THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCEIN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATIONEDITED BY J. LEWIS MAY ANDBERNARD MIALL

A MUMMER'S TALE

(HISTOIRE COMIQUE)

A MUMMER'S TALE

BY ANATOLE FRANCE

A TRANSLATION BYCHARLES E. ROCHE

LONDON, JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEADNEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMXXI

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. 1

 II. 21

 III. 26

 IV. 41

 V. 63

 VI. 71

 VII. 82

 VIII. 97

 IX. 108

 X. 137

 XI. 166

 XII. 176

 XIII. 181

 XIV. 186

 XV. 194

 XVI. 197

 XVII. 205

XVIII. 212

 XIX. 220

 XX. 230

A MUMMER'S TALE

A MUMMER'S TALE

CHAPTER I

The scene was an actress's dressing-room at the Odéon. 

Félicie Nanteuil, her hair powdered, with blue on her eyelids, rouge onher cheeks and ears, and white on her neck and shoulders, was holdingout her foot to Madame Michon, the dresser, who was fitting on a pair oflittle black slippers with red heels. Dr. Trublet, the physicianattached to the theatre, and a friend of the actress's, was resting hisbald cranium on a cushion of the divan, his hands folded upon hisstomach and his short legs crossed. 

"What else, my dear?" he inquired of her. 

"Oh, I don't know! Fits of suffocation; giddiness; and, all of a sudden, an agonizing pain, as if I were going to die. That's the worst of all. "

"Do you sometimes feel as though you must laugh or cry for no apparentreason, about nothing at all?"

"That I cannot tell you, for in this life one has so many reasons forlaughing or crying!"

"Are you subject to attacks of dizziness?"

"No. But, just think, doctor, at night, I see an imaginary cat, underthe chairs or the table, gazing at me with fiery eyes!"

"Try not to dream of cats any more, " said Madame Michon, "because that'sa bad omen. To see a cat is a sign that you'll be betrayed by friends, or deceived by a woman. "

"But it is not in my dreams that I see a cat! It's when I'm wide awake!"

Trublet, who was in attendance at the Odéon once a month only, was givento looking in as a friend almost every evening. He was fond of theactresses, delighted in chatting with them, gave them good advice, andlistened with delicacy to their confidences. He promised Félicie that hewould write her a prescription at once. 

"We'll attend to the stomach, my dear child, and you'll see no more catsunder the chairs and tables. "

Madame Michon was adjusting the actress's stays. The doctor, suddenlygloomy, watched her tugging at the laces. 

"Don't scowl, " said Félicie. "I am never tight-laced. With my waist Ishould surely be a fool if I were. " And she added, thinking of her bestfriend in the theatre, "It's all very well for Fagette, who has noshoulders and no hips; she's simply straight up and down. Michon, youcan pull a little tighter still. I know you are no lover of waists, doctor. Nevertheless, I cannot wear swaddling bands like those æstheticcreatures. Just slip your hand into my stays, and you'll see that Idon't squeeze myself too tight. "

He denied that he was inimical to stays; he only condemned them when tootightly laced. He deplored the fact that women should have no sense ofthe harmony of line; that they should associate with smallness of thewaist an idea of grace and beauty, not realizing that their beautyresided wholly in those modulations through which the body, havingdisplayed the superb expansion of chest and bosom, tapers off graduallybelow the thorax, to glorify itself in the calm and generous width ofthe flanks. 

"The waist, " he said, "the waist, since one has to make use of thathideous word, should be a gradual, imperceptible, gentle transition fromone to another of woman's two glories, her bosom and her womb, and youstupidly strangle it, you stave in the thorax, which involves thebreasts in its ruin, you flatten your lower ribs, and you plough ahorrible furrow above the navel. The negresses, who file their teethdown to a point, and split their lips, in order to insert a wooden disc, disfigure themselves in a less barbarous fashion. For, after all, somefeminine splendour still remains to a creature who wears rings in thecartilage of her nose, and whose lip is distended by a circular disc ofmahogany as big as this pomade pot. But the devastation is complete whenwoman carries her ravages into the sacred centre of her empire. "

Dwelling upon a favourite subject, he enumerated one by one thedeformities of the bones and muscles caused by the wearing of stays, interms now fanciful, now precise, now droll, now lugubrious. 

Nanteuil laughed as she listened. She laughed because, being a woman, she felt an inclination to laugh at physical uncomeliness or poverty;because, referring everything to her own little world of actors andactresses, each and every deformity described by the doctor reminded herof some comrade of the boards, stamping itself on her mind like acaricature. Knowing that she herself had a good figure, she delighted inher own young body as she pictured to herself all these indignities ofthe flesh. With a ringing laugh she crossed the dressing-room towardsthe doctor, dragging with her Madame Michon, who was holding on to herstay-laces as though they were reins, with the look of a sorceress beingwhisked away to a witches' sabbath. 

"Don't be afraid!" she said. 

And she objected that peasant women, who never wore stays, had farworse figures than town-bred women. 

The doctor bitterly inveighed against the Western civilizations becauseof their contempt for and ignorance of natural beauty. 

Trublet, born within the shadow of Saint-Sulpice, had gone as a youngman to practise in Cairo. He brought back from that city a little money, a liver complaint, and a knowledge of the various customs of humanity. When at a ripe age, he returned to his own country, he rarely strayedfrom his ancient Rue de Seine, thoroughly enjoying his life, save thatit depressed him a trifle to see how little able his contemporaries wereto realize the deplorable misunderstandings which for eighteen centurieshad kept humanity at cross-purposes with nature. 

There was a tap at the door. 

"It's only me!" exclaimed a woman's voice in the passage. 

Félicie, slipping on her pink petticoat, begged the doctor to open thedoor. 

Enter Madame Doulce, a lady who was allowing her massive person to runto seed, although she had long contrived to hold it together on theboards, compelling it to assume the dignity proper to aristocraticmothers. 

"Well, my dear! How-d'ye-do, doctor! Félicie, you know I am not one topay compliments. Nevertheless, I saw you the day before yesterday, and Iassure you that in the second of _La Mère confidente_ you put in someexcellent touches, which are far from easy to bring off. "

Nanteuil, with smiling eyes, waited--as is always the case when one hasreceived a compliment--for another. 

Madame Doulce, thus invited by Nanteuil's silence, murmured someadditional words of praise:

". .. Excellent touches, genuinely individual business!"

"You really think so, Madame Doulce? Glad to hear it, for I don't feelthe part. And then that great Perrin woman upsets me altogether. It is afact. When I sit on the creature's knees, it makes me feel as if----Youdon't know all the horrors that she whispers into my ear while we are onthe stage! She's crazy! I understand everything, but there are somethings which disgust me. Michon, don't my stays crease at the back, onthe right?"

"My dear child, " cried Trublet with enthusiasm, "you have just saidsomething that is really admirable. "

"What?" inquired Nanteuil simply. 

"You said: 'I understand everything, but there are some things whichdisgust me. ' You understand everything; the thoughts and actions of menappear to you as particular instances of the universal mechanics, but inrespect of them you cherish neither hatred nor anger. But there arethings which disgust you; you have a fastidious taste, and it isprofoundly true that morals are a matter of taste. My child, I couldwish that the Academy of Moral Science thought as sanely as you. Yes. You are quite right. As regards the instincts which you attribute toyour fellow-actress, it is as futile to blame her for them as to blamelactic acid for being an acid possessing mixed properties. "

"What are you talking about?"

"I am saying that we can no longer assign praise or blame to any humanthought or action, once the inevitable nature of such thoughts andactions has been proved for us. "

"So you approve of the morals of that gawk of a Perrin, do you? You, amember of the Legion of Honour! A nice thing, to be sure!"

The doctor heaved himself up. 

"My child, " he said, "give me a moment's attention; I am going to tellyou an instructive story:

"In times gone by, human nature was other than it is to-day. There werethen not men and women only, but also hermaphrodites; in other words, beings in whom the two sexes were combined. These three kinds of humanbeings possessed four arms, four legs, and two faces. They were robustand rotated rapidly on their own axes, just like wheels. Their strengthinspired them with audacity to war with the gods, therein following theexample of the Giants, Jupiter, unable to brook such insolence----"

"Michon, doesn't my petticoat hang too low on the left?" asked Nanteuil. 

"Resolved, " continued the doctor, "to render them less strong and lessdaring. He divided each into two, so that they had now but two arms, twolegs, and one head apiece, and thenceforward the human race became whatit is to-day. Consequently, each of us is only the half of a humanbeing, divided from the other half, just as one divides a sole into twoportions. These halves are ever seeking their other halves. The lovewhich we experience for one another is nothing but an invisible forceimpelling us to reunite our two halves in order to re-establishourselves in our pristine perfection. Those men who result from thedivisions of hermaphrodites love women; those women who have a similarorigin love men. But the women who proceed from the division ofprimitive women do not bestow much attention upon men, but are drawntoward their own sex. So do not be astonished when you see----"

"Did you invent that precious story, doctor?" inquired Nanteuil, pinninga rose in her bodice. 

The doctor protested that he had not invented a word of it. On thecontrary, he had, he said, left out part of the story. 

"So much the better?" exclaimed Nanteuil. "For I must tell you that theperson who did invent it is not particularly brilliant. "

"He is dead, " remarked Trublet. 

Nanteuil once more expressed her disgust of her fellow-actress, butMadame Doulce, who was prudent and occasionally took _déjeuner_ withJeanne Perrin, changed the subject. 

"Well, my darling, so you've got the part of Angélique. Only rememberwhat I told you: your gestures should be somewhat restrained, and youyourself a little stiff. That is the secret of the _ingénue_. Beware ofyour charming natural suppleness. Young girls in a 'stock' piece oughtto be just a trifle doll-like. It's good form. The costume requires it. You see, Félicie, what you must do above all, when you are playing in_La Mère confidente_, which is a delightful play----"

"Oh, " interrupted Félicie, "so long as I have a good part, I don't carea fig for the play. Besides, I am not particularly in love withMarivaux----What are you laughing at, doctor? Have I put my foot in it?Isn't _La Mère confidente_ by Marivaux?"

"To be sure it is!"

"Well, then? You are always trying to muddle me. I was saying thatAngélique gets on my nerves. I should prefer a part with more meat init, something out of the ordinary. This evenings especially, the partgives me the creeps. "

"All the more likely that you'll do well in it, my pet, " said MadameDoulce. "We never enter more thoroughly into our parts than when we doso by main force, and in spite of ourselves. I could give you manyexamples. I myself, in _La Vivandière d'Austerlitz_, staggered the houseby my gaiety of tone, when I had just been informed that my Doulce, sogreat an artist and so good a husband, had had an epileptic fit in theorchestra at the Odéon, just as he was picking up his cornet. "

"Why do they insist on my being nothing but an _ingénue_?" inquiredNanteuil, who wanted to play the woman in love, the brilliant coquette, and every part a woman could play. 

"That is quite natural, " persisted Madame Doulce. "Comedy is animitative art; and you imitate an art all the better for not feeling ityourself. "

"Do not delude yourself, my child, " said the doctor to Félicie. "Once an_ingénue_, always an _ingénue_. You are born an Angélique or a Dorine, aCélimène or a Madame Pernelle. On the stage, some women are alwaystwenty, others are always thirty, others again are always sixty. As foryou, Mademoiselle Nanteuil, you will always be eighteen, and you willalways be an _ingénue_. "

"I am quite content with my work, " replied Nanteuil, "but you cannotexpect me to play all _ingénues_ with the same pleasure. There is onepart, for example, which I long to play, and that is Agnès in _L'Écoledes femmes_. "

At the mere mention of the name of Agnès, the doctor murmureddelightedly from among his cushions:

 "Mes yeux ont-ils du mal pour en donner au monde?"

"Agnès, that's a part if you like!" exclaimed Nanteuil. "I have askedPradel to give it me. "

Pradel, the manager of the theatre, was an ex-comedian, a wideawake, genial fellow, who had got rid of his illusions and nourished noexaggerated hopes. He loved peace, books and women. Nanteuil had everyreason to speak well of Pradel, and she referred to him without anyfeeling of ill will, and with frank directness. 

"It was shameful, disgusting, rotten of him, " she said. "He wouldn't letme play Agnès and gave the part to Falempin. I must say, though, thatwhen I asked him I didn't go the right way about it. While she knows howto tackle him, if you like! But what do I care! If Pradel doesn't letme play Agnès, he can go to the deuce, and his dirty Punch and Judy showtoo!"

Madame Doulce continued to lavish her unheeded precepts. She was anactress of merits but she was old and worn out, and no longer obtainedany engagements. She gave advice to beginners, wrote their letters forthem, and thus, in the morning or evenings earned what was almost everyday her only meal. 

"Doctor, " asked Félicie, while Madame Michon was fastening a blackvelvet ribbon round her neck: "You say that my fits of dizziness are dueto my stomach. Are you sure of that?"

Before Trublet could answer, Madame Doulce exclaimed that fits ofdizziness always proceeded from the stomach, and that two or three hoursafter meals she experienced a feeling of distension in hers, and shethereupon asked the doctor for a remedy. 

Félicie, however, was thinking, for she was capable of thought. 

"Doctor, " she said suddenly, "I want to ask you a question, which youmay possibly think a droll one; but I do really want to know whether, considering that you know just what there is in the human body, and thatyou have seen all the things we have inside us, it doesn't embarrassyou, at certain moments, in your dealings with women? It seems to methat the idea of all that must disgust you. "

From the depths of his cushions Trublet, wafting a kiss to Félicie, replied:

"My dear child, there is no more exquisitely delicate, rich, andbeautiful tissue than the skin of a pretty woman. That is what I wastelling myself just now, while contemplating the back of your neck, andyou will readily understand that, under such an impression----"

She made a grimace at him like that of a disdainful monkey. 

"You think it witty, I suppose, to talk nonsense when anyone asks you aserious question?"

"Well, then, since you wish it, mademoiselle, you shall have aninstructive answer. Some twenty years ago we had, in the post-mortemroom at the Hôpital Saint-Joseph, a drunken old watchman, named DaddyRousseau, who every day at eleven o'clock used to lunch at the end ofthe table on which the corpse was lying. He ate his lunch because he washungry. Nothing prevents people who are hungry from eating as soon asthey have got something to eat. Only Daddy Rousseau used to say: 'Idon't know whether it is because of the atmosphere of the room, but Imust have something fresh and appetizing. '"

"I understand, " said Félicie. "Little flower-girls are what you want. But you mustn't, you know. And there you are seated like a Turk and youhaven't written out my prescription yet. " She cast an inquiring glanceat him. "Where is the stomach exactly?"

The door had remained ajar. A young man, a very pretty fellow andextremely fashionable, pushed it open, and, having taken a couple ofsteps into the dressing-room, inquired politely whether he might comein. 

"Oh, it's you!" said Nanteuil. And she stretched out her hand, which hekissed with pleasure, ceremony and fatuity. 

"How are you, Doctor Socrates?" he inquired, without wasting anyparticular courtesies on Madame Doulce. 

Trublet was often accosted in this manner, because of his snub-nose andhis subtle speech. Pointing to Nanteuil, he said:

"Monsieur de Ligny, you see before you a young lady who is not quitesure whether she has a stomach. It is a serious question. We advise herto refer, for the answer, to the little girl who ate too much jam. Hermother said to her: 'You will injure your stomach. ' The child replied:'It's only ladies who have stomachs; little girls haven't any. '"

"Heavens, how silly you are, doctor!" cried Nanteuil. 

"I would you spoke the truth, mademoiselle. Silliness is the capacityfor happiness. It is the sovereign content. It is the prime asset in acivilized society. "

"You are paradoxical, my dear doctor, " remarked Monsieur de Ligny. "ButI grant you that it is better to be silly as everybody is silly than tobe clever as no one else is clever. "

"It's true, what Robert says!" exclaimed Nanteuil, sincerely impressed. And she added thoughtfully: "At any rate, doctor, one thing is certain. It is that stupidity often prevents one from doing stupid things. I havenoticed that many a time. Whether you take men or women, those are notthe most stupid who act the most stupidly. For example, there areintelligent women who are stupid about men. "

"You mean those who cannot do without them. "

"There's no hiding anything from you, my little Socrates. "

"Ah, " sighed the big Doulce, "what a terrible slavery it is! Every womanwho cannot control her senses is lost to art. "

Nanteuil shrugged her pretty shoulders, which still retained somethingof the angularity of youth. 

"Oh, my great-grandmother! Don't try to kid the youngsters! What anidea! In your days, did actresses control their--how did you put it?Fiddlesticks! They didn't control them a scrap!"

Noticing that Nanteuil's temper was rising, the bulky Doulce retiredwith dignity and prudence. Once in the passage, she vouchsafed a furtherword of advice:

"Remember, my darling, to play Angélique as a 'bud. ' The part requiresit. "

But Nanteuil, her nerves on edge, took no notice. 

"Really, " she said, sitting down before her dressing-table, "she makesme boil, that old Doulce, with her morality. Does she think people haveforgotten her adventures? If so, she is mistaken. Madame Ravaud tellsone of them six days out of seven. Everybody knows that she reduced herhusband, the musician, to such a state of exhaustion that one night hetumbled into his cornet. As for her lovers, magnificent men, just askMadame Michon. Why, in less than two years she made mere shadows ofthem, mere puffs of breath. That's the way she controlled them! Andsupposing anyone had told her that she was lost to art!"

Dr. Trublet extended his two hands, palms outward, towards Nanteuil, asthough to stop her. 

"Do not excite yourself, my child. Madame Doulce is sincere. She usedto love men, now she loves God. One loves what one can, as one can, andwith what one has. She has become chaste and pious at the fitting age. She is diligent in the practices of her religion: she goes to Mass onSundays and feast days, she----"

"Well, she is right to go to Mass, " asserted Nanteuil "Michon, light acandle for me, to heat my rouge. I must do my lips again. Certainly, sheis quite right to go to Mass, but religion does not forbid one to have alover. "

"You think not?" asked the doctor. 

"I know my religion better than you, that's certain!"

A lugubrious bell sounded, and the mournful voice of the call-boy washeard in the corridors:

"The curtain-raiser is over!"

Nanteuil rose, and slipped over her wrist a velvet ribbon ornamentedwith a steel medallion. Madame Michon was on her knees arranging thethree Watteau pleats of the pink dress, and, with her mouth full ofpins, delivered herself from one corner of her lips of the followingmaxim:

"There is one good thing in being old, men cannot make you suffer anymore. "

Robert de Ligny took a cigarette from his case. 

"May I?" And he moved toward the lighted candle on the dressing-table. 

Nanteuil, who never took her eyes off him, saw beneath his moustache, red and light as flame, his lips, ruddy in the candlelight, drawing inand puffing out the smoke. She felt a slight warmth in her ears. Pretending to look among her trinkets, she grazed Ligny's neck with herlips, and whispered to him:

"Wait for me after the show, in a cab, at the corner of the Rue deTournon. "

At this moment the sound of voices and footsteps was heard in thecorridor. The actors in the curtain-raiser were returning to theirdressing-rooms. 

"Doctor, pass me your newspaper. "

"It is highly uninteresting, mademoiselle. "

"Never mind, pass it over. "

She took it and held it like a screen above her head. 

"The light makes my eyes ache, " she observed. 

It was true that a too brilliant light would sometimes give her aheadache. But she had just seen herself in the glass. With herblue-tinted eyelids, her eyelashes smeared with a black paste, hergrease-painted cheeks, her lips tinted red in the shape of a tiny heart, it seemed to her she looked like a painted corpse with glass eyes, andshe did not wish Ligny to see her thus. 

While she was keeping her face in the shadow of the newspaper a tall, lean young man entered the dressing-room with a swaggering gait. Hismelancholy eyes were deeply sunken above a nose like a crow's beak; hismouth was set in a petrified grin. The Adam's apple of his long throatmade a deep shadow on his stock. He was dressed as a stage bailiff. 

"That you, Chevalier? How are you, my friend?" gaily inquired Dr. Trublet, who was fond of actors, preferred the bad ones, and had aspecial liking for Chevalier. 

"Come in, everybody!" cried Nanteuil "This isn't a dressing-room; it's amill. "

"My respects, none the less, Mme. Miller!" replied Chevalier, "I warnyou, there's a pack of idiots out in front. Would you believe it--theyshut me up!"

"That's no reason for walking in without knocking, " replied Nanteuilsnappishly. 

The doctor pointed out that Monsieur de Ligny had left the door open;whereupon Nanteuil, turning to Ligny, said in a tone of tender reproach:

"Did you really leave the door open? But, when one comes into a room, one closes the door on other people: it is one of the first things oneis taught. "

She wrapped herself in a white blanket-cloak. 

The call-boy summoned the players to the stage. 

She grasped the hand which Ligny offered her, and, exploring his wristwith her fingers, dug her nail into the spot, close to the veins, wherethe skin is tender. Then she disappeared into the dark corridor. 

CHAPTER II

Chevalier, having resumed his ordinary clothes, sat in a corner box, beside Madame Doulce, gazing at Félicie, a small remote figure on thestage. And remembering the days when he had held her in his arms, in hisattic in the Rue des Martyrs, he wept with grief and rage. 

They had met last year at a fête given under the patronage of Lecureuil, the deputy; a benefit performance given in aid of poor actors of theninth _arrondissement_. He had prowled around her, dumb, famishing, andwith blazing eyes. For a whole fortnight he had pursued her incessantly. Cold and unmoved, she had appeared to ignore him. Then, suddenly, shesurrendered; so suddenly that when he left her that day, still radiantand amazed, he had said a stupid thing. He had told her: "And I took youfor a little bit of china!" For three whole months he had tasted joysacute as pain. Then Félicie had grown elusive, remote, and estranged. She loved him no longer. He sought the reason, but could not discoverit. It tortured him to know that he was no longer loved; jealousytortured him still more. It was true that in the first beautiful hoursof his love he had known that Félicie had a lover, one Girmandel, acourt bailiff, who lived in the Rue de Provence, and he had felt itdeeply. But as he never saw him he had formed so confused andill-defined an idea of him that his jealousy lost itself in uncertainty. Félicie assured him that she had never been more than passive in herintercourse with Girmandel, that she had not even pretended to care forhim. He believed her, and this belief gave him the keenest satisfaction. She also told him that for a long time past, for months, Girmandel hadbeen nothing more than a friend, and he believed her. In short, he wasdeceiving the bailiff, and it was agreeable to him to feel that heenjoyed this advantage. He had learned also that Félicie, who was justfinishing her second year at the Conservatoire, had not denied herselfto her professor. But the grief which he had felt because of this wassoftened by a time-honoured and venerable custom. Now Robert de Lignywas causing him intolerable suffering. For some time past he had foundhim incessantly dangling about her. He could not doubt that she lovedRobert; and although he sometimes told himself that she had not yetgiven herself to this man, it was not that he believed it, but merelythat he was fain sometimes to mitigate the bitterness of hissufferings. 

Mechanical applause broke out at the back of the theatre, and a fewmembers of the orchestra, murmuring inaudibly, clapped their handsslowly and noiselessly. Nanteuil had just given her last reply to JeannePerrin. 

"_Brava! Brava!_ She is delightful, dear little woman!" sighed MadameDoulce. 

In his jealous anger, Chevalier was disloyal. Lifting a finger to hisforehead, he remarked:

"She plays with _that_. " Then, placing his hand upon his heart, headded: "It is with this that one should act. "

"Thanks, dear friend, thanks!" murmured Madame Doulce, who read intothese maxims an obvious eulogy of herself. 

She was, indeed, in the habit of asserting that all good acting comesfrom the heart; she maintained that, to give full expression to apassion, it was necessary to experience it, and to feel in one's ownperson the expressions that one wished to represent. She was fond ofreferring to herself as an example of this. When appearing as a tragedyqueen, after draining a goblet of poison on the stage, her bowels hadbeen on fire all night. Nevertheless she was given to saying: "Thedramatic art is an imitative art, and one imitates an emotion all thebetter for not having experienced it. " And to illustrate this maxim shedrew yet further examples from her triumphant career. 

She gave a deep sigh. 

"The child is admirably gifted. But she is to be pitied; she has beenborn into a bad period. There is no longer a public nowadays; nocritics, no plays, no theatres, no artists. It is a decadence of art. "

Chevalier shook his head. 

"No need to pity her, " he said. "She will have all that she can wish;she will succeed; she will be wealthy. She is a selfish little jade, anda woman who is selfish can get anything she likes. But for people withhearts there's nothing left but to hang a stone round one's neck andthrow oneself into the river. But, I too, I shall go far. I, too, shallclimb high. I, too, will be a selfish hound. "

He got up and went out without waiting for the end of the play. He didnot return to Félicie's dressing-room for fear of meeting Ligny there, the sight of whom was insupportable, and because by avoiding it he couldpretend to himself that Ligny had not returned thither. 

Conscious of physical distress on going away from her, he took five orsix turns under the dark, deserted arcades of the Odéon, went down thesteps into the night, and turned up the Rue de Médicis. Coachmen weredozing on their boxes, while waiting for the end of the performance, andhigh over the tops of the plane-trees the moon was racing through theclouds. Treasuring in his heart an absurd yet soothing remnant of hope, he went, this night, as on other nights, to wait for Félicie at hermother's flat. 

CHAPTER III

Madame Nanteuil lived with her daughter in a little flat on the fifthstory of a house in the Boulevard Saint-Michel, whose windows openedupon the garden of the Luxembourg. She gave Chevalier a friendlywelcome, for she thought kindly of him because he loved Félicie, andbecause the latter did not love him in return, and ignored on principlethe fact that he had been her daughter's lover. 

She made him sit beside her in the dining-room, where a coke fire wasburning in the stove. In the lamplight army revolvers and sabres withgolden tassels on the sword-knots gleamed upon the wall. They were hungabout a woman's cuirass, which was provided with round breast-shields oftin-plate; a piece of armour which Félicie had worn last winter, whilestill a pupil at the Conservatoire, when taking the part of Joan of Arcat the house of a spiritualistic duchess. An officer's widow and themother of an actress, Madame Nanteuil, whose real name was Nantean, treasured these trophies. 

"Félicie is not back yet, Monsieur Chevalier. I don't expect her beforemidnight. She is on the stage till the end of the play. "

"I know; I was in the first piece. I left the theatre after the firstact of _La Mère confidente_. 

"Oh, Monsieur Chevalier, why didn't you stay till the end? My daughterwould have been so pleased if you had waited. When one is acting onelikes to have friends in the house. "

Chevalier replied ambiguously:

"Oh, as to friends, there are plenty of those about. "

"You are mistaken, Monsieur Chevalier; good friends are scarce. MadameDoulce was there, of course? Was she pleased with Félicie?" And sheadded, with great humility: "I should indeed be happy if she couldreally make a hit. It is so difficult to come to the fore in herprofession, for a girl who is alone, without support, without influence!And it is so necessary for her to succeed, poor child!"

Chevalier did not feel disposed to lavish any pity upon Félicie. With ashrug of the shoulders he replied bluntly:

"No need to worry about that. She'll get on. She is an actress heart andsoul. She has it in her bones, down to her very legs. "

Madame Nanteuil indulged in a quiet smile. 

"Poor child! They are not very plump, her legs. Félicie's health is notbad, but she must not overdo it. She often has fits of giddiness, andsick headaches. "

The servant came in to place on the table a dish of fried sausage, abottle of wine, and a few plates. 

Meanwhile, Chevalier was searching in his mind for some appropriatefashion of asking a question which had been on the tip of his tongueever since he had set foot on the stairs. He wanted to know whetherFélicie was still meeting Girmandel, whose name he never heard mentionednowadays. We are given to conceiving desires which suit themselves toour condition. Now, in the misery of his existence, in the distress ofhis heart, he was full of an eager desire that Félicie, who loved him nolonger, should love Girmandel, whom she loved but little, and he hopedwith all his heart that Girmandel would keep her for him, would possessher wholly, and leave nothing of her for Robert de Ligny. The idea thatthe girl might be with Girmandel appeased his jealousy, and he dreadedto learn that she had broken with him. 

Of course he would never have allowed himself to question a mother as toher daughter's lovers. But it was permissible to speak of Girmandel toMadame Nanteuil, who saw nothing that was other than respectable in therelations of her household with the Government official, who waswell-to-do, married, and the father of two charming daughters. To bringGirmandel's name into the conversation he had only to resort to astratagem. Chevalier hit upon one which he thought was ingenious. 

"By the way, " he remarked, "I saw Girmandel just now in a carriage. "

Madame Nanteuil made no comment. 

"He was driving down the Boulevard Saint-Michel in a cab. I certainlythought I recognized him. I should be greatly surprised if it wasn'the. "

Madame Nanteuil made no comment. 

"His fair beard, his high colour--he's an easy man to recognize, Girmandel. "

Madame Nanteuil made no comment. 

"You were very friendly with him at one time, you and Félicie. Do youstill see him?"

"Monsieur Girmandel? Oh yes, we still see him, " replied Madame Nanteuilsoftly. 

These words made Chevalier feel almost happy. But she had deceived him;she had not spoken the truth. She had lied out of self-respect, and inorder not to reveal a domestic secret which she regarded as derogatoryto the honour of her family. The truth was that, being carried away byher passion for Ligny, Félicie had given Girmandel the go-by, and he, being a man of the world, had promptly cut off supplies. MadameNanteuil, despite her years, had resumed an old lover, out of her lovefor her child, that she might not want for anything. She had renewed herformer liaison with Tony Meyer, the picture-dealer in the Rue de Clichy. Tony Meyer was a poor substitute for Girmandel; he was none too freewith his money. Madame Nanteuil, who was wise and knew the value ofthings, did not complain on that account, and she was rewarded for herdevotion, for, in the six weeks during which she had been loved anew, she had grown young again. 

Chevalier, following up his idea, inquired:

"You would hardly say that Girmandel was still a young man, would you?"

"He is not old, " said Madame Nanteuil. "A man is not old at forty. "

"A bit used up, isn't he?"

"Oh, dear no, " replied Madame Nanteuil, quite calmly. 

Chevalier became thoughtful and was silent. Madame Nanteuil began tonod. Then, being aroused from her somnolence by the servant, who broughtin the salt-cellar and the water-bottle, she inquired:

"And you, Monsieur Chevalier, is all well with you?"

No, all was not well with him. The critics were out to "down" him. Andthe proof that they had combined against him was that they all said thesame thing; they said his face lacked expression. 

"My face lacking in expression!" he cried indignantly. "They should havecalled it a predestined face. Madame Nanteuil, I aim high, and it isthat which does me harm. For example, in _La Nuit du 23 octobre_, whichis being rehearsed now, I am Florentin: I have only six lines; it's awashout. But I have increased the importance of the characterenormously. Durville is furious. He deliberately crabs all my effects. "

Madame Nanteuil, placid and kindly, found words to comfort him. Obstacles there were, no doubt, but in the end one overcame them. Herown daughter had fallen foul of the ill-will of certain critics. 

"Half-past twelve!" said Chevalier gloomily. "Félicie is late. "

Madame Nanteuil supposed that she had been detained by Madame Doulce. 

"Madame Doulce as a rule undertakes to see her home, and you know shenever hurries herself. "

Chevalier rose, as if to take his leave, to show that he remembered hismanners. Madame Nanteuil begged him to stay. 

"Don't go; Félicie won't be long now. She will be pleased to find youhere. You will have supper with her. "

Madame Nanteuil dozed off again in her chair. Chevalier sat gazing insilence at the clock hanging on the wall, and as the hand travelledacross the dial he felt a burning wound in his heart, which grew biggerand bigger, and each little stroke of the pendulum touched him to thequick, lending a keener eye to his jealousy, by recording the momentswhich Félicie was passing with Ligny. For he was now convinced that theywere together. The stillness of the night, interrupted only by themuffled sound of the cabs bowling along the boulevard, gave reality tothe thoughts and images which tortured him. He could see them. 

Awakened with a start by the sound of singing on the pavement below, Madame Nanteuil returned to the thought with which she had fallenasleep. 

"That's what I am always telling Félicie; one mustn't be discouraged. One should not lose heart. We all have our ups and downs in life. "

Chevalier nodded acquiescence. 

"But those who suffer, " he said, "only get what they deserve. It needsbut a moment to free oneself from all one's troubles. Isn't it so?"

She admitted the fact; certainly there were such things as suddenopportunities, especially on the stage. 

"Heaven knows, " he continued in a deep, brooding voice, "it's not thestage I am worrying about. I know I shall make a name for myself oneday, and a big one. But what's the good of being a great artist if oneisn't happy? There are stupid worries which are terrible! Pains thatthrob in your temples with strokes as even and as regular as the tickingof that clock, till they drive you mad!"

He ceased speaking; the gloomy gaze of his deep-set eyes fell upon thetrophy hanging on the wall. Then he continued:

"These stupid worries, these ridiculous sufferings, if one endures themtoo long, it simply means that one is a coward. "

And he felt the butt of the revolver which he always carried in hispocket. 

Madame Nanteuil listened to him serenely, with that gentle determinationnot to know anything, which had been her one talent in life. 

"Another dreadful thing, " she observed, "is to decide what to have toeat. Félicie is sick of everything. There's no knowing what to get forher. "

After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out intodetached phrases, which had no particular meaning. Madame Nanteuil, theservant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Féliciein depressing silence. The clock struck one. Chevalier's suffering hadby this time attained the serenity of a flood tide. He was now certain. The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly alongthe street. The rumbling of one of these cabs suddenly ceased outside thehouse. A few seconds later he heard the slight grating of a key in thelock, the slamming of the door, and light footsteps in the outer room. 

The clock marked twenty-three minutes past one. He was suddenly full ofagitation, yet hopeful. She had come! Who could tell what she would say?She might offer the most natural explanation of her late arrival. 

Félicie entered the room, her hair in disorder, her eyes shining, hercheeks white, her bruised lips a vivid red; she was tired, indifferent, mute, happy and lovely, seeming to guard beneath her cloak, which sheheld wrapped about her with both hands, some remnant of warmth andvoluptuous pleasure. 

"I was beginning to be worried, " said her mother. "Aren't you going tounfasten your cloak?"

"I'm hungry, " she replied. She dropped into a chair before the littleround table. Throwing her cloak over the back of the chair, she revealedher slender figure in its little black schoolgirl's dress, and, restingher left elbow on the oil-cloth table-cover, she proceeded to stick herfork into the sliced sausage. 

"Did everything go off well to-night?" asked Madame Nanteuil. 

"Quite well. "

"You see Chevalier has come to keep you company. It is kind of him, isn't it?"

"Oh, Chevalier! Well, let him come to the table. "

And, without replying further to her mother's questions, she began toeat, greedy and charming, like Ceres in the old woman's house. Then shepushed aside her plate, and leaning back in her chair, with half-closedeyes, and parted lips, she smiled a smile that was akin to a kiss. 

Madame Nanteuil, having drunk her glass of mulled wine, rose to her feet. 

"You will excuse me, Monsieur Chevalier, I have my accounts to bring upto date. "

This was the formula which she usually employed to announce that she wasgoing to bed. 

Left alone with Félicie, Chevalier said to her angrily:

"I know I'm a fool and a groveller; but I'm going mad for love of you. Do you hear, Félicie?"

"I should think I do hear. You needn't shout like that!"

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

"No, it's not ridiculous, it's----"

She did not complete the sentence. 

He drew nearer to her, dragging his chair with him. 

"You came in at twenty-five minutes past one. It was Ligny who saw youhome, I know it. He brought you back in a cab, I heard it stop outsidethe house. "

As she did not reply, he continued:

"Deny it, if you can!"

She remained silent, and he repeated, in an urgent, almost appealingtone:

"Tell me he didn't!"

Had she been so inclined, she might, with a phrase, with a single word, with a tiny movement of head or shoulders, have rendered him perfectlysubmissive, and almost happy. But she maintained a malicious silence. With compressed lips and a far-off look in her eyes, she seemed asthough lost in a dream. 

He sighed hoarsely. 

"Fool that I was, I didn't think of that! I told myself you would comehome, as on other nights, with Madame Doulce, or else alone. If I hadonly known that you were going to let that fellow see you home!"

"Well, what would you have done, had you known it?"

"I should have followed you, by God!"

She stared at him with hard, unnaturally bright eyes. 

"That I forbid you to do! Understand me! If I learn that you havefollowed me, even once, I'll never see you again. To begin with, youhaven't the right to follow me. I suppose I am free to do as I like. "

Choking with astonishment and anger, he stammered:

"Haven't the right to? Haven't the right to? You tell me I haven't theright?"

"No, you haven't the right! Moreover, I won't have it. " Her face assumedan expression of disgust. "It's a mean trick to spy on a woman, if youonce try to find out where I'm going, I'll send you about your business, and quickly at that. "

"Then, " he murmured, thunderstruck, "we are nothing to each other, I amnothing to you. We have never belonged to each other. But see, Félicie, remember----"

But she was losing patience:

"Well, what do you want me to remember?"

"Félicie, remember that you gave yourself to me!"

"My dear boy, you really can't expect me to think of that all day. Itwouldn't be proper. "

He looked at her for a while, more in curiosity than in anger, and saidto her, half bitterly, half gently:

"They may well call you a selfish little jade! Be one, Félicie, be one, as much as you like! What does it matter, since I love you? You aremine; I am going to take you back; I am going to take you back, and keepyou. Think! I can't go on suffering for ever, like a poor dumb beast. Listen. I'll start with a clean slate. Let us begin to love one anotherover again. And this time it will be all right. And you'll be mine forgood, mine only. I am an honest man; you know that. You can depend onme. I'll marry you as soon as I've got a position. "

She gazed at him with disdainful surprise. He believed that she haddoubts as to his dramatic future, and, in order to banish them, he said, erect on his long legs:

"Don't you believe in my star, Félicie? You are wrong. I can feel that Iam capable of creating great parts. Let them only give me a part, andthey'll see. And I have in me not only comedy, but drama, tragedy--yes, tragedy. I can deliver verse properly. And that is a talent which isbecoming rare in these days. So don't imagine, Félicie, that I aminsulting you when I offer you marriage. Far from it! We will marrylater on, as soon as it is possible and suitable. Of course, there isno need for hurry. Meanwhile, we will resume our pleasant habits of theRue des Martyrs. You remember, Félicie; we were so happy there! The bedwasn't wide, but we used to say: "That doesn't matter. " I have now twofine rooms in the Rue de la Montagne-Saint-Geneviève, behindSaint-Étienne-du-Mont. Your portrait hangs on every wall. You will findthere the little bed of the Rue des Martyrs. Listen to me, I beg of you:I have suffered too much; I will not suffer any longer. I demand thatyou shall be mine, mine only. "

While he was speaking, Félicie had taken from the mantelpiece the packof cards with which her mother played every night, and was spreadingthem out on the table. 

"Mine only. You hear me, Félicie. "

"Don't disturb me, I am busy with a game of patience. "

"Listen to me, Félicie. I won't have you receiving that fool in yourdressing-room. "

Looking at her cards she murmured:

"All the blacks are at the bottom of the pack. "

"I say that fool. He is a diplomatist, and nowadays the Ministry ofForeign Affairs is the refuge of incompetents. " Raising his voice, hecontinued: "Félicie, for your own sake, as well as for mine, listen tome!"

"Well, don't shout, then. Mama is asleep. "

He continued in muffled tones:

"Just get it into your head that I don't intend that Ligny shall be yourlover. "

She raised her spiteful little face, and replied:

"And if he is my lover?"

He moved a step closer to her, raising his chair, gazing at her with theeye of a madman, and laughing a cracked laugh. 

"If he is your lover, he won't be so for long. "

And he dropped the chair. 

Now she was alarmed. She forced herself to smile. 

"You know very well I'm joking!"

She succeeded without much difficulty in making him believe that she hadspoken thus merely to punish him, because he was getting unbearable. Hebecame calmer. She then informed him that she was tired out, that shewas dropping with sleep. At last he decided to go home. On the landinghe turned, and said:

"Félicie, I advise you, if you wish to avoid a tragedy, not to see Lignyagain. "

She cried through the half-open door:

"Knock on the window of the porter's lodge, so that he can let youout!"

CHAPTER IV

In the dark auditorium large linen sheets protected the balcony and theboxes. The orchestra was covered with a huge dust-cloth, which, beingturned back at the edges, left room for a few human figures, indistinctly seen in the gloom: actors, scene-shifters, costumiers, friends of the manager, mothers and lovers and actresses. Here and thereshone a pair of eyes from the black recesses of the boxes. 

They were rehearsing, for the fifty-sixth time, _La Nuit du 23 octobre1812_, a celebrated drama, dating twenty years back, which had not asyet been performed in this theatre. The actors knew their parts, and thefollowing day had been chosen for that last private rehearsal which onstages less austere than that of the Odéon is known as "the dressmakers'rehearsal. "

Nanteuil had no part in the play. But she had had business at thetheatre that day, and, as she had been informed that Marie-Claire wasexecrable in the part of General Malet's wife, she had come to have apeep at her, concealed in the depths of a box. 

The great scene of the second act was about to begin. The stage settingrepresented an attic in the private asylum where the conspirator wasconfined in 1812. Durville, who filled the part of General Malet, hadjust made his entrance. He was rehearsing in costume: a long bluefrock-coat, with a collar reaching above his ears, and riding-breechesof chamois leather. He had even gone so far as to make up his face forthe part, the clean-shaven soldierly face of the general of the Empire, ornamented with the "hare's-foot" whiskers which were handed down by thevictors of Austerlitz to their sons, the bourgeois of July. Standingerect, his right elbow resting in his left hand, his brow supported byhis right hand, his deep voice and his tight-fitting breeches expressedhis pride. 

"Alone, and without funds, from the depths of a prison, to attack thiscolossus, who commands a million soldiers, and who causes all thepeoples and kings of Europe to tremble. Well, this colossus shall fallcrashing to the ground. "

From the back of the stage old Maury, who was playing the conspiratorJacquemont, delivered his reply:

"He may crush us in his downfall. "

Suddenly cries at once plaintive and angry arose from the orchestra. 

The author was exploding. He was a man of seventy, brimming over withyouth. 

"What do I see there at the back of the stage? It's not an actor, it's afire-place. We shall have to send for the bricklayers, themarble-workers, to move it. Maury, do get a move on, confound you!"

Maury shifted his position. 

"He may crush us in his downfall. I realize that it will not be yourfault, General. Your proclamation is excellent. You promise them aconstitution, liberty, equality. It is Machiavellian. "

Durville replied:

"And in the best sense. An incorrigible breed, they are making ready toviolate the oaths that they have not yet taken, and, because they lie, they believe themselves Machiavellis. What will you do with absolutepower, you simpletons?"

The strident voice of the author ground out:

"You are right off the track, Dauville. "

"I?" asked the astonished Durville. 

"Yes, you, Dauville, you do not understand a word of what you aresaying. "

In order to humiliate them, "to take them down a peg, " this man who, inthe whole course of his life, had never forgotten the name of adairy-woman or a hall-porter, disdained to remember the names of themost illustrious actors. 

"Dauville, my friend, just do that over again for me. "

He could play every part well. Jovial, funereal, violent, tender, impetuous, affectionate, he assumed at will a deep or a piping voice; hesighed, he roared, he laughed, he wept. He could transform himself, likethe man in the fairy-tale, into a flame, a river, a woman, a tiger. 

In the wings the actors exchanged only short and meaningless phrases. Their freedom of speech, their easy morals, the familiarity of theirmanners did not prevent their retaining so much of hypocrisy as isneedful, in any assemblage of men, if people are to look upon oneanother without feelings of horror and disgust. There even prevailed, inthis workshop in full activity, a seemly appearance of harmony andunion, a oneness of feeling created by the thought, lofty orcommonplace, of the author, a spirit of order which compelled allrivalries and all illwill to transform themselves into goodwill andharmonious co-operation. 

Nanteuil, sitting in her box, felt uneasy at the thought that Chevalierwas close at hand. For the last two days, since the night on which hehad uttered his obscure threats, she had not seen him again and the fearwith which he had inspired her still possessed her. "Félicie, if youwish to prevent a tragedy, I advise you not to see Ligny again. " Whatdid those words portend? She pondered deeply over Chevalier. This youngfellow, who, only two days earlier, had seemed to her commonplace andinsignificant, of whom she had seen a good deal too much, whom she knewby heart--how mysterious and full of secrets he now appeared to her! Howsuddenly it had dawned upon her that she did not know him! Of what washe capable? She tried to guess. What was he going to do? Probablynothing. All men who are thrown over by a woman utter threats and donothing. But was Chevalier a man quite like all the rest? People did saythat he was crazy. That was mere talk. But she herself did not feel surethat there might not be a spark of insanity in him. She was studying himnow with genuine interest. Highly intelligent herself, she had neverdiscovered any great signs of intelligence in him; but he had on severaloccasions astonished her by the obstinacy of his will. She couldremember his performing acts of the fiercest energy. Jealous by nature, there were yet certain matters which he understood. He knew what a womanis compelled to do in order to win a place on the stage, or to dressherself properly; but he could not endure to be deceived for the sake oflove. Was he the sort of man to commit a crime, to do somethingdreadful? That was what she could not decide. She recalled his mania forhandling firearms. When she used to visit him in the Rue des Martyrs, she always found him in his room, taking an old shot-gun to pieces andcleaning it. And yet he never went shooting. He boasted of being a deadshot, and carried a revolver on his person. But what did that prove?Never before had she thought so much about him. 

Nanteuil was tormenting herself in this fashion in her box, when JennyFagette came to join her there; Jenny Fagette, slender and fragile, theincarnation of Alfred de Musset's Muse, who at night wore out her eyesof periwinkle-blue by scribbling society notes and fashion articles. Amediocre actress, but a clever and wonderfully energetic woman, she wasNanteuil's most intimate friend. They recognized in each otherremarkable qualities, qualities which differed from those which eachdiscovered in herself, and they acted in concert as the two great Powersof the Odéon. Nevertheless, Fagette was doing her best to take Lignyaway from her friend; not from inclination, for she was insensible as astick and held men in contempt, but with the idea that a liaison with adiplomatist would procure her certain advantages, and above all, inorder not to miss the opportunity of doing something scandalous. Nanteuil was aware of this. She knew that all her sister-actresses, Ellen Midi, Duvernet, Herschell, Falempin, Stella, Marie-Claire, weretrying to take Ligny from her. She had seen Louise Dalle, who dressedlike a music-mistress, and always had the air of being about to storm anomnibus, and retained, even in her provocations and accidental contacts, the appearance of incurable respectability, pursue Ligny with her lankylegs, and beset him with the glances of a poverty-stricken Pasiphae. Shehad also surprised the oldest actress of the theatre, their excellentmother Ravaud, in a corridor, baring, at Ligny's approach, all that wasleft to her, her magnificent arms, which had been famous for fortyyears. 

Fagette, with disgust, and the tip of a gloved finger, called Nanteuil'sattention to the scene through which Durville, old Maury andMarie-Claire were struggling. 

"Just look at those people. They look as if they were playing at thebottom of thirty fathoms of water. "

"It's because the top lights are not lit. "

"Not a bit of it. This theatre always looks as if it were at the bottomof the sea. And to think that I, too, in a moment, have to enter thataquarium. Nanteuil, you must not stop longer than one season in thistheatre. One is drowned in it. But look at them, look at them!"

Durville was becoming almost ventriloqual in order to seem more solemnand more virile:

"Peace, the abolition of the combined martial and civil law, and ofconscription, higher pay for the troops; in the absence of funds, a fewdrafts on the bank, a few commissions suitably distributed, these areinfallible means. "

Madame Doulce entered the box. Unfastening her cloak with its patheticlining of old rabbit-skin, she produced a small dog's-eared book. 

"They are Madame de Sévigné's letters, " she said. "You know that nextSunday I am going to give a reading of the best of Madame de Sévigné'sletters. "

"Where?" asked Fagette. 

"Salle Renard. "

It must have been some remote and little known hall, for Nanteuil andFagette had not heard of it. 

"I am giving this reading for the benefit of the three poor orphans leftby Lacour, the actor, who died so sadly of consumption this winter. I amcounting on you, my darlings, to dispose of some tickets for me. "

"All the same, she really is ridiculous, Marie-Claire!" said Nanteuil. 

Some one scratched at the door of the box. It was Constantin Marc, theyouthful author of a play, _La Grille_, which the Odéon was going torehearse immediately; and Constantin Marc, although a countryman livingin the forest, could henceforth breathe only in the theatre. Nanteuilwas to take the principal part in the play. He gazed upon her withemotion, as the precious amphora destined to be the receptacle of histhought. 

Meanwhile Durville continued hoarsely:

"If our France can be saved only at the price of our life and honour, Ishall say, with the man of '93: 'Perish our memory!'"

Fagette pointed her finger at a bloated youth, who was sitting in theorchestra, resting his chin on his walking-stick. 

"Isn't that Baron Deutz?"

"Need you ask!" replied Nanteuil. "Ellen Midi is in the cast. She playsin the fourth act. Baron Deutz has come to display himself. "

"Just wait a minute, my children; I have a word to say to thatill-mannered cub. He met me yesterday in the Place de la Concorde, andhe didn't bow to me. "

"What, Baron Deutz? He couldn't have seen you!"

"He saw me perfectly well. But he was with his people. I am going tohave him on toast. Just you watch, my dears. "

She called him very softly:

"Deutz! Deutz!"

The Baron came towards her, smiling and well-pleased with himself, andleaned his elbows on the edge of the box. 

"Tell me, Monsieur Deutz, when you met me yesterday, were you in verybad company that you did not raise your hat to me?"

He looked at her in astonishment. 

"I? I was with my sister. "

"Oh!"

On the stage, Marie-Claire, hanging upon Durville's neck, wasexclaiming:

"Go! Victorious or defeated, in good or evil fortune, your glory will beequally great. Come what may, I shall know how to show myself the wifeof a hero. "

"That will do, Madame Marie-Claire!" said Pradel. 

Just at that moment Chevalier made his entry, and immediately theauthor, tearing his hair, let loose a flood of imprecations:

"Do you call that an entry? It's a tumble, a catastrophe, a cataclysm!Ye gods! A meteor, an aerolith, a bit of the moon falling on to thestage would be less horribly disastrous! I will take off my play!Chevalier, come in again, my good fellow!"

The artist who had designed the costumes, Michel, a fair young man witha mystic's beard, was seated in the first row, on the arm of a stall. Heleaned over and whispered into the ear of Roger, the scene-painter:

"And to think it's the fifty-sixth time that he's dropped on Chevalierwith the same fury!"

"Well, you know, Chevalier is rottenly bad, " replied Roger, withouthesitation. 

"It isn't that he is bad, " returned Michel indulgently. "But he alwaysseems to be laughing, and nothing could be worse for a comedy actor. Iknew him when he was quite a kid, at Montmartre. At school his mastersused to ask him: 'Why are you laughing?' He was not laughing; he had nodesire to laugh; he used to get his ears boxed from morning to night. His parents wanted to put him in a chemical factory. But he had dreamsof the stage, and spent his days on the Butte Montmartre, in the studioof the painter Montalent. Montalent at that time was working day andnight on his _Death of Saint Louis_, a huge picture which wascommissioned for the cathedral of Carthage. One day, Montalent said tohim----"

"A little less noise!" shouted Pradel. 

"Said to him: 'Chevalier, since you have nothing to do, just sit forPhilippe the Bold. ' 'With pleasure, ' said Chevalier. Montalent told himto assume the attitude of a man bowed down with grief. More, he stucktwo tears as big as spectacle lenses on his cheeks. He finished hispicture, forwarded it to Carthage, and had half a dozen bottles ofchampagne sent up. Three months later he received from Father Cornemuse, the head of the French Missions in Tunis, a letter informing him thathis painting of the _Death of Saint Louis_, having been submitted to theCardinal-Archbishop, had been refused by His Eminence, because of theunseemly expression on the face of Philippe the Bold who was laughing ashe watched the saintly King, his father, dying on a bed of straw. Montalent could not make head or tail of it; he was furious, and wantedto take proceedings against the Cardinal-Archbishop. His painting wasreturned to him; he unpacked it, gazed at it in gloomy silence, andsuddenly shouted: 'It's true--Philippe the Bold appears to be splittinghis sides with laughter. What a fool I have been! I gave him the head ofChevalier, who always seems to be laughing, the brute!'"

"Will you be quiet there!" yelled Pradel. 

And the author exclaimed:

"Pradel, my dear boy, just pitch all those people into the street. "

Indefatigable, he was arranging the scene:

"A little farther, Trouville, there. Chevalier, you walk up to thetable, you pick up the documents one by one, and you say:'Senatus-Consultum. Order of the day. Despatches to the departments. Proclamation, ' Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master. 'Senatus-Consultum. Order of the day. Despatches to thedepartments. Proclamation. '"

"Now, Marie-Claire, my child, a little more life, confound it! Crossover! That's it! Very good. Back again! Good! Very good! Buck up! Ah, the wretched woman! She's spoiling it all!"

He called the stage manager. 

"Romilly, give us a little more light, one can't see an inch. Dauville, my dear friend, what are you doing there in front of the prompter's box!You seem glued to it! Just get into your head, once for all, that youare not the statue of General Malet, that you are General Malet inperson, that my play is not a catalogue of wax-work figures, but aliving moving tragedy, one which brings the tears into your eyes, and----"

Words failed him, and he sobbed for a long while into his handkerchief. Then he roared:

"Holy thunder! Pradel! Romilly! Where is Romilly? Ah, there he is, thevillain! Romilly, I told you to put the stove nearer the dormer-window. You have not done so. What are you thinking of, my friend?"

The rehearsal was suddenly brought to a standstill by a seriousdifficulty. Chevalier, the bearer of documents on which hung the fate ofthe Empire, was to escape from his prison by the dormer-window. Thestage "business" had not yet been settled; it had been impossible to doso before the setting of the stage was completed. It was now discoveredthat the measurements had been wrongly taken, and the dormer-window wasnot accessible. 

The author leapt on to the stage. 

"Romilly, my friend, the stove is not in the place fixed on. How can youexpect Chevalier to get out through the dormer-window? Push the stove tothe right at once. "

"I'm willing enough, " said Romilly, "but we shall be blocking up thedoor. "

"What's that? We shall be blocking up the door?"

"Precisely. "

The manager of the theatre, the stage-manager, the scene-shifters stoodexamining the stage-setting with gloomy attention, while the author heldhis peace. 

"Don't worry, Master, " said Chevalier. "There's no need to changeanything. I shall be able to jump out all right. "

Climbing on to the stove, he did indeed succeed in grasping the sill ofthe window, and in hoisting himself up until his elbows rested on it, afeat that had seemed impossible. 

A murmur of admiration rose from the stage, the wings, and the house. Chevalier had produced an astonishing impression by his strength andagility. 

"Splendid!" exclaimed the author. "Chevalier, my friend, that isperfect. The fellow is as nimble as a monkey. I'll be hanged if any ofyou could do as much. If all the parts were in such good hands as thatof Florentin, the play would be lauded to the skies. "

Nanteuil, in her box, almost admired him. For one brief second he hadseemed to her more than man, both man and gorilla, and the fear withwhich he had inspired her was immeasurably increased. She did not lovehim; she had never loved him; she did not desire him; it was a long timesince she had really wanted him; and, for some days past, she had beenunable to imagine herself taking pleasure in any other than Ligny; buthad she at that moment found herself alone with Chevalier she would havefelt powerless, and she would have sought to appease him by hersubmission as one appeases a supernatural power. 

On the stage, while an Empire _salon_ was being lowered from the flies, through all the noise of the running gear and the grounding of thesupports, the author held the whole of the company, as well as all thesupers, in the hollow of his hand, and at the same time gave them alladvice, or illustrated what he wanted of them. 

"You, the big woman, the cake-seller, Madame Ravaud, haven't you everheard the women calling in the Champs-Élysées: 'Eat your fill, ladies!This way for a treat!' It is _sung_. Just learn the tune by to-morrow. And you, drummer-boy, just give me your drum; I'm going to teach you howto beat the roll, confound it! Fagette, my child, what the mischief areyou doing at a ball given by the Minister of Police, if you haven't anystockings with golden clocks? Take off those knitted woollen stockingsimmediately. This is the very last play that I shall produce in thistheatre. Where is the colonel of the 10th cohort? So it's you? Wellthen, my friend, your soldiers march past like so many pigs. MadameMarie-Claire, come forward a little, so that I may teach you how tocurtsy. "

He had a hundred eyes, a hundred mouths, and arms and legs everywhere. 

In the house, Romilly was shaking hands with Monsieur Gombaut, of theAcademy of Moral Sciences, who had dropped in as a neighbour. 

"You may say what you will, Monsieur Gombaut, it is perhaps not accurateas far as facts are concerned, but it's drama. "

"Malet's conspiracy, " replied Monsieur Gombaut, "remains, and willdoubtless remain for a long time to come, an historical enigma. Theauthor of this drama has taken advantage of those points which areobscure in order to introduce dramatic elements. But what, to mythinking, is beyond a doubt, is that General Malet, although associatedwith Royalists, was himself a Republican, and was working for there-establishment of popular Government. In the course of his examinationduring the trial, he pronounced a sublime and profound utterance. Whenthe presiding judge of the court-martial asked him: 'Who were youraccomplices?' Malet replied: 'All France, and you yourself, had Isucceeded. '"

Leaning on the edge of Nanteuil's box, an aged sculptor, as venerableand as handsome as an ancient satyr, was gazing with glistening eye andsmiling lips at the stage, which at that moment was in a state ofcommotion and confusion. 

"Are you pleased with the play, Master?" Nanteuil asked him. 

And the Master, who had no eyes for anything but bones, tendons andmuscles, replied:

"Yes, indeed, mademoiselle; yes, indeed! I see over there a littlecreature, little Midi, whose shoulder attachment is a jewel. "

He outlined it with his thumb. Tears welled up into his eyes. 

Chevalier asked if he might enter the box. He was happy, less on accountof his prodigious success than at seeing Félicie. He dreamed, in hisinfatuation, that she had come for his sake, that she loved him, thatshe was returning to him. 

She feared him, and, as she was timid, she flattered him. 

"I congratulate you, Chevalier. You were simply astounding. Your exit isa marvel. You can take my word for it. I am not the only one to say so. Fagette thought you were wonderful. "

"Really?" asked Chevalier. 

It was one of the happiest moments of his life. 

A shrieking voice issued from the deserted heights of the thirdgalleries, sounding through the house like the whistle of a locomotive. 

"One can't hear a word you say, my children; speak louder and pronounceyour words distinctly!"

The author appeared, infinitely small, in the shadow of the dome. 

Thereupon the utterance of the players who were collected at the frontof the stage, around a naphtha flare, rose more distinctly:

"The Emperor will allow the troops to rest for some weeks at Moscow;then with the rapidity of an eagle he will swoop down upon St. Petersburg. "

"Spades, clubs, trump, two points to me. "

"There we shall spend the winter, and next spring we shall penetrateinto India, crossing Persia, and the British power will be a thing ofthe past. "

"Thirty-six in diamonds. "

"And I the four aces. "

"By the way, gentlemen, what say you to the Imperial decree concerningthe actors of Paris, dated from the Kremlin? There's an end of thesquabbles between Mademoiselle Mars and Mademoiselle Leverd. "

"Do look at Fagette, " said Nanteuil. "She is charming in that blueMarie-Louise dress trimmed with chinchilla. "

Madame Doulce brought out from under her furs a stack of tickets alreadysoiled through having been too frequently offered. 

"Master, " she said, addressing Constantin Marc, "you know that nextSunday I am to give a reading, with appropriate remarks, of the bestletters of Madame de Sévigné, for the benefit of the three poor orphansleft by Lacour, the actors who died this winter in so deplorable afashion. "

"Had he any talent?" asked Constantin Marc. 

"None whatever, " said Nanteuil. 

"Well, then, in what way is his death deplorable?"

"Oh, Master, " sighed Madame Doulce, "do not pretend to be unfeeling. "

"I am not pretending to be unfeeling. But here is something thatsurprises me: the value which we set upon the lives of those who are notof the slightest interest to us. We seem as though we believe that lifeis in itself something precious. Yet nature teaches us plainly enoughthat nothing is more worthless and contemptible. In former days peoplewere less besmeared with sentimentalism. Each of us held his own life tobe infinitely precious, but he did not profess any respect whatever forthe life of others. We were nearer to nature in those days. We werecreated to devour one another. But our debilitated, enervated, hypocritical race wallows in a sly cannibalism. While we are gulping oneanother down we declare that life is sacred, and we no longer dare toconfess that life is murder. "

"That life is murder, " echoed Chevalier dreamily, without grasping themeaning of the words. 

Then he poured forth a string of nebulous ideas:

"Murder and bloodshed, that may be! But amusing bloodshed, and comicalmurder. Life is a burlesque catastrophe, a terrible comedy, the mask ofcarnival over blood-stained cheeks. That is what life means to theartist; the artist on the stage, and the artist in action. "

Nanteuil uneasily sought a meaning in these confused phrases. 

The actor continued excitedly:

"Life is yet another thing: it is the flower and the knife, it is to seered one day and blue the next, it is hatred and love, ravishing, delightful hatred, cruel love. "

"Monsieur Chevalier, " asked Constantin Marc in the quietest of tones, "does it not seem to you natural to be a murderer, and do you not thinkthat it is merely the fear of being killed that prevents us fromkilling?"

Chevalier replied in deep, pensive tones:

"Most certainly not! It would not be the fear of being killed that wouldprevent me from killing. I have no fear of death. But I feel a respectfor the life of others. I am humane in spite of myself. I have for sometime past been seriously considering the question which you have justasked me, Monsieur Constantin Marc. I have pondered over it day andnight, and I know now that I could not kill any one. '"

At this, Nanteuil, filled with joy, cast upon him a look of contempt. She feared him no longer, and she could not forgive him for havingalarmed her. 

She rose. 

"Good evening; I have a headache. Good-bye till to-morrow, MonsieurConstantin Marc. " And she went out briskly. 

Chevalier ran after her down the corridor, descended the stage staircasebehind her, and rejoined her by the stage doorkeeper's box. 

"Félicie, come and dine with me to-night at our cabaret. I should be soglad if you would! Will you?"

"Good gracious, no!"

"Why won't you?"

"Leave me alone; you are bothering me!"

She tried to escape. He detained her. 

"I love you so! Don't be too cruel to me!"

Taking a step towards him, her lips curling back from her clenchedteeth, she hissed into his ear:

"It's all over, over, over! You hear me? I am fed up with you. "

Then, very gently and solemnly, he said:

"It is the last time that we two shall speak together. Listen, Félicie, before there is a tragedy I ought to warn you. I cannot compel you tolove me. But I do not intend that you shall love another. For the lasttime I advise you not to see Monsieur de Ligny again, I shall preventyour belonging to him. "

"You will prevent me? You? My poor dear fellow!"

In a still more gentle tone he replied:

"I mean it; I shall do it. A man can get what he wants; only he must paythe price. "

CHAPTER V

Returning home, Félicie succumbed to a fit of tears. She saw Chevalieronce more imploring her in a despairing voice with the look of a poorman. She had heard that voice and seen that expression when passingtramps, worn out with fatigue, on the high road, when her mother fearingthat her lungs were affected, had taken her to spend the winter atAntibes with a wealthy aunt. She despised Chevalier for his gentlenessand tranquil manner. But the recollection of that face and that voicedisturbed her. She could not eat, she felt as if she were suffocating. In the evening she was attacked by such an excruciating internal painthat she thought she must be dying. She thought this feeling ofprostration was due to the fact that it was two days since she had seenRobert. It was only nine o'clock. She hoped that she might find himstill at home, and put on her hat. 

"Mamma, I have to go to the theatre this evening. I am off. "

Out of consideration for her mother, she was in the habit of making suchveiled explanations. 

"Go, my child, but don't come home too late. "

Ligny lived with his parents. He had, on the top floor of the charminghouse in the Rue Vernet, a small bachelor flat, lit by round windows, which he called his "oeil-de-boeuf. " Félicie sent word by thehall-porter that a lady was waiting for him in a carriage. Ligny did notcare for women to look him up too often in the bosom of his family. Hisfather, who was in the diplomatic service, and deeply engrossed in theforeign interests of the country, remained in an incredible state ofignorance as to what went on in his own house. But Madame de Ligny wasdetermined that the decencies of life should be observed in her home, and her son was careful to satisfy her requirements in the matter ofoutward appearances, since they never probed to the bottom of things. She left him perfectly free to love where he would, and only rarely, inserious and expansive moments, did she hint that it was to the advantageof young men to cultivate the acquaintance of women of their own class. Hence it was that Robert had always dissuaded Félicie from coming to himin the Rue Vernet. He had rented, in the Boulevard de Villiers, a smallhouse, where they could meet in absolute freedom. But on the presentoccasion, after two days without seeing her, he was greatly pleased byher unexpected visit, and he came down immediately. 

Leaning back in the cab, they drove through the darkness and the snow, at the quiet pace of their aged hack, through the streets andboulevards, while the darkness of the night cloaked their love-making. 

At her door, having seen her home, he said:

"Good-bye till to-morrow. "

"Yes, to-morrow, Boulevard de Villiers. Come early. "

She was leaning on him preparatory to stepping down from the cab. Suddenly she started back. 

"There! There! Among the trees. He has seen us. He was watching us. "

"Who, then?"

"A man--some one I don't know. "

She had just recognized Chevalier. She stepped out, rang the bell, and, nestling in Robert's fur coat, waited, trembling, for the door to open. When it was opened, she detained him. 

"Robert, see me upstairs, I am frightened. "

Not without some impatience, he followed her up the stairs. 

Chevalier had waited for Félicie, in the little dining-room, before thearmour which she had worn as Jeanne d'Arc, together with MadameNanteuil, until one o'clock in the morning. He had left at that hour, and had watched for her on the pavement, and on seeing the cab stop infront of the door he had concealed himself behind a tree. He knew verywell that she would return with Ligny; but when he saw them together itwas as if the earth had yawned beneath him, and, so that he should notfall to the ground, he had clutched the trunk of the tree. He remaineduntil Ligny had emerged from the house; he watched him as, wrapped inhis fur coat, he got into the cab, took a couple of steps as if tospring on him, stopped short, and then with long strides went down theboulevard. 

He went his way, driven by the rain and wind. Feeling too hot, he doffedhis felt hat, and derived a certain pleasure from the sense of the icydrops of water on his forehead. He was vaguely conscious that houses, trees, walls, and lights went past him indefinitely; he wandered on, dreaming. 

He found himself, without knowing how he had got there, on a bridgewhich he hardly knew. Half-way across it stood the colossal statue of awoman. His mind was now at rest; he had formed a resolution. It was anold idea, which he had now driven into his brain like a nail, whichpierced it through and through. He no longer examined it. He calculatedcoldly the means of carrying out the thing he had determined to do. Hewalked straight ahead at random, absorbed in thought, and as calm as amathematician. 

On the Pont des Arts he became aware that a dog was following him. Hewas a big, long-haired farm dog, with eyes of different colours, whichwere full of gentleness, and an expression of infinite distress. Chevalier spoke to him:

"You've no collar. You are not happy. Poor fellow, I can't do anythingfor you. "

By four o'clock in the morning he found himself in the Avenue del'Observatoire. On seeing the houses of the Boulevard Saint-Michel heexperienced a painful impression and abruptly turned back toward theObservatory. The dog had vanished. Near the monument of the Lion ofBelfort, Chevalier stopped in front of a deep trench which cut the roadin two. Against the bank of excavated earth, under a tarpaulin supportedby four stakes, an old man was keeping vigil before a brazier. Thelappets of his rabbit-skin cap were down over his ears; his huge nosewas a flaming red. He raised his head; his eyes, which were watering, seemed wholly white, without pupils, each set in a ring of fire andtears. He was stuffing into the bowl of his cutty a few scraps ofcanteen tobacco, mixed with bread-crumbs, which did not fill half thebowl of his little pipe. 

"Will you have some tobacco, old fellow?" asked Chevalier, offering himhis pouch. 

The man's answer was slow in coming. His understanding was not quick, and courtesies astonished him. Finally, he opened a mouth which wasquite black, and said:

"I won't say no to that. "

He half rose from his seat. One of his feet was shod in an old slipper;the other was swathed in rags. Slowly, with hands numb with the cold, hestuffed his pipe. It was snowing, a snow that melted as it fell. 

"You will excuse me?" said Chevalier, and he slipped under the tarpaulinand seated himself beside the old man. 

From time to time they exchanged a remark. 

"Rotten weather!"

"It's what we expect at this season. Winter's hard; summer's better. "

"So you look after the job at night, old fellow?"

The old man answered readily when questioned. Before he spoke his throatemitted a long, very gentle murmur. 

"I do one thing one day; another thing another. Odd jobs. See?"

"You are not a Parisian?"

"No, I was born in La Creuse. I used to work as a navvy in the Vosges. I left there the year the Prussians and other foreigners came. Therewere thousands of them. Can't understand where they all came from. Maybeyou've heard of the war of the Prussians, young man?"

He remained silent for a long spell and then resumed:

"So you are out on a spree, my lad. You don't feel like going back tothe works yet?"

"I am an actor, " replied Chevalier. 

The old man who did not understand, inquired:

"Where is it, your works?"

Chevalier was anxious to rouse the old man's admiration. 

"I play comedy parts in a big theatre, " he said. "I am one of theprincipal actors at the Odéon. You know the Odéon?"

The watchman shook his head. No, he did not know the Odéon. After aprolonged silence, he once more opened the black cavern of his mouth:

"And so, young man, you are on the loose. You don't want to go back tothe works, eh?"

Chevalier replied:

"Read the paper the day after to-morrow, you will see my name in it. "

The old man tried to discover a meaning in these words, but it was toodifficult; he gave it up, and reverted to his familiar train of thought. 

"When once one's off on the loose, it is sometimes for weeks andmonths. "

At daybreak, Chevalier resumed his wanderings. The sky was milky. Heavywheels were breaking the silence of the paved roads. Voices, here andthere, rang through the keen air. The snow was no longer falling. Hewalked on at haphazard. The spectacle of the city's reviving life madehim feel almost cheerful. On the Pont des Arts he stood for a long timewatching the Seine flow by, after which he continued on his way. On thePlace du Havre he saw an open café. A faint streak of dawn was reddeningthe front windows. The waiters were sanding the brick pavement andsetting out the tables. He flung himself into a chair. 

"Waiter, an absinthe. "

CHAPTER VI

In the cab, beyond the fortifications, which were skirted by thedeserted boulevard, Félicie and Robert held one another in a closeembrace. 

"Don't you love your own Félicie? Tell me! Doesn't it flatter yourvanity to possess a little woman who makes people cheer and clap her, who is written about in the newspapers? Mamma pastes all my notices inher album. The album is full already. "

He replied that he had not waited for her to succeed before discoveringhow charming she was; and, in fact, their liaison had begun when she wasmaking an obscure first appearance at the Odéon in a revival which hadfallen flat. 

"When you told me that you wanted me, I didn't keep you waiting, did I?We didn't take long about that! Wasn't I right? You are too sensible tothink badly of me because I didn't keep things dragging along. When Isaw you for the first time I felt that I was to be yours, so it wasn'tworth while delaying. I don't regret it. Do you?"

The cab stopped at a short distance from the fortifications, in frontof a garden railing. 

This railing, which had not been painted for a long time, stood on awall faced with pebbles, low and broad enough to permit of childrenperching themselves on it. It was screened half-way up by a sheet ofiron with a toothed edge, and its rusty spikes did not rise more thanten feet above the ground. In the centre, between two pillars of masonrysurmounted by cast-iron vases, the railing formed a gate opening in themiddle, filled in across its lower part, and furnished, on the inside, with worm-eaten slatted shutters. 

They alighted from the cab. The trees of the boulevard, in four straightlines, lifted their frail skeletons in the fog. They heard, through thewide silence, the diminishing rattle of their cab, on its way back tothe barrier, and the trotting of a horse coming from Paris. 

"How dismal the country is!" she said, with a shiver. 

"But, my darling, the Boulevard de Villiers is not the country. "

He could not open the gate, and the lock creaked. Irritated by thesound, she said:

"Open it, do: the noise is getting on my nerves. "

She noticed that the cab which had come from Paris had stopped neartheir house, at about the tenth tree from where she stood; she looked atthe thin, steaming horse and the shabby driver, and asked:

"What is that carriage?"

"It's a cab, my pet. "

"Why does it stop here?"

"It has not stopped here? It's stopping in front of the next house. "

"There is no next house; there's only a vacant lot. "

"Well, then, it has stopped in front of a vacant lot. What more can Itell you?"

"I don't see anyone getting out of it. "

"The driver is perhaps waiting for a fare. "

"What, in front of a vacant lot!"

"Probably, my dear. This lock has got rusty. "

She crept along, hiding herself behind the trees, toward the spot wherethe cab had stopped, and then returned to Ligny, who had succeeded inunlocking the gate. 

"Robert, the blinds of the cab are down. "

"Well, then, there's a loving couple inside. "

"Don't you think there's something queer about that cab?"

"It is not a thing of beauty, but all cabs are ugly. Come in. "

"Isn't somebody following us?"

"Whom do you expect to follow us?"

"I don't know. One of your women friends. "

But she was not saying what was in her thoughts. 

"Do come in, my darling. "

When she had entered the garden she said:

"Be sure to close the gate properly, Robert. "

Before them stretched a small oval grass-plot. 

Behind it stood the house, with its flight of three steps, sheltered bya zinc portico, its six windows, and its slate roof. 

Ligny had rented it for a year from an old merchant's clerk, who hadwearied of it because nocturnal prowlers used to steal his fowls andrabbits. On either side of the grass-plot a gravel path led to thesteps. They took the path on the right. The gravel creaked beneath theirfeet. 

"Madame Simonneau has forgotten to close the shutters again, " saidLigny. 

Madame Simonneau was a woman from Neuilly, who came every morning toclean up. 

A large Judas-tree, leaning to one side, and to all appearance dead, stretched one of its round black branches as far as the portico. 

"I don't quite like that tree, " said Félicie; "its branches are likegreat snakes. One of them goes almost into our room. "

They went up the three front steps; and, while he was looking throughhis bunch of keys for the key of the front door, she rested her head onhis shoulder. 

 * * * * *

Félicie, when unveiling her beauty, displayed a serene pride which madeher adorable. She revealed such a quiet satisfaction in her nudity thather chemise, when it fell to her feet, made the onlooker think of awhite peacock. 

And when Robert saw her in her nakedness, bright as the streams orstars, he said:

"At least you don't make one badger you! Its curious: there are women, who, even if you don't ask them for anything, surrender themselvescompletely, go just as far as it's possible to go, yet all the time theywon't let you see so much as a finger-breadth of skin. "

"Why?" asked Félicie, playing with the airy threads of her hair. 

Robert de Ligny had experience of women. Yet he did not realize what aninsidious question this was. He had received some training in moralscience, and in replying he derived inspiration from the professorswhose classes he had attended. 

"It is doubtless a matter of training, religious principles, and aninnate feeling which survives even when----"

This was not at all what he ought to have replied, for Félicie, shrugging her shoulders, and placing her hands upon her smoothlypolished hips, interrupted him sharply:

"Well, you are simple! It's because they've got bad figures! Training!Religion! It makes me boil to hear such rubbish! Have I been brought upany worse than other women? Have I less religion than they have? Tellme, Robert, how many really well-made women have you ever seen? Justreckon them up on your fingers. Yes, there are heaps of women who won'tshow their shoulders or anything. Take Fagette; she won't let even womensee her undress; when she puts a clean chemise on she holds the old onebetween her teeth. Sure enough, I should do the same if I were built asshe is!"

She relapsed into silence, and, with quiet arrogance, slowly ran thepalms of her hands over her sides and her loins, observing proudly:

"And the best of it is that there's not too much of me anywhere. "

She was conscious of the charm imparted to her beauty by the gracefulslenderness of her outlines. 

Now her head, thrown back on the pillow, was bathed in the masses of hergolden tresses, which lay streaming in all directions; her slender body, slightly raised by a pillow slipped beneath her loins, lay motionless atfull length; one gleaming leg was extended along the edge of the bed, ending in a sharply chiselled foot like the point of a sword. The lightfrom the great fire which had been lit in the fireplace gilded herflesh, casting palpitating lights and shadows over her motionless body, clothing it in mystery and splendour, while her outer clothing and herunderlinen, lying on the chairs and the carpet, waited, like a docileflock. 

She raised herself on her elbow, resting her cheek in her hand. 

"You are the first, really you are, I am not lying: the others don'texist. "

He felt no jealousy in respect of the past; he had no fear ofcomparisons. He questioned her:

"Then the others?"

"To begin with, there were only two: my professor, and he of coursedoesn't count, and there was the man I told you about, a solid sort of aperson, whom my mother saddled me with. "

"No more?"

"I swear it. "

"And Chevalier?"

"Chevalier? He? Good gracious, no! You wouldn't have had me look athim!"

"And the solid sort of person found by your mother, he, too, does notcount any more?"

"I assure you that, with you, I am another woman. It's the solemn truththat you are the first to possess me. It's queer, all the same. Directly I set eyes on you I wanted you. Quite suddenly I felt I musthave you. I felt it somehow. What? I should find it very hard to say. Oh, I didn't stop to think. With your conventional, stiff, frigidmanners, and your appearance, like a curly-haired little wolf, youpleased me, that was all! And now I could not do without you. No, indeed, I couldn't. "

He assured her that on her surrender he had been deliciously surprised;he said all sorts of pretty, caressing things, all of which had beensaid before. 

Taking his head in her hands, she said:

"You have really the teeth of a wolf. I think it was your teeth thatmade me want you the first day. Bite me!"

He pressed her to his bosom, and felt her firm supple body respond tohis embrace. Suddenly she released herself:

"Don't you hear the gravel creaking?"

"No. "

"Listen: I can hear a sound of footsteps on the path. "

Sitting upright, her body bent forward, she strained her ears. 

He was disappointed, excited, irritated, and perhaps his self-esteem wasslightly hurt. 

"What has come over you? It's absurd. "

She cried very sharply:

"Do hold your tongue!"

She was listening intently to a slight sound, near at hand, as ofbreaking branches. 

Suddenly she leapt from the bed with such instinctive agility, with amovement so like the rapid spring of a young animal, that Ligny, although by no means of a literary turn of mind, thought of the catmetamorphosed into a woman. 

"Are you crazy? Where are you going?"

Raising a corner of the curtain, she wiped the moisture from the cornerof a pane, and peered out through the window. She saw nothing but thenight. The noise had ceased altogether. 

During this time, Ligny, lying moodily against the wall, was grumbling:

"As you will, but, if you catch a cold, so much the worse for you!"

She glided back into bed. At first he remained somewhat resentful; butshe wrapped him about with the delicious freshness of her body. 

When they came to themselves they were surprised to see by one of theirwatches that it was seven o'clock. 

Ligny lit the lamp, a paraffin lamp, supported on a column, with acut-glass container inside which the wick was curled up like atape-worm. Félicie was very quick in dressing herself. They had todescend one floor by a wooden staircase, dark and narrow. He went ahead, carrying the lamp, and halted in the passage. 

"You go out, darling, before I put the lamp out. "

She opened the door, and immediately recoiled with a loud shriek. Shehad seen Chevalier standing on the outer steps, with arms extended, tall, black, erect as a crucifix. His hand grasped a revolver. The glintof the weapon was not perceptible; nevertheless she saw it quitedistinctly. 

"What's the matter?" demanded Ligny, who was turning down the wick ofthe lamp. 

"Listen, but don't come near me!" cried Chevalier in a loud voice. "Iforbid you to belong to one another. This is my dying wish. Good-bye, Félicie. "

And he slipped the barrel of the revolver into his mouth. 

Crouching against the passage wall, she closed her eyes. When shereopened them, Chevalier was lying on his side, across the doorway. Hiseyes were wide open, and he seemed to be gazing at them with a smile. Athread of blood was trickling from his mouth over the flagstones of theporch. A convulsive tremor shook his arm. Then he ceased to move. As helay there, huddled up; he seemed smaller than usual. 

On hearing the report of the revolver, Ligny had hurriedly come forward. In the darkness of the night he raised the body, and immediatelylowering it gently to the ground he attempted to strike matches, whichthe wind promptly extinguished. At last, by the flare of one of thematches, he saw that the bullet had carried away part of the skull, thatthe meninges were laid bare over an area as large as the palm of thehand; this area was grey, oozing blood, and very irregular in shape, itsoutlines reminding Ligny of the map of Africa. He was conscious of asudden feeling of respect in the presence of this dead man. Placing hishands under the armpits, he dragged Chevalier with the minutestprecautions into the room at the side. Leaving him there, he hurriedthrough the house in quest of Félicie, calling to her. 

He found her in the bedroom, with her head buried under the bed-clothesof the unmade bed, crying: "Mamma! Mamma!" and repeating prayers. 

"Don't stay here, Félicie. "

She went downstairs with him. But, on reaching the hall, she said:

"You know very well that we can't go out that way. "

He showed her out by the kitchen door. 

CHAPTER VII

Left alone in the silent house, Robert de Ligny relit the lamp. Seriousand even somewhat solemn voices were beginning to speak within him. Moulded from childhood by the rules of moral responsibility, he nowexperienced a sensation of painful regret, akin to remorse. Reflectingthat he had caused the death of this man, albeit without intending it orknowing it, he did not feel wholly innocent. Shreds of his philosophicand religious training came back to him, disturbing his conscience. Thephrases of moralists and preachers, learned at school, which had sunk tothe very depths of his memory, suddenly rose in his mind. Its inwardvoices repeated them to him. They said, quoting some old religiousorator: "When we abandon ourselves to irregularities of conduct, even tothose regarded as least culpable in the opinion of the world, we renderourselves liable to commit the most reprehensible actions. We perceive, from the most frightful examples, that voluptuousness leads to crime. "

These maxims, upon which he had never reflected, suddenly assumed forhim a precise and austere meaning. He thought the matter over seriously. But since his mind was not deeply religious, and since he was incapableof cherishing exaggerated scruples, he was conscious of only a passabledegree of edification, which was steadily diminishing. Before long hedecided that such scruples were out of place and that they could notpossibly apply to the situation. "When we abandon ourselves toirregularities of conduct, even to those regarded as least culpable inthe opinion of the world. .. . We perceive, from the most frightfulexamples. .. . " These phrases, which only a little while ago hadreverberated through his soul like a peal of thunder, he now heard inthe snuffling and throaty voices of the professors and priests who hadtaught them to him, and he found them somewhat ridiculous. By a naturalassociation of ideas he recalled a passage from an ancient Romanhistory--which he had read, when in the second form, during a certaincourse of study, and which had impressed itself on his mind--a few linesconcerning a lady who was convicted of adultery and accused of havingset fire to Rome. "So true it is, " ran the historian's comment, "that aperson who violates the laws of chastity is capable of any crime. " Hesmiled inwardly at this recollection, reflecting that the moralists, after all, had queer ideas about life. 

The wick, which was charring, gave an insufficient light. He could notmanage to snuff it, and it was giving out a horrible stench of paraffin. Thinking of the author of the passage relating to the Roman lady, hesaid to himself: "Sure enough, it was a queer idea that he got hold ofthere!"

He felt reassured as to his innocence. His slight feeling of remorse hadentirely evaporated, and he was unable to conceive how he could for amoment have believed himself responsible for Chevalier's death. Yet theaffair troubled him. 

Suddenly he thought: "Supposing he were still alive!"

A while ago, for the space of a second, by the light of a match blownout as soon as it was struck, he had seen the hole in the actor's skull. But what if he had seen incorrectly? What if he had taken a mere grazeof the skin for a serious lesion of the brain and skull? Does a manretain his powers of judgment in the first moments of surprise andhorror? A wound may be hideous without being mortal, or evenparticularly serious. It had certainly seemed to him that the man wasdead. But was he a medical man, able to judge with certainty?

He lost all patience with the wick, which was still charring, andmuttered:

"This lamp is enough to poison one. "

Then recalling a trick of speech habitual to Dr. Socrates, as to theorigin of which he was ignorant, he repeated mentally:

"This lamp stinks like thirty-six cart-loads of devils. "

Instances occurred to him of several abortive attempts at suicide. Heremembered having read in a newspaper that a married man, after killinghis wife, had, like Chevalier, fired his revolver into his mouth, buthad only succeeded in shattering his jaw; he remembered that at his cluba well known sportsman, after a card scandal, tried to blow out hisbrains but merely shot off an ear. These instances applied to Chevalierwith striking exactitude. 

"Supposing he were not dead. "

He wished and hoped against all evidence that the unfortunate man mightstill be breathing, that he might be saved. He thought of fetchingbandages, of giving first aid. Intending to re-examine the man lying inthe front room, he raised the lamp, which was still emitting aninsufficient light, too suddenly, and so extinguished it. Whereupon, surprised by the sudden darkness, he lost patience and exclaimed:

"Confound the blasted thing!"

While lighting it again, he flattered himself with the idea thatChevalier, once taken to hospital, would regain consciousness, and wouldlive, and seeing him already on his feet, perched on his long legs, bawling, clearing his throat, sneering, his desire for his recoverybecame less eager; he was even beginning to cease to desire it, toregard it as annoying and inconsiderate. He asked himself anxiously, with a feeling of real uneasiness:

"What in the world would he do if he came back, that dismal actorfellow? Would he return to the Odéon? Would he stroll through itscorridors displaying his great scar? Would he once more have to see himprowling round Félicie?"

He held the lighted lamp close to the body and recognized the lividbleeding wound, the irregular outline of which reminded him of theAfrica of his schoolboy maps. 

Plainly death had been instantaneous, and he failed to understand how hecould for a moment have doubted it. 

He left the house and proceeded to stride up and down in the garden. Theimage of the wound was flashing before his eyes like the impressioncaused by too bright a light. It moved away from him, increasing in sizeagainst the black sky; it took the shape of a pale continent whence hesaw swarms of distracted little blacks pouring forth, armed with bowsand arrows. 

He decided that the first thing to do was to fetch Madame Simonneau, wholived close at hand, in the Boulevard Bineau, in the residential part ofthe café. He closed the gate carefully, and went in search of thehousekeeper. Once on the boulevard, he recovered his equanimity. He feltmost uncomfortable about the accident; he accepted the accomplishedfact, but he cavilled at fate in respect of the circumstances. Sincethere had to be a death, he gave his consent that there should be one, but he would have preferred another. Toward this one he was conscious ofa feeling of disgust and repugnance. He said to himself vaguely:

"I concede a suicide. But what is the good of a ridiculous anddeclamatory suicide? Couldn't the fellow have killed himself at home?Couldn't he, if his determination was irrevocable, have carried it outdiscreetly, with proper pride? That is what a gentleman would have donein his position. Then one might have pitied him, and respected hismemory. "

He recalled word for word his conversation with Félicie in the bedrooman hour before the tragedy. He asked her if she had not for a time beenChevalier's mistress. He had asked her this, not because he wanted toknow, for he had very little doubt of it, but in order to show that heknew it. And she had replied indignantly: "Chevalier? He? Good graciousno! You wouldn't have had me look at him!"

He did not blame her for having lied. All women lie. He rather enjoyedthe graceful and easy manner with which she had cast the fellow out ofher past. But he was vexed with her for having given herself to alow-down actor. Chevalier spoilt Félicie for him. Why did she takelovers of that type? Was she wanting in taste? Did she not exercise acertain selection? Did she behave like a woman of the town? Did she lacka certain sense of niceness which warns women as to what they may or maynot do? Didn't she know how to behave? Well, this was the sort of thingthat happened if women had no breeding. He blamed Félicie for theaccident that had occurred and was relieved of a heavy incubus. 

Madame Simonneau was not at home. He inquired her whereabouts of thewaiters in the café, the grocer's assistants, the girls at the laundry, the police, and the postman. At last, following the direction of aneighbour, he found her poulticing an old lady, for she was a nurse. Herface was purple and she reeked of brandy. He sent her to watch thecorpse. He instructed her to cover it with a sheet, and to hold herselfat the disposal of the commissary and the doctor, who would come for theparticulars. She replied, somewhat nettled, that she knew please God, what she had to do. She did indeed know. Madame Simonneau was born in asocial circle which is obsequious to the constituted authorities andrespects the dead. But when, having questioned Monsieur de Ligny, shelearnt that he had dragged the body into the front room, she could notconceal from him that such behaviour was imprudent and might expose himto unpleasantness. 

"You ought not to have done it, " she told him. "When anyone has killedhimself, you must never touch him before the police come. "

Ligny thereupon went off to notify the commissary. The first excitementhaving passed off, he no longer felt any surprise, doubtless becauseevents which, considered from a distance, would seem strange, when theytake place before us appear quite natural, as indeed they are. Theyunfold themselves in an ordinary fashion, falling into place as asuccession of petty facts, and eventually losing themselves in theeveryday commonplace of life. His mind was distracted from the violentdeath of an unfortunate fellow-creature by the very circumstances ofthat death, by the part which he had played in the affair and theoccupation which it had imposed upon him. On his way to the commissary'she felt as calm and as free from mental care as though he had been onhis way to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to decipher despatches. 

At nine o'clock in the evening, the police commissary entered the gardenwith his secretary and a policeman. The municipal physician, MonsieurHibry, arrived simultaneously. Already, thanks to the industry of MadameSimonneau, who was always interested in matters of supply, the houseexhaled a violent smell of carbolic and was blazing with the candleswhich she had lit. Madame Simonneau was bustling to and fro, actuated byan urgent desire to procure a crucifix and a bough of consecratedbox-wood for the dead. The doctor examined the corpse by the light of acandle. 

He was a bulky man with a ruddy complexion. He breathed noisily. He hadjust dined. 

"The bullet, a large calibre bullet, " he said, "penetrated by way of thepalatal vault, traversed the brain and finally fractured the leftparietal bone, carrying away a portion of the cerebral substance, andblowing out a piece of the skull. Death was instantaneous. "

He returned the candle to Madame Simonneau and continued:

"Splinters of the skull were projected to a certain distance. They willprobably be found in the garden. I should conjecture that the bullet wasround-nosed. A conical bullet would have caused less destruction. "

However, the commissary. Monsieur Josse-Arbrissel, a tall, thin man witha long grey moustache, seemed neither to see nor to hear. A dog washowling outside the garden gate. 

"The direction of the wound, " said the doctor, "as well as the fingersof the right hand, which are still contracted, are more than ample proofof suicide. "

He lit a cigar. 

"We are sufficiently informed, " remarked the commissary. 

"I regret, gentlemen, to have disturbed you, " said Robert de Ligny, "andI thank you for the courteous manner in which you have carried out yourofficial duties. "

The secretary and the police agent, Madame Simonneau showing the way, carried the body up to the first floor. 

Monsieur Josse-Arbrissel was biting his nails and looking into space. 

"A tragedy of jealousy, " he remarked, "nothing is more common. We havehere in Neuilly a steady average of self-inflicted deaths. Out of ahundred suicides thirty are caused by gambling. The others are due todisappointment in love, poverty, or incurable disease. "

"Chevalier?" inquired Dr. Hibry, who was a lover of the theatre, "Chevalier? Wait a minute! I have seen him; I saw him at a benefitperformance, at the Variétés. Of course! He recited a monologue. "

The dog howled outside the garden gate. 

"You cannot imagine, " resumed the commissary, "the disasters caused inthis municipality by the _pari mutuel_. I am not exaggerating when Iassert that at least thirty per cent of the suicides which I have tolook into are caused by gambling. Everybody gambles here. Everyhairdresser's shop is a clandestine betting agency. No later than lastweek a concierge in the Avenue du Roule was found hanging from a tree inthe Bois de Boulogne. Now, working men, servants, and junior clerks whogamble do not need to take their own lives. They move to anotherquarter, they disappear. But a man of position, an official whomgambling has ruined, who is overwhelmed by clamorous creditors, threatened with distraint, and on the point of being dragged before acourt of justice, cannot disappear. What is to become of him?"

"I have it!" exclaimed the physician. "He recited _The Duel in thePrairie_. People are rather tired of monologues, but that is very funny. You remember! 'Will you fight with the sword?' 'No, sir. ' 'The pistol?''No, sir. ' 'The sabre, the knife?' 'No, sir. ' 'Ah, then, I see what youwant. You are not fastidious. What you want is a duel in the prairie. Iagree. We will replace the prairie by a five-storied house. You arepermitted to conceal yourself in the vegetation. ' Chevalier used torecite _The Duel in the Prairie_ in a very humorous manner. He amused megreatly that night. It is true that I am not an ungrateful audience; Iworship the theatre. "

The commissary was not listening. He was following up his own train ofthought. 

"It will never be known, how many fortunes and lives are devoured eachyear by the _pari mutuel_. Gambling never releases its victims; when ithas despoiled them of everything, it still remains their only hope. Whatelse, indeed, will permit them to hope?"

He ceased, straining his ear to catch the distant cry of a newsvendor, and rushed out into the avenue in pursuit of the fugitive yelpingshadow, hailed him, and snatched from him a sporting paper, which hespread out under the light of a gas-lamp, scanning its pages for certainnames of horses: _Fleur-des-pois_, _La Châtelaine_, _Lucrèce_. Withhaggard eyes, trembling hands, dumbfounded, crushed, he dropped thesheet: his horse had not won. 

And Dr. Hibry, observing him from a distance, reflected that some day, in his capacity of physician to the dead, he might well be called uponto certify the suicide of his commissary of police, and he made up hismind in advance to conclude, as far as possible, that his death was dueto accidental causes. 

Suddenly he seized his umbrella. 

"I must be off, " he said. "I have been given a seat for theOpéra-Comique to-night. It would be a pity to waste it. "

Before leaving the house, Ligny asked Madame Simonneau:

"Where have you put him?"

"In the bed, " replied Madame Simonneau. "It was more decent. "

He made no objection, and raising his eyes to the front of the house, hesaw at the windows of the bedroom, through the muslin curtains, thelight of the two candles which the housekeeper had placed on the bedsidetable. 

"Perhaps, " he said, "one might get a nun to watch by him. "

"It's not necessary, " replied Madame Simonneau, who had invited someneighbours of her own sex, and had ordered her wine and meat. "It's notnecessary, I will watch by him myself. "

Ligny did not press the point. 

The dog was still howling outside the gate. 

Returning on foot to the barrier, he noticed, over Paris, a reddish glowwhich filled the whole sky. Above the chimney-pots the factory chimneysrose grotesque and black, against this fiery mist, seeming to look downwith a ridiculous familiarity upon the mysterious conflagration of aworld. The few passers-by whom he met on the boulevard strolled alongquietly, without raising their heads. Although he knew that when citiesare wrapped in night the moist atmosphere often reflects the lights, becoming tinged with this uniform glow, which shines without a flicker, he fancied that he was looking at the reflection of a vast fire. Heaccepted, without reflection, the idea that Paris was sinking into theabyss of a prodigious conflagration; he found it natural that theprivate catastrophe in which he had become involved should be mergedinto a public disaster and that this same night should be for a wholepopulation, as for him! a night of sinister happenings. 

Being extremely hungry, he took a cab at the barrier, and had himselfdriven to a restaurant in the Rue Royale. In the bright, warm room hewas conscious of a sense of well-being. After ordering his meal, heopened an evening newspaper and saw, in the Parliamentary report, thathis Minister had delivered a speech. On reading it, he smothered aslight laugh; he remembered certain stories told at the Quai d'Orsay. The Minister of Foreign Affairs was enamoured of Madame de Neuilles, anelderly lady with a lurid past, whom public rumour had raised to thestatus of adventuress and spy. He was wont, it was whispered, to try onher the speeches which he was to deliver in the Chamber. Ligny, who hadformerly been to a certain small extent the lover of Madame de Neuilles, pictured to himself the statesman in his shirt reciting to his lady-lovethe following statement of principles: "Far be it from me to disregardthe legitimate susceptibilities of the national sentiment. Resolutelypacific, but jealous of France's honour, the Government will, etc. " Thisvision put him in a merry mood. He turned the page, and read: To-morrowat the Odéon, first performance (in this theatre) of _La Nuit du 23octobre 1812_ with Messieurs Durville, Maury, Romilly, Destrée, Vicar, Léon Clim, Valroche, Aman, Chevalier. .. . 

CHAPTER VIII

At one o'clock on the following day _La Grille_ was in rehearsal, forthe first time, in the green-room of the theatre. A dismal light spreadlike a pall over the grey stones of the roof, the galleries, and thecolumns. In the depressing majesty of this pallid architecture, beneaththe statue of Racine, the leading actors were reading before Pradel, themanager of the house, their parts, which they did not yet know. Romilly, the stage manager, and Constantine Marc, the author of the piece, wereall three seated on a red velvet sofa, while, from a bench set backbetween two columns, was exhaled the vigilant hatred and whisperedjealousy of the actresses left out of the cast. 

The lover, Paul Delage, was with difficulty deciphering a speech:

"'I recognize the château with its brick walls, its slated roof; thepark, where I have so often entwined her initials and mine on the barkof the trees; the pond whose slumbering waters. .. . '"

Fagette rebuked him:

"'Beware, Aimeri, lest the château know you not again, lest the parkforget your name, lest the pond murmur: "Who is this stranger?"'"

But she had a cold, and was reading from a manuscript copy full ofmistakes. 

"Don't stand there, Fagette: it's the summer-house, " said Romilly. 

"How do you expect me to know that?"

"There's a chair put there. "

"'Lest the pond murmur: "Who is this stranger?"'"

"Mademoiselle Nanteuil, it's your cue----Where has Nanteuil got to?Nanteuil!"

Nanteuil came forward muffled up in her furs, her little bag and herpart in her hand, white as a sheet, her eyes sunken, her legs nerveless. When fully awake she had seen the dead man enter her bedroom. 

She inquired:

"Where do I make my entrance from?"

"From the right. "

"All right. "

And she read:

"'Cousin, I was so happy when I awoke this morning, I do not know why itwas. Can you perhaps tell me?'"

Delage read his reply:

"'It may be, Cécile, that it was due to a special dispensation ofProvidence or of fate. The God who loves you suffers you to smile, inthe hour of weeping and the gnashing of teeth. '"

"Nanteuil, my darling, you cross the stage, " said Romilly. "Delage, stand aside a bit to let her pass. "

Nanteuil crossed over. 

"'Terrible days, do you say, Aimeri? Our days are what we make them. They are terrible for evil-doers only. '"

Romilly interrupted:

"Delage, efface yourself a trifle; be careful not to hide her from theaudience. Once more, Nanteuil. "

Nanteuil repeated:

"'Terrible days, do you say, Aimeri? Our days are what we make them. They are terrible for evil-doers only. '"

Constantin Marc no longer recognized his handiwork, he could no longereven hear the sound of his beloved phrases, which he had so oftenrepeated to himself in the Vivarais woods. Dumbfounded and dazed, heheld his peace. 

Nanteuil tripped daintily across the stage, and resumed reading herpart:

"'You will perhaps think me very foolish, Aimeri; in the convent where Iwas brought up, I often used to envy the fate of the victims. '"

Delage took up his cue, but he had overlooked a page of the manuscript:

"'The weather is magnificent. Already the guests are strolling about thegarden. '"

It became necessary to start all over again. 

"'Terrible days, do you say, Aimeri. .. . '"

And so they proceeded, without troubling to understand, but careful toregulate their movements, as if studying the figures of a dance. 

"In the interests of the play, we shall have to make some cuts, " saidPradel to the dismayed author. 

And Delage continued:

"'Do not blame me, Cécile: I felt for you a friendship dating fromchildhood, one of those fraternal friendships which impart to the lovewhich springs from them a disquieting appearance of incest. '"

"Incest, " shouted Pradel. "You cannot let the word 'incest' remain, Monsieur Constantin Marc. The public has susceptibilities of which youhave no idea. Moreover, the order of the two speeches which follow mustbe transposed. The optics of the stage require it. "

The rehearsal was interrupted. Romilly caught sight of Durville who, ina recess, was telling racy stories. 

"Durville, you can go. The second act will not be rehearsed to-day. "

Before leaving, the old actor went up to Nanteuil, to press her hand. Judging that this was the moment to assure her of his sympathy, hesummoned up the tears to his eyes, as anyone condoling with her wouldhave done in his place. But he did it admirably. The pupils of his eyesswam in their orbits, like the moon amid clouds. The corners of his lipswere turned down in two deep furrows which prolonged them to the bottomof his chin. He appeared to be genuinely afflicted. 

"My poor darling, " he sighed, "I pity you, I do indeed! To see one forwhom one has experienced a--feeling--with whom one has--lived inintimacy--to see him carried off at a blow--a tragic blow--is hard, isterrible!"

And he extended his compassionate hands. Nanteuil, completely unnerved, and crushing her tiny handkerchief and her part in her hands, turned herback upon him, and hissed between her teeth:

"Old idiot!"

Fagette passed her arm round her waist, and led her gently aside to thefoot of Racine's statue, where she whispered into her ear:

"Listen to me, my dear. This affair must be completely hushed up. Everybody is talking about it. If you let people talk, they will brandyou for life as Chevalier's widow. "

Then, being something of a talker, she added:

"I know you, I am your best friend. I know your value. But beware, Félicie: women are held at their own valuation. "

Every one of Fagette's shafts told. Nanteuil, with fiery cheeks, heldback her tears. Too young to possess or even to desire the prudencewhich comes to celebrated actresses when of an age to graduate as womenof the world of fashion, she was full of self-esteem, and since she hadknown what it was to love another she was eager to efface everythingunfashionable from her past; she felt that Chevalier, in killing himselffor her sake, had behaved towards her publicly with a familiarity whichmade her ridiculous. Still unaware that all things fall into oblivion, and are lost in the swift current of our days, that all our actions flowlike the waters of a river, between banks that have no memory, shepondered, irritated and dejected, at the feet of Jean Racine, whounderstood her grief. 

"Just look at her, " said Madame Marie-Claire to young Delage. "She wantsto cry. I understand her. A man killed himself for me. I was greatlyupset by it. He was a count. "

"Well, begin again!" shouted Pradel. "Come now, Mademoiselle Nanteuil, your cue!"

Whereupon Nanteuil:

"'Cousin, I was so happy when I awoke this morning. .. . '"

Suddenly, Madame Doulce appeared. Ponderous and mournful, she let fallthe following words:

"I have very sad news. The parish priest will not allow him to enter hischurch. "

As Chevalier had no relations left other than a sister, a working-womanat Pantin, Madame Doulce had undertaken to make arrangements for thefuneral at the expense of the members of the company. 

They gathered round her. She continued:

"The Church rejects him as though he were accurst! That's dreadful!"

"Why?" asked Romilly. 

Madame Doulce replied in a very low tone and as if reluctantly:

"Because he committed suicide. "

"We must see to this, " said Pradel. 

Romilly displayed an eager desire to be of service. 

"The curé knows me, " he said. "He is a very decent fellow. I'll just runover to Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, and I'd be greatly surprised if----"

Madame Doulce shook her head sadly:

"All is useless. "

"All the same, we must have a religious service, " said Romilly, with allthe authority of a stage-manager. 

"Quite so, " said Madame Doulce. 

Madame Marie-Claire, deeply exercised in her mind, was of opinion thatthe priests could be compelled to say a Mass. 

"Let us keep cool, " said Pradel, caressing his venerable beard. "UnderLouis VIII the people broke in the doors of Saint-Roch, which had beenclosed to the coffin of Mademoiselle Raucourt. We live in other times, and under different circumstances. We must have recourse to gentlermethods. "

Constantin Marc, seeing to his great regret that his play was abandoned, had likewise approached Madame Doulce; he inquired of her:

"Why should you want Chevalier to be blessed by the Church? Personally, I am a Catholic. With me, it is not a faith, it is a system, and I lookupon it as a duty to participate in all the external practices ofworship. I am on the side of all authorities. I am for the judge, thesoldier, the priest. I cannot therefore be suspected of favouring civilburials. But I hardly understand why you persist in offering the curé ofSaint-Étienne-du-Mont a dead body which he repudiates. Now why do youwant this unfortunate Chevalier to go to church?"

"Why?" replied Madame Doulce. "For the salvation of his soul and becauseit is more seemly. "

"What would be seemly, " replied Constantin Marc, "would be to obey thelaws of the Church, which excommunicates suicides. "

"Monsieur Constantin Marc, have you read _Les Soirées de Neuilly_?"inquired Pradel, who was an ardent collector of old books and a greatreader. "What, you have not read _Les Soirées de Neuilly_, by Monsieurde Fongeray? You have missed something. It is a curious book, which canstill be met with sometimes on the quays. It is adorned by a lithographof Henry Monnier's, which is, I don't know why, a caricature ofStendhal. Fongeray is the pseudonym of two Liberals of the Restoration, Dittmer and Cavé. The work consists of comedies and dramas which cannotbe acted; but which contain some most interesting scenes representingmanners and customs. You will read in it how, in the reign of Charles X, a vicar of one of the Paris churches, the Abbé Mouchaud, would refuseburial to a pious lady, and would, at all costs, grant it to an atheist. Madame d'Hautefeuille was religious, but she held some nationalproperty. At her death, she received the ministrations of a Jansenistpriest. For this reason, after her death, the Abbé Mouchaud refused toreceive her into the church in which she had passed her life. At thesame time, in the same parish, Monsieur Dubourg, a big banker, was goodenough to die. In his will he stipulated that he should be bornestraight to the cemetery. 'He is a Catholic, ' reflected the AbbéMouchaud, 'he belongs to us. ' Quickly making a parcel of his stole andsurplice, he rushed off to the dead man's house, administered extremeunction, and brought him into his church. "

"Well, " replied Constantin Marc, "that vicar was an excellentpolitician. Atheists are not formidable enemies of the Church. They donot count as adversaries. They cannot raise a Church against her, andthey do not dream of doing so. Atheists have existed at all times amongthe heads and princes of the Church, and many of them have renderedsignal services to the Papacy. On the other hand, whoever does notsubmit strictly to ecclesiastical discipline and breaks away fromtradition upon a single point, whoever sets up a faith against thefaith, an opinion, a practices against the accepted opinion and thecommon practice, is a factor of disorder, a menace of peril, and must beextirpated. This the vicar, Mouchaud, understood. He should have beenmade a Cardinal. "

Madame Doulce, who had been clever enough not to tell everything in abreath, went on to say:

"I did not allow myself to be discomfited by the opposition of Monsieurle Curé. I begged, I entreated. And his answer was: 'We owe respectfulobedience to the Ordinary. Go to the Archbishop's Palace. I will do asMonseigneur bids me. ' There is nothing left for me but to follow thisadvice. I'm hurrying off to the Archbishop's Palace. "

"Let us get to work, " said Pradel. 

Romilly called to Nanteuil:

"Nanteuil! Come, Nanteuil, begin your whole scene over again. "

And Nanteuil said once more:

"'Cousin, I was so happy when I awoke this morning. .. . '"

CHAPTER IX

The prominence given by the Press to the suicide of the Boulevard deVilliers rendered the negotiations between the Stage and the Church allthe more difficult. The reporters had given the fullest details of theevent, and it was pointed out by the Abbé Mirabelle, the Archbishop'ssecond vicar, that to open the doors of the parish church to Chevalier, as matters then stood, was to proclaim that excommunicated persons wereentitled to the prayers of the Church. 

But for that matter, Monsieur Mirabelle himself, who in this affairdisplayed great wisdom and circumspection, paved the way to a solution. 

"You must fully understand, " he observed to Madame Doulce, "that theopinion of the newspapers cannot affect our decision. We are absolutelyindifferent to it, and we do not disturb ourselves in the slightestdegree, no matter what fifty public sheets may say about the unfortunateyoung fellow. Whether the journalists have told the truth or distortedit is their affair, not mine. I do not know and I do not wish to knowwhat they have written. But the fact of the suicide is notorious. Youcannot dispute it. It would now be advisable to investigate closely, andby the light of science, the circumstances in which the deed wascommitted. Do not be surprised by my thus invoking the aid of science. Science has no better friend than religion. Now medical science may inthe present case be of great assistance to us. You will understand in amoment. Mother Church ejects the suicide from her bosom only when hisact is an act of despair. The madmen who attempt their own lives are notthose who have lost all hope, and the Church does not deny them herprayers; she prays for all who are unfortunate. Now, if it could beproved that this poor boy had acted under the influence of a high feveror of a mental disorder, if a medical man were in a position to certifythat the poor fellow was not in possession of his faculties when he slewhimself with his own hand, there would be no obstacle to the celebrationof a religious service. "

Having hearkened to the words of Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle, MadameDoulce hastened back to the theatre. The rehearsal of _La Grille_ wasover. She found Pradel in his office with a couple of young actresses, one of whom was soliciting an engagement, the other, leave of absence. He refused, in conformity with his principle never to grant a requestuntil he had first refused it. In this way he bestowed a value upon hismost trifling concessions. His glistening eyes and his patriarchalbeard, his manner, at once amorous and paternal, gave him a resemblanceto Lot, as we see him between his two daughters in the prints of the OldMasters. Standing on the table was an amphora of gilt pasteboard whichfostered this illusion. 

"It can't be done, " he was telling each of them. "It really can't bedone, my child----Well, after all, look in to-morrow. "

Having dismissed them, he inquired, as he signed some letters:

"Well, Madame Doulce, what news do you bring?"

Constantin Marc, appearing with Nanteuil, hastily exclaimed:

"What about my scenery, Monsieur Pradel?"

Thereupon he described for the twentieth time the landscape, upon whichthe curtain ought to rise. 

"In the foreground, an old park. The trunks of the great trees, on thenorth side, are green with moss. The dampness of the soil must be felt. "

And the manager replied:

"You may rest assured that everything that can be done will be done, andthat it will be most appropriate. Well, Madame Doulce, what news?"

"There is a glimmer of hope, " she replied. 

"At the back, in a slight mist, " said the author, "the grey stones andthe slate roofs of the Abbaye-aux-Dames. "

"Quite so. Pray be seated, Madame Doulce; you have my attention. "

"I was most courteously received at the Archbishop's Palace, " saidMadame Doulce. 

"Monsieur Pradel, it is imperative that the walls of the Abbaye shouldappear inscrutable, of great thickness, and yet subtilized by the mistsof coming night. A pale-gold sky----"

"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle, " resumed Madame Doulce, "is a priest of thehighest distinction----"

"Monsieur Marc, are you particularly keen on your pale-gold sky?"inquired the stage manager. "Go on, Madame Doulce, go on, I am listeningto you. "

"And exquisitely polite. He made a delicate allusion to theindiscretions of the newspapers----"

At this moment Monsieur Marchegeay, the stage manager, burst into theroom. His green eyes were glittering, and his red moustache was dancinglike a flame. The words rolled off his tongue:

"They are at it again! Lydie, the little super, is screaming like astoat on the stairs. She says Delage tried to violate her. It's at leastthe tenth time in a month that she has come out with that story. Thisis an infernal nuisance!"

"Such conduct cannot be tolerated in a house like this, " said Pradel. "You'll have to fine Delage. Pray continue, Madame Doulce. "

"Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle explained to me in the clearest manner thatsuicide is an act of despair. "

But Constantin Marc was inquiring of Pradel with interest, whetherLydie, the little super, was pretty. 

"You have seen her in _La Nuit du 23 octobre_; she plays the woman ofthe people who, in the Plaine de Grenelle, is buying wafers of MadameRavaud. "

"A very pretty girl, to my thinking, " said Constantin Marc. 

"Undoubtedly, " responded Pradel. "But she would be still prettier if herankles weren't like stakes. "

And Constantin Marc musingly replied. 

"And Delage has outraged her. That fellow possesses the sense of love. Love is a simple and primitive act. It's a struggle, it's hatred. Violence is necessary to it. Love by mutual consent is merely a tediousobligation. "

And he cried, greatly excited. 

"Delage is prodigious!"

"Don't get yourself into a fix, " said Pradel. 

"This same little Lydie entices my actors into her dressing-room, andthen all of a sudden she screams out that she is being outraged in orderto get hush-money out of them. It's her lover who has taught her thetrick, and takes the coin. You were saying, Madame Doulce----"

"After a long and interesting conversation, " resumed Madame Doulce, "Monsieur l'Abbé Mirabelle suggested a favourable solution. He gave meto understand that, in order to remove all difficulties, it would besufficient for a physician to certify that Chevalier was not in fullpossession of his faculties, and that he was not responsible for hisacts. "

"But, " observed Pradel, "Chevalier wasn't insane. He was in fullpossession of his faculties. "

"It's not for us to say, " replied Madame Doulce. "What do we know aboutit?"

"No, " said Nanteuil, "he was not in full possession of his faculties. "

Pradel shrugged his shoulders. 

"After all, it's possible. Insanity and reason, it's a matter ofappreciation. To whom could we apply for a certificate?"

Madame Doulce and Pradel called to mind three physicians in succession;but they were unable to find the address of the first; the second wasbad-tempered, and it was decided that the third was dead. 

Nanteuil suggested that they should approach Dr. Trublet. 

"That's an idea!" exclaimed Pradel. "Let us ask a certificate of Dr. Socrates. What's to-day? Friday. It's his day for consultations. Weshall find him at home. "

Dr. Trublet lived in an old house at the top of the Rue de Seine. Pradeltook Nanteuil with him, with the idea that Socrates would refuse nothingto a pretty woman. Constantin Marc, who could not live, when in Paris, save in the company of theatrical folk, accompanied them. The Chevalieraffair was beginning to amuse him. He found it theatrical, that is, appropriate to theatrical performers. Although the hour forconsultations was over, the doctor's sitting-room was still full ofpeople in search of healing. Trublet dismissed them, and received histheatrical friends in his private room. He was standing in front of atable encumbered with books and papers. An adjustable arm-chair, infirmand cynical, displayed itself by the window. The director of the Odéonset forth the object of his call, and ended by saying:

"Chevalier's funeral service cannot be celebrated in the church unlessyou certify that the unfortunate young man was not altogether sane. "

Dr. Trublet declared that Chevalier might very well do without areligious service. 

"Adrienne Lecouvreur, who was of more account than Chevalier, didwithout one. Mademoiselle Monime had no Mass said for her after herdeath, and, as you are aware, she was denied 'the honour of rotting in anasty cemetery in the company of all the beggars of the quarter. ' Shewas none the worse off for that. "

"You are not ignorant of the fact, Dr. Socrates, " replied Pradel, "thatactors and actresses are the most religious of people. My company wouldbe deeply grieved if they could not be present at the celebration of aMass for their colleague. They have already secured the co-operation ofseveral lyric artists, and the music will be very fine. "

"Now that's a reason, " said Trublet "I do not gainsay it. CharlesMonselet, who was a witty fellow, was reflecting, only a few hoursbefore his death, on his musical Mass, 'I know a great many singers atthe Opéra, ' he said, 'I shall have a _Pie Jésu aux truffes_. ' But, as onthis occasion the Archbishop does not authorize a spiritual concert, itwould be more convenient to postpone it to some other occasion. "

"As far as I am concerned, " replied the director, "I have no religiousbelief. But I consider that the Church and the Stage are two greatsocial powers, and that it is beneficial that they should be friends andallies. For my own part, I never lose an opportunity of sealing thealliance. This coming Lent, I shall have Durville read one ofBourdaloue's sermons. I receive a State subsidy. I must observe theConcordat. Moreover, whatever people may say, Catholicism is the mostacceptable form of religious indifference. "

"Well then, " objected Constantin Marc, "since you wish to show deferenceto the Church, why do you foist upon her, by force or by subterfuge, acoffin which she doesn't want?"

The doctor spoke in a similar strain, and ended by saying. 

"My dear Pradel, don't you have anything more to do with the matter. "

"Whereupon Nanteuil, her eyes blazing, her voice sibilant, cried:

"He must go to church, doctor; sign what is asked of you, write that hewas not in possession of his faculties, I entreat you. "

There was not religion alone at the back of this desire. Blended with itwas an intimate feeling, an obscure background of old beliefs, of whichshe herself was unaware. She hoped that if he were carried into thechurch, and sprinkled with holy water, Chevalier would be appeased, would become one of the peaceful dead, and would no longer torment her. She feared, on the other hand, that if he were deprived of benedictionand prayers he would perpetually hover about her, accursed andmaleficent. And, more simply still, in her dread of seeing him again, she was anxious that the priests should take good care to bury him, andthat everybody should attend the funeral, so that he should be all themore thoroughly buried; as thoroughly buried, in short, as it waspossible to be. Her lips trembled and she wrung her hands. 

Trublet, who had long graduated in human nature, watched her withinterest. He understood and took a special interest in the female of thehuman machine. This particular specimen filled him with joy. Hissnub-nosed face beamed with delight as he watched her. 

"Don't be uneasy, child. There is always a way of coming to anunderstanding with the Church. What you are asking me is not within mypowers; I am a lay doctor. But we have to-day, thank God, religiousphysicians who send their patients to the ecclesiastical waters, andwhose special function is to attest miraculous cures. I know one wholives in this part of the town; I'll give you his address. Go and seehim; the Bishop will refuse him nothing. He will arrange the matter foryou. "

"Not at all, " said Pradel. "You always attended poor Chevalier. It isfor you to give a certificate. "

Romilly agreed:

"Of course, doctor. You are the physician to the theatre. We must washour dirty linen at home. "

At the same time, Nanteuil turned upon Socrates a gaze of entreaty. 

"But, " objected Trublet, "what do you want me to say?"

"It's very simple, " Pradel replied. "Say that he was to a certain extentirresponsible. "

"You are simply asking me to speak like a police surgeon. It's expectingtoo much of me. "

"You believe then, doctor, that Chevalier was fully and entirely morallyresponsible?"

"Quite the contrary. I am of opinion that he was not in the leastresponsible for his actions. "

"Well, then?"

"But I also consider that, in this respect, he differed in nowise fromyou, myself, and all other men. My judicial colleagues distinguishbetween individual responsibilities. They have procedures by which theyrecognize full responsibilities, and those which lack one or morefractional parts. It is a remarkable fact, moreover, that in order toget a poor wretch condemned they always find him fully responsible. Maywe not therefore consider that their own responsibility is full--likethe moon?"

And Dr. Socrates proceeded to unfold before the astonished stage folk acomprehensive theory of universal determinism. He went back to theorigins of life, and, like the Silenus of Virgil, who, smeared with thejuice of mulberries, sang to the shepherds of Sicily and the naiadAglaia of the origin of the world, he broke out into a flood of words:

"To call upon a poor wretch to answer for his actions! Why, even whenthe solar system was still no more than a pale nebula, forming, in theether, a fragile halo, whose circumference was a thousand times greaterthan the orbit of Neptune, we had all of us, for ages past, been fullyconditioned, determined and irrevocably destined, and yourresponsibility, my dear child, my responsibility, Chevalier's, and thatof all men, had been, not mitigated, but abolished beforehand. All ourmovements, the result of previous movements of matter, are subject tothe laws which govern the cosmic forces, and the human mechanism ismerely a particular instance of the universal mechanism. "

Pointing to a locked cupboard, he proceeded. 

"I have there, contained in bottles, that which would transform, destroy, or excite to frenzy the will of fifty thousand men. "

"Wouldn't be playing the game, " objected Pradel. 

"I agree, it wouldn't be playing the game. But these substances are notessentially laboratory products. The laboratory combines, it does notcreate anything. These substances are scattered throughout nature. Intheir free state, they surround and enter into us, they determine ourwill, they circumscribe our freedom of device, which is merely theillusion engendered within us by the ignorance of our determinations. "

"What on earth do you mean?" asked Pradel, taken aback. 

"I mean that our will is an illusion caused by our ignorance of thecauses which compel us to exert our will. That which wills within us isnot ourselves, but myriads of cells of prodigious activity, of which weknow nothing, which are unaware of us, which are ignorant of oneanother, but which nevertheless constitute us. By means of theirrestlessness they produce innumerable currents which we call ourpassions, our thoughts, our joys, our sufferings, our desires, ourfears, and our will. We believe that we are our own masters, while amere drop of alcohol stimulates, and then benumbs the very elements bywhich we feel and will. "

Constantin Marc interrupted the physician:

"Excuse me! Since you are speaking of the action of alcohol, I shouldlike your advice on the subject. I am in the habit of drinking a smallglass of Armagnac brandy after each meal. That's not too much, is it?"

"It's a great deal too much. Alcohol is a poison. If you have a bottleof brandy at home, fling it out of the window. "

Pradel was pondering. He considered that in suppressing will andresponsibility in all human things Dr. Socrates was doing him a personalinjury. 

"You may say what you like. Will and responsibility are not illusions. They are tangible and powerful realities. I know how the terms of mycontract bind me, and I impose my will on others. "

And he added with some bitterness:

"I believe in the will, in moral responsibility, in the distinctionbetween good and evil. Doubtless these are, according to you, stupidideas. "

"They are indeed stupid ideas, " replied the physician, "but they arevery suitable to us, since we are mere animals. We are for everforgetting this. They are stupid, venerable, wholesome ideas. Men havefelt that, without these ideas, they would all go mad. They had only thechoice between stupidity and madness. Very reasonably they chosestupidity. Such is the foundation of moral ideas. "

"What a paradox!" exclaimed Romilly. 

The physician calmly proceeded:

"The distinction between good and evil in human societies has neveremerged from the grossest empiricism. It was constituted in a whollypractical spirit and as a simple convenience. We do not troubleourselves about it where cut-glass or a tree is concerned. We practisemoral indifference with regard to animals. We practise it in the case ofsavage races. This enables us to exterminate them without remorse. That's what is known as the colonial policy. Nor do we find thatbelievers exact a high degree of morality from their god. In the presentstate of society, they would not willingly admit that he was lecherousor compromised himself with women; but they do think it fitting that heshould be vindictive and cruel. Morality is a mutual agreement to keepwhat we possess: land, houses, furniture, women, and our lives. It doesnot imply, in the case of those who bow to it, any particularintelligence or character. It is instinctive and ferocious. Written lawfollows it closely, and is in more or less harmonious agreement with it. Hence we see that great-hearted men, or men of brilliant genius, havealmost all been accused of impiety, and, like Socrates, the son ofPhenaretes, and Benoît Malon, have been smitten by the tribunals oftheir country. And it may be stated that a man who has not, at the veryleast, been sentenced to imprisonment does little credit to the land ofhis fathers. "

"There are exceptions, " remarked Pradel. 

"Few, " replied Dr. Trublet. 

But Nanteuil, pursuing her idea, remarked. 

"My little Socrates, you can very well certify that he was insane. It isthe truth. He was not sane, I know it only too well. "

"No doubt he was mad, my dear child. But it is a question of determiningwhether he was madder than other men. The entire history of humanity, replete with tortures, ecstasies, and massacres, is the history ofraving, demented creatures. "

"Doctor, " inquired Constantin Marc, "are you by chance one of those whodo not admire War? It is nevertheless a magnificent thing, when you cometo think of it. The animals merely eat one another. Men have conceivedthe idea of beautiful massacres. They have learnt to kill one another inglittering cuirasses, in helmets topped with plumes, or maned withscarlet. By the use of artillery, and the art of fortification, theyhave introduced chemistry and mathematics among the necessary means ofdestruction. War is a sublime invention. And, since the extermination ofhuman beings appears to us the only object of life, the wisdom of manresides in this, that he has made this extermination a delight and asplendour. After all, doctor, you cannot deny that murder is a law ofnature, and that it is consequently divine. "

To which Dr. Socrates replied:

"We are only miserable animals, and yet we are our own providence andour own gods. The lower animals, whose immemorial reign preceded our ownupon this planet, have transformed it by their genius and their courage. The insects have traced roads, excavated the soil, hollowed the trunksof trees and rocks, built dwellings, founded cities, metamorphosed thesoil, the air, and the waters. The labour of the humblest of these, thatof the madrepores, has created islands and continents. Every materialchange produces a moral change, since morals depend upon environment. The transformation to which man in his turn has subjected the earth isundoubtedly more profound and more harmonious than the transformationwrought by other animals. Why should not humanity succeed in changingnature to the extent of making it pacific? Why should not humanity, miserably puny though it is and will be, succeed, some day, insuppressing, or at least in controlling the struggle for life? Whyindeed should not humanity abolish the law of murder? We may expect agreat deal from chemistry. Yet I do not guarantee anything. It ispossible that our race will persist in melancholy, delirium, mania, dementia, and stupor until its lamentable end amid ice and darkness. This world is perhaps irremediably wicked. At all events, I shall havegot plenty of amusement out of it. It affords those who are in it aninteresting spectacle, and I am beginning to think that Chevalier wasmadder than the rest in that he voluntarily left his seat. "

Nanteuil took a pen from the desk, and held it out, dipped in ink, tothe doctor. 

He began to write:

"Having been called on several occasions to attend----"

He interrupted himself to ask Chevalier's Christian name. 

"Aimé, " replied Nanteuil. 

"Aimé Chevalier, I have noticed in his system certain disorders ofsensibility, vision and motor control, ordinary indications of----"

He went to fetch a book from a shelf of his library. 

"It's a thousand chances that I shall find something to confirm mydiagnosis in the lectures of Professor Ball on mental diseases. "

He turned over the leaves of the book. 

"Just see, my dear Romilly, this is what I find to begin with; in theeighteenth lecture, page 389: 'Many madmen are to be met with amongactors. ' This remark of Professor Ball's reminds me that the celebratedCabanis one day asked Dr. Esprit Blanche whether the stage was not acause of madness. "

"Really?" asked Romilly uneasily. 

"Not a doubt of it, " replied Trublet. "But listen to what Professor Ballsays on the same page. 'It is an incontestable fact that medical men areexcessively predisposed to mental aberration. ' Nothing is truer. Amongmedical men, those who are more especially predestined to insanity arethe alienists. It is often difficult to determine which of the two isthe crazier, the madman or his doctor. People say too that men of geniusare prone to insanity. That is certainly the case. Still, a man is not areasoning being merely because he is an idiot. "

After glancing a little further through the pages of Professor Ball'slectures, he resumed his writing:

"Ordinary indications of maniacal excitement, and, if it be taken intoconsideration that the subject was of a neuropathic temperament, thereis reason to believe that his constitution predisposed him to insanity, which, according to the highest authorities, is merely an exaggerationof the habitual temperament of the individual, and hence it is notpossible to credit him with full moral responsibility. "

He signed the sheet and handed it to Pradel, saying:

"Here's something that is innocuous and too devoid of meaning to containthe slightest falsehood. "

Pradel rose and said:

"Believe me, my dear doctors we should not have asked you to tell alie. "

"Why not? I am a medical man. I keep a lie-shop. I relieve, I console. How is it possible to relieve and console without lying?"

Then, with a sympathetic glance at Nanteuil; he added:

"Only women and physicians know how necessary untruthfulness is, and howbeneficial to man. "

And, as Pradel, Constantin Mate, and Romilly were taking their leave, hesaid:

"Pray go out by the dining-room. I've just received a small cask of oldArmagnac. You'll tell me what you think of it!"

Nanteuil had remained behind in the doctor's consulting room. 

"My little Socrates, I have spent an awful night. I saw him. "

"During your sleep?"

"No, when wide awake. "

"You are sure you were not sleeping?"

"Quite sure. "

He was on the point of asking her if the apparition had spoken to her. But he left the question unspoken, fearing lest he might suggest to sosensitive a subject those hallucinations of the sense of hearing, which, by reason of their imperious nature, he dreaded far more than visualhallucinations. He was familiar with the docility of the sick in obeyingorders given them by voices. Abandoning the idea of questioning Félicie, he resolved, at all hazards, to remove any scruples of conscience whichmight be troubling her. At the same time, having observed that, generally speaking, the sense of moral responsibility is weak in women, he made no great effort in that direction, and contented himself withremarking lightly:

"My dear child, you must not consider yourself responsible for the deathof that poor fellow. A suicide inspired by passion is the inevitabletermination of a pathological condition. Every individual who commitssuicide had to commit suicide. You are merely the incidental cause of anaccident, which is, of course, deplorable, but the importance of whichshould not be exaggerated. "

Thinking that he had said enough on this score, he applied himselfimmediately to dispersing the terrors which surrounded her. He sought toconvince her by simple arguments that she was beholding images which hadno reality, mere reflections of her own thoughts. In order toillustrate his demonstration, he told her a story of a reassuringnature. 

"An English physician, " he told her, "was attending a lady, likeyourself, highly intelligent, who, like yourself, was in the habit ofseeing cats under her furniture, and was visited by phantoms. Heconvinced her that these apparitions corresponded to nothing in reality. She believed him, and worried herself no longer. One fine day, after along period of retirement, she reappeared in society, and on entering adrawing-room she saw the lady of the house who, pointing to anarm-chair, begged her to be seated. She also saw, seated in this chair, a crafty-looking old gentleman. She argued to herself that one of thetwo persons was necessarily a creature of the imagination, and, decidingthat the gentleman had no real existence, she sat down on the arm-chair. On touching the bottom, she drew a long breath. From that day onward, she never again set eyes on any further phantoms, either of man or ofbeast. When smothering the crafty-looking old gentleman, she hadsmothered them all--fundamentally. "

Félicie shook her head, saying:

"That does not apply to this case. "

She meant to say that her own phantom was not a grotesque old man, onwhom one could sit, but a jealous dead man who did not pay her visitswithout some object. But she feared to speak of these things; and, letting her hands fall upon her knees, she held her peace. 

Seeing her thus, dejected and crushed, he pointed out that thesedisorders of the vision were neither rare nor very serious, and thatthey soon vanished without leaving any traces. 

"I myself, " he said, "once had a vision. "

"You?"

"Yes, I had a vision, some twenty years ago. It was in Egypt. "

He noticed that she was looking at him inquiringly, so he began thestory of his hallucination, having switched on all the electric lights, in order to disperse the phantoms of darkness. 

"In the days when I was practising in Cairo, I was accustomed, in theFebruary of each year, to go up the Nile as far as Luxor, and thence Iproceeded, in company with some friends, to visit the tombs and templesin the desert. These trips across the sands are made on donkey-back. Thelast time I went to Luxor I hired a young donkey-boy, whose white donkeyRameses was stronger than the others. This donkey-boy, whose name wasSelim, was also stronger, slenderer, and better looking than the otherdonkey-boys. He was fifteen years old. His shy, gentle eyes shone frombehind a magnificent veil of long black lashes; his brown face was apure clear-cut oval. He tramped barefoot through the desert with a stepwhich made one think of those dances of warriors of which the Biblespeaks. His every movement was graceful; his young animal-like gaietywas charming. As he prodded Rameses' back with the point of his stick, he would chatter to me in a limited vocabulary in which English, Frenchand Arabic were intermingled; he enjoyed telling me of the travellerswhom he had escorted and who, he believed, were all princes orprincesses; but if I asked him about his relations or his companions heremained silent, and assumed an air of indifference and boredom. Whencadging for a promise of substantial baksheesh, the nasal twang of hisvoice assumed caressing inflexions. He thought out subtle stratagems andexpended whole treasuries of prayers in order to obtain a cigarette. Noticing that I liked to see the donkey-boys treat their beasts withkindness, he used, in my presence, to kiss Rameses on the nostrils, andwhen we halted he would waltz with him. He often displayed realingenuity in getting what he wanted. But he was far too short-sightedever to show the slightest gratitude for what he had obtained. Greedy ofpiastres, he coveted still more eagerly such small glittering articlesas one cannot keep covered--gold scarf-pins, rings, sleeve-links, ornickel cigar-lighters; and when he saw a gold chain his face wouldlight up with a gleam of pleasure. 

"The following summer was the hardest time of my life. An epidemic ofcholera had broken out in Lower Egypt. I was running about the town allday long in a scorching atmosphere. Cairo summers are overpowering toEuropeans. We were going through the hottest weeks I had ever known. Iheard one day that Selim, brought before the native court of Cairo, hadbeen sentenced to death. He had murdered the daughter of some fellaheen, a little girl nine years old, in order to rob her of her ear-rings, andhad thrown her into a cistern. The rings, stained with blood, had beenfound under a big stone in the Valley of the Kings. They were the crudejewels which the Nubian nomads hammer out of shillings or two-francpieces, I was told that Selim would certainly be hanged, because thelittle girl's mother refused the tendered blood-money. Now, the Khedivedoes not enjoy the prerogative of mercy, and the murderer, according toMoslem law, can redeem his life only if the parents of the victimconsent to receive from him a sum of money as compensation. I was toobusy to give thought to the matter. I could readily imagine that Selim, cunning but thoughtless, caressing yet unfeeling, had played with thelittle girl, torn off her ear-rings, killed her, and hidden her body. The affair soon passed out of my mind. The epidemic was spreading fromOld Cairo to the European quarters. I was visiting from thirty to fortysick persons daily, practising venous injections in every case. I wassuffering from liver trouble, anæmia was playing havoc with me, and Iwas dropping with fatigue. In order to husband my strength, I took alittle rest at noon. I was accustomed, after luncheon, to lie down inthe inner courtyard of my house, and there for an hour I bathed myselfin the African shade, as dense and cool as water. One day, as I waslying there on a divan in my courtyard, just as I was lighting acigarette, I saw Selim approaching. With his beautiful bronze arm helifted the door-curtain, and came towards me in his blue robe. He didnot speak, but smiled with his shy and innocent smile, and the deep redof his lips disclosed his dazzling teeth. His eyes, beneath the blueshadow of his eyelashes, shone with covetousness while gazing at mywatch which lay on the table. 

"I thought he had escaped. And this surprised me, not because captivesare strictly watched in Oriental prisons, where men, women, horses anddogs are herded in imperfectly closed courtyards, and guarded by asoldier armed with a stick. But Moslems are never tempted to flee fromtheir fate. Selim knelt down with an appealing grace, and approachedhis lips to my hand, to kiss it according to ancient custom. I was notasleep, and I had proof of it. I also had proof that the apparition hadbeen before me only for a short time. When Selim had vanished I noticedthat my cigarette, which was alight, was not yet tipped with ash. "

"Was he dead when you saw him?" asked Nanteuil. 

"Not a bit of it, " replied the doctor, "I heard a few days later thatSelim, in his jail, wove little baskets, or played for hours at a timewith a chaplet of glass balls, and that he would smilingly beg a piastreof European visitors, who were surprised by the caressing softness ofhis eyes. Moslem justice is slow. He was hanged six months later. Noone, not even he himself, was greatly concerned about it. I was inEurope at the time. "

"And since then he has never reappeared?"

"Never. "

Nanteuil looked at him, disappointed. 

"I thought he had come when he was dead. But since he was in prison youcertainly could not have seen him in your house. You only thought yousaw him. "

The physician, understanding what was in Félicie's mind, quickly replied:

"My dear little Nanteuil, believe what I tell you. The phantoms of thedead have no more reality than the phantoms of the living. "

Without attending to what he was saying, she asked him if it was reallybecause he suffered from his liver that he had a vision. He replied thathe believed that the bad state of his digestive organs, general fatigue, and a tendency to congestion, had all predisposed him to behold anapparition. 

"There was; I believe, " he added, "a more immediate cause. Stretchedout on my divan, my head was very low. I raised it to light a cigarette, and let it fall back immediately. This attitude is particularlyfavourable to hallucinations. It is sometimes enough to lie down withone's head thrown back to see and to hear imaginary shapes and sounds. That is why I advise you, my child, to sleep with a bolster and a fatpillow. "

She began to laugh. 

"As mamma does--majestically!"

Then, flitting off to another idea:

"Tell me; Socrates, how comes it that you saw this sordid individualrather than another? You had hired a donkey from him, and you were nolonger thinking of him. And yet he came. Say what you like, it's queer. "

"You ask me why it was he rather than another? It would be very hard forme to tell you. Our visions, bound up with our innermost thoughts, often present their images to us; sometimes there is no connectionbetween them, and they show us an unexpected figure. "

He once more exhorted her not to allow herself to be frightened byphantoms. 

"The dead do not return. When one of them appears to you, rest assuredthat what you see is a thing imagined by your brain. "

"Can you, " she inquired; "guarantee that there is nothing after death?"

"My child, there is nothing after death that could frighten you. "

She rose, picked up her little bag and her part, and held out her handto the doctor, saying:

"As for you, you don't believe in anything, do you, old Socrates?"

He detained her for a moment in the waiting-room, warned her to takegood care of herself, to lead a quiet, restful life, and to takesufficient rest. 

"Do you suppose that is easy in our profession? To-morrow I have arehearsal in the green-room, and one on the stage, and I have to try ona gown, while to-night I am acting. For more than a year now I've beenleading that sort of life. "

CHAPTER X

Under the great void reserved by the height of the roof for the upwardflight of prayers the motley crowd of human beings was huddled togetherlike a flock of sheep. 

They were all there, at the foot of the catafalque surrounded by lightsand covered with flowers, Durville, old Maury, Delage, Vicar, Destrée, Léon Clim, Valrosche, Aman, Regnard, Pradel, Romilly, and Marchegeay, the manager. They were all there, Madame Ravaud, Madame Doulce, EllenMidi, Duvernet, Herschell, Falempin, Stella, Marie-Claire, Louise Dalle, Fagette, Nanteuil, kneeling, robed in black, like elegiac figures. Someof the women were reading their missals. Some were weeping. All of thembrought to the coffin of their comrade at least the tribute of theirheavy eyes and their faces pallid from the cold of the morning. Journalists, actors, playwrights, whole families of those artisans whogain their living by the theatre, and a crowd of curious onlookersfilled the nave. 

The choristers were uttering the mournful cries of the _Kyrie eleison_;the priest kissed the altar; turned towards the people and said:

_"Dominus vobiscum. "_

Romilly; taking in the crowd at a glance, remarked

"Chevalier has a full house. "

"Just look at that Louise Dalle, " said Fagette. "To look as though she'sin mourning, she has put on a black mackintosh!"

A little to the back of the church, with Pradel and Constantin Marc, Dr. Trublet was, in subdued tones, according to his habit, delivering hismoral homilies. 

"Observe, " he said, "that they are lighting, on the altar and about thecoffin, in the guise of wax candles, diminutive night-lights mounted onbilliard cues, and are thereby making an offering of lamp oil instead ofvirgin wax to the Lord. The pious men who dwell in the sanctuary have atall times been proved to defraud their God by these little deceptions. This observation is not my own; it is, I believe, Renan's. "

The celebrant, standing on the epistle side of the altar, was recitingin a low voice:

_"Nolumus autem vos ignorare fratres de dormientibus, ut noncontrisemimi, sicut et cæteri qui spem non habent. "_

"Who is taking the part of Florentin?" inquired Durville of Romilly. 

"Regnard: he'll be no worse in it than Chevalier. "

Pradel plucked Trublet by the sleeve, and said:

"Dr. Socrates, I beg you to tell me whether as a scientific man, as aphysiologist, you see any serious objections to the immortality of thesoul?"

He asked the question as a busy and practical man in need of personalinformation. 

"You are doubtless aware, my dear friend, " replied Trublet, "whatCyrano's bird said on this very subject. One day Cyrano de Bergeracheard two birds conversing in a tree. One of them said, 'The souls ofbirds are immortal, ' 'There can be no doubt of it, ' replied the other. 'But it is inconceivable that beings who possess neither bill norfeathers, who have no wings and walk on two legs, should believe thatthey, like the birds, have an immortal soul. '"

"All the same, " said Pradel, "when I hear the organ, I am chock-full ofreligious ideas. "

_"Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine. "_

The celebrated author of _La Nuit du 23 octobre 1812_ appeared in thechurch, and no sooner had he done so than he was everywhere at one andthe same moment--in the nave, under the porch, and in the choir. Likethe _Diable boiteux_ he must, bestriding his crutch, have soared abovethe heads of the congregation, to pass as he did in the twinkling of aneye from Morlot, the deputy, who, being a freethinker, had remained inthe parvis, to Marie-Claire kneeling at the foot of the catafalque. 

At one and at the same moment he whispered into the ears of all a fewnimble phrases:

"Pradel, can you imagine this fellow going and chucking his part, anexcellent part, and running off to kill himself? A pumpkin-headed fool!Blows out his brains just two days before the first night. Compels us toreplace him and sets us back a week. What an imbecile! A rotten bad egg. But we must do him justice; he could jump, and jump well, the animal. Well, my dear Romilly, we rehearse the new man to-day at two o'clock. See to it that Regnard has the script of his part, and that he knows howto climb on to the roof. Let us hope he won't kick the bucket on ourhands like Chevalier. What if he, too, were to commit suicide! Youneedn't laugh. There's an evil spell on certain parts. Thus, in my_Marino Falieri_, the gondolier Sandro breaks his arm at the dressrehearsal. I am given another Sandro. He sprains his ankle on the firstnight. I am given a third, he contracts typhoid fever. My littleNanteuil, I'll entrust you with a magnificent rôle to create when you getto the Français. But I have sworn by the great gods that I'll neveragain have a single play performed in this theatre. "

And immediately, under the little door which shuts off the choir on theright hand side of the altar, showing his friends Racine's epitaph, which is let into the wall, like a Parisian thoroughly conversant withthe antiquities of his city, he recalled the history of this stone, hetold them how the poet had been buried in accordance with his desire atPort-Royal-des-Champs, at the foot of Monsieur Hamon's grave, and that, after the destruction of the abbey and the violation of the tombs, thebody of Messire Jean Racine, the King's secretary, Groom of the Chamber, had been transferred, all unhonoured; to Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. And hetold how the tombstone, bearing the inscription composed for Boileau, beneath the knight's crest and the shield with its swan argent, and doneinto Latin by Monsieur Dodart, had served as a flagstone in the choir ofthe little church of Magny-Lessart; where it had been discovered in1808. 

"There it is, " he added. "It was broken in six pieces and the name ofRacine was effaced by the shoes of the peasants. The fragments werepieced together and the missing letters carved anew. "

On this subject he expatiated with his customary vivacity anddiffusiveness, drawing from his prodigious memory a multitude of curiousfacts and amusing anecdotes, breathing life into history and endowingarchæology with a living interest. His admiration and his wrath burstforth in swift and violent alternation in the solemnity of the church, and amid the pomp of the ceremony. 

"I would give something to know, for instance, who were the stupidbunglers who set this stone in the wall. _Hic jacet nobilis vir JohannesRacine. _ It is not true! They make honest Boileau's epitaph lie. Thebody of Racine is not in this spot. It was laid to rest in the thirdchapel on the left, as you enter. What idiots!" Then, suddenly calm, hepointed to Pascal's tombstone. 

"That came here from the museum of the Petits-Augustins. No praise canbe too great for Lenoir, who, in the days of the Revolution, collectedand preserved. "

Thereupon, he improvised a second lecture on lapidary archæology, evenmore brilliant than the first, transformed the history of Pascal's lifeinto a terrible yet amusing drama, and vanished. In all, he had remainedin the church for the space of ten minutes. 

Over those heads full of worldly cares and profane desires the _Diesiræ_ rumbled like a storm:

 _"Mors stupebit et natura, Quum resurget creatura Judicanti responsura. "_

"Tell me, Dutil, how could that little Nanteuil, who is pretty andintelligent, get herself mixed up with a dirty mummer like Chevalier?"

"Your ignorance of the feminine heart surprises me. "

"Herschell was prettier when she was a brunette. "

 _"Qui Mariam absolvisti Et latronem exaudisti Mihi quoque spem dedisti. "_

"I must be off to lunch. "

"Do you know anyone who knows the Minister?"

"Durville is a has-been. He blows like a grampus. "

"Put me in a little paragraph about Marie Falempin. I can tell you shewas simply delicious in _Les Trois Magots_. "

 _"Inter oves locum presta Et ab hædis me sequestra, Statuens in parte dextra. "_

"So then, it is for Nanteuil's sake that he blew out his brains? Alittle ninny who isn't worth spanking!"

The celebrant poured the wine and the water into the chance, saying:

_"Deus qui humanæ substantiæ dignitatem mirabiliter condidisu. .. . "_

"Is it really true, doctor, that he killed himself because Nanteuilwouldn't have any more to do with him?"

"He killed himself, " replied Trublet, "because she loved another. Theobsession of genetic images frequently determines mania andmelancholia. "

"You don't understand second-rate actors, Dr. Socrates, " said Pradel. "Hekilled himself to cause a sensation, and for no other reason. "

"It's not only second-rate actors, " said Constantin Marc, "who sufferfrom an uncontrollable desire to attract attention to themselves atwhatever cost. Last year, in the place where I live, Saint-Bartholomé, while a threshing-machine was at work, a thirteen-year-old boy shovedhis arm into the gear; it was crushed up to the shoulder. The surgeonwho amputated it asked him, as he was dressing the stump, why hemutilated himself like that. The boy confessed that it was to drawattention to himself. "

Meanwhile, Nanteuil, with dry eyes and pursed lips, had fixed her eyesupon the black cloth with which the catafalque was covered, and wasimpatiently waiting until enough holy water, candles and Latin prayersshould be bestowed upon the dead man for him to depart in peace. Shehad seen him again the night before, and she thought he had returnedbecause the priests had not yet bidden him to rest in peace. Then, reflecting that one day she, too, would die, and would, like him, belaid in a coffin, beneath a black pall, she shuddered with horror andclosed her eyes. The idea of life was so strong within her that shepictured death as a hideous life. Afraid of death, she prayed for a longlife. Kneeling, with bowed head, the voluptuous ashen cloud of herbuoyant hair falling over her forehead, she, a profane penitent, wasreading in her prayer-book words which reassured her, although she didnot understand them. 

"Lord Jesus Christ, King of Glory, deliver the souls of all the faithfuldead from the pains of hell and from the depths of the bottomless pit. Deliver them from the lion's jaws. Let them not be plunged into hell, and let them not fall into the outer darkness, but suffer that St. Michael, the Prince of Angels, lead them to the holy light promised byThee to Abraham and to his posterity. "

At the Elevation of the Host the congregation, permeated by a vagueimpression that the mystery was becoming more sacred, ceased its privateconversations, and assumed a certain appearance of reverent devotion. And as the organ fell silent all heads were bowed at the tinkling of alittle bell which was shaken by a child. Then, after the last Gospel, when, the service being over, the priest, attended by his acolytes, approached the catafalque to the chanting of the _Libera_, a sense ofrelief was experienced by the crowd, and they began to jostle oneanother a little in order to file past the coffin. The women, whosepiety, grief and contrition were contingent upon their immobility andtheir kneeling posture, were at once recalled to their customary frameof mind by the movement and the encounters of the procession. Theyexchanged amongst themselves and with the men remarks relating to theirprofession. 

"Do you know, " said Ellen Midi to Falempin, "that Nanteuil is going tojoin the Comédie-Française?"

"It's not possible!"

"The contract is signed. "

"How did she manage it?"

"Not by her acting, you may be sure, " replied Ellen, who proceeded torelate a highly scandalous story. 

"Take care, " said Falempin, "she is just behind you. "

"Yes, I see her! She's got a cheek of her own to show herself here, don't you think?"

Marie-Claire whispered an extraordinary piece of news into Durville'sear:

"They say he committed suicide. Well, there's not a word of truth in itHe didn't commit suicide at all. And the proof of it is that he is beingburied with the rites of the Church. "

"What then?" inquired Durville. 

"Monsieur de Ligny surprised him with Nanteuil and killed him. "

"Come, come!"

"I can assure you that I am accurately informed. "

The conversations were becoming animated and familiar. 

"So you are here, you wicked old sinner!"

"The box-office receipts are falling off already. "

"Stella has succeeded in getting herself proposed by seventeen Deputies, nine of whom are members of the Budget Commission. "

"Yet I told Herschell, 'That little Bocquet fellow isn't the man for you. What you need is a man of standing. '"

When the bier, borne by the undertaker's men, passed through the westdoor, the delicious rays of a winter sun fell on the faces of the womenand the roses lying on the coffin. Grouped on either side of the parvis, a few young men from the great colleges sought the faces of celebrities;the little factory girls from the neighbouring workshops, standing incouples with arms round each other's waists, contemplated theactresses' dresses. And standing against the porch on their aching feet, a couple of tramps, accustomed to living under the open sky, whethermild or sullen, slowly shifted their dejected gaze, while a college ladgazed with rapture at the fiery tresses which coiled like flames on thenape of Fagette's neck. 

She had stopped on the topmost step in front of the doors, and waschatting with Constantin Marc and a few journalists:

". .. Monsieur de Ligny? He danced attendance upon me long before he knewNanteuil. He used to gaze upon me by the hour, with eager eyes, withoutdaring to speak a word to me. I received him willingly enough, for hisbehaviour was perfect. It is only fair to say that his manners areexcellent. He was as reserved as a man could be. At last, one day, hedeclared that he was madly in love with me. I told him that as he wasspeaking to me seriously I would do the same; that I was truly sorry tosee him in such a state; that every time such a thing happened I wasgreatly upset by it; that I was a woman of standing, I had settled mylife, and could do nothing for him. He was desperate. He informed methat he was leaving for Constantinople, that he would never return. Hecouldn't make up his mind either to remain or to go away. He fell ill. Nanteuil, who thought I loved him and wanted to keep him, did all inher power to get him away from me. She flung herself at his head in thecraziest fashion, I found her sometimes a trifle ridiculous, but, as youmay imagine, I did not place any obstacle in her path. For his part, Monsieur de Ligny, with the object of inspiring me with regret, withvexation, or what not, perhaps in the hope of making me jealous, responded very visibly to Nanteuil's advances. And that is how they cameto be together. I was delighted. Nanteuil and I are the best offriends. "

Madame Doulce, hedged in on either side by the onlookers, came slowlydown the steps, indulging herself in the illusion that the crowd waswhispering, "That's Doulce!"

She seized Nanteuil as she was passing, pressed her to her bosom, andwith a beautiful gesture of Christian charity enveloped her in hermantle, saying through her sobs:

"Try to pray, my child, and accept this medal. It has been blessed bythe Pope. A Dominican Father gave it to me. "

Madame Nanteuil, who was a little out of breath, but was growing youngagain since she had renewed her experience of love, was the last to comeout. Durville pressed her hand. 

"Poor Chevalier!" he murmured. 

"His was not a bad character, " answered Madame Nanteuil, "but he showeda lack of tact. A man of the world does not commit suicide in such amanner. Poor boy, he had no breeding. "

The hearse began its journey in the colossal shadow of the Panthéon, andproceeded down the Rue Soufflet, which is lined on both sides withbooksellers' shops. Chevalier's fellow-players, the employés of thetheatre, the director, Dr. Socrates, Constantin Marc, a few journalistsand a few inquisitive onlookers followed. The clergy and the actressestook their seats in the mourning coaches. Nanteuil, disregarding MadameDoulce's advice, followed with Fagette, in a hired coupé. 

The weather was fine. Behind the hearse the mourners were conversing infamiliar fashion. 

"The cemetery is the devil of a way!"

"Montparnasse? Half an hour at the outside. "

"Do you know Nanteuil is engaged at the Comédie-Française?"

"Do we rehearse to-day?" Constantin Marc inquired of Romilly. 

"To be sure we do, at three o'clock, in the green-room. We shallrehearse till five. I am playing to-night; I am playing to-morrow; onSunday I play both afternoon and evening. Work is never over for usactors; one is always beginning over again, always putting one'sshoulder to the wheel. "

Adolphe Meunier, the poet, laying his hand on his shoulder said:

"Everything going well, Romilly?"

"How are you getting on yourself, Meunier? Always rolling the rock ofSisyphus. That would be nothing, but success does not depend on usalone. If the play is bad and falls flat, all that we have put into it, our work, our talent, a bit of our own life, collapses with it. And thenumber of 'frosts' I've seen! How often the play has fallen under melike an old hack, and has chucked me into the gutter! Ah, if one werepunished only for one's own sins!"

"My dear Romilly, " replied Meunier sharply, "do you imagine that thefate of dramatic authors like myself does not depend as much upon theactors as upon ourselves? Do you think it never happens that actors, bytheir carelessness or clumsiness, ruin a work which was meant to reachthe heights? And do not we also, like Cæsar's legionary, become seizedwith dismay and anguish at the thought that our fate is not assured byour own valour, but that it depends on those who fight beside us?"

"Such is life, " observed Constantin Marc. "In every undertaking, everywhere and always, we pay for the faults of others. "

"That is only too true, " resumed Meunier, who had just seen his lyricdrama, _Pandolphe et Clarimonde_, come hopelessly to grief. "But theiniquity of it disgusts us. "

"It should not disgust us in the least, " replied Constantin Marc. "Thereis a sacred law which governs the world, which we are forced to obey, which we are proud to worship. It is injustice, holy injustice, augustinjustice. It is everywhere blessed under the name of happiness, fortune, genius and grace. It is a weakness not to acknowledge it and tovenerate it under its true name. "

"That's rather weird, what you have just said!" remarked the gentleMeunier. 

"Think it over, " resumed Constantin Marc. "You, too, belong yourself tothe party of injustice, for you are striving for distinction, and youvery reasonably want to throttle your competitors, a natural, unjust andlegitimate desire. Do you know of anything more stupid or more odiousthan the sort of people we have seen demanding justice? Public opinion, which is not, however, remarkable for its intelligence, and commonsense, which nevertheless is not a superior sense, have felt that theyconstituted the precise contrary of nature, society and life. "

"Quite so, " said Meunier, "but justice----"

"Justice is nothing but the dream of a few simpletons. Injustice is thethought of God Himself. The doctrine of original sin would alonesuffice to make me a Christian, while the doctrine of grace embodies alltruths divine and human. "

"Then are you a believer?" asked Romilly respectfully. 

"No, but I should like to be. I regard faith as the most preciouspossession which a man can enjoy in this world. At Saint-Bartholomé, Igo to Mass every Sunday and feast day, and I have never once listened tothe exposition of the Gospel by the _curé_ without saying to myself: 'Iwould give all I possess, my house, my acres, my woods, to be as stupidas that animal there. '"

Michel, the young painter with the mystic's beard, was saying to Roget, the scene painter:

"That poor Chevalier was a man with ideas. But they were not all goodones. One evening, he walked into the _brasserie_ radiant andtransfigured, sat himself beside us, and twirling his old felt hatbetween his long red fingers, he cried: 'I have discovered the truemanner of acting tragedy. Hitherto no one has realized how to acttragedy, no one, you understand!' And he told us what his discovery was. 'I've just come from the Chamber. They made me climb up to theamphitheatre. I could see the Deputies swarming like black insects atthe bottom of a pit. Suddenly a stumpy little man mounted the tribune. He looked as if he were carrying a sack of coals on his back. He threwout his arms and clenched his fists. By Jove, he was comical! He had aSouthern accent, and his delivery was full of defects. He spoke of theworkers, of the proletariat, of social justice. It was magnificent; hisvoice, his gestures gripped one's very bowels; the applause nearlybrought the house down. I said to myself "What he is doing, I'll do onthe stage, and I'll do it better. I, a comic actor, will play tragedy. Great tragedy parts, if they are to produce their true effect, ought tobe played by a comedian, but he must have a soul. "' The poor fellowactually thought that he had imagined a new form of art. 'You'll see, 'he said. "

At the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Michel, a journalist came up toMeunier, and asked him:

"Is it true that Robert de Ligny was at one time madly in love withFagette?"

"If he's in love with her, he hasn't been so long. Only a fortnight agohe asked me, in the theatre, 'Who is that little fair-haired woman?' andhe pointed to Fagette. "

"I cannot understand, " said the chronicler of an evening paper to achronicler of a morning paper, "what can be the origin of our mania forcalumniating humanity. I am amazed, on the other hand, by the number ofdecent people I come across. It is enough to make one incline to thebelief that men are ashamed of the good they do, and that they concealthemselves when performing acts of devotion and generosity. Don't youthink that is so?"

"As far as I am concerned, " replied the chronicler of the morning paper, "every time I have opened a door by mistake--I mean this both literallyand metaphorically--I have always come across some unsuspected baseness. Were society suddenly turned inside out like a glove, so that one couldsee the inside, we should all faint away with horror and disgust. "

"Some time ago, " said Roger to the painter Michel, "I used to knowChevalier's uncle on the Butte de Montmartre. He was a photographer whodressed like an astrologer. A crazy old fellow, always sending onecustomer the portrait of another. The customers used to complain. Butnot all of them. There were even some who thought the portraits were agood likeness. "

"What has become of him?"

"He went bankrupt and hanged himself. "

In the Boulevard Saint-Michel Pradel, who was walking beside Trublet, was still profiting by the opportunity of obtaining information as tothe immortality of the soul and the fate of man after death. He obtainednothing that seemed to him sufficiently positive and repeated:

"I should like to know. "

To which Dr. Socrates replied:

"Men were not made to know; men were not made to understand. They do notpossess the necessary faculties. A man's brain is larger and richer inconvolutions than that of a gorilla, but there is no essentialdifference between the two. Our highest thoughts and our mostcomprehensive systems will never be anything more than the magnificentextension of the ideas contained in the head of a monkey. We know moreabout the world than the dog does, and this flatters and entertains us;but it is very little in itself, and our illusions increase with ourknowledge. "

But Pradel was not listening. He was mentally rehearsing the speechwhich he had to deliver at Chevalier's grave. 

When the funeral procession turned towards the shabby grass-plots whichoverflow the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the tram-cars, out of respect forthe dead, made way for it. 

Trublet remarked upon this. 

"Men, " he said, "respect death, since they rightly believe that, if itis respectable to die, every one is assured of being respectable inthat, at least. "

The actors were excitedly discussing Chevalier's death. Durville, mysteriously, and in a deep voice, disclosed the tragedy:

"It is not a case of suicide. It is a crime of passion. Monsieur deLigny surprised Chevalier with Nanteuil. He fired seven revolver shotsat him. Two bullets struck our unfortunate comrade in the head and thechest, four went wide, and the fifth grazed Nanteuil below the leftbreast. "

"Is Nanteuil wounded?"

"Only slightly. "

"Will Monsieur de Ligny be arrested?"

"The affair is to be hushed up, and rightly so. I have, however, the bestauthority for what I say. "

In the carriages, too, the actresses were engaged in spreading variousreports. Some felt sure it was a case of murder; others, one of suicide. 

"He shot himself in the chest with a revolver, " asserted Falempin. "Buthe only succeeded in wounding himself. The doctor said that if he hadbeen attended to in time he might have been saved. But they left himlying on the floor, bathed in blood. "

And Madame Doulce said to Ellen Midi:

"It has often been my fate to stand beside a deathbed. I always go downon my knees and pray. I at once feel myself invaded by a heavenlyserenity. "

"You are indeed fortunate!" replied Ellen Midi. 

At the end of the Rue Campagne-Première, on the wide grey boulevards, they became conscious of the length of the road which they had covered, and the melancholy nature of the journey. They felt that while followingthe coffin they had crossed the confines of life, and were already inthe country of the dead. On their right stretched the yards of themarble-workers, the florists' shops which supplied wreaths for funerals, displays of potted flowers, and the economical furniture of tombs, zincflower-stands, wreaths of immortelles in cement, and guardian angels inplaster. On their left, they could see behind the low wall of thecemetery the white crosses rising among the bare tops of the lime-trees, and everywhere, in the wan dust, they breathed death, commonplace, uniform deaths under the administration of City and State, and poorlyembellished by the pious hands of relations. 

They passed between two massive pillars of stone surmounted by wingedhour-glasses. The hearse advanced slowly on the gravel which creaked inthe silence. It seemed, amid the homes of the dead, to be twice as tallas before. The mourners read the famous names on some of the tombs, orgazed at the statue of a young girl, seated, book in hand. Old Maurydeciphered, in the inscriptions, the age of the deceased. Short lives, and even more lives of average duration, distressed him as being of illomen. But, when he encountered those of the dead who were notable forthe length of their years, he joyfully drew from them the hope andprobability of a long lease of life. 

The hearse stopped in the middle of a side alley. The clergy and thewomen stepped out of the coaches. Delage received in his arms, from thetop of the carriage steps, the worthy Madame Ravaud, who was getting alittle ponderous, and of a sudden, half in jest, half in earnest, hemade certain proposals to her. She was no longer young, having been onthe stage for half a century. Delage, with his twenty-five years, lookedupon her as prodigiously old. Yet, as he whispered into her ear, he feltexcited, infatuated, he became sincere, he really desired her, out ofperverse curiosity, because he wanted to do something extraordinary, andwas certain that he would be able to do it, perhaps because of hisprofessional instinct as a handsome youth, and, lastly, because, in thefirst place having asked for what he did not want, he began to want whathe had asked for. Madame Ravaud, indignant but flattered, made good herescape. 

The coffin was carried along a narrow path bordered with dwarfcypresses, amid a murmuring of prayers:

_"In paradisum deducant te Angeli, in tuo adventu susciptant te Martyreset perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem, Chorus Angelorum tesuscipiat et cum Lazaro, quondam paupere, æternam habeas requiem. "_

Soon there was no longer any visible path. It was necessary, infollowing the quickly vanishing coffin, the priests and the choristers, to scatter, striding over the recumbent tombstones, and slipping betweenthe broken columns and upright slabs. They lost the coffin and found itagain. Nanteuil evinced a certain eagerness in her pursuit of it, anxious and abrupt, her prayer-book in her hand, freeing her skirt as itcaught on the railings, and brushing past the withered wreaths whichleft the heads of immortelles adhering to her gown. Finally, the firstto reach the graveside smelt the acrid odour of the freshly turned soil, and from the heights of the neighbouring flagstones saw the grave intowhich the coffin was being lowered. 

The actors had contributed liberally to the expenses of the funeral;they had clubbed together to buy for their comrade as much earth as heneeded, two metres granted for five years. Romilly, on behalf of theactors of the Odéon, had paid the cemetery board 300 francs--to beexact, 301 fr. 80 centimes. He had even made plans for a monument, abroken stele with comedy masks suspended upon it. But no decision hadbeen come to on this point. 

The celebrant blessed the open grave. And the priest and the boychoristers murmured the responses:

"Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine. "

_"Et lux perpetua luceat ei. "_

_"Requiescat in pace. "_

_"Amen. "_

_"Anima ejus et animæ omnium fidelium defunctorum, per misericordiamDei, requiescant in pace. "_

_"Amen. "_

_"De profundis. .. . "_

Each one of those present came forward to sprinkle holy water on thecoffin. Nanteuil stood watching it all, the prayers, the spadefuls ofearth, the sprinkling; then, kneeling apart on the corner of a tomb, shefervently recited "Our Father who art in heaven. .. . "

Pradel spoke at the graveside. He refrained from making a speech. Butthe Théâtre de l'Odéon could not allow a young artist beloved of all todepart without a word of farewell. 

"I shall speak therefore, in the name of the great and true-hearteddramatic family, the words that are in every bosom. "

Grouped about the speaker in studied attitudes, the actors listened withprofound knowledge. They listened actively, with their ears, lips, eyes, arms, and legs. Each listened in his own manner, with nobility, simplicity, grief or rebelliousness, according to the parts which theactor was accustomed to play. 

No, the director of the theatre would not suffer the valiant actor, who, in the course of his only too brief career, had shown more thanpromise, to depart without a word of farewell. 

"Chevalier, impetuous, uneven, restless, imparted to his creations anindividual character, a distinctive physiognomy. We saw him a very fewdays ago--a few hours ago, I might say--bring an episodical characterinto powerful relief. The author of the play was struck by theperformance. Chevalier was on the verge of success. The sacred flame washis. There are those who have asked, what was the cause of so cruel anend? Let us not seek for that cause. Chevalier died of his art; he diedof dramatic fever. He died consumed by the flame which is slowlyconsuming all of us. Alas, the stage, of which the public sees only thesmiles, and the tears, as sweet as the smiles, is a jealous master whichdemands of its servants an absolute devotion and the most painfulsacrifices, and, at times, claims its victims. In the name of all yourcomrades, farewell, Chevalier, farewell!"

The handkerchiefs were at work, wiping away the mourners' tears. Theactors were weeping with all sincerity; they were weeping forthemselves. 

After they had slipped away, Dr. Trublet, left alone in the cemeterywith Constantin Marc, took in the multitude of graves with a glance. 

"Do you remember, " he said, "one of Auguste Comte's reflections:'Humanity is composed of the dead and the living. The dead are by farthe more numerous. ' Assuredly, the dead are by far the more numerous. Bythe multitudinous numbers and the magnitude of their work, they are morepowerful. It's they who rule; we obey them. Our masters lie beneaththese stones. Here is the lawgiver who made the law to which I submitto-day; the architect who built my house, the poet who created theillusions which still disturb us; the orator who swayed us before ourbirth. Here are all the artisans of our knowledge, true or false, of ourwisdom and of our follies. There they lie, the inexorable leaders, whomwe dare not disobey. In them dwells strength, continuity, and duration. What does a generation of living folk amount to, in comparison with thenumberless generations of the dead? What is our will of a day before thewill of a thousand centuries? Can we rebel against them? Why, we havenot even time to disobey them!"

"At last you are coming to the point, Dr. Socrates!" said ConstantinMarc. "You renounce progress, the new justice, the peace of the world, freedom of thought; you submit to tradition. You consent to the ancienterror, the good old-fashioned ignorance, the venerable iniquity of ourforbears. You withdraw into the French tradition, you submit to ancientcustom, to the authority of our ancestors. "

"Whence do you obtain custom and tradition?" asked Trablet. "Whence doyou receive authority? There are irreconcilable traditions, diversecustoms; and opposed authorities. The dead do not impose any one willupon us. They subject us to contradictory wills. The opinions of thepast which weigh upon us are uncertain and confused. In crushing us theydestroy one another. All these dead have lived, like ourselves, in themidst of disorder and contradiction. Each in his time, in his ownfashion, in hatred or in love, has dreamed the dream of life. Let us inour turn dream this dream with kindness and joy, if it be possible, andlet us go to lunch. I am taking you to a little tavern in the Rue Vavin, kept by Clémence, who cooks only one dish, but a marvellous one at that, the Castelnaudary _cassoulet_, not to be confused with the _cassoulet_prepared in the Carcassonne fashion, which is merely a leg of muttonwith haricot beans. The _cassoulet_ of Castelnaudary comprises pickledgoose legs, haricot beans that have been previously bleached, bacon, anda small sausage. To be good, it must be cooked for a long time over aslow fire. Clémence's _cassoulet_ has been cooking for twenty years. From time to time she puts in the saucepan, now a little bit of goose orbacon, now a sausage or some haricots, but it is always the same_cassoulet_. The stock remains, and this ancient and precious stockgives it the flavour which, in the pictures of the old Venetian masters, one finds in the amber-coloured flesh of the women. Come, I want you totaste Clémence's _cassoulet_. "

CHAPTER XI

Having said her prayer, Nanteuil, without waiting to hear Pradel'sspeech, jumped into a carriage in order to join Robert de Ligny, who waswaiting for her in front of the Montparnasse railway station. Amid thethrong of passers-by they shook hands, gazing at one another without aword. More than ever did they feel that they were bound together. Robertloved her. 

He loved her without knowing it. She was for him, or so he believed, merely one delight in the infinite series of possible delights. Butdelight had assumed for him the form of Félicie, and, had he reflectedmore deeply upon the innumerable women whom he promised himself in thevast remainder of his newly begun life, he would have recognized thatnow they were all Félicies. He might at least have realized that, without having any intention of being faithful to her, he did not dreamof being unfaithful, and that since she had given herself to him he hadnot desired any other woman. But he did not realize it. 

On this occasion, however, standing in the bustling commonplace square, on seeing her no longer in the voluptuous shadow of night, nor under thecaressing glimmer of the alcove which gave her naked form the deliciousvagueness of a Milky Way, but in a harsh, diffused daylight, by thecircumstantial illumination of a sunlight devoid of splendour andwithout shadows, which revealed beneath her veil her eyelids that wereseared with tears, her pearly cheeks and roughened lips, he realizedthat he felt for this woman's flesh a profound and mysteriousinclination. 

He did not question her. They exchanged only tender trivial phrases. And, as she was very hungry, he took her to lunch at a well-known_cabaret_ whose name shone in letters of gold on one of the old housesin the square. They had their meal served in the winter-garden, whoserockery, fountain, and solitary tree were multiplied by mirrors framedin a green trellis. When seated at the table, consulting the bill offare, they conversed with less restraint than heretofore. He told herthat the emotions and worries of the past three days had unstrung hisnerves, but he no longer thought about it, and it would be absurd toworry about the matter any further. She spoke to him of her health, complaining that she could not sleep, save for a restless slumber fullof dreams. But she did not tell him what she saw in those dreams, andshe avoided speaking of the dead man. He asked her if she had not spenta tiring morning, and why she had gone to the cemetery, a uselessproceeding. 

Incapable of explaining to him the depths of her soul, submissive torites and propitiatory ceremonies and incantations, she shook her headas if to say:

"Had to. "

While those lunching at the adjoining tables were finishing their meal, they talked for a long time, both in subdued tones, while waiting to beserved. 

Robert had promised himself, had sworn indeed never to reproach Féliciefor having had Chevalier for her lover, or even to ask her a singlequestion in this connection. And yet, moved by some obscure resentment, by an ebullition of ill-temper or natural curiosity, and also because heloved her too deeply to control himself, he said to her, with bitternessin his voice:

"You were on intimate terms with him, formerly. "

She was silent, and did not deny the fact. Not that she felt that it washenceforth useless to lie. On the contrary, she was in the habit ofdenying the obvious truth, and she had, of course, too much knowledge ofmen to be ignorant of the fact that, when in love, there is no lie, however clumsy, which they cannot believe if they wish to do so. But onthis occasion, contrary to her nature and habit, she refrained fromlying. She was afraid of offending the dead. She imagined that indenying him she would be doing him a wrong, depriving him of his share, angering him. She held her peace, fearing to see him come and rest hiselbows on the table, with his fixed smile and the hole in his head, andto hear him say in his plaintive voice. "Félicie, you surely cannot haveforgotten our little room, in the Rue des Martyrs?"

What he had become, for her, since his death, she could not have said, so alien was it to her beliefs, so contrary to her reason, and soantiquated, ridiculous and obsolete did the words which would haveexpressed her feeling seem to her. But from some remote inheritedinstinct, or more likely from certain tales which she had heard in herchildhood, she derived a confused idea that he was of the number ofthose dead who in the days of old were wont to torment the living, andwere exorcised by the priests; for upon thinking of him sheinstinctively began to make the sign of the cross, and she checkedherself only that she might not seem ridiculous. 

Ligny, seeing her melancholy and distracted, blamed himself for hisharsh and useless words, while at the very moment of reproachinghimself for them he followed them by others equally harsh and equallyuseless. 

"And yet you told me it was not true!"

She replied, fervently:

"Because, don't you see, I wanted it not to be true. "

She added:

"Oh, my darling, since I've been yours, I swear to you that I've notbelonged to anyone else. I don't claim any merit for this; I should havefound it impossible. "

Like the young of animals, she had need of gaiety. The wine, which shonein her glass like liquid amber, was a joy to her eyes, and she moistenedher tongue with it with luxurious pleasure. She took an interest in thedishes set before her, and especially in the _pommes de terresoufflées_, like golden blisters. Next she watched the people lunchingat the tables in the dining-room, attributing to them, according totheir appearance, ridiculous opinions or grotesque passions. She noticedthe ill-natured glances which the women directed toward her, and theefforts of the men to appear handsome and important. And she gaveutterance to a general reflection:

"Robert, have you noticed that people are never natural? They do not saya thing because they think it. They say it because they think it iswhat they ought to say. This habit makes them very wearisome. And it isextremely rare to find anyone who is natural. You, you are natural. "

"Well, I don't think I'm guilty of posing. "

"You pose like the rest. But you pose in your own character. I can seeperfectly well when you are trying to surprise and impress me. "

She spoke to him of himself and, led back by an involuntary train ofthought to the tragedy enacted at Neuilly, she inquired:

"Did your mother say anything to you?"

"No. "

"Yet she must have known. "

"It is probable. "

"Are you on good terms with her?"

"Why, yes!"

"They say she is still very beautiful, your mother, is it so?"

He did not answer her and sought to change the conversation. He did notlike Félicie to speak to him of his mother, or to turn her attention tohis family. Monsieur and Madame de Ligny enjoyed the highestconsideration in Parisian society. Monsieur de Ligny, a diplomatist bybirth and by profession, was in himself a person worthy of the greatestconsideration. He was so even before his birth, by virtue of thediplomatic services which his ancestors had rendered to France. Hisgreat-grandfather had signed the surrender of Pondicherry to England. Madame de Ligny lived with her husband on the most correct terms. But, although she had no money of her own, she lived in great style, and hergowns were one of the greatest glories of France. She received intimatevisits from an ex-Ambassador. His age, his position, his opinions, histitles, and his great fortune made the connection respectable. Madame deLigny kept the ladies of the Republic at arm's length, and, when thespirit moved her, gave them lessons in decorum. She had nothing to fearfrom the opinion of the fashionable world. Robert knew that she waslooked upon with respect by people in society. But he was continuallydreading that, in speaking of her, Félicie might fail to do so with allthe needful reserve. He feared lest, not being in society, she might saythat which had better have been left unsaid. He was wrong; Félicie knewnothing of the private life of Madame de Ligny; moreover, had she knownof it, she would not have blamed her. The lady inspired her with a naivecuriosity and an admiration mingled with fear. Since her lover wasunwilling to speak to her of his mother, she attributed his reserve to acertain aristocratic arrogance, even to a lack of consideration, forher, at which the pride of the freewoman and the plebeian was up inarms. She was wont to say to him tartly:

"I'm perfectly free to speak of your mother. " The first time she hadadded: "Mine is just as good as yours. " But she had realized that theremark was vulgar, and she had not repeated it. 

The dining-room was now empty. She looked at her watch, and saw that itwas three o'clock. 

"I must be off, " she said. "_La Grille_ is being rehearsed thisafternoon. Constantin Marc ought to be at the theatre already. There'sanother queer fellow for you! He boasts that when he's in the Vivaraishe ruins all the women. And yet he is so shy that he daren't even talkto Fagette and Falempin. I frighten him. It amuses me. "

She was so tired that she had not the courage to rise. 

"Isn't it queer? They are saying everywhere that I'm engaged for theFrançais, it's not true. There's not even a question of it. Of course, Ican't remain indefinitely where I am. In the long run one would getbesotted there. But there is no hurry. I have a great part to create in_La Grille_. We shall see after that. What I want is to play comedy. Idon't want to join the Français and then to do nothing. "

Suddenly, gazing in front of her with eyes full of terror, she flungherself backwards, turned pale, and uttered a shrill scream. Then hereyelids fluttered, and she murmured that she could not breathe. 

Robert loosened her jacket, and moistened her temples with a littlewater. 

She spoke. 

"A priest! I saw a priest. He was in his surplice. His lips were moving, but no sound came from them. He looked at me. "

He tried to comfort her. 

"Come now, my darling, how can you suppose that a priest, a priest inhis surplice, would show himself in a restaurant?"

She listened obediently, and allowed herself to be persuaded. 

"You are right, you are right, I know it well enough. "

In that little head of hers illusions were soon dispelled. She was borntwo hundred and thirty years after the death of Descartes, of whom shehad never heard; yet, as Dr. Socrates would have said, he had taught herthe use of reason. 

Robert met her at six o'clock after the rehearsal, under the arcades ofthe Odéon, and drove away with her in a cab. 

"Where are we going?" she inquired. 

He hesitated a little. 

"You would not care to go back to our house out there?"

She cried out at the suggestion. 

"Oh no! I couldn't! Oh, heavens, never!"

He replied that he had thought as much; that he would try to findsomething else: a little ground-floor flat in Paris; that in themeantime, just for to-day, they would content themselves with a chanceabode. 

She gazed at him with fixed, heavy eyes, drew him violently towards her, scorching his neck and ear with the breath of her desire. Then her armsfell away from him, and she sank back beside him, dejected and relaxed. 

When the cab stopped, she said:

"You will not be vexed with me, will you, my own Robert, at what I amgoing to say? Not to-day--to-morrow. "

She had considered it necessary to make this sacrifice to the jealousdead. 

CHAPTER XII

On the following day, he took her to a furnished room, commonplace butcheerful, which he had selected on the first floor of a house facing thesquare, near the Bibliothèque Nationale. In the centre of the squarestood the basin of a fountain, supported by lusty nymphs. The paths, bordered with laurel and spindlewood, were deserted, and from thislittle-frequented spot one heard the vast and reassuring hum of thecity. The rehearsal had finished very late. When they entered the roomthe night, already slower to arrive in this season of melting snow, wasbeginning to cast its gloom over the hangings. The large mirrors of thewardrobe and overmantel were filling with vague lights and shadows. Shetook off her fur coat, went to look out of the window between thecurtains and said:

"Robert, the steps are wet. "

He answered that there was no flight of steps, only the pavement and theroad, and then another pavement and the railings of the square. 

"You are a Parisian, you know this square well. In the centre, among thetrees, there is a monumental fountain, with enormous women whose breastsare not as pretty as yours. "

In his impatience he helped her to undo her cloth frock; but he couldnot find the hooks, and scratched himself with the pins. 

"I am clumsy, " he said. 

She retorted laughingly:

"You are certainly not so clever as Madame Michon! It's not so muchclumsiness, but you are afraid of getting pricked. Men are a cowardlyrace. As for women, they have to accustom themselves to suffer. It'strue: to be a woman is to be nearly always ailing. "

He did not notice that she was pale, with dark rings round her eyes. Hedesired her so ardently; he no longer saw her. 

"They are very sensitive to pain, " he said, "but they are also verysensitive to pleasure. Do you know Claude Bernard?"

"No. "

"He was a great scientist. He said that he didn't hesitate to recognizewoman's supremacy in the domain of physical and moral sensibility. "

Nantueil; unhooking her stays, replied:

"If he meant by that that all women are sensitive, he was indeed an oldgreenhorn. He ought to have seen Fagette; he would soon have discoveredwhether it was easy to get anything out of her in the domain--how did heexpress it?--of physical and moral sensibility. "

And she added with gentle pride:

"Don't you make any mistake, Robert, there's not such a heap of womenlike myself. "

As he was drawing her into his arms, she released herself. 

"You are hindering me. "

Sitting down and doubling herself up in order to undo her boots, shecontinued. 

"Do you know, Dr. Socrates told me the other day that he had seen anapparition. He saw a donkey-boy who had murdered a little girl. I dreamtof the story last night, only in my dream I could not make out whetherthe donkey-boy was a man or a woman. What a mix-up the dream was!Talking of Dr. Socrates, just guess whose lover he is--why, the lady whokeeps the circulating library in the Rue Mazarine. She is no longer veryyoung, but she is very intelligent. Do you think he is faithful to her?I'll take off my stockings, it's more becoming. "

And she went on to tell him a story of the theatre:

"I really don't think I shall remain at the Odéon much longer. "

"Why?"

"You'll see. Pradel said to me to-day, before rehearsal 'My dear littleNanteuil, there has never been anything between us. It is ridiculous. 'He was extremely decorous, but he gave me to understand that we were ina false position with regard to one another, which could not go onindefinitely. You must know that Pradel has established a rule. Formerlyhe used to pick and choose among his _pensionnaires_. He had favourites, and that caused an outcry. Nowadays, for the better administration ofthe theatre, he takes them all, even those he has no liking for, eventhose who are distasteful to him. There are no more favourites. Everything goes splendidly. Ah, he's a director all through, is Pradel!"

As Robert, in the bed, listened in silence, she went up to him and shookhim:

"Then it's all the same to you if I carry on with Pradel?"

"No, my dear, it would not be all the same to me. But nothing I mightsay would prevent it. "

Bending over him, she caressed him ardently, pretending to threaten andto punish him; and she cried:

"Then you don't really love me, that you are not jealous. I insist thatyou shall be jealous. "

Then, suddenly, she moved away from him, and hitching over her leftshoulder her chemise, which had slipped down under her right breast, sheloitered in front of the dressing-table and inquired uneasily:

"Robert, you have not brought anything here from the other room?"

"Nothing. "

Thereupon, softly, timidly, she slipped into the bed. But hardly had shelain down when she raised herself from the pillow on her elbow, and, craning her neck, listened with parted lips. It seemed to her that shecould hear slight sounds of footsteps along the gravel path which shehad heard in the house in the Boulevard de Villiers. She ran to thewindow; she saw the Judas tree, the lawn, the garden gate. Knowing whatshe was yet to see, she sought to hide her face in her hands, but shecould not raise her arms, and Chevalier's face rose up before her. 

CHAPTER XIII

She had returned home in a burning fever. Robert, after dining _enfamille_, had retired to his attic. His nerves were on edge, and he wasbadly out of temper as a result of the manner in which Nanteuil had lefthim. 

His shirt and his clothes, laid out on the bed by his valet, seemed tobe waiting for him in a domestic and obsequious attitude. He began todress himself with a somewhat ill-tempered alacrity. He was impatient toleave the house. He opened his round window, listened to the murmur ofthe city, and saw above the roofs the glow which rose into the sky fromthe city of Paris. He scented from afar all the amorous flesh gathered, on this winter's night, in the theatres and the great _cabarets_, thecafé-concerts and the bars. 

Irritated by Félicie's denial of his desires, he had decided to satisfythem elsewhere, and as he was not conscious of any preference hebelieved that his only difficulty would be to make a choice; but hepresently realized that he had no desire for any of the women of hisacquaintance, nor did he even feel any desire for an unknown woman. Heclosed his window, and seated himself before the fire. 

It was a coke fire; Madame de Ligny, who wore cloaks costing a thousandpounds, was wont to economize in the matter of her table and her fires. She would not allow wood to be burned in her house. 

He reflected upon his own affairs, to which he had so far given littleor no thought; upon the career he had embraced, and which he beheldobscurely before him. The Minister was a great friend of his family. Amountaineer of the Cévennes, brought up on chestnuts, his dazzled eyesblinked at the flower-bedecked tables of Paris. He was too shrewd andtoo wily not to retain his advantage over the old aristocracy, whichwelcomed him to its bosom: the advantage of harsh caprices and arrogantrefusals. Ligny knew him, and expected no favours at his hands. In thisrespect he was more perspicacious than his mother, who credited herselfwith a certain power over the dark, hairy little man, whom everyThursday she engulfed in her majestic skirts on the way from thedrawing-room to the dinner-table. He judged him to be disobliging. Andthen something had gone wrong between them. Robert, as ill luck wouldhave it, had forestalled his Minister in his intimacy with a lady whomthe latter loved to the verge of absurdity: Madame de Neuilles, a womanof easy virtue. And it seemed to him that the hairy little man suspectedit, and regarded him with an unfriendly eye. And, lastly, the idea hadgrown upon him at the Quai d'Orsay that Ministers are neither able norwilling to do very much. But he did not exaggerate matters, and thoughtit quite possible that he might obtain a minor secretaryship. Such hadbeen his wish hitherto. He was most anxious not to leave Paris. Hismother, on the contrary, would have preferred that he should be sent toThe Hague, where a post as third secretary was vacant. Now, of a sudden, he decided in favour of The Hague. "I'll go, " he said. "The sooner thebetter. " Having made up his mind, he reviewed his reasons. In the firstplace, it would be an excellent thing for his future career. Again, TheHague post was a pleasant one. A friend of his, who had held it, hadenlarged upon the delightful hypocrisy of the sleepy little capital, where everything was engineered and "wangled" for the comfort of theDiplomatic Corps. He reflected, also, that The Hague was the augustcradle of a new international law, and finally went so far as to invokethe argument that he would be giving pleasure to his mother. After whichhe realized that he wanted to leave home solely on account of Félicie. 

His thoughts of her were not benevolent. He knew her to be mendacious, timorous, and a malicious friend. He had proof that she was given tofalling in love with actors of the lowest type, or, at all events, thatshe made shift with them. He was not certain that she did not deceivehim, not that he had discovered anything suspect in the life which shewas leading, but because he was properly distrustful of all women. Heconjured up in his mind all the evil that he knew of her, and persuadedhimself that she was a little jade, and, being conscious that he lovedher, he believed that he loved her merely because of her extremeprettiness. This reason seemed to him a sound one; but on analysing ithe perceived that it explained nothing; that he loved the girl notbecause she was exceedingly pretty, but because she was pretty in acertain uncommon fashion of her own; that he loved her for that whichwas incomparable and rare in her; because, in a word, she was awonderful thing of art and voluptuousness, a living gem of pricelessvalue. Thereupon, realizing how weak he was, he wept, mourning over hislost freedom, his captive mind, his disordered soul, the devotion of hisvery flesh and blood to a weak, perfidious little creature. 

He had scorched his eyes by gazing at the coke fire behind the bars ofthe grate. He closed them in pain and, under his closed eyes, he sawnegroes leaping before him in an obscene and bloody riot. While hesought to remember from what book of travel, read in boyhood, theseblacks emerged, he saw them diminish, resolve themselves intoimperceptible specks, and disappear into a red Africa, which little bylittle came to represent the wound seen by the light of a match on thenight of the suicide. He reflected. 

"That fool of a Chevalier! Why, I was scarcely thinking of the fellow!"

Suddenly, against this background of blood and flame; appeared theslender form of Félicie, and he felt lurking within him a hot, crueldesire. 

CHAPTER XIV

He went to see her the following day, in the little flat in theBoulevard Saint-Michel. He was not in the habit of going thither. He didnot particularly care to meet Madame Nanteuil; she bored him andembarrassed him, although she was extremely polite to him, even toobsequiousness. 

It was she who received him in the little drawing-room. She thanked himfor his interest in Félicie's health, and informed him that she had beenrestless and unwell the night before, but was now feeling better. 

"She is in her bedroom, working at her part. I will tell her that youare here. She will be very glad to see you, Monsieur de Ligny. She knowsthat you are very fond of her. And true friends are rare, especially inthe theatrical world. "

Robert observed Madame Nanteuil with an attention which he had nothitherto bestowed upon her. He was trying to see in her face the facethat would be her daughter's in years to come. When walking in thestreet he was fond of reading, in the faces of the mothers, thelove-affairs of the daughters. And on this occasion he assiduouslydeciphered the features and the figure of this woman as an interestingprophecy. He discovered nothing either of bad or good augury. MadameNanteuil, plump, fresh-complexioned, cool-skinned, was not unattractivewith the sensuous fullness of her contours. But her daughter did not inthe least resemble her. 

Seeing her so collected and serene, he said to her:

"You yourself are not of a nervous temperament?"

"I have never been nervous. My daughter does not take after me. She isthe living image of her father. He was delicate, although his health wasnot bad. He died of a fall from his horse. You'll take a cup of tea, won't you, Monsieur de Ligny?"

Félicie entered the room. Her hair was outspread upon her shoulders; shewas wrapped in a white woollen dressing-gown, held very loosely at thewaist by a heavy embroidered girdle, and she shuffled along in redslippers; she looked a mere child. The friend of the house, Tony Meyer, the picture dealer, was wont when he saw her in this garment, which wasa trifle monkish in appearance, to call her Brother Ange de Charolais, because he had discovered in her a resemblance to a portrait by Nattierwhich represented Mademoiselle de Charolais in the Franciscan habit. Before this little girl, Robert was surprised and silent. 

"It's kind of you, " she said, "to have come to inquire after me. I ambetter, thank you. "

"She works very hard; she works too hard, " said Madame Nanteuil. "Herpart in _La Grille_ is tiring her. "

"Oh no, mother. "

They spoke of the theatre, and the conversation languished. 

During a moment's silence, Madame Nanteuil asked Monsieur de Ligny if hewere still collecting old fashion-prints. 

Félicie and Robert looked at her without understanding. They had toldher not long before some fiction about engraved fashion-plates, toexplain the meetings which they had not been able to conceal. But theyhad quite forgotten the fact. Since then, a piece of the moon, as an oldauthor has said, had fallen into their love; Madame Nanteuil alone, inher profound respect for fiction, remembered it. 

"My daughter told me you had a great number of those old engravings andthat she used to find ideas for her costumes in them. "

"Quite so, madame, quite so. "

"Come here, Monsieur de Ligny, " said Félicie. "I want to show you adesign for a costume for the part of Cécile de Rochemaure. "

And she carried him off to her room. 

It was a small room hung with flowered paper; the furniture consisted ofa wardrobe with a mirror, a couple of chairs upholstered in horsehairsand an iron bedstead; with a white counterpane; above it was a bowl forholy water, and a sprig of boxwood. 

She gave him a long kiss on the mouth. 

"I do love you, do you know!"

"Quite sure?"

"Oh yes! And you?"

"I too, I love you. I wouldn't have believed that I could love you so!"

"Then it came afterwards. "

"It always comes afterwards. "

"That's true, what you've just said, Robert. Before--one doesn't know. "

She shook her head. 

"I was very ill yesterday. "

"Have you seen Trublet? What did he say?"

"He told me that I needed rest, and quiet. My darling, we must besensible for another fortnight. Do you mind?"

"I do. "

"So do I. But what would you have?"

He strolled round the room two or three times, looking into everycorner. She watched him with some little uneasiness, dreading lest heshould ask her questions about her poor jewels and her cheap trinkets, which were modest enough as presents, but she could not in every caseexplain how she came to receive them. One may say anything one pleases, of course, but one may contradict oneself, and get into trouble, andthat assuredly is not worth while. She diverted his attention. 

"Robert, open my glove-box. "

"What have you got in your glove-box?"

"The violets you gave me the first time. Darling, don't leave me! Don'tgo away. When I think that from one day to the next you may go to someforeign country, to London, to Constantinople, I feel crazy. "

He comforted her, telling her that there had been some thought ofsending him to The Hague. But he was determined not to go; he would gethimself attached to the Minister's staff. 

"You promise?"

He gave the promise in all sincerity. And she became quite cheerful. 

Pointing to the little wardrobe with its looking-glass, she said:

"Look, darling, it's there that I study my part. When you came, I wasworking over my scene in the fourth. I take advantage of being alone totry for the exact tone. I seek a broad, mellow effect. If I were tolisten to Romilly I should mince my words, and the result would bewretched. I have to say. 'I do not fear you. ' It's the great moment ofthe part. Do you know how Romilly would have me say: 'I do not fearyou'? I'll show you, I am to raise my hand to my nose, open my fingersand speak one word to each finger separately, in a particular tone, witha special expression 'I, do, not, fear, you, ' as if I were exhibitingmarionettes! It's a wonder he does not ask me to put a little paper haton every finger. Subtle, intellectual, isn't it?"

Then, lifting her hair and uncovering her animated features, she said:

"I'll show you how I do it. "

Suddenly transfigured, seeming of greater stature, she spoke the wordswith an air of ingenuous dignity and serene innocence:

"No, sir, I do not fear you. Why should I fear you? You thought toensnare me, and you have placed yourself at my mercy. You are a man ofhonour. Now that I am under the shelter of your roof, you shall tell mewhat you told Chevalier d'Amberre, your enemy, when he entered thatgate. You shall tell me: 'You are in your own house; I am yours tocommand. '"

She had the mysterious gift of changing her soul and her very face. Ligny was under the spell of this beautiful illusion. 

"You are marvellous!"

"Listen, pussy-cat. I shall wear a big lawn bonnet with lappets, oneabove the other, on either side of my face. You see, in the play I am ayoung girl of the Revolution. And it is imperative that I should makepeople feel it. I must have the Revolution _in_ me, do you understand?"

"Are you well up in the Revolution?"

"Of course I am! I don't know the dates, to be sure. But I have thefeeling of the period. For me, the Revolution means a bosom swellingwith pride under a crossed neckerchief, knees enjoying full freedom in astriped petticoat, and a tiny blaze of colour on the cheek-bones. Thereyou have it!"

He asked her questions about the play, and he realized that she knewnothing about it. She, did not need to know anything about it. Shedivined, she found by instinct all that she needed from it. 

"At rehearsals, I never give them a hint as to any of my effects, I keepthem all for the public. It will make Romilly tear his hair. How stupidthey'll all look! Fagette, my dear, will make herself ill over it. "

She sat down on a little rickety chair. Her forehead, but a momentbefore as white as marble, was rosy; she had once more assumed hercheeky flapper's expression. 

He drew near to her, gazed into the fascinating grey of her eyes, and, as on the evening before, when he sat in front of his coke-fire, hereflected that she was untruthful and cowardly, and ill-natured towardher friends; but now the thought was tempered with indulgence. Hereflected that she had love-affairs with actors of the lowest type, orthat she at least made shift with them; but the thought was temperedwith a gentle pity. He recalled all the evil that he knew of her, butwithout bitterness. He felt that he loved her, less because she waspretty than because she was pretty in her own fashion; in a word, thathe loved her because she was a gem endowed with life, and anincomparable thing of art and voluptuousness. He looked into thefascinating grey of her eyes, into their pupils, where tiny astrologicalsymbols seemed to float in a luminous tide. He gazed at her with a gazeso searching that she felt it pierce right through her. And, assuredthat he had seen right into her, she said to him, with her eyes on his, clasping his head between her two hands:

"Oh yes! I'm a rotten little actress; but I love you, and I don't care arap for money. And there aren't many as good as me. And you know it wellenough. "

CHAPTER XV

They met daily at the theatre, and they went for walks together. 

Nanteuil was playing almost every night, and was eagerly working at herpart of Cécile. She was gradually recovering her peace of mind; hernights were less disturbed; she no longer made her mother hold her handwhile she fell asleep and no longer found herself suffocating innightmares. A fortnight went by in this fashion. Then, one morning, while sitting at her dressing-table, combing her hairs she bent her headtoward the glass, as the weather was overcast, and she saw in it, nother own face, but the face of the dead man. A thread of blood wastrickling from one corner of his mouth; he was smiling and gazing ather. 

Thereupon she decided to do what she thought would be the proper andefficacious thing. She took a cab and drove off to see him. Going downthe Boulevard Saint-Michel she bought a bunch of roses at her florist's. She took them to him. She went down on her knees before the tiny blackcross which marked the spot where they had laid him. She spoke to him, she begged him to be reasonable, to leave her in peace. She asked hisforgiveness for having treated him formerly with harshness. People didnot always understand one another in life. But now he ought tounderstand and forgive her. What good did it do to him to torment her?She asked no better than to retain a kindly memory of him. She wouldcome and see him from time to time. But he must cease to persecute andfrighten her. 

She sought to flatter and soothe him with gentle phrases. 

"I can understand that you wanted to revenge yourself. It was natural. But you are not wicked at heart. Don't be angry any more. Don't frightenme any more. Don't come to see me any more. I'll come to you; I'll comeoften. I'll bring you flowers. "

She longed to deceive him, to soothe him with lying promises, to say tohim "Stay where you are; do not be restless any longer; stay where youare, and I swear to you that I will never again do anything to offendyou; I promise to submit to your will. " But she dared not lie over agrave, and she was sure that it would be useless, that the dead knoweverything. 

A little wearied, she continued awhile, more indolently, her prayersand supplications, and she realized that she no longer felt the horrorwith which the tombs had formerly inspired her; that she had no fear ofthe dead man. She sought the reason for this, and discovered that he didnot frighten her because he was not there. 

And she mused:

"He is not there; he is never there; he is everywhere except where theylaid him. He is in the streets, in the houses, in the rooms. "

And she rose to her feet in despair, feeling sure that henceforth shewould meet him everywhere except in the cemetery. 

CHAPTER XVI

After a fortnight's patience Ligny urged her to resume their formerintercourse. The period which she herself had fixed had elapsed. Hewould not wait any longer. She suffered as much as he did in refusingherself to him. But she dreaded to see the dead man return. She foundlame excuses for postponing appointments; at last she confessed that shewas afraid. He despised her for displaying so little common sense andcourage. He no longer felt that she loved him, and he spoke harshly toher, but he pursued her incessantly with his desire. 

Bitter days and barren hours followed. As she no longer dared to seekthe shelter of a roof in his company, they used to take a cab, and afterdriving for hours about the outskirts of the city they would alight insome gloomy avenue, wandering far down it under the bitter east wind, walking swiftly, as though chastised by the breath of an unseen wrath. 

Once, however, the weather was so mild that it filled them with its softlanguor. Side by side they trod the deserted paths of the Bois deBoulogne. The buds, which were beginning to swell on the tips of theslender black branches, dyed the tree-tops violet under the rosy sky. Totheir left stretched the fields, dotted with clumps of leafless trees, and the houses of Auteuil were visible. Slowly driven coupés, with theirelderly passengers, crawled along the road, and the wet-nurses pushedtheir perambulators. A motor-car broke the silence of the Bois with itshumming. 

"Do you like those machines?" asked Félicie. 

"I find them convenient, that's all. "

It was true that he was no chauffeur. He had no taste for any kind ofsport; he concerned himself only with women. 

Pointing to a cab which had just passed them, she exclaimed:

"Robert, did you see?"

"No. "

"Jeanne Perrin was in it with a woman. "

And, as he displayed a calm indifference, she added in a reproachfultone:

"You are like Dr. Socrates. Do you think that sort of thing natural?"

The lake slept, bright and serene, within its sombre walls of pines. They took the path to their right, which skirted the bank where thewhite geese and swans were preening their feathers. At their approach aflotilla of ducks, like living hulls, their necks curving like prows, set sail toward them. 

Félicie told them, in a regretful tone, that she had nothing to givethem. 

"When I was little, " she went on to say, "Papa used to take me out onSundays to feed the animals. It was my reward for having learned mylessons well all the week. Papa used to delight in the country. He wasfond of dog, horses, all animals in fact. He was very gentle and veryclever. He used to work very hard. But life is difficult for an officerwho has no money of his own. It grieved him sorely not to be able to doas the wealthy officers did, and then he didn't hit it off with Mamma. Papa's life was not a happy one. He was often wretched. He didn't talkmuch; but we two understood one another without speaking. He was veryfond of me. Robert, dearest, later on, in the distant future, the verydistant future, I shall have a tiny house in the country. And when youcome there, my beloved, you will find me in a short skirt, throwing cornto my fowls. "

He asked her what gave her the idea of going on the stage. 

"I knew very well that I'd never find a husband, since I had no dowry. And from what I saw of my older girl friends, working at dress-making orin a telegraph office, I was not encouraged to follow in their steps. When I was quite a little girl I thought it would be nice to be anactress. I had once acted, at my boarding-school, in a little play, onSt. Nicholas' Day. I thought it no end of a lark. The schoolmistresssaid I didn't act well, but that was because Mamma owed her for a wholeterm. From the time I was fifteen I began to think seriously about goingon the stage. I entered the Conservatoire, I worked, I worked very hard. It's a back-breaking trade. But success brings rest. "

Opposite the chalet on the island they found the ferry-boat moored tothe landing. Ligny jumped into it, pulling Félicie after him. 

"Those tall trees are lovely, even without leaves, " she said. "But Ithought the chalet was closed at this time of the year. "

The ferryman told them that, on fine winter days, people out for a walkliked to visit the island, because they could enjoy quiet there, andthat he had only just ferried a couple of ladies across. 

A waiter, who was living amid the solitude of the island, brought themtea, in a rustic sitting-room, furnished with a couple of chairs, atable, a piano, and a sofa. The panelling was mildewed, the planks ofthe flooring had started. Félicie looked out of the window at the lawnand the tall trees. 

"What is that, " she asked, "that big dark ball on the poplar?"

"That's mistletoe, my pet. "

"One would think it was an animal rolled round the branch, gnawing atit. It isn't nice to look at. "

She rested her head on her lover's shoulder, saying in a languid tone:

"I love you. "

He drew her down upon the sofa. She felt him, kneeling at her feet, hishands, clumsy with impatience, gliding over her, and she suffered hisattempts, inert, discouraged, foreseeing that it was useless. Her earswere ringing like a little bell. The ringing ceased, and she heard; onher right, a strange, clear, glacial voice say. "I forbid you to belongto one another. " It seemed to her that the voice spoke from above, inthe glow of light, but she did not dare to turn her head. It was anunfamiliar voice. Involuntarily and despite herself she tried toremember his voice, and she realized that she had forgotten its sound, and that she could never again remember it. The thought came to her"Perhaps this is the voice he has now. " Terrified, she swiftly pushedher skirt over her knees. But she refrained from crying out, and she didnot speak of what she had just heard, lest she should be taken for amadwoman, and because she realized somehow that it was not real. 

Ligny drew away from her. 

"If you don't want anything more to do with me, say so honestly. I amnot going to take you by force. "

Sitting upright, with her knees pressed together, she told him:

"Whenever we are in a crowd, as long as there are people about us, Iwant you, I long for you, but as soon as we are by ourselves I amafraid. "

He replied by a cheap, spiteful sneer:

"Ah, if you must have a public to stimulate you!"

She rose, and returned to the window. A tear was running down her cheek. She wept for some time in silence. Suddenly she called to him:

"Look there!"

She pointed to Jeanne Perrin, who was strolling on the lawn with a youngwoman. Each had an arm about the other's waist; they were giving oneanother violets to smell, and were smiling. 

"See! That woman is happy; her mind at peace. "

And Jeanne Perrin, tasting the peace of long-established habits, strolled along satisfied and serene, without even betraying any pride inher strange preference. 

Félicie watched her with, an interest which she did not confess toherself, and envied her her serenity. 

"She's not afraid, that woman. "

"Let her be! What harm is she doing us?"

And he caught her violently by the waist. She freed herself with ashudder. In the end, disappointed, frustrated, humiliated, he lost histemper, called her a silly fool, and swore that he would not stand herridiculous way of treating him any longer. 

She made no reply, and once more she began to weep. 

Angered by her tears, he told her harshly:

"Since you can no longer give me what I ask you, it is useless for us tomeet any more. There is nothing more to be said between us. Besides, Isee that you have ceased to love me. And you would admit, if for onceyou could speak the truth, that you have never loved anyone except thatwretched second-rate actor. "

Then her anger exploded, and she moaned in despair:

"Liar! Liar! That's an abominable thing to say. You see I'm crying, andyou want to make me suffer more. You take advantage of the fact that Ilove you to make me miserable. It's cowardly. Well, no then, I don'tlove you any longer. Go away! I don't want to see you again. Go! Butit's true--what are we doing like this? Are we going to spend our livesstaring at each other like this, wild with each other, full of despairand rage? It is not my fault--I can't, I can't. Forgive me, darling, Ilove you, I worship you, I want you. Only drive him away. You are a man, you know what there is to do. Drive him away. You killed him, not I. Itwas you. Kill him altogether then--Oh God, I am going mad. I am goingmad!"

 * * * * *

On the following day, Ligny applied to be sent as Third Secretary to TheHague. He was appointed a week later, and left at once, without havingseen Félicie again. 

CHAPTER XVII

Madam Nanteuil thought of nothing but her daughter's welfare. Herliaison with Tony Meyers the picture-dealer in the Rue de Clichy, lefther with plenty of leisure and an unoccupied heart. She met at thetheatre a Monsieur Bondois, a manufacturer of electrical apparatus; hewas still young, superior to his trade, and extremely well-mannered. Hewas blessed with an amorous temperament and a bashful nature, and, asyoung and beautiful women frightened him, he had accustomed himself todesiring only women who were not young and beautiful. Madame Nanteuilwas still a very pleasing woman. But one night when she was badlydressed, and did not look her best; he made her the offer of hisaffections. She accepted him as something of a help toward housekeeping, and so that her daughter should want for nothing. Her devotion broughther happiness. Monsieur Bondois loved her, and courted her mostardently. At the outset this surprised her; then it brought herhappiness and peace of mind; it seemed to her natural and good to beloved, and she could not believe that her time for love was past whenshe was in receipt of proof to the contrary. 

She had always displayed a kindly disposition, an easy-going character, and an even temper. But never yet had she revealed in her home so happya spirit and such gracious thoughtfulness. Kind to others, and toherself, always preserving, in the lapse of changeful hours, the smilethat disclosed her beautiful teeth and brought the dimples into herplump cheeks, grateful to life for what it was giving her, blooming, expanding, overflowing, she was the joy and the youth of the house. 

While Madame Nanteuil conceived and gave expression to bright andcheerful ideas, Félicie was fast becoming gloomy, fretful, and sullen. Lines began to show in her pretty face; her voice assumed a gratingquality. She had at once realized the position which Monsieur Bondoisoccupied in the household, and, whether she would have preferred hermother to live and breathe for her alone, whether her filial pietysuffered because she was forced to respect her less, whether she enviedher happiness, or whether she merely felt the distress which loveaffairs cause us when we are brought into too close contact with them, Félicie, more especially at meal-times, and every day, bitterlyreproached Madame Nanteuil, in very pointed allusions, and in termswhich were not precisely veiled, in respect of this new "friend of thefamily"; and for Monsieur Bondois himself, whenever she met him, sheexhibited an expressive disgust and an unconcealed aversion. MadameNanteuil was only moderately distressed by this, and she excused herdaughter by reflecting that the young girl had as yet no experience oflife. And Monsieur Bondois, whom Félicie inspired with a superhumanterror, strove to placate her by signs of respect and inconsiderablepresents. 

She was violent because she was suffering. The letters which shereceived from The Hague inflamed her love, so that it was a pain to her. A prey to consuming visions, she was pining away. When she saw herabsent friend too clearly her temples throbbed, her heart beatviolently, and a dense increasing shadow would darken her mind. All thesensibility of her nerves, all the warmth of her blood, all the forcesof her being flowed through her, sinking downwards, merging themselvesin desire in the very depths of her flesh. At such times she had noother thought than to recover Ligny. It was Ligny that she wanted, onlyLigny, and she herself was surprised at the disgust which she felt forall other men. For her instincts had not always been so exclusive. Shetold herself that she would go at once to Bondois, ask him for money, and take the train for The Hague. And she did not do it. What deterredher was not so much the idea of displeasing her lover, who would havelooked upon such a journey as bad form, as the vague fear of awakeningthe slumbering shadow. 

That she had not seen since Ligny's departure. But perturbing thingswere happening, within her and around her. In the street she wasfollowed by a water-spaniel, which appealed and vanished suddenly. Onemorning when she was in bed her mother told her "I am going to thedressmaker's, " and went out. Two or three minutes later Félicie saw hercome back into the room as if she had forgotten something. But theapparition advanced without a look at her, without a word, without asounds and disappeared as it touched the bed. 

She had even more disturbing illusions. One Sunday, she was acting, in amatinée of _Athalie_, the part of young Zacharias. As she had verypretty legs she found the disguise not displeasing; she was glad also toshow that she knew how verse should be spoken. But she noticed that inthe orchestra stalls there was a priest wearing his cassock. It was notthe first time that an ecclesiastic had been present at an afternoonperformance of this tragedy drawn from the Scriptures. Nevertheless, itimpressed her disagreeably. When she went on the stage she distinctlysaw Louise Dalle, wearing the turban of Jehoshabeath; loading a revolverin front of the prompter's box. She had enough common sense and presenceof mind to reject this absurd vision, which disappeared. But she spokeher first lines in an inaudible voice. 

She had burning pains in the stomach. She suffered from fits ofsuffocation, sometimes, without apparent cause, an unspeakable agonygripped her bowels, her heart beat madly and she feared that she must bedying. 

Dr Trublet attended her with watchful prudence. She often saw him at thetheatre, and occasionally went to consult him at his old house in theRue de Seine. She did not go through the waiting-room; the servant wouldshow her at once into the little dining-room, where Arab potteriesglinted in the shadows, and she was always the first to be shown in. Oneday Socrates succeeded in making her understand the manner in whichimages are formed in the brain, and how these images do not alwayscorrespond with external objects, or, at my rate, do not alwayscorrespond exactly. 

"Hallucinations, " he added, "are more often than not merely falseperceptions. One sees a thing, but one sees it badly, so that afeather-broom becomes a head of bristling locks, a red carnation is abeast's open mouth, and a chemise is a ghost in its winding-sheet. Insignificant errors. "

From these arguments she derived sufficient strength to despise anddispel her visions of cats and dogs, or of persons who were living, andwell known to her. Yet she dreaded seeing the dead man again; and themystic terrors nestling in the obscure crannies of her brain were morepowerful than the demonstrations of science. It was useless to tell herthat the dead never returned; she knew very well that they did. 

On this occasion Socrates once more advised her to find somedistraction, to visit her friends, and by preference the more pleasantof her friends, and to avoid darkness and solitude, as her two mosttreacherous enemies. 

And he added this prescription:

"Especially must you avoid persons and things which may be connectedwith the object of your visions. "

He did not see that this was impossible. Nor did Nanteuil. 

"Then you will cure me, dear old Socrates, " she said, turning upon himher pretty grey eyes, full of entreaty. 

"You will cure yourself my child. You will cure yourself, because youare hard-working, sensible, and courageous. Yes, yes, you are timid andbrave at the same time. You dread danger, but you have the courage tolive. You will be cured, because you are not in sympathy with evil andsuffering. You will be cured because you want to be cured. "

"You think then that one can be cured if one wills it?"

"When one wills it in a certain profound, intimate fashion, when it isour cells that will it within us, when it is our unconscious self thatwills it; when one wills it with the secret, abounding, absolute will ofthe sturdy tree that wills itself to grow green again in the spring. "

CHAPTER XVIII

That same night, being unable to sleep, she turned over in her bed, andthrew back the bed-clothes. She felt that sleep was still far off, thatit would come with the first rays, full of dancing atoms of dust, withwhich morning pierces the chinks between the curtains. The night-light, with its tiny burning heart shining through its porcelain shade, gaveher a mystic and familiar companionship. Félicie opened her eyes and ata glance drank in the white milky glimmer which brought her peace ofmind. Then, closing them once more, she relapsed into the tumultuousweariness of insomnia. Now and again a few words of her part recurred toher memory, words to which she attached no meaning, yet which obsessedher: "Our days are what we make them. " And her mind wearied itself byturning over and over some four or five ideas. 

"I must go to Madame Royaumont to-morrow, to try on my gown. Yesterday Iwent with Fagette to Jeanne Perrin's dressing-room; she was dressing, and she showed her hairy legs, as if she was proud of them. She's notugly, Jeanne Perrin; indeed, she has a fine head; but it is herexpression that I dislike. How does Madame Colbert make out that I oweher thirty-two francs? Fourteen and three are seventeen, and nine, twenty-six. I owe her only twenty-six francs. 'Our days are what we makethem. ' How hot I feel!"

With one swift movement of her supple loins she turned over, and herbare arms opened to embrace the air as though it had been a cool, subtlebody. 

"It seems a hundred years since Robert went away. It was cruel of him toleave me alone. I am sick with longing for him. " And curled up in herbed, she recollected intently the hours when they held each other in aclose embrace. She called him:

"My pussy-cat! Little wolf!"

And immediately the same train of thoughts began once more theirfatiguing procession through her mind. 

"Our days are what we make them. Our days are what we make them. Ourdays. .. . ' Fourteen and three, seventeen, and nine, twenty-six. I couldsee quite plainly that Jeanne Perrin showed her long man's legs, darkwith hair, on purpose. Is it true what they say, that Jeanne Perringives money to women? I must try my gown on at four o'clock to-morrow. There's one dreadful thing, Madame Royaumont never can put in thesleeves properly. How hot I am! Socrates is a good doctor. But he doessometimes amuse himself by making you feel a stupid fool. "

Suddenly she thought of Chevalier, and she seemed to feel an influenceemanating from him which was gliding along the walls of her bedroom. Itseemed to her that the glimmer of the night-light was dimmed by it. Itwas less than a shadow, and it filled her with alarm. The idea suddenlyflashed through her mind that this subtle thing had its origin in theportraits of the dead man. She had not kept any of them in her bedroom. But there were still some in the flat, some that she had not torn up. She carefully reckoned them up, and discovered that there must still bethree left: the first, when he was quite young, showed him against acloudy background; another, laughing and at his ease, sitting astride ofa chair; a third as Don Cæsar de Bazan. In her hurry to destroy everyvestige of them she sprang out of bed, lit a candle, and in hernightgown shuffled along in her slippers into the drawing-room, untilshe came to the rosewood table, surmounted by a phoenix palm. She pulledup the tablecloth and searched through the drawer. It containedcard-counters, sockets for candles, a few scraps of wood detached fromthe furniture, two or three lustres belonging to the chandelier and afew photographs, among which she found only one of Chevalier, theearliest, showing him standing against a cloudy background. 

She searched for the other two in a little piece of Boule furniturewhich adorned the space between the windows, and on which were someChinese lamps. Here slumbered lamp-globes of ground glass, lamp-shades, cut-glass goblets ornamented with gilt bronze, a match-stand in paintedporcelain flanked by a child sleeping against a drum beside a dog, bookswhose bindings were detached, tattered musical scores, a couple ofbroken fans, a flute, and a small heap of carte-de-visite portraits. There she discovered a second Chevalier, the Don Cæsar de Bazan. Thethird was not there. She asked herself in vain where it could have beenhidden away. Fruitlessly she hunted through boxes, bowls, flowerpotholders, and the music davenport. And while she was eagerly searchingfor the portrait, it was growing in size and distinctness in herimagination, attaining to a man's stature, was assuming a mocking airand defying her. Her head was on fire, her feet were like ice, and shecould feel terror creeping into the pit of her stomach. Just as she wasabout to give up the search, about to go and bury her face in herpillow, she remembered that her mother kept some photographs in hermirror-panelled wardrobe. She again took courage. Softly she entered theroom of the sleeping Madame Nanteuil. With silent steps she crept overto the wardrobe, opened it slowly and noiselessly, and, standing on achair, explored the top shelf, which was loaded with old cardboardboxes. She came upon an album which dated from the Second Empire, andwhich had not been opened for twenty years. She rummaged among a mass ofletters, of bundles of receipts and Mont-de-Piété vouchers. Awakened bythe light of the candle and by the mouse-like noise made by the seeker, Madame Nanteuil demanded:

"Who is there?"

Immediately, perceiving the familiar little phantom in her longnightgown, with a heavy plait of hair down her back, perched on a chair, she exclaimed:

"It's you, Félicie? You are not ill, are you? What are you doing there?"

"I am looking for something. "

"In my wardrobe?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"Will you kindly go back to your bed! You will catch cold. Tell me atleast what you are looking for. If it's the chocolate, it is on themiddle shelf next to the silver sugar-basin. "

But Félicie had seized upon a packet of photographs, which she wasrapidly turning over. Her impatient fingers rejected Madame Doulce, bedecked with lace, Fagette, radiant, her hair dissolving in its ownbrilliance; Tony Meyer, with close-set eyes and a nose drooping over hislips; Pradel, with his flourishing beard; Trublet, bald and snub-nosed;Monsieur Bondois, with timorous eye and straight nose set above a heavymoustache. Although not in a mood to bestow any attention upon MonsieurBondois, she gave him a passing glance of hostility, and by chance let adrop of candle-grease disfigure his nose. 

Madame Nanteuil, who was now wide awake, could make nothing of herproceedings. 

"Félicie, why on earth are you poking about in my wardrobe like that?"

Félicie, who at last held the photograph for which she had sought soassiduously, responded only by a cry of fierce delight and flew from thechair, taking with her her dead friend, and, inadvertently, MonsieurBondois as well. 

Returning to the drawing-room she crouched down by the fireplace, andmade a fire of paper, into which she cast Chevalier's three photographs. She watched them blazing, and when the three bits of cardboard, twistedand blackened, had flown up the chimney, and neither shape nor substancewas left, she breathed freely. She really believed, this time, that shehad deprived the jealous dead man of the material of his apparitions, and had freed herself from the dreaded obsession. 

On picking up her candlestick she saw Monsieur Bondois, whose nose haddisappeared beneath a round blob of white wax. Not knowing what to dowith him she threw him with a laugh into the still flaming grate. 

Returning to her room she stood before the looking-glass and drew hernightgown closely about her, in order to emphasize the lines of herbody. A thought which occasionally flitted through her mind tarriedthere this time a little longer than usual. 

She was wont to ask herself:

"Why is one made like that, with a head, arms, legs, hands, feet, chest, and abdomen? Why is one made like that and not otherwise? It's funny. "

And at the moment the human form seemed to her arbitrary, fantastic, alien. But her astonishment was soon over. And, as she looked atherself, she felt pleased with herself. She was conscious of a keendeep-seated delight in herself. She bared her breasts, held themdelicately in the hollow of her hands, looked at them tenderly in theglass, as if they were not a part of herself, but something belongingto her, like two living creatures, like a pair of doves. 

After smiling upon them, she went back to bed. Waking late in themorning she felt surprised for a moment at being alone in her bed. Sometimes, in a dream, she would divide herself into two beings, and, feeling her own flesh, she would dream that she was being caressed by awoman. 

CHAPTER XIX

The dress rehearsal of _La Grille_ was called for two o'clock. As earlyas one o'clock Dr. Trublet had taken his accustomed place in Nanteuil'sdressing-room. 

Félicie, who was being dressed by Madame Michon, reproached her doctorwith having nothing to say to her. Yet it was she who, preoccupied, hermind concentrated upon the part which she was about to play, was notlistening to him. She gave orders that nobody should be allowed to comeinto her dressing-room. For all that, she received Constantin Marc'svisit with pleasure, for she found him sympathetic. 

He was getting excited. In order to conceal his agitation he made apretence of talking about his woods in the Vivarais, and began to tellshooting stories and peasants' tales, which he did not finish. 

"I am in a funk, " said Nanteuil. "And you, Monsieur Marc, don't you feelqualms in the stomach?"

He denied feeling any anxiety. She insisted:

"Now confess that you wish it were all over. "

"Well, since you insist, perhaps I would rather it were over. "

Whereupon Dr. Socrates, with a simple expression and in a quiet voice, asked him the following question:

"Do you not believe that what must be accomplished has already beenaccomplished, and has been accomplished from all time?"

And without waiting for a reply he added:

"If the world's phenomena reach our consciousness in succession, we mustnot conclude from that that they are really successive, and we havestill fewer reasons to believe that they are produced at the moment whenwe perceive them. "

"That's obvious, " said Constantin Marc, who had not listened. 

"The universe, " continued the doctor, "appears to us perpetuallyimperfect, and we are all under the illusion that it is perpetuallycompleting itself. Since we perceive phenomena successively, we actuallybelieve that they follow one another. We imagine that those which we nolonger see are in the past, and those which we do not yet see are in thefuture. But it is possible to conceive beings built in such fashion thatthey perceive simultaneously what we regard as the past and the future. We may conceive beings who perceive phenomena in a retrograde order, and see them unroll themselves from our future to our past. Animalsdisposing of space otherwise than ourselves, and able, for instance, tomove at a speed greater than that of light, would conceive an idea ofthe succession of phenomena which would differ greatly from our own. "

"If only Durville is not going to rag me on the stage!" exclaimedFélicie, while Madame Michon was putting on her stockings under herskirt. 

Constantin Marc assured her that Durville did not even dream of any suchthing, and begged her not to be uneasy. 

And Dr. Socrates resumed his discourse. 

"We ourselves, of a clear night, when we gaze at Spica Virginis, whichis throbbing above the top of a poplar, can see at one and the same timethat which was and that which is. And it may be said with equal truththat we see that which is and that which will be. For if the star, suchas it appears to us, represents the past as compared with the tree, thetree constitutes the future as compared with the star. Yet the star, which, from afar, shows us its tiny, fiery countenance, not as it isto-day, but as it was in the time of our youth, perhaps even before ourbirth, and the poplar-tree, whose young leaves are trembling in thefresh night air, come together within us in the same moment of time, andto us are present simultaneously. We say of a thing that it is in thepresent when we have a precise perception of it. We say that it is inthe past when we preserve but an indistinct image of it. A thing mayhave been accomplished millions of years ago, yet if it makes thestrongest possible impression upon us it will not be for us a thing ofthe past; it will be present. The order in which things revolve in thedepths of the universe is unknown to us. We know only the order of ourperceptions. To believe that the future does not exist, because we donot know it, is like believing that a book is not finished because wehave not finished reading it. "

The doctor paused for a moment. And Nanteuil, in the silence whichfollowed, heard the sound of her heart beating. She exclaimed:

"Continue, my dear Socrates, continue, I beg you. If you only knew howmuch good you do me by talking! You think that I am not listening to aword you say. But it distracts me to hear you talking of far-awaythings; it makes me feel that there is something else besides myentrance; it prevents me from giving way to the blues. Talk aboutanything you like, but do not stop. "

The wise Socrates, who had doubtless anticipated the benign influencewhich his speech was exerting over the actress, resumed his lecture:

"The universe is constructed inevitably as a triangle of which twoangles and one side are given. Future things are determined. They arefrom that moment finished. They are as if they existed. Indeed, theyexist already. They exist to such a degree that we know them in part. And, if that part is infinitesimal in proportion to their immensity, itis none the less very appreciable in proportion to the part ofaccomplished things of which we can have any knowledge. It ispermissible to say that, for us, the future is not much more obscurethan the past. We know that generations will follow generations inlabour, joy and suffering. I look beyond the duration of the human race. I see the constellations slowly changing in the heavens those forms oftheirs which seem immutable; I see the Wain unharnessed from its ancientteam, the shield of Orion broken in twain, Sirius extinguished. We knowthat the sun will rise to-morrow and that for a long time to come itwill rise every morning amid the dense clouds or in light mists. "

Adolphe Meunier entered discreetly on tiptoe. 

The doctor grasped his hand warmly. 

"Good day, Monsieur Meunier. We can see next month's new moon. We do notsee her as distinctly as to-night's new moon, because we do not know inwhat grey or ruddy sky she will reveal her old saucepan-lid over myroof, amid the stove-flues capped with pointed hats and romantic hoods, to the gaze of the amorous cats. But this coming rising of the moon--ifwe were expert enough to know it in advance, in its most minuteparticulars, every one of which is essential, we should conceive asclear an idea of the night whereof I speak as of the night now with us;both would be equally present to us. 

"The knowledge that we have of the facts is the sole reason which leadsus to believe in their reality. We know that certain facts are bound tooccur. We must therefore believe them to be real. And, if they are real, they are realized. It is therefore credible, my dear Constantin Marc, that your play has been played a thousand years ago, or half an hourago, which comes absolutely to the same thing. It is credible that wehave all been dead for some time past. Think it, and your mind will beat rest. "

Constantin Marc, who had paid scant attention to his remarks and who didnot perceive their relevance or their propriety, answered, in a somewhatirritable tone, that all that was to be found in Bossuet. 

"In Bossuet!" exclaimed the indignant physician. "I challenge you toshow me anything resembling it in his works. Bossuet knew nothing ofphilosophy. "

Nanteuil turned to the doctor. She was wearing a big lawn bonnet with atall round coif; it was bound tightly upon her head with a wide blueribbon, and its lappets, one above another, fell on either side of herface, shading her forehead and cheeks. She had transformed herself intoa fiery blonde. Reddish-brown hair fell in curls about her shoulders. Anorgandie neckerchief was crossed over her bosom and held at the waist bya broad purple girdle. Her white and pink striped petticoat, whichflowed as though wet and clinging from the somewhat high waist, made herappear very tall. She looked like a figure in a dream. 

"Delage, too, " she said, "rags one in the most rotten way. Have youheard what he did to Marie-Claire? They were playing together in _LesFemmes savantes_. He put an egg into her hand, on the stage. Shecouldn't get rid of it until the end of the act. "

On hearing the call boy's summons she went downstairs, followed byConstantin Marc. They heard the roar of the house, the mutterings of themonster, and it seemed to them that they were entering into the flamingmouth of the apocalyptic beast. 

_La Grille_ was favourably received. Coming at the end of the season, with little hope of a long run, it found favour with all. By the middleof the first act the public were conscious of the style, the poetry, and, here and there, the obscurities of the play. Thenceforward theyrespected it, pretended to enjoy it, and wished they could understandit. They forgave the play its slight dramatic value. It was literary, andfor once the style found acceptance. 

Constantin Marc as yet knew no one in Paris. He had invited to thetheatre three or four landed proprietors from the Vivarais, who satblushing in the stalls in their white ties, rolled their round eyes, anddid not dare to applaud. As he had no friends nobody dreamt of spoilinghis success. And even in the corridors there were those who set histalent above that of other dramatists. Greatly excited, nevertheless, hewandered from dressing-room to dressing-room or collapsed into a chairat the back of the director's stage-box. He was worrying about thecritics. 

"Set your mind at rest, " Romilly told him. "They will say of your playthe good or bad things they think of Pradel. And for the time being theythink more ill than good of him. "

Adolphe Meunier informed him, with a pale smile, that the house was agood one, and that the critics thought the play showed very carefulwriting. He expected, in return, a few complimentary words concerninghis _Pandolphe et Clarimonde_. But it did not enter Constantin Marc'shead to vouchsafe them. 

Romilly shook his head. 

"We must look forward to slatings. Monsieur Meunier knows it well. Thepress has shown itself ferociously unjust to him. "

"Alas, " sighed Meunier, "they will never say as many hard things aboutus as were said of Shakespeare and Molière. "

Nanteuil had a great success which was marked less by vociferous callsbefore the curtain than by the deeper and more discreet approval ofdiscriminating playgoers. She had revealed qualities with which she hadnot hitherto been credited; purity of diction, nobility of pose, and aproud, modest grace. 

On the stage, during the last interval, the Minister congratulated herin person. This was a sign that the public was favourably disposed, forMinisters never express individual opinions. Behind the Grand Master ofthe University pressed a flattering crowd of public officials, societyfolk, and dramatic authors. With arms extended toward her likepump-handles they all simultaneously assured her of their admiration. And Madame Doulce, stifled by their numbers, left on the buttons of themen's garments shreds of her countless adornments of cotton lace. 

The last act was Nanteuil's triumph. She obtained better things from thepublic than tears and shouts. She won from all eyes that moist yettearless gaze, from every breast that deep yet almost silent murmur, which beauty alone has power to compel. 

She felt that she had grown immeasurably in a single instant, and whenthe curtain fell she whispered:

"This time I've done it!"

She was unrobing herself in her dressing-room, which was filled withbaskets of orchids, bouquets of roses, and bunches of lilac, when atelegram was brought to her. She tore it open. It was a message from TheHague containing these words:

"My heartfelt congratulations on your undoubted success--Robert. "

Just as she finished reading it Dr. Trublet entered the dressing-room. 

She flung her arms, burning with joy and fatigue, round his neck; shedrew him to her warm moist bosom, and planted on his meditativeSilenus-like face a smacking kiss from her intoxicated lips. 

Socrates, who was a wise man, took the kiss as a gift from the gods, knowing full well that it was not intended for him, but was dedicated toglory and to love. 

Nanteuil realized herself that in her intoxication she had perhapscharged her lips with too ardent a breath, for, throwing her arms apart, she exclaimed:

"It can't be helped! I am so happy!"

CHAPTER XX

At Easter an event of great importance increased her joy. She wasengaged at the Comédie-Française. For some time past, without mentioningthe subject, she had been trying for this engagement. Her mother hadhelped her in the steps she had taken. Madame Nanteuil was lovable nowthat she was loved. She now wore straight corsets and petticoats thatshe could display anywhere. She frequented the offices of the Ministry, and it is said that, being solicited by the deputy-chief of a departmentin the Beaux-Arts, she had yielded with very good grace. At least, soPradel said. 

He would exclaim joyfully:

"You wouldn't recognize her now, Mother Nanteuil! She has become mostdesirable, and I like her better than her little vixen of a daughter. She has a better disposition. "

Like the rest of them, Félicie had disdained, despised, disparaged theComédie-Française. She had said, as all the others did: "I shouldhardly care to get into that house. " And no sooner did she belong to itthan she was filled with proud and joyful exultation. What increased herpleasure twofold was that she was to make her debut in _L'École desFemmes_. She already studying the part of Agnès with an obscure oldprofessor, Monsieur Maxime, of whom she thought highly because he wasacquainted with all the traditions of the stage. At night she wasplaying Cécile in _La Grille_, and she was living in a feverish turmoilof work she received a letter in which Robert de Ligny informed her thathe was returning to Paris. 

During his stay at The Hague he had made certain experiments which hadproved to him the strength of his love for Félicie. He had had women whowere reported to be pretty and pleasing. But neither Madame Bourmdernootof Brussels, tall and fresh looking, nor the sisters Van Cruysen, milliners on the Vijver, nor Suzette Berger of the Folies-Marigny, thenon tour through Northern Europe, had given him a sense of pleasure inits completeness. When in their company he had regretted Félicie, andhad discovered that of all women, he desired her alone. Had it not beenfor Madame Bourmdernoot, the sisters Van Cruysen, and SuzetteBerger, he would never have known how priceless Félicie Nanteuil was tohim. If one must be literal it may be argued that he was unfaithful toher. That is the correct expression. There are others which come to thesame thing and which are not such good form. But if one looks into thematter more closely he had not deceived her. He had sought her, he hadsought her out of herself and had learned that he would find her inherself alone. In his futile wisdom he was almost angered and alarmed;he was uneasy at having to stake the multitude of his desires upon soslender a substance, in so unique and fragile a vessel. And he lovedFélicie all the more because he loved her with a certain depth of rageand hatred. 

On the very day of his arrival in Paris, he made an appointment with herin a bachelor's flat, which a rich colleague in the Ministry of ForeignAffairs had placed at his disposal. It was situated in the Avenue del'Alma, on the ground-floor of an attractive-looking house, andconsisted of a couple of small rooms hung with a design of suns withbrown hearts and golden rays, which rose, uniform, peaceful, andshadowless on the cheerful wall. The rooms were modern in style; thefurniture was of a pale green, decorated with flowering branches; itsoutlines followed the gentle curves of the liliaceous plants, andassumed something of the tender feeling of moist vegetation. Thecheval-glass leant slightly forward in its frame of bulbous plants ofsupple form, terminating in closed corollas, and in this frame themirror had the coolness of water. A white bearskin lay stretched at thefoot of the bed. 

"You! You! It's you!" was all she could say. 

She saw the pupils of his eyes shining and heavy with desire, and whileshe gazed at him a cloud gathered before her eyes. The subtle fire ofher blood, the burning of her loins, the warm breath of her lungs, thefiery colour of her face, were all blended in her mouth, and she pressedon her lover's lips a long, long kiss, a kiss pregnant with all thesefires and as fresh as a flower in the dew. 

They asked one another twenty things at a time, and their questionsintermingled. 

"Were you wretched, Robert, when you were away from me?"

"So you are making your début at the Comédie?

"Is The Hague a pretty place?"

"Yes, a quiet little town. Red, grey, yellow houses, with steppedgables, green shutters, and geraniums at the windows. "

"What did you do there?"

"Not much. I walked round the Vijver. "

"You did not go with women, I should hope?"

"No, upon my word. How pretty you are, my darling! Are you well againnow?"

"Yes, I am cured. "

And in sudden entreaty she said:

"Robert, I love you. Do not leave me. If you were to leave me I know forcertain I could never take another lover. And what would become of me?You know that I can't do without love. "

He replied brusquely, in a harsh voice, that he loved her only too well, that he thought of nothing but of her. 

"I'm going crazy with it. "

His harshness delighted and reassured her better than the nervelesstenderness of oaths and promises could have done. She smiled and beganto undress herself generously. 

"When do you make your début at the Comédie?"

"This very month. "

She opened her little bag, and took from it, together with herface-powder, her call for the rehearsal, which she held out to Robert. It was a source of unending delight to her to gaze admiringly at thisdocument, because it bore the heading of the Comédie, with the remoteand awe-inspiring date of its foundation. 

"You see, I make my début as Agnès in _L'École des Femmes_. "

"It's a fine part. "

"I believe you. "

And, while she was undressing, the lines surged to her lips, and shewhispered them:

 "Moi, j'ai blessé quelqu'un? fis-je tout étonnée Oui, dit-elle, blessé; mais blessé tout de bon; Et c'est l'homme qu'hier vous vîtes au balcon Las! qui pourrait, lui dis-je, en avoir été cause? Sur lui, sans y penser, fis-je choir quelque chose?"

"You see, I have not grown thin. "

 "Non, dit-elle, vos yeux ont fait ce coup fatal, Et c'est de leurs regards qu'est venu tout son mal. "

"If anything, I am a little plumper, but not too much. "

 "Hé, mon Dieu! ma surprise est, fis-je, sans seconde; Mes yeux ont-ils du mal pour en donner au monde?"

He listened to the lines with pleasure. If on the one hand he did notknow much more of the literature of bygone days or of French traditionthan his youthful contemporaries, he had more taste and more livelyinterests. And, like all Frenchmen, he loved Molière, understood him, and felt him profoundly. 

"It's delightful, " he said. "Now, come to me. "

She let her chemise slip downwards with a calm and beneficent grace. But, because she wished to make herself desired, and because she lovedcomedy, she began Agnès' narrative:

 "J'étais sur le balcon à travailler au frais, Lorsque je vis passer sous les arbres d'auprès Un jeune homme bien fait qui, rencontrant ma vue. .. . "

He called her, and drew her to him. She glided from his arms, and, advancing toward the mirror, she continued to recite and act before theglass. 

 "D'une humble révérence aussitôt me salue. "

Bending her knee, at first slightly, then lower, then, with her left legbrought forward, and her right thrown, back, she curtsied deeply. 

 "Moi, pour ne point manquer à la civilité, Je fis la révérence aussi de mon côté. "

He called her more urgently. But she dropped a second curtsy, the pausesof which she accentuated with amusing precision. And she went onreciting and dropping curtsies at the places indicated by the text andby the traditions of the stage. 

 "Soudain il me refait une autre révérence; Moi, j'en refais de même une autre en diligence; Et lui, d'une troisième aussitôt repartant, D'une troisième aussi j'y repars à l'instant. "

She executed every detail of stage business, seriously andconscientiously, taking pains to give a perfect rendering. Her poses, some of which were disconcerting, requiring as they did a skirt toexplain them, were almost all pretty, while all were interesting, inasmuch as they brought into relief the firm muscles under the softenvelope of a young body, and revealed at every movement correspondencesand harmonies which are not commonly observed. 

When clothing her nudity with the propriety of her attitudes and theingenuousness of her expressions she was the incarnation, through merechance and caprice, of a gem of art, an allegory of Innocence in thestyle of Allegrain or Clodion. And the great lines of the comedy rangout with delicious purity from this animated figurine. Robert, enthralled in spite of himself, suffered her to go on to the very end. What entertained him above all was that the most public of all things, astage scene, should be presented to him in so private and secret afashion. And, while watching the ceremonious actions of this girl in allher nudity, he was at the same time revelling in the philosophicalpleasure of discovering how dignity is produced in the best socialcircles. 

 "Il passe, vient, repasse et toujours de plus belle Me fait à chaque fois une révérence nouvelle, Et moi qui tous ses tours fixement regardais, Nouvelle révérence aussi je lui rendais. .. . "

In the meantime she admired in the mirror her freshly-budded breasts, her supple waist, her arms, a trifle slender, round and tapering, andher smooth, beautiful knees; and, seeing all this subservient to thefine art of comedy, she became animated and exalted; a slight flush, like rouge, tinted her cheeks. 

 "Tant que si sur ce point la nuit ne fût venue, Toujours comme cela je me serais tenue, Ne voulaut point céder, ni recevoir l'ennui Qu'il me pût estimer moins civile que lui. .. . "

He called to her from the bed, where he was lying on his elbow. 

"Now come!"

Whereupon, full of animation and with heightened colour, she exclaimed:

"Don't you think that I, too, love you!"

She flung herself beside her lover. Supple and wholly surrendered, shethrew back her head, offering to his kisses her eyes veiled with shadowylashes and her half-parted lips, from which gleamed a moist flash ofwhite. 

Of a sudden she started to her knees. Her staring eyes were filled withunspeakable terror. A hoarse scream escaped from her throat, followed bya wail as long drawn out and gentle as an organ note. Turning her head, she pointed to the white fur spread out at the foot of the bed. 

"There! There! He is lying there like a crouching dog, with a hole inhis head. He is looking at me, with the blood trickling from the cornerof his mouth. "

Her eyes, wide open, rolled up, showing the whites. Her body stretchedbackward like a bow, and, when it had recovered its suppleness, she fellas if dead. 

He bathed her temples with cold water, and brought her back toconsciousness. In a childlike voice she whimpered that every joint inher body was broken. Feeling a burning sensation in the hollow of herhand, she looked, and saw that the palm was cut and bleeding. 

She said:

"It's my nails, they've gone into my hand. See, my nails are full ofblood!"

She thanked him tenderly for his ministrations, and apologized sweetlyfor causing him so much trouble. 

"It was not for that you came, was it?"

She tried to smile, and looked around her. 

"It's nice, here. "

Her gaze met the call to rehearsal lying open on the bedside table, andshe sighed:

"What is the use of my being a great actress if I am not happy?"

Without realizing it, she was repeating word for word what Chevalierhad said when she rejected his advances. 

Then, raising her still stupefied head from the pillow in which it hadlain buried, she turned her mournful eyes toward her lover, and said tohim resignedly:

"We did indeed love each other, we two. It is over. We shall never againbelong to each other; no, never. He forbids it!"

THE END

[Transcriber's Note:

The following typographical errors in the source text were corrected:

Page 92: disease. -> disease. "Page 103: Saint-Etienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-MontPage 104: Saint-Êtienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-MontPage 138: dimunitive -> diminutivePage 141: magificent -> magnificentPage 141: Saint-Êtienne-du-Mont -> Saint-Étienne-du-Mont

The following inconsistent hyphenations in the source text were leftunchanged:

ill-will/illwillfire-place/fireplacebox-wood/boxwood]