. A shock of terror rousedhim--so violent and imperious that he drove the door in rather thanopened it, and flung himself into the bedroom. 

It was apparently empty, lighted by a single candle standing on thechest of drawers. 

Jean flew to the window, it was shut and the shutters bolted. Helooked about him, peering into the dark corners with anxious eyes, andhe then noticed that the bed-curtains were drawn. He ran forward andopened them. His mother was lying on the bed, her face buried in thepillow which she had pulled up over her ears that she might hear nomore. 

At first he thought she had smothered herself. Then taking her by theshoulders, he turned her over without her leaving go of the pillow, which covered her face, and in which she had set her teeth to keepherself from crying out. 

But the mere touch of this rigid form, of those arms so convulsivelyclenched, communicated to him the shock of her unspeakable torture. The strength and determination with which she clutched the linen casefull of feathers with her hands and teeth, over her mouth and eyes andears, that he might neither see her nor speak to her, gave him anidea, by the turmoil it roused in him, of the pitch suffering may riseto, and his heart, his simple heart, was torn with pity. He was nojudge, not he; not even a merciful judge; he was a man full ofweakness and a son full of love. He remembered nothing of what hisbrother had told him; he neither reasoned nor argued, he merely laidhis two hands on his mother's inert body, and not being able to pullthe pillow away, he exclaimed, kissing her dress:

"Mother, mother, my poor mother, look at me. "

She would have seemed to be dead but that an almost imperceptibleshudder ran through all her limbs, the vibration of a strained cord. And he repeated:

"Mother, mother, listen to me. It is not true. I know that it is nottrue. "

A spasm seemed to come over her, a fit of suffocation; then shesuddenly began to sob into the pillow. Her sinews relaxed, her rigidmuscles yielded, her fingers gave way and left go of the linen; and heuncovered her face. 

She was pale, quite colorless; and from under her closed lids tearswere stealing. He threw his arms round her neck and kissed her eyes, slowly, with long heart-broken kisses, wet with her tears; and he saidagain and again:

"Mother, my dear mother, I know it is not true. Do not cry; I know it. It is not true. "

She raised herself, she sat up, looked in his face, and with an effortof courage such as it must cost in some cases to kill one's self, shesaid:

"No, my child; it is true. "

And they remained speechless, each in the presence of the other. Forsome minutes she seemed again to be suffocating, craning her throatand throwing back her head to get breath; then she once more masteredherself and went on:

"It is true, my child. Why lie about it? It is true. You would notbelieve me if I denied it. "

She looked like a crazy creature. Overcome by alarm, he fell on hisknees by the bedside murmuring:

"Hush, mother, be silent. " She stood up with terrible determinationand energy. 

"I have nothing more to say, my child. Good-by. " And she went towardthe door. 

He threw his arms about her exclaiming:

"What are you doing, mother; where are you going?"

"I do not know. How should I know--There is nothing left for me to do, now that I am alone. "

She struggled to be released. Holding her firmly, he could find onlywords to say again and again:

"Mother, mother, mother!" And through all her efforts to free herselfshe was saying:

"No, no. I am not your mother now. I am nothing to you, toanybody--nothing, nothing. You have neither father nor mother now, poor boy--good-by. "

It struck him clearly that if he let her go now he should never seeher again; lifting her up in his arms he carried her to an armchair, forced her into it, and kneeling down in front of her barred her inwith his arms. 

"You shall not quit this spot, mother. I love you and I will keep you!I will keep you always--I love you and you are mine. "

She murmured in a dejected tone:

"No, my poor boy, it is impossible. You weep to-night, but to-morrowyou would turn me out of the house. You, even you, could not forgiveme. "

He replied: "I? I? How little you know me!" with such a burst ofgenuine affection that with a cry, she seized his head by the hairwith both hands, and dragging him violently to her kissed himdistractedly all over the face. 

Then she sat still, her cheek against his, feeling the warmth of hisskin through his beard, and she whispered in his ear: "No, my littleJean, you would not forgive me to-morrow. You think so, but youdeceive yourself. You have forgiven me this evening, and thatforgiveness has saved my life; but you must never see me again. "

And he repeated, clasping her in his arms:

"Mother, do not say that. "

"Yes, my child, I must go away. I do not know where, nor how I shallset about it, nor what I shall do; but it must be done. I could neverlook at you, nor kiss you, do you understand?"

Then he in his turn spoke into her ear:

"My little mother, you are to stay, because I insist, because I wantyou. And you must pledge your word to obey me, now at once. "

"No, my child. "

"Yes, mother, you must; do you hear? You must. "

"No, my child, it is impossible. It would be condemning us all to thetortures of hell. I know what that torment is; I have known it thismonth past. Your feelings are touched now, but when that is over, whenyou look on me as Pierre does, when you remember what I have toldyou--oh, my Jean, think--think--I am your mother!"

"I will not let you leave me, mother. I have no one but you. "

"But think, my son, we can never see each other again without both ofus blushing, without my feeling that I must die of shame, without myeyes falling before yours. "

"But it is not so mother. "

"Yes, yes, yes, it is so! Oh, I have understood all your poorbrother's struggles, believe me! All--from the very first day. Nowwhen I hear his step in the house my heart beats as if it would burst, when I hear his voice I am ready to faint. I still had you; now I haveyou no longer. Oh, my little Jean! Do you think I could live betweenyou two?"

"Yes, I should love you so much that you would cease to think of it. "

"As if that were possible!"

"But it is possible!"

"How do you suppose that I could cease to think of it, with yourbrother and you on each hand? Would you cease to think of it, I askyou?"

"I? I swear I should. "

"Why you would think of it at every hour of the day. "

"No, I swear it. Besides, listen, if you go away I will enlist and getkilled. "

This boyish threat quite overcame her; she clasped Jean in apassionate and tender embrace. He went on:

"I love you more than you think--ah much more, much more. Come, bereasonable. Try to stay for only one week. Will you promise me oneweek? You cannot refuse me that?"

She laid her two hands on Jean's shoulders, and holding him at arm'slength she said:

"My child, let us try and be calm and not give way to emotions. First, listen to me. If I were ever to hear from your lips what I have heardfor this month past from your brother, if I were once to see in youreyes what I read in his, if I could fancy from a word or a look that Iwas as odious to you as I am to him--within one hour, mark me--withinone hour I should be gone forever. "

"Mother, I swear to you--"

"Let me speak. For a month past I have suffered all that any creaturecan suffer. From the moment when I perceived that your brother, myother son, suspected me, that as the minutes went by, he guessed thetruth, every moment of my life has been a martyrdom which no wordscould tell you. "

Her voice was so full of woe that the contagion of her misery broughtthe tears to Jean's eyes. 

He tried to kiss her, but she held him off. 

"Leave me--listen; I still have so much to say to make you understand. But you never can understand. You see, if I stayed--I must--no, no. Icannot. "

"Speak on, mother, speak. "

"Yes, indeed, for at least I shall not have deceived you. You want me tostay with you? For what--for us to be able to see each other, speak toeach other, meet at any hour of the day at home, for I no longer dareopen a door for fear of finding your brother behind it. If we are to dothat, you must not forgive me--nothing is so wounding asforgiveness--but you must owe me no grudge for what I have done. Youmust feel yourself strong enough, and so far unlike the rest of theworld, as to be able to say to yourself that you are not Roland's sonwithout blushing for the fact or despising me. I have suffered enough--Ihave suffered too much; I can bear no more, no indeed, no more! And itis not a thing of yesterday, mind you, but of long, long years. But youcould never understand that, how should you! If you and I are to livetogether and kiss each other, my little Jean, you must believe thatthough I was your father's mistress I was yet more truly his wife, hisreal wife; that at the bottom of my heart, I cannot be ashamed of it;that I have no regrets; that I love him still even in death; that Ishall always love him and never loved any other man; that he was mylife, my joy, my hope, my comfort, everything--everything in the worldto me for so long! Listen, my boy, before God, who hears me, I shouldnever have had a joy in my existence if I had not met him; neveranything--not a touch of tenderness or kindness, not one of those hourswhich make us regret growing old, --nothing. I owe everything to him! Ihad but him in the world, and you two boys, your brother and you. Butfor you, all would have been empty, dark, and void as the night. Ishould never have loved, or known, or cared for anything--I should noteven have wept--for I have wept, my little Jean; oh yes, and bittertears, since we came to Havre. I was his wholly and forever; for tenyears I was as much his wife as he was my husband before God who createdus for each other. And then I began to see that he loved me less. He wasalways kind and courteous, but I was not what I had been to him. It wasall over! Oh, how I have cried! How dreadful and delusive life is!Nothing lasts. Then we came here--I never saw him again; he never came. He promised it in every letter. I was always expecting him, and I neversaw him again--and now he is dead! But he still cared for us since heremembered you. I shall love him to my latest breath, and I never willdeny him, and I love you because you are his child, and I could never beashamed of him before you. Do you understand? I could not. So if youwish me to remain you must accept the situation as his son, and we willtalk of him sometimes; and you must love him a little and we must thinkof him when we look at each other. If you will not do this--if youcannot--then good-by, my child; it is impossible that we should livetogether. Now, I will act by your decision. "

Jean replied gently:

"Stay, mother. "

She clasped him in her arms, and her tears flowed again; then, withher face against his, she went on:

"Well, but Pierre. What can we do about Pierre?"

Jean murmured:

"We will find some plan! You cannot live with him any longer. "

At the thought of her elder son she was convulsed with terror. 

"No, I cannot; no, no!" And throwing herself on Jean's breast shecried in distress of mind:

"Save me from him, you my little one. Save me; do something--I don'tknow what. Think of something. Save me. "

"Yes, mother, I will think of something. "

"And at once. You must, this minute. Do not leave me. I am so afraidof him--so afraid. "

"Yes, yes; I will hit on some plan. I promise you I will. "

"But at once; quick, quick! You cannot imagine what I feel when I seehim. "

Then she murmured softly in his ear: "Keep me here, with you. "

He paused, reflected, and with his blunt good-sense saw at once thedangers of such an arrangement. But he had to argue for a long time, combatting her scared, terror-stricken insistence. 

"Only for to-night, " she said. "Only for to-night. And to-morrowmorning you can send word to Roland that I was taken ill. "

"That is out of the question, as Pierre left you here. Come takecourage. I will arrange everything, I promise you, to-morrow; I willbe with you by nine o'clock. Come, put on your bonnet. I will take youhome. "

"I will do just what you desire, " she said with a childlike impulse oftimidity and gratitude. 

She tried to rise, but the shock had been too much for her, she couldnot stand. 

He made her drink some sugared water and smell at some salts, while hebathed her temples with vinegar. She let him do what he would, exhausted but comforted, as after the pains of child-birth. At lastshe could walk and she took his arm. The town hall clock struck threeas they went past. 

Outside their own door Jean kissed her, saying:

"Good-night, mother, keep up your courage. "

She stealthily crept up the silent stairs, and into her room, undressed quickly, and slipped into bed with a long-forgotten sense ofguilt. Roland was snoring. In all the house Pierre alone was awake, and had heard her come in. 

CHAPTER VIII

When he got back to his lodgings Jean dropped on a sofa; for thesorrows and anxieties which made his brother long to be moving, and toflee like a hunted prey, acted differently on his torpid nature andbroke the strength of his arms and legs. He felt too limp to stir afinger, even to get to bed; limp body and soul, crushed andheart-broken. He had not been hit, as Pierre had been, in the purityof filial love, in the secret dignity which is the refuge of a proudheart; he was overwhelmed by the stroke of fate which, at the sametime threatened his own nearest interests. 

When at last his spirit was calmer, when his thoughts had settled likewater that has been stirred and lashed, he could contemplate thesituation which had come before him. If he had learned the secret ofhis birth through any other channel he would assuredly have been verywroth and very deeply pained, but after his quarrel with his brother, after the violent and brutal betrayal which had shaken his nerves, theagonizing emotion of his mother's confession had so bereft him ofenergy that he could not rebel. The shock to his feelings had been sogreat as to sweep away in an irresistible tide of pathos, allprejudice, and all the sacred delicacy of natural morality. Besides, he was not a man made for resistance. He did not like contendingagainst any one, least of all against himself, so he resigned himselfat once; and by instinctive tendency, a congenital love of peace, andof easy and tranquil life, he began to anticipate the agitations whichmust surge up around him and at once be his ruin. He foresaw thatthey were inevitable, and to avert them he made up his mind tosuperhuman efforts of energy and activity. The knot must be cutimmediately, this very day; for even he had fits of that imperiousdemand for a swift solution which is the only strength of weaknatures, incapable of a prolonged effort of will. His lawyer's mind, accustomed as it was to disentangling and studying complicatedsituations and questions of domestic difficulties in families that hadgot out of gear, at once foresaw the more immediate consequences ofhis brother's state of mind. In spite of himself, he looked at theissue from an almost professional point of view, as though he had tolegislate for the future relations of certain clients after a moraldisaster. Constant friction against Pierre had certainly becomeunendurable. He could easily evade it, no doubt, by living in his ownlodgings; but even then it was not possible that their mother shouldlive under the same roof with her elder son. For a long time he satmeditating, motionless, on the cushions, devising and rejectingvarious possibilities, and finding nothing that satisfied him. 

But suddenly an idea took him by storm. This fortune which had come tohim. Would an honest man keep it?

"No, " was the first immediate answer, and he made up his mind that itmust go to the poor. It was hard, but it could not be helped. He wouldsell his furniture and work like any other man, like any otherbeginner. This manful and painful resolution spurred his courage; herose and went to the window, leaning his forehead against the pane. Hehad been poor; he could become poor again. After all, he should notdie of it. His eyes were fixed on the gas lamp burning at theopposite side of the street. A woman, much belated, happened to pass;suddenly he thought of Mme. Rosémilly with the pang at his heart, theshock of deep feeling which comes of a cruel suggestion. All the direresults of his decision rose up before him together. He would have torenounce his marriage, renounce happiness, renounce everything. Couldhe do such a thing after having pledged himself to her? She hadaccepted him knowing him to be rich. She would take him still if hewere poor; but had he any right to demand such a sacrifice? Would itnot be better to keep this money in trust, to be restored to the poorat some future date?

And in his soul, where selfishness put on a guise of honesty, allthese specious interests were struggling and contending. His firstscruples yielded to ingenious reasoning, then came to the top again, and again disappeared. 

He sat down again, seeking some decisive motive, some all-sufficientpretext to solve his hesitancy and convince his natural rectitude. Twenty times over had he asked himself this question: "Since I am thisman's son, since I know and acknowledge it, is it not natural that Ishould also accept the inheritance?"

But even this argument could not suppress the "No" murmured by hisinmost conscience. 

Then came the thought: "Since I am not the son of the man I alwaysbelieved to be my father, I can take nothing from him, neither duringhis lifetime nor after his death. It would be neither dignified norequitable. It would be robbing my brother. "

This new view of the matter having relieved him and quieted hisconscience, he went to the window again. 

"Yes, " he said to himself, "I must give up my share of the familyinheritance. I must let Pierre have the whole of it, since I am nothis father's son. That is but just. Then is it not just that I shouldkeep my father's money?"

Having discerned that he could take nothing of Roland's savings, having decided on giving up the whole of this money, he agreed; heresigned himself to keeping Maréchal's; for if he rejected both hewould find himself reduced to beggary. 

This delicate question being thus disposed of, he came back to that ofPierre's presence in the family. How was he to be got rid of? He wasgiving up his search for any practical solution when the whistle of asteam-vessel coming into port seemed to blow him an answer bysuggesting a scheme. 

Then he threw himself on his bed without undressing, and dozed anddreamed until daybreak. 

At a little before nine he went out to ascertain whether his planswere feasible. Then, after making sundry inquiries and calls, he wentto his old home. His mother was waiting for him in her room. 

"If you had not come, " she said, "I should never have dared to godown. "

In a minute Roland's voice was heard on the stairs: "Are we to havenothing to eat to-day, hang it all!"

There was no answer, and he roared out, with a thundering oath thistime: "Joséphine, what the devil are you about?"

The girl's voice came up from the depths of the basement:

"Yes, m'sieu--what is it?"

"Where is your Miss'es?"

"Madame is upstairs with M'sieu Jean. "

Then he shouted, looking up at the higher floor: "Louise!"

Mme. Roland half opened her door and answered:

"What is it, my dear?"

"Are we to have nothing to eat to-day, hang it all!"

"Yes, my dear, I am coming. "

And she went down, followed by Jean. 

Roland, as soon as he saw him, exclaimed:

"Hallo! There you are! Sick of your home already?"

"No, father, but I had something to talk over with mother thismorning. "

Jean went forward holding out his hand, and when he felt his fingersin the old man's fatherly clasp, a strange, unforeseen emotionthrilled through him, and a sense as of parting and farewell withoutreturn. 

Mme. Roland asked:

"Pierre is not come down?"

Her husband shrugged his shoulders:

"No, but never mind him; he is always behind hand. We will beginwithout him. "

She turned to Jean:

"You had better go to call him, my child; it hurts his feelings if wedo not wait for him. "

"Yes, mother. I will go. "

And the young man went. He mounted the stairs with the fevereddetermination of a man who is about to fight a duel and who is in afright. When he knocked at the door Pierre said:

"Come in. "

He went in. The elder was writing, leaning over his table. 

"Good morning, " said Jean. 

Pierre rose. 

"Good morning, " and they shook hands as if nothing had occurred. 

"Are you not coming down to breakfast?"

"Well--you see--I have a good deal to do. " The elder brother's voicewas tremulous, and his anxious eye asked his younger brother what hemeant to do. 

"They are waiting for you. "

"Oh! There is--is my mother down?"

"Yes, it was she who sent me to fetch you. "

"Ah, very well; then I will come. "

At the door of the dining-room he paused, doubtful about going infirst; then he abruptly opened the door and saw his father and motherseated at the table opposite each other. 

He went straight up to her without looking at her or saying a word, and bending over her offered his forehead for her to kiss, as he haddone for some time past, instead of kissing her on both cheeks as ofold. He supposed that she put her lips near, but he did not feel themon his brow, and he straightened himself with a throbbing heart afterthis feint of a caress. And he wondered:

"What did they say to each other after I had left?"

Jean constantly addressed her tenderly as "mother, " or "dear mother, "took care of her, waited on her, and poured out her wine. 

Then Pierre understood that they had wept together, but he could notread their minds. Did Jean believe in his mother's guilt, or think hisbrother a base wretch?

And all his self-reproach for having uttered the horrible thing cameupon him again, choking his throat and his tongue, and preventing hiseither eating or speaking. 

He was now a prey to an intolerable desire to fly, to leave the housewhich was his home no longer, and these persons who were bound to himby such imperceptible ties. He would gladly have been off that moment, no matter whither, feeling that everything was over, that he could notendure to stay with them, that his presence was torture to them, andthat they would bring on him incessant suffering too great to endure. Jean was talking, chatting with Roland. Pierre, as he did not listen, did not hear. But he presently was aware of a pointed tone in hisbrother's voice and paid more attention to his words. Jean was saying:

"She will be the finest ship in their fleet. They say she is of 6, 500tons. She is to make her first trip next month. "

Roland was amazed. 

"So soon? I thought she was not to be ready for sea this summer. "

"Yes. The work has been pushed forward very vigorously, to get herthrough her first voyage before the autumn. I looked in at theCompany's office this morning, and was talking with one of thedirectors. "

"Indeed! Which of them?"

"M. Marchand, who is a great friend of the Chairman of the Board. "

"Oh! Do you know him?"

"Yes. And I wanted to ask him a favor. "

"Then you will get me leave to go over every part of the _Lorraine_ assoon as she comes into port?"

"To be sure, nothing can be easier. "

Then Jean seemed to hesitate, to be weighing his words, and to wantto lead up to a difficult subject. He went on:

"On the whole, life is very endurable on board those greatTransatlantic liners. More than half the time is spent on shore in twosplendid cities--New York and Havre; and the remainder at sea withdelightful company. In fact, very pleasant acquaintances are sometimesmade among the passengers, and very useful in after-life--yes, reallyvery useful. Only think, the captain, with his perquisites on coal, can make as much as twenty-five thousand francs a year or more. "

Roland muttered an oath followed by a whistle, which testified to hisdeep respect both for the sum and the captain. 

Jean went on:

"The purser makes as much as ten thousand, and the doctor has a fixedsalary of five thousand, with lodgings, keep, light, firing, service, and everything, which makes it up to ten thousand at least. That isvery good pay. "

Pierre, raising his eyes, met his brother's and understood. 

Then, after some hesitation, he asked:

"Is it very hard to get a place as medical man on board aTransatlantic liner?"

"Yes--and no. It all depends on circumstances and recommendation. "

There was a long pause; then the doctor began again. 

"Next month, you say, the _Lorraine_ is to sail?"

"Yes. On the 7th. "

And they said no more. 

Pierre was considering. It certainly would be a way out of manydifficulties if he could embark as medical officer on board thesteamship. By-and-by he could see; he might perhaps give it up. Meanwhile he would be gaining a living, and asking for nothing fromhis parents. Only two days since he had been forced to sell his watch, for he would no longer hold out his hand to beg of his mother. So hehad no other resource left, no opening to enable him to eat the breadof any house but this which had become uninhabitable, or sleep in anyother bed, or under any other roof. He presently said with some littlehesitation:

"If I could, I would very gladly sail in her. "

Jean asked:

"What should hinder you?"

"I know no one in the Transatlantic Shipping Company. "

Roland was astounded:

"And what has become of all your fine schemes for getting on?"

Pierre replied in a low voice:

"There are times when we must bring ourselves to sacrifice everythingand renounce our fondest hopes. And after all it is only to make abeginning, a way of saving a few thousand francs to start fair withafterward. "

His father was promptly convinced. 

"That is very true. In a couple of years you can put by six or seventhousand francs, and that well laid out, will go a long way. What doyou think of the matter, Louise?"

She replied in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible:

"I think Pierre is right. "

Roland exclaimed:

"I will go and talk it over with M. Poulin; I know him very well. Heis assessor of the Chamber of Commerce and takes an interest in theaffairs of the Company. There is M. Lenient, too, the ship-owner, whois intimate with one of the vice-chairmen. "

Jean asked his brother:

"Would you like me to feel my way with M. Marchand at once?"

"Yes, I should be very glad. "

After thinking a few minutes, Pierre added:

"The best thing I can do, perhaps, will be to write to my professorsat the College of Medicine who had a great regard for me. Veryinferior men are sometimes shipped on board those vessels. Letters ofstrong recommendation from such professors as Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel would do more for me in an hour than all thedoubtful introductions in the world. It would be enough if your friendM. Marchand would lay them before the board. "

Jean approved heartily. 

"Your idea is really capital. " And he smiled, quite reassured, almosthappy, sure of success and incapable of allowing himself to be unhappyfor long. 

"You will write to-day?" he said. 

"Directly. Now; at once. I will go and do so. I do not care for anycoffee this morning; I am too nervous. "

He rose and left the room. 

Then Jean turned to his mother:

"And you, mother, what are you going to do?"

"Nothing. I do not know. "

"Will you come with me to call on Mme. Rosémilly?"

"Why, yes--yes. "

"You know I must positively go to see her to-day. "

"Yes, yes. To be sure. "

"Why must you positively?" asked Roland, whose habit it was never tounderstand what was said in his presence. 

"Because I promised her I would. "

"Oh, very well. That alters the case. " And he began to fill his pipe, while the mother and son went upstairs to make ready. 

When they were in the street Jean said:

"Will you take my arm, mother?"

He was never accustomed to offer it, for they were in the habit ofwalking side by side. She accepted, and leaned on him. 

For some time they did not speak; then he said:

"You see that Pierre is quite ready and willing to go away. "

She murmured:

"Poor boy. "

"But why 'poor boy'? He will not be in the least unhappy on board the_Lorraine_!"

"No--I know. But I was thinking of so many things. "

And she thought for a long time, her head bent, accommodating her stepto her son's; then, in the peculiar voice in which we sometimes giveutterance to the conclusion of long and secret meditations, sheexclaimed:

"How horrible life is! If by any chance we come across any sweetnessin it, we sin in letting ourselves be happy, and pay dearly for itafterward. "

He said in a whisper:

"Do not speak of that any more, mother. "

"Is that possible? I think of nothing else. "

"You will forget it. "

Again she was silent; then with deep regret she said:

"How happy I might have been, married to another man. "

She was visiting it on Roland now, throwing all the responsibility ofher sin on his ugliness, his stupidity, his clumsiness, the heavinessof his intellect, and the vulgarity of his person. It was to this thatit was owing that she had betrayed him, had driven one son todesperation, and had been forced to utter to the other the mostagonizing confession that can make a mother's heart bleed. Shemuttered: "It is so frightful for a young girl to have to marry such ahusband as mine. "

Jean made no reply. He was thinking of the man he had hithertobelieved to be his father; and possibly the vague notion he had longsince conceived, of that father's inferiority, with his brother'sconstant irony, the scornful indifference of others, and the verymaid-servant's contempt for Roland, had somewhat prepared his mind forhis mother's terrible avowal. It had all made it less dreadful to himto find that he was another man's son; and if, after the great shockand agitation of the previous evening, he had not suffered thereaction of rage, indignation, and rebellion which Mme. Roland hadfeared, it was because he had long been unconsciously chafing underthe sense of being the child of this well-meaning lout. 

They had now reached the dwelling of Mme. Rosémilly. 

She lived on the road to Sainte-Adresse, on the second floor of alarge tenement which she owned. The windows commanded a view of thewhole roadstead. 

On seeing Mme. Roland, who entered first, instead of merely holdingout her hands as usual, she put her arms round her and kissed her, forshe divined the purpose of her visit. 

The furniture of this drawing-room, all in stamped velvet, was alwaysshrouded in chair-covers. The walls, hung with flowered paper, weregraced by four engravings, the purchase of her late husband, thecaptain. They represented sentimental scenes of seafaring life. In thefirst, a fisherman's wife was seen, waving a handkerchief on shore, while the vessel which bore away her husband vanished on the horizon. In the second, the same woman on her knees on the same shore, under asky shot with lightning, wrung her arms as she gazed into the distanceat her husband's boat, which was going to the bottom amid impossiblewaves. 

The others represented similar scenes in a higher rank of society. Ayoung lady with fair hair, resting her elbows on the edge of a largesteamship quitting the shore, gazed at the already distant coast witheyes full of tears and regret. Whom is she leaving behind?

Then the same young lady sitting by an open window with a view of thesea, had fainted in an armchair; a letter she had dropped lay at herfeet. So he is dead! What despair!

Visitors were generally much moved and charmed by the commonplacepathos of these obvious and sentimental works. They were at onceintelligible without question or explanation, and the poor women wereto be pitied, though the nature of the grief of the more elegant ofthe two was not precisely known. But this very doubt contributed tothe sentiment. She had, no doubt, lost her lover. On entering the roomthe eye was immediately attracted to these four pictures, and rivetedas if fascinated. If it wandered it was only to return and contemplatethe four expressions on the faces of the two women, who were as likeeach other as two sisters. And the very style of these works, in theirshining frames, crisp, sharp, and highly finished, with the eleganceof a fashion plate, suggested a sense of cleanliness and proprietywhich was confirmed by the rest of the fittings. The seats were alwaysin precisely the same order, some against the wall and some round thecircular center-table. The immaculately white curtains hung in suchstraight and regular pleats that one longed to crumple them a little;and never did a grain of dust rest on the shade under which the giltclock, in the taste of the first empire--a terrestrial globe supportedby Atlas on his knees--looked like a melon left there to ripen. 

The two women as they sat down somewhat altered the normal position oftheir chairs. 

"You have not been out this morning?" asked Mme. Roland. 

"No. I must own to being rather tired. "

And she spoke as if in gratitude to Jean and his mother, of all thepleasure she had derived from the expedition and the prawn-fishing. 

"I ate my prawns this morning, " she added, "and they were excellent. If you felt inclined we might go again one of these days. "

The young man interrupted her:

"Before we start on a second fishing excursion, suppose we completethe first?"

"Complete it? It seems to me quite finished. "

"Nay, madame, I, for my part, caught something on the rocks of SaintJouin which I am anxious to carry home with me. "

She put on an innocent and knowing look. 

"You? What can it be? What can you have found?"

"A wife. And my mother and I have come to ask you whether she haschanged her mind this morning. "

She smiled: "No, monsieur. I never change my mind. "

And then he held out his hand, wide open, and she put hers into itwith a quick, determined movement. Then he said: "As soon as possible, I hope. "

"As soon as you like. "

"In six weeks?"

"I have no opinion. What does my future mother-in-law say?"

Mme. Roland replied with a rather melancholy smile:

"I? Oh, I can say nothing. I can only thank you for having acceptedJean, for you will make him very happy. "

"We will do our best, mamma. "

Somewhat overcome, for the first time, Mme. Rosémilly rose, andthrowing her arms round Mme. Roland, kissed her a long time as a childof her own might have done; and under this new embrace the poorwoman's sick heart swelled with deep emotion. She could not haveexpressed the feeling; it was at once sad and sweet. She had lost herson, her big boy, but in return she had found a daughter, a grown-updaughter. 

When they faced each other again, and were seated, they took hands andremained so, looking at each other and smiling, while they seemed tohave forgotten Jean. 

Then they discussed a number of things which had to be thought of inview of an early marriage, and when everything was settled and decidedMme. Rosémilly seemed suddenly to remember a further detail and asked:"You have consulted M. Roland, I suppose?"

A flush of color mounted at the same instant to the face of bothmother and son. It was the mother who replied:

"Oh, no, it is quite unnecessary!" Then she hesitated, feeling thatsome explanation was needed, and added: "We do everything withoutsaying anything to him. It is enough to tell him what we have decidedon. "

Mme. Rosémilly, not in the least surprised, only smiled, taking it asa matter of course, for the good man counted for so little. 

When Mme. Roland was in the street again with her son she said:

"Suppose we go to your rooms for a little while. I should be glad torest. "

She felt herself homeless, shelterless, her own house being a terrorto her. 

They went into Jean's apartments. 

As soon as the door was closed upon her she heaved a deep sigh, as ifthat bolt had placed her in safety, but then, instead of resting asshe had said, she began to open the cupboards, to count the piles oflinen, the pocket handkerchiefs, and socks. She changed thearrangement to place them in more harmonious order, more pleasing toher housekeeper's eye; and when she had put everything to her mind, laying out the towels, the shirts, and the drawers on their severalshelves and dividing all the linen into three principal classes, body-linen, household linen, and table-linen, she drew back andcontemplated the results, and called out:

"Come here, Jean, and see how nice it looks. "

He went and admired it to please her. 

On a sudden, when he had sat down again, she came softly up behind hisarmchair, and putting her right arm round his neck she kissed him, while she laid on the chimney shelf a small packet wrapped in whitepaper which she held in the other hand. 

"What is that?" he asked. Then, as she made no reply, he understood, recognizing the shape of the frame. 

"Give it to me!" he said. 

She pretended not to hear him, and went back to the linen cupboards. He got up hastily, took the melancholy relic, and going across theroom, put it in the drawer of his writing table which he locked anddoubled locked. She wiped away a tear with the tip of her finger, andsaid in a rather quavering voice: "Now I am going to see whether yournew servant keeps the kitchen in good order. As she is out I can lookinto everything and make sure. "

CHAPTER IX

Letters of recommendation from Professors Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel, written in the most flattering terms withregard to Doctor Pierre Roland, their pupil, had been submitted byMonsieur Marchand to the directors of the Transatlantic ShippingCompany, seconded by M. Poulin, judge of the Chamber of Commerce, M. Lenient, a great ship-owner, and M. Marival, deputy to the Mayor ofHavre, and a particular friend of Captain Beausire's. It proved thatno medical officer had yet been appointed to the _Lorraine_, andPierre was lucky enough to be nominated within a few days. 

The letter announcing it was handed to him one morning by Joséphine, just as he was dressed. His first feeling was that of a man condemnedto death who is told that his sentence is commuted; he had animmediate sense of relief at the thought of his early departure and ofthe peaceful life on board, cradled by the rolling waves, alwayswandering, always moving. His life under his father's roof was nowthat of a stranger, silent and reserved. Ever since the evening whenhe allowed the shameful secret he had discovered to escape him in hisbrother's presence, he had felt that the last ties to his kindred werebroken. He was harassed by remorse for having told this thing to Jean. He felt that it was odious, indecent, and brutal, and yet it was arelief to him to have uttered it. 

He never met the eyes either of his mother or his brother; to avoidhis gaze theirs had become surprisingly alert, with the cunning offoes who fear to cross each other. He was always wondering: "What canshe have said to Jean? Did she confess or deny it? What does mybrother believe? What does he think of her--what does he think of me?"He could not guess, and it drove him to frenzy. And he scarcely everspoke to them, excepting when Roland was by, to avoid his questioning. 

As soon as he received the letter announcing his appointment he showedit at once to his family. His father, who was prone to rejoicing overeverything, clapped his hands. Jean spoke seriously, though his heartwas full of gladness: "I congratulate you with all my heart, for Iknow there were several other candidates. You certainly owe it to yourprofessors' letters. "

His mother bent her head and murmured:

"I am very glad you have been successful. "

After breakfast he went to the Company's offices to obtain informationon various particulars, and he asked the name of the doctor on boardthe _Picardie_, which was to sail next day, to inquire of him as tothe details of his new life and any details he might think useful. 

Doctor Pirette having gone on board, Pierre went to the ship, where hewas received in a little stateroom by a young man with a fair beard, not unlike his brother. They talked together a long time. 

In the hollow depths of the huge ship they could hear a confused andcontinuous commotion; the noise of bales and cases pitched down intothe hold mingling with footsteps, voices, the creaking of themachinery lowering the freight, the boatswain's whistle, and theclatter of chains dragged or wound onto capstans by the snorting andpanting engine which sent a slight vibration from end to end of thegreat vessel. 

But when Pierre had left his colleague and found himself in the streetonce more, a new form of melancholy came down on him, enveloping himlike the fogs which roll over the sea, coming up from the ends of theworld and holding in their intangible density something mysteriouslyimpure, as it were the pestilential breath of a far-away, unhealthyland. 

In his hours of greatest suffering he had never felt himself so sunkin a foul pit of misery. It was as though he had given the lastwrench; there was no fiber of attachment left. In tearing up theroots of every affection he had not hitherto had the distressfulfeeling which now came over him, like that of a lost dog. It was nolonger a torturing mortal pain, but the frenzy of a forlorn andhomeless animal, the physical anguish of a vagabond creature without aroof for shelter, lashed by the rain, the wind, the storm, all thebrutal forces of the universe. As he set foot on the vessel, as hewent into the cabin rocked by the waves, the very flesh of the man, who had always slept in a motionless and steady bed, had risen upagainst the insecurity henceforth of all his morrows. Till now thatflesh had been protected by a solid wall built into the earth whichheld it, by the certainty of resting in the same spot, under a roofwhich could resist the gale. Now all that, which it was a pleasure todefy in the warmth of home, must become a peril and a constantdiscomfort. No earth under foot, only the greedy, heaving, complainingsea; no space around for walking, running, losing the way, only a fewyards of planks to pace like a convict among other prisoners; notrees, no gardens, no streets, no houses; nothing but water andclouds. And the ceaseless motion of the ship beneath his feet. Onstormy days he must lean against the wainscot, hold on to the doors, cling to the edge of the narrow berth to save himself from rollingout. On calm days he would hear the snorting throb of the screw, andfeel the swift flight of the ship, bearing him on in its unpausing, regular, exasperating race. 

And he was a prey to this vagabond convict's life solely because hismother had sinned. 

He walked on, his heart sinking with the despairing sorrow of thosewho are doomed to exile. He no longer felt a haughty disdain andscornful hatred of the strangers he met, but a woeful impulse to speakto them, to tell them all that he had to quit France, to be listenedto and comforted. There was in the very depths of his heart theshamefaced need of a beggar who would fain hold out his hand--a timidbut urgent need to feel that some one would grieve at his departing. 

He thought of Marowsko. The old Pole was the only person who loved himwell enough to feel true and keen emotion, and the doctor at oncedetermined to go and see him. 

When he entered the shop, the druggist, who was pounding powders in amarble mortar, started and left his work:

"You are never to be seen nowadays, " said he. 

Pierre explained that he had had a great many serious matters toattend to, but without giving the reason, and he took a seat, asking:

"Well, and how is business doing?"

Business was not doing at all. Competition was fearful, and rich folksrare in that workman's quarter. Nothing would sell but cheap drugs, and the doctors did not prescribe the costlier and more complicatedremedies on which a profit is made of five hundred per cent. The oldfellow ended by saying: "If this goes on for three months I shall shutup shop. If I did not count on you, dear good doctor, I should haveturned shoeblack by this time. "

Pierre felt a pang, and made up his mind to deal the blow at once, since it must be done. 

"I--oh, I cannot be of any use to you. I am leaving Havre early nextmonth. "

Marowsko took off his spectacles, so great was his agitation. 

"You! You! What are you saying?"

"I say that I am going away, my poor friend. "

The old man was stricken, feeling his last hope slipping from underhim, and he suddenly turned against this man, whom he had followed, whom he loved, whom he had so implicitly trusted, and who forsook himthus. 

He stammered out:

"You are surely not going to play me false--you?"

Pierre was so deeply touched that he felt inclined to embrace the oldfellow. 

"I am not playing you false. I have not found anything to do here, andI am going as medical officer on board a transatlantic passengerboat. "

"O Monsieur Pierre! And you always promised you would help me to makea living!"

"What can I do? I must make my own living. I have not a farthing inthe world. "

Marowsko said: "It is wrong; what you are doing is very wrong. Thereis nothing for me but to die of hunger. At my age this is the end ofall things. It is wrong. You are forsaking a poor old man who camehere to be with you. It is wrong. "

Pierre tried to explain, to protest, to give reasons, to prove that hecould not have done otherwise; the Pole, enraged by his desertion, would not listen to him, and he ended by saying, with an allusion nodoubt to political events:

"You French--you never keep your word!"

At this Pierre rose, offended on his part, and taking rather a hightone he said:

"You are unjust, père Marowsko; a man must have very strong motives toact as I have done, and you ought to understand that. Au revoir--Ihope I may find you more reasonable. " And he went away. 

"Well, well, " he thought, "not a soul will feel a sincere regret forme. "

His mind sought through all the people he knew or had known, and amongthe faces which crossed his memory he saw that of the girl at thetavern who led him to doubt his mother. 

He hesitated, having still an instinctive grudge against her, thensuddenly reflected on the other hand: "After all, she was right. " Andhe looked about him to find the turning. 

The beer-shop, as it happened, was full of people, and also full ofsmoke. The customers, tradesmen, and laborers, for it was a holiday, were shouting, calling, laughing, and the master himself was waitingon them, running from table to table, carrying away empty glasses andreturning them crowned with froth. 

When Pierre had found a seat not far from the desk he waited, hopingthat the girl would see him and recognize him. But she passed himagain and again as she went to and fro, pattering her feet under herskirts with a smart little strut. At last he rapped a coin on thetable, and she hurried up. 

"What will you take, sir?"

She did not look at him; her mind was absorbed in calculations of theliquor she had served. 

"Well, " said he, "this is a pretty way of greeting a friend. "

She fixed her eyes on his face: "Ah!" said she hurriedly. "Is it you?You are pretty well? But I have not a minute to-day. A bock did youwish for?"

"Yes, a bock!"

When she brought it he said:

"I have come to say good-by. I am going away. "

And she replied indifferently:

"Indeed. Where are you going?"

"To America. "

"A very fine country, they say. "

And that was all!

Really he was very ill-advised to address her on such a busy day;there were too many people in the café. 

Pierre went down to the sea. As he reached the jetty he descried the_Pearl_; his father and Beausire were coming in. Papagris was pulling, and the two men, seated in the stern, smoked their pipes with a lookof perfect happiness. As they went past, the doctor said to himself:"Blessed are the simple-minded!" And he sat down on one of the bencheson the breakwater, to try to lull himself in animal drowsiness. 

When he went home in the evening his mother said, without daring tolift her eyes to his face:

"You will want a heap of things to take with you. I have ordered yourunderlinen, and I went into the tailor shop about cloth clothes; butis there nothing else you need--things which I, perhaps, know nothingabout?"

His lips parted to say, "No, nothing. " But he reflected that he mustaccept the means of getting a decent outfit, and he replied in a verycalm voice: "I hardly know myself, yet. I will make inquiries at theoffice. "

He inquired, and they gave him a list of indispensable necessaries. His mother, as she took it from his hand, looked up at him for thefirst time for very long, and in the depths of her eyes there was thehumble expression, gentle, sad, and beseeching, of a dog that has beenbeaten and begs forgiveness. 

On the 1st of October the _Lorraine_ from Saint-Nazaire, came into theharbor of Havre to sail on the 7th, bound for New York, and PierreRoland was to take possession of the little floating cabin in whichhenceforth his life was to be confined. 

Next day as he was going out, he met his mother on the stairs waitingfor him, to murmur in an almost inaudible voice:

"You would not like me to help you to put things to rights on board?"

"No, thank you. Everything is done. "

Then she said:

"I should have liked to see your cabin. "

"There is nothing to see. It is very small and very ugly. "

And he went downstairs, leaving her stricken, leaning against the wallwith a wan face. 

Now Roland, who had gone over the _Lorraine_ that very day, could talkof nothing all dinner time but this splendid vessel, and wondered thathis wife should not care to see it as their son was to sail on board. 

Pierre had scarcely any intercourse with his family during the dayswhich followed. He was nervous, irritable, hard, and his rough speechseemed to lash every one indiscriminately. But the day before he lefthe was suddenly quite changed, and much softened. As he embraced hisparents before going to sleep on board for the first time he said:

"You will come to say good-by to me on board, will you not?"

Roland exclaimed:

"Why, yes, of course--of course, Louise?"

"Certainly, certainly, " she said in a low voice. 

Pierre went on: "We sail at eleven precisely. You must be there byhalf-past nine at the latest. "

"Hah!" cried his father. "A good idea! As soon as we have bid yougood-bye, we will make haste on board the _Pearl_, and look out foryou beyond the jetty, so as to see you once more. What do you say, Louise?"

"Certainly. "

Roland went on: "And in that way you will not lose sight of us amongthe crowd which throngs the breakwater when the great liners sail. Itis impossible to distinguish your own friends in the mob. Does thatmeet your views?"

"Yes, to be sure; that is settled. "

An hour later he was lying in his berth--a little crib as long andnarrow as a coffin. There he remained with his eyes wide open for along time, thinking over all that had happened during the last twomonths of his life, especially in his own soul. By dint of sufferingand making others suffer, his aggressive and revengeful anguish hadlost its edge, like a blunted sword. He scarcely had the heart left inhim to owe any one or anything a grudge; he let his rebellious wrathfloat away down stream, as his life must. He was so weary ofwrestling, weary of fighting, weary of hating, weary of everything, that he was quite worn out; and tried to stupefy his heart withforgetfulness as he dropped asleep. He heard vaguely, all about him, the unwonted noises of the ship, slight noises, and scarcely audibleon this calm night in port; and he felt no more of the dreadful woundwhich had tortured him hitherto but the discomfort and strain of itshealing. 

He had been sleeping soundly when the stir of the crew roused him. Itwas day; the tidal train had come down to the pier bringing thepassengers from Paris. Then he wandered about the vessel among allthese busy, bustling folks inquiring for their cabins, questioning andanswering each other at random, in the scare and fuss of a voyagealready begun. After greeting the captain and shaking hands with hiscomrade the purser, he went into the saloon where some Englishmen werealready asleep in the corners. The large low room, with its whitemarble panels framed in gilt beading, was furnished withlooking-glasses, which prolonged, in endless perspective, the longtables flanked by pivot-seats covered with red velvet. It was fit, indeed, to be the vast floating cosmopolitan dining hall, where therich natives of two continents might eat in common. Its magnificentluxury was that of great hotels, and theaters, and public rooms; theimposing and commonplace luxury which appeals to the eye of themillionaire. 

The doctor was on the point of turning into the second-class saloon, when he remembered that a large cargo of emigrants had come on boardthe night before, and he went down to the lower deck. There, in a sortof basement, low and dark, like a gallery in a mine, Pierre coulddiscern some hundreds of men, women, and children, stretched onshelves fixed one above another, or lying on the floor in heaps. Hecould not see their faces, but could dimly make out this squalid, ragged crowd of wretches, beaten in the struggle for life, worn outand crushed, setting forth, each with a starving wife and weaklychildren, for an unknown land where they hoped, perhaps, not to dieof hunger. And as he thought of their past labor--wasted labor, andbarren effort--of the mortal struggle taken up afresh and in vain eachday, of the energy expended by this tattered crew who were going tobegin again, not knowing where, this life of hideous misery, he longedto cry out to them:

"Tumble yourselves overboard, rather, with your women and your littleones. " And his heart ached so with pity that he went away unable toendure the sight. 

He found his father, his mother, Jean, and Mme. Rosémilly waiting forhim in his cabin. 

"So early!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " said Mme. Roland in a trembling voice. "We wanted to have alittle time to see you. "

He looked at her. She was dressed all in black as if she were inmourning, and he noticed that her hair, which only a month ago hadbeen gray, was now almost white. It was very difficult to find spacefor four persons to sit down in the little room, and he himself gotonto his bed. The door was left open, and they could see a great crowdhurrying by, as if it were a street on a holiday, for all the friendsof the passengers and a host of inquisitive visitors had invaded thehuge vessel. They pervaded the passages, the saloons, every corner ofthe ship; and heads peered in at the doorway while a voice murmuredoutside: "That is the doctor's cabin. "

Then Pierre shut the door; but no sooner was he shut in with his ownparty than he longed to open it again, for the bustle outside coveredtheir agitation and want of words. 

Mme. Rosémilly at last felt she must speak. 

"Very little air comes in through those little windows. "

"Portholes, " said Pierre. He showed her how thick the glass was, toenable it to resist the most violent shocks, and took a long timeexplaining the fastening. Roland presently asked: "And you have yourdoctor's shop here?"

The doctor opened a cupboard and displayed an array of phials ticketedwith Latin names on white paper labels. He took one out and enumeratedthe properties of its contents; then a second and a third, a perfectlecture on therapeutics, to which they all listened with greatattention. Roland, shaking his head, said again and again: "How veryinteresting. " There was a tap at the door. 

"Come in, " said Pierre, and Captain Beausire appeared. 

"I am late, " he said as he shook hands, "I did not want to be in theway. " He too sat down on the bed and silence fell once more. 

Suddenly the captain pricked his ears. He could hear orders beinggiven, and he said:

"It is time for us to be off if we mean to get on board the _Pearl_ tosee you once more outside, and bid you good-by out on the open sea. "

Old Roland was very eager about this, to impress the voyagers on boardthe _Lorraine_, no doubt, and he rose in haste. 

"Good-by, my boy. " He kissed Pierre on the whiskers and then openedthe door. 

Mme. Roland had not stirred, but sat with downcast eyes, very pale. Her husband touched her arm:

"Come, " he said, "we must make haste, we have not a minute to spare. "

She pulled herself up, went to her son and offered him first one andthen another cheek of white wax which he kissed without saying a word. Then he shook hands with Mme. Rosémilly and his brother, asking:

"And when is the wedding to be?"

"I do not know yet exactly. We will make it fit in with one of yourreturn voyages. "

At last they were all out of the cabin, and up on deck among the crowdof visitors, porters and sailors. The steam was snorting in the hugebelly of the vessel which seemed to quiver with impatience. 

"Good-by, " said Roland in a great bustle. 

"Good-by, " replied Pierre, standing on one of the landing-planks lyingbetween the deck of the _Lorraine_ and the quay. He shook hands allround once more, and they were gone. 

"Make haste, jump into the carriage, " cried the father. 

A fly was waiting for them and took them to the outer harbor, wherePapagris had the _Pearl_ in readiness to put out to sea. 

There was not a breath of air; it was one of those crisp, still autumndays, when the sheeny sea looks as cold and hard as polished steel. 

Jean took one oar, the sailor seized the other and they pulled off. Onthe breakwater, on the piers, even on the granite parapets, a crowdstood packed, hustling and noisy, to see the _Lorraine_ come out. The_Pearl_ glided down between these two waves of humanity and was soonoutside the mole. 

Captain Beausire, seated between the two women, held the tiller, andhe said:

"You will see, we shall be close in her way ---- close. "

And the two oarsmen pulled with all their might to get out as far aspossible. Suddenly Roland cried out:

"Here she comes! I see her masts and her two funnels! She is comingout of the inner harbor. "

"Cheerily, lads!" cried Beausire. 

Mme. Roland took out her handkerchief and held it to her eyes. 

Roland stood up, clinging to the mast, and answered:

"At this minute she is working round in the outer harbor. She isstanding still--now she moves again! She was taking the tow-rope onboard, no doubt. There she goes. Bravo! She is between the piers! Doyou hear the crowd shouting? Bravo! The _Neptune_ has her in tow. NowI see her bows--here she comes--here she is! Gracious heavens, what aship! Look! look!"

Mme. Rosémilly and Beausire looked up behind them, the oarsmen ceasedpulling; only Mme. Roland did not stir. 

The immense steamship, towed by a powerful tug, which, in front ofher, looked like a caterpillar, came slowly and majestically out ofthe harbor. And the good people of Havre, who crowded the piers, thebeach, and the windows, carried away by a burst of patrioticenthusiasm, cried: "_Vive la Lorraine!_" with acclamations andapplause for this magnificent beginning, this birth of the beautifuldaughter given to the sea by the great maritime town. 

She, as soon as she had passed beyond the narrow channel between thetwo granite walls, feeling herself free at last, cast off thetow-ropes and went off alone, like a monstrous creature walking on thewaters. 

"Here she is--here she comes, straight down on us!" Roland keptshouting; and Beausire, beaming, exclaimed: "What did I promise you!Heh! Do I know the way?"

Jean in a low tone said to his mother: "Look, mother, she is closeupon us!" And Mme. Roland uncovered her eyes, blinded by tears. 

The _Lorraine_ came on, still under the impetus of her swift exit fromthe harbor, in the brilliant, calm weather. Beausire, with his glassto his eye, called out:

"Look out! M. Pierre is at the stern, all alone, plainly to be seen!Look out!"

The ship was almost touching the _Pearl_ now, as tall as a mountainand as swift as a train. Mme. Roland, distraught and desperate, heldout her arms toward it; and she saw her son, her Pierre, with hisofficer's cap on, throwing kisses to her with both hands. 

But he was going away, flying, vanishing, a tiny speck already, nomore than an imperceptible spot on the enormous vessel. She triedstill to distinguish him, but she could not. 

Jean took her hand:

"You saw?" he said. 

"Yes, I saw. How good he is!"

And they turned to go home. 

"Cristi! How fast she goes!" exclaimed Roland with enthusiasticconviction. 

The steamer, in fact, was shrinking every second, as though she weremelting away in the ocean. Mme. Roland, turning back to look at her, watched her disappearing on the horizon, on her way to an unknown landat the other side of the world. 

In that vessel which nothing could stay, that vessel which she soonwould see no more, was her son, her poor son. And she felt as thoughhalf her heart had gone with him; she felt, too, as if her life wereended; yes, and she felt as though she would never see the childagain. 

"Why are you crying?" asked her husband, "when you know he will beback again within a month. "

She stammered out: "I don't know, I cry because I am hurt. "

When they had landed, Beausire at once took leave of them to go tobreakfast with a friend. Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosémilly, and Roland said to his wife:

"A very fine fellow, all the same, is our Jean. "

"Yes, " replied the mother. 

And her mind being too much bewildered to think of what she wassaying, she went on:

"I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. Rosémilly. "

The worthy man was astounded. 

"Heh? What? He is to marry Mme. Rosémilly?"

"Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it this very day. "

"Bless me. And has this engagement been long in the wind?"

"Oh, no, only a very few days. Jean wished to make sure that she wouldaccept him before consulting you. "

Roland rubbed his hands. 

"Very good. Very good. It is capital. I entirely approve. "

As they were about to turn off from the quay down the BoulevardFrançois 1er, his wife once more looked back to cast a last look atthe high seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of gray smoke, so far away, so faint that it looked like a film of haze. 

DREAMS

It was after a dinner of friends, of old friends. There were five ofthem, a writer, a doctor, and three rich bachelors without anyprofession. 

They had talked about everything, and a feeling of lassitude came on, that feeling of lassitude which precedes and leads to the departure ofguests after festive gatherings. One of those present, who had for thelast five minutes been gazing silently at the surging boulevardstarred with gas-lamps, and rattling with vehicles, said suddenly:

"When you've nothing to do from morning till night, the days arelong. "

"And the nights, too, " assented the guest who sat next to him. "Isleep very little; pleasures fatigue me; conversation is monotonous. Never do I come across a new idea, and I feel, before talking toanyone, a violent longing to say nothing and listen to nothing. Idon't know what to do with my evenings. "

And the third idler remarked:

"I would pay a great deal for anything that would enable me to passmerely two pleasant hours every day. "

Then the writer, who had just thrown his overcoat across his arm, turned round to them and said:

"The man who could discover a new vice, and introduce it among hisfellow-creatures, even though it were to shorten their lives, wouldrender a greater service to humanity than the man who found the meansof securing to them eternal salvation and eternal youth. "

The doctor burst out laughing, and, while he chewed his cigar, hesaid:

"Yes, but 'tis not so easy as that to discover it. Men have, howevercrudely, been seeking for and working for the object you refer tosince the beginning of the world. The men who came first reachedperfection at once in this way. We are hardly equal to them. "

One of the three idlers murmured:

"'Tis a pity!"

Then, after a minute's pause, he added:

"If we could only sleep, sleep well without feeling hot or cold, sleepwith that perfect unconsciousness we experience on nights when we arethoroughly fatigued, sleep without dreams. "

"Why without dreams?" asked the guest sitting next to him. 

The other replied:

"Because dreams are not always pleasant, and they are alwaysfantastic, improbable, disconnected, and because when we are asleep wecannot have the sort of dreams we like. We require to be awake when wedream. "

"And what's to prevent you from being so?" asked the writer. 

The doctor flung away the end of his cigar. 

"My dear fellow, in order to dream when you are awake you need greatpower and great exercise of will, and when you try to do it, greatweariness is the result. Now, real dreaming, that journey of ourthoughts through delightful visions, is assuredly the sweetestexperience in the world; but it must come naturally, it must not beprovoked in a painful manner, and must be accompanied by absolutebodily comfort. This power of dreaming I can give you provided youpromise that you will not abuse it. "

The writer shrugged his shoulders:

"Ah! yes, I know--haschich, opium, green tea--artificial paradises. Ihave read Baudelaire, and I even tasted the famous drug, which made mevery sick. "

But the doctor, without stirring from his seat, said:

"No: ether, nothing but ether, and I would suggest that you literarymen ought to use it sometimes. "

The three rich men drew closer to the doctor. 

One of them said:

"Explain to us the effects of it. "

And the doctor replied:

"Let us put aside big words, shall we not? I am not talking ofmedicine or morality; I am talking of pleasure. You give yourselves upevery day to excesses which consume your lives. I want to indicate toyou a new sensation, only possible to intelligent men, let us say evenvery intelligent men, dangerous, like everything that overexcites ourorgans, but exquisite. I might add that you would require a certainpreparation, that is to say, a practice, to feel in all theircompleteness the singular effects of ether. 

"They are different from the effects of haschich, from the effects ofopium and morphia, and they cease as soon as the absorption of thedrug is interrupted, while the other generators of day dreams continuetheir action for hours. 

"I am now going to try to analyze as clearly as possible the way onefeels. But the thing is not easy, so facile, so delicate, so almostimperceptible, are these sensations. 

"It was when I was attacked by violent neuralgia that I made use ofthis remedy, which perhaps I have since slightly abused. 

"I had in my head and in my neck acute pains, and an intolerable heatof the skin, a feverish restlessness. I took up a large flagon ofether, and lying down, I began to inhale it slowly. 

"At the end of some minutes, I thought I heard a vague murmur, whichere long became a sort of humming, and it seemed to me that all theinterior of my body had become light, light as air, that it wasdissolving into vapor. 

"Then came a sort of torpor of the soul, a somnolent sense of comfortin spite of the pains which still continued, but which, however, hadceased to make themselves felt. It was one of those sensations whichwe are willing to endure and not any of those frightful wrenchesagainst which our tortured body protests. 

"Soon, the strange and delightful sense of emptiness which I felt inmy chest extended to my limbs, which, in their turn, became light, aslight as if the flesh and the bones had been melted and the skin onlywere left, the skin necessary to enable me to realize the sweetness ofliving, of bathing in this well-being. Then I perceived that I was nolonger suffering. The pain had gone, melted also, evaporated. And Iheard voices, four voices, two dialogues, without understanding whatwas said. At one time, there were only indistinct sounds, at anothertime a word reached my ear. But I recognized that this was only thehumming I had heard before, accentuated. I was not asleep; I was notawake; I comprehended, I felt, I reasoned with the utmost clearnessand depth, with extraordinary energy and intellectual pleasure, with asingular intoxication arising from this separation of my mentalfaculties. 

"It was not like the dreams caused by haschich or the somewhat sicklyvisions that come from opium; it was an amazing acuteness ofreasoning, a new way of seeing, judging, and appreciating the thingsof life, and with the certainty, the absolute consciousness that thiswas the true way. 

"And the old image of the Scriptures suddenly came back to my mind. Itseemed to me that I had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge, that all themysteries were unveiled, so much did I find myself under the sway of anew, strange, and irrefutable logic. And arguments, reasonings, proofs, rose up in a heap before my brain only to be immediatelydisplaced by some stronger proof, reasoning, argument. My head had infact, become a battle-ground of ideas. I was a superior being, armedwith invincible intelligence, and I experienced a huge delight at themanifestation of my power. 

"It lasted a long, long time. I still kept inhaling the ether from theopening of my flagon. Suddenly I perceived that it was empty. "

The four men exclaimed at the same time:

"Doctor, a prescription at once for a liter of ether!"

But the doctor, putting on his hat, replied:

"As for that, certainly not; go and get poisoned by others!"

And he left them. 

Ladies and gentlemen, what is your idea on the subject?

MOONLIGHT

Madame Julie Roubere was awaiting her elder sister, Madame HenrietteLetore, who had just returned after a trip to Switzerland. 

The Letore household had left nearly five weeks ago. Madame Henriettehad allowed her husband to return alone to their estate in Calvados, where some matters of business required his attention, and come tospend a few days in Paris with her sister. Night came on. In the quietparlor, darkened by twilight shadows, Madame Roubere was reading, inan absent-minded fashion, raising her eyes whenever she heard a sound. 

At last, she heard a ring at the door, and presently her sisterappeared, wrapped in a traveling cloak. And immediately without anyformal greeting, they clasped each other ardently, only desisting fora moment to begin embracing each other over again. Then they talked, asking questions about each other's health, about their respectivefamilies, and a thousand other things, gossiping, jerking out hurried, broken sentences and rushing about while Madame Henriette was removingher hat and veil. 

It was now quite dark. Madame Roubere rang for a lamp, and as soon asit was brought in, she scanned her sister's face, and was on the pointof embracing her once more. But she held back, scared and astonishedat the other's appearance. Around her temples, Madame Letore had twolong locks of white hair. All the rest of her hair was of a glossy, raven-black hue; but there alone, at each side of her head, ran as itwere, two silvery streams which were immediately lost in the blackmass surrounding them. She was nevertheless only twenty-four yearsold, and this change had come on suddenly since her departure forSwitzerland. 

Without moving, Madame Roubere gazed at her in amazement, tears risingto her eyes, as she thought that some mysterious and terrible calamitymust have fallen on her sister. She asked:

"What is the matter with you, Henriette?"

Smiling with a sad face, the smile of one who is heartsick, the otherreplied:

"Why nothing I assure you. Were you noticing my white hair?"

But Madame Roubere impetuously seized her by the shoulders, and with asearching glance at her repeated:

"What is the matter with you? Tell me what is the matter with you. Andif you tell me a falsehood, I'll soon find it out. "

They remained face to face, and Madame Henriette, who became so palethat she was near fainting, had two pearly tears at each corner of herdrooping eyes. 

Her sister went on asking:

"What has happened to you? What is the matter with you? Answer me!"

Then, in a subdued voice, the other murmured:

"I have--I have a lover. "

And, hiding her forehead on the shoulder of her younger sister, shesobbed. 

Then, when she had grown a little calmer, when the heaving of herbreast had subsided, she commenced to unbosom herself, as if to castforth this secret from herself, to empty this sorrow of hers into asympathetic heart. 

Thereupon, holding each other's hands tightly grasped, the two womenwent over to a sofa in a dark corner of the room, into which theysank, and the younger sister, passing her arm over the elder one'sneck, and drawing her close to her heart, listened. 

 * * * * *

"Oh! I recognize that there was no excuse for one; I do not understandmyself, and since that day I feel as if I were mad. Be careful mychild, about yourself--be careful! If you only knew how weak we are, how quickly we yield, we fall. All it needs is a nothing, so little, so little, a moment of tenderness, one of those sudden fits ofmelancholy which steal into your soul, one of those longings to openyour arms, to love, to embrace, which we all have at certain moments. 

"You know my husband, and you know how fond of him I am; but he ismature and sensible, and cannot even comprehend the tender vibrationsof a woman's heart. He is always, always the same, always good, alwayssmiling, always kind, always perfect. Oh! how I sometimes have wishedthat he would roughly clasp me in his arms, that he would embrace mewith those slow, sweet kisses which make two beings intermingle, whichare like mute confidences! How I wished that he was self-abandoned andeven weak, so that he should have need of me, of my caress, of mytears!

"This all seems very silly; but we women are made like that. How canwe help it?

"And yet the thought of deceiving never came near me. To-day, it hashappened, without love, without reason, without anything, simplybecause the moon shone one night on the Lake of Lucerne. 

"During the month when we were traveling together, my husband, withhis calm indifference, paralyzed my enthusiasm, extinguished my poeticardor. When we were descending the mountain paths at sun-rise, when asthe four horses galloped along with the diligence, we saw, in thetransparent morning haze, valleys, woods, streams, and villages, Iclasped my hands with delight, and said to him: 'What a beautifulscene, darling! Kiss me now!' He only answered with a smile ofchilling kindliness: 'There is no reason why we should kiss each otherbecause you like the landscape. '

"And his words froze me to the heart. It seems to me that when peoplelove each other, they ought to feel more moved by love than ever inthe presence of beautiful scenes. 

"Indeed he prevented the effervescent poetry that bubbled up within mefrom gushing out. How can I express it? I was almost like a boiler, filled with steam and hermetically sealed. 

"One evening (we had been for four days staying in the Hotel deFluelen), Robert, having got one of his sick headaches, went to bedimmediately after dinner, and I went to take a walk all alone alongthe edge of the lake. 

"It was a night such as one might read of in a fairy tale. The fullmoon showed itself in the middle of the sky; the tall mountains, withtheir snowy crests seemed to wear silver crowns; the waters of thelake glittered with tiny rippling motions. The air was mild, with thatkind of penetrating freshness which softens us till we seem to beswooning, to be deeply affected without any apparent cause. But howsensitive, how vibrating, the heart is at such moments! How quickly itleaps up, and how intense are its emotions!

"I sat down on the grass, and gazed at that vast lake so melancholyand so fascinating, and a strange thing passed into me; I becamepossessed with an insatiable need of love, a revolt against the gloomydullness of my life. What! Would it never be my fate to be clasped inthe arms of a man whom I loved on a bank like this under the glowingmoonlight? Was I never then, to feel on my lips those kisses so deep, delicious, and intoxicating which lovers exchange on nights that seemto have been made by God for passionate embraces? Was I never to knowsuch ardent, feverish love in the moonlit shadows of a summer's night?

"And I burst out weeping like a woman who has lost her reason. I heardsome person stirring behind me. A man was intently gazing at me. WhenI turned my head round, he recognized me, and, advancing, said:

"'You are weeping, Madame?'

"It was a young barrister who was traveling with his mother, and whomwe had often met. His eyes had frequently followed me. 

"I was so much confused that I did not know what answer to give orwhat to think of the situation. I told him I felt ill. 

"He walked on by my side in a natural and respectable fashion, andbegan talking to me about what we had seen during our trip. All that Ihad felt he translated into words; everything that made me thrill heunderstood perfectly, better than I did myself. And all of a suddenhe recited some verses of Alfred de Musset. I felt myself choking, seized with indescribable emotion. It seemed to me that the mountainsthemselves, the lake, the moonlight, were singing to me about thingsineffably sweet. 

"And it happened, I don't know how, I don't know why, in a sort ofhallucination. 

"As for him I did not see him again till the morning of his departure. 

"He gave me his card!"

 * * * * *

And, sinking into her sister's arms, Madame Letore, broke intogroans--almost into shrieks. 

Then, Madame Roubere, with a self-contained and serious air, said verygently:

"You see, sister, very often it is not a man that we love, but love. And your real lover that night was the moonlight. "

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

The road with a gentle winding reached the middle of the forest. Thehuge pine-trees spread above our heads a mournful-looking vault, andgave forth a kind of long, sad wail, while at either side theirstraight slender trunks formed, as it were, an army of organ-pipes, from which seemed to issue that monotonous music of the wind throughthe tree-tops. 

After three hours' walking there was an opening in this row of tangledbranches. Here and there an enormous pine-parasol, separated from theothers, opening like an immense umbrella, displayed its dome of darkgreen; then, all of a sudden, we gained the boundary of the forest, some hundreds of meters below the defile which leads into the wildvalley of Niolo. 

On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, some old trees grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted withpainful efforts, like scouts who had started in advance of themultitude heaped together in the rear. When we turned round, we sawthe entire forest stretched beneath our feet, like a gigantic basin ofverdure, whose edges, which seemed to reach the sky, were composed ofbare rocks shutting in on every side. 

We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, we found ourselves in thedefile. 

Then I beheld an astonishing landscape. Beyond another forest, avalley, but a valley such as I had never seen before, a solitude ofstone ten leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains, without a field or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, thefatherland of Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from whichthe invaders had never been able to drive out the mountaineers. 

My companion said to me: "Is it here, too, that all our bandits havetaken refuge?"

Ere long we were at the further end of this chasm so wild, soinconceivably beautiful. 

Not a blade of grass, not a plant--nothing but granite. As far as oureyes could reach, we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone, heated like an oven by a burning sun, which seemed to hang for thatvery purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes towardsthe crests, we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They lookedred and notched like festoons of coral, for all the summits are madeof porphyry; and the sky overhead seemed violet, lilac, discolored bythe vicinity of these strange mountains. Lower down the granite was ofscintillating gray, and under our feet it seemed rasped, pounded; wewere walking over shining powder. At our right, along a long andirregular course, a tumultuous torrent ran with a continuous roar. Andwe staggered along under this heat, in this light, in this burning, arid, desolate valley cut by this ravine of turbulent water whichseemed to be ever hurrying onward, without being able to fertilizethese rocks, lost in this furnace which greedily drank it up withoutbeing penetrated or refreshed by it. 

But suddenly there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunkin a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I saidto my companion:

"Tell me about your bandits. "

He replied:

"I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I willtell you his history. 

"His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the samedistrict, it is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. Hewas a weak and timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. Hedid not proclaim the vendetta against the assassin of his father. Allhis relatives came to see him, and implored of him to take vengeance;he remained deaf to their menaces and their supplications. 

"Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in herindignation, carried away his black clothes, in order that he mightnot wear mourning for a dead man who had not been avenged. He wasinsensible to even this outrage, and rather than take down from therack his father's gun, which was still loaded, he shut himself up, notdaring to brave the looks of the young men of the district. 

"He seemed to have even forgotten the crime and he lived with hissister in the obscurity of their dwelling. 

"But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed themurder, was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be movedby this news, but, no doubt, out of sheer bravado, the bridegroom, onhis way to the church, passed before the two orphans' house. 

"The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating little friedcakes when the young man saw the bridal procession moving past thehouse. Suddenly he began to tremble, rose up without uttering a word, made the sign of the cross, took the gun which was hanging over thefireplace, and he went out. 

"When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was thematter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I should doit, that in spite of everything I could not resist, and I concealedthe gun in a cave on the road to Corte. '

"An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with hishabitual air of sad weariness. His sister believed that there wasnothing further in his thoughts. 

"But when night fell he disappeared. 

"His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot, accompanied by his two bridesmen. 

"He was pursuing his way, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stoodbefore him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed:'Now is the time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest. 

"One of the bridesmen fled; the other stared at the young man saying:

"'What have you done, St. Lucia?'

"Then he was going to hasten to Corte for help, but St. Lucia said instern tone:

"'If you move another step, I'll shoot you through the legs. '

"The other, aware that till now he had always appeared timid, said tohim: 'You would not dare to do it!' and he was hurrying off when hefell instantaneously, his thigh shattered by a bullet. 

"And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:

"'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leaveyou there; if it is mortal I'll finish you off. '

"He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly re-loadinghis gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him throughthe head. 

"Next day he was in the mountains. 

"And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?

"All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the curé, who was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, washimself put into prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. Buthe escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in thecave. 

"Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, and tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what theyhad seen with their eyes. 

"He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy'sfamily. He massacred during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned downthe houses of his adversaries, and was up to the day of his death themost terrible of the bandits, whose memory we have preserved. "

 * * * * *

The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of thegranite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. Wequickened our pace in order to reach before night the little villageof Albertaccio, nothing better than a heap of stones welded beside thestone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:

"What a terrible custom your vendetta is!"

My companion answered with an air of resignation:

"What, would you have? A man must do his duty!"

A DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

She had died painlessly, tranquilly, like a woman whose life wasirreproachable, and she now lay on her back in bed, with closed eyes, calm features, her long white hair carefully arranged as if she hadagain made her toilet ten minutes before her death, all her palephysiognomy so composed, now that she had passed away, so resignedthat one felt sure a sweet soul had dwelt in that body, that thisserene grandmother had spent an untroubled existence, that thisvirtuous woman had ended her life without any shock, without anyremorse. 

On his knees, beside the bed, her son, a magistrate of inflexibleprinciples, and her daughter Marguerite, in religion, Sister Eulalie, were weeping distractedly. She had from the time of their infancyarmed them with an inflexible code of morality, teaching them areligion without weakness and a sense of duty without any compromise. He, the son, had become a magistrate, and, wielding the weapon of thelaw, he struck down without pity the feeble and the erring. She, thedaughter, quite penetrated with the virtue that had bathed her in thisaustere family, had become the spouse of God through disgust with men. 

They had scarcely known their father; all they knew was that he hadmade their mother unhappy without learning any further details. Thenun passionately kissed one hand of her dead mother, which hung down, a hand of ivory like that of Christ in the large crucifix which layon the bed. At the opposite side of the prostrate body, the other handseemed still to grasp the rumpled sheet with that wandering movementwhich is called the fold of the dying, and the lines had retainedlittle wavy creases as a memento of those last motions which precedethe eternal motionlessness. A few light taps at the door caused thetwo sobbing heads to rise up, and the priest who had just dined, entered the apartment. He was flushed, a little puffed, from theeffects of the process of digestion which had just commenced; for hehad put a good dash of brandy into his coffee in order to counteractthe fatigue caused by the last nights he had remained up and thatwhich he anticipated from the night that was still in store for him. He had put on a look of sadness, that simulated sadness of the priestto whom death is a means of livelihood. He made the sign of the cross, and coming over to them with his professional gesture said:

"Well, my poor children, I have come to help you to pass thesemournful hours. "

But Sister Eulalie suddenly rose up. 

"Thanks, father, but my brother and I would like to be left alone withher. These are the last moments that we now have for seeing her; so wewant to feel ourselves once more, the three of us, just as we wereyears ago when we--we--we were only children, and our poor--poormother--"

She was unable to finish with the flood of tears that gushed from hereyes, and the sobs that were choking her. 

But the priest bowed, with a more serene look on his face, for he wasthinking of his bed. "Just as you please, my children. "

Then, he knelt down, again crossed himself, prayed, rose up, andsoftly stole away murmuring as he went: "She was a saint. "

They were left alone, the dead woman and her children. A hiddentimepiece kept regularly ticking in its dark corner, and through theopen window the soft odors of hay and of woods penetrated with faintgleams of moonlight. No sound in the fields outside, save thewandering notes of toads and now and then the humming of somenocturnal insect darting into like a ball, and knocking itself againstthe wall. 

An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surroundedthis dead woman, seemed to emanate from her, to evaporate from herinto the atmosphere outside and to calm Nature itself. 

Then the magistrate, still on his knees, his head pressed against thebed-clothes, in a far-off, heart-broken voice that pierced through thesheets and the coverlet, exclaimed:

"Mamma, mamma, mamma!" And the sister, sinking down on the floor, striking the wood with her forehead fanatically, twisting herselfabout and quivering like a person in an epileptic fit, groaned:"Jesus, Jesus--mamma--Jesus!"

And both of them shaken by a hurricane of grief panted with a rattlingin their throats. 

Then the fit gradually subsided, and they now wept in a less violentfashion, like the rainy calm that follows a squall on a storm-beatensea. Then, after some time, they rose, and fixed their glances on thebeloved corpse. And memories, those memories of the past, so sweet, sotorturing to-day, came back to their minds with all those littleforgotten details, those little details so intimate and familiar, which make the being who is no more live over again. They recalledcircumstances, words, smiles, certain intonations of voice whichbelonged to one whom they should hear speaking to them again. They sawher once more happy and calm, and phrases she used in ordinaryconversation rose to their lips. They even remembered a littlemovement of the hand peculiar to her, as if she were keeping time whenshe was saying something of importance. 

And they loved her as they had never before loved her. And by thedepth of their despair they realized how strongly they had beenattached to her, and how desolate they would find themselves now. 

She had been their mainstay, their guide, the best part of theiryouth, of that happy portion of their lives which had vanished; shehad been the bond that united them to existence, the mother, themamma, the creative flesh, the tie that bound them to their ancestors. They would henceforth be solitary, isolated; they would have nothingon earth to look back upon. 

The nun said to her brother:

"You know how mamma used always to read over her old letters. They areall there in her drawer. Suppose we read them in our turn, and sorevive all her life this night by her side? It would be like a kind ofroad of the cross, like making the acquaintance of her mother, ofgrandparents whom we never knew, whose letters are there, and of whomshe has so often talked to us, you remember?"

 * * * * *

And they drew forth from the drawer a dozen little packets of yellowpaper, carefully tied up and placed close to one another. They flungthese relics on the bed, and selecting one of them on which the word"Father" was written, they opened and read what was in it. 

It consisted of those very old letters which are to be found in oldfamily writing-desks, those letters which have the flavor of anothercentury. The first said, "My darling, " another "My beautiful littlegirl, " then others "My dear child, " and then again "My dear daughter. "And suddenly the nun began reading aloud, reading for the dead her ownhistory, all her tender souvenirs. And the magistrate listened, whilehe leaned on the bed, with his eyes on his mother's face. And themotionless corpse seemed happy. 

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said: "We ought to put them intothe grave with her, to make a winding-sheet of them, and bury themwith her. "

And then she took up another packet, on which the descriptive word didnot appear. 

And in a loud tone she began: "My adored one, I love you todistraction. Since yesterday I have been suffering like a damned soulburned by the recollection of you. I feel your lips on mine, your eyesunder my eyes, your flesh under my flesh. I love you! I love you! Youhave made me mad! My arms open! I pant with an immense desire topossess you again. My whole body calls out to you, wants you. I havekept in my mouth the taste of your kisses. "

The magistrate rose up; the nun stopped reading. He snatched theletter from her, and sought for the signature. There was none, saveunder the words, "He who adores you, " the name "Henry. " Their father'sname was René. So then he was not the man. 

Then, the son, with rapid fingers, fumbled in the packet of letterstook another of them, and read: "I can do without your caresses nolonger. "

And, standing up, with the severity of a judge passing sentence, hegazed at the impassive face of the dead woman. 

The nun, straight as a statue, with teardrops standing at each cornerof her eyes, looked at her brother, waiting to see what he meant todo. Then he crossed the room, slowly reached the window, and lookedout thoughtfully into the night. 

When he turned back, Sister Eulalie, her eyes now quite dry, stillremained standing near the bed, with a downcast look. 

He went over to the drawer and flung in the letters which he hadpicked up from the floor. Then he drew the curtains round the bed. 

And when the dawn made the candles on the table look pale, the sonrose from his armchair, and without even a parting glance at themother whom he had separated from them and condemned, he said slowly:

"Now, my sister, let us leave the room. "

THE CAKE

Let us say that her name was Madame Anserre so as not to reveal herreal name. 

She was one of those Parisian comets which leave, as it were, a trailof fire behind them. She wrote verses and novels; she had a poeticheart, and was ravishingly beautiful. She opened her doors to veryfew--only to exceptional people, those who are commonly described asprinces of something or other. 

To be a visitor at her house constituted a claim, a genuine claim ofintellect: at least this was the estimate set on her invitations. 

Her husband played the part of an obscure satellite. To be the husbandof a star is not an easy thing. This husband had, however, an originalidea, that of creating a State within a State, of possessing a meritof his own, a merit of the second order; it is true; but he did, infact, in this fashion, on the days when his wife held receptions, holdreceptions also on his own account. He had his special set whoappreciated him, listened to him, and bestowed on him more attentionthan they did on his brilliant partner. 

He had devoted himself to agriculture--to agriculture in the Chamber. There are in the same way generals in the Chamber--those who are born, who live, and who die, on the round leather chairs of the War Office, are all of this sort, are they not? Sailors in the Chambers--viz. , inthe Admiralty--Colonizers in the Chamber, etc. , etc. So he had studiedagriculture, indeed he had studied it deeply, in its relations withthe other sciences, with political economy, with the Fine Arts--wedress up the Fine Arts with every kind of science, since we even callthe horrible railway bridges "works of art. " At length he reached thepoint when it was said of him: "He is a man of ability. " He was quotedin the Technical Reviews; his wife had succeeded in getting himappointed a member of a committee at the Ministry of Agriculture. 

This latest glory was quite sufficient for him. 

Under the pretext of diminishing the expenses, he sent out invitationsto his friends for the day when his wife received hers, so that theyassociated together, or rather they did not--they formed two groups. Madame, with her escort of artists, academicians, and Ministers, occupied a kind of gallery, furnished and decorated in the style ofthe Empire. Monsieur generally withdrew with his agriculturists into asmaller portion of the house used as a smoking-room and ironicallydescribed by Madame Anserre as the Salon of Agriculture. 

The two camps were clearly separated. Monsieur, without jealousy, moreover, sometimes penetrated into the Academy, and cordialhandshakings were exchanged, but the Academy entertained infinitecontempt for the Salon of Agriculture, and it was rarely that one ofthe princes of science, of thought, or of anything else mingled withthe agriculturists. 

These receptions occasioned little expense--a cup of tea, a cake, thatwas all. Monsieur, at an earlier period, had claimed two cakes, onefor the academy, and one for the agriculturists, but Madame havingrightly suggested that this way of acting seemed to indicate twocamps, two receptions, two parties, Monsieur did not press the matter, so that they used only one cake, of which Madame Anserre did thehonors at the Academy, and which then passed into the Salon deAgriculture. 

Now, this cake was soon, for the Academy, a subject of observationwell calculated to arouse curiosity. Madame Anserre never cut itherself. That function always fell to the lot of one or other of theillustrious guests. The particular duty, which was supposed to carrywith it honorable distinction, was performed by each person for apretty long period, in one case for three months, scarcely ever formore; and it was noticed that the privilege of "cutting the cake"carried with it a heap of other marks of superiority--a sort ofroyalty, or rather very accentuated vice-royalty. 

The reigning cutter spoke in a haughty tone, with an air of markedcommand; and all the favors of the mistress of the house were for himalone. 

These happy individuals were in moments of intimacy described inhushed tones behind doors as the "favorites of the cake, " and everychange of favorite introduced into the Academy a sort of revolution. The knife was a scepter, the pastry an emblem; the chosen ones werecongratulated. The agriculturists never cut the cake. Monsieur himselfwas always excluded, although he ate his share. 

The cake was cut in succession by poets, by painters, and bynovelists. A great musician had the privilege of measuring theportions of the cake for some time; an ambassador succeeded him. Sometimes a man less well-known, but elegant and sought after, one ofthose who are called according to the different epochs, "truegentleman, " or "perfect knight, " or "dandy, " or something else, seatedhimself, in his turn, before the symbolic cake. Each of them, duringhis ephemeral reign, exhibited greater consideration towards thehusband; then, when the hour of his fall had arrived, he passed on theknife towards the other and mingled once more with the crowd offollowers and admirers of the "beautiful Madame Anserre. "

This state of things lasted a long time, but comets do not alwaysshine with the same brilliance. Everything gets worn out in society. One would have said that gradually the eagerness of the cutters grewfeebler; they seemed to hesitate at times when the tray was held outto them; this office, once so much coveted, became less and lessdesired. It was retained for a shorter time; they appeared to be lessproud of it. 

Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and civilities. Alas! no one wasfound any longer to cut it voluntarily. The new comers seemed todecline the honor. The "old favorites" reappeared one by one likedethroned princes who have been replaced for a brief spell in power. Then, the chosen ones became few, very few. For a month (O, prodigy!)M. Anserre cut open the cake; then he looked as if he were gettingtired of it; and one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful MadameAnserre, was seen cutting it herself. But this appeared to be verywearisome to her, and, next day, she urged one of her guests sostrongly to do it that he did not dare to refuse. 

The symbol was too well-known, however; the guests stared at oneanother with scared anxious faces. To cut the cake was nothing, butthe privileges to which this favor had always given a claim nowfrightened people; therefore, the moment the dish made its appearancethe academicians rushed pell-mell into the Salon of Agriculture, as ifto shelter themselves behind the husband, who was perpetually smiling. And when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, presented herself atthe door with a cake in one hand and the knife in the other, they allseemed to form a circle around her husband as if to appeal to him forprotection. 

Some years more passed. Nobody cut the cake now; but yielding to anold inveterate habit, the lady who had always been gallantly called"the beautiful Madame Anserre" looked out each evening for somedevotee to take the knife, and each time the same movement took placearound her, a general flight, skillfully arranged, and full ofcombined maneuvers that showed great cleverness, in order to avoid theoffer that was rising to her lips. 

But, one evening, a young man presented himself at her reception--aninnocent, unsophisticated youth. He knew nothing about the mystery ofthe cake; accordingly, when it appeared, and when all the rest ranaway, when Madame Anserre took from the man-servant's hands the dishand the pastry, he remained quietly by her side. 

She thought that perhaps he knew about the matter; she smiled, and ina tone which showed some emotion, said:

"Will you be kind enough, dear Monsieur, to cut this cake?"

He displayed the utmost readiness, and took off his gloves, flatteredat such an honor being conferred on him. 

"Oh, to be sure Madame, with the greatest pleasure. "

Some distance away in the corner of the gallery, in the frame of thedoor which led into the Salon of the Agriculturists, faces whichexpressed utter amazement were staring at him. Then, when thespectators saw the new comer cutting without any hesitation, theyquickly came forward. 

An old poet jocosely slapped the neophyte on the shoulder. 

"Bravo, young man!" he whispered in his ear. 

The others gazed at him with curiosity. Even the husband appeared tobe surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at theconsideration which they suddenly seemed to show towards him; aboveall, he failed to comprehend the marked attentions, the manifestfavor, and the species of mute gratitude which the mistress of thehouse bestowed on him. 

It appears, however, that he eventually found out. 

At what moment, in what place, was the revelation made to him? Nobodycould tell; but, when he again presented himself at the reception, hehad a preoccupied air, almost a shamefaced look, and he cast aroundhim a glance of uneasiness. 

The bell rang for tea. The man-servant appeared. Madame Anserre, witha smile, seized the dish, casting a look about her for her youngfriend; but he had fled so precipitately that no trace of him could beseen any longer. Then, she went looking everywhere for him, and erelong she discovered him in the Salon of the Agriculturists. With hisarm locked in that of the husband, he was consulting that gentleman asto the means employed for destroying phylloxera. 

"My dear Monsieur, " she said to him, "will you be so kind as to cutthis cake for me?"

He reddened to the roots of his hair, and hanging down his head, stammered out some excuses. Thereupon M. Anserre took pity on him, andturning towards his wife, said:

"My dear, you might have the goodness not to disturb us. We aretalking about agriculture. So get your cake cut by Baptiste. "

And since that day nobody has ever cut Madame Anserre's cake. 

A LIVELY FRIEND

They had been constantly in each other's society for a whole winter inParis. After having lost sight of each other, as generally happens insuch cases, after leaving college, the two friends met again onenight, long years after, already old and white-haired, the one abachelor, the other married. 

M. De Meroul lived six months in Paris and six months in his littlechateau of Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a gentleman inthe district, he had lived a peaceful, happy life with the indolenceof a man who has nothing to do. With a calm temperament and a sedatemind, without any intellectual audacity or tendency towardsrevolutionary independence of thought, he passed his time in mildlyregretting the past, in deploring the morals and the institutions ofto-day, and in repeating every moment to his wife, who raised her eyesto Heaven, and sometimes her hands also, in token of energetic assent:

"Under what a government do we live, great God!"

Madame de Meroul mentally resembled her husband, just as if they hadbeen brother and sister. She knew by tradition that one ought, firstof all, to reverence the Pope and the King!

And she loved them and respected them from the bottom of her heart, without knowing them, with a poetic exaltation, with a hereditarydevotion, with all the sensibility of a well-born woman. She waskindly in every fold of her soul. She had no child, and wasincessantly regretting it. 

When M. De Meroul came across his old school fellow Joseph Mouradourat a ball, he experienced from this meeting a profound and genuinedelight, for they had been very fond of one another in their youth. 

After exclamations of astonishment over the changes caused by age intheir bodies and their faces, they had asked one another a number ofquestions as to their respective careers. 

Joseph Mouradour, a native of the South of France, had become aCouncilor General in his own neighborhood. Frank in his manners, hespoke briskly and without any circumspection telling all his thoughtswith sheer indifference to prudential considerations. He was aRepublican, of that race of good-natured Republicans who make theirown ease the law of their existence, and who carry freedom of speechto the verge of brutality. 

He called at his friend's address in Paris, and was immediately afavorite, on account of his easy cordiality, in spite of his advancedopinions. Madame de Meroul exclaimed:

"What a pity! such a charming man!"

M. De Meroul said to his friend, in a sincere and confidential tone:"You cannot imagine what a wrong you do to our country. " He wasattached to his friend nevertheless, for no bonds are more solid thanthose of childhood renewed in later life. Joseph Mouradour chaffed thehusband and wife, called them "my loving turtles, " and occasionallygave vent to loud declarations against people who were behind the age, against all sorts of prejudices and traditions. 

When he thus directed the flood of his democratic eloquence, themarried pair, feeling ill at ease, kept silent through a sense ofpropriety and good-breeding; then the husband tried to turn off theconversation, in order to avoid any friction. Joseph Mouradour did notwant to know anyone unless he was free to say what he liked. 

Summer came round. The Merouls knew no greater pleasure than toreceive their old friends in their country house at Tourbeville. Itwas an intimate and healthy pleasure, the pleasure of homelygentlefolk who had spent most of their lives in the country. They usedto go to the nearest railway station to meet some of their guests, anddrove them to the house in their carriage, watching for compliments ontheir district, on the rapid vegetation, on the condition of the roadsin the department, on the cleanliness of the peasants' houses, on thebigness of the cattle they saw in the fields, on everything that metthe eye as far as the edge of the horizon. 

They liked to have it noticed that their horse trotted in a wonderfulmanner for an animal employed a part of the year in field-work; andthey awaited, with anxiety the newcomer's opinion on their familyestate, sensitive to the slightest word, grateful for the slightestgracious attention. 

Joseph Mouradour was invited, and he announced his arrival. 

The wife and the husband came to meet the train, delighted to have theopportunity of doing the honors of their house. 

As soon as he perceived them, Joseph Mouradour jumped out of hiscarriage with a vivacity which increased their satisfaction. Hegrasped their hands warmly, congratulated them, and intoxicated themwith compliments. 

He was quite charming in his manner as they drove along the road tothe house; he expressed astonishment at the height of the trees, theexcellence of the crops, and the quickness of the horse. 

When he placed his foot on the steps in front of the chateau, M. DeMeroul said to him with a certain friendly solemnity:

"Now you are at home. "

Joseph Mouradour answered: "Thanks old fellow; I counted on that. Formy part, besides, I never put myself out with my friends. That's theonly hospitality I understand. "

Then, he went up to his own room, where he put on the costume of apeasant, as he was pleased to describe it, and he came down again notvery long after, attired in blue linen, with yellow boots, in thecareless rig-out of a Parisian out for a holiday. He seemed, too tohave become more common, more jolly, more familiar, having assumedalong with his would-be rustic garb a free and easy swagger which hethought suited the style of dress. His new apparel somewhat shocked M. And Madame de Meroul who even at home on their estate always remainedserious and respectable, as the particle "de" before their nameexacted a certain amount of ceremonial even with their intimatefriends. 

After lunch, they went to visit the farms; and the Parisian stupefiedthe respectable peasants by talking to them as if he were a comrade oftheirs. 

In the evening, the curé dined at the house--a fat old priest, wearing his Sunday suit, who had been specially asked that day inorder to meet the newcomer. 

When Joseph saw him he made a grimace, then he stared at the priest inastonishment as if he belonged to some peculiar race of beings, thelike of which he had never seen before at such close quarters. He tolda few smutty stories allowable enough with a friend after dinner, butapparently somewhat out of place in the presence of an ecclesiastic. He did not say, "Monsieur l'Abbe, " but merely "Monsieur"; and heembarrassed the priest with philosophical views as to the varioussuperstitions that prevailed on the surface of the globe. 

He remarked:

"Your God, monsieur, is one of those persons whom we must respect, butalso one of those who must be discussed. Mine is called Reason; he hasfrom time immemorial been the enemy of yours. "

The Merouls, greatly put out, attempted to divert his thoughts. 

The curé left very early. 

Then the husband gently remarked:

"You went a little too far with that priest. "

But Joseph immediately replied:

"That's a very good joke, too! Am I to bother my brains about adevil-dodger? At any rate, do me the favor of not ever again havingsuch an old fogy to dinner. Curses on his impudence!"

"But, my friend, remember his sacred character. "

Joseph Mouradour interrupted him:

"Yes, I know. We must treat them like girls, who get roses for beingwell behaved! That's all right, my boy! When these people respect myconvictions, I will respect theirs!"

This was all that happened that day. 

Next morning, Madame de Meroul, on entering her drawing-room, sawlying on the table three newspapers which made her draw back inhorror. "Le Voltaire, " "Le Republique Francaise, " and "La Justice. "

Presently, Joseph Mouradour, still in his blue blouse, appeared on thethreshold, reading "L'Intransigeant" attentively. He exclaimed:

"There is a splendid article by Rochefort. This fellow is marvelous. "

He read the article in a loud voice, laying so much stress on its moststriking passages that he did not notice the entrance of his friend. 

M. De Meroul had a paper in each hand. "Le Gaulois" for himself and"Le Clarion" for his wife. 

The ardent prose of the master-writer who overthrew the empire, violently declaimed, recited in the accent of the South, rang throughthe peaceful drawing-room, shook the old curtains with their rigidfolds, seemed to splash the walls, the large upholstered chairs, thesolemn furniture fixed in the same position for the past century, witha hail of words, rebounding, impudent, ironical and crushing. 

The husband and the wife, the one standing, the other seated, listenedin a state of stupor, so scandalized that they no longer even venturedto make a gesture. Mouradour launched out the concluding passage inthe article as one lets forth a jet of fireworks, then in an emphatictone remarked:

"That's a stinger, eh?"

But suddenly he perceived the two prints belonging to his friend, andhe seemed himself for a moment overcome with astonishment. Then, hecame across to his host with great strides, demanding in angry tone:

"What do you want to do with these papers?" M. De Meroul replied in ahesitating voice:

"Why, these--these are my--my newspapers. "

"Your newspapers! Look here, now, you are only laughing at me! Youwill do me the favor to read mine, to stir you up with a few newideas, and, as for yours--this is what I do with them--"

And before his host, filled with confusion, could prevent him, heseized the two newspapers and flung them out through the window. Thenhe gravely placed "La Justice" in the hands of Madame de Meroul and"Le Voltaire" in those of her husband, and he sank into an armchair tofinish "L'Intransigeant. "

The husband and the wife, through feelings of delicacy, made a show ofreading a little, then they handed back the Republican newspapers, which they touched with their finger-tips as if they had beenpoisoned. 

Then he burst out laughing, and said:

"A week of this sort of nourishment, and I'll have you converted to myideas. "

At the end of the week, in fact, he ruled the house. He had shut thedoor on the curé, whom Madame Meroul went to see in secret. He gaveorders that neither the "Gaulois" nor the "Clarion" were to beadmitted into the house, which a man-servant went to get in amysterious fashion at the post-office, and which, on his entrance, were hidden away under the sofa cushions. He regulated everythingjust as he liked, always charming, always good-natured, a jovial andall powerful tyrant. 

Other friends were about to come on a visit, religious people withLegitimist opinions. The master and mistress of the chateau consideredit would be impossible to let them meet their lively guest, and, notknowing what to do, announced to Joseph Mouradour one evening thatthey were obliged to go away from home for a few days about a littlematter of business, and they begged of him to remain in the housealone. 

He showed no trace of emotion, and replied:

"Very well; 'tis all the same to me; I'll wait here for you as long asyou like. What I say is this--there need be no ceremony betweenfriends. You're quite right to look after your own affairs--why thedevil shouldn't you? I'll not take offense at your doing that, quitethe contrary. It only makes me feel quite at my ease with you. Go, myfriends--I'll wait for you. "

M. And Madame Meroul started next morning. 

He is waiting for them. 

THE ORPHAN

Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances. She was at the time thirty-six years old. She was deformed, having inher infancy slipped off her nurse's lap into the fireplace, andgetting her face so shockingly burned that it ever afterwardspresented a frightful appearance. This deformity had made her resolvenot to marry, for she did not want any man to marry her for her money. 

A female neighbor of hers, being left a widow during her pregnancy, died in child-birth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source tookthe new-born child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to aboarding-school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, inorder to have in her empty house somebody who would love her, whowould look after her, who would make her old age pleasant. 

She resided on a little property four leagues away from Rennes, andshe now dispensed with a servant. The expenses having increased tomore than double what they had been since this orphan's arrival, herincome of three thousand francs was no longer sufficient to supportthree persons. 

She attended to the housekeeping and the cooking herself, and she sentout the boy on errands, letting him further occupy himself withcultivating the garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and caressing. And she experienced a deep joy, a fresh joy at being embraced by him, without any apparent surprise or repugnance being exhibited by him onaccount of her ugliness. He called her "Aunt" and treated her as amother. 

In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she got nicethings ready for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice ofbread, and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. Sheoften took him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring inhis ear with passionate tenderness. She called him: "My little flower, my cherub, my adored angel, my divine jewel. " He softly accepted hercaresses, concealing his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although hewas now nearly fifteen years old, he had remained small and weak, andhad a rather sickly appearance. 

Sometimes Mademoiselle Source brought him to the city, to see twomarried female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living inthe suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence. The two women had always found fault with her for having adopted thisboy on account of the inheritance; but for all that they gave her acordial welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third, no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided. 

She was happy, very happy, always taken up with her adopted child. Shebought books for him to improve his mind, and he devoted himselfardently to reading. 

He no longer now climbed on her knees to fondle her as he had formerlydone; but instead would go and sit down in his little chair in thechimney-corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of thelittle table, above his head, shone on his curly hair, and on aportion of his forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes, he did not make any gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbedin the adventures which formed the subject of the book. 

She, seated opposite to him, gazed at him with an eager, steady look, astonished at his studiousness, often on the point of bursting intotears. 

She said to him now and then: "You will fatigue yourself, mytreasure!" in the hope that he would raise his head, and come acrossto embrace her; but he did not even answer her; he had not heard orunderstood what she was saying; he paid no attention to anything savewhat he read in these pages. 

For two years he devoured an incalculable number of volumes. Hischaracter changed. 

After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source many times for money, whichshe gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for shewas both regular and energetic, and knew how to act rationally when itwas necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sumone night from her; but when he urged her to give him another sum afew days later, she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way tohim further, in fact. 

He appeared to be satisfied with her decision. 

He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, loving to remainseated for entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. Henow did not even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarkswith short, formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentivein his manner towards her; but he never embraced her now. 

She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat facingone another at night at opposite sides of the chimney-piece. Shewanted to wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, thatwould break this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of awood. But he did not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered withthe terror of a poor feeble woman when she had spoken to him five orsix times successively without being able to get a word out of him. 

What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed uphead? When she had been thus two or three hours sitting opposite him, she felt herself getting daft, and longed to rush away and to escapeinto the open country in order to avoid that mute, eternalcompanionship and also some vague danger, which she could not define, but of which she had a presentiment. 

She frequently shed tears when she was alone. What was the matter withhim? When she gave expression to a desire, he unmurmuringly carried itinto execution. When she wanted to have anything brought to her fromthe city, he immediately went there to procure it. She had nocomplaint to make of him; no, indeed! And yet.... 

Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a new modificationhad taken place in the mind of the young man. She perceived it; shefelt it; she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure she was notmistaken; but she could not have explained in what the unknownthoughts of this strange youth had changed. 

It seemed to her that till now he had been like a person in ahesitating frame of mind who had suddenly arrived at a determination. This idea came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixedsingular glance which she had not seen in his face before. 

Then, he commenced to watch her incessantly and she wished she couldhide herself in order to avoid that cold eye, riveted on her. 

He kept staring at her, evening after evening for hours together, onlyaverting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved:

"Do not look at me like that, my child!"

Then he hung down his head. 

But, the moment her back was turned, she once more felt that his eyeswere upon her. Wherever she went he pursued her with his persistentgaze. 

Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenlynoticed him squatted on the stump of a tree as if he were lying inwait for her; and again when she sat in front of the house mendingstockings while he was digging some cabbage-bed, he kept watching her, as he worked, in a sly, continuous fashion. 

It was in vain that she asked him:

"What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years you havebecome very different. I don't find you the same. Tell me what ailsyou, and what you are thinking of, I beg of you. "

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:

"Why, nothing ails me, Aunt!"

And when she persisted, appealing to him thus:

"Ah! my child, answer me, answer me when I speak to you. If you knewwhat grief you caused me, you would always answer, and you would notlook at me that way. Have you any trouble? Tell me! I'll console you!"

He went away with a tired air, murmuring:

"But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you. "

He had not grown much, having always a childish aspect, although thefeatures of his face were those of a man. They were, however, hard andbadly-cut. He seemed incomplete, abortive, only half-finished, anddisquieting as a mystery. He was a close, impenetrable being, in whomthere seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental travail takingplace. 

Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could notfrom that time forth, sleep at night, so great was her anxiety. Frightful terrors, dreadful nightmares assailed her. She shut herselfup in her own room, and barricaded the door, tortured by fear. 

What was she afraid of? She could not tell. 

Fear of everything, of the night, of the walls, of the shadows thrownby the moon on the white curtains of the windows, and above all, fearof him. 

Why?

What had she to fear? Did she know what it was?

She could live this way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortunethreatened her, a frightful misfortune. 

She set forth secretly one morning, and went into the city to see herrelatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The twowomen thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her. 

She said:

"If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He nevertakes his eyes off me! At times, I feel a longing to cry for help, tocall in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say tothem? He does nothing to me except to keep looking at me. "

The two female cousins asked:

"Is he ever brutal to you? Does he give you sharp answers?"

She replied:

"No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard; he is steady;but I am so frightened I don't mind that much. He has something in hishead, I am certain of that--quite certain. I don't care to remain allalone like that with him in the country. "

The relatives, scared by her words, declared to her that they wereastonished, and could not understand her; and they advised her to keepsilent about her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading herfrom coming to reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entireinheritance would eventually fall into their hands. 

They even promised to assist her in selling her house and in findinganother near them. 

Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset thatshe trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever anytrifling disturbance agitated her. 

Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined nownot to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last, she found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and sheprivately bought it. 

The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, andMademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparationsfor her change of residence. 

At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence whichpassed within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told theconductor to let her down in the place where it was his custom to stopfor her. The man called out to her as he whipped his horses:

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Source--good night!"

She replied as she walked on:

"Good evening, Pere Joseph. " Next morning, at half-past seven, thepostman who conveyed letters to the village, noticed at thecross-road, not far from the high road, a large splash of blood notyet dry. He said to himself: "Hallo! some boozer must have got ableeding in the nose. "

But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket-handkerchief alsostained with blood. He picked it up. The linen was fine, and thepostman in alarm, made his way over to the dike, where he fancied hesaw a strange object. 

Mademoiselle Source was lying at the bottom on the grass, her throatcut open with a knife. 

An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and otherauthorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death. 

The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the oldmaid's fears and her last plans. 

The orphan was arrested. Since the death of the woman who had adoptedhim, he wept from morning till night, plunged at least to allappearance, in the most violent grief. 

He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in acafé. Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till hisdeparture. 

Now the driver of the diligence stated that he had set down themurdered woman on the road between half-past nine and ten o'clock. 

The accused was acquitted. A will, a long time made, which had beenleft in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him universal legatee. So he inherited everything. 

For a long time, the people of the country put him into a quarantine, as they still suspected him. His house, which was that of the deadwoman, was looked upon as accursed. People avoided him in the street. 

But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, thatgradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous, obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything as long as theycared to talk to him. 

The notary, Maitre Rameay, was one of the first to take his part, attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said one evening at a dinner atthe tax-collector's house:

"A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good humorcould not have such a crime on his conscience. "

Touched by his argument, the others who were present reflected, andthey recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who madethem stop almost by force at the road corners to communicate his ideasto them, who insisted on their going into his house when they werepassing by his garden, who could crack a joke better than thelieutenant of the gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagiousgayety that, in spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them, they could not keep from always laughing in his company. 

All doors were opened to him, after a time. 

He is, to-day, the mayor of his own township. 

THE BLIND MAN

How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this radiancewhen it falls on the earth fill us with so much delight of living? Thesky is all blue, the fields are all green, the houses all white; andour ravished eyes drink in those bright colors which bringmirthfulness to our souls. And then there springs up in our hearts adesire to dance, a desire to run, a desire to sing, a happy lightnessof thought, a sort of enlarged tenderness; we feel a longing toembrace the sun. 

The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternaldarkness, remain as calm as ever in the midst of this fresh gayety, and, not comprehending what is taking place around them, they keepevery moment stopping their dogs from gamboling. 

When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of ayoung brother or a little sister, if the child says: "It was a veryfine day!" the other answers: "I could notice that 'twas fine. Loulouwouldn't keep quiet. "

I have known one of these men whose life was one of the most cruelmartyrdoms that could possibly be conceived. 

He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his fatherand mother lived, he was more or less taken care of; he sufferedlittle save from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old peoplewere gone, an atrocious life of misery commenced for him. A dependenton a sister of his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggarwho is eating the bread of others. At every meal the very food heswallowed was made a subject of reproach against him; he was called adrone, a clown; and although his brother-in-law had taken possessionof his portion of the inheritance, the soup was given to himgrudgingly--just enough to save him from dying. 

His face was very pale, and his two big white eyes were like wafers;and he remained unmoved in spite of the insults inflicted upon him, soshut up in himself that one could not tell whether he felt them atall. 

Moreover, he had never known any tenderness, his mother having alwaystreated him unkindly, and caring scarcely at all for him; for incountry places the useless are obnoxious, and the peasants would beglad, like hens, to kill the infirm of their species. 

As soon as the soup had been gulped down, he went to the door insummer-time and sat down, to the chimney-corner in winter time, and, after that, never stirred all night. He made no gesture, no movement;only his eyelids, quivering from some nervous affection, fell downsometimes over his white, sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, anythinking faculty, any consciousness of his own existence? Nobody caredto inquire as to whether he had or no. 

For some years things went on in this fashion. But his incapacity fordoing anything as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated hisrelatives, and he became a laughing-stock, a sort of martyred buffoon, a prey given over to native ferocity, to the savage gaiety of thebrutes who surrounded him. 

It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical jokes inspired by hisblindness. And, in order to have some fun in return for feeding him, they now converted his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighborsand of punishment for the helpless creature himself. 

The peasants from the nearest houses came to this entertainment; itwas talked about from door to door, and every day the kitchen of thefarmhouse was full of people. Sometimes they put on the table, infront of his plate, when he was beginning to take the soup, some cator some dog. The animal instinctively scented out the man's infirmity, and, softly approaching, commenced eating noiselessly, lapping up thesoup daintily; and, when a rather loud licking of the tongue awakenedthe poor fellow's attention, it would prudently scamper away to avoidthe blow of the spoon directed at it by the blind man at random!

Then the spectators huddled against the walls burst out laughing, nudged each other, and stamped their feet on the floor. And he, without ever uttering a word, would continue eating with the aid ofhis right hand, while stretching out his left to protect and defendhis plate. 

At another time they made him chew corks, bits of wood, leaves, oreven filth, which he was unable to distinguish. 

After this, they got tired even of these practical jokes; and thebrother-in-law, mad at having to support him always, struck him, cuffed him incessantly, laughing at the useless efforts of the otherto ward off or return the blows. Then came a new pleasure--thepleasure of smacking his face. And the plough-men, the servant girls, and even every passing vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his eyelashes to twitch spasmodically. He did not knowwhere to hide himself, and remained with his arms always held out toguard against people coming too close to him. 

At last he was forced to beg. 

He was placed somewhere on the high-road on market-days, and as soonas he heard the sound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, hereached out his hat, stammering:--

"Charity, if you please!"

But the peasant is not lavish, and for whole weeks he did not bringback a sou. 

Then he became the victim of furious, pitiless hatred. And this is howhe died. 

One winter the ground was covered with snow, and it froze horribly. Now his brother-in-law led him one morning at this season a greatdistance along the high-road in order that he might solicit alms. Theblind man was left there all day, and when night came on, thebrother-in-law told the people of his house that he could find notrace of the mendicant. Then he added:

"Pooh! best not bother about him! He was cold, and got someone to takehim away. Never fear! he's not lost. He'll turn up soon enoughto-morrow to eat the soup. "

Next day, he did not come back. 

After long hours of waiting, stiffened with the cold, feeling that hewas dying, the blind man began to walk. Being unable to find his wayalong the road, owing to its thick coating of ice, he went on atrandom, falling into dykes, getting up again, without uttering asound, his sole object being to find some house where he could takeshelter. 

But by degrees the descending snow made a numbness steal over him, andhis feeble limbs being incapable of carrying him farther, he had tosit down in the middle of an open field. He did not get up again. 

The white flakes which kept continually falling buried him, so thathis body, quite stiff and stark, disappeared under the incessantaccumulation of their rapidly thickening mass; and nothing any longerindicated the place where the corpse was lying. 

His relatives made pretense of inquiring about him and searching forhim for about a week. They even made a show of weeping. 

The winter was severe, and the thaw did not set in quickly. Now, oneSunday, on their way to mass, the farmers noticed a great flight ofcrows, who were whirling endlessly above the open field, and then, like a shower of black rain, descended in a heap at the same spot, ever going and coming. 

The following week these gloomy birds were still there. There was acrowd of them up in the air, as if they had gathered from all cornersof the horizon; and they swooped down with a great cawing into theshining snow, which they filled curiously with patches of black, andin which they kept rummaging obstinately. A young fellow went to seewhat they were doing, and discovered the body of the blind man, already half devoured, mangled. His wan eyes had disappeared, peckedout by the long, voracious beaks. 

And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunlit days without sadlyremembering and gloomily pondering over the fate of the beggar sodisinherited in life that his horrible death was a relief for allthose who had known him. 

A WIFE'S CONFESSION

My friend, you have asked me to relate to you the liveliestrecollections of my life. I am very old, without relatives, withoutchildren; so I am free to make a confession to you. Promise me onething--never to reveal my name. 

I have been much loved, as you know; I have often myself loved. I wasvery beautiful; I may say this to-day, when my beauty is gone. Lovewas for me the life of the soul, just as the air is the life of thebody. I would have preferred to die rather than exist withoutaffection, without having somebody always to care for me. Women oftenpretend to love only once with all the strength of their hearts; ithas often happened to be so violent in one of my attachments that Ithought it would be impossible for my transports ever to end. However, they always died out in a natural fashion, like a fire when it has nomore fuel. 

I will tell you to-day the first of my adventures, in which I was veryinnocent, but which led to the others. The horrible vengeance of thatdreadful chemist of Pecq recalls to me the shocking drama of which Iwas, in spite of myself, a spectator. 

I had been a year married to a rich man, Comte Herve de Ker---- aBreton of ancient family, whom I did not love, you understand. Truelove needs, I believe at any rate, freedom and impediments at the sametime. The love which is imposed, sanctioned by law, and blessed by thepriest--can we really call that love? A legal kiss is never as goodas a stolen kiss. My husband was tall in stature, elegant, and areally fine gentleman in his manners. But he lacked intelligence. Hespoke in a downright fashion, and uttered opinions that cut like theblade of a knife. He created the impression that his mind was full ofready-made views instilled into him by his father and mother, who hadthemselves got them from their ancestors. He never hesitated, but onevery subject immediately made narrow-minded suggestions, withoutshowing any embarrassment and without realizing that there might beother ways of looking at things. One felt that his head was closed up, that no ideas circulated in it, none of those ideas which renew aman's mind and make it sound, like a breath of fresh air passingthrough an open window into a house. 

The chateau in which we lived was situated in the midst of a desolatetract of country. It was a large, melancholy structure, surrounded byenormous trees, with tufts of moss on it resembling old men's whitebeards. The park, a real forest, was enclosed in a deep trench calledthe ha-ha; and at its extremity, near the moorland, we had big pondsfull of reeds and floating grass. Between the two, at the edge of astream which connected them, my husband had got a little hut built forshooting wild ducks. 

We had, in addition to our ordinary servants, a keeper, a sort ofbrute devoted to my husband to the death, and a chambermaid, almost afriend, passionately attached to me. I had brought her back from Spainwith me five years before. She was a deserted child. She might havebeen taken for a gipsy with her dusky skin, her dark eyes, her hairthick as a wood and always clustering around her forehead. She was atthe time sixteen years old, but she looked twenty. 

The autumn was beginning. We hunted much, sometimes on neighboringestates, sometimes on our own; and I noticed a young man, the Baron deC----, whose visits at the chateau became singularly frequent. Then heceased to come; I thought no more about it; but I perceived that myhusband changed in his demeanor towards me. 

He seemed taciturn and preoccupied; he did not kiss me; and, in spiteof the fact that he did not come into my room, as I insisted onseparate apartments in order to live a little alone, I often at nightheard a furtive step drawing near my door, and withdrawing a fewminutes after. 

As my window was on the ground-floor I thought I had also often heardsomeone prowling in the shadow around the chateau. I told my husbandabout it, and, having looked at me intently for some seconds, heanswered:

"It is nothing--it is the keeper. "

 * * * * *

Now, one evening, just after dinner, Herve, who appeared to beextraordinarily gay, with a sly sort of gaiety, said to me:

"Would you like to spend three hours out with the guns, in order toshoot a fox who comes every evening to eat my hens?"

I was surprised. I hesitated; but, as he kept staring at me withsingular persistency, I ended by replying:

"Why, certainly, my friend. " I must tell you that I hunted like a manthe wolf and the wild boar. So it was quite natural that he shouldsuggest this shooting expedition to me. 

But my husband, all of a sudden, had a curiously nervous look; and allthe evening he seemed agitated, rising up and sitting down feverishly. 

About ten o'clock, he suddenly said to me:

"Are you ready?"

I rose; and, as he was bringing me my gun himself, I asked:

"Are we to load with bullets or with deershot?"

He showed some astonishment; then he rejoined:

"Oh! only with deershot; make your mind easy! that will be enough. "

Then, after some seconds, he added in a peculiar tone:

"You may boast of having splendid coolness. "

I burst out laughing. 

"I? Why, pray? Coolness because I went to kill a fox? But what are youthinking of, my friend?"

And we quietly made our way across the park. All the household slept. The full moon seemed to give a yellow tint to the old gloomy building, whose slate roof glittered brightly. The two turrets that flanked ithad two plates of light on their summits, and no noise disturbed thesilence of this clear, sad night, sweet and still, which seemed in adeath-trance. Not a breath of air, not a shriek from a toad, not ahoot from an owl; a melancholy numbness lay heavy on everything. Whenwe were under the trees in the park, a sense of freshness stole overme, together with the odor of fallen leaves. My husband said nothing;but he was listening, he was watching, he seemed to be smelling aboutin the shadows, possessed from head to foot by the passion for thechase. 

We soon reached the edges of the ponds. 

Their tufts of rushes remained motionless; not a breath of aircaressed it; but movements which were scarcely perceptible ran throughthe water. Sometimes the surface was stirred by something, and lightcircles gathered around, like luminous wrinkles enlargingindefinitely. 

When we reached the hut where we were to lie in wait, my husband mademe go in first; then he slowly loaded his gun, and the dry cracking ofthe powder produced a strange effect on me. He saw that I wasshuddering, and asked:

"Does this trial happen to be quite enough for you? If so, go back. "

I was much surprised, and I replied:

"Not at all. I did not come to go back without doing anything. Youseem queer this evening. "

He murmured, "As you wish, " and we remained there without moving. 

At the end of about half-an-hour, as nothing broke the oppressivestillness of this bright autumn night, I said, in a low tone:

"Are you quite sure he is passing this way?"

Herve winced as if I had bitten him, and with his mouth close to myear, he said:

"Make no mistake about it. I am quite sure. "

And once more there was silence. 

I believe I was beginning to get drowsy when my husband pressed myarm, and his voice, changed to a hiss, said:

"Do you see him over there under the trees?"

I looked in vain; I could distinguish nothing. And slowly Herve nowcocked his gun, all the time fixing his eyes on my face. 

I was myself making ready to fire, and suddenly, thirty paces in frontof us, appeared in the full light of the moon a man who was hurryingforward with rapid movements, his body bent, as if he were trying toescape. 

I was so stupefied that I uttered a loud cry; but, before I could turnround, there was a flash before my eyes; I heard a deafening report, and I saw the man rolling on the ground, like a wolf hit by a bullet. 

I burst into dreadful shrieks, terrified, almost going mad; then afurious hand--it was Herve's--seized me by the throat. I was flungdown on the ground, then carried off by his strong arms. He ran, holding me up, till we reached the body lying on the grass, and hethrew me on top of it violently, as if he wanted to break my head. 

I thought I was lost; he was going to kill me; and he had just raisedhis heel up to my forehead when, in his turn, he was gripped, knockeddown before I could yet realize what had happened. 

I rose up abruptly, and I saw kneeling on top of him Porquita, mymaid, clinging like a wild cat to him with desperate energy, tearingoff his beard, his moustache, and the skin of his face. 

Then, as if another idea had suddenly taken hold of her mind, she roseup, and, flinging herself on the corpse, she threw her arms around thedead man, kissing his eyes and his mouth, opening the dead lips withher own lips, trying to find in them a breath and a long, long kiss oflovers. 

My husband, picking himself up, gazed at me. He understood, andfalling at my feet, said:

"Oh! forgive me, my darling, I suspected you, and I killed this girl'slover. It was my keeper that deceived me. "

But I was watching the strange kisses of that dead man and that livingwoman, and her sobs and her writhings of sorrowing love--

And at that moment I understood that I might be unfaithful to myhusband. 

RELICS OF THE PAST

My dear Colette, --I do not know whether you remember a verse of M. Sainte-Beuve which we have read together, and which has remained fixedin my memory; for me this verse speaks eloquently; and it has veryoften reassured my poor heart, especially for some time past. Here itis:

"To be born, to live, and die in the same house. "

I am now all alone in this house where I was born, where I have lived, and where I hope to die. It is not gay every day, but it is pleasant;for there I have souvenirs all around me. 

My son Henri is a barrister; he comes to see me twice a year. Jeanneis living with her husband at the other end of France, and it is I whogo to see her each autumn. So here I am, all, all alone, butsurrounded by familiar objects which incessantly speak to me about myown people, the dead, and the living separated from me by distance. 

I no longer read much; I am too old for that; but I am constantlythinking, or rather dreaming. I do not dream as I used to do long ago. You may recall to mind any wild fancies, the adventures our brainsconcocted when we were twenty, and all the horizons of happiness thatdawned upon us!

Nothing out of all our dreaming has been realized, or rather it isquite a different thing that has happened, less charming, less poetic, but sufficient for those who know how to accept their lot in thisworld bravely. 

Do you know why we women are so often unhappy? It is because we aretaught in our youth to believe too much in happiness! We are neverbrought up with the idea of fighting, of striving, of suffering. And, at the first shock, our hearts are broken; we look forward, with blindfaith, to cascades of fortunate events. What does happen is at bestbut a partial happiness, and thereupon we burst out sobbing. Happiness, the real happiness that we dream of, I have come to knowwhat that is. It does not consist in the arrival of great bliss, forany great bliss that falls to our share is to be found in the infiniteexpectation of a succession of joys to which we never attain. Happiness is happy expectation; it is the horizon of hope; it is, therefore, endless illusion; and, old as I am, I create illusions formyself still, in fact, every day I live; only their object is changed, my desires being no longer the same. I have told you that I spend mybrightest hours in dreaming. What else should I do?

I have two ways of doing this. I am going to tell you what they are;they may perhaps prove useful to you. 

Oh! the first is very simple; it consists in sitting down before myfire in a low armchair made soft for my old bones, and looking back atthe things that have been put aside. 

One life is so short, especially a life entirely spent in the samespot:

"To be born, to live, and die in the same house. "

The things that bring back the past to our recollection are heaped, pressed together; and, we are old, it sometimes seems no more than tendays since we were young. Yes; everything slips away from us, as iflife itself were but a single day: morning, evening, and then comesnight--a night without a dawn!

When I gaze into the fire, for hours and hours, the past rises upbefore me as though it were but yesterday. I no longer think of mypresent existence; reverie carries me away; once more I pass throughall the changes of my life. 

And I often am possessed by the illusion that I am a young girl, somany breaths of bygone days are wafted back to me, so many youthfulsensations and even impulses, so many throbbings of my youngheart--all the passionate ardor of eighteen; and I have clear, asfresh realities, visions of forgotten things. Oh! how vividly, aboveall, do the memories of my walks as a young girl come back to me!There, in the armchair of mine, before the fire, I saw once more, afew nights since, a sunset on Mont Saint-Michel, and immediatelyafterwards I was riding on horseback through the forest of Uville withthe odors of the damp sand and of the flowers steeped in dew, and theevening star sending its burning reflection through the water andbathing my face in its rays as I galloped through the copse. And all Ithought of then, my poetic enthusiasm at the sight of the boundlesssea, my keen delight at the rustling of the branches as I passed, mymost trivial impressions, every fragment of thought, desire, orfeeling, all, all came back to me as if I were there still, as iffifty years had not glided by since then, to chill my blood andmoderate my hopes. But my other way of reviving the long ago is muchbetter. 

You know, or you do not know, my dear Colette, that we destroy nothingin the house. We have upstairs, under the roof, a large room forcast-off things which we call "the lumber-room. " Everything which isno longer used is thrown there. I often go up there, and gaze aroundme. Then I find once more a heap of nothings that I had ceased tothink about, and that recalled a heap of things to my mind. They arenot those beloved articles of furniture which we have known since ourchildhood and to which are attached recollections of events of joys orsorrows, dates in our history, which, from the fact of beingintermingled with our lives, have assumed a kind of personality, aphysiognomy, which are the companions of our pleasant or gloomy house, the only companions, alas! that we are sure not to lose, the only onesthat will not die, like the others--those whose features, whose lovingeyes, whose lips, whose voices, have vanished for ever. But I findinstead among the medley of worn-out gewgaws those little oldinsignificant objects which have hung on by our side for forty yearswithout ever having been noticed by us, and which, when we suddenlylay eyes on them again, have somehow the importance, the significanceof relics of the past. They produce on my mind the effect of thosepeople--whom we have known for a very long time without ever havingseen them as they really are, and who, all of a sudden, some evening, quite unexpectedly, break out into a stream of interminable talk, andtell us all about themselves down to their most hidden secrets, ofwhich we had never even suspected the existence. 

And I move about from one object to the other with a little thrill inmy heart every time something fixes my attention. I say to myself:"See there! I broke that the night Paul started for Lyons;" or else, "Ah! there is mamma's little lantern, which she used to carry withher going to her evening devotions on dark winter nights. " There areeven things in this room which have no story to tell me, which havecome down from my grandparents, things therefore, whose history andadventures are utterly unknown to those who are living to-day, andwhose very owners nobody knows now. Nobody has seen the hands thatused to touch them or the eyes that used to gaze at them. These arethe things that make me have long, long dreams. They represent to mymind desolate people whose last remaining friend is dead. You, my dearColette, can scarcely comprehend all this, and you will smile at mysimplicity, my childish, sentimental whims. You are a Parisian, andyou Parisians do not understand this interior life, those eternalechoes of one's own heart. You live in the outer world, with all yourthoughts in the open. Living alone as I do, I can only speak aboutmyself. When you are answering this letter, tell me a little aboutyourself, that I may also be able to put myself in your place, as youwill be able to put yourself in mine to-morrow. 

But you will never completely understand M. De Sainte Beuve's verse:

 "To be born, to live, and to die in one house. "

A thousand kisses, my old friend, ADELAIDE. 

THE PEDDLER

How many trifling occurrences, things which have left only a passingimpression on our minds, humble dramas of which we have got a mereglimpse so that we have to guess at or suspect their real nature, are, while we are still young and inexperienced, threads, so to speak, guiding us, step by step, towards a knowledge of the painful truth!

Every moment, when I am retracing my steps during the long wanderingreveries which distract my thoughts along the path through which Isaunter at random, my soul takes wing, and suddenly I recall littleincidents of a gay or sinister character which, emerging from theshades of the past, flit before my memory as the birds flit throughthe bushes before my eyes. 

This summer, I wandered along a road in Savoy which commands a view ofthe right bank of the Lake of Bourget, and, while my glance floatedover that mass of water, mirror-like and blue, with a unique blue, pale, tinted with glittering beams by the setting sun, I felt my heartstirred by that attachment which I have had since my childhood for thesurface of lakes, for rivers, and for the sea. On the opposite bank ofthe vast liquid plate, so wide that you did not see the ends of it, one vanishing in the Rhone, and the other in the Bourget, rose thehigh mountain, jagged like a crest up to the topmast peak of the"Cats's Tooth. " On either side of the road, vines, trailing from treeto tree, choked under their leaves their slender supporting branches, and they extended in garlands through the fields, green, yellow, andred garlands, festooning from one trunk to the other, and spotted withclusters of dark grapes. 

The road was deserted, white, and dusty. All of a sudden, a manemerged out of the thicket of large trees which shuts in the villageof Saint-Innocent, and, bending under a load, he came towards me, leaning on a stick. 

When he had come closer to me, I discovered that he was a peddler, oneof those itinerant dealers who go about the country from door to door, selling paltry objects cheaply, and thereupon a reminiscence of longago arose up in my mind, a mere nothing almost, the recollectionsimply of an accidental meeting I had one night between Argenteuil andParis when I was twenty-one. 

All the happiness of my life, at this period, was derived fromboating. I had taken a room in an obscure inn at Argenteuil, and, every evening, I took the Government clerks' train, that long slowtrain which, in its course, sets down at different stations a crowd ofmen with little parcels, fat and heavy, for they scarcely walk at all, so that their trousers are always baggy owing to their constantoccupation of the office-stool. This train, in which it seemed to me Icould even sniff the odor of the writing-desk, of official documentsand boxes, deposited me at Argenteuil. My boat was waiting for me, ready to glide over the water. And I rapidly plied my oar so that Imight get out and dine at Bezons or Chatou or Epinay or Saint-Ouen. Then I came back, put up my boat, and made my way back on foot toParis with the moon shining down on me. 

Well, one night on the white road I perceived just in front of me aman walking. Oh! I was constantly meeting those night travelers of theParisian suburbs so much dreaded by belated citizens. This man went onslowly before me with a heavy load on his shoulders. 

I came right up to him by quickening my pace so much that my footstepsrang on the road. He stopped and turned round; then, as I keptapproaching nearer and nearer, he crossed to the opposite side of theroad. 

As I rapidly passed him, he called out to me:

"Hallo! good evening, monsieur. "

I responded:

"Good evening, mate. "

He went on:

"Are you going far?"

"I am going to Paris. "

"You won't be long getting there; you're going at a good pace. As forme, I have too big a load on my shoulders to walk so quickly. "

I slackened my pace. Why had this man spoken to me? What was hecarrying in this big pack? Vague suspicions of crime sprang up in mymind, and rendered me curious. The columns of the newspapers everymorning contain so many accounts of crimes committed in this place, the peninsula of Gennevilliers, that some of them must be true. Suchthings are not invented merely to amuse readers--all this catalogue ofarrests and varied misdeeds with which the reports of the law courtsare filled. 

However, this man's voice seemed rather timid than bold, and up to thepresent his manner had been more discreet than aggressive. 

In my turn I began to question him:

"And you--are you going far?"

"Not farther than Asnieres. "

"Is Asnieres your place of abode?"

"Yes, monsieur, I am a peddler by occupation, and I live at Asnieres. "

He had quitted the sidewalk, where pedestrians move along in thedaytime under the shadows of the trees, and he was soon in the middleof the road. I followed his example. We kept staring at each othersuspiciously, each of us holding his stick in his hand. When I wassufficiently close to him, I felt less distrustful. He evidently wasdisposed to assume the same attitude towards me, for he asked:

"Would you mind going a little more slowly?"

"Why do you say this?"

"Because I don't care for this road by night. I have goods on my back, and two are always better than one. When two men are together, peopledon't attack them. "

I felt that he was speaking truly, and that he was afraid. So Iyielded to his wishes, and the pair of us walked on, side by side, this stranger and I, at one o'clock in the morning, along the roadleading from Argenteuil to Asnieres. 

"Why are you going home so late when it is so dangerous?" I asked mycompanion. 

He told me his history. He had not intended to return home thisevening, as he had brought with him that very morning a stock of goodsto last him three or four days. But he had been so fortunate indisposing of them that he found it necessary to get back to his abodewithout delay in order to deliver next day a number of things whichhad been bought on credit. 

He explained to me with genuine satisfaction that he had managed thebusiness very well, having a tendency to talk confidentially, andthat the knick-knacks he displayed were useful to him in getting rid, while gossiping, of other things which he could not easily sell. 

He added:

"I have a shop in Asnieres. 'Tis my wife keeps it. "

"Ah! So you're married?"

"Yes, m'sieur, for the last fifteen months. I have got a very nicewife. She'll get a surprise when she sees me coming home to-night. "

He then gave me an account of his marriage. He had been after thisyoung girl for two years, but she had taken time to make up her mind. 

She had, since her childhood, kept a little shop at the corner of astreet, where she sold all sorts of things--ribbons, flowers insummer, and principally pretty little shoe-buckles, and many othergewgaws, in which, owing to the favor of a manufacturer, she enjoyed aspeciality. She was well-known in Asnieres as "La Bluette. " This namewas given to her because she often dressed in blue. And she mademoney, as she was very skillful in everything she did. His impressionwas that she was not very well at the present moment; he believed shewas in the family way, but he was not quite sure. Their business wasprospering; and he traveled about exhibiting samples to all the smalltraders in the adjoining districts. He had become a sort of travelingcommission-agent for some of the manufacturers, working at the sametime for them and for himself. 

"And you--what are you, " he said. 

I answered him with an air of embarrassment. I explained that I had asailing-boat and two yawls in Argenteuil, that I came for a row everyevening, and that, as I was fond of exercise, I sometimes walked backto Paris, where I had a profession, which--I led him to infer--was alucrative one. 

He remarked:

"Faith, if I had spondulics like you, I wouldn't amuse myself bytrudging that way along the roads at night--'Tisn't safe along here. "

He gave me a sidelong glance, and I asked myself whether he might notall the same, be a criminal of the sneaking type who did not want torun any fruitless risk. 

Then he restored my confidence when he murmured:

"A little less quickly, if you please. This pack of mine is heavy. "

The sight of a group of houses showed that we had reached Asnieres. 

"I am nearly at home, " he said. "We don't sleep in the shop; it iswatched at night by a dog, but a dog who is worth four men. And thenit costs too much to live in the center of the town. But listen to me, monsieur! You have rendered me a precious service, for I don't feel mymind at ease when I'm traveling with my pack along the roads. Well, now you must come in with me, and drink a glass of mulled wine with mywife if she hasn't gone to bed, for she is a sound sleeper, anddoesn't like to be waked up. Besides, I'm not a bit afraid without mypack, and so I'll see you to the gates of the city with a cudgel in myhand. "

I declined the invitation; he insisted on my coming in; I still heldback; he pressed me with so much eagerness, with such an air of realdisappointment, such expressions of deep regret--for he had the art ofexpressing himself very forcibly--asking me in the tone of one whofelt wounded "whether I objected to have a drink with a man likehim, " that I finally gave way and followed him up a lonely roadtowards one of those big dilapidated houses which are to be found onthe outskirts of suburbs. 

In front of this dwelling I hesitated. This high barrack of plasterlooked like a den for vagabonds, a hiding-place for suburban brigands. But he pushed forward a door which had not been locked, and made me goin before him. He led me forward by the shoulders, through profounddarkness, towards a staircase where I had to feel my way with my handsand feet, with a well-grounded apprehension of tumbling into somegaping cellar. 

When I had reached the first landing, he said to me: "Go on up! 'Tisthe sixth story. "

I searched my pockets, and, finding there a box of vestas, I lightedthe way up the ascent. He followed me, puffing under his pack, repeating:

"Tis high! 'tis high!"

When we were at the top of the house, he drew forth from one of hisinside pockets a key attached to a thread, and unlocking his door hemade me enter. 

It was a little whitewashed room, with a table in the center, sixchairs, and a kitchen-cupboard close to the wall. 

"I am going to wake up my wife, " he said; "then I am going down to thecellar to fetch some wine; it doesn't keep here. "

He approached one of the two doors which opened out of this apartment, and exclaimed:

"Bluette! Bluette!" Bluette did not reply. He called out in a loudertone: "Bluette! Bluette!"

Then knocking at the partition with his fist, he growled: "Will youwake up in God's name?"

He waited, glued his ear to the key-hole, and muttered, in a calmertone: "Pooh! if she is asleep, she must be let sleep! I'll go and getthe wine: wait a couple of minutes for me. "

He disappeared. I sat down and made the best of it. 

What had I come to this place for? All of a sudden, I gave a start, for I heard people talking in low tones, and moving about quietly, almost noiselessly, in the room where the wife slept. 

Deuce take it! Had I fallen into some cursed trap? Why had thiswoman--this Bluette--not been awakened by the loud knocking of herhusband at the doorway leading into her room; could it have beenmerely a signal conveying to accomplices: "There's a mouse in thetrap! I'm going to look out to prevent him escaping. 'Tis for you todo the rest!"

Certainly, there was more stir than before now in the inner room; Iheard the door opening from within. My heart throbbed. I retreatedtowards the further end of the apartment, saying to myself: "I mustmake a fight of it!" and, catching hold of the back of a chair withboth hands, I prepared for a desperate struggle. 

The door was half opened, a hand appeared which kept it ajar; then ahead, a man's head covered with a billycock hat, slipped through thefolding-doors, and I saw two eyes staring hard at me. Then so quicklythat I had not time to make a single movement by way of defense, theindividual, the supposed criminal, a tall young fellow in his barefeet with his shoes in his hands, a good looking chap, I mustadmit--half a gentleman, in fact, made a dash for the outer door, andrushed down the stairs. 

I resumed my seat. The adventure was assuming a humorous aspect. And Iwaited for the husband, who took a long time fetching the wine. Atlast I heard him coming up the stairs, and the sound of his footstepsmade me laugh, with one of those solitary laughs which it is hard torestrain. 

He entered with two bottles in his hands. Then he asked me:

"Is my wife still asleep? You didn't hear her stirring--did you?"

I knew instinctively that there was an ear pasted against the otherside of the partition-door, and I said: "No, not at all. "

And now he again called out:

"Pauline!"

She made no reply, and did not even move. 

He came back to me, and explained:

"You see, she doesn't like me to come home at night, and take a dropwith a friend. "

"So then you believe she was not asleep?"

He wore an air of dissatisfaction. 

"Well, at any rate, " he said, "let us have a drink together. "

And immediately he showed a disposition to empty the two bottles oneafter the other without more ado. 

This time I did display some energy. When I had swallowed one glass Irose up to leave. He no longer spoke of accompanying me, and with asullen scowl, the scowl of a common man in an angry mood, the scowl ofa brute whose violence is only slumbering, in the direction of hiswife's sleeping apartment, he muttered:

"She'll have to open that door when you've gone. "

I stared at this poltroon, who had worked himself into a fit of ragewithout knowing why, perhaps, owing to an obscure presentiment, theinstinct of the deceived male who does not like closed doors. He hadtalked about her to me in a tender strain; now assuredly he was goingto beat her. 

He exclaimed, as he shook the lock once more:

"Pauline!"

A voice like that of a woman waking out of her sleep, replied frombehind the partition:

"Eh! what?"

"Didn't you hear me coming in?"

"No, I was asleep! Let me rest. "

"Open the door!"

"Yes, when you're alone. I don't like you to be bringing home fellowsat night to drink with you. "

Then I took myself off, stumbling down the stairs, as the other man, of whom I had been the accomplice had done. And, as I resumed myjourney toward Paris, I realized that I had just witnessed in thatwretched abode a scene of the eternal drama which is being acted everyday, under every form, and among every class. 

THE AVENGER

When M. Antoine Leuillet married the Widow Mathilde Souris, he hadbeen in love with her for nearly ten years. 

M. Souris had been his friend, his old college chum. Leuillet was veryfond of him, but found him rather a muff. He often used to say: "Thatpoor Souris will never set the Seine on fire. "

When Souris married Mdlle. Mathilde Duval, Leuillet was surprised andsomewhat vexed, for he had a slight weakness for her. She was thedaughter of a neighbor of his, a retired haberdasher with a good bitof money. She was pretty, well-mannered, and intelligent. She acceptedSouris on account of his money. 

Then Leuillet cherished hopes of another sort. He began payingattentions to his friend's wife. He was a handsome man, not at allstupid, and also well off. He was confident that he would succeed; hefailed. Then he fell really in love with her, and he was the sort oflover who is rendered timid, prudent, and embarrassed by intimacy withthe husband. Mme. Souris fancied that he no longer meant anythingserious by his attentions to her, and she became simply his friend. This state of affairs lasted nine years. 

Now, one morning, Leuillet received a startling communication from thepoor woman. Souris had died suddenly of aneurism of the heart. 

He got a terrible shock, for they were of the same age; but the verynext moment, a sensation of profound joy, of infinite relief ofdeliverance, penetrated his body and soul. Mme. Souris was free. 

He had the tact, however, to make such a display of grief as theoccasion required; he waited for the proper time to elapse, andattended to all the conventional usages. At the end of fifteen monthshe married the widow. 

His conduct was regarded as not only natural but generous. He hadacted like a good friend and an honest man. In short he was happy, quite happy. 

They lived on terms of the closest confidence, having from the firstunderstood and appreciated each other. One kept nothing secret fromthe other, and they told each other their inmost thoughts. Leuilletnow loved his wife with a calm trustful affection; he loved her as atender, devoted partner, who is an equal and a confidante. But therestill lingered in his soul a singular and unaccountable grudge againstthe deceased Souris, who had been the first to possess this woman, whohad had the flower of her youth and of her soul, and who had evenrobbed her of her poetic attributes. The memory of the dead husbandspoiled the happiness of the living husband; and this posthumousjealousy now began to torment Leuillet's heart day and night. 

The result was that he was incessantly talking about Souris, asking athousand minute and intimate questions about him, and seeking forinformation as to all his habits and personal characteristics. And hepursued him with railleries even into the depths of the tomb, recalling with self-satisfaction his oddities, emphasizing hisabsurdities, and pointing out his defects. 

Every minute he kept calling out to his wife from one end to the otherof the house:

"Hallo, Mathilde!"

"Here am I, dear. "

"Come and let us have a chat. "

She always came over to him, smiling, well aware that Souris was to bethe subject of the chat, and anxious to gratify her second husband'sharmless fad. 

"I say! do you remember how Souris wanted, one day, to prove to methat small men are always better loved than big men?"

And he launched out into reflections unfavorable to the defuncthusband, who was small, and discreetly complimentary to himself, as hehappened to be tall. 

And Mme. Leuillet let him think that he was quite right; and shelaughed very heartily, turned the first husband into ridicule in aplayful fashion for the amusement of his successor, who always endedby remarking:

"Never mind! Souris was a muff!"

They were happy, quite happy. And Leuillet never ceased to testify hisunabated attachment to his wife by all the usual manifestations. 

Now, one night when they happened to be both kept awake by the renewalof youthful ardor, Leuillet, who held his wife clasped tightly in hisarms, and had his lips glued to hers, said:

"Tell me this, darling. "

"What?"

"Souris--'tisn't easy to put the question--was he very--very amorous?"

She gave him a warm kiss, as she murmured:

"Not so much as you, my duck. "

His male vanity was flattered, and he went on:

"He must have been--rather a flat--eh?"

She did not answer. There was merely a sly little laugh on her face, which she pressed close to her husband's neck. 

He persisted in his questions:

"Come now! Don't deny that he was a flat--well, I mean, rather anawkward sort of fellow?"

She nodded slightly. 

"Well, yes, rather awkward. "

He went on:

"I'm sure he used to weary you many a night--isn't that so?"

This time, she had an access of frankness, and she replied:

"Oh! yes. "

He embraced her once more when she made this acknowledgment, andmurmured:

"What an ass he was! You were not happy with him?"

She answered:

"No. He was not always jolly. "

Leuillet felt quite delighted, making a comparison in his own mindbetween his wife's former situation and her present one. 

He remained silent for some time: then, with a fresh outburst ofmerit, he said:

"Tell me this!"

"What?"

"Will you be quite candid--quite candid with me?"

"Certainly, dear. "

"Well, look here! Have you never been tempted to--to deceive thisimbecile, Souris?"

Mme. Leuillet uttered a little "Oh!" in a shamefaced way, and againcuddled her face closer to her husband's chest. But he could see thatshe was laughing. 

He persisted:

"Come now, confess it! He had a head just suited for a cuckold, thisblockhead! It would be so funny! This good Souris! Oh! I say, darling, you might tell it to me--only to me!"

He emphasized the words "to me, " feeling certain that if she wanted toshow any taste when she deceived her husband, he, Leuillet, would havebeen the man; and he quivered with joy at the expectation of thisavowal, sure that if she had not been the virtuous woman she was hecould have had her then. 

But she did not reply, laughing incessantly as if at the recollectionof something infinitely comic. 

Leuillet, in his turn, burst out laughing at the notion that he mighthave made a cuckold of Souris. What a good joke! What a capital bit offun, to be sure!

He exclaimed in a voice broken by convulsions of laughter. 

"Oh! poor Souris! poor Souris! Ah! yes, he had that sort of head--oh, certainly he had!"

And Mme. Leuillet now twisted herself under the sheets, laughing tillthe tears almost came into her eyes. 

And Leuillet repeated: "Come, confess it! confess it! Be candid. Youmust know that it cannot be unpleasant to me to hear such a thing. "

Then she stammered, still choking with laughter. 

"Yes, yes. "

Her husband pressed her for an answer. 

"Yes, what? Look here! tell me everything. "

She was now laughing in a more subdued fashion, and, raising her mouthup to Leuillet's ear, which was held towards her in anticipation ofsome pleasant piece of confidence, she whispered--"Yes, I did deceivehim!"

He felt a cold shiver down his back, and utterly dumbfounded, hegasped. 

"You--you--did--really--deceive him?"

She was still under the impression that he thought the thinginfinitely pleasant, and replied. 

"Yes--really--really. "

He was obliged to sit up in bed so great was the shock he received, holding his breath, just as overwhelmed as if he had just been toldthat he was a cuckold himself. At first, he was unable to articulateproperly; then after the lapse of a minute or so, he merelyejaculated. 

"Ah!"

She, too, had stopped laughing now, realizing her mistake too late. 

Leuillet, at length asked. 

"And with whom?"

She kept silent, cudgeling her brain to find some excuse. 

He repeated his question. 

"With whom?"

At last, she said. 

"With a young man. "

He turned towards her abruptly, and in a dry tone, said. 

"Well, I suppose it wasn't with some kitchen wench. I ask you who wasthe young man--do you understand?"

She did not answer. He tore away the sheet which she had drawn overher head, and pushed her into the middle of the bed, repeating. 

"I want to know with what young man--do you understand?"

Then, she replied with some difficulty in uttering the words. 

"I only wanted to laugh. " But he fairly shook with rage: "What? How isthat? You only wanted to laugh? So then you were making game of me?I'm not going to be satisfied with these evasions, let me tell you! Iask you what was the young man's name?"

She did not reply, but lay motionless on her back. 

He caught hold of her arm and pressed it tightly. 

"Do you hear me, I say? I want you to give me an answer when I speakto you. "

Then, she said, in nervous tones. 

"I think you must be going mad! Let me alone!"

He trembled with fury, so exasperated that he scarcely knew what hewas saying, and, shaking her with all his strength, he repeated. 

"Do you hear me? do you hear me?"

She wrenched herself out of his grasp with a sudden movement, and withthe tips of her fingers slapped her husband on the nose. He entirelylost his temper, feeling that he had been struck, and angrily pounceddown on her. 

He now held her under him, boxing her ears in a most violent manner, and exclaiming:

"Take that--and that--and that--there you are, you trollop!"

Then, when he was out of breath, exhausted from beating her, he gotup, and went over to the chest of drawers to get himself a glass ofsugared orange-water for he was almost ready to faint after hisexertion. 

And she lay huddled up in bed, crying and heaving great sobs, feelingthat there was an end of her happiness, and that it was all her ownfault. 

Then, in the midst of her tears, she faltered:

"Listen, Antoine, come here! I told you a lie--listen! I'll explain itto you. "

And now, prepared to defend herself, armed with excuses andsubterfuges, she slightly raised her head all tangled under hercrumpled nightcap. 

And he, turning towards her, drew close to her, ashamed at havingwhacked her, but feeling intensely still in his heart's core as ahusband an inexhaustible hatred against that woman who had deceivedhis predecessor, Souris. 

ALL OVER

The Comte de Lormerin had just finished dressing himself. He cast aparting glance at the large glass, which occupied an entire panel ofhis dressing-room, and smiled. 

He was really a fine-looking man still, though he was quite gray. Tall, slight, elegant, with no projecting paunch, with a scantymoustache of doubtful shade in his thin face, which seemed fair ratherthan white, he had presence, that "chic" in short, that indescribablesomething which establishes between two men more difference thanmillions. 

He murmured, "Lormerin is still alive!"

And he made his way into the drawing-room where his correspondenceawaited him. 

On his table, where everything had its place, the work-table of thegentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying besidethree newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch of thefinger he exposed to view all these letters, like a gambler giving thechoice of a card; and he scanned the handwriting, a thing he did eachmorning before tearing open the envelopes. 

It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vagueanxiety. What did these sealed mysterious papers bring him? What didthey contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed themwith a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing in each case the hand thatwrote them, selecting them, making two or three lots, according towhat he expected from them. Here, friends; there, persons to whom hewas indifferent; further on, strangers. The last kind always gave hima little uneasiness. What did they want from him? What hand had tracedthose curious characters full of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simplenevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he regarded itwith disquietude, with a sort of internal shiver. 

He thought: "From whom can it be? I certainly know this writing, andyet I can't identify it. "

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately betweentwo fingers, striving to read through the envelope without making uphis mind to open it. 

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifyingglass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. Hesuddenly felt unnerved. "Who is it from? This hand is familiar to me, very familiar. I must have often read its prosings, yes, very often. But this must have been a long, long time ago. Who the deuce can it befrom? Pooh! 'tis only from somebody asking for money. "

And he tore open the letter. Then he read. 

 "My dear Friend, --You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. When I bade you farewell, I quitted Paris in order to follow into the provinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call 'my hospital. ' Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now, I am returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have a daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed you about her entrance into the world, but you certainly did not pay much attention to so trifling an event. 

 "You, you are always the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well, if you still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come and dine this evening with her, with the elderly Baronne de Vance, your ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, stretches out to you, without complaining of her lot, a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet. 

 "Lise de Vance. "

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair, with the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome bypoignant feelings that made the tears mount up to his eyes!

If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise, Lise de Vance, whom he called "Cinder-Flower" on account of thestrange color of her hair, and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what afine, pretty, charming creature she was, this frail Baronne, the wifeof that, gouty, pimply Baron, who had abruptly carried her off to theprovinces, shut her up, kept her apart through jealousy, throughjealousy of the handsome Lormerin. 

Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he, too, had been trulyloved. She familiarly gave him the name of Jaquelet, and she used topronounce that word in an exquisite fashion. 

A thousand memories that had been effaced came back to him, far offand sweet and melancholy now. One evening, she called on him on herway home from a ball, and they went out for a stroll in the Bois deBoulogne, she in evening dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It wasspringtime; the weather was beautiful. The odor of her bodice embalmedthe warm air--the odor of her bodice, and also a little, the odor ofher skin. What a divine night! When they reached the lake, as themoon's rays fell across the branches into the water, she began toweep. A little surprised, he asked her why. 

She replied:

"I don't know. 'Tis the moon and the water that have affected me. Every time I see poetic things, they seize hold of my heart, and Ihave to cry. "

He smiled, moved himself, considering her feminine emotioncharming--the emotion of a poor little woman whom every sensationoverwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:

"My little Lise, you are exquisite. "

What a charming love affair short-lived and dainty it had been, andall over too so quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by thisold brute of a Baron, who had carried off his wife, and never shownher afterwards to anyone!

Lormerin had forgotten, in good sooth, at the end of two or threemonths. One woman drives out the other so quickly in Paris when one isa bachelor! No matter he had kept a little chapel for her in hisheart, for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that thiswas so. 

He rose up, and said: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her thisevening!"

And instinctively he turned round towards the glass in order toinspect himself from head to foot. He reflected: "She must have grownold unpleasantly, more than I have!" And he felt gratified at thethought of showing himself to her still handsome, still fresh, ofastonishing her, perhaps of filling her with emotion, and making herregret those bygone days so far, far distant!

He turned his attention to the other letters. They were not ofimportance. 

The whole day, he kept thinking of this phantom. What was she likenow? How funny it was to meet in this way after twenty-five years!Would he alone recognize her?

He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which suited him better with the coat, sent for the hairdresser togive him a finishing touch with the curling-iron, for he had preservedhis hair, and started very early in order to show his eagerness to seeher. 

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room freshlyfurnished, was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating fromthe days of his good-fortune, hanging on the wall in an antique silkframe. 

He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly, and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extendedboth hands towards him. 

He seized them, kissed them one after the other with long, longkisses, then, lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved. 

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, andwho, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep. 

He could not abstain from murmuring:

"It is you, Lise?"

She replied:

"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, isn'tthat so? I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow hasconsumed my life. Look at me now--or rather don't look at me! But howhandsome you have kept--and young! If I had by chance met you in thestreet, I would have cried, 'Jaquelet!' Now sit down and let us, firstof all, have a chat. And then I'll show you my daughter, my grown-updaughter. You'll see how she resembles me--or rather how I resembleher--no, it is not quite that: she is just like the 'me' of formerdays--you shall see! But I wanted to be alone with you first. I fearedthat there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment. Nowit is all over; it is past. Pray be seated, my friend. "

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what tosay; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had neverseen her before. What had he come to do in this house? Of what couldhe speak? Of the long-ago? What was there in common between him andher? He could no longer recall anything to mind in the presence ofthis grandmotherly face. He could no longer recall to mind all thenice, tender things so sweet, so bitter, that had assailed his heart, some time since, when he thought of the other, of little Lise, of thedainty Cinder-Flower. What then had become of her, the former one, theone he had loved? that woman of far-off dreams, the blonde with grayeyes, the young one who used to call him "Jaquelet" so prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled, profoundly ill at ease. 

As they only talked in commonplace phrases, broken and slow, she roseup, and pressed the button of the bell. 

"I am going to call Renee, " she said. 

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; next, a youngvoice exclaimed:

"Here I am, mamma!"

Lormerin remained scared, as if at the sight of an apparition. 

He stammered:

"Good-day, Mademoiselle. "

Then, turning towards the mother:

"Oh! it is you!... "

In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lisewho had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had wontwenty-five years before. This one was even younger still, fresher, more childlike. 

He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heartagain, murmuring in her ear:

"Good-day, Lison!"

A man-servant announced:

"Dinner is ready, Madame. "

And they proceeded towards the dining-room. 

What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what couldhe say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strangedreams which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with afixed idea in his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:

"Which is the real one?"

The mother smiled, repeating over and over again:

"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eye of the young girl thathe found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened hismouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?--" forgetting thiswhite-haired lady who was regarding him with looks of tenderness. 

And yet there were moments when he no longer felt sure, when he losthis head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly thewoman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, inher glance, in her entire being, something which he did not findagain. And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seize again what had escaped from her to him, what thisresuscitated one did not possess. 

The Baronne said:

"You have lost your old sprightliness, my poor friend. "

He murmured:

"There are many other things that I have lost!"

But in his heart touched with emotion, he felt his old love springingto life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him. 

The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then somefamiliar phrase of her mother which she had borrowed, a certain styleof speaking and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner whichpeople acquire by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these things penetrated him, making the reopened wound of hispassion bleed anew. 

He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the imageof this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamed his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, ayoung one, the one of former days returned, and he loved her as he hadloved her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after aninterval of twenty-five years. 

He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and tothink on what he should do. 

But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before theglass, the large glass in which he had contemplated himself andadmired himself before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man; and suddenly he recollected what he had been in oldendays, in the days of little Lise. He saw himself charming andhandsome, as he had been when he was loved! Then, drawing the lightnearer, he looked at himself more closely, as one inspects a strangething with a magnifying glass, tracing the wrinkles, discovering thosefrightful ravages, which he had not perceived till now. 

And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of hislamentable image, murmuring:

"All over, Lormerin!"

LETTER FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

You ask me, madame, whether I am laughing at you? You cannot believethat a man has never been smitten with love. Well, no, I have neverloved, never!

What is the cause of this? I really cannot tell. Never have I beenunder the influence of that sort of intoxication of the heart which wecall love! Never have I lived in that dream, in that exaltation, inthat state of madness into which the image of a woman casts us. I havenever been pursued, haunted, roused to fever-heat, lifted up toParadise by the thought of meeting, or by the possession of, a beingwho had suddenly become for me more desirable than any good fortune, more beautiful than any other creature, more important than the wholeworld! I have never wept, I have never suffered, on account of any ofyou. I have not passed my nights thinking of one woman without closingmy eyes. I have no experience of waking up with the thought and thememory of her shedding their illumination on me. I have never knownthe wild desperation of hope when she was about to come, or the divinesadness of regret when she parted with me, leaving behind her in theroom a delicate odor of violet powder and flesh. 

I have never been in love. 

I, too, have often asked myself why is this. And truly I can scarcelytell. Nevertheless, I have found some reasons for it; but they are ofa metaphysical character, and perhaps you will not be able toappreciate them. 

I suppose I sit too much in judgment on women to submit much to theirfascination. I ask you to forgive me for this remark. I am going toexplain what I mean. In every creature there is a moral being and aphysical being. In order to love, it would be necessary for me to finda harmony between these two beings which I have never found. One hasalways too great a predominance over the other, sometimes the moral, sometimes the physical. 

The intellect which we have a right to require in a woman, in order tolove her, is not the same as virile intellect. It is more and it isless. A woman must have a mind open, delicate, sensitive, refined, impressionable. She has no need of either power or initiative inthought, but she must have kindness, elegance, tenderness, coquetry, and that faculty of assimilation which, in a little while, raises herto an equality with him who shared her life. Her greatest quality mustbe tact, that subtle sense which is to the mind what touch is to thebody. It reveals to her a thousand little things, contours, angles, and forms in the intellectual order. 

Very frequently pretty women have not intellect to correspond withtheir personal charms. Now the slightest lack of harmony strikes meand pains me at the first glance. In friendship, this is not ofimportance. Friendship is a compact in which one fairly dividesdefects and merits. We may judge of friends, whether man or woman, take into account the good they possess, neglect the evil that is inthem, and appreciate their value exactly, while giving ourselves up toan intimate sympathy of a deep and fascinating character. 

In order to love, one must be blind, surrender oneself absolutely, seenothing, reason on nothing, understand nothing. One must adorn theweakness as well as the beauty of the beloved object, renounce alljudgment, all reflection, all perspicacity. 

I am incapable of such blindness, and rebel against a seductivenessnot founded on reason. This is not all. I have such a high and subtleidea of harmony, that nothing can ever realize my ideal. But you willcall me a madman. Listen to me. A woman, in my opinion, may have anexquisite soul and a charming body, without that body and that soulbeing in perfect accord with one another. I mean that persons who havenoses made in a certain shape are not to be expected to think in acertain fashion. The fat have no right to make use of the same wordsand phrases as the thin. You, who have blue eyes, madame, cannot lookat life, and judge of things and events as if you had black eyes. Theshades of your eyes should correspond, by a sort of fatality, with theshades of your thought. In perceiving these things I have the scent ofa bloodhound. Laugh if you like, but it is so. 

And yet I imagined that I was in love for an hour, for a day. I hadfoolishly yielded to the influence of surrounding circumstances. Iallowed myself to be beguiled by the mirage of an aurora. Would youlike me to relate for you this short history?

 * * * * *

I met, one evening, a pretty enthusiastic woman who wanted, for thepurpose of humoring a poetic fancy, to spend a night with me in a boaton a river. I would have preferred a room and a bed; however, Iconsented to take instead the river and the boat. 

It was in the month of June. My fair companion chose a moonlight nightin order to excite her imagination all the better. 

We had dined at a riverside inn, and then we set out in the boat aboutten o'clock. I thought it a rather foolish kind of adventure; but asmy companion pleased me I did not bother myself too much about this. Isat down on the seat facing her; I seized the oars, and off westarted. 

I could not deny that the scene was picturesque. We glided past awooded isle full of nightingales, and the current carried us rapidlyover the river covered with silvery ripples. The toads uttered theirshrill, monotonous cry; the frogs croaked in the grass by the river'sbank, and the lapping of the water as it flowed on made around us akind of confused murmur almost imperceptible, disquieting, and gave usa vague sensation of mysterious fear. 

The sweet charm of warm nights and of streams glittering in themoonlight penetrated us. It seemed bliss to live and to float thus, and to dream and to feel by one's side a young woman sympathetic andbeautiful. 

I was somewhat affected, somewhat agitated, somewhat intoxicated bythe pale brightness of the night and the consciousness of my proximityto a lovely woman. 

"Come and sit beside me, " she said. 

I obeyed. 

She went on:

"Recite some verses for me. "

This appeared to be rather too much. I declined; she persisted. Shecertainly wanted to have the utmost pleasure, the whole orchestra ofsentiment, from the moon to the rhymes of poets. In the end, I had toyield, and, as if in mockery, I recited for her a charming little poemby Louis Bouilbet, of which the following are a few strophes:

 "I hate the poet who with tearful eye Murmurs some name while gazing tow'rds a star, Who sees no magic in the earth or sky, Unless Lizette or Ninon be not far. 

 "The bard who in all Nature nothing sees Divine, unless a petticoat he ties Amorously to the branches of the trees Or nightcap to the grass, is scarcely wise. 

 "He has not heard the eternal's thunder tone, The voice of Nature in her various moods, Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone, And of no woman dream 'mid whispering woods. "

I expected some reproaches. Nothing of the sort. She murmured:

"How true it is!"

I remained stupefied. Had she understood?

Our boat was gradually drawing nearer to the bank, and got entangledunder a willow which impeded its progress. I drew my arm around mycompanion's waist, and very gently moved my lips towards her neck. Butshe repulsed me with an abrupt, angry movement:

"Have done, pray! You are rude!"

I tried to draw her towards me. She resisted, caught hold of the tree, and was near flinging us both into the water. I deemed it the prudentcourse to cease my importunities. 

She said:

"I would rather have you capsized. I feel so happy. I want todream--that is so nice. " Then, in a slightly malicious tone, sheadded:

"Have you, then, already forgotten the verses you recited for me justnow?"

She was right. I became silent. 

She went on:

"Come! row!"

And I plied the oars once more. 

I began to find the night long and to see the absurdity of my conduct. 

My companion said to me:

"Will you make me a promise?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"To remain quiet, well-behaved, and discreet, if I permit you--"

"What? Say what you mean!"

"Here is what I mean! I want to lie down on my back at the bottom ofthe boat with you by my side. But I forbid you to touch me, to embraceme--in short to--to caress me. "

I promised. She warned me:

"If you move, I'll capsize the boat. "

And then we lay down side by side, our eyes turned towards the sky, while the boat glided slowly through the water. We were rocked by thegentle movements of the shallop. The light sounds of the night came tous more distinctly in the bottom of the boat, sometimes causing us tostart. And I felt springing up within me a strange, poignant emotion, an infinite tenderness, something like an irresistible impulse to openmy arms in order to embrace, to open my heart in order to love, togive myself, to give my thoughts, my body, my life, my entire being tosomeone. 

My companion murmured, like one in a dream:

"Where are we? Where are we going? It seems to me that I am quittingthe earth. How sweet it is! Ah! if you loved me--a little!!!"

My heart began to throb. I had no answer to give. It seemed to me thatI loved her. I had no longer any violent desire. I felt happy there byher side, and that was enough for me. 

And thus we remained for a long, long time without stirring. We caughteach other's hands; some delightful force rendered us motionless, anunknown force stronger than ourselves, an alliance, chaste, intimate, absolute of our persons lying there side by side which belonged toeach other without touching. What was this? How do I know. Love, perhaps?

Little by little, the dawn appeared. It was three o'clock in themorning. Slowly, a great brightness spread over the sky. The boatknocked against something. I rose up. We had come close to a tinyislet. 

But I remained ravished, in a state of ecstasy. In front of usstretched the shining firmament, red, rosy, violet, spotted with fieryclouds resembling golden vapors. The river was glowing with purple, and three houses on one side of it seemed to be burning. 

I bent towards my companion. I was going to say: "Oh! look!" But Iheld my tongue, quite dazed, and I could no longer see anything excepther. She, too, was rosy, with the rosy flesh tints with which musthave mingled a little the hue of the sky. Her tresses were rosy; hereyes were rosy; her teeth were rosy; here dress, her laces, hersmile, all were rosy. And in truth I believed, so overpowering was theillusion, that the aurora was there before me. 

She rose softly to her feet, holding out her lips to me; and I movedtowards her, trembling, delirious, feeling indeed that I was going tokiss Heaven, to kiss happiness, to kiss a dream which had become awoman, to kiss the ideal which had descended into human flesh. 

She said to me: "You have a caterpillar in your hair. " And suddenly Ifelt myself becoming as sad as if I had lost all hope in life. 

That is all, madame. It is puerile, silly, stupid. But I am sure thatsince that day it would be impossible for me to love. And yet--who cantell?

[The young man upon whom this letter was found was yesterday taken outof the Seine between Bougival and Marly. An obliging bargeman, who hadsearched the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased, brought this paper to the author. ]

MOTHER AND SON!!!

We were chatting in the smoking-room after a dinner at which only menwere present. We talked about unexpected legacies, strangeinheritances. Then M. Le Brument, who was sometimes called "theillustrious master" and at other times the "illustrious advocate, "came and stood with his back to the fire. 

"I have, " he said, "just now to search for an heir who disappearedunder peculiarly terrible circumstances. It is one of those simple andferocious dramas of ordinary life, a thing which possibly happensevery day, and which is nevertheless one of the most dreadful things Iknow. Here are the facts:

"Nearly six months ago I got a message to come to the side of a dyingwoman. She said to me:

"'Monsieur, I want to entrust to you the most delicate, the mostdifficult, and the most wearisome mission that can be conceived. Begood enough to take cognizance of my will, which is there on thetable. A sum of five thousand francs is left to you as a fee if you donot succeed, and of a hundred thousand francs if you do succeed. Iwant to have my son found after my death. '

"She asked me to assist her to sit up in the bed, in order that shemight be able to speak with greater ease, for her voice, broken andgasping, was gurgling in her throat. 

"I saw that I was in the house of a very rich person. The luxuriousapartment, with a certain simplicity in its luxury, was upholsteredwith materials solid as the walls, and their soft surface imparted acaressing sensation, so that every word uttered seemed to penetratetheir silent depths and to disappear and die there. 

"The dying woman went on:

"'You are the first to hear my horrible story. I will try to havestrength enough to go on to the end of it. You must know everything sothat you, whom I know to be a kind-hearted man as well as a man of theworld, should have a sincere desire to aid me with all your power. 

"'Listen to me. 

"'Before my marriage, I loved a young man, whose suit was rejected bymy family because he was not rich enough. Not long afterwards, Imarried a man of great wealth. I married him through ignorance, through obedience, through indifference, as young girls do marry. 

"'I had a child, a boy. My husband died in the course of a few years. 

"'He whom I had loved had got married, in his turn. When he saw that Iwas a widow, he was crushed by horrible grief at knowing he was notfree. He came to see me; he wept and sobbed so bitterly before my eyesthat it was enough to break my heart. He at first came to see me as afriend. Perhaps I ought not to have seen him. What would you have? Iwas alone, so sad, so solitary, so hopeless! And I loved him still. What sufferings we women have sometimes to endure!

"'I had only him in the world, my parents also being dead. He camefrequently; he spent whole evenings with me. I should not have let himcome so often, seeing that he was married. But I had not enough ofwill-power to prevent him from coming. 

"'How am I to tell you what next happened?... He became my lover. Howdid this come about? Can I explain it? Can anyone explain such things?Do you think it could be otherwise when two human beings are drawntowards each other by the irresistible force of a passion by whicheach of them is possessed? Do you believe, monsieur, that it is alwaysin our power to resist, that we can keep up the struggle for ever, andrefuse to yield to the prayers, the supplications, the tears, thefrenzied words, the appeals on bended knees, the transports ofpassion, with which we are pursued by the man we adore, whom we wantto gratify even in his slightest wishes, whom we desire to crown withevery possible happiness, and whom, if we are to be guided by aworldly code of honor, we must drive to despair. What strength wouldit not require? What a renunciation of happiness? what self-denial?and even what virtuous selfishness?

"'In short, monsieur, I was his mistress; and I was happy. Ibecame--and this was my greatest weakness and my greatest piece ofcowardice--I became his wife's friend. 

"'We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a thorough man, intelligent, full of sense and resolution, of large and generousideas. The boy reached the age of seventeen. 

"'He, the young man, was fond of my--my lover, almost as fond of himas I was myself, for he had been equally cherished and cared for byboth of us. He used to call him his "dear friend, " and respected himimmensely, having never received from him anything but wise counsels, and a good example of rectitude, honor, and probity. He looked uponhim as an old, loyal and devoted comrade of his mother, as a sort ofmoral father, tutor, protector--how am I to describe it?

"'Perhaps the reason why he never asked any questions was that he hadbeen accustomed from his earliest years to see this man in the house, by his side, and by my side, always concerned about us both. 

"'One evening the three of us were to dine together (these were myprincipal festive occasions), and I waited for the two of them, askingmyself which of them would be the first to arrive. The door opened; itwas my old friend. I went towards him, with outstretched arms; and hedrew his lips towards mine in a long, delicious kiss. 

"'All of a sudden, a sound, a rustling which was barely audible, thatmysterious sensation which indicates the presence of another person, made us start and turn round with a quick movement. Jean, my son, stood there, livid, staring at us. 

"'There was a moment of atrocious confusion. I drew back, holding outmy hand towards my son as if in supplication; but I could see him nolonger. He had gone. 

"'We remained facing each other--my lover and I--crushed, unable toutter a word. I sank down on an armchair, and I felt a desire, avague, powerful desire to fly, to go out into the night, and todisappear for ever. Then, convulsive sobs rose up in my throat, and Iwept, shaken with spasms, with my heart torn asunder, all my nerveswrithing with the horrible sensation of an irremediable misfortune, and with that dreadful sense of shame which, in such moments as this, falls on a mother's heart. 

"'He looked at me in a scared fashion, not venturing to approach me orto speak to me or to touch me, for fear of the boy's return. At lasthe said:

"'"I am going to follow him--to talk to him--to explain matters tohim. In short, I must see him and let him know--"

"'And he hurried away. 

"'I waited--I waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at theleast sound, convulsed with terror, and filled with some unutterablystrange and intolerable emotion by every slight crackling of the firein the grate. 

"'I waited for an hour, for two hours, feeling my heart swell with adread I had never before experienced, such an anguish that I would notwish the greatest of criminals to have ten minutes of such misery. Where was my son? What was he doing?

"'About midnight, a messenger brought me a note from my lover. I stillknow its contents by heart:

"'"Has your son returned? I did not find him. I am down here. I do notwant to go up at this hour. "

"'I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper:

"'"Jean has not returned. You must go and find him. "

"'And I remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him. 

"'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to have to run wildly about, to roll myself on the ground. And yet I did not even stir, but keptwaiting hour after hour. What was going to happen? I tried to imagine, to guess. But I could form no conception, in spite of my efforts, inspite of the tortures of my soul!

"'And now my apprehension was lest they might meet. What would they doin that case? What would my son do? My mind was lacerated by fearfuldoubts, by terrible suppositions. 

"'You understand what I mean, do you not, monsieur?

"'My chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, was comingin every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason. Isent her away with a word or a movement of the hand. She went for thedoctor, who found me in the throes of a nervous fit. 

"'I was put to bed. I got an attack of brain-fever. 

"'When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside mybed my--lover--alone. 

"'I exclaimed:

"'"My son? Where is my son?"

"'He replied:

"'"No, no, I assure you every effort has been made by me to find him, but I have failed!"

"'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant--for womenare subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoninganger--I said:

"'"I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you findhim. Go away!"

"'He did go away. 

"'I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thusI have lived for the last twenty years. 

"'Can you imagine what all this meant to me? Can you understand thismonstrous punishment, this slow perpetual laceration of a mother'sheart, this abominable, endless waiting? Endless, did I say? No: it isabout to end, for I am dying. I am dying without ever again seeingeither of them--either one or the other!

"'He--the man I loved--has written to me every day for the last twentyyears; and I--I have never consented to see him, even for one second;for I had a strange feeling that, if he came back here, it would be atthat very moment my son would again make his appearance! Ah! my son!my son! Is he dead? Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps, at the other side of the ocean, in some country so far awaythat even its very name is unknown to me! Does he ever think of me?Ah! if he only knew! How cruel children are! Did he understand to whatfrightful suffering he condemned me, into what depths of despair, intowhat tortures, he cast me while I was still in the prime of life, leaving me to suffer like this even to this moment, when I am going todie--me, his mother, who loved him with all the violence of a mother'slove! Oh! isn't it cruel, cruel?

"'You will tell him all this, monsieur--will you not? You will repeatfor him my last words:

"'My child, my dear, dear child, be less harsh towards poor women!Life is already brutal and savage enough in its dealings with them. Mydear son, think of what the existence of your poor mother has beenever since the day when you left her. My dear child, forgive her, andlove her, now that she is dead, for she has had to endure the mostfrightful penance ever inflicted on a woman. '

"She gasped for breath, shuddering, as if she had addressed the lastwords to her son and as if he stood by her bedside. 

"Then she added:

"'You will tell him also, monsieur, that I never again saw--theother. '

"Once more she ceased speaking, then, in a broken voice she said:

"'Leave me now, I beg of you. I want to die all alone, since they arenot with me. '"

Maitre Le Brument added:

"And I left the house, messieurs, crying like a fool, so vehemently, indeed, that my coachman turned round to stare at me. 

"And to think that, every day, heaps of dramas like this are beingenacted all around us!

"I have not found the son--that son--well, say what you like abouthim, but I call him that criminal son!"

THE SPASM

The hotel-guests slowly entered the dining-room, and sat down in theirplaces. The waiters began to attend on them in a leisurely fashion soas to enable those who were late to arrive, and so as to avoidbringing back the dishes; and the old bathers, the _habitués_, thosewhose season was advancing, gazed with interest towards the door, whenever it opened, with a desire to see new faces appearing. 

This is the principal distraction of health-resorts. People lookforward to the dinner-hour in order to inspect each day's newarrivals, to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think. A vague longing springs up in the mind, a longing for agreeablemeetings, for pleasant acquaintances, perhaps for love-adventures. Inthis life of elbowings, not only those with whom we have come intodaily contact, but strangers, assume an extreme importance. Curiosityis aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself, and sociability isthe order of the day. 

We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we seeother people with different eyes when we view them through the mediumof the acquaintanceship that is brought about at health-resorts. Wediscover in men suddenly, after an hour's chat, in the evening afterdinner, under the trees in the park where the generous spring bubblesup, a high intelligence and astonishing merits, and a monthafterwards, we have completely forgotten these new friends, sofascinating when we first met them. 

There also are formed lasting and serious ties more quickly thananywhere else. People see each other every day; they become acquaintedvery quickly; and with the affection thus originated is mingledsomething of the sweetness and self-abandonment of long-standingintimacies. We cherish in after years the dear and tender memories ofthose first hours of friendship, the memory of those firstconversations through which we have been able to unveil a soul, ofthose first glances which interrogate and respond to the questions andsecret thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory ofthat first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensationof opening our hearts to those who are willing to open theirs to us. 

And the melancholy of health-resorts, the monotony of days that areall alike, help from hour to hour in this rapid development ofaffection. 

 * * * * *

Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited theappearance of strange faces. 

Only two appeared, but very remarkable-looking, a man and awoman--father and daughter. They immediately produced the same effecton my mind as some of Edgar Poe's characters; and yet there was aboutthem a charm, the charm associated with misfortune. I looked upon themas the victims of fatality. The man was very tall and thin, ratherstooping, with hair perfectly white, too white for his comparativelyyouthful physiognomy; and there was in his bearing, and in his personthat austerity peculiar to Protestants. The daughter, who wasprobably twenty-four or twenty-five, was small in stature, and wasalso very thin, very pale, and she had the air of one who was worn outwith utter lassitude. We meet people like this from time to time whoseem too weak for the tasks and the needs of daily life, too weak tomove about, to walk, to do all that we do every day. This young girlwas very pretty, with the diaphanous beauty of a phantom; and she atewith extreme slowness, as if she were almost incapable of moving herarms. 

It must have been she assuredly who had come to take the waters. 

They found themselves facing me at the opposite side of the table; andI at once noticed that the father had a very singular nervous spasm. 

Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand made a hook-likemovement, a sort of irregular zigzig, before it succeeded in touchingwhat it was in search of; and, after a little while, this action wasso wearisome to me that I turned aside my head in order not to see it. 

I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on herleft hand. 

After dinner, I went for a stroll in the park of the thermalestablishment. This led towards the little Auvergnese station ofChatel Guyot, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, ofthat mountain from which flow so many boiling springs, arising fromthe deep bed of extinct volcanoes. Over there, above us, the domes, which had once been craters, raised their mutilated heads on thesummit of the long chain. For Chatel Guyot is situated at the spotwhere the region of domes begins. 

Beyond it, stretches out the region of peaks, and further on again theregion of precipices. 

The "Puy de Dome" is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy isthe loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of thesemountain-heights. 

This evening it was very warm. I walked up and down a shady path, onthe side of the mountain overlooking the park, listening to theopening strains of the Casino band. 

And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in mydirection. I saluted them, as we are accustomed to salute ourhotel-companions at health resorts; and the man, coming to a suddenhalt, said to me, "Could you not, monsieur, point out to us a short walk, nice and easy, if that is possible? and excuse my intrusion on you. "

I offered to show them the way towards the valley through which thelittle river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tallcraggy, wooded slopes. 

They gladly accepted my offer. 

And we talked naturally about the virtues of the waters. 

"Oh!" he said, "My daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which isunknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous disorders. At onetime, the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at anothertime, they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at anothertime they declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day, hercondition is attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron andregulator of the body, that Protean source of diseases with a thousandforms and a thousand susceptibilities to attack. This is why we havecome here. For my part, I am rather inclined to think it is thenerves. In any case it is very sad. "

Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of hishand came back to my mind, and I asked him. 

"But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nervessomewhat affected?"

He replied calmly:

"Mine? Oh! no--my nerves have always been very steady. "

Then suddenly, after a pause, he went on:

"Ah! You were alluding to the spasm in my hand every time I want toreach for anything? This arises from a terrible experience which Ihad. Just imagine! this daughter of mine was actually buried alive?"

I could only give utterance to the word "Ah!" so great were myastonishment and emotion. 

 * * * * *

He continued:

"Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for sometime to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had diseaseof that organ, and we were prepared for the worst. 

"One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She hadfallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that lifewas extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laidher with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to thecemetery, where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situatedin the very heart of Lorraine. 

"I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces, rings, all presents which she had got from me, and with her firstball-dress on. 

"You may easily imagine the state of mind in which I was when Ireturned home. She was the only one I had, for my wife has been deadfor many years. I found my way to my own apartment in a halfdistracted condition, utterly exhausted, and I sank into myeasy-chair, without the capacity to think or the strength to move. Iwas nothing better now than a suffering, vibrating machine, a humanbeing who had, as it were, been flayed alive; my soul was like aliving wound. 

"My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in hercoffin, and preparing her for her last sleep, entered the roomnoiselessly, and asked:

"'Does monsieur want anything?'

"I merely shook my head, by way of answering 'No. '

"He urged, 'Monsieur is wrong. He will bring some illness on himself. Would monsieur like me to put him to bed?'

"I answered, 'No! let me alone!'

"And he left the room. 

"I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh! what a night, what anight! It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and thewind, the winter wind, an icy wind, a hurricane accompanied by frostand snow, kept blowing against the window with a sinister and regularnoise. 

"How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless, crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp, inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly, the great bellof the entrance gate, the great bell of the vestibule, rang out. 

"I got such a shock that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderous sound vibrated through the empty chateau as if through avault. I turned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It wasjust two in the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour!

"And abruptly the bell again rang twice. The servants, without doubt, were afraid to get up. I took a wax-candle and descended the stairs. Iwas on the point of asking, 'Who is there?'

"Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly opened the hugedoor. My heart was throbbing wildly; I was frightened; I hurriedlydrew back the door, and in the darkness I distinguished a whitefigure, standing erect, something that resembled an apparition. 

"I recoiled, petrified with horror, faltering:

"'Who--who--who are you?'

"A voice replied:

"'It is I, father. '

"It was my daughter. 

"I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backwards before thisadvancing specter. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand, asif to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you havenoticed--that gesture of which since then I have never got rid. 

"'Do not be afraid, papa; I was not dead. Somebody tried to steal myrings, and cut one of my fingers, the blood began to flow, and thisreanimated me. '

"And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood. 

"I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in mythroat. 

"Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was stillso much dismayed that I scarcely realized the gruesome good-fortunethat had fallen to my lot, I made her go up to my room, and sit downin my easy-chair; then I ran excitedly for Prosper to get him to lightup the fire again and to get her some wine and summon the rest of theservants to her assistance. 

"The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gaspof alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back insensible. 

"It was he who had opened the vault, and who had mutilated, and thenabandoned, my daughter, for he could not efface the traces of thetheft. He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin intoits place, feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected byme, as I completely trusted him. 

"You see, Monsieur, that we are very unhappy people. "

 * * * * *

He stopped. 

The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournfulvale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself bythe side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come backfrom the tomb and this father with his uncanny spasm. 

I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. Ionly murmured:

"What a horrible thing!"

Then, after a minute's silence, I added:

"Suppose we go back. I think it is getting cold. "

And we made our way back to the hotel. 

A DUEL

The war was over. The Germans occupied France. The country was pantinglike a wrestler lying under the knee of his successful opponent. 

The first trains from Paris, after the city's long agony of famine anddespair, were making their way to the new frontiers, slowly passingthrough the country districts and the villages. The passengers gazedthrough the windows at the ravaged fields and burnt hamlets. Prussiansoldiers, in their black helmets with brass spikes, were smoking theirpipes on horseback or sitting on chairs in front of the houses whichwere still left standing. Others were working or talking just as ifthey were members of the families. As you passed through the differenttowns you saw entire regiments drilling in the squares, and, in spiteof the rumble of the carriage-wheels, you could every moment hear thehoarse words of command. 

M. Dubuis, who during the entire siege, had served as one of theNational Guard in Paris, was going to join his wife and daughter, whomhe had prudently sent away to Switzerland before the invasion. 

Famine and hardship had not diminished his big paunch socharacteristic of the rich, peace-loving merchant. He had gone throughthe terrible events of the past year with sorrowful resignation andbitter complaints at the savagery of men. Now that he was journeyingto the frontier at the close of the war, he saw the Prussians for thefirst time, although he had done his duty at the ramparts, andstaunchly mounted guard on cold nights. 

He stared with mingled fear and anger at those bearded, armed men, installed all over French soil as if in their own homes, and he feltin his soul a kind of fever of impotent patriotism even while heyielded to that other instinct of discretion and self-preservationwhich never leaves us. In the same compartment, two Englishmen, whohad come to the country as sight-seers, were gazing around with looksof stolid curiosity. They were both also stout, and kept chattering intheir own language, sometimes referring to their guide-book, andreading in loud tones the names of the places indicated. 

Suddenly, the train stopped at a little village station, and aPrussian officer jumped up with a great clatter of his saber on thedouble footboard of the railway-carriage. He was tall, wore atight-fitting uniform, and his face had a very shaggy aspect. His redhair seemed to be on fire, and his long moustache, of a paler color, was stuck out on both sides of his face, which it seemed to cut intwo. 

The Englishmen at once began staring at him with smiles ofnewly-awakened interest, while M. Dubuis made a show of reading anewspaper. He sat crouched in a corner, like a thief in the presenceof a gendarme. 

The train started again. The Englishmen went on chatting, and lookingout for the exact scene of different battles, and, all of a sudden, asone of them stretched out his arm towards the horizon to indicate avillage, the Prussian officer remarked in French, extending his longlegs and lolling backwards:

"We killed a dozen Frenchmen in that village, and took more than ahundred prisoners. "

The Englishman, quite interested, immediately asked:

"Ha! and what is the name of this village?"

The Prussian replied:

"Pharsbourg. "

He added: "We caught these French blackguards by the ears. "

And he glanced towards M. Dubuis, laughing into his moustache in aninsulting fashion. 

The train rolled on, always passing through hamlets occupied by thevictorious army. German soldiers could be seen along the roads, on theedges of fields, standing in front of gates, or chatting outside_cafés_. They covered the soil like African locusts. 

The officer said, with a wave of his hand:

"If I were in command, I'd take Paris, burn everything, killeverybody. No more France!"

The Englishman, through politeness, replied simply:

"Ah! yes. "

He went on:

"In twenty years, all Europe, all of it, will belong to us. Prussia ismore than a match for all of them. "

The Englishmen, getting uneasy, said nothing in answer to this. Theirfaces, which had become impassive, seemed made of wax behind theirlong whiskers. Then, the Prussian officer began to laugh. And still, lolling back, he began to sneer. He sneered at the downfall of France, insulted the prostrate enemy; he sneered at Austria which had beenrecently conquered; he sneered at the furious but fruitless defense ofthe departments; he sneered at the Garde Mobile and at the uselessartillery. He announced that Bismarck was going to build a city ofiron with the captured cannon. And suddenly he pushed his bootsagainst the thigh of M. Dubuis, who turned his eyes round, reddeningto the roots of his hair. 

The Englishmen seemed to have assumed an air of complete indifference, as if they had found themselves all at once shut up in their ownisland, far from the din of the world. 

The officer took out his pipe, and looking fixedly at the Frenchman, said:

"You haven't any tobacco--have you?"

M. Dubuis replied:

"No, monsieur. "

The German said:

"You might go and buy some for me when the train stops next. "

And he began laughing afresh, as he added:

"I'll let you have the price of a drink. "

The train whistled, and slackened its pace. They had reached thestation which had been burnt down; and here there was a regular stop. 

The German opened the carriage-door, and, catching M. Dubuis by thearm, said:

"Go and do what I told you--quick, quick!"

A Prussian detachment occupied the station. Other soldiers werelooking on from behind wooden gratings. The engine was already gettingup steam in order to start off again. Then M. Dubuis hurriedly jumpedon the platform, and, in spite of the warnings of the station master, dashed into the adjoining compartment. 

 * * * * *

He was alone! He tore open his waistcoat, so rapidly did his heartbeat, and, panting for breath, he wiped the perspiration off hisforehead. 

The train drew up at another station. And suddenly the officerappeared at the carriage-door, and jumped in, followed close behind bythe two Englishmen, who were impelled by curiosity. The German satfacing the Frenchman, and, laughing still, said:

"You did not want to do what I asked you?"

M. Dubuis replied:

"No, monsieur. "

The train had just left the station. 

The officer said:

"I'll cut off your moustache to fill my pipe with. "

And he put out his hand towards the Frenchman's face. 

The Englishmen kept staring in the same impassive fashion with fixedglances. 

Already the German had caught hold of the moustache and was tugging atit, when M. Dubuis, with a back stroke of his hand, threw back theofficer's arm, and, seizing him by the collar, flung him down on theseat. Then, excited to a pitch of fury, with his temples swollen andhis eyes glaring, he kept throttling the officer with one hand, whilewith the other clenched, he began to strike him violent blows in theface. The Prussian struggled, tried to draw his saber, and to get agrip, while lying back, of his adversary. But M. Dubuis crushed himwith the enormous weight of his stomach, and kept hitting him withouttaking breath or knowing where his blows fell. Blood flowed down theface of the German, who, choking and with a rattling in his throat, spat forth his broken teeth, and vainly strove to shake off thisinfuriated man who was killing him. 

The Englishmen had got on their feet and came closer in order to seebetter. They remained standing, full of mirth and curiosity, ready tobet for or against each of the combatants. 

And suddenly M. Dubuis, exhausted by his violent efforts, went andresumed his seat without uttering a word. 

The Prussian did not attack him, for the savage assault had scared andterrified the officer. When he was able to breathe freely, he said:

"Unless you give me satisfaction with pistols, I will kill you. "

M. Dubuis replied:

"Whenever you like. I'm quite ready. "

The German said:

"Here is the town of Strasbourg. I'll get two officers to be myseconds, and there will be time before the train leaves the station. "

M. Dubuis, who was puffing as much as the engine, said to theEnglishmen:

"Will you be my seconds?" They both answered together:

"Ah! yes. "

And the train stopped. 

In a minute, the Prussian had found two comrades who carried pistols, and they made their way towards the ramparts. 

The Englishmen were continually looking at their watches, shufflingtheir feet, and hurrying on with the preparations, uneasy lest theyshould be too late for the train. 

M. Dubuis had never fired a pistol in his life. 

They made him stand twenty paces away from his enemy. He was asked:

"Are you ready?"

While he was answering: "Yes, monsieur, " he noticed that one of theEnglishmen had opened his umbrella in order to keep off the rays ofthe sun. 

A voice gave the word of command:

"Fire!"

M. Dubuis fired at random without minding what he was doing, and hewas amazed to see the Prussian staggering in front of him, lifting uphis arms, and immediately afterwards, falling straight on his face. Hehad killed the officer. 

One of the Englishmen ejaculated: "Ah!" quivering with delight, satisfied curiosity, and joyous impatience. The other, who still keptthe watch in his hand, seized M. Dubuis's arm, and hurried him indouble-quick time towards the station, his fellow-countryman countingtheir steps, with his arms pressed close to his sides--"One! two! one!two!"

And all three marching abreast they rapidly made their way to thestation like three grotesque figures in a comic newspaper. 

The train was on the point of starting. They sprang into theircarriage. Then, the Englishmen, taking off their traveling-caps, wavedthem three times over their heads, exclaiming:

"Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!"

Then gravely, one after the other, they stretched out the right handto M. Dubuis, and they went back and sat in their own corner. 

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO

The old-fashioned chateau was built on a wooded height. Tall treessurrounded it with dark greenery; and the vast park extended itsvistas here over a deep forest and there over an open plain. Somelittle distance from the front of the mansion stood a huge stone basinin which marble nymphs were bathing. Other basins arranged in ordersucceeded each other down as far as the foot of the slope, and ahidden fountain sent cascades dancing from one to the other. 

From the manor-house which preserved the grace of a superannuatedcoquette down to the grottos encrusted with shell-work, whereslumbered the loves of a bygone age, everything in this antiquedemesne had retained the physiognomy of former days. Everything seemedto speak still of ancient customs, of the manners of long ago, offaded gallantries, and of the elegant trivialities so dear to ourgrandmothers. 

In a parlor in the style of Louis XV, whose walls were covered withshepherds paying court to shepherdesses, beautiful ladies inhoop-petticoats, and gallant gentlemen in wigs, a very old woman whoseemed dead as soon as she ceased to move was almost lying down in alarge easy-chair, while her thin, mummy-like hands hung down, one ateach side of her. 

Her eyes were gazing languidly towards the distant horizon as if theysought to follow through the park visions of her youth. Through theopen window every now and then came a breath of air laden with thescent of grass and the perfume of flowers. It made her white locksflutter around her wrinkled forehead and old memories, through herbrain. 

Beside her on a tapestried stool, a young girl with long, fair hairhanging in plaits over her neck, was embroidering an altar-cloth. There was a pensive expression in her eyes, and it was easy to seethat, while her agile fingers worked, her brain was busy withthoughts. 

But the old lady suddenly turned round her head. 

"Berthe, " she said, "read something out of the newspapers for me, sothat I may still know sometimes what is happening in the world. "

The young girl took up a newspaper, and cast a rapid glance over it. 

"There is a great deal about politics, grandmamma; am I to pass itby?"

"Yes, yes, darling. Are there no accounts of love affairs? Isgallantry, then, dead in France, that they no longer talk aboutabductions or adventures as they did formerly?"

The girl made a long search through the columns of the newspaper. 

"Here is one, " she said. "It is entitled: 'A Love-Drama!'"

The old woman smiled through her wrinkles. "Read that for me, " shesaid. 

And Berthe commenced. It was a case of vitriol-throwing. A wife, inorder to avenge herself on her husband's mistress, had burned her faceand eyes. She had left the Assize Court acquitted, declared to beinnocent, amid the applause of the crowd. 

The grandmother moved about excitedly in her chair, and exclaimed:

"This is horrible--why, it is perfectly horrible! See whether you canfind anything else to read for me, darling. "

Berthe again made a search; and further down in the reports ofcriminal cases at which her attention was still directed. She read:

"'Gloomy Drama. --A shop girl, no longer young, allowed herself toyield to the embraces of a young man. Then, to avenge herself on herlover, whose heart proved fickle, she shot him with a revolver. Theunhappy man is maimed for life. The Jury, consisting of men of moralcharacter, took the part of the murderess--regarding her as the victimof illicit love, and honorably acquitted her. '"

This time the old grandmother appeared quite shocked, and, in atrembling voice, she said. 

"Why, you are mad, then, nowadays. You are mad! The good God has givenyou love, the only allurement in life. Man has added to thisgallantry, the only distraction of our dull hours, and here are youmixing up with it vitriol and revolvers, as if one were to put mudinto a flagon of Spanish wine. "

Berthe did not seem to understand her grandmother's indignation. 

"But grandmamma, this woman avenged herself. Remember she was married, and her husband deceived her. "

The grandmother gave a start. 

"What ideas have they been filling your head with, you young girls ofto-day?"

Berthe replied:

"But marriage is sacred, grandmamma. "

The grandmother's heart, which had its birth in the great age ofgallantry, gave a sudden leap. 

"It is love that is sacred, " she said, "Listen, child, to an old womanwho has seen three generations, and who has had a long, longexperience of men and women. Marriage and love have nothing in common. We marry to found a family, and we form families in order toconstitute society. Society cannot dispense with marriage. If societyis a chain, each family is a link in that chain. In order to weldthose links, we always seek for metals of the same kind. When wemarry, we must bring together suitable conditions; we must combinefortunes, unite similar races, and aim at the common interest, whichis riches and children. We marry only once, my child, because theworld requires us to do so, but we may love twenty times in onelifetime because nature has made us like this. Marriage, you see, islaw, and love is an instinct, which impels us sometimes along astraight and sometimes along a crooked path. The world has made lawsto combat our instincts--it was necessary to make them; but ourinstincts are always stronger, and we ought not to resist them toomuch, because they come from God, while the laws only come from men. If we did not perfume life with love, as much love as possible, darling, as we put sugar into drugs for children, nobody would care totake it just as it is. "

Berthe opened her eyes widely in astonishment. She murmured:

"Oh! grandmamma, we can only love once. "

The grandmother raised her trembling hands towards Heaven, as ifagain to invoke the defunct God of gallantries. She exclaimedindignantly:

"You have become a race of serfs, a race of common people. Since theRevolution, it is impossible any longer to recognize society. You haveattached big words to every action, and wearisome duties to everycorner of existence; you believe in equality and eternal passion. People have written verses telling you that people have died of love. In my time verses were written to teach men to love every woman. Andwe! when we liked a gentleman, my child, we sent him a page. And whena fresh caprice came into our hearts, we were not slow in getting ridof the last lover--unless we kept both of them. "

The old woman smiled with a keen smile, and a gleam of roguerytwinkled in her gray eye, the sprightly, skeptical roguery of thosepeople who did not believe that they were made of the same clay as theothers, and who lived as masters for whom common beliefs were notmade. 

The young girl, turning very pale, faltered out:

"So then women have no honor?"

The grandmother ceased to smile. If she had kept in her soul some ofVoltaire's irony, she had also a little of Jean-Jaques's glowingphilosophy: "No honor! because we loved, and dared to say so, and evenboasted of it? But, my child, if one of us, among the greatest ladiesin France, were to live without a lover, she would have the entirecourt laughing at her. Those who wished to live differently had onlyto enter a convent. And you imagine, perhaps, that your husbands willlove you alone all their lives. As if, indeed, this could be the case. I tell you that marriage is a thing necessary in order that Societyshould exist, but it is not in the nature of our race, do youunderstand? There is only one good thing in life, and that is love. And how you misunderstand it! how you spoil it! You treat it assomething solemn like a sacrament, or something to be bought, like adress. "

The young girl caught the old woman's trembling hands in her own. 

"Hold your tongue, I beg of you, grandmamma!"

And, on her knees, with tears in her eyes, she prayed to Heaven tobestow on her a great passion, one eternal passion alone, inaccordance with the dream of modern poets, while the grandmother, kissing her on the forehead, quite penetrated still by that charming, healthy logic by which the philosophers of gallantry sprinkled saltwith the life of the eighteenth century, murmured:

"Take care, my poor darling! If you believe in such follies as this, you will be very unhappy. "

AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

One autumn I went to stay for the hunting-season with some friends ina chateau in Picardy. 

My friends were fond of practical joking, as all my friends are. I donot care to know any other sort of people. 

When I arrived, they gave me a princely reception, which at oncearoused distrust in my breast. We had some capital shooting. Theyembraced me, they cajoled me, as if they expected to have great fun atmy expense. 

I said to myself:

"Look out, old ferret! They have something in preparation for you. "

During the dinner, the mirth was excessive, far too great, in fact. Ithought: "Here are people who take a double share of amusement, andapparently without reason. They must be looking out in their own mindsfor some good bit of fun. Assuredly I am to be the victim of the joke. Attention!"

During the entire evening, everyone laughed in an exaggerated fashion. I smelled a practical joke in the air, as a dog smells game. But whatwas it? I was watchful, restless. I did not let a word or a meaning ora gesture escape me. Everyone seemed to me an object of suspicion, andI even looked distrustfully at the faces of the servants. 

The hour rang for going to bed, and the whole household came to escortme to my room. Why? They called to me: "Good night. " I entered theapartment, shut the door, and remained standing, without moving asingle step, holding the wax candle in my hand. 

I heard laughter and whispering in the corridor. Without doubt theywere spying on me. I cast a glance around the walls, the furniture, the ceiling, the hangings, the floor. I saw nothing to justifysuspicion. I heard persons moving about outside my door. I had nodoubt they were looking through the key-hole. 

An idea came into my head: "My candle may suddenly go out, and leaveme in darkness. "

Then I went across to the mantelpiece, and lighted all the wax candlesthat were on it. After that, I cast another glance around me withoutdiscovering anything. I advanced with short steps, carefully examiningthe apartment. Nothing. I inspected every article one after the other. Still nothing. I went over to the window. The shutters, large woodenshutters, were open. I shut them with great care, and then drew thecurtains, enormous velvet curtains, and I placed a chair in front ofthem, so as to have nothing to fear from without. 

Then I cautiously sat down. The armchair was solid. I did not ventureto get into the bed. However, time was flying; and I ended by comingto the conclusion that I was ridiculous. If they were spying on me, asI supposed, they must, while waiting for the success of the joke theyhad been preparing for me, have been laughing enormously at my terror. So I made up my mind to go to bed. But the bed was particularlysuspicious-looking. I pulled at the curtains. They seemed to besecure. All the same, there was danger. I was going perhaps toreceive a cold shower-bath from overhead, or perhaps, the moment Istretched myself out, to find myself sinking under the floor with mymattress. I searched in my memory for all the practical jokes of whichI ever had experience. And I did not want to be caught. Ah! certainlynot! certainly not! Then I suddenly bethought myself of a precautionwhich I consider one of extreme efficacy: I caught hold of the side ofthe mattress gingerly, and very slowly drew it towards me. It cameaway, followed by the sheet and the rest of the bed-clothes. I draggedall these objects into the very middle of the room, facing theentrance-door. I made my bed over again as best I could at somedistance from the suspected bedstead and the corner which had filledme with such anxiety. Then, I extinguished all the candles, and, groping my way, I slipped under the bed-clothes. 

For at least another hour I remained awake, starting at the slightestsound. Everything seemed quiet in the chateau. I fell asleep. 

I must have been in a deep sleep for a long time, but all of a sudden, I was awakened with a start by the fall of a heavy body tumbling righton top of my own body, and, at the same time, I received on my face, on my neck, and on my chest, a burning liquid which made me utter ahowl of pain. And a dreadful noise, as if a sideboard laden withplates and dishes had fallen down, penetrated my ears. 

I felt myself suffocating under the weight that was crushing me andpreventing me from moving. I stretched out my hand to find out whatwas the nature of this object. I felt a face, a nose, and whiskers. Then with all my strength I launched out a blow over this face. But Iimmediately received a hail of cuffings which made me jump straightout of the soaked sheets, and rush in my night shirt into thecorridor, the door of which I found open. 

O stupor! it was broad daylight. The noise brought my friends hurryinginto the apartment, and we found, sprawling over my improvised bed, the dismayed valet, who, while bringing me my morning cup of tea, hadtripped over this obstacle in the middle of the floor, and fallen onhis stomach, spilling, in spite of himself, my breakfast over my face. 

The precautions I had taken in closing the shutters and going to sleepin the middle of the room had only brought about the interlude I hadbeen striving to avoid. 

Ah! how they all laughed that day!

A WARNING NOTE

I have received the following letter. Thinking that it may beprofitable to many readers, I make it my business to communicate it tothem:

"Paris, November 15th, 1886. 

"Monsieur, --You often treat either in the shape of short stories orchronicles, of subjects which have relation to what I may describe as'current morals. ' I am going to submit to you some reflections whichought, it seems to me, to furnish you with the materials for one ofyour tales. 

"I am not married; I am a bachelor, and, as it seems to me, a rathersimple man. But I fancy that many men, the greater part of men, aresimple in the way that I am. As I am always, or nearly always, a plaindealer, I am not well able to see through the natural cunning of myneighbors, and I go straight ahead, with my eyes open, withoutsufficiently looking out for what is behind things and behind people'sexternal behavior. 

"We are nearly all accustomed, as a rule, to take appearances forrealities, and to look on people as what they pretend to be; and veryfew possess that scent which enables certain men to divine the realand hidden nature of others. From this peculiar and conventionalmethod of regarding life come the result that we pass, like moles, through the midst of events; and that we never believe in what is, butin what seems to be, that we declare a thing to be improbable as soonas we are shown the fact behind the veil, and that everything whichdispleases our idealistic morality is classed by us an exception, without taking into account that these exceptions all brought togetherconstitute nearly the total number of cases. There further resultsfrom it that credulous good people like me are deceived by everybodyand especially by women, who have a talent in this direction. 

"I have started far afield in order to come to the particular factwhich interests me. I have a mistress, a married woman. Like manyothers, I imagined (do you understand?) that I had chanced on anexception, on an unhappy little woman who was deceiving her husbandfor the first time. I had paid attentions to her, or rather I hadlooked on myself as having paid attention to her for a long time, ashaving overcome her virtue by dint of kindness and love, and as havingtriumphed by the sheer force of perseverance. In fact, I had made useof a thousand precautions, a thousand devices, and a thousand subtledallyings in order to succeed in getting the better of her. 

"Now here is what happened last week: Her husband being absent forsome days, she suggested that we should both dine together, and that Ishould attend on myself so as to avoid the presence of a man-servant. She had a fixed idea which had haunted her for the last four or fivemonths: She wanted to get tipsy, but to get tipsy altogether withoutbeing afraid of consequences, without having to go back home, speak toher chambermaid, and walk before witnesses. She had often obtainedwhat she called 'a gay agitation' without going farther, and she hadfound it delightful. So then she promised herself that she would gettipsy once, only once, but thoroughly so. She pretended at her ownhouse that she was going to spend twenty-four hours with some friendsnear Paris, and she reached my abode just about dinner-hour. 

"A woman naturally ought not to get fuddled except when she has hadtoo much champagne. She drinks a big glass of it fasting, and beforethe oysters arrive, she begins to ramble in her talk. 

"We had a cold dinner prepared on a table behind me. It was enough forme to stretch out my arms to take the dishes or the plates, and Iattended on myself as best I could while I listened to her chattering. 

"She kept swallowing glass after glass, haunted by her fixed idea. Shebegan by making me the recipient of meaningless and interminableconfidences with regard to her sensations as a young girl. She went onand on, her eyes rather wandering, brilliant, her tongue untied, andher light ideas rolling themselves out endlessly like the bluetelegraph-paper which is moved on without stopping by the bobbin andwhich keeps extending its length to the click of the electricapparatus which covers it with unknown words. 

"From time to time she asked me:

"'Am I tipsy?'

"'No, not yet. '

"And she went on drinking. 

"She was so in a little while, not so tipsy as to lose her senses, buttipsy enough to tell the truth, as it seemed to me. 

"To her confidences as to her emotions while a young girl succeededmore intimate confidences as to her relations with her husband. Shemade them to me without restraint till she wearied me with them, underthis pretext, which she repeated a hundred times: 'I can surely telleverything to you. To whom could I tell everything if it were not toyou?' So I was made acquainted with all the habits, all the defects, all the fads and the most secret fancies of her husband. 

"And by way of claiming my approval she asked: 'Isn't he a flat? Doyou think he has taken a feather out of me? eh? So, the first time Isaw you, I said to myself: "Let me see! I like him, and I'll take himfor my lover. " It was then you began mashing me. '

"I must have presented an odd face to her eyes at that moment, for shecould see it, tipsy though she was; and with great outbursts oflaughter, she exclaimed: 'Ah! you big simpleton, you did go about itcautiously; but, when men pay attention to us, you dear blockhead, yousee we like it, and then they must make quick work of it, and not keepus waiting. A man must be a ninny not to understand, by a mere glanceat us, that we mean "Yes. " Ah! I believe I was waiting for you, youstupid! I did not know what to do in order to make you see that I wasin a hurry. Oh! yes, flowers, verses, compliments, more verses, andnothing else at all! I was very near letting you go, my fine fellow, you were so long in making up your mind. And only to think that halfthe men in the world are like you, while the other half, ha! ha! ha!'

"This laugh of hers sent a cold shiver down my back. I stammered: 'Theother half--what about the other half?'

"She still went on drinking, her eyes steeped in the fumes ofsparkling wine, her mind impelled by the imperious necessity fortelling the truth which sometimes takes possession of drunkards. 

"She replied: 'Ah! the other half makes quick work of it--too quick;but, all the same, they are right. There are days when we don't hit itoff with them; but there are days, too, when it all goes right, inspite of everything.... My dear, if you only knew how funny it is--theway the two kinds of men act! You see, the timid ones, such as you, you never could imagine what sort the others are and what they do, immediately, as soon as they find themselves alone with us. They areregular dare-devils! They get many a slap in the face from us, nodoubt of that, but what does that matter? They know we're the sortthat kiss and don't tell! They know us well, they do!'

"I stared at her with the eyes of an Inquisitor, and with a mad desireto make her speak, to learn everything from her. How often had I putthis question to myself: 'How do the other men behave towards thewomen who belong to us?' I was fully conscious of the fact that, fromthe way I saw two men talking to the same woman publicly in adrawing-room, these two men, if they found themselves, one after theother, all alone with her, would conduct themselves quite differently, although they were both equally well acquainted with her. We can guessat the first glance of the eye that certain beings, naturally endowedwith the power of seduction, or only more lively, more daring than weare, reach after an hour's chat with a woman who pleases them, to adegree of intimacy to which we would not attain in a year. Well, dothese men, these seducers, these bold adventurers, take, when theoccasion presents itself to them, liberties with their hands and lipswhich to us, the timid ones, would appear odious outrages, but whichwomen perhaps look on merely as pardonable effrontery, as indecenthomages to their irresistible grace!

"So I asked her: 'There are women, though, who think these men veryimproper?'

"She threw herself back on her chair in order to laugh more at herease, but with a nerveless, unhealthy laugh, one of those laughs whichends in nervous fits, then, a little more calmly, she replied: 'Ha!ha! my dear, improper? that is to say, that they dare everything, atonce, all, you understand, and many other things, too. '

"I felt myself horrified as if she had just revealed to me a monstrousthing. 

"'And you permit this, you women?'

"'No, we don't permit it; we slap them in the face, but, for all that, they amuse us! And then with them one is always afraid, one is nevereasy. You must keep watching them the whole time; it is like fightinga duel. You have to keep staring into their eyes to see what they arethinking of or where they are putting their hands. They areblackguards, if you like, but they love us better than you do. '

"A singular and unexpected sensation stole over me. Although abachelor, and determined to remain a bachelor, I suddenly felt in mybreast the spirit of a husband in the face of this impudentconfidence. I felt myself the friend, the ally, the brother of allthese confiding men who are, if not robbed, at least defrauded by allthe rufflers of woman's waists. 

"It is this strange emotion, monsieur, that I am obeying at thismoment, in writing to you, and in begging of you to address a warningnote to the great army of easy-going husbands. 

"However, I had still some lingering doubts. This woman was drunk andmust be lying. 

"I went on to inquire: 'How is it that you never relate theseadventures to anyone, you women?'

"She gazed at me with profound pity, and with such an air of sinceritythat, for the moment, I thought she had been soberized byastonishment. 

"'We--But, my dear fellow, you are very foolish. Why do we never talkto you about these things? Ha! ha! ha! Does your valet tell you abouthis tips, his odd sous? Well, this is our little tip. The husbandought not to complain when we don't go farther. But how dull you are!To talk of these things would be to give the alarm to all ninnies! Ah!how dull you are!... And then what harm does it do as long as we don'tyield?'

"I felt myself in a great state of great confusion as I put thisquestion to her:

"'So then you have often been embraced by men?'

"She answered, with an air of sovereign contempt for the man who couldhave any doubt on the subject:

"'Faith!--Why, every woman has been often embraced.... Try it on withany of them, no matter whom, in order to see for yourself, you greatgoose! Look here! embrace Mme. De X! She is quite young, and quitevirtuous. Embrace, my friend--embrace, and touch, you shall see. Ha!ha! ha!'

 * * * * *

"All of a sudden she flung her glass straight at the chandelier. Thechampagne fell down in a shower, extinguished three wax-candles, stained the hangings, and deluged the table, while the broken glasswas scattered about the dining-room. Then, she made an effort to seizethe bottle to do the same with it, but I prevented her. After that, she burst out crying in a very loud tone--the nervous fit had come on, as I had anticipated.... 

 * * * * *

"Some days later, I had almost forgotten this avowal of a tipsy womanwhen I chanced to find myself at an evening party with this Mme. DeX---- whom my mistress had advised me to embrace. As I lived in thesame direction as she did, I offered to drive her to her own door, forshe was alone this evening. She accepted my offer. 

"As soon as we were in the carriage, I said to myself: 'Come! I musttry it on!' But I had not the courage. I did not know how to make astart, how to begin the attack. 

"Then suddenly, the desperate courage of cowards came to my aid. Isaid to her: 'How pretty you were, this evening. '

"She replied with a laugh: 'So then, this evening was an exception, since you only remarked it for the first time. '

"I did not know what rejoinder to make. Certainly my gallantry was notmaking progress. After a little reflection, however, I managed to say:

"'No, but I never dared to tell you. '

"She was astonished:

"'Why?'

"'Because it is--it is a little difficult. '

"'Difficult to tell a woman that she's pretty? Why, where did youcome from? You should always tell us so, even when you only half thinkit ... Because it always gives us pleasure to hear. "... 

"I felt myself suddenly animated by a fantastic audacity, and, catching her round the waist, I raised my lips towards her mouth. 

"Nevertheless I seemed to be rather nervous about it, and not toappear so terrible to her. I must also have arranged and executed mymovement very badly, for she managed to turn her head aside so as toavoid contact with my face, saying:

"'Oh no--this is rather too much--too much.... You are too quick! Takecare of my hair. You cannot embrace a woman who has her hair dressedlike mine!'... 

"I resumed my former position in the carriage, disconcerted, unnervedby this repulse. But the carriage drew up before her gate; and she, asshe stepped out of it, held out her hand to me, saying in her mostgracious tones:

"'Thanks, dear monsieur, for having seen me home ... And don't forgetmy advice!'

"I saw her three days later. She had forgotten everything. 

"And I, monsieur, I am incessantly thinking of the other sort ofmen--the sort of men to whom a lady's hair is no obstacle, and whoknow how to seize every opportunity. "... 

THE HORRIBLE

The shadows of a balmy night were slowly falling. The women remainedin the drawing-room of the villa. The men, seated or astride ongarden-chairs, were smoking in front of the door, forming a circleround a table laden with cups and wineglasses. 

Their cigars shone like eyes in the darkness which, minute by minute, was growing thicker. They had been talking about a frightful accidentwhich had occurred the night before--two men and three women drownedbefore the eyes of the guests in the river opposite. 

General de G---- remarked:

"Yes, these things are affecting, but they are not horrible. 

"The horrible, that well-known word, means much more than theterrible. A frightful accident like this moves, upsets, scares; itdoes not horrify. In order that we should experience horror, somethingmore is needed than the excitation of the soul, something more thanthe spectacle of the dreadful death; there must be a shuddering senseof mystery or a sensation of abnormal terror beyond the limits ofnature. A man who dies, even in the most dramatic conditions, does notexcite horror; a field of battle is not horrible, blood is nothorrible; the vilest crimes are rarely horrible. 

"Hold on! here are two personal examples, which have shown me what isthe meaning of horror:

"It was during the war of 1870. We were retreating towardsPont-Audemer, after having passed through Rouen. The army, consistingof about twenty thousand men, twenty thousand men in disorder, disbanded, demoralized, exhausted, were going to re-form at Havre. 

"The earth was covered with snow. The night was falling. They had noteaten anything since the day before. They were flying rapidly, thePrussians not being far off. 

"All the Norman country, livid, dotted with the shadows of the treessurrounding the farms, extended under a black sky, heavy and sinister. 

"Nothing else could be heard in the wan twilight save the confusedsound, soft and undefined, of a marching throng, an endless tramping, mingled with the vague clink of pottingers or sabers. The men, bent, round-shouldered, dirty, in many cases even in rags, draggedthemselves along, hurried through the snow, with a long, broken-backedstride. 

"The skin of their hands stuck to the steel of their muskets'butt-ends, for it was freezing dreadfully that night. I frequently sawa little soldier take off his shoes in order to walk barefooted, somuch did his foot-gear bruise him; and with every step he left alittle track of blood. Then, after some time, he sat down in a fieldfor a few minutes' rest, and he never got up again. Every man who satdown was a dead man. 

"Should we have left behind us those poor exhausted soldiers, whofondly counted on being able to start afresh as soon as they hadsomewhat refreshed their stiffened legs? Now, scarcely had they ceasedto move, and to make their almost frozen blood circulate in theirveins, than an unconquerable torpor congealed them, nailed them tothe ground, closed their eyes, and in one second collapsed thisoverworked human mechanism. And they gradually sank down, their headsfalling towards their knees, without, however, quite tumbling over, for their loins and their limbs lost their capacity for moving, andbecame as hard as wood, impossible to bend or to set upright. 

"And the rest of us, more robust, kept still straggling on, chilled tothe marrow of our bones, advancing by dint of forced movement throughthat night, through that snow, through that cold and deadly country, crushed by pain, by defeat, by despair, above all overcome by theabominable sensation of abandonment, of the end, of death, ofnothingness. 

"I saw two gendarmes holding by the arm a curious-looking little man, old, beardless, of truly surprising aspect. 

"They were looking out for an officer, believing that they had caughta spy. The word 'spy' at once spread through the midst of thestragglers, and they gathered in a group round the prisoner. A voiceexclaimed: 'He must be shot!' And all these soldiers who were fallingfrom utter prostration, only holding themselves on their feet byleaning on their guns, felt all of a sudden that thrill of furious andbestial anger which urges on a mob to massacre. 

"I wanted to speak! I was at that time in command of a battalion; butthey no longer recognized the authority of their commanding officers;they would have shot myself. 

"One of the gendarmes said: 'He has been following us for the lastthree days. He has been asking information from everyone about theartillery. '

"I took it on myself to question this person. 

"'What are you doing? What do you want? Why are you accompanying thearmy?'

"He stammered out some words in some unintelligible dialect. He was, indeed, a strange being, with narrow shoulders, a sly look, and suchan agitated air in my presence that I had no longer any real doubtthat he was a spy. He seemed very aged and feeble. He kept staring atme from under his eyes with humble, stupid, and crafty air. 

The men all round us exclaimed:

"'To the wall! to the wall!'

"I said to the gendarmes:

"'Do you answer for the prisoner?'

"I had not ceased speaking when a terrible push threw me on my back, and in a second I saw the man seized by the furious soldiers, throwndown, struck, dragged along the side of the road, and flung against atree. He fell in the snow, nearly dead already. 

"And immediately they shot him. The soldiers fired at him, re-loadedtheir guns, fired again with the desperate energy of brutes. Theyfought with each other to have a shot at him, filed off in front ofthe corpse, and kept firing on at him, as people at a funeral keepsprinkling holy water in front of a coffin. 

"But suddenly a cry arose of: 'The Prussians! the Prussians!'

"And all along the horizon I heard the great noise of thispanic-stricken army in full flight. 

"The panic, generated by these shots fired at this vagabond, hadfilled his very executioners with terror; and, without realizing thatthey were themselves the originators of the scare, rushed away anddisappeared in the darkness. 

"I remained alone in front of the corpse with the two gendarmes whomtheir duty had compelled to stay with me. 

"They lifted up the riddled piece of flesh, bruised and bleeding. 

"'He must be examined, ' said I to them. 

"And I handed them a box of vestas which I had in my pocket. One ofthe soldiers had another box. I was standing between the two. 

"The gendarme, who was feeling the body, called out:

"'Clothed in a blue blouse, a trousers, and a pair of shoes. '

"The first match went out; we lighted a second. The man went on, as heturned out his pockets:

"'A horn knife, check handkerchief, a snuff-box, a bit of packthread, a piece of bread. '

"The second match went out; we lighted a third. The gendarme, afterhaving handled the corpse for a long time, said:

"'That is all. '

"I said:

"'Strip him. We shall perhaps find something near the skin. '

"And, in order that the two soldiers might help each other in thistask, I stood between them to give them light. I saw them, by therapid and speedily extinguished flash of the match, take off thegarments one by one, and expose to view that bleeding bundle of fleshstill warm, though lifeless. 

"And suddenly one of them exclaimed:

"'Good God, General, it is a woman!'

"I cannot describe to you the strange and poignant sensation of painthat moved my heart. I could not believe it, and I knelt down in thesnow before this shapeless pulp of flesh to see for myself: it was awoman. 

"The two gendarmes, speechless and stunned, waited for me to give myopinion on the matter. But I did not know what to think, what theoryto adopt. 

"Then the brigadier slowly drawled out:

"'Perhaps she came to look for a son of hers in the artillery, whomshe had not heard from. '

"And the other chimed in:

"'Perhaps indeed that is so. '

"And I, who had seen some very terrible things in my time, began tocry. And I felt, in the presence of this corpse, in that icy coldnight, the midst of that gloomy pain, at the sight of this mystery, atthe sight of this murdered stranger, the meaning of that word'Horror. '

"Now I had the same sensation last year while interrogating one of thesurvivors of the Flatters Mission, an Algerian sharpshooter. 

"You know the details of this atrocious drama. It is possible, however, that you are unacquainted with them. 

"The Colonel traveled through the desert into the Soudan, and passedthrough the immense territory of the Touaregs, who are, in that greatocean of sand which stretches from the Atlantic to Egypt and from theSoudan to Algeria, a kind of pirates resembling those who ravaged theseas in former days. 

"The guides who accompanied the column belonged to the tribe ofChambaa, of Ouargla. 

"Now, one day, they pitched their camp in the middle of the desert, and the Arabs declared that, as the spring was a little farther away, they would go with all their camels to look for water. 

"Only one man warned the Colonel that he had been betrayed: Flattersdid not believe this, and accompanied the convoy with the engineers, the doctors, and nearly all his officers. 

"They were massacred round the spring, and all the camels captured. 

"The Captain of the Arab Intelligence Department at Ouargla, who hadremained in the camp, took command of the survivors, spahis andsharpshooters, and they commenced the retreat, leaving behind thebaggage and the provisions for want of camels to carry them. 

"Then they started on their journey through this solitude withoutshade and without limits, under the devouring sun which burned themfrom morning till night. 

"One tribe came to tender its submission and brought dates as atribute. They were poisoned. Nearly all the French died, and, amongthem, the last officer. 

"There now only remained a few spahis with their quartermaster, Pobequin, and some native sharpshooters of the Chambaa tribe. They hadstill two camels left. They disappeared one night along with twoArabs. 

"Then, the survivors understood that they were going to eat each otherup, and, as soon as they discovered the flight of the two men with thetwo beasts, those who remained separated, and proceeded to march, oneby one, through the soft sand, under the glare of a scorching sun, ata distance of more than a gunshot from each other. 

"So they went on all day, and, when they reached a spring, each ofthem came to drink at it in turn as soon as each solitary marcher hadmoved forward the number of yards arranged upon. And thus theycontinued marching the whole day, raising, everywhere they passed, inthat level burnt-up expanse, those little columns of dust which, at adistance, indicate those who are trudging through the desert. 

"But, one morning, one of the travelers made a sudden turn, and drewnearer to his neighbor. And they all stopped to look. 

"The man toward whom the famished soldier drew near did not fly, butlay flat on the ground, and took aim at the one who was coming on. When he believed he was within gunshot, he fired. The other was nothit, and he continued then to advance, and cocking his gun in turn, killed his comrade. 

"Then from the entire horizon, the others rushed to seek their share. And he who had killed the fallen man, cutting the corpse into pieces, distributed it. 

"And they once more placed themselves at fixed distances, theseirreconcilable allies, preparing for the next murder which would bringthem together. 

"For two days, they lived on this human flesh which they dividedamongst each other. Then, the famine came back, and he who had killedthe first man began killing afresh. And again, like a butcher, he cutup the corpse, and offered it to his comrades, keeping only his ownportion of it. 

"And so this retreat of cannibals continued. 

"The last Frenchman, Pobequin, was massacred at the side of a well, the very night before the supplies arrived. 

"Do you understand now what I mean by the Horrible?"

This was the story told us a few nights ago by General de G----. 

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

Jacques de Randal, having dined at home alone, told his valet he mightgo, and then he sat down at a table to write his letters. 

He thus finished every year by writing and dreaming. He made forhimself a sort of review of things that had happened since last NewYear's Day, things that were now all over and dead; and, in proportionas the faces of his friends rose up before his eyes, he wrote them afew lines, a cordial "Good morning" on the 1st of January. 

So he sat down, opened a drawer, took out of it a woman's photograph, gazed at it a few moments, and kissed it. Then, having laid it besidea sheet of note-paper, he began:

"My dear Irene. --You must have by this time the little souvenir whichI sent you. I have shut myself up this evening in order to tell you. "

The pen here ceased to move. Jacques rose up and began walking up anddown the room. 

For the last six months he had a mistress, not a mistress like theothers, a woman with whom one engages in a passing intrigue, of thetheatrical world or the "demi-monde, but a woman whom he loved andwon. He was no longer a young man, although he was still comparativelyyoung for a man, and he looked on life seriously in a positive andpractical spirit. 

Accordingly, he drew up the balance sheet of his passion, as he drewup every year the balance sheet of friendships that were ended orfreshly contracted, of circumstances and persons that had entered intohis life. 

His first ardor of love having grown calmer, he asked himself with theprecision of a merchant making a calculation, what was the state ofhis heart with regard to her, and he tried to form an idea of what itwould be in the future. 

He found there a great and deep affection, made up of tenderness, gratitude, and the thousand subtle ties which give birth to long andpowerful attachments. 

A ring of the bell made him start. He hesitated. Would he open? But hesaid to himself that it was his duty to open on this New Year's night, to open to the Unknown who knocks while passing, no matter whom it maybe. 

So he took a wax candle, passed through the antechamber, removed thebolts, turned the key, drew the door back, and saw his mistressstanding pale as a corpse, leaning against the wall. 

He stammered. 

"What is the matter with you?"

She replied, "Are you alone?"

"Yes. "

"Without servants?"

"Yes. "

"You are not going out?"

"No. "

She entered with the air of a woman who knew the house. As soon as shewas in the drawing-room, she sank into the sofa, and, covering herface with her hands, began to weep dreadfully. 

He knelt down at her feet, seized hold of her hands to remove themfrom her eyes, so that he might look at them, and exclaim, "Irene, Irene, what is the matter with you? I implore of you to tellme what is the matter with you?"

Then, in the midst of her sobs she murmured, "I can no longer live like this. "

He did not understand. 

"Live like this? What do you mean?"... 

"Yes. I can no longer live like this.... I have endured so much.... Hestruck me this afternoon. "

"Who, your husband?"

"Yes, my husband. "

"Ha!"

He was astonished, having never suspected that her husband could bebrutal. He was a man of the world, of the better class, a clubman, alover of horses, a theater goer, and an expert swordsman; he wasknown, talked about, appreciated everywhere, having very courteousmanners, a very mediocre intellect, an absence of education and of thereal culture needed in order to think like all well-bred people, andfinally a respect for all conventional prejudices. 

He appeared to devote himself to his wife, as a man ought to do in thecase of wealthy and well-bred people. He displayed enough of anxietyabout her wishes, her health, her dresses, and, beyond that, left herperfectly free. 

Randal, having become Irene's friend, had a right to the affectionatehand-clasp which every husband endowed with good manners owes to hiswife's intimate acquaintances. Then, when Jacques, after having beenfor some time the friend, became the lover, his relations with thehusband were more cordial, as is fitting. 

Jacques had never dreamed that there were storms in this household, and he was scared at this unexpected revelation. 

He asked, "How did it happen? tell me. "

Thereupon she related a long history, the entire history of her lifesince the day of her marriage, the first discussion arising out of amere nothing, then accentuating itself with all the estrangement whichgrows up each day between two opposite types of character. 

Then came quarrels, a complete separation, not apparent, but real;next, her husband showed himself aggressive, suspicious, violent. Now, he was jealous, jealous of Jacques, and this day even, after a scene, he had struck her. 

She added with decision, "I will not go back to him. Do with me whatyou like. "

Jacques sat down opposite to her, their knees touching each other. Hecaught hold of her hands. 

"My dear love, you are going to commit a gross, an irreparable folly. If you want to quit your husband, put wrongs on one side, so that yoursituation as a woman of the world may be saved. "

She asked, as she cast at him a restless glance:

"Then, what do you advise me?"

"To go back home and to put up with your life there till the day whenyou can obtain either a separation or a divorce, with the honors ofwar. "

"Is not this thing which you advise me to do a little cowardly?"

"No; it is wise and reasonable. You have a high position, a reputationto safeguard, friends to preserve, and relations to deal with. Youmust not lose all these through a mere caprice. "

She rose up and said with violence, "Well, no! I cannot have any more of it! It is at an end! it is at anend!"

Then, placing her two hands on her lover's shoulders, and looking athim straight in the face, she asked, "Do you love me?"

"Yes. "

"Really and truly?"

"Yes. "

"Then keep me. "

He exclaimed, "Keep you? In my own house? Here? Why you are mad. It would meanlosing you for ever; losing you beyond hope of recall! You are mad!"

She replied slowly and seriously, like a woman who feels the weight ofher words, "Listen, Jacques. He has forbidden me to see you again, and I will notplay this comedy of coming secretly to your house. You must eitherlose me or take me. "

"My dear Irene, in that case, obtain your divorce, and I will marryyou. "

"Yes, you will marry me in--two years at the soonest. Yours is apatient love. "

"Look here! Reflect! If you remain here, he'll come to-morrow to takeyou away, and seeing that he is your husband, seeing that he has rightand law on his side. "

"I did not ask you to keep me in your own house, Jacques, but to takeme anywhere you like. I thought you loved me enough to do that. I havemade a mistake. Good-bye!"

She turned round and went towards the door so quickly that he was onlyable to catch hold of her when she was outside the room. 

"Listen, Irene. "

She struggled and did not want to listen to him any longer, her eyesfull of tears, and with these words only on her lips, "Let me alone! let me alone! let me alone!"

He made her sit down by force, and falling once more on his knees ather feet, he now brought forward a number of arguments and counsels tomake her understand the folly and terrible risk of her project. Heomitted nothing which he deemed it necessary to say to convince her, finding even in his very affection for her motives of persuasion. 

As she remained silent and cold, he begged of her, implored of her tolisten to him, to trust him, to follow his advice. 

When he had finished speaking, she only replied:

"Are you disposed to let me go away now? Take away your hands, so thatI may rise up. "

"Look here, Irene. "

"Will you let me go?"

"Irene ... Is your resolution irrevocable?"

"Do let me go. "

"Tell me only whether this resolution, this foolish resolution ofyours, which you will bitterly regret, is irrevocable?"

"Yes ... Let me go!"

"Then stay. You know well that you are at home here. We shall go awayto-morrow morning. "

She rose up in spite of him, and said in a hard tone:

"No. It is too late. I do not want sacrifice; I do not want devotion. "

"Stay! I have done what I ought to do; I have said what I ought tosay. I have no further responsibility on your behalf. My conscience isat peace. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will obey. "

She resumed her seat, looked at him for a long time, and then asked, in a very calm voice:

"Explain, then. "

"How is that? What do you wish me to explain?"

"Everything--everything that you have thought about before coming tothis resolution. Then I will see what I ought to do. "

"But I have thought about nothing at all. I ought to warn you that youare going to accomplish an act of folly. You persist; then I ask toshare in this act of folly, and I even insist on it. "

"It is not natural to change one's opinion so quickly. "

"Listen, my dear love. It is not a question here of sacrifice ordevotion. On the day when I realized that I loved you, I said this tomyself, which every lover ought to say to himself in the same case:'The man who loves a woman, who makes an effort to win her, who getsher, and who takes her, contracts so far as he is himself, and so faras she is concerned, a sacred engagement. It is, mark you, a questionof dealing with a woman like you, and not with a woman of an impulsiveand yielding disposition. 

"Marriage which has a great social value, a great legal value, possesses in my eyes only a very slight moral value, taking intoaccount the conditions under which it generally takes place. 

"Therefore, when a woman, united by this lawful bond, but having noattachment to her husband, whom she cannot love, a woman whose heartis free, meets a man whom she cares for, and gives herself to him, when a man who has no other tie, takes a woman in this way, I say thatthey pledge themselves towards each other by this mutual and freeagreement much more than by the 'Yes' uttered in the presence of theMayor's sash. 

"I say that, if they are both honorable persons, their union must bemore intimate, more real, more healthy, than if all the sacraments hadconsecrated it. 

"This woman risks everything. And it is exactly because she knows it, because she gives everything, her heart, her body, her soul, herhonor, her life, because she has foreseen all miseries, all dangers, all catastrophies, because she dares to do a bold act, an intrepidact, because she is prepared, determined to brave everything--herhusband who might kill her, and society which may cast her out. Thisis why she is respectable in her conjugal infidelity, this is why herlover, in taking her, must also have foreseen everything, andpreferred her to everything whatever may happen. I have nothing moreto say. I spoke in the beginning like a man of sense whose duty it wasto warn you; and now there is left in me only one man--the man wholoves you. Say, then, what am I to do!"

Radiant, she closed his mouth with her lips; she said to him in a lowtone:

"It is not true, darling! There is nothing the matter! My husband doesnot suspect anything. But I wanted to see, I wanted to know, what youwould do. I wished for a New Year's gift--the gift of yourheart--another gift besides the necklace you have sent me. You havegiven it to me. Thanks! Thanks!... God be thanked for the happinessyou have given me!"

BESIDE A DEAD MAN

He was slowly dying, as consumptives die. I saw him sitting down everyday at two o'clock under the windows of the hotel, facing the tranquilsea on an open-air bench. He remained for some time without moving, inthe heat of the sun gazing mournfully at the Mediterranean. Every nowand then, he cast a glance at the lofty mountains with vaporoussummits which shuts in Mentone: then, with a very slow movement, hecrossed his long legs, so thin that they seemed two bones, aroundwhich fluttered the cloth of his trousers, and he opened a book, whichwas always the same. And then he did not stir any more, but read on, read on with his eye and his mind; all his expiring body seemed toread, all his soul plunged, lost itself, disappeared, in this book, upto the hour when the cool air made him cough a little. Then, he got upand re-entered the hotel. 

He was a tall German, with fair beard, who breakfasted and dined inhis own room, and spoke to nobody. 

A vague curiosity attracted me to him. One day I sat down by his side, having taken up a book, too, to keep up appearances, a volume of DeMusset's poems. 

And I began to run through "Rolla. "

Suddenly my neighbor said to me, in good French:

"Do you know German, monsieur?"

"Not at all, monsieur. "

"I am sorry for that. Since chance has thrown us side by side, Icould have lent you, I could have shown you, an inestimablething--this book which I hold in my hand. "

"What is it pray?"

"It is a copy of my master, Schopenhauer, annotated with his own hand. All the margins, as you may see, are covered with his handwriting. "

I took the book from him reverently, and I gazed at those formsincomprehensible to me, but which revealed the immortal thoughts ofthe greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on earth. 

And De Musset's verses arose in my memory:

 "Hast thou found out, Voltaire, that it is bliss to die, Or does thy hideous smile over thy bleached bones fly?"

And involuntarily I compared the childish sarcasm, the religioussarcasm, of Voltaire with the irresistible irony of the Germanphilosopher whose influence is henceforth ineffaceable. 

Let us protest and let us be angry, let us be indignant or let us beenthusiastic, Schopenhauer has marked humanity with the seal of hisdisdain and of his disenchantment. 

A disabused pleasure-seeker, he overthrew beliefs, hopes, poeticideal, and chimeras, destroyed the aspirations, ravaged the confidenceof souls, killed love, dragged down the chivalrous worship of women, crushed the illusions of hearts and accomplished the most gigantictalk ever attempted by skepticism. He passed over everything with hismocking spirit, and left everything empty. And even to-day those whoexecrate him seem to carry portions of his thought, in spite ofthemselves, in their own souls. 

"So, then, you were intimately acquainted with Schopenhauer?" I saidto the German. 

He smiled sadly. 

"Up to the time of his death, monsieur. "

And he spoke to me about the philosopher and told me about the almostsupernatural impression which this strange being made on all who camenear him. 

He gave me an account of the interview of the old iconoclast with aFrench politician, a doctrinaire Republican, who wanted to get aglimpse of this man, and found him in a noisy tavern, seated in themidst of his disciples, dry, wrinkled, laughing with an unforgettablelaugh, eating and tearing ideas and beliefs with a single word, as adog tears with one bite of his teeth the tissues with which he plays. 

He repeated for me the comment of this Frenchman as he went away, scared and terrified:--"I thought I had spent an hour with the devil. "

Then he added, "He had, indeed, monsieur, a frightful smile, which terrified us evenafter his death. I can tell you an anecdote about it not generallyknown, if it has any interest for you. "

And he began, in a tired voice, interrupted by frequent fits ofcoughing. 

"Schopenhauer had just died, and it was arranged that we should watch, in turn, two by two, till morning. 

"He was lying in a large apartment, very simple, vast, and gloomy. Twowax candles were burning on the bedside stand. 

"It was midnight when I took up my task of watching along with one ofour comrades. The two friends whom we replaced had left the apartment, and we came and sat down at the foot of the bed. 

"The face was not changed. It was laughing. That pucker which we knewso well lingered still around the corners of the lips, and it seemedto us that he was about to open his eyes, to move, and to speak. Histhought, or rather his thoughts, enveloped us. We felt ourselves morethan ever in the atmosphere of his genius, absorbed, possessed by him. His domination seemed to be even more sovereign now that he was dead. A sense of mystery was blended with the power of this incomparablespirit. 

"The bodies of these men disappear, but they remain themselves; and inthe night which follows the stoppage of their heart's beatings, Iassure you, monsieur, they are terrifying. 

"And in hushed tones we talked about him, recalling to mind certainsayings, certain formulas of his, those startling maxims which arelike jets of flame flung, by means of some words, into the darkness ofthe Unknown Life. 

"'It seems to me that he is going to speak, ' said my comrade. And westared with uneasiness bordering on fear at the motionless face withits eternal laugh. Gradually, we began to feel ill at ease, oppressed, on the point of fainting. I faltered:

"'I don't know what is the matter with me, but, I assure you, I am notwell. '

"And at that moment we noticed that there was an unpleasant odor fromthe corpse. 

"Then, my comrade suggested that we should go into the adjoiningroom, and leave the door open; and I assented to his proposal. 

"I took one of the wax candles which burned on the bedside stand, andI left the second behind. Then we went and sat down at the other endof the adjoining apartment, so as to be able to see from where we werethe bed and the corpse, clearly revealed by the light. 

"But he still held possession of us. One would have said that hisimmaterial essence, liberated, free, all-powerful and dominating, wasflitting around us. And sometimes, too, the dreadful smell of thedecomposed body came towards us and penetrated us, sickening andindefinable. 

"Suddenly a shiver passed through our bones: a sound, a slight sound, came from the death-chamber. Immediately we fixed our glances on him, and we saw, yes, monsieur, we saw distinctly, both of us, somethingwhite flying over the bed, falling on the carpet, and vanishing underan armchair. 

"We were on our feet before we had time to think of anything, distracted by stupefying terror, ready to run away. Then we stared ateach other. We were horribly pale. Our hearts throbbed so fiercelythat our clothes swelled over our chests. I was the first to speak. 

"'You saw?'

"'Yes, I saw. '

"'Can it be that he is not dead?'

"'Why not, when the body is putrefying?'

"'What are we to do?'

"My companion said in a hesitating tone:

"'We must go and look. '

"I took our wax candle and I entered first, searching with my eyethrough all the large apartment with its dark corners. There was notthe least movement now, and I approached the bed. But I stoodtransfixed with stupor and fright: Schopenhauer was no longerlaughing! He was grinning in a horrible fashion, with his lips pressedtogether and deep hollows in his cheeks. I stammered out:

"'He is not dead!'

"But the terrible odor rose up to my nose and stifled me. And I nolonger moved, but kept staring fixedly at him, scared as if in thepresence of the apparition. 

"Then my companion, having seized the other wax candle, bent forward. Then, he touched my arm without uttering a word. I followed hisglance, and I saw on the ground, under the armchair by the side of thebed, all white on the dark carpet, open as if to bite, Schopenhauer'sset of artificial teeth. 

"The work of decomposition, loosening the jaws, had made it jump outof his mouth. 

"I was really frightened that day, monsieur. "

And as the sun was sinking towards the glittering sea, the consumptiveGerman rose from his seat, gave me a parting bow, and retired into thehotel. 

AFTER

"My darlings, " said the Comtesse, "you must go to bed. "

The three children, two girls and a boy, rose up, and went to kisstheir grandmother. 

Then, they came to say "Good night" to M. Le Curé, who had dined atthe chateau, as he did every Thursday. 

The Abbé Mauduit put two of the young ones sitting on his knees, passing his long arms clad in black behind the children's necks; and, drawing their heads towards him with a paternal movement, he kissedeach of them on the forehead with a long, tender kiss. 

Then, he again set them down on the ground, and the little beings wentoff, the boy in front, and the girls behind. 

"You are fond of children, M. Le Curé, " said the Comtesse. 

"Very fond, Madame. "

The old woman raised her bright eyes towards the priest. 

"And--has your solitude never weighed too heavily on you?"

"Yes, sometimes. "

He became silent, hesitated, and then added: "But I was never made forordinary life. "

"What do you know about it?"

"Oh! I know very well. I was made to be a priest: I followed my ownpath. "

The Comtesse kept staring at him:

"Look here, M. Le Curé, tell me this--tell me how it was you resolvedto renounce for ever what makes us love life--the rest of us--all thatconsoles and sustains us? What is it that drove you, impelled you, toseparate yourself from the great natural path of marriage and thefamily. You are neither an enthusiast nor a fanatic, neither a gloomyperson nor a sad person. Was it some strange occurrence, some sorrow, that led you to take life-long vows?"

The Abbé Mauduit rose up and advanced towards the fire, then drewtowards the flames the big shoes such as country priests generallywear. He seemed still hesitating as to what reply he should make. 

He was a tall old man with white hair, and for the last twenty yearshe had been the pastor of the parish of Sainte-Antoine-du-Rocher. Thepeasants said of him: "There's a good man for you!" And indeed he wasa good man, benevolent, friendly to all, gentle, and, to crown all, generous. Like Saint Martin, he had cut his cloak in two. He freelylaughed, and wept too for very little, just like a woman, --a thingthat prejudiced him more or less in the hard minds of the countrypeople. 

The old Comtesse de Saville, living in retirement in her chateau ofRocher, in order to bring up her grand-children, after the successivedeaths of her son and her daughter-in-law, was very much attached toher curé, and used to say of him: "He has a kind heart!"

He came every Thursday to spend the evening at the chateau, and theywere close friends, with the open and honest friendship of old people. 

She persisted:

"Look here M. Le Curé! 'tis your turn now to make a confession!"

He repeated: "I was not made for a life like everybody else. I saw itmyself fortunately in time, and I have had many proofs since that Ihad made no mistake on the point. 

"My parents, who were mercers in Verdiers, and rather rich, had muchambition on my account. They sent me to a boarding-school while I wasvery young. You cannot conceive what a boy may suffer at college, bythe mere fact of separation, of isolation. This monotonous lifewithout affection is good for some, and detestable for others. Youngpeople have often hearts more sensitive than one supposes, and byshutting them up thus too soon, far from those they love, we maydevelop to an excessive extent a sensibility which is of an overstrungkind, and which becomes sickly and dangerous. 

"I scarcely ever played; I never had companions; I passed my hours inlooking back to my home with regret; I spent the whole night weepingin my bed. I sought to bring up before my mind recollections of my ownhome, trifling recollections of little things, little events. Ithought incessantly of all I had left behind there. I became almostimperceptibly an over sensitive youth to whom the slightest annoyanceswere dreadful griefs. 

"Together with this I remained taciturn, self-absorbed withoutexpansion, without confidants. This work of mental exaltation wasbrought about obscurely but surely. The nerves of children are quicklyexcited; one ought to have regard to the fact that they live in astate of deep quiescence up to the time of their almost completedevelopment. But does anyone reflect that, for certain students, anunjust imposition can be as great a pang as the death of a friendafterwards? Does anyone render an exact account to himself of the factthat certain young souls have with very little cause, terribleemotions, and are in a very short time diseased and incurable souls?

"This was my case. This faculty of regret developed itself in me insuch a fashion that my existence became a martyrdom. 

"I did not speak about it; I said nothing about it; but gradually Iacquired a sensibility, or rather a sensitivity so lively that my soulresembled a living wound. Everything that touched it produced in ittwitchings of pain, frightful vibrations, and consequently trueravages. Happy are the men whom nature has buttressed withindifference and armed with stoicism. 

"I reached my sixteenth year. An excessive timidity had come to mefrom this aptitude to suffer on account of everything. Feeling myselfunprotected against all the attacks of chance or fate, I feared everycontact, every approach, every event. I lived on the watch as if underthe constant threat of an unknown and always expected misfortune. Idid not feel enough of boldness either to speak or to act publicly. Ihad, indeed, the sensation that life is a battle, a dreadful conflictin which one receives terrible blows, grievous, mortal wounds. Inplace of cherishing, like all men, the hope of good-fortune on themorrow, I only kept a confused fear of it, and I felt in my own mind adesire to conceal myself to avoid that combat in which I would bevanquished and slain. 

"As soon as my studies were finished, they gave me six months' timeto choose a career. A very simple event made me see clearly all of asudden into myself, showed me the diseased condition of my mind, mademe understand the danger, and caused me to make up my mind to fly fromit. 

"Verdiers is a little town surrounded with plains and woods. In thecentral streets stands my parents' house. I now passed my days farfrom this dwelling which I had so much regretted, so much desired. Dreams were awakened in me, and I walked all alone in the fields inorder to let them escape and fly away. My father and my mother, quiteoccupied with business, and anxious about my future, talked to me onlyabout their profits or about my possible plans. They were fond of mein the way that hard-headed, practical people are; they had morereason than heart in their affection for me. I lived imprisoned in mythoughts, and trembling with my eternal uneasiness. 

"Now, one evening, after a long walk, I saw, as I was making my wayhome with great strides so as not to be late, a dog trotting towardsme. He was a species of red spaniel, very lean, with long curly ears. 

"When he was ten paces away from me he stopped. I did the same. Thenhe began wagging his tail, and came over to me with short steps andnervous movements of his whole body, going down on his paws as ifappealing to me, and softly shaking his head. He then made a show ofcrawling with an air so humble, so sad, so suppliant, that I felt thetears coming into my eyes. I came near him; he ran away, then he cameback again; and I bent down, trying to coax him to approach me withsoft words. At last, he was within reach of my hands, and I gentlycaressed him with the most careful touch. 

"He grew bold, rose up bit by bit, laid his paws on my shoulders, andbegan to lick my face. He followed me into the house. 

"This was really the first being I had passionately loved, because hereturned my affection. My attachment to this animal was certainlyexaggerated and ridiculous. It seemed to me in a confused sort of waythat we were two brothers, lost on this earth, and therefore isolatedand without defense, one as well as the other. He never again quittedmy side. He slept at the foot of my bed, ate at the table in spite ofthe objections of my parents, and he followed me in my solitary walks. 

"I often stopped at the side of a ditch, and sat down in the grass. Sam immediately rushed up, fell asleep on my knees, and lifted up myhand with the end of his snout so that I might caress him. 

"One day towards the end of June, as we were on the road fromSaint-Pierre-de-Chavrol, I saw the diligence from Pavereau comingalong. Its four horses were going at a gallop with its yellow boxseat, and imperial crowned with black leather. The coachman crackedhis whip; a cloud of dust rose up under the wheels of the heavyvehicle, then floated behind, just as a cloud would do. 

"And, all of a sudden, as the vehicle came close to me, Sam, perhapsfrightened by the noise and wishing to join me, jumped in front of it. A horse's foot knocked him down. I saw him rolling over, turninground, falling back again on all fours, and then the entire coachgave two big shakes, and behind it I saw something quivering in thedust on the road. He was nearly cut in two; all his intestines werehanging through his stomach, which had been ripped open, and fell inspurts of blood to the ground. He tried to get up, to walk, but hecould only move his two front paws, and scratch the ground with them, as if to make a hole. The two others were already dead. And he howleddreadfully, mad with pain. 

"He died in a few minutes. I cannot describe how much I felt andsuffered. I was confined to my own room for a month. 

"Now, one night, my father, enraged at seeing me in such a state forso little, exclaimed:

"'How then will it be when you have real griefs--if you lose your wifeor children?'

"And I began to see clearly into myself. I understood why all thesmall miseries of each day assumed in my eyes the importance of acatastrophe; I saw that I was organized in such a way that I suffereddreadfully from everything, that every painful impression wasmultiplied by my diseased sensibility, and an atrocious fear of lifetook possession of me. I was without passions, without ambitions; Iresolved to sacrifice possible joys in order to avoid sure sorrows. Existence is short, but I made up my mind to spend it in the serviceof others, in relieving their troubles and enjoying their happiness. By having no direct experience of either one or the other, I wouldonly be conscious of passionless emotions. 

"And if you only knew how, in spite of this, misery tortures me, ravages me! But what would be for me an intolerable affliction hasbecome commiseration, pity. 

"These sorrows which I have every day to concern myself about I couldnot endure if they fell on my own heart. I could not have seen one ofmy children die without dying myself. And I have, in spite ofeverything, preserved such an obscure and penetrating fear ofcircumstances, that the sight of the postman entering my house makes ashiver pass every day through my veins, and yet I have nothing to beafraid of now. "

The Abbé Mauduit ceased speaking. He stared into the fire in the hugegrate, as if he saw there mysterious things, all the unknown portionof existence which he would have been able to live if he had been morefearless in the face of suffering. 

He added, then, in a subdued tone:

"I was right. I was not made for this world. "

The Comtesse said nothing at first; but at length, after a longsilence, she remarked:

"For my part, if I had not my grand-children, I believe I would nothave the courage to live. "

And the curé rose up without saying another word. 

As the servants were asleep in the kitchen, she conducted him herselfto the door which looked out on the garden, and she saw his tallshadow lit up by the reflection of the lamp disappearing through thegloom of night. 

Then she came back and sat down before the fire, and she pondered overmany things on which we never think when we are young. 

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

Maitre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Stillyoung, though already bald, always carefully shaved, a littlecorpulent, as it was fitting, wearing a gold pince-nez instead ofold-fashioned spectacles, active, gallant, and joyous, he passed inVernon for an artist. He thrummed on the piano and played on theviolin, and gave musical evenings where interpretations were given ofnew operas. 

He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, a verylittle bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that criesof "Bravo!" "Exquisite!" "Surprising!" "Adorable!" issued from everythroat as soon as he had murmured the last note. 

He was a subscriber to a music-publisher in Paris, who addressed newpieces to him, and he sent from time to time to the high society ofthe town, little notes something in this style:

"You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M. Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first production of 'Sais. '"

A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two orthree of the vinedressers' families also sang. The notary filled thepart of leader of the orchestra with so much correctness that thebandmaster of the 190th regiment of the line said to him, one day, atthe _Café_ de l'Europe:

"Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adoptthe career of an artist. "

When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was alwayssomebody found to declare: "He is not an amateur; he is an artist, agenuine artist. "

And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:

"Oh! yes, a genuine artist, " laying particular stress on the word"genuine. "

Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theater, M. Saval paid a visit to the capital. 

Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear "Henry VIII. "He then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 p. M. , intending to return by the 12:35 a. M. Train so as not to have to sleepat a hotel. He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which he concealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up. 

As soon as he had planted his foot on the Rue d' Amsterdam, he felthimself in quite a jovial mood. He said to himself:

"Decidedly the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has init something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, whichfills you with a strange longing to gambol and to do many otherthings. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, that I have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead inthis city in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great menwho enjoy renown in such a city! What an existence is theirs!"

And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of thosecelebrated men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an eveningwith them from time to time in Paris. 

But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little_cafés_ in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men ofletters, and even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up toMontmartre at a slow pace. 

He had two hours before him. He wanted to have a look-round. He passedin front of taverns frequented by belated Bohemians gazing at thedifferent faces, seeking to discover the artists. Finally, he came tothe sign of "The Dead Rat, " and allured by the name, he entered. 

Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, were talking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels ofLucie and Hortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave. They were nolonger young, too fat or too thin, tired out, used up. You could seethat they were almost bald; and they drank bocks like men. 

M. Saval sat down at some distance from them, and waited, for the hourfor taking absinthe was at hand. 

A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him. The landladycalled him M. "Romantin. " The notary quivered. Was this the Romantinwho had taken a medal at the last Salon?

The young man made a sign to the waiter:

"You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio, 15, Boulevard de Clinchy, thirty bottles of beer and the ham I orderedthis morning. We are going to have housewarming. "

M. Saval immediately ordered dinner. Then, he took off his overcoat, so that his dress coat and his white tie could be seen. His neighbordid not seem to notice him. He had taken up a newspaper, and wasreading it. M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desireto speak to him. 

Two young men entered, in red vests, and peaked beards in the fashionof Henry III. They sat down opposite Romantin. 

The first of the pair said:

"It is for this evening?"

Romantin pressed his hand. 

"T believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there, I have Bonnat, Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-PaulLaurens. It will be a glorious blow out! And women too! Wait till yousee! Every actress without exception--of course I mean, you know, allthose who have nothing to do this evening. "

The landlord of the establishment came across. 

"Do you often have this housewarming?"

The painter replied:

"I believe you, every three months, each quarter. "

M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitatingvoice said:

"I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard yourname pronounced, and I would be very glad to know if you really are M. Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?"

The painter answered:

"I am the very person, monsieur. "

The notary then paid the artist a very well-turned compliment, showingthat he was a man of culture. 

The painter, gratified, thanked him politely in reply. 

Then they chatted. Romantin returned to the subject of hishousewarming, going into details as to the magnificence of theforthcoming entertainment. 

M. Saval questioned him as to all the men he was going to receive, adding:

"It would be an extraordinary piece of good fortune for a stranger tomeet at one time so many celebrities assembled in the studio of anartist of your rank. "

Romantin, overcome, answered:

"If it would be agreeable to you, come. "

M. Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, reflecting:

"I'll always have time enough to see 'Henri VIII. '"

Both of them had finished their meal. The notary insisted on payingthe two bills, wishing to repay his neighbor's civilities. He alsopaid for the drinks of the young fellows in red velvet; then he leftthe establishment with the painter. 

They stopped in front of a very long house, by no means high, of whichall the first story had the appearance of an interminableconservatory. Six studios stood in a row with their fronts facing theboulevards. 

Romantin was the first to enter, and, ascending the stairs, he openeda door, and lighted a match and then a candle. 

They found themselves in an immense apartment, the furniture of whichconsisted of three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches lying on theground along the walls. M. Saval remained standing at the door in astupefied state of mind. 

The painter remarked:

"Here you are! we've got to the spot; but everything has yet to bedone. "

Then, examining the high, bare apartment, whose ceiling was veiled inshadows, he said:

"We might make a great deal out of this studio. "

He walked round it, surveying it with the utmost attention, then wenton:

"I have a mistress who might easily give a helping hand. Women areincomparable for hanging drapery. But I sent her to the country forto-day in order to get her off my hands this evening. It is not thatshe bores me, but she is too much lacking in the ways of good society. It would be embarrassing to my guests. "

He reflected for a few seconds, and then added:

"She is a good girl, but not easy to deal with. If she knew that I washolding a reception, she would tear out my eyes. "

M. Saval had not even moved; he did not understand. 

The artist came over to him. 

"Since I have invited you, you are going to give me some help. "

The notary said emphatically:

"Make any use of me you please. I am at your disposal. "

Romantin took off his jacket. 

"Well, citizen, to work! We are first going to clean up. "

He went to the back of the easel, on which there was a canvasrepresenting a cat, and seized a very worn-out broom. 

"I say! Just brush up while I look after the lighting. "

M. Saval took the broom, inspected it, and then began to sweep thefloor very awkwardly, raising a whirlwind of dust. 

Romantin, disgusted, stopped him: "Deuce take it! you don't know howto sweep the floor! Look at me!"

And he began to roll before him a heap of grayish sweepings, as if hehad done nothing else all his life. Then, he gave back the broom tothe notary, who imitated him. 

In five minutes, such a cloud of dust filled the studio that Romantinasked:

"Where are you? I can't see you any longer. "

M. Saval, who was coughing, came near to him. The painter said to him:

"How are you going to manage to get up a chandelier?"

The other, stunned, asked:

"What chandelier?"

"Why, a chandelier to light--a chandelier with wax candles. "

The notary did not understand. 

He answered: "I don't know. "

The painter began to jump about, cracking his fingers. 

"Well, monseigneur, I have found out a way. "

Then he went more calmly:

"Have you got five francs about you?"

M. Saval replied:

"Why, yes. "

The artist said:

"Well! you'll go and buy for me five francs' worth of wax candleswhile I go and see the cooper. "

And he pushed the notary in his evening coat into the street. At theend of five minutes, they had returned one of them with the waxcandles, and the other with the hoop of a cask. Then Romantin plungedhis hand into a cupboard, and drew forth twenty empty bottles, whichhe fixed in the form of a crown around the hoop. 

He then came down, and went to borrow a ladder from the door-keeper, after having explained that he had obtained the favors of the oldwoman by painting the portrait of her cat exhibited on the easel. 

When he mounted the ladder, he said to M. Saval:

"Are you active?"

The other, without understanding, answered:

"Why, yes. "

"Well, you just climb up there, and fasten this chandelier for me tothe ring of the ceiling. Then, you must put a wax candle in eachbottle, and light it. I tell you I have a genius for lighting up. Butoff with your coat, damn it! You are just like a Jeames. "

The door was opened brutally. A woman appeared, with her eyesflashing, and remained standing on the threshold. 

Romantin gazed at her with a look of terror. 

She waited some seconds, crossing her arms over her breast, and then, in a shrill, vibrating, exasperated voice, said:

"Ha! you sniveler, is this the way you leave me?"

Romantin made no reply. She went on:

"Ha! you scoundrel! You are again doing the swell, while you pack meoff to the country. You'll soon see the way I'll settle yourjollification. Yes, I'm going to receive your friends. "

She grew warmer:

"I'm going to slap their faces with the bottles and the waxcandles.... "

Romantin uttered one soft word:

"Mathilde.... "

But she did not pay any attention to him; she went on:

"Wait a little my fine fellow! wait a little!"

Romantin went over to her, and tried to take her by the hands:

"Mathilde.... "

But she was now fairly under way; and on she went, emptying the vialsof her wrath with strong words and reproaches. They flowed out of hermouth, like a stream sweeping a heap of filth along with it. The wordshurled out, seemed struggling for exit. She stuttered, stammered, yelled, suddenly recovering her voice to cast forth an insult or acurse. 

He seized her hands without her having even noticed it. She did notseem to see anything, so much occupied was she in holding forth andrelieving her heart. And suddenly she began to weep. The tears flowedfrom her eyes without making her stem the tide of her complaints. Buther words had taken a howling, shrieking tone; they were a continuouscry interrupted by sobbings. She commenced afresh twice or threetimes, till she stopped as if something were choking her, and at lastshe ceased with a regular flood of tears. 

Then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair, affected himself. 

"Mathilde, my little Mathilde, listen. You must be reasonable. Youknow, if I give a supper-party to my friends, it is to thank thesegentlemen for the medal I got at the Salon. I cannot receive women. You ought to understand that. It is not the same with artists as withother people. "

She stammered in the midst of her tears:

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

He replied:

"It was in order not to annoy you, not to give you pain. Listen, I'mgoing to see you home. You will be very sensible, very nice; you willremain quietly waiting for me in bed, and I'll come back as soon asit's over. "

She murmured:

"Yes, but you will not begin over again?"

"No, I swear to you!"

He turned towards M. Saval, who had at last hooked on the chandelier:

"My dear friend, I am coming back in five minutes. If any one arrivesin my absence, do the honors for me, will you not?"

And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with herhandkerchief as she went along. 

Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around himin order. Then he lighted the wax candles, and waited. 

He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantindid not return. Then, suddenly, there was a dreadful noise on thestairs, a song shouted out in chorus by twenty mouths and a regularmarch like that of a Prussian regiment. The whole house was shaken bythe steady tramp of feet. The door flew open, and a motley throngappeared--men and women in a row, holding one another arm in arm, inpairs, and kicking their heels on the ground, in proper time, advancedinto the studio like a snake uncoiling itself. They howled:

 "Come, and let us all be merry, Pretty maids and soldiers gay!"

M. Saval, thunderstruck, remained standing in evening dress under thechandelier. The procession of revelers caught sight of him, anduttered a shout:

"A Jeames! A Jeames!"

And they began whirling round him, surrounding him with a circle ofvociferations. Then they took each other by the hand and went dancingabout madly. 

He attempted to explain:

"Messieurs--messieurs--mesdames--"

But they did not listen to him. They whirled about, they jumped, theybrawled. 

At last, the dancing ceased. M. Saval uttered the word:

"Messieurs--"

A tall young fellow, fair-haired and bearded to the nose, interruptedhim:

"What's your name, my friend?"

The notary, quite scared, said:

"I am M. Saval. "

A voice exclaimed:

"You mean Baptiste. "

A woman said:

"Let the poor waiter alone! You'll end by making him get angry. He'spaid to attend on us, and not to be laughed at by us. "

Then, M. Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own provisions. One held a bottle of wine, and the other a pie. This one had a loafof bread, and one a ham. 

The tall, fair young fellow placed in his hands an enormous sausage, and gave orders:

"I say! Go and settle up the sideboard in the corner over there. Youare to put the bottles at the left and the provisions at the right. "

Saval, getting quite distracted, exclaimed: "But messieurs, I am anotary!"

There was a moment's silence, and then a wild outburst of laughter. One suspicious gentleman asked:

"How are you here?"

He explained, telling about his project of going to the Opera, hisdeparture from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and the way in which hehad spent the evening. 

They sat around him to listen to him; they greeted him with words ofapplause, and called him Scheherazade. 

Romantin did not come back. Other guests arrived. M. Saval waspresented to them so that he might begin his story over again. Hedeclined; they forced him to relate it. They fixed him on one of thethree chairs between two women who kept constantly filling his glass. He drank; he laughed; he talked; he sang, too. He tried to waltz withhis chair, and fell on the ground. 

From that moment, he forgot everything. It seemed to him, however, that they undressed him, put him to bed, and that his stomach gotsick. 

When he awoke, it was broad daylight, and he lay stretched with hisfeet against a cupboard, in a strange bed. 

An old woman with a broom in her hand was glaring angrily at him. Atlast, she said:

"Clear out, you blackguard! Clear out! What right has anyone to getdrunk like this?"

He sat up in the bed, feeling very ill at ease. He asked:

"Where am I?"

"Where are you, you dirty scamp? You are drunk. Take your rottencarcass out of here as quick as you can, --and lose no time about it!"

He wanted to get up. He found that he was naked in the bed. Hisclothes had disappeared. He blurted out:

"Madame, I--"

Then he remembered.... What was he to do? He asked:

"Did Monsieur Romantin come back?"

The door-keeper shouted:

"Will you take your dirty carcass out of this so that he at any ratemay not catch you here?"

M. Saval said, in a state of confusion:

"I haven't got my clothes; they have been taken away from me. "

He had to wait, to explain his situation, give notice to his friends, and borrow some money to buy clothes. He did not leave Paris tillevening. 

And, when people talk about music to him in his beautiful drawing-roomin Vernon, he declares with an air of authority that painting is avery inferior art. 

BOITELLE

Pere Boitelle (Antoine) had the reputation through the whole county ofa specialist in dirty jobs. Every time a pit, a dunghill, or acesspool required to be cleared away, or a dirt-hole to be cleansedout he was the person employed to do it. 

He would come there with his nightman's tools and his wooden shoescovered with muck, and would set to work, whining incessantly aboutthe nature of his occupation. When people asked him, then, why he didthis loathsome work, he would reply resignedly:

"Faith, 'tis for my children whom I must support. This brings me inmore than anything else. "

He had, indeed, fourteen children. If anyone asked him what had becomeof them, he would say with an air of indifference:

"There are only eight of them left in the house. One is out atservice, and five are married. "

When the questioner wanted to know whether they were well married, hereplied vivaciously:

"I did not cross them. I crossed them in nothing. They married just asthey pleased. We shouldn't go against people's likings, it turns outbadly. I am a night-cart-man because my parents went against mylikings. But for that I would have become a workman like the others. "

Here is the way his parents had thwarted him in his likings:

He was at the time a soldier stationed at Havre, not more stupid thananother, or sharper either, a rather simple fellow, in truth. Duringhis hours of freedom his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay, where the bird-dealers congregate. Sometimes alone, sometimes with asoldier from his own part of the country, he would slowly saunteralong by cages where the parrots with green backs and yellow headsfrom the banks of the Amazon, the parrots with gray backs and redheads from Senegal, enormous macaws, which look like birds brought upin conservatories, with their flower-like feathers, their plumes andtheir tufts, the paroquets of every shape, who seem painted withminute care by that excellent miniaturist, God Almighty, and thelittle ones, all the little young birds, hopping about, yellow, blue, and variegated, mingling their cries with the noise of the quay, addto the din caused by the unloading of the vessels, as well as bypassengers and vehicles, a violent clamor, loud, shrill, anddeafening, as if from some distant, monstrous forest. 

Boitelle would stop with stained eyes, wide-open mouth, laughing andenraptured, showing his teeth to the captive cockatoos, who keptnodding their white or yellow top-knots towards the glaring red of hisbreeches and the copper buckle of his belt. When he found a bird thatcould talk, he put questions to it, and if it happened at the time tobe disposed to reply and to hold a conversation with him, he wouldremain there till nightfall, filled with gayety and contentment. Healso found heaps of fun in looking at the monkeys, and could conceiveno greater luxury for a rich man than to possess these animals, justlike cats and dogs. This kind of taste for the exotic he had in hisblood, as people have a taste for the chase, or for medicine, or forthe priesthood. He could not keep himself, every time the gates of thebarracks opened, from going back to the quay, as if he felt himselfdrawn towards it by an irresistible longing. 

Now, on one occasion, having stopped almost in ecstacy before anenormous araruna, which was swelling out its plumes, bending forward, and bridling up again as if making the court-curtseys of parrot-land, he saw the door of a little tavern adjoining the bird-dealer's shopopening, and his attention was attracted by a young negress, with asilk kerchief tied round her head, sweeping into the street therubbish and the sand of the establishment. 

Boitelle's attention was soon divided between the bird and the woman, and he really could not tell which of these two beings he contemplatedwith the greater astonishment and delight. 

The negress, having got rid of the sweepings of the tavern, raised hereyes, and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier's uniform. Thereshe stood facing him with her broom in her hands as if she werecarrying arms for him, while the araruna continued making curtseys. Now at the end of a few seconds the soldier began to get embarrassedby this attention, and he walked away gingerly so as not to presentthe appearance of beating a retreat. 

But he came back. Almost every day he passed in front of the Colonialtavern, and often he could distinguish through the window-panes thefigure of the little black-skinned maid filling out "bocks" or glassesof brandy for the sailors of the port. Frequently, too, she would comeout to the door on seeing him; soon, without even having exchanged aword they smiled at one another like acquaintances; and Boitelle felthis heart moved when he saw suddenly glittering between the dark lipsof the girl her shining row of white teeth. At length he ventured oneday to enter and was quite surprised to find that she could speakFrench like everyone else. The bottle of lemonade, of which she wasgood enough to accept a glassful, remained in the soldier'srecollection, memorably delicious; and it grew into custom with him tocome and absorb in this little tavern on the quay all the agreeabledrinks which he could afford. 

For him it was a treat, a happiness, on which his thoughts wereconstantly dwelling, to watch the black hand of the little maidpouring out something into his glass whilst her teeth, brighter thanher eyes, showed themselves as she laughed. When they had kept companyin this way for two months they became fast friends, and Boitelle, after his first astonishment at discovering that this negress was inher excellent principles as good as the best girls in the country, that she exhibited a regard for economy, industry, religion, and goodconduct, loved her more on that account, and became so much smittenwith her that he wanted to marry her. 

He told her about his intentions, which made her dance with joy. Besides, she had a little money, left her by a female oyster-dealer, who had picked her up when she had been left on the quay at Havre byan American captain. This captain had found her, when she was onlyabout six years old, lying on bales of cotton in the hold of his ship, some hours after his departure from New York. On his arrival in Havre, he there abandoned to the care of this compassionate oyster-dealerthe little black creature, who had been hidden on board his vessel, hecould not tell how or why. 

The oyster-woman having died, the young negress became a servant atthe Colonial tavern. 

Antoine Boitelle added: "This will be all right if the parents don'tgo against it. I will never go against them, you understand never! I'mgoing to say a word or two to them the first time I go back to thecountry. "

On the following week, in fact, having obtained twenty-four hours'leave, he went to see his family, who cultivate a little farm atTourteville near Yvetot. 

He waited till the meal was finished, the hour when the coffeebaptized with brandy makes people more open-hearted, before informinghis parents that he had found a girl answering so well to his likingsin every way that there could not exist any other in all the world soperfectly suited to him. 

The old people, at this observation, immediately assumed a circumspectair, and wanted explanations. Besides he had concealed nothing fromthem except the color of her skin. 

She was a servant, without much means, but strong, thrifty, clean, well-conducted, and sensible. All these things were better than moneywould be in the hands of a bad housewife. Moreover, she had a fewsous, left her by a woman who had reared her, a good number of sous, almost a little dowry, fifteen hundred francs in the savings' bank. The old people, overcome by his talk, and relying, too, on their ownjudgment, were gradually giving way, when he came to the delicatepoint. Laughing in rather a constrained fashion, he said:

"There is only one thing you may not like. She is not a white slip. "

They did not understand, and he had to explain at some length and verycautiously, to avoid shocking them, that she belonged to the duskyrace of which they had only seen samples amongst figures exhibited atEpinal. Then, they became restless, perplexed, alarmed, as if he hadproposed a union with the Devil. 

The mother said. "Black? How much of her is black? Is the whole ofher?"

He replied, "Certainly. Everywhere, just as you are white everywhere. "

The father interposed, "Black? Is it as black as the pot?"

The son answered "Perhaps a little less than that. She is black, butnot disgustingly black. The Curé's cassock is black; but it is notuglier than a surplice, which is white. "

The father said, "Are there more black people besides her in hercountry?"

And the son, with an air of conviction, exclaimed, "Certainly!"

But the old man shook his head. 

"This must be disagreeable?"

And the son:

"It isn't more disagreeable than anything else, seeing that you getused to it in no time. "

The mother asked:

"It doesn't soil linen more than other skins, this black skin?"

"Not more than your own, as it is her proper color. "

Then after many other questions, it was agreed that the parents shouldsee this girl before coming to any decision and that the youngfellow, whose period of services was coming to an end in the course ofa month, should bring her to the house in order that they mightexamine her, and decide by talking the matter over whether or not shewas too dark to enter the Boitelle family. 

Antoine accordingly announced that on Sunday, the 22nd of May, the dayof his discharge, he would start for Tourteville with his sweetheart. 

She had put on, for this journey to the house of her lover's parents, her most beautiful and most gaudy clothes, in which yellow, red, andblue were the prevailing colors, so that she had the appearance of oneadorned for a national fete. 

At the terminus, as they were leaving Havre, people stared at her verymuch, and Boitelle was proud of giving his arm to a person whocommanded so much attention. Then, in the third-class carriage, inwhich she took a seat by his side, she excited so much astonishmentamong the peasants that the people in the adjoining compartments gotup on their benches to get a look at her, over the wooden partition, which divided the different portions of the carriage from one another. A child, at sight of her, began to cry with terror, another concealedhis face in his mother's apron. Everything went off well, however, upto their arrival at their destination. But, when the train slackenedits rate of motion as they drew near Yvetot, Antoine felt ill at ease, as he would have done at an inspection when he did not know hisdrill-practice. Then, as he put his head out through the carriagedoor, he recognized, some distance away, his father who was holdingthe bridle of the horse yoked to a car, and his mother who had madeher way to the railed portion of the platform where a number ofspectators had gathered. 

He stepped out first, gave his hand to his sweetheart, and holdinghimself erect, as if he were escorting a general, he advanced towardshis family. 

The mother, on seeing this black lady, in variegated costume in herson's company, remained so stupefied that she could not open hermouth; and the father found it hard to hold the horse, which theengine or the negress caused to rear for some time without stopping. But Antoine, suddenly seized with the unmingled joy of seeing oncemore the old people, rushed forward with open arms, embraced hismother, embraced his father, in spite of the nag's fright, and thenturning towards his companion, at whom the passengers on the platformstopped to stare with amazement, he proceeded to explain:

"Here she is! I told you that, at first sight, she is an odd piece;but as soon as you know her, in very truth, there's not a better sortin the whole world. Say good-morrow to her without making any potherabout it. "

Thereupon Mere Boitelle, herself nearly frightened out of her wits, made a sort of curtsey, while the father took off his cap, murmuring:

"I wish you good-luck!"

Then, without further delay, they climbed up on the car, the two womenat the lower end on seats, which made them jump up and down, as thevehicle went jolting along the road, and the two men outside on thefront seat. 

Nobody spoke. Antoine, ill at ease, whistled a barrack-room air; hisfather lashed the nag; and his mother, from where she sat in thecorner, kept casting sly glances at the negress, whose forehead andcheek-bones shone in the sunlight, like well-blacked shoes. 

Wishing to break the ice, Antoine turned round. 

"Well, " said he, "we don't seem inclined to talk. "

"We must get time, " replied the old woman. 

He went on:

"Come! tell us the little story about that hen of yours that laideight eggs. "

It was a funny anecdote of long standing in the family. But, as hismother still remained silent, paralyzed by emotion, he started thetalking himself, and narrated, with much laughter on his own part, this memorable adventure. The father, who knew it by heart, brightenedat the opening words of the narrative; his wife soon followed hisexample; and the negress herself, when he reached the drollest part ofit, suddenly gave vent to a laugh so noisy, rolling, and torrent-likethat the horse, becoming excited, broke into a gallop for a littlewhile. 

This served as the introduction to their acquaintanceship. The companyat length began to chat. 

On reaching the house when they had all alighted, and he had conductedhis sweetheart to a room, so that she might take off her dress, toavoid staining it, while she would be preparing a good dish intendedto win the old people's affections while appealing to their stomachs, he drew aside his parents, near the door, and with beating heart, asked:

"Well, what do you say now?"

The father said nothing. The mother, less timid, exclaimed:

"She is too black. No, indeed, this is too much for me. It turns myblood. "

"That may be, but it is only for the moment. "

Then they made their way into the interior of the house, where thegood woman was somewhat affected at the spectacle of the negressengaged in cooking. She at once proceeded to assist her, withpetticoats tucked up, active in spite of her age. 

The meal was an excellent one, very long, very enjoyable. When theyhad afterwards taken a turn together, Antoine said to his father:

"Well dad, what do you say to this?"

The peasant took care never to compromise himself. 

"I have no opinion about it. Ask your mother. "

So Antoine went back to his mother, and leading her to the end of theroom, said:

"Well mother, what do you think of her?"

"My poor lad, she is really too black. If she were only a little lessblack, I would not go against you, but this is too much. One wouldthink it was Satan!"

He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman had alwaysbeen, but he felt a tempest of disappointment sweeping over his heart. He was turning over his mind what he ought to do, what plan he coulddevise, surprised, moreover, that she had not conquered them alreadyas she had captivated himself. And they, all four, set out with slowsteps through the cornfields, having again relapsed into silence. Whenever they passed a fence they saw a countryman sitting on thestile, and a group of brats climbed up to stare at them and everyonerushed out into the road to see the "black" whom young Boitelle hadbrought home with him. At a distance they noticed people scamperingacross the fields just as when the drum beats to draw public attentionto some living phenomenon. Pere and Mere Boitelle, scared by thiscuriosity, which was exhibited everywhere through the country at theirapproach, quickened their pace, walking side by side, and leaving farbehind their son, when his dark companion asked what his parentsthought of her. 

He hesitatingly replied that they had not yet made up their minds. 

But, on the village-green, people rushed out of all the houses in aflutter of excitement; and, at the sight of the gathering rabble, oldBoitelle took to his heels and regained his abode, whilst Antoine, swelling with rage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majesticallyunder the staring eyes which opened wide in amazement. 

He understood that it was at an end, and there was no hope for him, that he could not marry his negress, she also understood it; and asthey drew near the farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as theyhad got back to the house, she once more took off her dress to aid themother in the household duties, and followed her everywhere to thedairy, to the stable, to the hen-house, taking on herself the hardestpart of the work, repeating always, "Let me do it Madame Boitelle, " sothat, when night came on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, saidto her son: "She is a good, all the same. 'Tis a pity she is so black;but indeed she is too much so. I couldn't get used to it. She must goback again. She is too, too black!"

And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:

"She will not consent. She thinks you are too black. You must go backagain. I will go with you to the train. No matter--don't fret. I amgoing to talk to them after you are started. "

He then conducted her to the railway-station, still cheering her withhope, and, when he had kissed her, he put her into the train, which hewatched as it passed out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears. 

In vain did he appeal to the old people. They would never give theirconsent. 

And when he had told this story, which was known all over the country, Antoine Boitelle would always add:

"From that time forward I have had no heart for anything--for anythingat all. No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what I am--anightcart-man. "

People would say to him:

"Yet you got married. "

"Yes, and I can't say that my wife didn't please me, seeing that I'vegot fourteen children; but she is not the other one, oh no--certainlynot! The other one, mark you, my negress, she had only to give me oneglance, and I felt as if I were in Heaven!"

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