A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

By Francois Coppee

With a Preface by JOSE DE HEREDIA, of the French Academy

FRANCOIS COPPEE

FRANCOIS EDOUARD JOACHIM COPPEE was born in Paris, January 12, 1842. His father was a minor 'employe' in the French War Office; and, as thefamily consisted of six the parents, three daughters, and a son (thesubject of this essay)--the early years of the poet were not spent ingreat luxury. After the father's death, the young man himself enteredthe governmental office with its monotonous work. In the evening hestudied hard at St. Genevieve Library. He made rhymes, had them evenprinted (Le Reliquaire, 1866); but the public remained indifferent until1869, when his comedy in verse, 'Le Passant', appeared. From this perioddates the reputation of Coppee--he woke up one morning a "celebratedman. "

Like many of his countrymen, he is a poet, a dramatist, a novelist, and a writer of fiction. He was elected to the French Academy in 1884. Smooth shaven, of placid figure, with pensive eyes, the hair brushedback regularly, the head of an artist, Coppee can be seen any daylooking over the display of the Parisian secondhand booksellers onthe Quai Malaquais; at home on the writing-desk, a page of carefullyprepared manuscript, yet sometimes covered by cigarette-ashes; uponthe wall, sketches by Jules Lefebvre and Jules Breton; a little in thedistance, the gaunt form of his attentive sister and companion, Annette, occupied with household cares, ever fearful of disturbing him. Withinthis tranquil domicile can be heard the noise of the Parisian faubourgwith its thousand different dins; the bustle of the street; the clatterof a factory; the voice of the workshop; the cries of the pedlersintermingled with the chimes of the bells of a near-by convent-aconfusing buzzing noise, which the author, however, seems to enjoy; forCoppee is Parisian by birth, Parisian by education, a Parisian of theParisians. 

If as a poet we contemplate him, Coppee belongs to the group commonlycalled "Parnassiens"--not the Romantic School, the sentimental lyriceffusion of Lamartine, Hugo, or De Musset! When the poetical lutewas laid aside by the triad of 1830, it was taken up by men of quitedifferent stamp, of even opposed tendencies. Observation of exteriormatters was now greatly adhered to in poetry; it became especiallydescriptive and scientific; the aim of every poet was now to rendermost exactly, even minutely, the impressions received, or faithfully totranslate into artistic language a thesis of philosophy, a discovery ofscience. With such a poetical doctrine, you will easily understand theimportance which the "naturalistic form" henceforth assumed. 

Coppee, however, is not only a maker of verses, he is an artist and apoet. Every poem seems to have sprung from a genuine inspiration. Whenhe sings, it is because he has something to sing about, and the resultis that his poetry is nearly always interesting. Moreover, he respectsthe limits of his art; for while his friend and contemporary, M. Sully-Prudhomme, goes astray habitually into philosophical speculation, and his immortal senior, Victor Hugo, often declaims, if one may ventureto say so, in a manner which is tedious, Coppee sticks rigorously towhat may be called the proper regions of poetry. 

Francois Coppee is not one of those superb high priests disdainfulof the throng: he is the poet of the "humble, " and in his work, 'LesHumbles', he paints with a sincere emotion his profound sympathy forthe sorrows, the miseries, and the sacrifices of the meek. Again, inhis 'Grave des Forgerons, Le Naufrage, and L'Epave', all poems of greatextension and universal reputation, he treats of simple existences, ofunknown unfortunates, and of sacrifices which the daily papers do notrecord. The coloring and designing are precise, even if the tone besomewhat sombre, and nobody will deny that Coppee most fully possessesthe technique of French poetry. 

But Francois Coppee is known to fame as a prosewriter, too. His'Contes en prose' and his 'Vingt Contes Nouveaux' are gracefully andartistically told; scarcely one of the 'contes' fails to have a moralmotive. The stories are short and naturally slight; some, indeed, incline rather to the essay than to the story, but each has thatenthralling interest which justifies its existence. Coppee possessespreeminently the gift of presenting concrete fact rather thanabstraction. A sketch, for instance, is the first tale written by him, 'Une Idylle pendant le Seige' (1875). In a novel we require strongcharacterization, great grasp of character, and the novelist shouldshow us the human heart and intellect in full play and activity. In 1875appeared also 'Olivier', followed by 'L'Exilee (1876); Recits et Elegies(1878); Vingt Contes Nouveaux (1883); and Toute une Jeunesse', mainlyan autobiography, crowned by acclaim by the Academy. 'Le Coupable' waspublished in 1897. Finally, in 1898, appeared 'La Bonne Souffrance'. In the last-mentioned work it would seem that the poet, just recoveringfrom a severe malady, has returned to the dogmas of the Catholic Church, wherefrom he, like so many of his contemporaries, had become estrangedwhen a youth. The poems of 1902, 'Dans la Priere et dans la Lutte', tendto confirm the correctness of this view. 

Thanks to the juvenile Sarah Bernhardt, Coppee became, as beforementioned, like Byron, celebrated in one night. This happened throughthe performance of 'Le Passant'. 

As interludes to the plays there are "occasional" theatrical pieces, written for the fiftieth anniversary of the performance of 'Hernani'or the two-hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the "ComedieFrancaise. " This is a wide field, indeed, which M. Coppee has cultivatedto various purposes. 

Take Coppee's works in their sum and totality, and the world-decree isthat he is an artist, and an admirable one. He plays upon his instrumentwith all power and grace. But he is no mere virtuoso. There is somethingin him beyond the executant. Of Malibran, Alfred de Musset says, mostbeautifully, that she had that "voice of the heart which alone has powerto reach the heart. " Here, also, behind the skilful player on language, the deft manipulator of rhyme and rhythm, the graceful and earnestwriter, one feels the beating of a human heart. One feels that he isgiving us personal impressions of life and its joys and sorrows; thathis imagination is powerful because it is genuinely his own; that theflowers of his fancy spring spontaneously from the soil. Nor can Iregard it as aught but an added grace that the strings of his instrumentshould vibrate so readily to what is beautiful and unselfish anddelicate in human feeling. 

 JOSE DE HEREDIA de l'Academie Francaise. 

A ROMANCE OF YOUTH

BOOK 1. 

CHAPTER I. ON THE BALCONY

As far back as Amedee Violette can remember, he sees himself in aninfant's cap upon a fifth-floor balcony covered with convolvulus; thechild was very small, and the balcony seemed very large to him. Amedeehad received for a birthday present a box of water-colors, with whichhe was sprawled out upon an old rug, earnestly intent upon his work ofcoloring the woodcuts in an odd volume of the 'Magasin Pittoresque', andwetting his brush from time to time in his mouth. The neighbors in thenext apartment had a right to one-half of the balcony. Some one in therewas playing upon the piano Marcailhou's Indiana Waltz, which was all therage at that time. Any man, born about the year 1845, who does not feelthe tears of homesickness rise to his eyes as he turns over the pages ofan old number of the 'Magasin Pittoresque', or who hears some one playupon an old piano Marcailhou's Indiana Waltz, is not endowed with muchsensibility. 

When the child was tired of putting the "flesh color" upon the faces ofall the persons in the engravings, he got up and went to peep throughthe railings of the balustrade. He saw extending before him, from rightto left, with a graceful curve, the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, one ofthe quietest streets in the Luxembourg quarter, then only half built up. The branches of the trees spread over the wooden fences, which enclosedgardens so silent and tranquil that passers by could hear the birdssinging in their cages. 

It was a September afternoon, with a broad expanse of pure sky acrosswhich large clouds, like mountains of silver, moved in majesticslowness. 

Suddenly a soft voice called him:

"Amedee, your father will return from the office soon. We must wash yourhands before we sit down to the table, my darling. "

His mother came out upon the balcony for him. His mother; his dearmother, whom he knew for so short a time! It needs an effort for him tocall her to mind now, his memories are so indistinct. She was so modestand pretty, so pale, and with such charming blue eyes, always carryingher head on one side, as if the weight of her lovely chestnut hair wastoo heavy for her to bear, and smiling the sweet, tired smile of thosewho have not long to live! She made his toilette, kissed him upon hisforehead, after brushing his hair. Then she laid their modest table, which was always decorated with a pretty vase of flowers. Soon thefather entered. He was one of those mild, unpretentious men who leteverybody run over them. 

He tried to be gay when he entered his own house. He raised his littleboy aloft with one arm, before kissing him, exclaiming, "Houp la!"A moment later he kissed his young wife and held her close to him, tenderly, as he asked, with an anxious look:

"Have you coughed much to-day?"

She always replied, hanging her head like a child who tells an untruth, "No, not very much. "

The father would then put on an old coat--the one he took off was notvery new. Amedee was then seated in a high chair before his mug, and theyoung mother, going into the kitchen, would bring in the supper. Afteropening his napkin, the father would brush back behind his ear with hishand a long lock on the right side, that always fell into his eyes. 

"Is there too much of a breeze this evening? you afraid to go out uponthe balcony, Lucie? Put a shawl on, then, " said M. Violette, while hiswife was pouring the water remaining in the carafe upon a box where somenasturtiums were growing. 

"No, Paul, I am sure--take Amedee down from his chair, and let us go outupon the balcony. "

It was cool upon this high balcony. The sun had set, and now the greatclouds resembled mountains of gold, and a fresh odor came up from thesurrounding gardens. 

"Good-evening, Monsieur Violette, " suddenly said a cordial voice. "Whata fine evening!"

It was their neighbor, M. Gerard, an engraver, who had also come to takebreath upon his end of the balcony, having spent the entire day bentover his work. He was large and bald-headed, with a good-natured face, a red beard sprinkled with white hairs, and he wore a short, loose coat. As he spoke he lighted his clay pipe, the bowl of which representedAbd-el-Kader's face, very much colored, save the eyes and turban, whichwere of white enamel. 

The engraver's wife, a dumpy little woman with merry eyes, soon joinedher husband, pushing before her two little girls; one, the smaller ofthe two, was two years younger than Amedee; the other was ten years old, and already had a wise little air. She was the pianist who practised onehour a day Marcailhou's Indiana Waltz. 

The children chattered through the trellis that divided the balcony intwo parts. Louise, the elder of the girls, knew how to read, and toldthe two little ones very beautiful stories: Joseph sold by his brethren;Robinson Crusoe discovering the footprints of human beings. 

Amedee, who now has gray hair upon his temples, can still remember thechills that ran down his back at the moment when the wolf, hidden undercoverings and the grandmother's cap, said, with a gnashing of teeth, tolittle Red Riding Hood: "All the better to eat you with, my child. "

It was almost dark then upon the terrace. It was all delightfullyterrible!

During this time the two families, in their respective parts of thebalcony, were talking familiarly together. The Violettes were quietpeople, and preferred rather to listen to their neighbors than to talkthemselves, making brief replies for politeness' sake--"Ah!" "Is itpossible?" "You are right. "

The Gerards liked to talk. Madame Gerard, who was a good housekeeper, discussed questions of domestic economy; telling, for example, how shehad been out that day, and had seen, upon the Rue du Bac, some merino:"A very good bargain, I assure you, Madame, and very wide!" Or perhapsthe engraver, who was a simple politician, after the fashion of 1848, would declare that we must accept the Republic, "Oh, not the red-hot, you know, but the true, the real one!" Or he would wish that Cavaignachad been elected President at the September balloting; although hehimself was then engraving--one must live, after all--a portrait ofPrince Louis Napoleon, destined for the electoral platform. M. AndMadame Violette let them talk; perhaps even they did not always payattention to the conversation. When it was dark they held each other'shands and gazed at the stars. 

These lovely, cool, autumnal evenings, upon the balcony, under thestarry heavens, are the most distant of all Amedee's memories. Thenthere was a break in his memory, like a book with several leaves tornout, after which he recalls many sad days. 

Winter had come, and they no longer spent their evenings upon thebalcony. One could see nothing now through the windows but a dull, graysky. Amedee's mother was ill and always remained in her bed. When he wasinstalled near the bed, before a little table, cutting out with scissorsthe hussars from a sheet of Epinal, his poor mamma almost frightenedhim, as she leaned her elbow upon the pillow and gazed at him so longand so sadly, while her thin white hands restlessly pushed back herbeautiful, disordered hair, and two red hectic spots burned under hercheekbones. 

It was not she who now came to take him from his bed in the morning, butan old woman in a short jacket, who did not kiss him, and who smelledhorribly of snuff. 

His father, too, did not pay much attention to him now. When he returnedin the evening from the office he always brought bottles and littlepackages from the apothecary. Sometimes he was accompanied by thephysician, a large man, very much dressed and perfumed, who panted forbreath after climbing the five flights of stairs. Once Amedee saw thisstranger put his arms around his mother as she sat in her bed, and layhis head for a long time against her back. The child asked, "What for, mamma?"

M. Violette, more nervous than ever, and continually throwing back therebellious lock behind his ear, would accompany the doctor to the doorand stop there to talk with him. Then Amedee's mother would call to him, and he would climb upon the bed, where she would gaze at him with herbright eyes and press him to her breast, saying, in a sad tone, as ifshe pitied him: "My poor little Medee! My poor little Medee!" Why wasit? What did it all mean?

His father would return with a forced smile which was pitiful to see. 

"Well, what did the doctor say?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! You are much better. Only, my poor Lucie, we mustput on another blister to-night. "

Oh, how monotonous and slow these days were to the little Amedee, nearthe drowsy invalid, in the close room smelling of drugs, where onlythe old snuff-taker entered once an hour to bring a cup of tea or putcharcoal upon the fire!

Sometimes their neighbor, Madame Gerard, would come to inquire after thesick lady. 

"Still very feeble, my good Madame Gerard, " his mother would respond. "Ah, I am beginning to get discouraged. "

But Madame Gerard would not let her be despondent. 

"You see, Madame Violette, it is this horrible, endless winter. It isalmost March now; they are already selling boxes of primroses in littlecarts on the sidewalks. You will surely be better as soon as the sunshines. If you like, I will take little Amedee back with me to play withmy little girls. It will amuse the child. "

So it happened that the good neighbor kept the child every afternoon, and he became very fond of the little Gerard children. 

Four little rooms, that is all; but with a quantity of old, picturesquefurniture; engravings, casts, and pictures painted by comrades were onthe walls; the doors were always open, and the children could alwaysplay where they liked, chase each other through the apartments orpillage them. In the drawing-room, which had been transformed into awork-room, the artist sat upon a high stool, point in hand; the lightfrom a curtainless window, sifting through the transparent paper, madethe worthy man's skull shine as he leaned over his copper plate. Heworked hard all day; with an expensive house and two girls to bring up, it was necessary. In spite of his advanced opinions, he continued toengrave his Prince Louis--"A rogue who is trying to juggle us out of aRepublic. " At the very most, he stopped only two or three times a day tosmoke his Abu-el-Kader. Nothing distracted him from his work; not eventhe little ones, who, tired of playing their piece for four hands uponthe piano, would organize, with Amedee, a game of hide-and-seek close bytheir father, behind the old Empire sofa ornamented with bronze lions'heads. But Madame Gerard, in her kitchen, where she was always cookingsomething good for dinner, sometimes thought they made too great anuproar. Then Maria, a real hoyden, in trying to catch her sister, wouldpush an old armchair against a Renaissance chest and make all the Rouencrockery tremble. 

"Now then, now then, children!" exclaimed Madame Gerard, from the depthsof her lair, from which escaped a delicious odor of bacon. "Let yourfather have a little quiet, and go and play in the dining-room. "

They obeyed; for there they could move chairs as they liked, buildhouses of them, and play at making calls. Did ever anybody have suchwild ideas at five years of age as this Maria? She took the arm ofAmedee, whom she called her little husband, and went to call upon hersister and show her her little child, a pasteboard doll with a largehead, wrapped up in a napkin. 

"As you see, Madame, it is a boy. "

"What do you intend to make of him when he grows up?" asked Louise, wholent herself complacently to the play, for she was ten years old andquite a young lady, if you please. 

"Why, Madame, " replied Maria, gravely, "he will be a soldier. "

At that moment the engraver, who had left his bench to stretch his legsa little and to light his Abd-el-Kader for the third time, came andstood at the threshold of his room. Madame Gerard, reassured as to thestate of her stew, which was slowly cooking--and oh, how good it smelledin the kitchen!--entered the dining-room. Both looked at the children, so comical and so graceful, as they made their little grimaces! Then thehusband glanced at his wife, and the wife at the husband, and both burstout into hearty laughter. 

There never was any laughter in the apartment of the Violettes. It wascough! cough! cough! almost to suffocation, almost to death! This gentleyoung woman with the heavy hair was about to die! When the beautifulstarry evenings should come again, she would no longer linger on thebalcony, or press her husband's hand as they gazed at the stars. LittleAmedee did not understand it; but he felt a vague terror of somethingdreadful happening in the house. Everything alarmed him now. He wasafraid of the old woman who smelled of snuff, and who, when she dressedhim in the morning, looked at him with a pitying air; he was afraid ofthe doctor, who climbed the five flights of stairs twice a day now, andleft a whiff of perfume behind him; afraid of his father, who did notgo to his office any more, whose beard was often three days old, andwho feverishly paced the little parlor, tossing back with a distractedgesture the lock of hair behind his ear. He was afraid of his mother, alas! of his mother, whom he had seen that evening, by the light fromthe night-lamp, buried in the pillows, her delicate nose and chin thrownup, and who did not seem to recognize him, in spite of her wide-openeyes, when his father took her child in his arms and leaned over herwith him that he might kiss her cold forehead covered with sweat!

At last the terrible day arrived, a day that Amedee never will forget, although he was then a very small child. 

What awakened him that morning was his father's embrace as he came andtook him from his bed. His father's eyes were wild and bloodshot fromso much crying. Why was their neighbor, M. Gerard, there so early inthe morning, and with great tears rolling down his cheeks too? He keptbeside M. Violette, as if watching him, and patted him upon the backaffectionately, saying:

"Now then, my poor friend! Have courage, courage!"

But the poor friend had no more. He let M. Gerard take the childfrom him, and then his head fell like a dead person's upon the goodengraver's shoulder, and he began to weep with heavy sobs that shook hiswhole body. 

"Mamma! See mamma!" cried the little Amedee, full of terror. 

Alas! he never will see her again! At the Gerards, where they carriedhim and the kind neighbor dressed him, they told him that his mother hadgone for a long time, a very long time; that he must love his papavery much and think only of him; and other things that he could notunderstand and dared not ask the meaning of, but which filled him withconsternation. 

It was strange! The engraver and his wife busied themselves entirelywith him, watching him every moment. The little ones, too, treated himin a singular, almost respectful manner. What had caused such a change?Louise did not open her piano, and when little Maria wished to takeher "menagerie" from the lower part of the buffet, Madame Gerard saidsharply, as she wiped the tears from her eyes: "You must not playto-day. "

After breakfast Madame Gerard put on her hat and shawl and went out, taking Amedee with her. They got into a carriage that took them throughstreets that the child did not know, across a bridge in the middle ofwhich stood a large brass horseman, with his head crowned with laurel, and stopped before a large house and entered with the crowd, where avery agile and rapid young man put some black clothes on Amedee. 

On their return the child found his father seated at the dining-roomtable with M. Gerard, and both of them were writing addresses upon largesheets of paper bordered with black. M. Violette was not crying, but hisface showed deep lines of grief, and he let his lock of hair fall overhis right eye. 

At the sight of little Amedee, in his black clothes, he uttered a groan, and arose, staggering like a drunken man, bursting into tears again. 

Oh, no! he never will forget that day, nor the horrible next day, whenMadame Gerard came and dressed him in the morning in his black clothes, while he listened to the noise of heavy feet and blows from a hammer inthe next room. He suddenly remembered that he had not seen his mothersince two days before. 

"Mamma! I want to see mamma!"

It was necessary then to try to make him understand the truth. MadameGerard repeated to him that he ought to be very wise and good, and tryto console his father, who had much to grieve him; for his mother hadgone away forever; that she was in heaven. 

In heaven! heaven is very high up and far off. If his mother was inheaven, what was it that those porters dressed in black carried away inthe heavy box that they knocked at every turn of the staircase? What didthat solemn carriage, which he followed through all the rain, quickeninghis childish steps, with his little hand tightly clasped in hisfather's, carry away? What did they bury in that hole, from which anodor of freshly dug earth was emitted--in that hole surrounded by menin black, and from which his father turned away his head in horror? Whatwas it that they hid in this ditch, in this garden full of crosses andstone urns, where the newly budded trees shone in the March sun afterthe shower, large drops of water still falling from their branches liketears?

His mother was in heaven! On the evening of that dreadful day Amedeedared not ask to "see mamma" when he was seated before his father atthe table, where, for a long time, the old woman in a short jacket hadplaced only two plates. The poor widower, who had just wiped his eyeswith his napkin, had put upon one of the plates a little meat cut up inbits for Amedee. He was very pale, and as Amedee sat in his highchair, he asked himself whether he should recognize his mother's sweet, caressing look, some day, in one of those stars that she loved to watch, seated upon the balcony on cool September nights, pressing her husband'shand in the darkness. 

CHAPTER II. SAD CHANGES

Trees are like men; there are some that have no luck. A genuinelyunfortunate tree was the poor sycamore which grew in the playground ofan institution for boys on the Rue de la Grande-Chaumiere, directed byM. Batifol. 

Chance might just as well have made it grow upon the banks of a river, upon some pretty bluff, where it might have seen the boats pass; or, better still, upon the mall in some garrison village, where it couldhave had the pleasure of listening twice a week to military music. But, no! it was written in the book of fate that this unlucky sycamore shouldlose its bark every summer, as a serpent changes its skin, and shouldscatter the ground with its dead leaves at the first frost, in theplayground of the Batifol institution, which was a place without anydistractions. 

This solitary tree, which was like any other sycamore, middle-aged andwithout any singularities, ought to have had the painful feeling thatit served in a measure to deceive the public. In fact, upon theadvertisement of the Batifol institution (Cours du lycee Henri IV. Preparation au baccalaureat et aux ecoles de l'Etat), one read thesefallacious words, "There is a garden;" when in reality it was only avulgar court graveled with stones from the river, with a paved gutter inwhich one could gather half a dozen of lost marbles, a broken top, anda certain number of shoe-nails, and after recreation hours still more. This solitary sycamore was supposed to justify the illusion and fictionof the garden promised in the advertisement; but as trees certainlyhave common sense, this one should have been conscious that it was not agarden of itself. 

It was a very unjust fate for an inoffensive tree which never had harmedanybody; only expanding, at one side of the gymnasium portico, in aperfect rectangle formed by a prison wall, bristling with the glassof broken bottles, and by three buildings of distressing similarity, showing, above the numerous doors on the ground floor, inscriptionswhich merely to read induced a yawn: Hall 1, Hall 2, Hall 3, Hall4, Stairway A, Stairway B, Entrance to the Dormitories, Dining-room, Laboratory. 

The poor sycamore was dying of ennui in this dismal place. Its onlyhappy seasons--the recreation hours, when the court echoed with theshouts and the laughter of the boys--were spoiled for it by the sight oftwo or three pupils who were punished by being made to stand at the footof its trunk. Parisian birds, who are not fastidious, rarely lightedupon the tree, and never built their nests there. It might even beimagined that this disenchanted tree, when the wind agitated itsfoliage, would charitably say, "Believe me! the place is good fornothing. Go and make love elsewhere!"

In the shade of this sycamore, planted under an unlucky star, thegreater part of Amedee's infancy was passed. 

M. Violette was an employe of the Ministry, and was obliged to workseven hours a day, one or two hours of which were devoted to goingwearily through a bundle of probably superfluous papers and documents. The rest of the time was given to other occupations as varied as theywere intellectual; such as yawning, filing his nails, talking about hischiefs, groaning over the slowness of promotion, cooking a potato or asausage in the stove for his luncheon, reading the newspaper down tothe editor's signature, and advertisements in which some country cureexpresses his artless gratitude at being cured at last of an obstinatedisease. In recompense for this daily captivity, M. Violette received, at the end of the month, a sum exactly sufficient to secure hishousehold soup and beef, with a few vegetables. 

In order that his son might attain such a distinguished position, M. Violette's father, a watch-maker in Chartres, had sacrificed everything, and died penniless. The Silvio Pellico official, during theseexasperating and tiresome hours, sometimes regretted not having simplysucceeded his father. He could see himself, in imagination, in the lightlittle shop near the cathedral, with a magnifying-glass fixed in hiseye, ready to inspect some farmer's old "turnip, " and suspended over hisbench thirty silver and gold watches left by farmers the week before, who would profit by the next market-day to come and get them, all goingtogether with a merry tick. It may be questioned whether a trade as lowas this would have been fitting for a young man of education, a Bachelorof Arts, crammed with Greek roots and quotations, able to prove theexistence of God, and to recite without hesitation the dates of thereigns of Nabonassar and of Nabopolassar. This watch-maker, this simpleartisan, understood modern genius better. This modest shopkeeper actedaccording to the democratic law and followed the instinct of a nobleand wise ambition. He made of his son--a sensible and intelligent boy--amachine to copy documents, and spend his days guessing the conundrums inthe illustrated newspapers, which he read as easily as M. Ledrain woulddecipher the cuneiform inscriptions on an Assyrian brick. Also--anadmirable result, which should rejoice the old watch-maker's shade--hisson had become a gentleman, a functionary, so splendidly remunerated bythe State that he was obliged to wear patches of cloth, as near like thetrousers as possible, on their seat; and his poor young wife, duringher life, had always been obliged, as rent-day drew near, to carry thesoup-ladle and six silver covers to the pawn-shop. 

At all events, M. Violette was a widower now, and being busy all day wasvery much embarrassed with the care of his little son. His neighbors, the Gerards, were very kind to Amedee, and continued to keep him withthem all the afternoon. This state of affairs could not always continue, and M. Violette hesitated to abuse his worthy friends' kindness in thatway. 

However, Amedee gave them little trouble, and Mamma Gerard loved him asif he were her own. The orphan was now inseparable from little Maria, a perfect little witch, who became prettier every day. The engraver, having found in a cupboard the old bearskin cap which he had worn as agrenadier in the National Guard, a headdress that had been suppressedsince '98, gave it to the children. What a magnificent plaything it was, and how well calculated to excite their imagination! It was immediatelytransformed in their minds into a frightfully large and ferocious bear, which they chased through the apartment, lying in wait for it behindarmchairs, striking at it with sticks, and puffing out their littlecheeks with all their might to say "Boum!" imitating the report ofa gun. This hunting diversion completed the destruction of the oldfurniture. Tranquil in the midst of the joyous uproar and disorder, theengraver was busily at work finishing off the broad ribbon of the Legionof Honor, and the large bullion epaulettes of the Prince President, whom, as a suspicious republican and foreseeing the 'coup d'etat', hedetested with all his heart. 

"Truly, Monsieur Violette, " said Mother Gerard to the employe, when hecame for his little son upon his return from the office, and excusedhimself for the trouble that the child must give his neighbors, "truly, I assure you, he does not disturb us in the least. Wait a little beforeyou send him to school. He is very quiet, and if Maria did not excitehim so--upon my word, she is more of a boy than he--your Amedee wouldalways be looking at the pictures. My Louise hears him read every daytwo pages in the Moral Tales, and yesterday he amused Gerard by tellinghim the story of the grateful elephant. He can go to school later--waita little. "

But M. Violette had decided to send Amedee to M. Batifol's. "Oh, yes, asa day scholar, of course! It is so convenient; not two steps' distance. This will not prevent little Amedee from seeing his friends often. He isnearly seven years old, and very backward; he hardly knows how to makehis letters. One can not begin with children too soon, " and much more tothe same effect. 

This was the reason why, one fine spring day, M. Violette was usheredinto M. Batifol's office, who, the servant said, would be theredirectly. 

M. Batifol's office was hideous. In the three bookcases which the masterof the house--a snob and a greedy schoolmaster--never opened, were someof those books that one can buy upon the quays by the running yard;for example, Laharpe's Cours de Litterature, and an endless edition ofRollin, whose tediousness seems to ooze out through their bindings. Thecylindrical office-table, one of those masterpieces of veneered mahoganywhich the Faubourg St. Antoine still keeps the secret of making, wassurmounted by a globe of the world. 

Suddenly, through the open window, little Amedee saw the sycamore in theyard. A young blackbird, who did not know the place, came and perchedfor an instant only upon one of its branches. 

We may fancy the tree saying to it:

"What are you doing here? The Luxembourg is only a short distance fromhere, and is charming. Children are there, making mud-pies, nurses uponthe seats chattering with the military, lovers promenading, holdinghands. Go there, you simpleton!"

The blackbird flew away, and the university tree, once more solitary andalone, drooped its dispirited leaves. Amedee, in his confused childishdesire for information, was just ready to ask why this sycamore lookedso morose, when the door opened and M. Batifol appeared. The master ofthe school had a severe aspect, in spite of his almost indecorous name. He resembled a hippopotamus clothed in an ample black coat. He enteredslowly and bowed in a dignified way to M. Violette, then seated himselfin a leather armchair before his papers, and, taking off his velvetskull-cap, revealed such a voluminous round, yellow baldness that littleAmedee compared it with terror to the globe on the top of his desk. 

It was just the same thing! These two round balls were twins! Therewas even upon M. Batifol's cranium an eruption of little red pimples, grouped almost exactly like an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean. 

"Whom have I the honor--?" asked the schoolmaster, in an unctuous voice, an excellent voice for proclaiming names at the distribution of prizes. 

M. Violette was not a brave man. It was very foolish, but when thesenior clerk called him into his office to do some work, he was alwaysseized with a sort of stammering and shaking of the limbs. A person soimposing as M. Batifol was not calculated to give him assurance. Amedeewas timid, too, like his father, and while the child, frightened bythe resemblance of the sphere to M. Batifol's bald head, was alreadytrembling, M. Violette, much agitated, was trying to think of somethingto say, consequently, he said nothing of any account. However, he endedby repeating almost the same things he had said to Mamma Gerard: "My sonis nearly seven years old, and very backward, etc. "

The teacher appeared to listen to M. Violette with benevolent interest, inclining his geographical cranium every few seconds. In reality, he wasobserving and judging his visitors. The father's scanty overcoat, therather pale face of the little boy, all betokened poverty. It simplymeant a day scholar at thirty francs a month, nothing more. So M. Batifol shortened the "speech" that under like circumstances headdressed to his new pupils. 

He would take charge of his "young friend" (thirty francs a month, thatis understood, and the child will bring his own luncheon in a littlebasket) who would first be placed in an elementary class. Certainfathers prefer, and they have reason to do so, that their sons shouldbe half-boarders, with a healthful and abundant repast at noon. But M. Batifol did not insist upon it. His young friend would then be placed inthe infant class, at first; but he would be prepared there at once, 'abovo', one day to receive lessons in this University of France, 'almaparens' (instruction in foreign languages not included in the ordinaryprice, naturally), which by daily study, competition between scholars(accomplishments, such as dancing, music, and fencing, to be paid forseparately; that goes without saying) prepare children for social life, and make men and citizens of them. 

M. Violette contented himself with the day school at thirty francs, andfor a good reason. The affair was settled. Early the next morning Amedeewould enter the "ninth preparatory. "

"Give me your hand, my young friend, " said the master, as father and sonarose to take their leave. 

Amedee reached out his hand, and M. Batifol took it in his, which wasso heavy, large, and cold that the child shivered at the contact, andfancied he was touching a leg of mutton of six or seven pounds' weight, freshly killed, and sent from the butcher's. 

Finally they left. Early the next morning, Amedee, provided with alittle basket, in which the old snuff-taker had put a little bottle ofred wine, and some sliced veal, and jam tarts, presented himself at theboarding-school, to be prepared without delay for the teaching of the'alma parens'. 

The hippopotamus clothed in black did not take off his skullcap thistime, to the child's great regret, for he wished to assure himself ifthe degrees of latitude and longitude were checked off in squares on M. Batifol's cranium as they were on the terrestrial globe. He conductedhis pupil to his class at once and presented him to the master. 

"Here is a new day scholar, Monsieur Tavernier. You will find out howfar advanced he is in reading and writing, if you please. " M. Tavernierwas a tall young man with a sallow complexion, a bachelor who, had hebeen living like his late father, a sergeant of the gendarmes, in apretty house surrounded by apple trees and green grass, would not, perhaps, have had that 'papier-mache' appearance, and would not havebeen dressed at eight o'clock in the morning in a black coat of the kindwe see hanging in the Morgue. M. Tavernier received the newcomer with asickly smile, which disappeared as soon as M. Batifol left the room. 

"Go and take your place in that empty seat there, in the third row, "said M. Tavernier, in an indifferent tone. 

He deigned, however, to conduct Amedee to the seat which he was tooccupy. Amedee's neighbor, one of the future citizens preparing forsocial life--several with patches upon their trousers--had been naughtyenough to bring into class a handful of cockchafers. He was punished bya quarter of an hour's standing up, which he did soon after, sulking atthe foot of the sycamore-tree in the large court. 

"You will soon see what a cur he is, " whispered the pupil in disgrace;as soon as the teacher had returned to his seat. 

M. Tavernier struck his ruler on the edge of his chair, and, havingreestablished silence, invited pupil Godard to recite his lesson. 

Pupil Godard, who was a chubby-faced fellow with sleepy eyes, roseautomatically and in one single stream, like a running tap, recited, without stopping to take breath, "The Wolf and the Lamb, " rolling off LaFontaine's fable like the thread from a bobbin run by steam. 

"The-strongest-reason-is-always-the-best-and-we-will-prove-it-at-once, a-lamb-was-quenching-his-thirst-in-a-stream-of-pure-running-water--"

Suddenly Godard was confused, he hesitated. The machine had been badlyoiled. Something obstructed the bobbin. 

"In-a-stream-of-pure-running-water-in-a stream--"

Then he stopped short, the tap was closed. Godard did not know hislesson, and he, too, was condemned to remain on guard under the sycamoreduring recess. 

After pupil Godard came pupil Grosdidier; then Blanc, then Moreau(Gaston), then Moreau (Ernest), then Malepert; then another, andanother, who babbled with the same intelligence and volubility, with thesame piping voice, this cruel and wonderful fable. It was as irritatingand monotonous as a fine rain. All the pupils in the "ninth preparatory"were disgusted for fifteen years, at least, with this most exquisite ofFrench poems. 

Little Amedee wanted to cry; he listened with stupefaction blended withfright as the scholars by turns unwound their bobbins. To think thatto-morrow he must do the same! He never would be able. M. Tavernierfrightened him very much, too. The yellow-complexioned usher, seatednonchalantly in his armchair, was not without pretension; in spite ofhis black coat with the "take-me-out-of-pawn" air, polished his nails, and only opened his mouth at times to utter a reprimand or pronouncesentence of punishment. 

This was school, then! Amedee recalled the pleasant reading-lessons thatthe eldest of the Gerards had given him--that good Louise, so wise andserious and only ten years old, pointing out his letters to him in apicture alphabet with a knitting-needle, always so patient and kind. The child was overcome at the very first with a disgust for school, and gazed through the window which lighted the room at the noiselesslymoving, large, indented leaves of the melancholy sycamore. 

CHAPTER III. PAPA AND MAMMA GERARD

One, two, three years rolled by without anything very remarkablehappening to the inhabitants of the fifth story. 

The quarter had not changed, and it still had the appearance of asuburban faubourg. They had just erected, within gunshot of the housewhere the Violettes and Gerards lived, a large five-story building, uponwhose roof still trembled in the wind the masons' withered bouquets. But that was all. In front of them, on the lot "For Sale, " enclosed byrotten boards, where one could always see tufts of nettles and a goattied to a stake, and upon the high wall above which by the end of Aprilthe lilacs hung in their perfumed clusters, the rains had not effacedthis brutal declaration of love, scraped with a knife in the plaster:"When Melie wishes she can have me, " and signed "Eugene. "

Three years had passed, and little Amedee had grown a trifle. At thattime a child born in the centre of Paris--for example, in the labyrinthof infected streets about the Halles--would have grown up withouthaving any idea of the change of seasons other than by the state of thetemperature and the narrow strip of sky which he could see by raisinghis head. Even today certain poor children--the poor never budge fromtheir hiding-places--learn of the arrival of winter only by the odorof roasted chestnuts; of spring, by the boxes of gilly-flowers in thefruiterer's stall; of summer, by the water-carts passing, and of autumn, by the heaps of oyster-shells at the doors of wine-shops. The broad sky, with its confused shapes of cloud architecture, the burning gold ofthe setting sun behind the masses of trees, the enchanting stillness ofmoonlight upon the river, all these grand and magnificent spectacles arefor the delight of those who live in suburban quarters, or play theresometimes. The sons of people who work in buttons and jet spend theirinfancy playing on staircases that smell of lead, or in courts thatresemble wells, and do not suspect that nature exists. At the outsidethey suspect that nature may exist when they see the horses on PalmSunday decorated with bits of boxwood behind each ear. What matters it, after all, if the child has imagination? A star reflected in a gutterwill reveal to him an immense nocturnal poem; and he will breathe allthe intoxication of summer in the full-blown rose which the grisettefrom the next house lets fall from her hair. 

Amedee had had the good fortune of being born in that delicious andmelancholy suburb of Paris which had not yet become "Haussmannized, " andwas full of wild and charming nooks. 

His father, the widower, could not be consoled, and tried to wear outhis grief in long promenades, going out on clear evenings, holding hislittle boy by the hand, toward the more solitary places. They followedthose fine boulevards, formerly in the suburbs, where there were giantelms, planted in the time of Louis XIV, ditches full of grass, ruinedpalisades, showing through their opening market-gardens where melonsglistened in the rays of the setting sun. Both were silent; the fatherlost in reveries, Amedee absorbed in the confused dreams of a child. They went long distances, passing the Barriere d'Enfer, reachingunknown parts, which produced the same effect upon an inhabitant of RueMontmartre as the places upon an old map of the world, marked with themysterious words 'Mare ignotum', would upon a savant of the Middle Ages. There were many houses in this ancient suburb; curious old buildings, nearly all of one story. 

Sometimes they would pass a public-house painted in a sinisterwine-color; or else a garden hedged in by acacias, at the fork of tworoads, with arbors and a sign consisting of a very small windmill atthe end of a pole, turning in the fresh evening breeze. It was almostcountry; the grass grew upon the sidewalks, springing up in the roadbetween the broken pavements. A poppy flashed here and there upon thetops of the low walls. They met very few people; now and then somepoor person, a woman in a cap dragging along a crying child, a workmanburdened with his tools, a belated invalid, and sometimes in themiddle of the sidewalk, in a cloud of dust, a flock of exhausted sheep, bleating desperately, and nipped in the legs by dogs hurrying themtoward the abattoir. The father and son would walk straight ahead untilit was dark under the trees; then they would retrace their steps, thesharp air stinging their faces. Those ancient hanging street-lamps, the tragic lanterns of the time of the Terror, were suspended at longintervals in the avenue, mingling their dismal twinkle with the palegleams of the green twilight sky. 

These sorrowful promenades with his melancholy companion would commonlyend a tiresome day at Batifol's school. Amedee was now in the "seventh, "and knew already that the phrase, "the will of God, " could not beturned into Latin by 'bonitas divina', and that the word 'cornu' was notdeclinable. These long, silent hours spent at his school-desk, or besidea person absorbed in grief, might have become fatal to the child'sdisposition, had it not been for his good friends, the Gerards. He wentto see them as often as he was able, a spare hour now and then, andmost of the day on Thursdays. The engraver's house was always full ofgood-nature and gayety, and Amedee felt comfortable and really happythere. 

The good Gerards, besides their Louise and Maria, to say nothing ofAmedee, whom they looked upon as one of the family, had now taken chargeof a fourth child, a little girl, named Rosine, who was precisely thesame age as their youngest. 

This was the way it happened. Above the Gerards, in one of the mansardsupon the sixth floor, lived a printer named Combarieu, with his wife ormistress--the concierge did not know which, nor did it matter much. Thewoman had just deserted him, leaving a child of eight years. One couldexpect nothing better of a creature who, according to the concierge, fedher husband upon pork-butcher's meat, to spare herself the troubleof getting dinner, and passed the entire day with uncombed hair, in adressing-sacque, reading novels, and telling her fortune with cards. The grocer's daughter declared she had met her one evening, at adancing-hall, seated with a fireman before a salad-bowl full of wine, prepared in the French fashion. 

During the day Combarieu, although a red-hot Republican, sent his littlegirl to the Sisters; but he went out every evening with a mysteriousair and left the child alone. The concierge even uttered in a lowvoice, with the romantic admiration which that class of people have forconspirators, the terrible word "secret society, " and asserted that theprinter had a musket concealed under his straw bed. 

These revelations were of a nature to excite M. Gerard's sympathy infavor of his neighbor, for the coup d'etat and the proclamation of theEmpire had irritated him very much. Had it not been his melancholyduty to engrave, the day after the second of December--he must feed hisfamily first of all--a Bonapartist allegory entitled, "The Uncle andthe Nephew, " where one saw France extending its hand to Napoleon I andPrince Louis, while soaring above the group was an eagle with spreadingwings, holding in one of his claws the cross of the Legion of Honor?

One day the engraver asked his wife, as he lighted his pipe--he hadgiven up Abd-el-Kader and smoked now a Barbes--if they ought not tointerest themselves a little in the abandoned child. It needed nothingmore to arouse the good woman, who had already said more than once:"What a pity!" as she saw little Rosine waiting for her father in thelodge of the concierge, asleep in a chair before the stove. She coaxedthe child to play with her children. Rosine was very pretty, with brighteyes, a droll little Parisian nose, and a mass of straw-colored curlyhair escaping from her cap. The little rogue let fly quite often somegutter expression, such as "Hang it!" or "Tol-derol-dol!" at whichMadame Gerard would exclaim, "What do I hear, Mademoiselle?" but she wasintelligent and soon corrected herself. 

One Sunday morning, Combarieu, having learned of their kindness to hischild, made a visit to thank them. 

Very dark, with a livid complexion, all hair and beard, and trying tolook like the head of Jesus Christ, in his long black blouse he embodiedthe type of a club conspirator, a representative of the workingmen. AFreemason, probably; a solemn drunkard, who became intoxicated ofteneron big words than on native wine, and spoke in a loud, pretentiousvoice, gazing before him with large, stupid eyes swimming in a sortof ecstasy; his whole person made one think of a boozy preacher. Heimmediately inspired the engraver with respect, and dazzled him by thefascination which the audacious exert over the timid. M. Gerard thoughthe discerned in Combarieu one of those superior men whom a cruel fatehad caused to be born among the lower class and in whom poverty hadstifled genius. 

Enlightened as to the artist's political preferences by the bowl of hispipe, Combarieu complacently eulogized himself. Upon his own admissionhe had at first been foolish enough to dream of a universal brotherhood, a holy alliance of the people. He had even written poems which hehad published himself, notably an "Ode to Poland, " and an "Epistleto Beranger, " which latter had evoked an autograph letter from theillustrious song-writer. But he was no longer such a simpleton. 

"When one has seen what we have seen during June, and on the secondof December, there is no longer any question of sentiment. " Herethe engraver, as a hospitable host, brought a bottle of wine and twoglasses. "No, Monsieur Gerard, I thank you, I take nothing between mymeals. The workingmen have been deceived too often, and at the nextelection we shall not let the bourgeoisie strangle the Republic. " (M. Gerard had now uncorked the bottle. ) "Only a finger! Enough! Enough!simply so as not to refuse you. While waiting, let us prepare ourselves. Just now the Eastern question muddles us, and behold 'Badinguet, '--[Anickname given to Napoleon III. ]--with a big affair upon his hands. Youhave some wine here that is worth drinking. If he loses one battle heis done for. One glass more? Ah! you make me depart from my usualcustom--absolutely done for. But this time we shall keep our eyesopen. No half measures! We will return to the great methods of'ninety-three--the Committee of Public Safety, the Law of Suspects, the Revolutionary Tribunal, every damned one of them! and, if it isnecessary, a permanent guillotine! To your good health!"

So much energy frightened Father Gerard a little; for in spite of hisBarbes pipe-bowl he was not a genuine red-hot Republican. He dared notprotest, however, and blushed a little as he thought that the nightbefore an editor had proposed to him to engrave a portrait of the newEmpress, very decollete, and showing her famous shoulders, and that hehad not said No; for his daughters needed new shoes, and his wife haddeclared the day before that she had not a gown to put on. 

So for several months he had four children--Amedee, Louise, Maria, andlittle Rose Combarieu--to make a racket in his apartment. Certainly theywere no longer babies; they did not play at making calls nor chasethe old fur hat around the room; they were more sensible, and the oldfurniture had a little rest. And it was time, for all the chairs werelame, two of the larger ones had lost an arm each, and the Empiresofa had lost the greater part of its hair through the rents in itsdark-green velvet covering. The unfortunate square piano had had no pityshown it; more out of tune and asthmatic than ever, it was now alwaysopen, and one could read above the yellow and worn-out keyboard a oncefamous name-"Sebastian Erard, Manufacturer of Pianos and Harps forS. A. R. Madame la Duchesse de Berri. " Not only Louise, the eldest of theGerards--a large girl now, having been to her first communion, dressingher hair in bands, and wearing white waists--not only Louise, who hadbecome a good musician, had made the piano submit to long tortures, buther sister Maria, and Amedee also, already played the 'Bouquet de Bal'or 'Papa, les p'tits bateaux'. Rosine, too, in her character of streeturchin, knew all the popular songs, and spent entire hours in pickingout the airs with one finger upon the old instrument. 

Ah! the songs of those days, the last of romanticism, the make-believe'Orientales'; 'Odes' and 'Ballads', by the dozen; 'Comes d'Espagneet d'Italie', with their pages, turrets, chatelaines; bull-fighters, Spanish ladies; vivandieres, beguiled away from their homes underthe pale of the church, "near a stream of running water, by a gay andhandsome chevalier, " and many other such silly things--Amedee willremember them always! They bring back to him, clearly and strongly, certain happy hours in his childhood! They make him smell again at timeseven the odor that pervaded the Gerards' house. A mule-driver's songwill bring up before his vision the engraver working at his plate beforethe curtainless window on a winter's day. It snows in the streets, andlarge white flakes are slowly falling behind the glass; but the room, ornamented with pictures and busts, is lighted and heated by a brightcoke fire. Amedee can see himself seated in a corner by the fire, learning by heart a page of the "Epitome" which he must recite the nextmorning at M. Batifol's. Maria and Rosine are crouched at his feet, witha box of glass beads, which they are stringing into a necklace. It wascomfortable; the whole apartment smelled of the engraver's pipe, andin the dining-room, whose door is half opened, Louise is at the piano, singing, in a fresh voice, some lines where "Castilla" rhymes with"mantilla, " and "Andalousie" with "jealousy, " while her agile fingersplayed on the old instrument an accompaniment supposed to imitate bellsand castanets. 

Or perhaps it is a radiant morning in June, and they are in thedining-room; the balcony door is open wide, and a large hornet buzzesloudly in the vine. Louise is still at the piano; she is singing thistime, and trying to reach the low tones of a dramatic romance where aCorsican child is urged on to vengeance by his father:

 Tiens, prends ma carabiue! Sur toi veillera Dieu--

This is a great day, the day when Mamma Gerard makes her gooseberrypreserves. There is a large basin already full of it on the table. Whata delicious odor! A perfume of roses mingled with that of warm sugar. Maria and Rosine have just slipped into the kitchen, the gourmands! ButLouise is a serious person, and will not interrupt her singing for sucha trifle. She continues to sing in a low voice: and at the moment whenAmedee stands speechless with admiration before her, as she is scoldingin a terrible tone and playing dreadful chords, to and behold! herecome the children, both with pink moustaches, and licking their lipsvoluptuously. 

Ah! these were happy hours to Amedee. They consoled him for theinterminable days at M. Batifol's. 

Having passed the ninth preparatory grade, under the direction of theindolent M. Tavernier, always busy polishing his nails, like a Chinesemandarin, the child had for a professor in the eighth grade PereMontandeuil, a poor fellow stupefied by thirty years of teaching, whosecretly employed all his spare hours in composing five-act tragedies, and who, by dint of carrying to and going for his manuscripts at theOdeon, ended by marrying the stagedoor-keeper's daughter. In the seventhgrade Amedee groaned under the tyranny of M. Prudhommod, a man fromthe country, with a smattering of Latin and a terribly violent temper, throwing at the pupils the insults of a plowboy. Now he had entered thesixth grade, under M. Bance, an unfortunate fellow about twenty yearsold, ugly, lame, and foolishly timid, whom M. Batifol reproachedseverely with not having made himself respected, and whose eyes filledwith tears every morning when, upon entering the schoolroom, he wasobliged to efface with a cloth a caricature of himself made by some ofhis pupils. 

Everything in M. Batifol's school--the grotesque and miserable teachers, the ferocious and cynical pupils, the dingy, dusty, and ink-stainedrooms--saddened and displeased Amedee. Although very intelligent, he wasdisgusted with the sort of instruction there, which was served out inportions, like soldier's rations, and would have lost courage but forhis little friend, Louise Gerard, who out of sheer kindness constitutedherself his school-mistress, guiding and inspiriting him, and workinghard at the rudiments of L'homond's Grammar and Alexandre's Dictionary, to help the child struggle with his 'De Viris'. Unfortunate indeed ishe who has not had, during his infancy, a petticoat near him--the sweetinfluence of a woman. He will always have something coarse in his mindand hard in his heart. Without this excellent and kind Louise, Amedeewould have been exposed to this danger. His mother was dead, and M. Violette, alas! was always overwhelmed with his grief, and, it must beadmitted, somewhat neglected his little son. 

The widower could not be consoled. Since his wife's death he had grownten years older, and his refractory lock of hair had become perfectlywhite. His Lucie had been the sole joy in his commonplace and obscurelife. She was so pretty, so sweet! such a good manager, dressing uponnothing, and making things seem luxurious with only one flower! M. Violette existed only on this dear and cruel souvenir, living his humbleidyll over again in his mind. 

He had had six years of this happiness. One of his comrades took him topass an evening with an old friend who was captain in the Invalides. Theworthy man had lost an arm at Waterloo; he was a relative of Lucie, agood-natured old fellow, amiable and lively, delighting in arranginghis apartments into a sort of Bonapartist chapel and giving littleentertainments with cake and punch, while Lucie's mother, a cousin ofthe captain, did the honors. M. Violette immediately observed the younggirl, seated under a "Bataille des Pyramides" with two swords crossedabove it, a carnation in her hair. It was in midsummer, and through theopen window one could see the magnificent moonlight, which shoneupon the esplanade and made the huge cannon shine. They were playingcharades, and when it came Lucie's turn to be questioned among all theguests, M. Violette, to relieve her of her embarrassment, replied soawkwardly that they all exclaimed, "Now, then, that is cheating!" Withwhat naive grace and bashful coquetry she served the tea, going from onetable to another, cup in hand, followed by the one-armed captain withsilver epaulets, carrying the plum-cake! In order to see her again, M. Violette paid the captain visit after visit. But the greater part ofthe time he saw only the old soldier, who told him of his victories andconquests, of the attack of the redoubt at Borodino, and the frightfulswearing of the dashing Murat, King of Naples, as he urged the squadronson to the rescue. At last, one beautiful Sunday in autumn, he foundhimself alone with the young girl in the private garden of the veteranof the Old Guard. He seated himself beside Lucie on a stone bench: hetold her his love, with the profound gaze of the Little Corporal, inbronzed plaster, resting upon them; and, full of delicious confusion, she replied, "Speak to mamma, " dropping her bewildered eyes and gazingat the bed of china-asters, whose boxwood border traced the form of across of the Legion of Honor. 

And all this was effaced, lost forever! The captain was dead; Lucie'smother was dead, and Lucie herself, his beloved Lucie, was dead, aftergiving him six years of cloudless happiness. 

Certainly, he would never marry again. Oh, never!

No woman had ever existed or ever would exist for him but his poordarling, sleeping in the Montparnasse Cemetery, whose grave he visitedevery Sunday with a little watering-pot concealed under his coat. 

He recalled, with a shiver of disgust, how, a few months after Lucie'sdeath, one stifling evening in July, he was seated upon a bench in theLuxembourg, listening to the drums beating a retreat under the trees, when a woman came and took a seat beside him and looked at him steadily. Surprised by her significant look, he replied, to the question that sheaddressed to him, timidly and at the same time boldly: "So this is theway that you take the air?" And when she ended by asking him, "Come tomy house, " he had followed her. But he had hardly entered when the pastall came back to him, and he felt a stifled feeling of distress. Fallinginto a chair, he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. His grief was soviolent that, by a feminine instinct of pity, the wretched creature tookhis head in her arms, saying, in a consoling tone, "There, cry, cry, itwill do you good!" and rocked him like an infant. At last he disengagedhimself from this caress, which made him ashamed of himself, andthrowing what little money he had about him upon the top of the bureau, he went away and returned to his home, where he went hastily to bedand wept to his heart's content, as he gnawed his pillow. Oh, horriblememories!

No! never a wife, no mistress, nothing! Now his grief was his wife, andlived with him. 

The widower's morning awakening was frightful above all things else-hisawakening in the large bed that now had but one pillow. It was therethat he had once had the exquisite pleasure of watching his dear Lucieevery morning when asleep; for she did not like to get up early, andsometimes he had jokingly scolded her for it. What serenity uponthis delicate, sweet face, with its closed eyes, nestling among herbeautiful, disordered hair! How chaste this lovely young wife was in herunconstraint! She had thrown one of her arms outside of the covering, and the neck of her nightrobe, having slipped down, showed such a purewhite shoulder and delicate neck. He leaned over the half-opened mouth, which exhaled a warm and living odor, something like the perfume of aflower, to inhale it, and a tender pride swept over him when he thoughtthat she was his, his wife, this delicious creature who was almost achild yet, and that her heart was given to him forever. He could notresist it; he touched his young wife's lips with his own. She trembledunder the kiss and opened her eyes, when the astonishment of theawakening was at once transformed into a happy smile as she met herhusband's glance. Oh, blissful moment! But in spite of all, one must besensible. He recalled that the milk-maid had left at daybreak her pot ofmilk at the door of their apartment; that the fire was not lighted, and that he must be at the office early, as the time for promotions wasdrawing near. Giving another kiss to the half-asleep Lucie, he saidto her, in a coaxing tone, "Now then, Lucie, my child, it is half-pasteight. Up, up with you, lazy little one!"

How could he console himself for such lost happiness? He had his son, yes--and he loved him very much--but the sight of Amedee increased M. Violette's grief; for the child grew to look more like his mother everyday. 

CHAPTER IV. THE DEMON ABSINTHE

Three or four times a year M. Violette, accompanied by his son, paid avisit to an uncle of his deceased wife, whose heir Amedee might some daybecome. 

M. Isidore Gaufre had founded and made successful a large house forCatholic books and pictures, to which he had added an important agencyfor the sale of all kinds of religious objects. This vast establishmentwas called, by a stroke of genius of its proprietor, "Bon Marche desParoisses, " and was famous among all the French clergy. At last itoccupied the principal part of the house and all the out-buildings ofan old hotel on the Rue Servandoni, constructed in the pompous andmagnificent style of the latter part of the seventeenth century. He dida great business there. 

All day long, priests and clerical-looking gentlemen mounted the longflight of steps that led to a spacious first floor, lighted by large, high windows surmounted by grotesque heads. There the long-beardedmissionaries came to purchase their cargoes of glass beads or imitationcoral rosaries, before embarking for the East, or the Gaboon, to convertthe negroes and the Chinese. 

The member of the third estate, draped in a long chocolate-colored, straight frock-coat, holding a gigantic umbrella under his arm, procured, dirt cheap and by the thousand, pamphlets of religious tenets. The country curate, visiting Paris, arranged for the immediate deliveryof a remonstrance, in electrotype, Byzantine style, signing a series oflong-dated bills, contracting, by zeal supplemented by some ready cash, to fulfil his liabilities, through the generosity of the faithful ones. 

There, likewise, a young director of consciences came to look for somedevotional work--for example, the 12mo entitled "Widows' Tears WipedAway, " by St. Francois de Sales--for some penitent. The representativefrom some deputation from a devoutly Catholic district would solicita reduction upon a purchase of the "Twelve Stations of the Cross, "hideously daubed, which he proposed to present to the parishes which hisadversaries had accused of being Voltairians. A brother of the ChristianDoctrine, or a sister of St. Vincent de Paul, would bargain forcatechisms for their schools. From time to time, even a prince of thechurch, a bishop with aristocratic mien, enveloped in an ample gown, with his hat surrounded with a green cord and golden tassels, wouldmysteriously shut himself up in M. Isidore Gaufre's office for an hour;and then would be reconducted to the top of the steps by the cringingproprietor, profuse with his "Monseigneur, " and obsequiously bowingunder the haughty benediction of two fingers in a violet glove. 

It was certainly not from sympathy that M. Violette had kept up hisrelations with his wife's uncle; for M. Gaufre, who was servilelypolite to all those in whom he had an interest, was usually disdainful, sometimes even insolent, to those who were of no use to him. Duringhis niece's life he had troubled himself very little about her, and hadgiven her for a wedding present only an ivory crucifix with a shellfor holy water, such as he sold by the gross to be used in convents. A self-made man, having already amassed--so they said--a considerablefortune, M. Gaufre held in very low estimation this poor devil of acommonplace employe whose slow advancement was doubtless due to the factthat he was lazy and incapable. From the greeting that he received, M. Violette suspected the poor opinion that M. Gaufre had of him. Ifhe went there in spite of his natural pride it was only on his son'saccount. For M. Gaufre was rich, and he was not young. Perhaps--whocould tell?--he might not forget Amedee, his nephew, in his will? Itwas necessary for him to see the child occasionally, and M. Violette, inpursuance of his paternal duty, condemned himself, three or four times ayear, to the infliction of a visit at the "Bon Marche des Paroisses. "

The hopes that M. Violette had formed as to his son's inheriting from M. Gaufre were very problematical; for the father, whom M. Gaufre had notbeen able to avoid receiving at his table occasionally, had been struck, even shocked, by the familiar and despotic tone of the old merchant'sservant, a superb Normandy woman of about twenty-five years, answeringto the royal name of Berenice. The impertinent ways of this robust womanbetrayed her position in her master's house, as much as the diamondsthat glittered in her ears. This creature would surely watch the willof her patron, a sexagenarian with an apoplectic neck, which became thecolor of dregs of wine after a glass of brandy. 

M. Gaufre, although very practical and a churchwarden at St. Sulpice, had always had a taste for liaisons. His wife, during her life--he hadbeen a widower for a dozen years--had been one of those unfortunatebeings of whom people said, "That poor lady is to be pitied; she nevercan keep a servant. " She had in vain taken girls from the provinces, without beauty and certified to be virtuous. One by one--a Flemish girl, an Alsatian, three Nivernaise, two from Picardy; even a young girl fromBeauce, hired on account of her certificate as "the best-behaved girl inthe village"--they were unsparingly devoured by the minotaur of the RueServandoni. All were turned out of doors, with a conscientious blow inthe face, by the justly irritated spouse. When he became a widowerhe gave himself up to his liaisons in perfect security, but withoutscandal, of course, as to his passion for servants. New country-girls, wearing strange headdresses, responded favorably, in various patois, tohis propositions. An Alsatian bow reigned six months; a Breton cap morethan a year; but at last what must inevitably take place happened. The beautiful Berenice definitely bound with fetters of iron the oldlibertine. She was now all-powerful in the house, where she reignedsupreme through her beauty and her talent for cooking; and as she sawher master's face grow more congested at each repast, she made herpreparations for the future. Who could say but that M. Gaufre, a realdevotee after all, would develop conscientious scruples some day, andend in a marriage, in extremis?

M. Violette knew all this; nevertheless it was important that Amedeeshould not be forgotten by his old relative, and sometimes, thoughrarely, he would leave his office a little earlier than usual, call forhis son as he left the Batifol boarding-school, and take him to the RueServandoni. 

The large drawing-rooms, transformed into a shop, where one could stillsee, upon forgotten panels, rococo shepherds offering doves to theirshepherdesses, were always a new subject of surprise to little Amedee. After passing through the book-shop, where thousands of little volumeswith figured gray and yellow covers crowded the shelves, and boysin ecru linen blouses were rapidly tying up bundles, one entered thejewellery department. There, under beautiful glass cases, sparkledall the glittering display and showy luxury of the Church, goldentabernacles where the Paschal Lamb reposed in a flaming triangle, censers with quadruple chains, stoles and chasubles, heavy withembroidery, enormous candelabra, ostensories and drinking-cups incrustedwith enamel and false precious stones-before all these splendors thechild, who had read the Arabian Nights, believed that he had enteredAladdin's cave, or Aboul-Cassem's pit. From this glittering array onepassed, without transition, into the sombre depot of ecclesiasticalvestments. Here all was black. One saw only piles of cassocks andpyramids of black hats. Two manikins, one clothed in a cardinal's purplerobe, the other in episcopalian violet, threw a little color over thegloomy show. 

But the large hall with painted statues amazed Amedee. They were allthere, statues of all the saints in little chapels placed promiscuouslyupon the shelves in rows. 

No more hierarchy. The Evangelist had, for a neighbor a little Jesuitsaint--an upstart of yesterday. The unfortunate Fourier had at his sidethe Virgin Mary. The Saviour of men elbowed St. Labre. They were ofplaster run into moulds, or roughly carved in wood, and were coloredwith paint as glaring as the red and blue of a barber's pole, andcovered with vulgar gildings. Chins in the air, ecstatic eyes shiningwith varnish, horribly ugly and all new, they were drawn up in line likerecruits at the roll-call, the mitred bishop, the martyr carrying hispalm, St. Agnes embracing her lamb, St. Roch with his dog and shells, St. John the Baptist in his sheepskin, and, most ridiculous of all, poor Vincent de Paul carrying three naked children in his arms, like amidwife's advertisement. 

This frightful exhibition, which was of the nature of the Tussaud Museumor a masquerade, positively frightened Amedee. He had recently been tohis first communion, and was still burning with the mystical fever, butso much ugliness offended his already fastidious taste and threw himinto his first doubt. 

One day, about five o'clock, M. Violette and his son arrived at the "BonMarche des Paroisses, " and found Uncle Isidore in the room where thepainted statues were kept, superintending--the packing of a St. Michel. The last customer of the day was just leaving, the Bishop 'in partibus'of Trebizonde, blessing M. Gaufre. The little apoplectic man, the giverof holy water, left alone with his clerks, felt under restraint nolonger. 

"Pay attention, you confounded idiot!" he cried to the young man justready to lay the archangel in the shavings. "You almost broke thedragon's tail. "

Then, noticing Amedee and M. Violette who had just entered:

"Ah! It is you, Violate! Good-day! Good-day, Amedee! You come at anunlucky time. It is shipping-day with us. I am in a great hurry--Eh!Monsieur Combier, by your leave, Monsieur Combier! Do not forget thethree dozen of the Apparition de la Salette in stucco for Grenoble, withtwenty-five per cent. Reduction upon the bill. Are you working hard, Amedee? What do you say? He was first and assisted at the feast ofSt. Charlemagne! So much the better!--Jules, did you send the sixchandeliers and the plated pyx and the Stations of the Cross, NumberTwo, to the Dames du Sacre-Coeur d'Alencons? What, not yet? But theorder came three days ago! You must hurry, I tell you!--You can see, Violette, I am overflowing with work--but come in here a moment. "

And once more ordering his bookkeeper, a captive in his glass case, tosend the officers the notes that the cure of Sourdeval had allowed togo to protest, Uncle Isidore ushered M. Violette and his son into hisoffice. 

It was an ancient room, and M. Gaufre, who aimed at the austere, hadmade it gloomier still by a safe, and black haircloth furniture, which looked as if taken from a vestryroom. The pretty, high, and ovalapartment, with its large window, opening upon a garden, its ceilingpainted in light rosy clouds, its woodwork ornamented with wreaths andquivers, still preserved some of the charm and elegance of former days. Amedee would have been amused there, had not Uncle Isidore, who hadseated himself before his desk, launched at once an unkind question atM. Violette. 

"By the way, have you obtained the promotion that you counted so muchupon last year?"

"Unfortunately, no, Monsieur Gaufre. You know what the Administrationis. "

"Yes, it is slow; but you are not overwhelmed with work, however. Whilein a business like this--what cares, what annoyances! I sometimes envyyou. You can take an hour to cut your pens. Well, what is wanted of menow?"

The head of a clerk with a pencil behind his ear, appeared through thehalf-open door. 

"Monsieur le Superieur of Foreign Missions wishes to speak withMonsieur. "

"You can see! Not one minute to myself. Another time, my dear Violette. Adieu, my little man--it is astonishing how much he grows to look likeLucie! You must come and dine with me some Sunday, without ceremony. Berenice's 'souffle au fromage' is something delicious! Let Monsieur leSuperieur come in. "

M. Violette took his departure, displeased at his useless visit andirritated against Uncle Isidore, who had been hardly civil. 

"That man is a perfect egotist, " thought he, sadly; "and that girl hashim in her clutches. My poor Amedee will have nothing from him. "

Amedee himself was not interested in his uncle's fortune. He was justthen a pupil in the fourth grade, which follows the same studies asat the Lycee Henri IV. Having suddenly grown tall, he was annoyed atwearing short trousers, and had already renounced all infantile games. The dangling crows which illustrated the pages of his Burnouf grammarwere all dated the previous year, and he had entirely renounced feedingsilkworms in his desk. Everything pointed to his not being a verypractical man. Geometry disgusted him, and as for dates, he could notremember one. On holidays he liked to walk by himself through quietstreets; he read poems at the bookstalls, and lingered in theLuxembourg Gardens to see the sun set. Destined to be a dreamer and asentimentalist--so much the worse for you, poor Amedee!

He went very often to the Gerards, but he no longer called his littlefriends "thou. " Louise was now seventeen years old, thin, without color, and with a lank figure; decidedly far from pretty. People, in speakingof her, began to say, "She has beautiful eyes and is an excellentmusician. " Her sister Maria was twelve years old and a perfect littlerosebud. 

As to the neighbor's little girl, Rosine Combarieu, she had disappeared. One day the printer suddenly departed without saying a word to anybody, and took his child with him. The concierge said that he was concernedin some political plot, and was obliged to leave the house in the night. They believed him to be concealed in some small town. 

Accordingly, Father Gerard was not angry with him for fleeing withouttaking leave of him. The conspirator had kept all his prestige in theeyes of the engraver, who, by a special run of ill-luck, was alwaysengaged by a publisher of Bonapartist works, and was busy at that momentupon a portrait of the Prince Imperial, in the uniform of a corporal ofthe Guards, with an immense bearskin cap upon his childish head. 

Father Gerard was growing old. His beard, formerly of a reddish shade, and what little hair there was remaining upon his head, had becomesilvery white; that wonderful white which, like a tardy recompense tored-faced persons, becomes their full-blooded faces so well. The goodman felt the weight of years, as did his wife, whose flesh increasedin such a troublesome way that she was forced to pant heavily when sheseated herself after climbing the five flights. Father Gerard grew old, like everything that surrounded him; like the house opposite, that hehad seen built, and that no longer had the air of a new building; likehis curious old furniture, his mended crockery, and his engravings, yellow with age, the frames of which had turned red; like the old Erardpiano, upon which Louise, an accomplished performer, now was playing aset of Beethoven's waltzes and Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words. "This poor old servant now had only the shrill, trembling tones of aharmonica. 

The poor artist grew old, and he was uneasy as to the future; for hehad not known how to manage like his school-friend, the intriguingDamourette, who had formerly cheated him out of the 'prix de Rome' bya favor, and who now played the gentleman at the Institute, in hisembroidered coat, and received all the good orders. He, the simpleton, had saddled himself with a family, and although he had drudged likea slave he had laid nothing aside. One day he might be stricken withapoplexy and leave his widow without resources, and his two daughterswithout a dowry. He sometimes thought of all this as he filled his pipe, and it was not pleasant. 

If M. Gerard grew gloomy as he grew older, M. Violette became mournful. He was more than forty years old now. What a decline! Does grief makethe years count double? The widower was a mere wreck. His rebelliouslock of hair had become a dirty gray, and always hung over his righteye, and he no longer took the trouble to toss it behind his ear. Hishands trembled and he felt his memory leaving him. He grew more taciturnand silent than ever, and seemed interested in nothing, not even in hisson's studies. He returned home late, ate little at dinner, and thenwent out again with a tottering step to pace the dark, gloomy streets. At the office, where he still did his work mechanically, he was a doomedman; he never would be elected chief assistant. "What depravity!" saidone of his fellow clerks, a young man with a bright future, protected bythe head of the department, who went to the races and had not his equalin imitating the "Gnouf! gnouf!" of Grassot, the actor. "A man of hisage does not decline so rapidly without good cause. It is not natural!"What is it, then, that has reduced M. Violette to such a degree ofdejection and wretchedness?

Alas! we must admit it. The unhappy man lacked courage, and he soughtconsolation in his despair, and found it in a vice. 

Every evening when he left his office he went into a filthy little cafeon the Rue du Four. He would seat himself upon a bench in the back ofthe room, in the darkest corner, as if ashamed; and would ask in a lowtone for his first glass of absinthe. His first! Yes, for he drank two, three even. He drank them in little sips, feeling slowly rise withinhim the cerebral rapture of the powerful liquor. Let those who are happyblame him if they will! It was there, leaning upon the marble table, looking at, without seeing her, through the pyramids of lump sugar andbowls of punch, the lady cashier with her well oiled hair reflected inthe glass behind her--it was there that the inconsolable widower foundforgetfulness of his trouble. It was there that for one hour he livedover again his former happiness. 

For, by a phenomenon well known to drinkers of absinthe, he regulatedand governed his intoxication, and it gave him the dream that hedesired. 

"Boy, one glass of absinthe!"

And once more he became the young husband, who adores his dear Lucie andis adored by her. 

It is winter, he is seated in the corner by the fire, and before him, sitting in the light reflected by a green lampshade upon which darksilhouettes of jockey-riders are running at full speed, his wife isbusying herself with some embroidery. Every few moments they look ateach other and smile, he over his book and she over her work; the lovernever tired of admiring Lucie's delicate fingers. She is too pretty!Suddenly he falls at her feet, slips his arm about her waist, and givesher a long kiss; then, overcome with languor, he puts his head uponhis beloved's knees and hears her say to him, in a low voice: "That isright! Go to sleep!" and her soft hands lightly stroke his hair. 

"Boy, one glass of absinthe!"

They are in that beautiful field filled with flowers, near the woods inVerrieres, upon a fine June afternoon when the sun is low. She has madea magnificent bouquet of field flowers. She stops at intervals to adda cornflower, and he follows, carrying her mantle and umbrella. Howbeautiful is summer and how sweet it is to love! They are a littletired; for during the whole of this bright Sunday they have wanderedthrough the meadows. It is the hour for dinner, and here is a littletavern under some lindens, where the whiteness of the napkins rivalsthe blossoming thickets. They choose a table and order their repast ofa moustached youth. While waiting for their soup, Lucie, rosy from beingout all day in the open air and silent from hunger, amuses herself inlooking at the blue designs on the plates, which represented battlesin Africa. What a joyous dinner! There were mushrooms in the omelet, mushrooms in the stewed kidneys, mushrooms in the filet. But so much thebetter! They are very fond of them. And the good wine! The dear child isalmost intoxicated at dessert! She takes it into her head to squeeze acherry-stone between her thumb and first finger and makes it pop-slap!into her husband's face! And the naughty creature laughs! But he willhave his revenge--wait a little! He rises, and leaning over the tableburies two fingers between her collar and her neck, and the mischievouscreature draws her head down into her shoulders as far as she can, begging him, with a nervous laugh, "No, no, I beseech you!" for she isafraid of being tickled. But the best time of all is the return throughthe country at night, the exquisite odor of new-mown hay, the roadlighted by a summer sky where the whole zodiac twinkles, and throughwhich, like a silent stream, the Chemin de St. Jacques rolls its diamondsmoke. 

Tired and happy she hangs upon her husband's arm. How he loves her!It seems to him that his love for Lucie is as deep and profound as thenight. "Nobody is coming let me kiss your dear mouth!" and their kissesare so pure, so sincere, and so sweet, that they ought to rejoice thestars!

"Another glass of absinthe, boy--one more!"

And the unhappy man would forget for a few moments longer that he oughtto go back to his lonely lodging, where the servant had laid the tablesome time before, and his little son awaited him, yawning with hungerand reading a book placed beside his plate. He forgot the horriblemoment of returning, when he would try to hide his intoxicated conditionunder a feint of bad humor, and when he would seat himself at tablewithout even kissing Amedee, in order that the child should not smellhis breath. 

BOOK 2. 

CHAPTER V. AMEDEE MAKES FRIENDS

Meanwhile the allegorical old fellow with the large wings and whitebeard, Time, had emptied his hour-glass many times; or, to speakplainer, the postman, with a few flakes of snow upon his blue clothcoat, presents himself three or four times a day at his customers'dwelling to offer in return for a trifling sum of money a calendarcontaining necessary information, such as the ecclesiasticalcomputation, or the difference between the Gregorian and the ArabicHegira; and Amedee Violette had gradually become a young man. 

A young man! that is to say, a being who possesses a treasure withoutknowing its value, like a Central African negro who picks up one of M. Rothschild's cheque-books; a young man ignorant of his beauty or charms, who frets because the light down upon his chin has not turned intohideous bristles, a young man who awakes every morning full of hope, andartlessly asks himself what fortunate thing will happen to him to-day;who dreams, instead of living, because he is timid and poor. 

It was then that Amedee made the acquaintance of one of his comrades--heno longer went to M. Batifol's boarding-school, but was completing hisstudies at the Lycee Henri IV--named Maurice Roger. They soon formed anaffectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen-year-old friendships whichare perhaps the sweetest and most substantial in the world. 

Amedee was attracted, at first sight, by Maurice's handsome, blond, curly head, his air of frankness and superiority, and the elegantjackets that he wore with the easy, graceful manners of a gentleman. Twice a day, when they left the college, they walked together throughthe Luxembourg Gardens, confiding to each other their dreams and hopes, lingering in the walks, where Maurice already gazed at the grisettes inan impudent fashion, talking with the charming abandon of their age, thesincere age when one thinks aloud. 

Maurice told his new friend that he was the son of an officer killedbefore Sebastopol, that his mother had never married again, but adoredhim and indulged him in all his whims. He was patiently waiting for hisschool-days to end, to live independently in the Latin Quarter, to studylaw, without being hurried, since his mother wished him to do so, and hedid not wish to displease her. But he wished also to amuse himself withpainting, at least as an amateur; for he was passionately fond of it. All this was said by the handsome, aristocratic young man with a happysmile, which expanded his sensual lips and nostrils; and Amedee admiredhim without one envious thought; feeling, with the generous warmth ofyouth, an entire confidence in the future and the mere joy of living. Inhis turn he made a confidant of Maurice, but not of everything. Thepoor boy could not tell anybody that he suspected his father of a secretvice, that he blushed over it, was ashamed of it, and suffered from itas much as youth can suffer. At least, honest-hearted fellow that hewas, he avowed his humble origin without shame, boasted of hishumble friends the Gerards, praised Louise's goodness, and spokeenthusiastically of little Maria, who was just sixteen and so pretty. 

"You will take me to see them some time, will you not?" said Maurice, who listened to his friend with his natural good grace. "But first ofall, you must come to dinner some day with me, and I will present you tomy mother. Next Sunday, for instance. Is it agreeable?"

Amedee would have liked to refuse, for he suddenly recalled--oh! thetorture and suffering of poor young men! that his Sunday coat was almostas seedy as his everyday one, that his best pair of shoes were run-overat the heels, and that the collars and cuffs on his six white shirtswere ragged on the edges from too frequent washings. Then, to go todinner in the city, what an ordeal! What must he do to be presented ina drawing-room? The very thought of it made him shiver. But Mauriceinvited him so cordially that he was irresistible, and Amedee accepted. 

The following Sunday, then, spruced up in his best-what could havepossessed the haberdasher to induce him to buy a pair of red dog-skingloves? He soon saw that they were too new and too startling for therest of his costume--Amedee went up to the first floor of a fine houseon the Faubourg St. Honore and rang gently at the door on the left. Ayoung and pretty maid--one of those brunettes who have a waist that onecan clasp in both hands, and a suspicion of a moustache--opened the doorand ushered the young man into a drawing-room furnished in a simple butluxurious manner. Maurice was alone, standing with his back to the fire, in the attitude of master of the house. He received his friend with warmdemonstrations of pleasure. Amedee's eyes were at once attracted bythe portrait of a handsome lieutenant of artillery, dressed in theregimental coat, with long skirts, of 1845, and wearing a sword-beltfastened by two lion's heads. This officer, in parade costume, waspainted in the midst of a desert, seated under a palm-tree. 

"That is my father, " said Maurice. "Do I not resemble him?"

The resemblance was really striking. The same warm, pleasant smile, andeven the same blond curls. Amedee was admiring it when a voice repeatedbehind him, like an echo:

"Maurice resembles him, does he not?"

It was Madame Roger who had quietly entered. When Amedee saw thisstately lady in mourning, with a Roman profile, and clear, whitecomplexion, who threw such an earnest glance at her son, then at herhusband's portrait, Amedee comprehended that Maurice was his mother'sidol, and, moved by the sight of the widow, who would have beenbeautiful but for her gray hair and eyelids, red from so much weeping, he stammered a few words of thanks for the invitation to dinner. 

"My son has told me, " said she, "that you are the one among all hiscomrades that he cares for most. I know what affection you have shownhim. I am the one who should thank you, Monsieur Amedee. "

They seated themselves and talked; every few moments these words werespoken by Madame Roger with an accent of pride and tenderness, "My son.... My son Maurice. " Amedee realized how pleasant his friend's lifemust be with such a good mother, and he could not help comparing hisown sad childhood, recalling above all things the lugubrious eveningrepasts, when, for several years now, he had buried his nose in hisplate so as not to see his father's drunken eyes always fastened uponhim as if to ask for his pardon. 

Maurice let his mother praise him for a few moments, looking at her witha pleasant smile which became a trifle saddened. Finally he interruptedher:

"It is granted, mamma, that I am a perfect phoenix, " and he gaylyembraced her. 

At this moment the pretty maid announced, "Monsieur and MesdemoisellesLantz, " and Madame Roger arose hastily to receive the newcomers. Lieutenant-Colonel Lantz, of the Engineer Corps, was with Captain Rogerwhen he died in the trench before Mamelon Vert; and might have been atthat time pleasant to look upon, in his uniform with its black velvetbreastplate; but, having been promoted some time ago to the office, he had grown aged, leaning over the plans and draughts on long tablescovered with rules and compasses. With a cranium that looked like apicked bird, his gray, melancholy imperial, his stooping shoulders, which shortened still more his tightly buttoned military coat, therewas nothing martial in his appearance. With his head full of whims, nofortune, and three daughters to marry, the poor Colonel, who put on onlytwo or three times a year, for official solemnities, his uniform, whichhe kept in camphor, dined every Sunday night with Madame Roger, wholiked this estimable man because he was her husband's best friend, andhad invited him with his three little girls, who looked exactly alike, with their turned-up noses, florid complexions, and little, black, bead-like eyes, always so carefully dressed that one involuntarilycompared them to three pretty cakes prepared for some wedding or festiveoccasion. They sat down at the table. 

Madame Roger employed an excellent cook, and for the first time in hislife Amedee ate a quantity of good things, even more exquisitethan Mamma Gerard's little fried dishes. It was really only a verycomfortable and nice dinner, but to the young man it was a revelation ofunsuspected pleasures. This decorated table, this cloth that was so softwhen he put his hand upon it; these dishes that excited and satisfiedthe appetite; these various flavored wines which, like the flowers, were fragrant--what new and agreeable sensations! They were quickly andsilently waited upon by the pretty maid. Maurice, seated opposite hismother, presided over the repast with his elegant gayety. Madame Roger'spale face would light up with a smile at each of his good-natured jokes, and the three young ladies would burst into discreet little laughs, allin unison, and even the sorrowful Colonel would arouse from his torpor. 

He became animated after his second glass of burgundy, and was veryentertaining. He spoke of the Crimean campaign; of that chivalrouswar when the officers of both armies, enemies to each other, exchangedpolitenesses and cigars during the suspension of arms. He told finemilitary anecdotes, and Madame Roger, seeing her son's face excited withenthusiasm at these heroic deeds, became gloomy at once. Maurice noticedit first. 

"Take care, Colonel, " said he. "You will frighten mamma, and she willimagine at once that I still wish to enter Saint-Cyr. But I assure you, little mother, you may be tranquil. Since you wish it, your respectfuland obedient son will become a lawyer without clients, who will paintdaubs during his spare moments. In reality, I should much prefer a horseand a sword and a squadron of hussars. But no matter! The essentialthing is not to give mamma any trouble. "

This was said with so much warmth and gentleness, that Madame Roger andthe Colonel exchanged softened looks; the young ladies were also moved, as much as pastry can be, and they all fixed upon Maurice their littleblack eyes, which had suddenly become so soft and tender that Amedee didnot doubt but that they all had a sentimental feeling for Maurice, andthought him very fortunate to have the choice between three such prettypieces for dessert. 

How all loved this charming and graceful Maurice, and how well he knewhow to make himself beloved!

Later, when they served the champagne, he arose, glass in hand, anddelivered a burlesque toast, finding some pleasant word for all hisguests. What frank gayety! what a hearty laugh went around the table!The three young ladies giggled themselves as red as peonies. A sort ofjoyous chuckle escaped from the Colonel's drooping moustache. MadameRoger's smile seemed to make her grow young; and Amedee noticed, in acorner of the dining-room, the pretty maid, who restrained herself nomore than the others; and when she showed her teeth, that were like ayoung puppy's, she was charming indeed. 

After the tea the Colonel, who lived at some distance, near the MilitarySchool, and who, as the weather was fine, wished to walk home and avoidthe expense of a cab, left with his three marriageable daughters, andAmedee in his turn took his departure. 

In the ante-chamber, the maid said to Maurice, as she helped him on withhis topcoat. 

"I hope that you will not come in very late this evening, MonsieurMaurice. "

"What is that, Suzanne?" replied the young man, without anger, but atrifle impatiently. "I shall return at the hour that pleases me. "

As he descended the stairs ahead of Amedee, he said, with a laugh

"Upon my word! she will soon make her jealousy public. "

"What!" exclaimed Amedee, glad that his companion could not see hisblushes. 

"Well, yes! Is she not pretty? I admit it, Violette; I have not, likeyou, the artlessness of the flower whose name you bear. You will haveto resign yourself to it; you have a very bad fellow for a friend. As tothe rest, be content. I have resolved to scandalize the family roof nolonger. I have finished with this bold-faced creature. You must knowthat she began it, and was the first to kiss me on the sly. Now, I amengaged elsewhere. Here we are outside, and here is a carriage. Here, driver! You will allow me to bid you adieu. It is only a quarter pastten. I still have time to appear at Bullier's and meet Zoe Mirilton. Until tomorrow, Violette. "

Amedee returned home very much troubled. So, then, his friend was alibertine. But he made excuses for him. Had he not just seen him socharming to his mother and so respectful to the three young ladies?Maurice had allowed himself to be carried away by his youthfulimpetuosity, that was all! Was it for him, still pure, but tormented bythe temptations and curiosity of youth, to be severe? Would he not havedone as much had he dared, or if he had had the money in his pocket? Totell the truth, Amedee dreamed that very night of the pretty maid withthe suspicion of a moustache. 

The next day, when Amedee paid his visit to the Gerards, all they couldtalk of was the evening before. Amedee spoke with the eloquence of ayoung man who had seen for the first time a finger-bowl at dessert. 

Louise, while putting on her hat and getting her roll of music--she gavelessons now upon the piano in boarding-schools--was much interested inMadame Roger's imposing beauty. Mamma Gerard would have liked to knowhow the chicken-jelly was made; the old engraver listened with pleasureto the Colonel's military anecdotes; while little Maria exacted aprecise description of the toilettes of the three demoiselles Lantz, andturned up her nose disdainfully at them. 

"Now, then, Amedee, " said the young girl, suddenly, as she looked atherself in a mirror that was covered with flyspecks, "tell me honestly, were these young ladies any prettier than I?"

"Do you see the coquette?" exclaimed Father Gerard, bursting intolaughter without raising his eyes from his work. "Do people ask suchquestions as that, Mademoiselle?"

There was a general gayety, but Amedee blushed without knowing why. Oh!no, certainly those three young ladies in their Savoy-cake skirts andnougat waists were not as pretty as little Maria in her simple brownfrock. How she improved from day to day! It seemed to Amedee as if henever had seen her before until this minute. Where had she found thatsupple, round waist, that mass of reddish hair which she twisted uponthe top of her head, that lovely complexion, that mouth, and those eyesthat smiled with the artless tenderness of young flowers?

Mamma Gerard, while laughing like the others, scolded her daughter alittle for her attack of feminine vanity, and then began to talk ofMadame Roger in order to change the conversation. 

Amedee did not cease to praise his friend. He told how affectionate hewas to his mother, how he resisted the military blood that burned inhim, how graceful he was, and how, at eighteen years, he did the honorof the drawing-room and table with all the manner of a grand seigneur. 

Maria listened attentively. 

"You have promised to bring him here, Amedee, " said the spoiled child, with a serious air. "I should like very much to see him once. "

Amedee repeated his promise; but on his way to the Lycee, for hisafternoon class, he recalled the incident of the pretty maid and thename of Zoe Mirilton, and, seized with some scruples, he asked himselfwhether he ought to introduce his friend to the young Gerard girls. Atfirst this idea made him uneasy, then he thought that it was ridiculous. Was not Maurice a good-hearted young man and well brought up? Had he notseen him conduct himself with tact and reserve before Colonel Lantz'sdaughters?

Some days later Maurice reminded him of the promised visit to theGerards, and Amedee presented him to his old friends. 

Louise was not at home; she had been going about teaching for some timeto increase the family's resources, for the engraver was more red-facedthan ever, and obliged to change the number of his spectacles everyyear, and could not do as much work as formerly. 

But the agreeable young man made a conquest of the rest of the familyby his exquisite good-nature and cordial, easy manner. Respectful andsimple with Madame Gerard, whom he intimidated a little, he paid verylittle attention to Maria and did not appear to notice that he wasexciting her curiosity to the highest pitch. He modestly asked FatherGerard's advice upon his project of painting, amusing himself withthe knickknacks about the apartments, picking out by instinct thebest engravings and canvases of value. The good man was enchanted withMaurice and hastened to show him his private museum, forgetting allabout his pipe--he was smoking at present a Garibaldi--and presentedhim his last engraving, where one saw--it certainly was a fatalitythat pursued the old republican!--the Emperor Napoleon III, at Magenta, motionless upon his horse in the centre of a square of grenadiers, cutdown by grape and canister. 

Maurice's visit was short, and as Amedee had thought a great deal aboutlittle Maria for several days, he asked his friend, as he conducted hima part of the way:

"What did you think of her?"

Maurice simply replied, "Delicious!" and changed the conversation. 

CHAPTER VI. DREAMS OF LOVE

Solemn moment approached for the two friends. They were to take theirexaminations for graduation. Upon the days when M. Violette--they nowcalled him at the office "Father Violette, " he had grown so aged anddecrepit--was not too much "consoled" in the cafe in the Rue du Four, and when he was less silent and gloomy than usual, he would say to hisson, after the soup:

"Do you know, Amedee, I shall not be easy in my mind until you havereceived your degree. Say what they may, it leads to everything. "

To everything indeed! M. Violette had a college friend upon whom allthe good marks had been showered, who, having been successivelyschoolmaster, journalist, theatrical critic, a boarder in Mazas prison, insurance agent, director of an athletic ring--he quoted Homer in hisharangue--at present pushed back the curtains at the entrance to theAmbigu, and waited for his soup at the barracks gate, holding out an oldtomato-can to be filled. 

But M. Violette had no cause to fear! Amedee received his degree on thesame day with his friend Maurice, and both passed honorably. A littleold man with a head like a baboon--the scientific examiner--tried tomake Amedee flounder on the subject of nitrogen, but he passed all thesame. One can hope for everything nowadays. 

But what could Amedee hope for first? M. Violette thought of it whenhe was not at his station at the Rue du Four. What could he hope for?Nothing very great. 

Probably he could enter the ministry as an auxiliary. One hundredfrancs a month, and the gratuities, would not be bad for a beginner! M. Violette recalled his endless years in the office, and all the troublehe had taken to guess a famous rebus that was celebrated for neverhaving been solved. Was Amedee to spend his youth deciphering enigmas?M. Violette hoped for a more independent career for his son, if it werepossible. Commerce, for example! Yes! there was a future in commerce. As a proof of it there was the grocer opposite him, a simpleton whoprobably did not put the screws on enough and had just hanged himselfrather than go into bankruptcy. M. Violette would gladly see his son inbusiness. If he could begin with M. Gaufre? Why not? The young man mightbecome in the end his uncle's partner and make his fortune. M. Violettespoke of it to Amedee. 

"Shall we go to see your uncle Sunday morning?"

The idea of selling chasubles and Stations of the Cross did not greatlyplease Amedee, who had concealed in his drawer a little book full ofsonnets, and had in his mind the plan of a romantic drama wherein onewould say "Good heavens!" and "My lord!" But first of all, he mustplease his father. He was glad to observe that for some time M. Violettehad interested himself more in him, and had resisted his baneful habitsomewhat. The young man offered no resistance. The next day at noon hepresented himself at the Rue Servandoni, accompanied by his father. 

The "dealer in pious goods" received them with great good-humor. He hadjust come from high mass and was about to sit down at the table. He eveninvited them to follow his example and taste of his stewed kidneys, oneof Berenice's triumphs, who served the dinner with her hands loaded withrings. The Violettes had dined, and the father made known his desire. 

"Yes, " said Uncle Isidore, "Amedee might enter the house. Only you know, Violette, it will be another education to be learned over again. He mustbegin at the very beginning and follow the regular course. Oh! the boywill not be badly treated! He may take his meals with us, is not thatso, Berenice? At first he would be obliged to run about a little, asI did when I came from the province to work in the shop and tie upparcels. "

M. Violette looked at his son and saw that he was blushing with shame. The poor man understood his mistake. What good to have dazzled M. Patinbefore the whole University by reciting, without hesitation, threeverses of Aristophanes, only to become a drudge and a packer? Well!so Amedee would yawn over green boxes and guess at enigmas in theIllustration. It had to be so. 

They took leave of Uncle Isidore. 

"We will reflect over it, Monsieur Gaufre, and will come to see youagain. "

But Berenice had hardly shut the door upon them when M. Violette said tohis son:

"Nothing is to be expected of that old egotist. Tomorrow we will goto see the chief of my department, I have spoken of you to him, at allevents. "

He was a good sort of fellow, this M. Courtet, who was head clerk, though too conceited and starched up, certainly. His red rosette, aslarge as a fifty-cent piece, made one's eyes blink, and he certainly wasvery imprudent to stand so long backed up to the fireplace with limbsspread apart, for it seemed that he must surely burn the seat of histrousers. But no matter, he has stomach enough. He has noticed M. Violette's pitiful decline--"a poor devil who never will live to bepromoted. " Having it in his power to distribute positions, M. Courtethad reserved a position for Amedee. In eight days the young man would benominated an auxiliary employe at fifteen hundred francs a year. It ispromised and done. 

Ugh! the sickening heat from the stove! the disgusting odor of mustypapers! However, Amedee had nothing to complain of; they might havegiven him figures to balance for five hours at a time. He owed it toM. Courtet's kindness, that he was put at once into the correspondenceroom. He studied the formulas, and soon became skilful in officialpoliteness. He now knew the delicate shades which exist between "yoursrespectfully" and "most respectfully yours;" and he measured the abysswhich separates an "agreeable" and "homage. "

To sum it all up, Amedee was bored, but he was not unhappy; for he hadtime to dream. 

He went the longest way to the office in the morning, while seeking tomake "amour" rhyme with "jour" without producing an insipid thing; orelse he thought of the third act of his drama after the style of 1830, and the grand love scene which should take place at the foot of theMontfaucon gallows. In the evening he went to the Gerards, and theyseated themselves around--the lamp which stood on the dining-room table, the father reading his journal, the women sewing. He chatted with Maria, who answered him the greater part of the time without raising her eyes, because she suspected, the coquette! that he admired her beautiful, drooping lids. 

Amedee composed his first sonnets in her honor, and he adored her, ofcourse, but he was also in love with the Lantz young ladies, whom he sawsometimes at Madame Roger's, and who each wore Sunday evenings roses inher hair, which made them resemble those pantheons in sponge-cake thatpastry-cooks put in their windows on fete days. 

If Amedee had been presented to twelve thousand maidens successively, they would have inspired twelve thousand wishes. There was the servantof the family on the first floor, whose side-glance troubled him as hemet her on the staircase; and his heart sank every time he turned thehandle of the door of a shop in the Rue Bonaparte, where an insidiousclerk always forced him to choose ox-colored kid gloves, which hedetested. It must not be forgotten that Amedee was very young, and wasin love with love. 

He was so extremely timid that he never had had the audacity to tell thegirl at the glove counter that he preferred bronze-green gloves, nor theboldness to show Maria Gerard his poems composed in her honor, in whichhe now always put the plural "amours, " so as to make it rhyme with"toujours, " which was an improvement. He never had dared to reply to theglance of the little maid on the second floor; and he was very wrong tobe embarrassed, for one morning, as he passed the butcher's shop, he sawthe butcher's foreman put his arm about the girl's waist and whisper alove speech over a fine sirloin roast. 

Sometimes, in going or coming from the office, Amedee would go to seehis friend Maurice, who had obtained from Madame Roger permission toinstall himself in the Latin Quarter so as to be near the law school. 

In a very low-studded first-floor room in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, Amedee perceived through a cloud of tobacco-smoke the elegant Mauricein a scarlet jacket lying upon a large divan. Everything was rich andvoluptuous, heavy carpets, handsomely bound volumes of poems, an openpiano, and an odor of perfumery mingled with that of cigarettes. Uponthe velvet-covered mantel Mademoiselle Irma, the favorite of the masterof the apartment, had left the last fashionable novel, marking, withone of her hairpins, where she had left off reading. Amedee spent adelightful hour there. Maurice always greeted him with his joyful, kindmanner, in which one hardly minded the slight shade of patronage. He walked up and down his room, expanding his finely moulded chest, lighting and throwing away his cigarettes, seating himself for twominutes at the piano and playing one of Chopin's sad strains, openinga book and reading a page, showing his albums to his friend, makinghim repeat some of his poems, applauding him and touching lightly upondifferent subjects, and charming Amedee more and more by his grace andmanners. 

However, Amedee could not enjoy his friend much, as he rarely found himalone. Every few moments--the key was in the door--Maurice's comrades, young pleasure-seekers like himself, but more vulgar, not having hisgentlemanly bearing and manners, would come to talk with him of someprojected scheme or to remind him of some appointment for the evening. 

Often, some one of them, with his hat upon his head, would dash off apolka, after placing his lighted cigar upon the edge of the piano. Thesefast fellows frightened Amedee a little, as he had the misfortune to befastidious. 

After these visitors had left, Maurice would ask his friend to dinner, but the door would open again, and Mademoiselle Irma, in her furs andsmall veil--a comical little face--would enter quickly and throw herarms about Amedee's neck, kissing him, while rumpling his hair with hergloved hands. 

"Bravo! we will all three dine together. "

No! Amedee is afraid of Mademoiselle Irma, who has already thrown hermantle upon the sofa and crowned the bronze Venus de Milo with her ottertoque. The young man excuses himself, he is expected at home. 

"Timid fellow, go!" said Maurice to him, as he conducted him to thedoor, laughing. 

What longings! What dreams! They made up all of poor Amedee's life. Sometimes they were sad, for he suffered in seeing his father indulgehimself more and more in his vice. No woman loved him, and he neverhad one louis in his pocket for pleasure or liberty. But he did notcomplain. His life was noble and happy! He smiled with pleasure ashe thought of his good friends; his heart beat in great throbs ashe thought of love; he wept with rapture over beautiful verses. The spectacle of life, through hope and the ideal, seemed to himtransfigured. Happy Amedee! He was not yet twenty years old!

CHAPTER VII. A GENTLE COUNSELLOR

One sombre, misty, winter morning, as Amedee lingered in his bed, hisfather entered, bringing him a letter that the wife of the conciergehad just brought up. The letter was from Maurice, inviting his friendto dinner that evening at seven o'clock at Foyots, to meet some of hisformer companions at the Lycee Henri IV. 

"Will you excuse me for not dining with you this evening, papa?" saidAmedee, joyfully. "Maurice Roger entertains us at a restaurant. "

The young man's gayety left him suddenly when he looked at his father, who had seated himself on the side of the bed. He had become almostfrightful to look at; old before his time, livid of complexion, his eyesbloodshot, the rebellious lock of hair straggling over his right temple. Nothing was more heartbreaking than his senile smile when he placed hisbony trembling hands upon his thighs. Amedee, who knew, alas, why hisfather had reached such a pass, felt his heart moved with pity andshame. 

"Are you suffering to-day?" asked the young man. "Would you prefer thatwe should dine together as usual? I will send word to Maurice. Nothingis easier. "

"No, my child, no!" replied M. Violette, in a hollow tone. "Go and amuseyourself with your friends. I know perfectly well that the life youlead with me is too monotonous. Go and amuse yourself, it will pleaseme--only there is an idea that troubles me more than usual--and I wantto confide it to you. "

"What is it then, dear papa?"

"Amedee, last March your mother had been dead fifteen years. You hardlyknew her. She was the sweetest and best of creatures, and all that I canwish you is, that you may meet such a woman, make her your companion forlife, and be more fortunate than I, my poor Amedee, and keep her always. During these frightful years since your mother's death I have suffered, do you see? suffered horribly, and I have never, never been consoled. If I have lived--if I have had the strength to live, in spite of all, it was only for you and in remembrance of her. I think I have nearlyfinished my task. You are a young man, intelligent and honest, and youhave now an employment which will give you your bread. However, I oftenask myself--oh, very often--whether I have fulfilled my duty toward you. Ah! do not protest, " added the unhappy man, whom Amedee had clasped inhis arms. "No, my poor child, I have not loved you sufficiently; griefhas filled too large a place in my heart; above all, during these lastfew years I have not been with you enough. I have sought solitude. Youunderstand me, Amedee, I can not tell you more, " he said, with a sob. "There are some parts of my life that you must ignore, and if it grievesyou to know what I have become during that time, you must never think ofit; forget it. I beg of you, my child, do not judge me severely. And oneof these days, if I die-ah! we must expect it--the burden of my griefis too heavy for me to bear, it crushes me! Well, my child, if I die, promise me to be indulgent to my memory, and when you think of yourfather only say: 'He was very unhappy!'"

Amedee shed tears upon his father's shoulder, who softly stroked hisson's beautiful hair with his trembling hands. 

"My father, my good father!" sobbed Amedee, "I love and respect you withall my heart. I will dress myself quickly and we will go to the officetogether; we will return the same way and dine like a pair of goodfriends. I beg of you, do not ask me to leave you to-day!"

But M. Violette suddenly arose as if he had formed some resolution. 

"No, Amedee, " said he, firmly. "I have said what I had to say to you, and you will remember it. That is sufficient. Go and amuse yourselfthis evening with your friends. Sadness is dangerous at your age. As formyself, I shall go to dine with Pere Bastide, who has just received hispension, and has invited me more than twenty times to come and see hislittle house at Grand Montrouge. It is understood; I wish it. Now then, wipe your eyes and kiss me. "

Having tenderly embraced his son, M. Violette left the room. Amedeecould hear him in the vestibule take down his hat and cane, open andclose the door, and go down the stairs with a heavy step. A quarter ofan hour after, as the young man was crossing the Luxembourg to go to theoffice, he met Louise Gerard with her roll of music in her hand, goingto give some lessons in the city. He walked a few steps beside her, andthe worthy girl noticed his red eyes and disturbed countenance. 

"What is the matter with you, Amedee?" she inquired, anxiously. 

"Louise, " he replied, "do you not think that my father has changed verymuch in the last few months?"

She stopped and looked at him with eyes shining with compassion. 

"Very much changed, my poor Amedee. You would not believe me if I toldyou that I had not remarked it. But whatever may be the cause--how shallI say it?--that has affected your father's health, you should think ofonly one thing, my friend; that is, that he has been tender and devotedto you; that he became a widower very young and he did not remarry; thathe has endured, in order to devote himself to his only child, long yearsof solitude and unhappy memories. You must think of that, Amedee, andthat only. "

"I never shall forget it, Louise, never fear; my heart is full ofgratitude. This morning, even, he was so affectionate and kind tome--but his health is ruined; he is now a weak old man. Soon--I not onlyfear it, but I am certain of it--soon he will be incapable of work. Ican see his poor hands tremble now. He will not even have a right to apension. If he could not continue to work in the office he could hardlyobtain a meagre relief, and that by favor only. And for long years I canonly hope for an insufficient salary. Oh! to think that the catastrophedraws near, that one of these days he may fall ill and become infirm, perhaps, and that we shall be almost needy and I shall be unable tosurround him with care in his old age. That is what makes me tremble!"

They walked along side by side upon the moist, soft ground of the largegarden, under the leafless trees, where hung a slight penetrating mistwhich made them shiver under their wraps. 

"Amedee, " said she, looking at the young man with a serious gentleness, "I have known you from a child, and I am the elder. I am twenty-two;that makes me almost an old maid, Amedee, and gives me the right toscold you a little. You lack confidence in life, my friend, and it iswrong at your age. Do you think I do not see that my father has agedvery much, that his eyesight fails, that we are much more cramped incircumstances in the house than formerly? Are we any the more sad? Mammamakes fewer little dishes and I teach in Paris, that is all. We livenearly the same as before, and our dear Maria--she is the pet of us all, the joy and pride of the house-well, our Maria, all the same, has fromtime to time a new frock or a pretty hat. I have no experience, but itseems to me that in order to feel really unhappy I must have nobody tolove--that is the only privation worth the trouble of noticing. Do youknow that I have just had one of the greatest pleasures of my life?I noticed that papa did not smoke as much as usual, in order to beeconomical, poor man! Fortunately I found a new pupil at Batignolles, and as soon as I had the first month's pay in my pocket I bought a largepackage of tobacco and put it beside his work. One must never complainso long as one is fortunate enough to keep those one loves. I know thesecret grief that troubles you regarding your father; but think what hehas suffered, that he loves you, that you are his only consolation. Andwhen you have gloomy thoughts, come and see your old friends, Amedee. They will try to warm your heart at the fireside of their friendship, and to give you some of their courage, the courage of poor people whichis composed of a little indifference and a little resignation. "

They had reached the Florentine Terrace, where stand the marblestatues of queens and ladies, and on the other side of the balustrade, ornamented with large vases, they could see through the mist thereservoir with its two swans, the solitary gravel walks, the emptygrass-plots of a pale green, surrounded by the skeletons of lilac-trees, and the facade of the old palace, whose clock-hands pointed to ten. 

"Let us hasten, " said Louise, after a glance at the dial. "Escort me asfar at the Odeon omnibus. I am a little late. "

As he walked by her side he looked at her. Alas! Poor Louise was notpretty, in spite of her large eyes, so loving but not coquettish. Shewore a close, ugly hat, a mantle drawn tightly about her shoulders, colored gloves, and heavy walking-shoes. Yes, she was a perfect pictureof a "two francs an hour" music-teacher. What a good, brave girl! Withwhat an overflowing heart she had spoken of her family! It was to earntobacco for her father and a new frock for her pretty sister thatshe left thus, so early in the misty morning, and rode in publicconveyances, or tramped through the streets of Paris in the mud. Thesight of her, more than what she said, gave the weak and melancholyAmedee courage and desire for manly resolutions. 

"My dear Louise, " said he, with emotion, "I am very fortunate to havesuch a friend as you, and for so many years! Do you remember when weused to have our hunts after the bearskin cap when we were children?"

They had just left the garden and found themselves behind the Odeon. Twotired-out omnibus horses, of a yellowish-white, and showing their ribs, were rubbing their noses against each other like a caress; then thehorse on the left raised his head and placed it in a friendly way uponthe other's mane. Louise pointed to the two animals and said to Amedee, smilingly:

"Their fate is hard, is it not? No matter! they are good friends, andthat is enough to help them endure it. "

Then, shaking hands with Amedee, she climbed lightly up into thecarriage. 

All that day at the office Amedee was uneasy about his father, and aboutfour o'clock, a little before the time for his departure, he went to M. Violette's office. There they told him that his father had just left, saying that he would dine at Grand Montrouge with an old friend; andAmedee, a trifle reassured, decided to rejoin his friend Maurice at theFoyot restaurant. 

CHAPTER VIII. BUTTERFLIES AND GRASSHOPPERS

Amedee was the first to arrive at the rendezvous. He had hardlypronounced Maurice Roger's name when a voice like a cannon bellowed out, "Now then! the yellow parlor!" and he was conducted into a room wherea dazzling table was laid by a young man, with a Yankee goatee andwhiskers, and the agility of a prestidigitateur. This frisky personrelieved Amedee at once of his hat and coat, and left him alone in theroom, radiant with lighted candles. 

Evidently it was to be a banquet. Piled up in the centre of the tablewas a large dish of crayfish, and at each plate--there were five--weregroups of large and small glasses. 

Maurice came in almost immediately, accompanied by his other guests, three young men dressed in the latest fashion, whom Amedee did not atfirst recognize as his former comrades, who once wore wrinkled stockingsand seedy coats, and wore out with him the seats of their trousers onthe benches of the Lycee Henri IV. 

After the greetings, "What! is it you?" "Do you remember me?" and ashaking of hands, they all seated themselves around the table. 

What! is that little dumpy fellow with the turned-up nose, straightas an arrow and with such a satisfied air, Gorju, who wanted to be anactor? He is one now, or nearly so, since he studies with Regnier at theConservatoire. A make-believe actor, he puts on airs, and in the threeminutes that he has been in the room he has looked at his retrousse noseand his coarse face, made to be seen from a distance, ten times in themirror. His first care is to inform Amedee that he has renounced hisname Gorju, which was an impossible one for the theatre, and has takenthat of Jocquelet. Then, without losing a moment, he refers to his"talents, " "charms, " and "physique. "

Who is this handsome fellow with such neat side-whiskers, whose finelycut features suggest an intaglio head, and who has just placed alawyer's heavy portfolio upon the sofa? It is Arthur Papillon, thedistinguished Latin scholar who wished to organize a debating society atthe Lycee, and to divide the rhetoric class into groups and sub-groupslike a parliament. "What have you been doing, Papillon?" Papillon hadstudied law, and was secretary of the Patru Conference, of course. 

Amedee immediately recognized the third guest. 

"What! Gustave!" exclaimed he, joyously. 

Yes! Gustave, the former "dunce, " the one they had called "Good-luck"because his father had made an immense fortune in guano. Not one bitchanged was Gustave! The same deep-set eyes and greenish complexion. Butwhat style! English from the tips of his pointed shoes to the horseshoescarfpin in his necktie. One would say that he was a horse-jockeydressed in his Sunday best. What was this comical Gustave doing now?Nothing. His father has made two hundred thousand pounds' incomedabbling in certain things, and Gustave is getting acquainted with thatis all--which means to wake up every morning toward noon, with a bittermouth caused from the last night's supper, and to be surprised everymorning at dawn at the baccarat table, after spending five hours saying"Bac!" in a stifled, hollow voice. Gustave understands life, and, takinginto consideration his countenance like a death's-head, it may lead himto make the acquaintance of something entirely different. But who thinksof death at his age? Gustave wishes to know life, and when a fit ofcoughing interrupts him in one of his idiotic bursts of laughter, hiscomrades at the Gateux Club tell him that he has swallowed the wrongway. Wretched Gustave, so be it!

Meanwhile the boy with the juggler's motions appeared with the soup, andmade exactly the same gestures when he uncovered the tureen as RobertHoudin would have made, and one was surprised not to see a bunch offlowers or a live rabbit fly out. But no! it was simply soup, and theguests attacked it vigorously and in silence. After the Rhine wine alltongues were unloosened, and as soon as they had eaten the Normandysole-oh! what glorious appetites at twenty years of age!--the five youngmen all talked at once. What a racket! Exclamations crossed oneanother like rockets. Gustave, forcing his weak voice, boasted of theperformances of a "stepper" that he had tried that morning in the Alleedes Cavaliers. He would have been much better off had he stayed in hisbed and taken cod-liver oil. Maurice called out to the boy to uncorkthe Chateau-Leoville. Amedee, having spoken of his drama to the comedianGorju, called Jocquelet, that person, speaking in his bugle-like voicethat came through his bugle-shaped nose, set himself up at once as a manof experience, giving his advice, and quoting, with admiration, Talma'sfamous speech to a dramatic poet: "Above all, no fine verses!" ArthurPapillon, who was destined for the courts, thought it an excellent timeto lord it over the tumult of the assembly himself, and bleated outa speech of Jules Favre that he had heard the night before in thelegislative assembly. 

The timid Amedee was defeated at the start in this melee ofconversation. Maurice also kept silent, with a slightly disdainful smileunder his golden moustache, and an attack of coughing soon disabledGustave. Alone, like two ships in line who let out, turn by turn, theirvolleys, the lawyer and the actor continued their cannonading. ArthurPapillon, who belonged to the Liberal opposition and wished thatthe Imperial government should come around to "a pacific and regularmovement of parliamentary institutions, " was listened to for a time, andexplained, in a clear, full voice the last article in the 'Courrier duDimanche'. But, bursting out in his terrible voice, which seemed likeall of Gideon's trumpets blowing at once, the comedian took up theoffensive, and victoriously declared a hundred foolish things--saying, for example, that the part of Alceste should be made a comic one;making fun of Shakespeare and Hugo, exalting Scribe, and in spite ofhis profile and hooked nose, which should have opened the doors of theTheatre-Francais and given him an equal share for life in its benefits, he affirmed that he intended to play lovers' parts, and that he meant toassume the responsibility of making "sympathetic" the role of Nero, inBritannicus. 

This would have become terribly tiresome, but for the entrance uponthe scene of some truffled partridges, which the juggler carved anddistributed in less time than it would take to shuffle a pack of cards. He even served the very worst part of the bird to the simple Amedee, ashe would force him to choose the nine of spades. Then he poured out thechambertin, and once more all heads became excited, and the conversationfell, as was inevitable, upon the subject of women. 

Jocquelet began it, by speaking the name of one of the prettiestactresses in Paris. He knew them all and described them exactly, detailing their beauties like a slave-dealer. 

"So little Lucille Prunelle is a friend of the great Moncontour--"

"Pardon me, " interrupted Gustave, who was looking badly, "she hasalready left him for Cerfbeer the banker. "

"I say she has not. "

"I say that she has. "

They would have quarrelled if Maurice, with his affable, bantering air, had not attacked Arthur Papillon on the subject of his love-affairs; forthe young advocate drank many cups of Orleanist tea, going even intothe same drawing-rooms as Beule and Prevost-Paradol, and accompanyingpolitical ladies to the receptions at the Academie Francaise. 

"That is where you must make havoc, you rascal!"

But Papillon defends himself with conceited smiles and meaning looks. According to him--and he puts his two thumbs into the armholes of hisvest--the ambitious must be chaste. 

"Abstineo venere, " said he, lowering his eyes in a comical manner, forhe did not fear Latin quotations. However, he declared himself very hardto please in that matter; he dreamed of an Egeria, a superior mind. Whathe did not tell them was, that a dressmaker's little errand-girl, withwhom he had tried to converse as he left the law-school, had surveyedhim from head to foot and threatened him with the police. 

Upon some new joke of Maurice's, the lawyer gave his amorous programmein the following terms:

"Understand me, a woman must be as intelligent as Hypatia, and havethe sensibility of Heloise; the smile of a Joconde, and the limbs ofan Antiope; and, even then, if she had not the throat of a Venus deMedicis, I should not love her. "

Without going quite so far, the actor showed himself none the lessexacting. According to his ideas, Deborah, the tragedienne at theOdeon--a Greek statue!--had too large hands, and the fascinating BlanchePompon at the Varietes was a mere wax doll. 

Gustave, after all, was the one who is most intractable; excited bythe Bordeaux wine--a glass of mineral water would be best for him--heproclaimed that the most beautiful creature was agreeable to him onlyfor one day; that it was a matter of principle, and that he had nevermade but one exception, in favor of the illustrious dancer at the CasinoCadet, Nina l'Auvergnate, because she was so comical! "Oh! my friends, she is so droll, she is enough to kill one!"

"To kill one!" Yes! my dear Monsieur Gustave, that is what will happento you one of these fine mornings, if you do not decide to lead a morereasonable life--and on the condition that you pass your winters in theSouth, also!

Poor Amedee was in torture; all his illusions--desires and sentimentsblended--were cruelly wounded. Then, he had just discovered a deplorablefaculty; a new cause for being unhappy. The sight of this foolishnessmade him suffer. How these coarse young men lied! Gustave seemed to hima genuine idiot, Arthur Papillon a pedant, and as to Jocquelet, he wasas unbearable as a large fly buzzing between the glass and the curtainof a nervous man's room. Fortunately, Maurice made a little diversion bybursting into a laugh. 

"Well, my friends, you are all simpletons, " he exclaimed. "I am not likeyou, thank fortune! I do not sputter over my soup. Long life to women!Yes, all of them, pretty and otherwise! For, upon my word, there are nougly ones. I do not notice that Miss Keepsake has feet like the English, and I forget the barmaid's ruddy complexion, if she is attractiveotherwise. Now do not talk in this stupid fashion, but do as I do;nibble all the apples while you have teeth. Do you know the reason why, at the moment that I am talking to the lady of the house, I notice thenose of the pretty waitress who brings in a letter on a salver? Do youknow the reason why, just as I am leaving Cydalize's house, who has puta rose in my buttonhole, that I turn my head at the passing of Margoton, who is returning from the market with a basket upon her arm? It isbecause it is one other of my children. One other! that is a greatword! Yes, one thousand and three. Don Juan was right. I feel his bloodcoursing in my veins. And now the boy shall uncork some champagne, shallhe not? to drink to the health of love!"

Maurice was cynical, but this exposition of his philosophy served a goodpurpose all the same. Everybody applauded him. The prestidigitateur, whomoved about the table like a schoolboy in a monkey-house, drew the corkfrom a bottle of Roederer--it was astonishing that fireworks did notdart out of it--and good-humor was restored. It reigned noisily untilthe end of the repast, when the effect was spoiled by that fool of aGustave. He insisted upon drinking three glasses of kummel--why had theynot poured in maple sirup?--and, imagining that Jocquelet looked at himaskance, he suddenly manifested the intention of cutting his head openwith the carafe. The comedian, who was very pale, recalled all thescenes of provocation that he had seen in the theatre; he stiffenedin his chair, swelled out his chest, and stammered, "At your orders!"trying to "play the situation. " But it was useless. 

Gustave, restrained by Maurice and Amedee, and as drunk as a Pole, responded to his friend's objurgations by a torrent of tears, and fellunder the table, breaking some of the dishes. 

"Now, then, we must take the baby home, " said Maurice, signing to theboy. In the twinkling of an eye the human rag called Gustave was liftedinto a chair, clothed in his topcoat and hat, dressed and sprucedup, pushed down the spiral staircase, and landed in a cab. Then theprestidigitateur returned and performed his last trick by making theplate disappear upon which Maurice had thrown some money to pay thebill. 

It was not far from eleven o'clock when the comrades shook hands, in athick fog, in which the gaslights looked like the orange pedlers' paperlanterns. Ugh! how damp it was!

"Good-by. "

"I will see you again soon. "

"Good-night to the ladies. "

Arthur Papillon was in evening dress and white cravat, his customaryattire every evening, and still had time to show himself in a politicalsalon on the left side, where he met Moichod, the author of that famousHistoire de Napoleon, in which he proves that Napoleon was onlya mediocre general, and that all his battles were gained by hislieutenants. Jocquelet wished to go to the Odeon and hear, for the tenthtime, the fifth act of a piece of the common-sense school, in whichthe hero, after haranguing against money for four acts in badly rhymedverse, ends by marrying the young heiress, to the great satisfaction ofthe bourgeois. As to Maurice, before he went to rejoin Mademoiselle Irmaat the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, he walked part of the way with Amedee. 

"These comrades of ours are a little stupid, aren't they?" said he tohis friend. 

"I must say that they almost disgust me, " replied the young man. "Theirbrutal way of speaking of women and love wounded me, and you too, Maurice. So much the worse! I will be honest; you, who are so refinedand proud, tell me that you did not mean what you said--that you made apretence of vice just to please the others. It is not possible that youare content simply to gratify your appetite and make yourself a slaveto your passions. You ought to have a higher ideal. Your conscience mustreproach you. "

Maurice brusquely interrupted this tirade, laughing in advance at whathe was about to say. 

"My conscience? Oh, tender and artless Violette; Oh, modest wood-flower!Conscience, my poor friend, is like a Suede glove, you can wear itsoiled. Adieu! We will talk of this another day, when Mademoiselle Irmais not waiting for me. "

Amedee walked on alone, shivering in the mist, weary and sad, to the RueNotre-Dame-des-Champs. 

No! it could not be true. There must be another love than that known tothese brutes. There were other women besides the light creatures theyhad spoken of. His thoughts reverted to the companion of his childhood, to the pretty little Maria, and again he sees her sewing near the familylamp, and talking with him without raising her eyes, while he admiresher beautiful, drooping lashes. He is amazed to think that thisdelicious child's presence has never given him the slightest uneasiness;that he has never thought of any other happiness than that of being nearher. Why should not a love like that he has dreamed of some day springup in her own heart? Have they not grown up together? Is he not theonly young man that she knows intimately? What happiness to become herfiancee! Yes, it was thus that one should love! Hereafter he would fleefrom all temptations; he would pass all his evenings with the Gerards;he would keep as near as possible to his dear Maria, content to hearher speak, to see her smile; and he would wait with a heart full oftenderness for the moment when she would consent to become his wife. Oh! the exquisite union of two chaste beings! the adorable kiss of twoinnocent mouths! Did such happiness really exist?

This beautiful dream warmed the young man's heart, and he reached hishome joyous and happy. He gave a vigorous pull to the bell, climbedquickly up the long flights of stairs and opened the door to theirapartment. But what was this? His father must have come home very late, for a stream of light shines under the door of his sleeping-room. 

"Poor man!" thought Amedee, recalling the scene of the morning. "He maybe ill. Let us see. "

He had hardly opened the door, when he drew back uttering a shriekof horror and distress. By the light of a candle that burned upon themantel, Amedee had caught sight of his father extended upon the floor, his shirt disordered and covered with blood, holding in his clenchedright hand the razor with which he had cut his throat. 

Yes! the union of two loving hearts had at last taken place. Their lovewas happiness on earth; but if one of the two dies the other can neverbe consoled while life lasts. 

M. Violette never was consoled. 

CHAPTER IX. THORNS OF JEALOUSY

Now Amedee had no family. The day after his father's death he had aviolent rupture with M. Isidore Gaufre. Under the pretext that a suicidehorrified him, he allowed his niece's husband to be carried to thecemetery in a sixth-class hearse, and did not honor with his presencethe funeral, which was even prohibited from using the parish road. Butthe saintly man was not deterred from swallowing for his dinner thatsame day, while thundering against the progress of materialism, tripecooked after the Caen fashion, one of Berenice's weekly works of art. 

Amedee had now no family, and his friends were dispersed. As a rewardfor passing his examinations in law, Madame Roger took her son with heron a trip to Italy, and they had just left France together. 

As to the poor Gerards, just one month after M. Violette's death, theold engraver died suddenly, of apoplexy, at his work; and on that daythere were not fifty francs in the house. Around the open grave wherethey lowered the obscure and honest artist, there was only a group ofthree women, in black, who were weeping, and Amedee in mourning for hisfather, with a dozen of Gerard's old comrades, whose romantic heads hadbecome gray. The family was obliged to sell at once, in order to geta little money, what remained of proof-sheets in the boxes, some smallpaintings, old presents from artist friends who had become celebrated, and the last of the ruined knickknacks--indeed, all that constituted thecharm of the house. Then, in order that her eldest daughter might notbe so far from the boarding-school where she was employed as teacher ofmusic, Madame Gerard went to live in the Rue St. -Pierre, in Montmartre, where they found a little cheap, first-floor apartment, with a garden aslarge as one's hand. 

Now that he was reduced to his one hundred and twenty-five francs, Amedee was obliged to leave his too expensive apartment in the RueNotre-Dame-des-Champs, and to sell the greater part of his familyfurniture. He kept only his books and enough to furnish his little room, perched under the roof of an old house in the Faubourg St. -Jacques. 

It was far from Montmartre, so he could not see his friends as often ashe would have liked, those friends whom grief in common had made dearerthan ever to him. One single consolation remained for him--literarywork. He threw himself into it blindly, deadening his sorrow with thefruitful and wonderful opiate of poetry and dreams. However, he had nowbegun to make headway, feeling that he had some thing new to say. Hehad long ago thrown into the fire his first poems, awkward imitations offavorite authors, also his drama after the style of 1830, where the twolovers sang a duet at the foot of the scaffold. He returned to truthand simplicity by the longest way, the schoolboy's road. Taste andinclination both induced him to express simply and honestly what he sawbefore him; to express, so far as he could, the humble ideal of the poorpeople with whom he had lived in the melancholy Parisian suburbs wherehis infancy was passed; in a word, to paint from nature. He tried, feeling that he could succeed; and in those days lived the mostbeautiful and perfect hours of his life--those in which the artist, already master of his instrument, having still the abundance andvivacity of youthful sensations, writes the first words that he knowsto be good, and writes them with entire disinterestedness, not eventhinking that others will see them; working for himself alone and forthe sole joy of putting in visible form and spreading abroad his ideas, his thoughts-all his heart. Those moments of pure enthusiasm and perfecthappiness he never could know again, even after he had nibbled at thesavory food of success and had experienced the feverish desire forglory. Delicious hours they were, and sacred, too, such as can only becompared to the divine intoxication of first love. 

Amedee worked courageously during the winter months that followed hisfather's death. He arose at six o'clock in the morning, lighted his lampand the little stove which heated his room, and, walking up and down, leaning over his page, the poet would vigorously begin his struggle withfancies, ideas, and words. At nine o'clock he would go out and breakfastat a neighboring creamery; after which he would go to his office. There, his tiresome papers once written, he had two or three hours of leisure, which he employed in reading and taking notes from the volumes borrowedby him every morning at a reading-room on the Rue Rorer-Collard; for hehad already learned that one leaves college almost ignorant, having, at best, only learned how to study. He left the office at nightfall andreached his room through the Boulevard des Invalides, and Montparnasse, which at this time was still planted with venerable elms; sometimes thelamplighter would be ahead of him, making the large gas-jets shootout under the leafless old trees. This walk, that Amedee imposedupon himself for health's sake, would bring him, about six o'clock, aworkman's appetite for his dinner, --in the little creamery situated infront of Val-de-Grace, where he had formed the habit of going. Then hewould return to his garret, and relight his stove and lamp, and workuntil midnight. This ardent, continuous effort, this will-tension keptin his mind the warmth, animation, and excitement indispensable forpoetical production. His mind expanded rapidly, ready to receive thegerms that were blown to him by the mysterious winds of inspiration. Attimes he was astonished to see his pen fill the sheet so rapidly that hewould stop, filled with pride at having thus reduced to obedience wordsand rhythms, and would ask himself what supernatural power had permittedhim to arm these divine wild birds. 

On Sundays, he had his meals brought him by the concierge, working allday and not going out until nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, todine with Mamma Gerard. It was the only distraction that he allowedhimself, or rather the only recompense that he permitted himself. Hewalked halfway across Paris to buy a cake in the Rue Fontaine for theirdessert; then he climbed without fatigue, thanks to his young legs, tothe top of Montmartre, lighted by swinging lamps, where one could almostbelieve one's self in the distant corner of some province. They would bewaiting for him to serve the soup, and the young man would seat himselfbetween the widow and the two orphans. 

Alas, how hard these poor ladies' lives had become! Damourette, a memberof the Institute, remembered that he had once joked in the studios withGerard, and obtained a small annual pension for the widow; but it wascharity--hardly enough to pay the rent. Fortunately Louise, who alreadylooked like an old maid at twenty-three, going about the city all daywith her roll of music under her black shawl, had many pupils, andmore than twenty houses had well-nigh become uninhabitable through herexertions with little girls, whose red hands made an unendurable racketwith their chromatic scales. Louise's earnings constituted the surestpart of their revenue. What a strange paradox is the social lifein large cities, where Weber's Last Waltz will bring the price of afour-pound loaf of bread, and one pays the grocer with the proceeds ofBoccherini's Minuet!

In spite of all, they had hard work to make both ends meet at theGerards. The pretty Maria wished to make herself useful and aid hermother and sister. She had always shown great taste for drawing, and herfather used to give her lessons in pastel. Now she went to the Louvre towork, and tried to copy the Chardins and Latours. She went there alone. It was a little imprudent, she was so pretty; but Louise had no time togo with her, and her mother had to be at home to attend to the houseworkand cooking. Maria's appearance had already excited the hearts ofseveral young daubers. There were several cases of persistent sadnessand loss of appetite in Flandrin's studio; and two of Signol's pupils, who were surprised hovering about the young artist, were hated secretlyas rivals; certain projects of duels, after the American fashion, wereprofoundly considered. To say that Maria was not a little flatteredto see all these admirers turn timidly and respectfully toward her; topretend that she took off her hat and hung it on one corner of her easelbecause the heat from the furnace gave her neuralgia and not to showher beautiful hair, would be as much of a lie as a politician's promise. However, the little darling was very serious, or at least tried to be. She worked conscientiously and made some progress. Her last copy of theportrait of that Marquise who holds a pug dog in her lap, with a ribbonabout his neck, was not very bad. This copy procured a piece of goodluck for the young artist. 

Pere Issacar, a bric-a-brac merchant on the Quay Voltairean--anold-fashioned Jew with a filthy overcoat, the very sight of which madeone long to tear it off--approached Maria one day, just as she was aboutto sketch a rose in the Marquise's powdered wig, and after raising a hatgreasy enough to make the soup for a whole regiment, said to her:

"Matemoiselle, vould you make me von dozen vamily bordraits?"

The young girl did not at first understand his abominable language, butat last he made her comprehend. 

Every thing is bought nowadays, even rank, provided, of course, that onehas a purse sufficiently well filled. Nothing is simpler! In return fora little money you can procure at the Vatican--second corridor on yourright, third door at the left--a brand-new title of Roman Count. Aheraldic agency--see advertisement--will plant and make grow at yourwill a genealogical tree, under whose shade you can give acountry breakfast to twenty-five people. You buy a castle withport-holes--port-holes are necessary--in a corner of some reactionaryprovince. You call upon the lords of the surrounding castles with agold fleur-de-lys in your cravat. You pose as an enraged Legitimist andferocious Clerical. You give dinners and hunting parties, and thegame is won. I will wager that your son will marry into a FaubourgSt. -Germain family, a family which descends authentically from theCrusaders. 

In order to execute this agreeable buffoonery, you must not forgetcertain accessories--particularly portraits of your ancestors. Theyshould ornament the castle walls where you regale the country nobles. One must use tact in the selection of this family gallery. There must beno exaggeration. Do not look too high. Do not claim as a founder of yourrace a knight in armor hideously painted, upon wood, with his coat ofarms in one corner of the panel. Bear in mind the date of chivalry. Be satisfied with the head of a dynasty whose gray beard hangs over awell-crimped ruff. I saw a very good example of that kind the other dayon the Place Royale. A dog was just showing his disrespect for it asI passed. You can obtain an ancestor like this in the outskirts of thecity for fifteen francs, if you haggle a little. Or you need not giveyourself so much trouble. Apply to a specialist, Pere Issacar, forinstance. He will procure magnificent ancestors for you; not deareither! If you will consent to descend to simple magistrates, the pricewill be insignificant. Chief justices are dirt cheap. Naturally, if youwish to be of the military profession, to have eminent clergy among yourantecedents, the price increases. Pere Issacar is the only one who cangive you, at a reasonable rate, ermine-draped bishops, or a colonel witha Louis XIV wig, and, if you wish it, a blue ribbon and a breast-plateunder his red coat. What produces a good effect in a series of familyportraits is a series of pastels. What would you say to a goggle-eyedabbe, or an old lady indecently decolletee, or a captain of dragoonswearing a tigerskin cap (it is ten francs more if he has the cross ofSt. Louis)? Pere Issacar knows his business, and always has in reservethirty of these portraits in charming frames of the period, madeexpressly for him in the Faubourg St. -Antoine, and which have all beenburied fifteen days and riddled with shot, in order to have the mustyappearance and indispensable worm holes. 

You can understand now why the estimable Jew, in passing through theLouvre for his weekly promenade, took an interest in little Mariacopying the charming Marquise de Latour. He was just at this time shortof powdered marquises, and they are always very much in demand. Hebegged the young woman to take her copy home and make twelve more of it, varying, only the color of the dress and some particular detail in eachportrait. Thus, instead of the pug dog, marquise No. 2 would hold a KingCharles spaniel, No. 2 a monkey, No. 3 a bonbon box, No. 4 a fan. Theface could remain the same. All marquises looked alike to Pere Issacar;he only exacted that they should all be provided with two black patches, one under the right eye, the other on the left shoulder. This heinsisted upon, for the patch, in his eyes, was a symbol of theeighteenth century. 

Pere Issacar was a fair man and promised to furnish frames, paper, andpastels, and to pay the young girl fifteen francs for each marquise. What was better yet, he promised, if he was pleased with the first work, to order of the young artist a dozen canonesses of Remiremont and ahalf-dozen of royal gendarmes. 

I wish you could have seen those ladies when Maria went home to tell thegood news. Louise had just returned from distributing semiquavers in thecity; her eyes and poor Mother Gerard's were filled with tears of joy. 

"What, my darling, " said the mother, embracing her child, "are you goingto trouble yourself about our necessaries of life, too?"

"Do you see this little sister?" said Louise, laughing cordially. "Sheis going to earn a pile of money as large as she is herself. Do youknow that I am jealous--I, with my piano and my displeasing profession?Good-luck to pastel! It is not noisy, it will not annoy the neighbors, and when you are old you can say, 'I never have played for anybody. '"

But Maria did not wish them to joke. They had always treated her like adoll, a spoiled child, who only knew how to curl her hair and tumble herfrocks. Well, they should see!

When Amedee arrived on Sunday with his cake, they told him over severaltimes the whole story, with a hundred details, and showed him the twomarquises that Maria had already finished, who wore patches as large aswafers. 

She appeared that day more attractive and charming than ever to theyoung man, and it was then that he conceived his first ambition. Ifhe only had enough talent to get out of his obscurity and poverty, andcould become a famous writer and easily earn his living! It wasnot impossible, after all. Oh, with what pleasure he would ask thisexquisite child to be his wife! How sweet it would be to know that shewas happy with, and proud of, him! But he must not think of it now, theywere too poor; and then, would Maria love him?

He often asked himself that question, and with uneasiness. In his ownheart he felt that the childish intimacy had become a sincere affection, a real love. He had no reason to hope that the same transformationhad taken place in the young girl's heart. She always treated him veryaffectionately, but rather like a good comrade, and she was no morestirred by his presence now than she was when she had lain in wait withhim behind the old green sofa to hunt Father Gerard's battered fur hat. 

Amedee had most naturally taken the Gerard family into his confidenceregarding his work. After the Sunday dinner they would seat themselvesaround the table where Mamma Gerard had just served the coffee, and theyoung man would read to his friends, in a grave, slow voice, the poem hehad composed during the week. A painter having the taste and inclinationfor interior scenes, like the old masters of the Dutch school, wouldhave been stirred by the contemplation of this group of four persons inmourning. The poet, with his manuscript in his right hand and markingthe syllables with a rhythmical movement of his left, was seated betweenthe two sisters. But while Louise--a little too thin and faded forher years--fixes her attentive eyes upon the reader and listens withavidity, the pretty Maria is listless and sits with a bored little face, gazing mechanically at the other side of the table. Mother Gerard knitswith a serious air and her spectacles perched upon the tip of her nose. 

Alas! during these readings Louise was the only one who heaved sighsof emotion; and sometimes even great tear-drops would tremble upon herlashes. She was the only one who could find just the right delicate wordwith which to congratulate the poet, and show that she had understoodand been touched by his verses. At the most Maria would sometimesaccord the young poet, still agitated by the declamation of his lines, acareless "It is very pretty!" with a commonplace smile of thanks. 

She did not care for poetry, then? Later, if he married her, would sheremain indifferent to her husband's intellectual life, insensible evento the glory that he might reap? How sad it was for Amedee to have toask himself that question!

Soon Maria inspired a new fear within him. Maurice and his mother hadbeen already three months in Italy, and excepting two letters that hehad received from Milan, at the beginning of his journey, in the firstflush of his enthusiasm, Amedee had had no news from his friend. He excused this negligence on the part of the lazy Maurice, who hadsmilingly told him, on the eve of departure, not to count upon hearingfrom him regularly. At each visit that Amedee paid the Gerards, Mariaalways asked him:

"Have you received any news from your friend Maurice?"

At first he had paid no attention to this, but her persistency at lengthastonished him, planting a little germ of suspicion and alarm in hisheart. Maurice Roger had only paid the Gerards a few visits during thefather's lifetime, and accompanied on each occasion by Amedee. He hadalways observed the most respectful manner toward Maria, and theyhad perhaps exchanged twenty words. Why should Maria preserve such aparticular remembrance of a person so nearly a stranger to her? Was itpossible that he had made a deep impression, perhaps even inspired asentiment of love? Did she conceal in the depths of her heart, when shethought of him, a tender hope? Was she watching for him? Did she wishhim to return?

When these fears crossed Amedee's mind, he felt a choking sensation, and his heart was troubled. Happy Maurice, who had only to be seen toplease! But immediately, with a blush of shame, the generous poet chasedaway this jealous fancy. But every Sunday, when Maria, lowering hereyes, and with a slightly embarrassed voice, repeated her question, "Have you received any news from Monsieur Maurice?" Amedee felt acruelly discouraged feeling, and thought, with deep sadness:

"She never will love me!"

To conquer this new grief, he plunged still more deeply into work; buthe did not find his former animation and energy. After the drizzlingrain of the last days of March, the spring arrived. Now, when Amedeeawoke, it was broad daylight at six o'clock in the morning. Openinghis mansard window, he admired, above the tops of the roofs, the large, ruddy sun rising in the soft gray sky, and from the convent gardensbeneath came a fresh odor of grass and damp earth. Under the shade ofthe arched lindens which led to the shrine of a plaster Virgin, a firstand almost imperceptible rustle, a presentiment of verdure, so tospeak, ran through the branches, and the three almond trees in thekitchen-garden put forth their delicate flowers. The young poet wasinvaded by a sweet and overwhelming languor, and Maria's face, whichwas commonly before his inner vision upon awakening, became confused andpassed from his mind. He seated himself for a moment before a tableand reread the last lines of a page that he had begun; but he wasimmediately overcome by physical lassitude, and abandoned himself tothought, saying to himself that he was twenty years old, and that itwould be very good, after all, to enjoy life. 

CHAPTER X. A BUDDING POET

It is the first of May, and the lilacs in the Luxembourg Gardens are inblossom. It has just struck four o'clock. The bright sun and the puresky have rendered more odious than ever the captivity of the office toAmedee, and he departs before the end of the sitting for a stroll in theMedicis garden around the pond, where, for the amusement of the childrenin that quarter, a little breeze from the northeast is pushing on aminiature flotilla. Suddenly he hears himself called by a voice whichbursts out like a brass band at a country fair. 

"Good-day, Violette. "

It is Jocquelet, the future comedian, with his turned-up nose, which cuts the air like the prow of a first-class ironclad, superb, triumphant, dressed like a Brazilian, shaved to the quick, the dearesthope of Regnier's class at the Conservatoire-Jocquelet, who has made anenormous success in an act from the "Precieuses, " at the last quarter'sexamination--he says so himself, without any useless modesty--Jocquelet, who will certainly have the first comedy prize at the next examination, and will make his debut with out delay at the Comedie Francaise! Allthis he announces in one breath, like a speech learned by heart, withhis terrible voice, like a quack selling shaving-paste from a gildedcarriage. In two minutes that favorite word of theatrical people hadbeen repeated thirty times, punctuating the phrases: "I! I! I! I!"

Amedee is only half pleased at the meeting. Jocquelet was always alittle too noisy to please him. After all, he was an old comrade, andout of politeness the poet congratulated him upon his success. 

Jocquelet questioned him. What was Amedee doing? What had become of him?Where was his literary work? All this was asked with such cordialityand warmth of manner that one would have thought that Jocquelet wasinterested in Amedee, and had a strong friendship for him. Nothing ofthe sort. Jocquelet was interested in only one person in this world, and that person was named Jocquelet. One is either an actor or he isnot. This personage was always one wherever he was--in an omnibus, whileputting on his suspenders, even with the one he loved. When he said toa newcomer, "How do you do?" he put so much feeling into this veryoriginal question, that the one questioned asked himself whether hereally had not just recovered from a long and dangerous illness. Now, atthis time Jocquelet found himself in the presence of an unknown and pooryoung poet. What role ought such an eminent person as himself to playin such circumstances? To show affection for the young man, calm histimidity, and patronize him without too much haughtiness; that was theposition to take, and Jocquelet acted it. 

Amedee was an artless dupe, and, touched by the interest shown him, hefrankly replied:

"Well, my dear friend, I have worked hard this winter. I am notdissatisfied. I think that I have made some progress; but if you knewhow hard and difficult it is!"

He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts and sufferings of asincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we have said, thought only of himself, and brusquely interrupted the young poet:

"You do not happen to have a poem with you--something short, a hundredor a hundred and fifty lines--a poem intended for effect, that one couldrecite?"

Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, a war story, aheroic episode of Sebastopol that he had heard Colonel Lantz relate notlong since at Madame Roger's, and had put into verse with a good Frenchsentiment and quite the military spirit, verse which savored of powder, and went off like reports of musketry. He took the sheets out of hispocket, and, leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of sycamoreswhich skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he read his poem to him in a lowvoice. Jocquelet, who did not lack a certain literary instinct, wasvery enthusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and said to thepoet:

"You read those verses just like a poet, that is, very badly. But nomatter, this battle is very effective, and I see what I could do withit-with my voice. But what do you mean?" added he, planting himself infront of his friend. "Do you write verses like these and nobody knowsanything about them? It is absurd. Do you wish, then, to imitateChatterton? That is an old game, entirely used up! You must pushyourself, show yourself. I will take charge of that myself! Your eveningis free, is it not? Very well, come with me; before six o'clock Ishall have told your name to twenty trumpeters, who will make allParis resound with the news that there is a poet in the FaubourgSaint-Jacques. I will wager, you savage, that you never have put yourfoot into the Cafe de Seville. Why, my dear fellow, it is our firstmanufactory of fame! Here is the Odeon omnibus, get on! We shall beat the Boulevard Montmartre in twenty minutes, and I shall baptize youthere, as a great man, with a glass of absinthe. "

Dazzled and carried away, Amedee humored him and climbed upon theoutside of the omnibus with his comrade. The vehicle hurried themquickly along toward the quay, crossed the Seine, the Carrousel, andpassed before the Theatre-Francais, at which Jocquelet, thinking of hisapproaching debut, shook his fist, exclaiming, "Now I am ready for you!"Here the young men were planted upon the asphalt boulevard, in front ofthe Cafe de Seville. 

Do not go to-day to see this old incubator, in which so many politicaland literary celebrities have been hatched; for you will only finda cafe, just like any other, with its groups of ugly little Jews whodiscuss the coming races, and here and there a poor creature, paintedlike a Jezebel, dying of chagrin over her pot of beer. 

At the decline of the Second Empire--it was May 1, 1866, that AmedeeViolette entered there for the first time--the Cafe de, Seville passedfor, and with reason too, one of the most remarkable places in Paris. For this glorious establishment had furnished by itself, or nearly so, the eminent staff of our third Republic! Be honest, Monsieur le Prefet, you who presided at the opening of the agricultural meeting in ourprovince, and who played the peacock in your dress-coat, embroideredin silver, before an imposing line of horned creatures; be honest andadmit, that, at the time when you opposed the official candidates inyour democratic journal, you had your pipe in the rack of the Cafede Seville, with your name in white enamel upon the blackened bowl!Remember, Monsieur le Depute, you who voted against all the exemptioncases of the military law, remember who, in this very place, at yourdaily game of dominoes for sixty points, more than a hundred timesranted against the permanent army--you, accustomed to the uproar ofassemblies and the noise of the tavern--contributed to the parliamentaryvictories by crying, "Six all! count that!" And you too, Monsieur leMinistre, to whom an office-boy, dating from the tyrants, still says, "Your excellency, " without offending you; you also have been a constantfrequenter of the Cafe de Seville, and such a faithful customer that thecashier calls you by your Christian name. And do you recall, Monsieurthe future president of the Council, that you did not acquit yourselfvery well when the sedentary dame, who never has been seen to rise fromher stool, and who, as a joker pretended, was afflicted with two woodenlegs, called you by a little sign to the desk, and said to you, notwithout a shade of severity in her tone: "Monsieur Eugene, we must bethinking of this little bill. "

Notwithstanding his title of poet, Amedee had not the gift of prophecy. While seeing all these negligently dressed men seated outside atthe Cafe de Seville's tables, taking appetizers, the young man neversuspected that he had before him the greater part of the legislatorsdestined to assure, some years later, France's happiness. Otherwise hewould have respectfully taken note of each drinker and the color of hisdrink, since at a later period this would have been very useful tohim as a mnemonical method for the understanding of our parliamentarycombinations, which are a little complicated, we must admit. Forexample, would it not have been handy and agreeable to note downthat the recent law on sugars had been voted by the solid majority ofabsinthe and bitters, or to know that the Cabinet's fall, day beforeyesterday, might be attributed simply to the disloyal and perfidiousabandonment of the bitter mints or blackcurrant wine?

Jocquelet, who professed the most advanced opinions in politics, distributed several riotous and patronizing handshakes among thesefuture statesmen as he entered the establishment, followed by Amedee. 

Here, there were still more of politics, and also poets and literarymen. They lived a sort of hurly-burly life, on good terms, but onecould not get them confounded, for the politicians were all beard, thelitterateurs, all hair. 

Jocquelet directed his steps without hesitation toward the magnificentred head of the whimsical poet, Paul Sillery, a handsome young fellowwith a wide-awake face, who was nonchalantly stretched upon the redvelvet cushion of the window-seat, before a table, around which werethree other heads of thick hair worthy of our early kings. 

"My dear Paul, " said Jocquelet, in his most thrilling voice, handingSillery Amedee's manuscript, "here are some verses that I thinkare superb, and I am going to recite them as soon as I can, at someentertainment or benefit. Read them and give us your opinion of them. Ipresent their author to you, Monsieur Amedee Violette. Amedee, I presentyou to Monsieur Paul Sillery. "

All the heads of hair, framing young and amiable faces, turned curiouslytoward the newcomer, whom Paul Sillery courteously invited to be seated, with the established formula, "What will you take?" Then he began toread the lines that the comedian had given him. 

Amedee, seated on the edge of his chair, was distracted with timidity, for Paul Sillery already enjoyed a certain reputation as a risingpoet, and had established a small literary sheet called La Guepe, whichpublished upon its first page caricatures of celebrated men with largeheads and little bodies, and Amedee had read in it some of Paul's poems, full of impertinence and charm. An author whose work had been published!The editor of a journal! The idea was stunning to poor innocentViolette, who was not aware then that La Guepe could not claim fortysubscribers. He considered Sillery something wonderful, and waited witha beating heart for the verdict of so formidable a judge. At the endof a few moments Sillery said, without raising his eyes from themanuscript:

"Here are some fine verses!"

A flood of delight filled the heart of the poet from the FaubourgSt. -Jacques. 

As soon as he had finished his reading, Paul arose from his seat, and, extending both hands over the carafes and glasses to Amedee, said, enthusiastically:

"Let me shake hands with you! Your description of the battle-scene isastonishing! It is admirable! It is as clear and precise as Merimee, andit has all the color and imagination that he lacks to make him apoet. It is something absolutely new. My dear Monsieur Violette, Icongratulate you with all my heart! I can not ask you for this beautifulpoem for La Guepe that Jocquelet is so fortunate as to have to recite, and of which I hope he will make a success. But I beg of you, as a greatfavor, to let me have some verses for my paper; they will be, I am sure, as good as these, if not better. To be sure, I forgot to tell you thatwe shall not be able to pay you for the copy, as La Guepe does notprosper; I will even admit that it only stands on one leg. In order tomake it appear for a few months longer, I have recently been obliged togo to a money-lender, who has left me, instead of the classical stuffedcrocodile, a trained horse which he had just taken from an insolventcircus. I mounted the noble animal to go to the Bois, but at the Placede la Concorde he began to waltz around it, and I was obliged to get ridof this dancing quadruped at a considerable loss. So your contributionto La Guepe would have to be gratuitous, like those of all the rest. You will give me the credit of having saluted you first of all, my dearViolette, by the rare and glorious title of true poet. You will let mereserve the pleasure of intoxicating you with the odor that a printer'sfirst proofs give, will you not? Is it agreed?"

Yes, it was agreed! That is to say, Amedee, touched to the depths of hisheart by so much good grace and fraternal cordiality, was so troubled intrying to find words to express his gratitude, that he made a terriblebotch of it. 

"Do not thank me, " said Paul Sillery, with his pleasant but rathersceptical smile, "and do not think me better than I am. If all yourverses are as strong as these that I have just read, you will soonpublish a volume that will make a sensation, and--who knows?--perhapswill inspire me first of all with an ugly attack of jealousy. Poets areno better than other people; they are like the majority of Adam's sons, vain and envious, only they still keep the ability to admire, and thegift of enthusiasm, and that proves their superiority and is to theircredit. I am delighted to have found a mare's nest to-day, an originaland sincere poet, and with your permission we will celebrate this happymeeting. The price of the waltzing horse having hardly sufficed topay off the debt to the publisher of La Guepe, I am not in funds thisevening; but I have credit at Pere Lebuffle's, and I invite you all todinner at his pot-house; after which we will go to my rooms, where Iexpect a few friends, and there you will read us your verses, Violette;we will all read some of them, and have a fine orgy of rich rhymes. "

This proposition was received with favor by the three young men with thelong hair, a la Clodion and Chilperic. As for Violette, he would havefollowed Paul Sillery at that moment, had it been into the infernalregions. 

Jocquelet could not go with them, he had promised his evening to a lady, he said, and he gave this excuse with such a conceited smile that allwere convinced he was going to crown himself with the most flattering oflaurels at the mansion of some princess of the royal blood. In reality, he was going to see one of his Conservatoire friends, a large, lankydowdy, as swarthy as a mole and full of pretensions, who was destinedfor the tragic line of character, and inflicted upon her lover Athalie'sdream, Camille's imprecations, and Phedre's monologue. 

After paying for the refreshments, Sillery gave his arm to Amedee, and, followed by the three Merovingians, they left the cafe. Forcing away through the crowd which obstructed the sidewalk of the FaubourgMontmartre he conducted his guests to Pere Lebuffle's table d'hote, which was situated on the third floor of a dingy old house in the RueLamartine, where a sickening odor of burnt meat greeted them as soon asthey reached the top of the stairs. They found there, seated before atablecloth remarkable for the number of its wine-stains, two or threewild-looking heads of hair, and four or five shaggy beards, to whom PereLebuffle was serving soup, aided by a tired-looking servant. The nameunder which Sillery had designated the proprietor of the table d'hotemight have been a nickname, for this stout person in his shirt-sleevesrecommended himself to one's attentions by his bovine face and hisgloomy, wandering eyes. To Amedee's amazement, Pere Lebuffle called thegreater part of his clients "thou, " and as soon as the newcomers wereseated at table, Amedee asked Sillery, in a low voice, the cause of thisfamiliarity. 

"It is caused by the hard times, my dear Violette, " responded theeditor of 'La Guepe' as he unfolded his napkin. "There is no longer a'Maecenas' or 'Lawrence the Magnificent. ' The last patron of literatureand art is Pere Lebufle. This wretched cook, who has perhaps never reada book or seen a picture, has a fancy for painters and poets, and allowsthem to cultivate that plant, Debt, which, contrary to other vegetables, grows all the more, the less it is watered with instalments. We mustpardon the good man, " said he, lowering his voice, "his little sin--asort of vanity. He wishes to be treated like a comrade and friend bythe artists. Those who have several accounts brought forward upon hisledger, arrive at the point of calling him 'thou, ' and I, alas! am ofthat number. Thanks to that, I am going to make you drink something alittle less purgative than the so-called wine which is turning bluein that carafe, and of which I advise you to be suspicious. I say, Lebuffle, my friend here, Monsieur Amedee Violette, will be, sooner orlater, a celebrated poet. Treat him accordingly, my good fellow, and goand get us a bottle of Moulins-Vent. "

The conversation meanwhile became general between the bearded andlong-haired men. Is it necessary to say that they were all animated, both politicians and 'litterateurs', with the most revolutionarysentiments? At the very beginning, with the sardines, which evidentlyhad been pickled in lamp-oil, a terribly hairy man, the darkest of themall, with a beard that grew up into its owner's eyes and then sprung outagain in tufts from his nose and ears, presented some elegiac regrets tothe memory of Jean-Paul Marat, and declared that at the next revolutionit would be necessary to realize the programme of that delightful friendof the people, and make one hundred thousand heads fall. 

"By thunder, Flambard, you have a heavy hand!" exclaimed one ofthe least important of beards, one of those that degenerate intoside-whiskers as they become conservative. "One hundred thousand heads!"

"It is the minimum, " replied the sanguinary beard. 

Now, it had just been revealed to Amedee that under this ferocious beardwas concealed a photographer, well known for his failures, and the youngman could not help thinking that if the one hundred thousand heads inquestion had posed before the said Flambard's camera, he would not showsuch impatience to see them fall under the guillotine. 

The conversation of the men with the luxuriant hair was none the lessanarchical when the roast appeared, which sprung from the legendaryanimal called 'vache enragee'. The possessor of the longest and thickestof all the shock heads, which spread over the shoulders of a young storywriter--between us, be it said, he made a mistake in not combing itoftener--imparted to his brothers the subject for his new novel, whichshould have made the hair of the others bristle with terror; for theprincipal episode in this agreeable fiction was the desecration of adead body in a cemetery by moonlight. There was a sort of hesitation inthe audience, a slight movement of recoil, and Sillery, with a dash ofraillery in his glance, asked the novelist:

"Why the devil do you write such a story?"

The novelist replied, in a thundering tone:

"To astonish the bourgeoisie!"

And nobody made the slightest objection. 

To "astonish the bourgeoisie" was the dearest hope and most ardent wishof these young men, and this desire betrayed itself in their slightestword; and doubtless Amedee thought it legitimate and even worthyof praise. However, he did not believe--must we admit his lack ofconfidence?--that so many glorious efforts were ever crowned withsuccess. He went so far as to ask himself whether the character andcleverness of these bourgeoisie would not lead them to ignore notonly the works, but even the existence, of the authors who sought to"astonish" them; and he thought, not without sadness, that when La Guepeshould have published this young novelist's ghostly composition, the unconquerable bourgeoisie would know nothing about it, and wouldcontinue to devote itself to its favorite customs, such as tapping thebarometer to know whether there was a change, or to heave a deep sighafter guzzling its soup, saying, "I feel better!" without being theleast astonished in the world. 

In spite of these mental reservations, which Amedee reproached himselfwith, being himself an impure and contemptible Philistine, the poet wasdelighted with his new friends and the unknown world opening before him. In this Bohemian corner, where one got intoxicated with wild excessesand paradoxes, recklessness and gayety reigned. The sovereign charmof youth was there, and Amedee, who had until now lived in a darkhiding-place, blossomed out in this warm atmosphere. 

After a horrible dessert of cheese and prunes, Pere Lebuffle's guestsdispersed. Sillery escorted Amedee and the three Merovingians to thelittle, sparsely furnished first floor in the Rue Pigalle, where helived; and half a dozen other lyric poets, who might have furnished somemagnificent trophies for an Apache warrior's scalping-knife, soon cameto reenforce the club which met there every Wednesday evening. 

Seats were wanting at the beginning, but Sillery drew from a closet anold black trunk which would hold two, and contented himself, as masterof the house, with sitting from time to time, with legs dangling, uponthe marble mantel. The company thus found themselves very comfortable;still more so when an old woman with a dirty cap had placed upon thetable, in the middle of the room, six bottles of beer, some odd glasses, and a large flowered plate upon which was a package of cut tobacco withcigarette paper. They began to recite their verses in a cloud of smoke. Each recited his own, called upon by Sillery; each would rise withoutbeing urged, place his chair in front of him, and leaning one hand uponits back, would recite his poem or elegy. Certainly some of them werewanting in genius, some were even ludicrous. Among the number was alittle fellow with a cadaverous face, about as large as two farthings'worth of butter, who declared, in a long speech with flat rhymes, that an Asiatic harem was not capable of quenching his ardent love ofpleasure. A fat-faced fellow with a good, healthy, country complexion, announced, in a long story, his formal intention of dying of a decline, on account of the treason of a courtesan with a face as cold as marble;while, if the facts were known, this peaceable boy lived with an artlesschild of the people, brightening her lot by reducing her to a state ofslavery; she blacked his boots for him every morning before he left thehouse. 

In spite of these ridiculous things, there were present some genuinepoets who knew their business and had real talent. These filled Amedeewith respect and fear, and when Sillery called his name, he arose with adry mouth and heavy heart. 

"It is your turn now, you newcomer! Recite us your 'Before Sebastopol. '"

And so, thoroughbred that he was, Amedee overcame his emotion andrecited, in a thrilling voice, his military rhymes, that rang out likethe report of a veteran's gun. 

The last stanza, was greeted with loud applause, and all the auditorsarose and surrounded Amedee to offer him their congratulations. 

"Why, it is superb!"

"Entirely new!"

"It will make an enormous success!"

"It is just what is needed to arouse the public!"

"Recite us something else!--something else!"

Reassured and encouraged, master of himself, he recited a popular scenein which he had freely poured out his love for the poor people. Henext recited some of his Parisian suburban scenes, and then a seriesof sonnets, entitled "Love's Hopes, " inspired by his dear Maria; andhe astonished all these poets by the versatility and variety of hisinspirations. 

At each new poem bravos were thundered out, and the young man's heartexpanded with joy under this warm sunshine of success. His audience viedwith each other to approach Amedee first, and to shake his hand. Alas!some of those who were there would, later, annoy him by their low envyand treason; but now, in the generous frankness of their youth, theywelcomed him as a master. 

What an intoxicating evening! Amedee reached his home about two o'clockin the morning, his hands burning with the last grasps, his brain andheart intoxicated with the strong wine of praise. He walked with longand joyful strides through the fairy scene of a beautiful moonlight, inthe fresh morning wind which made his clothes flutter and caressed hisface. He thought he even felt the breath of fame. 

BOOK 3. 

CHAPTER XI. SUCCESS

Success, which usually is as fickle as justice, took long strides anddoubled its stations in order to reach Amedee. The Cafe de Seville, andthe coterie of long-haired writers, were busying themselves with therising poet already. His suite of sonnets, published in La Guepe, pleased some of the journalists, who reproduced them in portionsin well-distributed journals. Ten days after Amedee's meeting withJocquelet, the latter recited his poem "Before Sebastopol" at amagnificent entertainment given at the Gaite for the benefit of anillustrious actor who had become blind and reduced to poverty. 

This "dramatic solemnity, " to use the language of the advertisement, began by being terribly tiresome. There was an audience present who wereaccustomed to grand Parisian soirees, a blase and satiated public, who, upon this warm evening in the suffocating theatre, were more fatiguedand satiated than ever. The sleepy journalists collapsed in theirchairs, and in the back part of the stage-boxes, ladies' faces, almostgreen under paint, showed the excessive lassitude of a long winter ofpleasure. The Parisians had all come there from custom, withouthaving the slightest desire to do so, just as they always came, likegalley-slaves condemned to "first nights. " They were so lifeless thatthey did not even feel the slightest horror at seeing one another growold. This chloroformed audience was afflicted with a long and too heavyprogramme, as is the custom in performances of this kind. They playedfragments of the best known pieces, and sang songs from operas longsince fallen into disuse even on street organs. This public saw thesame comedians march out; the most famous are the most monotonous;the comical ones abused their privileges; the lover spoke distractedlythrough his nose; the great coquette--the actress par excellence, thelast of the Celimenes--discharged her part in such a sluggish way thatwhen she began an adverb ending in "ment, " one would have almost hadtime to go out and smoke a cigarette or drink a glass of beer before shereached the end of the said adverb. 

But at the most lethargic moment of this drowsy soirees, after thecomedians from the Francais had played in a stately manner one actfrom a tragedy, Jocquelet appeared. Jocquelet, still a pupil at theConservatoire, showed himself to the public for the first time and byan exceptional grace--Jocquelet, absolutely unknown, too short in hisevening clothes, in spite of the two packs of cards that he had put inhis boots. He appeared, full of audacity, riding his high horse, raisinghis flat-nosed, bull-dog face toward the "gallery gods, " and, in hisvoice capable of making Jericho's wall fall or raising Jehoshaphat'sdead, he dashed off in one effort, but with intelligence and heroicfeeling, his comrade's poem. 

The effect was prodigious. This bold, common, but powerful actor, andthese picturesque and modern verses were something entirely new to thispublic satiated with old trash. What a happy surprise! Two noveltiesat once! To think of discovering an unheard-of poet and an unknowncomedian! To nibble at these two green fruits! Everybody shook off historpor; the anaesthetized journalists aroused themselves; the colorlessand sleepy ladies plucked up a little animation; and when Jocquelethad made the last rhyme resound like a grand flourish of trumpets, allapplauded enough to split their gloves. 

In one of the theatre lobbies, behind a bill-board pasted over with oldplacards, Amedee Violette heard with delight the sound of the applausewhich seemed like a shower of hailstones. He dared not think of it! Wasit really his poem that produced so much excitement, which had thawedthis cold public? Soon he did not doubt it, for Jocquelet, who had justbeen recalled three times, threw himself into the poet's arms and gluedhis perspiring, painted face to his. 

"Well, my little one, I have done it!" he exclaimed, bursting withgratification and vanity. "You heard how I caught them!"

Immediately twenty, thirty, a hundred spectators appeared, most ofthem very correct in white cravats, but all eager and with beamingcountenances, asking to see the author and the interpreter, and tobe presented to them, that they might congratulate them with anenthusiastic word and a shake of the hand. Yes! it was a success, aninstantaneous one. It was certainly that rare tropical flower of theParisian greenhouse which blossoms out so seldom, but so magnificently. 

One large, very common-looking man, wearing superb diamondshirt-buttons, came in his turn to shake Amedee's hand, and in a hoarse, husky voice which would have been excellent to propose tickets "cheaperthan at the office!" he asked for the manuscript of the poem that hadjust been recited. 

"It is so that I may put you upon the first page of my tomorrow'sedition, young man, and I publish eighty thousand. Victor Gaillard, editor of 'Le Tapage'. Does that please you?"

He took the manuscript without listening to the thanks of the poet, whotrembled with joy at the thought that his work had caught the fancy ofthis Barnum of the press, the foremost advertiser in France and Europe, and that his verses would meet the eyes of two hundred thousand readers. 

Yes, it was certainly a success, and he experienced the first bitternessof it as soon as he arrived the next morning at the Cafe de Seville, where he now went every two or three days at the hour for absinthe. Hisverses had appeared in that morning's Tapage, printed in large type andheaded by a few lines of praise written by Victor Gaillard, a la Barnum. As soon as Amedee entered the cafe he saw that he was the object ofgeneral attention, and the lyric gentlemen greeted him with acclamationsand bravos; but at certain expressions of countenance, constrainedlooks, and bitter smiles, the impressionable young man felt with asudden sadness that they already envied him. 

"I warned you of it, " said Paul Sillery to him, as he led him into acorner of the cafe. "Our good friends are not pleased, and that is verynatural. The greater part of these rhymers are 'cheap jewellers, ' andthey are jealous of a master workman. Above all things, pretend notto notice it; they will never forgive you for guessing their badsentiments. And then you must be indulgent to them. You have yourbeautiful lieutenant's epaulettes, Violette, do not be too hard uponthese poor privates. They also are fighting under the poetic flag, andours is a poverty-stricken regiment. Now you must profit by your goodluck. Here you are, celebrated in forty-eight hours. Do you see, eventhe political people look at you with curiosity, although a poet in theestimation of these austere persons is an inferior and useless being. It is all they will do to accept Victor Hugo, and only on account of his'Chatiments. ' You are the lion of the day. Lose no time. I met just nowupon the boulevard Massif, the publisher. He had read 'Le Tapage' andexpects you. Carry him all your poems to-morrow; there will be enough tomake a volume. Massif will publish it at his own expense, and you willappear before the public in one month. You never will inveigle a secondtime that big booby of a Gaillard, who took a mere passing fancy foryou. But no matter! I know your book, and it will be a success. You arelaunched. Forward, march! Truly, I am better than I thought, for yoursuccess gives me pleasure. "

This amiable comrade's words easily dissipated the painful feelingsthat Amedee had just experienced. However, it was one of those exaltedmoments when one will not admit that evil exists. He spent some timewith the poets, forcing himself to be more gracious and friendly thanever, and left them persuaded--the unsuspecting child!--that he haddisarmed them by his modesty; and very impatient to share his joy withhis friends, the Gerards, he quickly walked the length of Montmartre andreached them just at their dinner hour. 

They did not expect him, and only had for their dinner the remains ofthe boiled beef of the night before, with some cucumbers. Amedee carriedhis cake, as usual, and, what was better still, two sauces that alwaysmake the poorest meal palatable--hope and happiness. 

They had already read the journals and knew that the poem had beenapplauded at the Gaite, and that it had at once been printed on thefirst page of the journal; and they were all so pleased, so glad, thatthey kissed Amedee on both cheeks. Mamma Gerard remembered that she hada few bottles--five or six--of old chambertin in the cellar, and youcould not have prevented the excellent woman from taking her key andtaper at once, and going for those old bottles covered with cobwebs anddust, that they might drink to the health of the triumphant one. As toLouise, she was radiant, for in several houses where she gave lessonsshe had heard them talk of the fine and admirable verses published in LeTapage, and she was very proud to think that the author was a friend ofhers. What completed Amedee's pleasure was that for the first time Mariaseemed to be interested in his poem, and said several times to him, withsuch a pretty, vain little air:

"Do you know, your battle is very nice. Amedee, you are going to becomea great poet, a celebrated man! What a superb future you have beforeyou!"

Ah! what exquisitely sweet hopes he carried away that evening to hisroom in the Faubourg St. -Jacques! They gave him beautiful dreams, andpervaded his thoughts the next morning when the concierge brought himtwo letters. 

Still more happiness! The first letter contained two notes of a hundredfrancs each, with Victor Gaillard's card, who congratulated Amedee anewand asked him to write something for his journal in the way of prose;a story, or anything he liked. The young poet gave a cry of joyfulsurprise when he recognized the handwriting of Maurice Roger upon theother envelope. 

"I have just returned to Paris, my dear Amedee, " wrote the traveller, "and your success was my first greeting. I must embrace you quickly andtell you how happy I am. Come to see me at four o'clock in my den in theRue Monsieur-le-Prince. We will dine and pass the evening together. "

Ah! how the poet loved life that morning, how good and sweet it seemedto him! Clothed in his best, he gayly descended the Rue St. -Jacques, where boxes of asparagus and strawberries perfumed the fruit-stalls, and went to the Boulevard St. Michel, where he purchased an elegant grayfelt hat and a new cravat. Then he went to the Cafe Voltaire, wherehe lunched. He changed his second hundred-franc bill, so that he mightfeel, with the pleasure of a child, the beautiful louis d'or which heowed to his work and its success. At the office the head clerk--a goodfellow, who sang well at dinners--complimented Amedee upon his poem. Theyoung man had only made his appearance to ask for leave that afternoon, so as to take his manuscript to the publisher. 

Once more in the street in the bright May sun, after the fashion ofnabobs, he took an open carriage and was carried to Massif, in thePassage des Princes. The editor of the Jeunes was seated in his office, which was decorated with etchings and beautiful bindings. He is wellknown by his magnificent black beard and his large bald head, uponwhich a wicked jester once advised him to paste his advertisements; hepublishes the works of audacious authors and sensational books, and hadthe honor of sharing with Charles Bazile, the poet, an imprisonmentat St. -Pelagie. He received this thin-faced rhymer coldly. Amedeeintroduced himself, and at once there was a broad smile, a handshake, and a connoisseur's greedy sniffling. Then Massif opened the manuscript. 

"Let us see! Ah, yes, with margins and false titles we can make out twohundred and fifty pages. "

The business was settled quickly. A sheet of stamped paper--anagreement! Massif will pay all the expenses of the first edition ofone thousand, and if there is another edition--and of course there willbe!--he will give him ten cents a copy. Amedee signs without reading. All that he asks is that the volume should be published without delay. 

"Rest easy, my dear poet! You will receive the first proofs in threedays, and in one month it will appear. "

Was it possible? Was Amedee not dreaming? He, poor Violette's son, the little office clerk--his book would be published, and in a month!Readers and unknown friends will be moved by his agitation, will sufferin his suspense; young people will love him and find an echo of theirsentiments in his verses; women will dreamily repeat--with one fingerin his book--some favorite verse that touches their hearts! Ah! he musthave a confidant in his joy, he must tell some true friend. 

"Driver, take me to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. "

He mounted, four steps at a time, the stairs leading to Maurice'sroom. The key is in the door. He enters and finds the traveller there, standing in the midst of the disorder of open trunks. 

"Maurice!"

"Amedee!"

What an embrace! How long they stood hand in hand, looking at each otherwith happy smiles!

Maurice is more attractive and gracious than ever. His beauty is moremanly, and his golden moustache glistens against his sun-browned skin. What a fine fellow! How he rejoiced at his friend's first success!

"I am certain that your book will turn everybody's head. I always toldyou that you were a genuine poet. We shall see!"

As to himself, he was happy too. His mother had let him off fromstudying law and allowed him to follow his vocation. He was going tohave a studio and paint. It had all been decided in Italy, where MadameRoger had witnessed her son's enthusiasm over the great masters. Ah, Italy! Italy! and he began to tell of his trip, show knickknacks andsouvenirs of all kinds that littered the room. He turned in his hands, that he might show all its outlines, a little terra-cotta reduction ofthe Antinous in the Museum of Naples. He opened a box, full to bursting, of large photographs, and passed them to his friend with exclamations ofretrospective admiration. 

"Look! the Coliseum! the ruins of Paestum--and this antique from theVatican! Is it not beautiful?"

While looking at the pictures he recalled the things that he had seenand the impressions he had experienced. There was a band of collegiansin little capes and short trousers taking their walk; they wore buckledshoes, like the abbes of olden times, and nothing could be more drollthan to see these childish priests play leapfrog. There, upon the Rivadei Schiavoni, he had followed a Venetian. "Shabbily dressed, and fancy, my friend, bare-headed, in a yellow shawl with ragged green fringe! No, I do not know whether she was pretty, but she possessed in her personall the attractions of Giorgione's goddesses and Titian's courtesanscombined!"

Maurice is still the same wicked fellow. But, bah! it suits him; he evenboasts of it with such a joyous ardor and such a youthful dash, that itis only one charm the more in him. The clock struck seven, and they wentto dine. They started off through the Latin Quarter. Maurice gave hisarm to Amedee and told him of his adventures on the other side of theAlps. Maurice, once started on this subject, could not stop, and whilethe dinner was being served the traveller continued to describe hisescapades. This kind of conversation was dangerous for Amedee; for itmust not be forgotten that for some time the young poet's innocence hadweighed upon him, and this evening he had some pieces of gold in hispocket that rang a chime of pleasure. While Maurice, with his elbowupon the table, told him his tales of love, Amedee gazed out upon thesidewalk at the women who passed by in fresh toilettes, in the gaslightwhich illuminated the green foliage, giving a little nod of the head tothose whom they knew. There was voluptuousness in the very air, and itwas Amedee who arose from the table and recalled to Maurice that it wasThursday, and that there was a fete that night at Bullier's; and he alsowas the one to add, with a deliberate air:

"Shall we take a turn there?"

"Willingly, " replied his gay friend. "Ah, ha! we are then beginning toenjoy ourselves a little, Monsieur Violette! Go to Bullier's? so beit. I am not sorry to assure myself whether or not I still love theParisians. "

They started off, smoking their cigarettes. Upon the highway, goingin the same direction as themselves, were victorias carrying women inspring costumes and wearing bonnets decked with flowers. From time totime the friends were elbowed by students shouting popular refrains andwalking in Indian-file. 

Here is Bullier's! They step into the blazing entrance, and go thenceto the stairway which leads to the celebrated public ballroom. They arestifled by the odor of dust, escaping gas, and human flesh. Alas! thereare in every village in France doctors in hansom cabs, country lawyers, and any quantity of justices of the peace, who, I can assure you, regretthis stench as they take the fresh air in the open country under thestarry heavens, breathing the exquisite perfume of new-mown hay; forit is mingled with the little poetry that they have had in their lives, with their student's love-affairs, and their youth. 

All the same, this Bullier's is a low place, a caricature of theAlhambra in pasteboard. Three or four thousand moving heads in a cloudof tobacco-smoke, and an exasperating orchestra playing a quadrille inwhich dancers twist and turn, tossing their legs with calm faces andaudacious gestures. 

"What a mob!" said Amedee, already a trifle disgusted. "Let us go intothe garden. "

They were blinded by the gas there; the thickets looked so much likeold scenery that one almost expected to see the yellow breastplates ofcomic-opera dragoons; and the jet of water recalled one of those littlespurts of a shooting-gallery upon which an empty egg-shell dances. Butthey could breathe there a little. 

"Boy! two sodas, " said Maurice, striking the table with his cane; andthe two friends sat down near the edge of a walk where the crowd passedand repassed. They had been there about ten minutes when two womenstopped before them. 

"Good-day, Maurice, " said the taller, a brunette with rich coloring, thegenuine type of a tavern girl. 

"What, Margot!" exclaimed the young man. "Will you take something?Sit down a moment, and your friend too. Do you know, your friend ischarming? What is her name?"

"Rosine, " replied the stranger, modestly, for she was only abouteighteen, and, in spite of the blond frizzles over her eyes, she was notyet bold, poor child! She was making her debut, it was easy to see. 

"Well, Mademoiselle Rosine, come here, that I may see you, " continuedMaurice, seating the young girl beside him with a caressing gesture. "You, Margot, I authorize to be unfaithful to me once more in favor ofmy friend Amedee. He is suffering with lovesickness, and has a heartto let. Although he is a poet, I think he happens to have in his pocketenough to pay for a supper. "

Everywhere and always the same, the egotistical and amiable Mauricetakes the lion's share, and Amedee, listening only with one ear to thelarge Margot, who is already begging him to make an acrostic for her, thinks Rosine is charming, while Maurice says a thousand foolishthings to her. In spite of himself, the poet looks upon Maurice ashis superior, and thinks it perfectly natural that he should claim theprettier of the two women. No matter! Amedee wanted to enjoy himselftoo. This Margot, who had just taken off her gloves to drink her wine, had large, red hands, and seemed as silly as a goose, but all the sameshe was a beautiful creature, and the poet began to talk to her, whileshe laughed and looked at him with a wanton's eyes. Meanwhile theorchestra burst into a polka, and Maurice, in raising his voice to speakto his friend, called him several times Amedee, and once only by hisfamily name, Violette. Suddenly little Rosine started up and looked atthe poet, saying with astonishment:

"What! Is your name Amedee Violette?"

"Certainly. "

"Then you are the boy with whom I played so much when I was a child. "

"With me?"

"Yes! Do you not remember Rosine, little Rosine Combarieu, at MadameGerard's, the engraver's wife, in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs? Weplayed games with his little girls. How odd it is, the way one meets oldfriends!"

What is it that Amedee feels? His entire childhood rises before him. The bitterness of the thought that he had known this poor girl in herinnocence and youth, and the Gerards' name spoken in such a place, filled the young man's heart with a singular sadness. He could only sayto Rosine, in a voice that trembled a little with pity:

"You! Is it you?"

Then she became red and very embarrassed, lowering her eyes. 

Maurice had tact; he noticed that Rosine and Amedee were agitated, and, feeling that he was de trop, he arose suddenly and said:

"Now then, Margot. Come on! these children want to talk over theirchildhood, I think. Give up your acrostic, my child. Take my arm, andcome and have a turn. "

When they were alone Amedee gazed at Rosine sadly. She was pretty, inspite of her colorless complexion, a child of the faubourg, born witha genius for dress, who could clothe herself on nothing-a linen gown, aflower in her hat. One who lived on salads and vegetables, so as to buywell-made shoes and eighteen-button gloves. 

The pretty blonde looked at Amedee, and a timid smile shone in hernut-brown eyes. 

"Now, Monsieur Amedee, " said she, at last, "it need not trouble you tomeet at Bullier's the child whom you once played with. What would havebeen astonishing would be to find that I had become a fine lady. I amnot wise, it is true, but I work, and you need not fear that I go withthe first comer. Your friend is a handsome fellow, and very amiable, andI accepted his attentions because he knew Margot, while with you it isvery different. It gives me pleasure to talk with you. It recalls MammaGerard, who was so kind to me. What has become of her, tell me? and herhusband and her daughters?"

"Monsieur Gerard is dead, " replied Amedee; "but the ladies are well, andI see them often. "

"Do not tell them that you met me here, will you? It is better not. IfI had had a good 'mother, like those girls, things would have turned outdifferently for me. But, you remember, papa was always interested in hispolitics. When I was fifteen years old he apprenticed me to a florist. He was a fine master, a perfect monster of a man, who ruined me! I say, Pere Combarieu has a droll trade now; he is manager of a Republicanjournal--nothing to do--only a few months in prison now and then. Iam always working in flowers, and I have a little friend, a pupil atVal-de-Grace, but he has just left as a medical officer for Algeria. I was lonely all by myself, and this evening big Margot, whom I gotacquainted with in the shop, brought me here to amuse myself. Butyou--what are you doing? Your friend said just now that you were a poet. Do you write songs? I always liked them. Do you remember when I used toplay airs with one finger upon the Gerards' old piano? You were sucha pretty little boy then, and as gentle as a girl. You still have yournice blue eyes, but they are a little darker. I remember them. No, youcan not know how glad I am to see you again!"

They continued to chatter, bringing up old reminiscences, and when shespoke of the Gerard ladies she put on a respectful little air whichpleased Amedee very much. She was a poor feather-headed little thing, he did not doubt; but she had kept at least the poor man's treasure, asimple heart. The young man was pleased with her prattling, and ashe looked at the young girl he thought of the past and felt a sort ofcompassion for her. As she was silent for a moment, the poet said toher, "Do you know that you have become very pretty? What a charmingcomplexion you have! such a lovely pallor!"

The grisette, who had known what poverty was, gave a bitter littlelaugh:

"Oh, my pallor! that is nothing! It is not the pallor of wealth. "

Then, recovering her good-humor at once, she continued:

"Tell me, Monsieur Amedee, does this big Margot, whom you began to payattentions to a little while ago, please you?"

Amedee quickly denied it. "That immense creature? Never! Now then, Rosine, I came here to amuse myself a little, I will admit. That isnot forbidden at my age, is it? But this ball disgusts me. You have noappointment here? No? Is it truly no? Very well, take my arm and let usgo. Do you live far from here?"

"In the Avenue d'Orleans, near the Montrouge church. "

"Will you allow me to escort you home, then?"

She would be happy to, and they arose and left the ball. It seemed tothe young poet as if the pretty girl's arm trembled a little in his;but once upon the boulevard, flooded by the light from the silvery moon, Rosine slackened her steps and became pensive, and her eyes were loweredwhen Amedee sought a glance from them in the obscurity. How sweet wasthis new desire that troubled the young man's heart! It was mixed witha little sentiment; his heart beat with emotion, and Rosine was not lessmoved. They could both find only insignificant things to say. 

"What a beautiful night!"

"Yes! It does one good to breathe the fresh air. "

They continued their walk without speaking. Oh, how fresh and sweet itwas under these trees!

At last they reached the door of Rosine's dwelling. With a slow movementshe pressed her hand upon the bell-button. Then Amedee, with a greateffort, and in a confused, husky voice, asked whether he might go upwith her and see her little room. 

She looked at him steadily, with a tender sadness in her eyes, and thensaid to him, softly:

"No, certainly not! One must be sensible. I please you this evening, and you know very well that I think you are charming. It is true we kneweach other when we were young, and now that we have met again, it seemsas if it would be pleasant to love each other. But, believe me, weshould commit a great folly, perhaps a wrong. It is better, I assureyou, to forget that you ever met me at Bullier's with big Margot, andonly remember your little playmate of the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Itwill be better than a caprice, it will be something pure that youcan keep in your heart. Do not let us spoil the remembrance of ourchildhood, Monsieur Amedee, and let us part good friends. "

Before the young man could find a reply, the bell pealed again, andRosine gave Amedee a parting smile, lightly kissing the tips of herfingers, and disappeared behind the doer, which fell together, witha loud bang. The poet's first movements was one of rage. Giddyweather-cock of a woman! But he had hardly taken twenty steps upon thesidewalk before he said to himself, with a feeling of remorse, "She wasright!" He thought that this poor girl had kept in one corner of herheart a shadow of reserve and modesty, and he was happy to feel risewithin him a sacred respect for woman!

Amedee, my good fellow, you are quite worthless as a man of pleasure. You had better give it up!

CHAPTER XII. SOCIAL TRIUMPHS

For one month now Amedee Violette's volume of verses, entitled Poemsfrom Nature, had embellished with its pale-blue covers the shelves ofthe book-shops. The commotion raised by the book's success, and thefavorable criticisms given by the journals, had not yet calmed down atthe Cafe de Seville. 

This emotion, let it be understood, did not exist except among theliterary men. The politicians disdained poets and poetry, and did nottrouble them selves over such commonplace matters. They had affairs of agreat deal more importance to determine the overthrow of the governmentfirst, then to remodel the map of Europe! What was necessary to overthrow the Empire? First, conspiracy; second, barricades. Nothing waseasier than to conspire. Every body conspired at the Seville. It isthe character of the French, who are born cunning, but are lightand talkative, to conspire in public places. As soon as one of ourcompatriots joins a secret society his first care is to go to hisfavorite restaurant and to confide, under a bond of the most absolutesecrecy, to his most intimate friend, what he has known for about fiveminutes, the aim of the conspiracy, names of the actors, the day, hour, and place of the rendezvous, the passwords and countersigns. A littlewhile after he has thus relieved himself, he is surprised that thepolice interfere and spoil an enterprise that has been prepared with somuch mystery and discretion. It was in this way that the "beards" dealtin dark deeds of conspiracy at the Cafe de Seville. At the hour forabsinthe and mazagran a certain number of Fiesques and Catilines weregrouped around each table. At one of the tables in the foreground fiveold "beards, " whitened by political crime, were planning an infernalmachine; and in the back of the room ten robust hands had sworn uponthe billiard-table to arm themselves for regicide; only, as with all"beards, " there were necessarily some false ones among them, that isto say, spies. All the plots planned at the Seville had miserablymiscarried. 

The art of building barricades was also--you never would suspectit!--very ardently and conscientiously studied. This special branchof the science of fortification reckoned more than one Vauban andGribeauval among its numbers. "Professor of barricading, " was a titlehonored at the Cafe de Seville, and one that they would willingly havehad engraved upon their visiting-cards. Observe that the instruction wasonly theoretical; doubtless out of respect for the policemen, they couldnot give entirely practical lessons to the future rioters who formed theground-work of the business. The master or doctor of civil war could notgo out with them, for instance, and practise in the Rue Drouot. But hehad one resource, one way of getting out of it; namely, dominoes. No! you never would believe what a revolutionary appearance theseinoffensive mutton-bones took on under the seditious hands of thehabitues of the Cafe de Seville. These miniature pavements simulatedupon the marble table the subjugation of the most complicated ofbarricades, with all sorts of bastions, redans, and counterscarps. Itwas something after the fashion of the small models of war-ships thatone sees in marine museums. Any one, not in the secret, would havesupposed that the "beards" simply played dominoes. Not at all! They werepursuing a course of technical insurrection. When they roared at the topof their lungs "Five on all sides!" certain players seemed to ordera general discharge, and they had a way of saying, "I can not!" whichevidently expressed the despair of a combatant who has burned hislast cartridge. A "beard" in glasses and a stovepipe hat, who had beenrefused in his youth at the Ecole Polytechnique, was frightful in therapidity and mathematical precision with which he added up in threeminutes his barricade of dominoes. When this man "blocked the six, "you were transported in imagination to the Rue Transnonain, or to theCloitre St. Merry. It was terrible!

As to foreign politics, or the remodelling of the map of Europe, it was, properly speaking, only sport and recreation to the "beards. " It addedinterest to the game, that was all. Is it not agreeable, when you arepreparing a discard, at the decisive moment, with one hundred at piquet, which gives you 'quinte' or 'quatorze', to deliver unhappy Poland; andwhen one has the satisfaction to score a king and take every trick, whatdoes it cost to let the Russians enter Constantinople?

Nevertheless, some of the most solemn "beards" of the Cafe de Sevilleattached themselves to international questions, to the great problem ofEuropean equilibrium. One of the most profound of these diplomats--whoprobably had nothing to buy suspenders with, for his shirt always hungout between his waistcoat and trousers--was persuaded that an indemnityof two million francs would suffice to obtain from the Pope the transferof Rome to the Italians; and another Metternich on a small scale assumedfor his specialty the business of offering a serious affront to Englandand threatening her, if she did not listen to his advice, with a loss ina short time of her Indian Empire and other colonial possessions. 

Thus the "beards, " absorbed by such grave speculations, did not troublethemselves about the vanity called literature, and did not care a pinfor Amedee Violette's book. Among the long-haired ones, however, werepeat, the emotion was great. They were furious, they were agitated, and bristled up; the first enthusiasm over Amedee Violette's versescould not be lasting and had been only a mere flash. The young man sawthese Merovingians as they really were toward a man who succeeded, thatis, severe almost to cruelty. What! the first edition of Poems fromNature was exhausted and Massif had another in press! What! thebourgeoisie, far from being "astonished" at this book, declaredthemselves delighted with it, bought it, read it, and perhaps had itrebound! They spoke favorably of it in all the bourgeois journals, that is to say, in those that had subscribers! Did they not say thatViolette, incited by Jocquelet, was working at a grand comedy in verse, and that the Theatre-Francais had made very flattering offers to thepoet? But then, if he pleased the bourgeoisie so much he was--oh, horror!--a bourgeois himself. That was obvious. How blind they had beennot to see it sooner! When Amedee had read his verses not long since atSillery's, by what aberration had they confounded this platitude withsimplicity, this whining with sincere emotion, these stage tricks withart? Ah! you may rest assured, they never will be caught again!

As the poets' tables at the Cafe de Seville had been for some timetransformed into beds of torture upon which Amedee Violette's poems werestretched out and racked every day from five to seven, the amiable PaulSillery, with a jeering smile upon his lips, tried occasionally to crypity for his friend's verses, given up to such ferocious executioners. But these literary murderers, ready to destroy a comrade's book, aremore pitiless than the Inquisition. There were two inquisitors morerelentless than the others; first, the little scrubby fellow who claimedfor his share all the houris of a Mussulman's palace; another, the greatelegist from the provinces. Truly, his heartaches must have made himgain flesh, for very soon he was obliged to let out the strap on hiswaistcoat. 

Of course, when Amedee appeared, the conversation was immediatelychanged, and they began to talk of insignificant things that they hadread in the journals; for example, the fire-damp, which had killedtwenty-five working-men in a mine, in a department of the north; or ofthe shipwreck of a transatlantic steamer in which everything was lost, with one hundred and fifty passengers and forty sailors--events of noimportance, we must admit, if one compares them to the recent discoverymade by the poet inquisitors of two incorrect phrases and five weakrhymes in their comrade's work. 

Amedee's sensitive nature soon remarked the secret hostility of whichhe was the object in this group of poets, and he now came to the Cafede Seville only on rare occasions, in order to take Paul Sillery by thehand, who, in spite of his ironical air, had always shown himself a goodand faithful friend. 

It was there that he recognized one evening his classmate of theLycee, Arthur Papillon, seated at one of the political tables. The poetwondered to himself how this fine lawyer, with his temperate opinions, happened to be among these hot-headed revolutionists, and what interestin common could unite this correct pair of blond whiskers to theuncultivated, bushy ones. Papillon, as soon as he saw Amedee, took leaveof the group with whom he was talking and came and offered his heartycongratulations to the author of Poems from Nature, leading him out uponthe boulevard and giving him the key to the mystery. 

All the old parties were united against the Empire, in view of thecoming elections; Orleanists and Republicans were, for the time being, close friends. He, Papillon, had just taken his degree, and had attachedhimself to the fortunes of an old wreck of the July government; who, having rested in oblivion since 1852, had consented to run as candidatefor the Liberal opposition in Seine-et-Oise. Papillon was flying aroundlike a hen with her head cut off, to make his companion win the day. He came to the Seville to assure himself of the neutral goodwill of theunreconciled journalists, and he was full of hope. 

"Oh! my dear friend, how difficult it is to struggle against an officialcandidate! But our candidate is an astonishing man. He goes about allday upon the railroads in our department, unfolding his programme beforethe travelling countrymen and changing compartments at each station. What a stroke of genius! a perambulating public assembling. This ideacame to him from seeing a harpist make the trip from Havre to Honfleur, playing 'Il Bacio' all the time. Ah, one must look alive! The prefectdoes not shrink from any way of fighting us. Did he not spread throughone of our most Catholic cantons the report that we were Voltairians, enemies to religion and devourers of priests? Fortunately, we have yetfour Sundays before us, from now until the voting-day, and the patronwill go to high mass and communion in our four more important parishes. That will be a response! If such a man is not elected, universalsuffrage is hopeless!"

Amedee was not at that time so disenchanted with political matters as hebecame later, and he asked himself with an uneasy feeling whether thismodel candidate, who was perhaps about to give himself sacrilgiousindigestion, and who showed his profession of faith as a cutler showshis knives, was not simply a quack. 

Arthur Papillon did not give him time to devote himself to suchunpleasant reflections, but said to him, in a frank, protecting tone:

"And you, my boy, let us see, where do you stand? You have been verysuccessful, have you not? The other evening at the house of Madamela Comtesse Fontaine, you know--the widow of one of Louis Philippe'sministers and daughter of Marshal Lefievre--Jocquelet recited your'Sebastopol' with enormous success. What a voice that Jocquelet has!We have not his like at the Paris bar. Fortunate poet! I have seen yourbook lying about in the boudoir of more than one beautiful woman. Well, I hope that you will leave the Cafe de Seville and not linger withall these badly combed fellows. You must go into society; it isindispensable to a man of letters, and I will present you whenever youwish. "

For the time being Amedee's ardor was a little dampened concerning theBohemians with whom he enjoyed so short a favor, and who had also inmany ways shocked his delicacy. He was not desirous to be called "thou"by Pere Lebuffle. 

But to go into society! His education had been so modest! Should heknow how to appear, how to conduct himself properly? He asked this ofPapillon. Our poet was proud, he feared ridicule, and would not consentto play an inferior role anywhere; and then his success just then wasentirely platonic. He was still very poor and lived in the FaubourgSt. -Jacques. Massif ought to pay him in a few days five hundred francsfor the second edition of his book; but what is a handful of napoleons?

"It is enough, " said the advocate, who thought of his friend'sdress. "It is all that is necessary to buy fine linen, and a well cutdress-coat, that is the essential thing. Good form consists, above allthings, in keeping silent. With your fine and yielding nature you willbecome at once a gentleman; better still, you are not a bad-lookingfellow; you have an interesting pallor. I am convinced that you willplease. It is now the beginning of July, and Paris is almost empty, butMadame la Comtesse Fontaine does not go away until the vacations, asshe is looking after her little son, who is finishing his studies atthe Lycee Bonaparte. The Countess's drawing-rooms are open every eveninguntil the end of the month, and one meets there all the chic peoplewho are delayed in Paris, or who stop here between two journeys. MadameFontaine is a very amiable and influential old lady; she has a fancy forwriters when they are good company. Do not be silly, but go and orderyourself some evening clothes. By presenting you there, my dear fellow, I assure you, perhaps in fifteen years, a seat in the Academy. It isagreed! Get ready for next week. "

Attention! Amedee Violette is about to make his first appearance insociety. 

Although his concierge, who aided him to finish his toilette and saw himput on his white cravat, had just said to him, "What a love of a husbandyou would make!" the poet's heart beat rapidly when the carriage inwhich he was seated beside Arthur Papillon stopped before the stepsof an old house in the Rue de Bellechasse, where Madame la ComtesseFontaine lived. 

In the vestibule he tried to imitate the advocate's bearing, which wasfull of authority; but quickly despaired of knowing how to swell out hisstarched shirt-front under the severe looks of four tall lackeys in silkstockings. Amedee was as much embarrassed as if he were presentednaked before an examining board. But they doubtless found him "good forservice, " for the door opened into a brightly lighted drawing-room intowhich he followed Arthur Papillon, like a frail sloop towed in by animposing three-master, and behold the timid Amedee presented in due formto the mistress of the house! She was a lady of elephantine proportions, in her sixtieth year, and wore a white camellia stuck in herrosewood-colored hair. Her face and arms were plastered with enoughflour to make a plate of fritters; but for all that, she had a grandair and superb eyes, whose commanding glance was softened by so kindly asmile that Amedee was a trifle reassured. 

She had much applauded M. Violette's beautiful verse, she said, thatJocquelet had recited at her house on the last Thursday of her season;and she had just read with the greatest pleasure his Poems fromNature. She thanked M. Papillon--who bows his head and lets his monoclefall--for having brought M. Violette. She was charmed to make hisacquaintance. 

Amedee was very much embarrassed to know what to reply to thiscommonplace compliment which was paid so gracefully. Fortunately hewas spared this duty by the arrival of a very much dressed, tall, bonywoman, toward whom the Countess darted off with astonishing vivacity, exclaiming, joyfully: "Madame la Marechale!" and Amedee, still followingin the wake of his comrade, sailed along toward the corner of thedrawing-room, and then cast anchor before a whole flotilla of blackcoats. Amedee's spirits began to revive, and he examined the place, soentirely new to him, where his growing reputation had admitted him. 

It was a vast drawing-room after the First Empire style, hung andfurnished in yellow satin, whose high white panels were decorated withtrophies of antique weapons carved in wood and gilded. A dauber fromthe Ecole des Beaux-Arts would have branded with the epithet "sham" thearmchairs and sofas ornamented with sphinx heads in bronze, as well asthe massive green marble clock upon which stood, all in gold, a favoritecourt personage, clothed in a cap, sword, and fig-leaf, who seemed to bemaking love to a young person in a floating tunic, with her hair dressedexactly like that of the Empress Josephine. But the dauber would havebeen wrong, for this massive splendor was wanting neither in grandeurnor character. Two pictures only lighted up the cold walls; one, signedby Gros, was an equestrian portrait of the Marshal, Madame Fontaine'sfather, the old drummer of Pont de Lodi, one of the bravest ofNapoleon's lieutenants. He was represented in full-dress uniform, with an enormous black-plumed hat, brandishing his blue velvet baton, sprinkled with golden bees, and under the rearing horse's legs onecould see in the dim distance a grand battle in the snow, and mouths ofburning cannons. The other picture, placed upon an easel and lighted bya lamp with a reflector, was one of Ingre's the 'chef-d'oeuvres'. Itwas the portrait of the mistress of the house at the age of eighteen, a portrait of which the Countess was now but an old and horriblecaricature. 

Arthur Papillon talked in a low voice with Amedee, explaining to him howMadame Fontaine's drawing-room was neutral ground, open to people ofall parties. As daughter of a Marshal of the First Empire, the Countesspreserved the highest regard for the people at the Tuileries, althoughshe was the widow of Count Fontaine, who was one of the broodof Royer-Collard's conservatives, a parliamentarian ennobled byLouis-Philippe, twice a colleague of Guizot on the ministerial bench, who died of spite and suppressed ambition after '48 and the coup d'etat. Besides, the Countess's brother, the Duc d'Eylau, married, in 1829, oneof the greatest heiresses in the Faubourg St. Germain; for his father, the Marshal, whose character did not equal his bravery, attached himselfto every government, and carried his candle in the processions on CorpusChristi Day under Charles X, and had ended by being manager of theInvalides at the beginning of the July monarchy. Thanks to thisfortunate combination of circumstances, one met several great lords, many Orleanists, a certain number of official persons, and even somerepublicans of high rank, in this liberal drawing-room, where theCountess, who was an admirable hostess, knew how to attract learned men, writers, artists, and celebrities of all kinds, as well as young andpretty women. As the season was late, the gathering this evening was notlarge. However, neglecting the unimportant gentlemen whose ancestorshad perhaps been fabricated by Pere Issacar, Papillon pointed out tohis friend a few celebrities. One, with the badge of the Legion ofHonor upon his coat, which looked as if it had come from the stall of anold-clothes man, was Forgerol, the great geologist, the most grasping ofscientific men; Forgerol, rich from his twenty fat sinecures, forwhom one of his confreres composed this epitaph in advance: "Here liesForgerol, in the only place he did not solicit. "

That grand old man, with the venerable, shaky head, whose white, silkyhair seemed to shed blessings and benedictions, was M. Dussant du Fosse, a philanthropist by profession, honorary president of all charitableworks; senator, of course, since he was one of France's peers, and whoin a few years after the Prussians had left, and the battles were over, would sink into suspicious affairs and end in the police courts. 

That old statesman, whose rough, gray hairs were like brushes forremoving cobwebs, a pedant from head to foot, leaning in his favoriteattitude against the mantel decorated only with flowers, by his mulishobstinacy contributed much to the fall of the last monarchy. He wasrespectfully listened to and called "dear master" by a republicanorator, whose red-hot convictions began to ooze away, and who, soonafter, as minister of the Liberal empire, did his best to hasten thegovernment's downfall. 

Although Amedee was of an age to respect these notabilities, whomPapillon pointed out to him with so much deference, they did not impresshim so much as certain visitors who belonged to the world of art andletters. In considering them the young man was much surprised and alittle saddened at the want of harmony that he discovered between theappearance of the men and the nature of their talents. The poet Leroydes Saules had the haughty attitude and the Apollo face correspondingto the noble and perfect beauty of his verses; but Edouard Durocher, the fashionable painter of the nineteenth century, was a large, common-looking man with a huge moustache, like that of a book agent; andTheophile de Sonis, the elegant story-writer, the worldly romancer, hada copper-colored nose, and his harsh beard was like that of a chief in acustom-house. 

What attracted Amedee's attention, above all things, were the women--thefashionable women that he saw close by for the first time. Some of themwere old, and horrified him. The jewels with which they were loaded madetheir fatigued looks, dark-ringed eyes, heavy profiles, thick flabbylips, like a dromedary's, still more distressing; and with their barenecks and arms--it was etiquette at Madame Fontaine's receptions--whichallowed one to see through filmy lace their flabby flesh or bonyskeletons, they were as ridiculous as an elegant cloak would be upon anold crone. 

As he saw these decrepit, painted creatures, the young man felt therespect that he should have for the old leave him. He would look onlyat the young and beautiful women, those with graceful figures andtriumphant smiles upon their lips, flowers in their hair, and diamondsupon their necks. All this bare flesh intimidated Amedee; for he hadbeen brought up so privately and strictly that he was distressed enoughto lower his eyes at the sight of so many arms, necks, and shoulders. He thought of Maria Gerard as she looked the other day, when he met hergoing to work in the Louvre, so pretty in her short high-necked dress, her magnificent hair flying out from her close bonnet, and her boxof pastels in her hand. How much more he preferred this simple rose, concealed among thorns, to all these too full-blown peonies!

Soon the enormous and amiable Countess came to the poet and begged him, to his great confusion, to recite a few verses. He was forced to do it. It was his turn to lean upon the mantel. Fortunately it was a successfor him; all the full-blown peonies, who did not understand much ofhis poetry, thought him a handsome man, with his blue eyes, and theirardent, melancholy glance; and they applauded him as much as theycould without bursting their very tight gloves. They surrounded him andcomplimented him. Madame Fontaine presented him to the poet Leroy desSaules, who congratulated him with the right word, and invited him witha paternal air to come and see him. It would have been a very happymoment for Amedee, if one of the old maids with camel-like lips, whosestockings were probably as blue as her eyelids, had not monopolized himfor a quarter of an hour, putting him through a sort of an examinationon contemporary poets. At last the poet retired, after receiving a cupof tea and an invitation to dinner for the next Tuesday. Then he wasonce more seated in the carriage with Arthur Papillon, who gave him aslap on the thigh, exclaiming, joyfully:

"Well, you are launched!"

It was true; he was launched, and he will wear out more than one suitof evening clothes before he learns all that this action "going intosociety, " which seems nothing at all at first, and which really isnothing, implies, to an industrious man and artist, of useless activityand lost time. He is launched! He has made a successful debut! A dinnerin the city! At Madame Fontaine's dinner on the next Tuesday, someabominable wine and aged salmon was served to Amedee by a butler namedAdolphe, who ought rather to have been called Exili or Castaing, andwho, after fifteen years' service to the Countess, already owned twogood paying houses in Paris. At the time, however, all went well, for Amedee had a good healthy stomach and could digest buttons froma uniform; but when all the Borgias, in black-silk stockings andwhite-silk gloves, who wish to become house-owners, have cooked theirfavorite dishes for him, and have practised only half a dozen winters, two or three times a week upon him, we shall know more as to hisdigestion. Still that dinner was enjoyable. Beginning with thesuspicious salmon, the statesman with the brush-broom head, the one whohad overthrown Louis-Philippe without suspecting it, started to explainhow, if they had listened to his advice, this constitutional king'sdynasty would yet be upon the throne; and at the moment when thewretched butler poured out his most poisonous wine, the old ladywho looked like a dromedary with rings in its ears, made Amedee--herunfortunate neighbor--undergo a new oral examination upon the poets ofthe nineteenth century, and asked him what he thought of Lamartine'sclamorous debts, and Victor Hugo's foolish pride, and Alfred de Musset'sintemperate habits. 

The worthy Amedee is launched! He will go and pay visits of indigestion;appear one day at Madame such a one's, and at the houses of severalother "Madames. " At first he will stay there a half-hour, the simpleton!until he sees that the cunning ones only come in and go out exactly asone does in a booth at a fair. He will see pass before him--but thistime in corsages of velvet or satin-all the necks and shoulders of hisacquaintances, those that he turned away from with disgust and thosethat made him blush. Each Madame this one, entering Madame that one'shouse, will seat herself upon the edge of a chair, and will always saythe same inevitable thing, the only thing that can be or should be saidthat day; for example, "So the poor General is dead!" or "Have you heardthe new piece at the Francais? It is not very strong, but it is wellplayed!" "This will be delicious;" and Amedee will admire, above allthings, Madame this one's play of countenance, when Madame G------ tellsher that Madame B------'s daughter is to marry Madame C----'s nephew. While she hardly knows these people, she will manifest as lively a joyas if they had announced the death of an old aunt, whose money she iswaiting for to renew the furniture in her house. And, on the contrary, when Madame D---- announces that Madame E----'s little son has thewhooping-cough, at once, without transition, by a change of expressionthat would make the fortune of an actress, the lady of the house putson an air of consternation, as if the cholera had broken out the nightbefore in the Halles quarter. 

Amedee is launched, I repeat it. He is still a little green and willbecome the dupe, for a long time, of all the shams, grimaces, acting, and false smiles, which cover so many artificial teeth. At first sightall is elegance, harmony, and delicacy. Since Amedee does not know thatthe Princess Krazinska's celebrated head of hair was cut from the headsof the Breton girls, how could he suspect that the austere defender ofthe clergy, M. Lemarguillier, had been gravely compromised in a loveaffair, and had thrown himself at the feet of the chief of police, exclaiming, "Do not ruin me!" When the king of society is announced, theyoung Duc de la Tour-Prends-Garde, whose one ancestor was at the battleof the bridge, and who is just now introducing a new style in trousers, Amedee could not suspect that the favorite amusement of this fashionablerake consisted in drinking in the morning upon an empty stomach, withhis coachman, at a grog-shop on the corner. When the pretty Baronessdes Nenuphars blushed up to her ears because someone spoke the word"tea-spoon" before her, and she considered it to be an unwarrantableindelicacy--nobody knows why--it is assuredly not our young friendwho will suspect that, in order to pay the gambling debts of her thirdlover, this modest person had just sold secretly her family jewels. 

Rest assured Amedee will lose all these illusions in time. The daywill come when he will not take in earnest this grand comedy in whitecravats. He will not have the bad taste to show his indignation. No! hewill pity these unfortunate society people condemned to hypocrisy andfalsehood. He will even excuse their whims and vices as he thinks of thefrightful ennui that overwhelms them. Yes, he will understand howthe unhappy Duc de la Tour-Prends-Garde, who is condemned to hear LaFavorita seventeen times during the winter, may feel at times the needof a violent distraction, and go to drink white wine with his servant. Amedee will be full of indulgence, only one must pardon him for hisplebeian heart and native uncouthness; for at the moment when he shallhave fathomed the emptiness and vanity of this worldly farce, he willkeep all of his sympathy for those who retain something like nature. Hewill esteem infinitely more the poorest of the workmen--a wood-sawyer ora bell-hanger--than a politician haranguing from the mantel, or an oldliterary dame who sparkles like a window in the Palais-Royal, and istattooed like a Caribbean; he will prefer an old; wrinkled, villagegrand-dame in her white cap, who still hoes, although sixty years old, her little field of potatoes. 

CHAPTER XIII. A SERPENT AT THE FIRESIDE

A little more than a year has passed. It is now the first days ofOctober; and when the morning mist is dissipated, the sky is of solimpid a blue and the air so pure and fresh, that Amedee Violette isalmost tempted to make a paper kite and fly it over the fortifications, as he did in his youth. But the age for that has passed; Amedee's realkite is more fragile than if it had been made of sticks and pieces ofold paper pasted on one over another; it does not ascend very high yet, and the thread that sails it is not very strong. Amedee's kite is hisgrowing reputation. He must work to sustain it; and always with thesecret hope of making little Maria his wife. Amedee works. He is not sopoor now, since he earns at the ministry two hundred francs a month, andfrom time to time publishes a prose story in journals where his copy ispaid for. He has also left his garret in the Faubourg St. -Jacques andlives on the Ile St. Louis, in one room only, but large and bright, fromwhose window he can see, as he leans out, the coming and going of boatson the river and the sun as it sets behind Notre-Dame. 

Amedee has been working mostly upon his drama, for the Comedie-Francaisethis summer, and it is nearly done; it is a modern drama in verse, entitled L'Atelier. The action is very simple, like that of a tragedy, but he believes it is sympathetic and touching, and it ends in apopular way. Amedee thinks he has used for his dialogue familiar butnevertheless poetic lines, in which he has not feared to put in certaingraphic words and energetic speeches from the mouths of working-people. 

The grateful poet has destined the principal role for Jocquelet, who hasmade a successful debut in the 'Fourberies de Scapin', and who, sincethen, has won success after success. Jocquelet, like all comic actors, aspires to play also in drama. He can do so in reality, but underparticular conditions; for in spite of his grotesque nose, he has strongand spirited qualities, and recites verses very well. He is to representan old mechanic, in his friend's work, a sort of faubourg Nestor, andthis type will accommodate itself very well to the not very aristocraticface of Jocquelet, who more and more proves his cleverness at"making-up. " However, at first the actor was not satisfied with hispart. He fondles the not well defined dream of all actors, he wishes, like all the others, the "leading part. " They do not exactly know whatthey mean by it, but in their dreams is vaguely visible a wonderfulAlmanzor, who makes his first entrance in an open barouche drawn byfour horses harnessed a la Daumont, and descends from it dressed intight-fitting gray clothes, tasselled boots, and decorations. Thispersonage is as attractive as Don Juan, brave as Murat, a poet likeShakespeare, and as charitable as St. Vincent de Paul. He should have, before the end of the first act, crushed with love by one single glance, the young leading actress; dispersed a dozen assassins with his sword;addressed to the stars--that is to say, the spectators in the uppergallery--a long speech of eighty or a hundred lines, and gathered up twolost children under the folds of his cloak. 

A "fine leading part" should also, during the rest of the piece, accomplish a certain number of sublime acts, address the multitude fromthe top of a staircase, insult a powerful monarch to his face, dash intothe midst of a conflagration--always in the long-topped boots. The idealpart would be for him to discover America, like Christopher Columbus;win pitched battles, like Bonaparte, or some other equally senselessthing; but the essential point is, never to leave the stage and to talkall the time--the work, in reality, should be a monologue in five acts. 

This role of an old workman, offered to Jocquelet by Amedee, obtainedonly a grimace of displeasure from the actor. However, it ended byhis being reconciled to the part, studying it, and, to use his ownexpression, "racking his brains over it, " until one day he ran toViolette's, all excited, exclaiming:

"I have the right idea of my old man now! I will dress him in atricot waistcoat with ragged sleeves and dirty blue overalls. He is anapprentice, is he not? A fellow with a beard! Very well! in the greatscene where they tell him that his son is a thief and he defies thewhole of the workmen, he struggles and his clothes are torn open, showing a hairy chest. I am not hairy, but I will make myself so--doesthat fill the bill? You will see the effect. "

While reserving the right to dissuade Jocquelet from making himselfup in this way, Amedee carried his manuscript to the director of theTheatre Francais, who asked a little time to look it over, and alsopromised the young poet that he would read it aloud to the committee. 

Amedee is very anxious, although Maurice Roger, to whom he has read thepiece, act by act, predicts an enthusiastic acceptance. 

The handsome Maurice has been installed for more than a year in a studioon the Rue d'Assas and leads a jolly, free life there. Does he work?Sometimes; by fits and starts. And although he abandons his sketchesat the first attack of idleness, there is a charm about these sketches, suspended upon the wall; and he will some day show his talent. Oneof his greatest pleasures is to see pass before him all his beautifulmodels, at ten francs an hour. With palette in hand, he talks with theyoung women, tells them amusing stories, and makes them relate all theirlove-affairs. When friends come to see him, they can always see a modeljust disappearing behind a curtain. Amedee prefers to visit his friendon Sunday afternoons, and thus avoid meeting these models; and then, too, he meets there on that day Arthur Papillon, who paves the way forhis political career by pleading lawsuits for the press. Although he is, at heart, only a very moderate Liberalist, this young man, with the verychic side whiskers, defends the most republican of "beards, " if it canbe called defending; for in spite of his fine oratorical efforts, hisclients are regularly favored with the maximum of punishment. But theyare all delighted with it, for the title of "political convict" is onevery much in demand among the irreconcilables. They are all convincedthat the time is near when they will overthrow the Empire, withoutsuspecting, alas! that in order to do that twelve hundred thousandGerman bayonets will be necessary. The day after the triumph, the monthof imprisonment will be taken into account, and St. Pelagie is not the'carcere duro'. Papillon is cunning and wishes to have a finger in everypie, so he goes to dine once a week with those who owe their sojourn inthis easy-going jail to him, and regularly carries them a lobster. 

Paul Sillery, who has also made Maurice's acquaintance, loiters in thisstudio. The amiable Bohemian has not yet paid his bill to Pere Lebuffle, but he has cut his red fleece close to his head, and publishes everySunday, in the journals, news full of grace and humor. Of course theywill never pardon him at the Cafe de Seville; the "long-haired" oneshave disowned this traitor who has gone over to the enemy, and is nowonly a sickening and fetid bourgeois; and if the poetical club were ableto enforce its decrees, Paul Sillery, like an apostate Jew in the timesof the Inquisition, would have been scourged and burned alive. PaulSillery does not trouble himself about it, however; and from time totime returns to the "Seville" and treats its members to a bumper allaround, which he pays for with the gold of his dishonor. SometimesJocquelet appears, with his smooth-shaved face; but only rarely, for heis at present a very busy man and already celebrated. His audacious noseis reproduced in all positions and displayed in photographers' windows, where he has for neighbors the negatives most in demand; for instance, the fatherly and benevolent face of the pope; Pius IX, or theinternational limbs of Mademoiselle Ketty, the majestic fairy, in tights. The journals, which print Jocquelet's name, treat himsympathetically and conspicuously, and are full of his praises. "He isgood to his old aunt, " "gives alms, " "picked up a lost dog in the streetthe other evening. " An artist such as he, who stamps immortality on allthe comic repertory, and takes Moliere under his wing, has no time to goto visit friends, that is understood. However, he still honors MauriceRoger with short visits. He only has time to make all the knickknacksand china on the sideboard tremble with the noise of his terrible voice;only time to tell how, on the night before, in the greenroom, whenstill clothed in Scapin's striped cloak, he deigned to receive, withthe coldest dignity, the compliments of a Royal Highness, or some otherperson of high rank. A prominent society lady has been dying of love forhim the past six months; she occupies stage box Number Six--and then offhe goes. Good riddance!

Amedee enjoys himself in his friend's studio, where gay and wittyartists come to talk. They laugh and amuse themselves, and thisSunday resting-place is the most agreeable of the hard-working poet'srecreations. Amedee prolongs them as long as possible, until at last heis alone with his friend; then the young men stretch themselves out uponthe Turkish cushions, and they talk freely of their hopes, ambitions, and dreams for the future. 

Amedee, however, keeps one secret to himself; he never has told of hislove for Maria Gerard. Upon his return from Italy the travellerinquired several times for the Gerards, sympathized politely with theirmisfortune, and wished to be remembered to them through Amedee. Thelatter had been very reserved in his replies, and Maurice no longerbroaches the subject in their conversation. Is it through neglect? Afterall, he hardly knew the ladies; still, Amedee is not sorry to talkof them no longer with his friend, and it is never without a littleembarrassment and unacknowledged jealousy that he replies to Maria whenshe asks for news of Maurice. 

She no longer inquires. The pretty Maria is cross and melancholy, fornow they talk only of one thing at the Gerards; it is always the same, the vulgar and cruel thought, obtaining the means to live; and within ashort time they have descended a few steps lower on the slippery ladderof poverty. It is not possible to earn enough to feed three mouths witha piano method and a box of pastels--or, at least, it does not hold out. Louise has fewer pupils, and Pere Issacar has lessened his orders. MammaGerard, who has become almost an old woman, redoubles her efforts; butthey can no longer make both ends meet. Amedee sees it, and how it makeshim suffer!

The poor women are proud, and complain as little as possible; but thedecay inside this house, already so modest, is manifested in many ways. Two beautiful engravings, the last of their father's souvenirs, had beensold in an hour of extreme want; and one could see, by the clean spotsupon the wall, where the frames once hung. Madame Gerard's and herdaughters' mourning seemed to grow rusty, and at the Sunday dinnerAmedee now brings, instead of a cake, a pastry pie, which sometimesconstitutes the entire meal. There is only one bottle of old wine inthe cellar, and they drink wine by the pot from the grocer's. Each newdetail that proves his friends' distress troubles the sensitive Amedee. Once, having earned ten Louis from some literary work, he took thepoor mother aside and forced her to accept one hundred francs. Theunfortunate woman, trembling with emotion, while two large tears rolleddown her cheeks, admitted that the night before, in order to pay thewasherwoman, they had pawned the only clock in the house. 

What can he do to assist them, to help them to lead a less terriblelife? Ah! if Maria would have it so, they could be married at once, without any other expense than the white dress, as other poor peopledo; and they would all live together. He has his salary of twenty-fourhundred francs, besides a thousand francs that he has earned inother ways. With Louise's lessons this little income would be almostsufficient. Then he would exert himself to sell his writings; hewould work hard, and they could manage. Of course it would be quitean undertaking on his part to take all this family under his charge. Children might be born to them. Had he not begun to gain a reputation;had he not a future before him? His piece might be played and meet withsuccess. This would be their salvation. Oh! the happy life that thefour would lead together! Yes, if Maria could love him a little, if hepersisted in hoping, if she had the courage, it was the only step totake. 

Becoming enthusiastic upon this subject, Amedee decided to submit thequestion to the excellent Louise, in whom he had perfect confidence, andconsidered to be goodness and truth personified. Every Thursday, at sixo'clock, she left a boarding-school in the Rue de la Rochechouart, whereshe gave lessons to young ladies in singing. He would go and waitfor her as she came out that very evening. And there he met her. PoorLouise! her dress was lamentable; and what a sad countenance! What atired, distressed look!

"What, you, Amedee!" said she, with a happy smile, as he met her. 

"Yes, my dear Louise. Take my arm and let me accompany you part of theway. We will talk as we walk; I have something very serious to say toyou, confidentially--important advice to ask of you. "

The poet then began to make his confession. He recalled their childhooddays in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, when they played together; itwas as long ago as that that he had first begun to be charmed by littleMaria. As soon as he became a young man he felt that he loved the dearchild, and had always cherished the hope that he might inspire her witha tender sentiment and marry her some day. If he had not spoken soonerit was because he was too poor, but he had always loved her, he lovedher now, and never should love any other woman. He then explainedhis plan of life in simple and touching terms; he would become MadameGerard's son and his dear Louise's brother; the union of their twopoverties would become almost comfort. Was it not very simple andreasonable? He was very sure that she would approve of it, and she waswisdom itself and the head of the family. 

While he was talking Louise lowered her eyes and looked at her feet. Hedid not feel that she was trembling violently. Blind, blind Amedee!You do not see, you will never see, that she is the one who loves you!Without hope! she knows that very well; she is older than you, she isnot pretty, and she will always be in your eyes an adopted eldersister, who once showed you your alphabet letters with the point of herknitting-needle. She has suspected for a long time your love for Maria;she suffers, but she is resigned to it, and she will help you, the bravegirl! But this confession that you make, Maria's name that you murmurinto her ear in such loving accents, this dream of happiness in which, in your artless egotism, you reserve for her the role of an old maid whowill bring up your children, is cruel, oh! how cruel! They have reachedthe Boulevard Pigalle; the sun has set; the sky is clear and bright asa turquoise, and the sharp autumn wind detaches the last of the driedleaves from the trees. Amedee is silent, but his anxious glance solicitsand waits for Louise's reply. 

"Dear Amedee, " said she, raising her frank, pure eyes to his face, "youhave the most generous and best of hearts. I suspected that you lovedMaria, and I would be glad to tell you at once that she loves you, so that we might hereafter be but one family--but frankly I can not. Although the dear child is a little frivolous, her woman's instinct mustsuspect your feeling for her, but she has never spoken of it to mamma orto me. Have confidence; I do not see anything that augurs ill for youin that. She is so young and so innocent that she might love you withoutsuspecting it herself. It is very possible, probable even, that youravowal will enlighten her as to the state of her own heart. She willbe touched by your love, I am sure, as well as by your devotion to thewhole family. I hope, with all my heart, Amedee, that you will succeed;for, I can say it to you, some pleasure must happen in poor Maria's lifesoon. She has moments of the deepest sadness and attacks of weeping thathave made me uneasy for some time. You must have noticed, too, that sheis overwhelmed with ennui. I can see that she suffers more than mammaor I, at the hard life that we lead. It is not strange that she feels asshe does, for she is pretty and attractive, and made for happiness;and to see the present and the future so sad! How hard it is! You canunderstand, my friend, how much I desire this marriage to take place. You are so good and noble, you will make Maria happy; but you have saidit, I am the one who represents wisdom in our house. Let me have thena few days in which to observe Maria, to obtain her confidence, todiscover perhaps a sentiment in her heart of which she is ignorant; andremember that you have a sure and faithful ally in me. "

"Take your own time, dear Louise, " replied the poet. "I leave everythingto you. Whatever you do will be for the best. "

He thanked her and they parted at the foot of the Rue Lepic. It was abitter pleasure for the slighted one to give the young man her poor, deformed, pianist's hand, and to feel that he pressed it with hope andgratitude. 

She desired and must urge this marriage. She said this over and overagain to herself, as she walked up the steep street, where crowds ofpeople were swarming at the end of their day's work. No! no! Maria didnot care for Amedee. Louise was very sure of it; but at all events itwas necessary that she should try to snatch her young sister from thediscouragements and bad counsel of poverty. Amedee loved her and wouldknow how to make her love him. In order to assure their happiness thesetwo young people must be united. As to herself, what matter! If they hadchildren she would accept in advance her duties as coddling aunt andold godmother. Provided, of course, that Maria would be guided, or, atleast, that she would consent. She was so pretty that she was a triflevain. She was nourishing, perhaps, nobody knew what fancy or vain hope, based upon her beauty and youth. Louise had grave fears. The poor girl, with her thin, bent shoulders wrapped up in an old black shawl, hadalready forgotten her own grief and only thought of the happiness ofothers, as she slowly dragged herself up Montmartre Hill. Whenshe reached the butcher's shop in front of the mayor's office, sheremembered a request of her mother's; and as is always the case with thepoor, a trivial detail is mixed with the drama of life. Louise, withoutforgetting her thoughts, while sacrificing her own heart, went into theshop and picked out two breaded cutlets and had them done up in brownpaper, for their evening's repast. 

The day after his conversation with Louise, Amedee felt that distressingimpatience that waiting causes nervous people. The day at the officeseemed unending, and in order to escape solitude, at five o'clock hewent to Maurice's studio, where he had not been for fifteen days. Hefound him alone, and the young artist also seemed preoccupied. WhileAmedee congratulated him upon a study placed upon an easel, Mauricewalked up and down the room with his hands in his pocket, and eyes uponthe floor, making no reply to his friend's compliments. Suddenly hestopped and looking at Amedee said:

"Have you seen the Gerard ladies during the past few days?"

Maurice had not spoken of these ladies for several months, and the poetwas a trifle surprised. 

"Yes, " he replied. "Not later than yesterday I met Mademoiselle Louise. "

"And, " replied Maurice, in a hesitating manner, "were all the familywell?"

"Yes. "

"Ah!" said the artist, in a strange voice, and he resumed his silentpromenade. 

Amedee always had a slightly unpleasant sensation when Maurice spoke thename of the Gerards, but this time the suspicious look and singulartone of the young painter, as he inquired about them, made the poetfeel genuinely uneasy. He was impressed, above all, by Maurice's simpleexclamation, "Ah!" which seemed to him to be enigmatical and mysterious. But nonsense! all this was foolish; his friend's questions wereperfectly natural. 

"Shall we pass the evening together, my dear Maurice?"

"It is impossible this evening, " replied Maurice, still continuing hiswalk. "A duty--I have an engagement. "

Amedee had the feeling that he had come at an unfortunate time, anddiscreetly took his departure. Maurice had seemed indifferent and lesscordial than usual. 

"What is the matter with him?" said the poet to himself several times, while dining in the little restaurant in the Latin Quarter. He afterwardwent to the Comedie Francaise, to kill time, as well as to inquireafter his drama of Jocquelet, who played that evening in 'Le LegataireUniversel'. 

The comedian received him in his dressing-room, being already arrayedin Crispin's long boots and black trousers. He was seated in hisshirt-sleeves be fore his toilet-table, and had just pasted over hissmooth lips the bristling moustache of this traditional personage. Without rising, or even saying "Good-day, " he cried out to the poet ashe recognized him in the mirror. 

"No news as to your piece! The manager has not one moment to himself;we are getting ready for the revival of Camaraderie. But we shall bethrough with it in two days, and then--"

And immediately, talking to hear himself talk, and to exercise histerrible organ, he belched out, like the noise from an opened dam, atorrent of commonplace things. He praised Scribe's works, which theyhad put on the stage again; he announced that the famous Guillery, hissenior in the comedy line, would be execrable in this performance, andwould make a bungle of it. He complained of being worried to deathby the pursuit of a great lady--"You know, stage box Number Six, " andshowed, with a conceited gesture, a letter, tossed in among the jars ofpaint and pomade, which smelled of musk. Then, ascending to subjectsof a more elevated order, he scored the politics of the Tuileries, andscornfully exposed the imperial corruption while recognizing that this"poor Badingue, " who, three days before, had paid a little compliment tothe actor, was of more account than his surroundings. 

The poet went home and retired, bewildered by such gossip. When heawoke, the agony of his thoughts about Maria had become still morepainful. When should he see Louise again? Would her reply be favorable?In spite of the fine autumn morning his heart was troubled, and he feltthat he had no courage. His administrative work had never seemed moreloathsome than on that day. His fellow-clerk, an amateur in hunting, had just had two days' absence, and inflicted upon him, in an unmercifulmanner, his stories of slaughtered partridges, and dogs who pointed, so wonderfully well, and of course punctuated all this with numerousPan-Pans! to imitate the report of a double-barrelled gun. 

When he left the office Amedee regained his serenity a little; hereturned home by the quays, hunting after old books and enjoying thepleasures of a beautiful evening, watching, in the golden sky, aroundthe spires of Ste. -Chapelle, a large flock of swallows assembling fortheir approaching departure. 

At nightfall, after dining, he resolved to baffle his impatience byworking all the evening and retouching one act of his drama with whichhe was not perfectly content. He went to his room, lighted his lamp, andseated himself before his open manuscript. Now, then! to work! He hadbeen silly ever since the night before. Why should he imagine thatmisfortune was in the air? Do such things as presentiments exist?

Suddenly, three light, but hasty and sharp knocks were struck upon hisdoor. Amedee arose, took his lamp, and opened it. He jumped back--therestood Louise Gerard in her deep mourning!

"You?--At my rooms?--At this hour?--What has happened?"

She entered and dropped into the poet's armchair. While he put the lampupon the table he noticed that the young girl was as white as wax. Thenshe seized his hands and pressing them with all her strength, she said, in a voice unlike her own--a voice hoarse with despair:

"Amedee, I come to you by instinct, as toward our only friend, as toa brother, as to the only man who will be able to help us repair thefrightful misfortune which overwhelms us!" She stopped, stifled withemotion. 

"A misfortune!" exclaimed the young man. "What misfortune? Maria?"

"Yes! Maria!"

"An accident?--An illness?"

Louise made a rapid gesture with her arm and head which signified: "Ifit were only that!" With her mouth distorted by a bitter smile and withlowered eyes, talking confusedly, she said:

"Monsieur Maurice Roger--yes--your friend Maurice! A miserablewretch!--he has deceived and ruined the unhappy child! Oh! whatinfamy!--and now--now--"

Her deathly pale face flushed and became purple to the roots of herhair. 

"Now Maria will become a mother!"

At these words the poet gave a cry like some enraged beast; he reeled, and would have fallen had the table not been near. He sat down on theedge of it, supporting himself with his hands, completely frozen as iffrom a great chill. Louise, overcome with shame, sat in the armchair, hiding her face in her hands while great tears rolled down between thefingers of her ragged gloves. 

BOOK 4. 

CHAPTER XIV. TOO LATE!

It had been more than three months since Maria and Maurice had metagain. One day the young man went to the Louvre to see his favoritepictures of the painters of the Eighteenth Century. His attention wasattracted by the beautiful hair of a young artist dressed in black, whowas copying one of Rosalba's portraits. It was our pretty pastel artistwhose wonderful locks disturbed all the daubers in the museum, and whichmade colorists out of Signol's pupils themselves. Maurice approached thecopyist, and then both exclaimed at once:

"Mademoiselle Maria!"

"Monsieur Maurice!"

She had recognized him so quickly and with such a charming smile, shehad not, then, forgotten him? When he used to visit Pere Gerard he hadnoticed that she was not displeased with him; but after such a longtime, at first sight, to obtain such a greeting, such a delightedexclamation--it was flattering!

The young man standing by her easel, with his hat off, so gracefuland elegant in his well-cut garments, began to talk with her. He spokefirst, in becoming and proper terms, of her father's death; inquired forher mother and sister, congratulated himself upon having been recognizedthus, and then yielding to his bold custom, he added:

"As to myself, I hesitated at first. You have grown still more beautifulin two years. "

As she blushed, he continued, in a joking way, which excused hisaudacity:

"Amedee told me that you had become delicious, but now I hardly dare askhim for news of you. Ever since you have lived at Montmartre--and I knowthat he sees you every Sunday--he has never offered to take me with himto pay my respects. Upon my word of honor, Mademoiselle Maria, I believethat he is in love with you and as jealous as a Turk. "

She protested against it, confused but still smiling. 

Ah! if he had known of the dream that Maria had kept concealed in onecorner of her heart ever since their first meeting. If he had known thather only desire was to be chosen and loved by this handsome Maurice, whohad gone through their house and among poor Papa Gerard's bric-a-braclike a meteor! Why not, after all? Did she not possess that great power, beauty? Her father, her mother, and even her sister, the wise Louise, had often said so to her. Yes! from the very first she had been charmedby this young man with the golden moustache, and the ways of a younglord; she had hoped to please him, and later, in spite of poverty anddeath, she had continued to be intoxicated with this folly and to dreamof this narcotic against grief, of the return of this Prince Charming. Poor Maria, so good and so artless, who had been told too many timesthat she was pretty! Poor little spoiled child!

When he left you yesterday, little Maria, after half an hour's pleasingconversation, Maurice said to you jokingly: "Do not tell Violette, aboveall, that we have met. I should lose my best friend. " You not only saidnothing to Amedee, but you told neither your mother nor your sister. ForLouise and Madame Gerard are prudent and wise, and they would tell youto avoid this rash fellow who has accosted you in a public place, andhas told you at once that you are beautiful and beloved. They wouldscold you; they would tell you that this young man is of a rich anddistinguished family; that his mother has great ambitions for him; thatyou have only your old black dress and beautiful eyes, and to-morrow, when you return to the Louvre, Madame Gerard will establish herself nearyour easel and discourage the young gallant. 

But, little Maria, you conceal it from your mother and Louise! You havea secret from your family! To-morrow when you make your toilette beforethe mirror and twist up your golden hair, your heart will beat with hopeand vanity. In the Louvre your attention will be distracted from yourwork when you hear a man's step resound in a neighboring gallery, andwhen Maurice arrives you will doubtless be troubled, but very muchsurprised and not displeased, ah! only too much pleased. Little Maria, little Maria, he talks to you in a low tone now. His blond moustache isvery near your cheek, and you do well to lower your eyes, for I see agleam of pleasure under your long lashes. I do not hear what he says, nor your replies; but how fast he works, how he gains your confidence!You will compromise yourself, little Maria, if you keep him too long byyour easel. Four o'clock will soon strike, and the watchman in the greencoat, who is snoozing before Watteau's designs, will arouse from historpor, stretch his arms, look at his watch, get up from his seat, andcall out "Time to close. " Why do you allow Maurice to help you arrangeyour things, to accompany you through the galleries, carrying your boxof pastels? The long, lanky girl in the Salon Carre, who affects theEnglish ways, the one who will never finish copying the "Vierge aucoussin vert, " has followed you into the Louvre court. Take care! Shehas noticed, envious creature, that you are very much moved as you takeleave of your companion, and that you let your hand remain for a secondin his! This old maid 'a l'anglaise' has a viper's tongue. To-morrow youwill be the talk of the Louvre, and the gossip will spread to the 'Ecoledes Beaux-Arts', even to Signol's studio, where the two daubers, yourrespectful admirers, who think of cutting their throats in your honor, will accost each other with a "Well, the pretty pastellist! Yes, I know, she has a lover. "

If it was only a lover! But the pretty pastellist has been verycareless, more foolish than the old maid or the two young fellows dreamof. It is so sweet to hear him say: "I love you!" and so delicious tolisten for the question: "And you, do you love me a little?" when she isdying to say, "Yes!" Bending her head and blushing with confusion underMaurice's ardent gaze, the pretty Maria ends by murmuring the fatal"Yes. " Then she sees Maurice turn pale with joy, and he says to her, "Imust talk to you alone; not before these bores. " She replies: "But how?It is impossible!" Then he asks whether she does not trust him, whethershe does not believe him to be an honest man, and the young girl's lookssay more than any protestation would. 

"Well! to-morrow morning at ten o'clock--instead of coming to theLouvre--will you? I will wait for you on the Quai d'Orsay, before theSaint-Cloud pier. "

She was there at the appointed hour, overwhelmed with emotion and readyto faint. He took her by the arm and led her aboard the boat. 

"Do you see, now we are almost alone. Give me the pleasure of wanderingthrough the fields with you. It is such beautiful weather. Be tranquil, we shall return early. "

Oh, the happy day! Maria sees pass before her, as she is seated besideMaurice, who is whispering in her ear loving words and whose glancescover her with caresses, as if in a dream, views of Paris that were notfamiliar to her, high walls, arches of bridges, then the bare suburbs, the smoking manufactories of Grenelle, the Bas Meudon, with its boatsand public-houses. At last, on the borders of the stream, the park withits extensive verdure appeared. 

They wandered there for a long time under the chestnut-trees, loadedwith their fruit in its green shells. The sun, filtering through thefoliage, dotted the walks with patches of light, and Maurice continuedto repeat to Maria that he loved her; that he had never loved any onebut her! that he had loved her from the very first time that he saw herat Pere Gerard's, and that neither time nor absence had been able todrive away the remembrance of her. And at this moment he imagined thatit was true. He did not think that he was telling a lie. As to poorMaria, do not be too severe upon her! think of her youth, her povertyand imprisonment--she was overwhelmed with happiness. She could thinkof nothing to say, and, giving herself up into the young man's arms, shehad hardly the strength to turn upon him, from time to time, her eyestortured with love. 

Is it necessary to tell how she succumbed? how they went to a restaurantand dined? Emotion, the heavy heat of the afternoon, champagne, thatgolden wine that she tasted for the first time, stunned the imprudentchild. Her charming head slips down upon the sofa-pillow, she is nearlyfainting. 

"You are too warm, " said Maurice. "This bright light makes you ill. "

He draws the curtains; they are in the darkness, and he takes the younggirl in his arms, covering her hands, eyes, and lips with kisses. 

Doubtless he swears to her that she shall be his wife. He asks only alittle time, a few weeks, in which to prepare his mother, the ambitiousMadame Roger, for his unexpected marriage. Maria never doubts him, butovercome by her fault, she feels an intense shame, and buries her faceon her lover's shoulder. She thinks then, the guilty girl, of her past;of her innocence and poverty, of her humble but honest home; her deadfather, her mother and sister---her two mothers, properly speaking---whoyet call her "little one" and always consider her as a child, an infantin all its purity. She feels impressed with her sin, and wishes that shemight die there at once. 

Oh! I beg of you, be charitable to the poor, weak Maria, for she isyoung and she must suffer!

Maurice was not a rascal, after all; he was in earnest when he promisedto marry her without delay. He even meant to admit all to his mother thenext day; but when he saw her she never had appeared so imposing to him, with her gray hair under her widow's cap. He shivered as he thought ofthe tearful scenes, the reproaches and anger, and in his indolence hesaid to himself: "Upon my honor, I will do it later!" He loves Mariaafter his fashion. He is faithful to her, and when she steals away anhour from her work to come to see him, he is uneasy at the least delay. She is truly adorable, only Maurice does not like the unhappy look thatshe wears when she asks him, in a trembling voice: "Have you spoken toyour mother?" He embraces her, reassures her. "Be easy. Leave me timeto arrange it. " The truth is, that now he begins to be perplexed at theidea of this marriage. It is his duty, he knows that very well; but heis not twenty three years old yet. There is no hurry. After all, is itduty? the little one yielded easily enough. Has he not the right to testher and wait a little? It is what his mother would advise him, he iscertain. That is the only reasonable way to look at it. 

Alas, egotists and cowards always have a reason for everything!

How dearly poor Maria's foolish step has cost her! How heavily sucha secret weighs upon the child's heart! For a few moments of uneasyintoxication with this man, whom she already doubts and who sometimesmakes her afraid, she must lie to her mother without blushing orlowering her eyes, and enter Maurice's house veiled and hiding like athief. But that is nothing yet. After some time of this agonizing lifeher health is troubled. Quickly she goes to find Maurice! She arrivesunexpectedly and finds him lying upon the sofa smoking a cigar. Withoutgiving him time to rise, she throws herself into his arms, and, burstinginto sobs, makes her terrible avowal. At first he only gives a start ofangry astonishment, a harsh glance. 

"Bah! you must be mistaken. "

"I am sure of it, I tell you, I am sure of it!"

She has caught his angry glance and feels condemned in advance. However, he gives her a cold kiss, and it is with a great effort that shestammers:

"Maurice--you must--speak to your mother--"

He rises with an impatient gesture and Maria seats herself--her strengthis leaving her--while he walks up and down the room. 

"My poor Maria, " he begins in a hesitating manner, "I dared not tellyou, but my mother will not consent to our marriage--now, at least. "

He lies! He has not spoken to his mother; she knows it. Ah! unhappycreature! he does not love her! and, discouraged, with a rumbling noisein her ears, she listens to Maurice as he speaks in his soft voice. 

"Oh! be tranquil. I shall not abandon you, my poor child. If what yousay is true-if you are sure of it, then the best thing that you can do, you see, is to leave your family and come and live with me. At first wewill go away from Paris; you can be confined in the country. We canput the child out to nurse; they will take care of the little brat, ofcourse. And later, perhaps, my mother will soften and will understandthat we must marry. No, truly, the more I think of it, the more Ibelieve that that is the best way to do. Yes! I know very well it willbe hard to leave your home, but what can you do, my darling? You canwrite your mother a very affectionate letter. "

And going to her he takes her, inert and heartbroken, into his arms, andtries to show himself loving. 

"You are my wife, my dear little wife, I repeat it. Are you not glad, eh! that we can live together?"

This is what he proposes to do. He thinks to take her publicly to hishouse and to blazon her shame before the eyes of everybody! Maria feelsthat she is lost. She rises abruptly and says to him in the tone of asomnambulist: "That will do. We will talk of it again. "

She goes away and returns to Montmartre at a crazy woman's pace, andfinds her mother knitting and her sister ready to lay the table-yes!as if nothing at all was the matter. She takes their hands and falls attheir feet!

Ah, poor women!

They had already been very much tried. The decay of this worthy familywas lamentable; but in spite of all, yesterday even, they endured theirfate with resignation. Yes! the economy, the degrading drudgery, theold, mended gowns--they accepted all this without a murmur. A noblesentiment sustained and gave them courage. All three--the old mother ina linen cap doing the cooking and the washing, the elder sister givinglessons at forty sous, and the little one working in pastels--werevaguely conscious of representing something very humble, but sacred andnoble--a family without a blemish on their name. They felt that theymoved in an atmosphere of esteem and respect. "Those ladies upon thefirst floor have so many accomplishments, " say the neighbors. Theirapartment--with its stained woodwork, its torn wall, paper, but wherethey were all united in work and drawn closer and closer to each otherin love--had still the sweetness of a home; and upon their raggedmourning, their dilapidated furniture, the meagre meat soup at night, the pure light of honor gleamed and watched over them. Now, after thisguilty child's avowal, all this was ended, lost forever! There was ablemish upon their life of duty and poverty, upon their irreproachablepast, even upon the father's memory. Certainly the mother and eldersister excused the poor creature who sobbed under their kisses andbegged their pardon. However, when they gazed at each other with redeyes and dry lips, they measured the fall of the family; they saw forthe first time how frightful were their destitution and distress; theyfelt the unbearable feeling of shame glide into their hearts likea sinister and unexpected guest who, at the first glance, makes oneunderstand that he has come to be master of the lodging. This was thesecret, the overwhelming secret, which the distracted Louise Gerardrevealed that evening to her only friend, Amedee Violette, acting thusby instinct, as a woman with too heavy a burden throws it to the ground, crying for help. 

When she had ended her cruel confidence, to which the poet listenedwith his face buried in his hands, and he uncovered his face creased andfurrowed by the sudden wrinkles of despair, Louise was frightened. 

"How I have wounded him!" she thought. "How he loves Maria!"

But she saw shining in the young man's eyes a gloomy resolution. 

"Very well, Louise, " muttered he, between his teeth. "Do not tell me anymore, I beg of you. I do not know where to find Maurice at this hour, but he will see me to-morrow morning, rest easy. If the evil is notrepaired--and at once!"

He did not finish; his voice was stifled with grief and rage, and uponan almost imperious gesture to leave, Louise departed, overcome by herundertaking. 

No, Maurice Roger was not a villain. After Maria's departure he feltashamed and displeased with himself. A mother! poor little thing!Certainly he would take charge of her and the child; he would behavelike a gentleman. But, to speak plainly, he did not now love her as muchas he did. His vagabond nature was already tired of his love-affair. This one was watered too much by tears. Bah! he was usually lucky, andthis troublesome affair would come out all right like the others. Truly, it was as bad an accident as if one had fallen into a hole and brokenhis leg. But then, who could tell? Chance and time arrange many things. The child might not live, perhaps; at any rate, it was perfectly naturalthat he should wait and see what happened. 

The next morning the reckless Maurice--who had not slept badly--wastranquilly preparing his palette while awaiting his model, when he sawAmedee Violette enter his studio. At the first glance he saw that thepoet knew all. 

"Maurice, " said Amedee, in a freezing tone, "I received a visit fromMademoiselle Louise Gerard last evening. She told me everything--all, doyou understand me perfectly? I have come to learn whether I am mistakenregarding you--whether Maurice Roger is an honest man. "

A flame darted from the young artist's eyes. Amedee, with his lividcomplexion and haggard from a sleepless night and tears, was pitiful tosee. And then it was Amedee, little Amedee whom Maurice sincerely loved, for whom he had kept, ever since their college days, a sentiment, allthe more precious that it flattered his vanity, the indulgent affectionand protection of a superior. 

"Oh! Grand, melodramatic words already!" said he, placing his paletteupon the table. "Amedee, my dear boy, I do not recognize you, and if youhave any explanation that you wish to ask of your old friend, it is notthus that you should do it. You have received, you tell me, MademoiselleGerard's confidence. I know you are devoted to those ladies. Iunderstand your emotion and I think your intervention legitimate; butyou see I speak calmly and in a friendly way. Calm yourself in your turnand do not forget that, in spite of your zeal for those ladies, I am thebest and dearest companion of your youth. I am, I know, in one of thegravest situations of my life. Let us talk of it. Advise me; youhave the right to do so; but not in that tone of voice--that angry, threatening tone which I pardon, but which hurts and makes me doubt, were it possible, your love for me. "

"Ah! you know very well that I love you, " replied the unhappy Amedee, "but why do you need my advice? You are frank enough to deny nothing. You admit that it is true, that you have seduced a young girl. Does notyour conscience tell you what to do?"

"To marry her? That is my intention. But, Amedee, do you think of mymother? This marriage will distress her, destroy her fond hopes andambitions. I hope to be able to gain her consent; only I must have timeto turn myself. Later--very soon. I do not say--if the child lives. "

This word, torn from Maurice by the cynicism which is in the heart ofall egotists, made Amedee angry. 

"Your mother!" exclaimed he. "Your mother is the widow of a Frenchofficer who died facing the enemy. She will understand it, I am sure, as a matter of honor and duty. Go and find her, tell her that you haveruined this unfortunate child. Your mother will advise you to marry her. She will command you to do it. "

This argument was forcible and direct, and impressed Maurice; but hisfriend's violence irritated him. 

"You go to work badly, Amedee, I repeat it, " said he, raising his tone. "You have no right to prejudge my mother's opinion, and I receive noorders from anybody. After all, nothing authorizes you to do it; if itis because you were in love with Maria--"

A furious cry interrupted him. Amedee, with wild eyes and shaking hisfists, walked toward Maurice, speaking in a cutting tone:

"Well, yes! I loved her, " said he, "and I wished to make her my wife. You, who no longer love her, who took her out of caprice, as you havetaken others, you have destroyed all of my dreams for the future. Shepreferred you, and, understand me, Maurice, I am too proud to complain, too just to hold spite against you. I am only here to prevent yourcommitting an infamy. Upon my honor! If you repulse me, our friendshipis destroyed forever, and I dare not think of what will happen betweenus, but it will be terrible! Alas! I am wrong, I do not talk to you asI ought. Maurice, there is time yet! Only listen to your heart, which Iknow is generous and good. You have wronged an innocent child and drivena poor and worthy family to despair. You can repair the evil you havecaused. You wish to. You will! I beg of you, do it out of respect foryourself and the name you bear. Act like a brave man and a gentleman!Give this young girl--whose only wrong has been in loving you toomuch--give the mother of your child your name, your heart, your love. You will be happy with her and through her. Go! I shall not be jealousof your happiness, but only too glad to have found my friend, my loyalMaurice once more, and to be able still to love and admire him asheretofore. "

Stirred by these warm words, and fatigued by the discussion andstruggle, the painter reached out his hands to his friend, who pressedthem in his. Suddenly he looked at Amedee and saw his eyes shining withtears, and, partly from sorrow, but more from want of will and frommoral weakness, to end it he exclaimed:

"You are right, after all. We will arrange this matter without delay. What do you wish me to do?"

Ah, how Amedee bounded upon his neck!

"My good, my dear Maurice! Quickly dress yourself. Let us go to thoseladies and embrace and console that dear child. Ah! I knew very wellthat you would understand me and that your heart was in the right place. How happy the poor women will be! Now then, my old friend, is it notgood to do one's duty?"

Yes, Maurice found that it was good now; excited and carried away by hisfriend, he hurried toward the good action that was pointed out to him ashe would to a pleasure-party, and while putting on his coat to go out, he said:

"After all, my mother can only approve, and since she always does as Iwish, she will end by adoring my little Maria. It is all right; thereis no way of resisting you, Violette. You are a good and persuasiveViolette. Now, then, here I am, ready--a handkerchief--my hat. Off wego!"

They went out and took a cab which carried them toward Montmartre. Theeasy-going Maurice, reconciled to his future, sketched out his plan oflife. Once married, he would work seriously. At first, immediately afterthe ceremony, he would leave with his wife to pass the winter in theSouth, where she could be confined. He knew a pretty place in theCorniche, near Antibes, where he should not lose his time, as he couldbring back marine and landscape sketches. But it would not be until thenext winter that he would entirely arrange his life. The painter Laugeolwas going to move; he would hire his apartment--"a superb studio, mydear fellow, with windows looking out upon the Luxembourg. " He couldsee himself there now, working hard, having a successful picture in theSalon, wearing a medal. He chose even the hangings in the sleeping-roomsin advance. Then, upon beautiful days, how convenient the garden wouldbe for the child and the nurse. 

Suddenly, in the midst of this chattering, he noticed Amedee's sad faceas he shrank into the back of the carriage. 

"Forgive me, my dear friend, " said he, taking him affectionately by thehand. "I forgot what you told me just now. Ah! fate is ridiculous, whenI think that my happiness makes you feel badly. "

The poet gave his friend a long, sad look. 

"Be happy with Maria and make her happy, that is all I ask for youboth. "

They had reached the foot of Montmartre, and the carriage went slowly upthe steep streets. 

"My friend, " said Amedee, "we shall arrive there soon. You will go inalone to see these ladies, will you not? Oh! do not be afraid. I knowLouise and the mother. They will not utter one word of reproach. Yourupright act will be appreciated by them as it merits--but you willexcuse me from going with you, do you see? It would be too painful forme. "

"Yes, I understand, my poor Amedee. As it pleases you. Now then, courage, you will be cured of it. Everything is alleviated in time, "replied Maurice, who supposed everybody to have his fickle nature. "Ishall always remember the service that you have rendered me, for I blushnow as I think of it. Yes, I was going to do a villainous act. Amedee, embrace me. "

They threw their arms about each other's neck, and the carriage stopped. Once on the sidewalk, Amedee noticed his friend's wry face as he sawthe home of the Gerards, a miserable, commonplace lodging-house, whosecrackled plastered front made one think of the wrinkles on a poor man'sface. On the right and on the left of the entrance-door were two shops, one a butcher's, the other a fruiterer's, exhaling their fetid odors. But Amedee paid no attention to the delicate Maurice's repugnance, saying:

"Do you see that little garden at the end of the walk? It is there. Aurevoir. "

They separated with a last grasp of the hand. The poet saw Maurice enterthe dark alley, cross the narrow court and push the gate open into thegarden, and then disappear among the mass of verdure. How many timesAmedee had passed through there, moved at the thought that he was goingto see Maria; and Maurice crossed this threshold for the first timein his life to take her away. He wanted her! He had himself given hisbeloved to another! He had begged, almost forced his rival, so to speak, to rob him of his dearest hope! What sorrow!

Amedee gave his address to the driver and entered the carriage again. Acold autumn rain had commenced to fall, and he was obliged to closethe windows. As he was jolted harshly through the streets of Paris ata trot, the young poet, all of a shiver, saw carriages streaming withwater, bespattered pedestrians under their umbrellas, a heavy gloom fallfrom the leaden sky; and Amedee, stupefied with grief, felt a strangesensation of emptiness, as if somebody had taken away his heart. 

When he entered his room, the sight of his furniture, his engravings, his books on their shelves, and his table covered with its papersdistressed him. His long evenings of study near this lamp, the longhours of thought over some difficult work, the austere and cheerlessyear that he had lived there, all had been dedicated to Maria. It wasin order to obtain her some day, that he had labored so assiduouslyand obstinately! And now the frivolous and guilty child was doubtlessweeping for joy in Maurice's arms, her husband to-morrow?

Seated before his table, with his head buried in his hands, Amedee sankinto the depths of melancholy. His life seemed such a failure, his fateso disastrous, his future so gloomy, he felt so discouraged and lonely, that for the moment the courage to live deserted him. It seemed to himthat an invisible hand touched him upon the shoulder with compassion, and he had at once a desire and a fear to turn around and look; for heknew very well that this hand was that of the dead. He did not fancy itunder the hideous aspect of a skeleton, but as a calm, sad, but yet verysweet face which drew him against its breast with a mother's tenderness, and made him and his grief sleep--a sleep without dreams, profound andeternal. Suddenly he turned around and uttered a frightful cry. Fora moment he thought he saw, extended at his feet, and still holding arazor in his hand, the dead body of his unhappy father, a horrible woundin his throat, and his thin gray hair in a pool of blood!

He was still trembling with this frightful hallucination when somebodyknocked at his door. It was the concierge, who brought him two letters. 

The first was stamped with the celebrated name:

"Comedie Francaise, 1680. " The manager announced in the most graciousterms that he had read with the keenest pleasure his drama in verse, entitled L'Atelier, and he hoped that the reading committee would acceptthis work. 

"Too late!" thought the young poet, as he tore open the other envelope. 

This second letter bore the address of a Paris notary, and informed M. Amedee Violette that M. Isidore Gaufre had died without leaving a will, and that, as nephew of the defunct, he would receive a part of theestate, still difficult to appraise, but which would not be less thantwo hundred and fifty or three hundred thousand francs. 

Success and fortune! Everything came at once! Amedee was at firstoverwhelmed with surprise; but with all these unhoped-for favors offortune, which did not give him the power to repair his misfortune, thenoble poet deeply realized that riches and glory were not equal to agreat love or a beautiful dream, and, completely upset by the irony ofhis fate, he broke into a harsh burst of laughter. 

CHAPTER XV. REPARATION

The late M. Violette was not mistaken when he supposed M. Gaufre capableof disinheriting his family in favor of his servant-mistress, butBerenice was wanting in patience. The rough beard and cap of anirresistible sergeant-major were the ruin of the girl. One Sunday, whenM. Gaufre, as usual, recited vespers at St. Sulpice, he found that forthe first time in his life he had forgotten his snuff-box. The holyoffices were unbearable to this hypocritical person unless frequentlybroken by a good pinch of snuff. Instead of waiting for the finalbenediction and then going to take his usual walk, he left his churchwarden's stall and returned unexpectedly to the Rue Servandoni, where hesurprised Berenice in a loving interview with her military friend. Theold man's rage was pitiful to behold. He turned the Normandy beautyignominiously out of doors, tore up the will he had made in her favor, and died some weeks after from indigestion, and left, in spite ofhimself, all his fortune to his natural heirs. 

Amedee's drama had been accepted by the Comedie Francaise, but was notto be brought out until spring. The notary in charge of his uncle'sestate had advanced him a few thousand francs, and, feeling sad and nothaving the courage to be present at the marriage of Maurice and Maria, the poet wished at least to enjoy, in a way, his new fortune and theindependence that it gave him; so he resigned his position and left fora trip to Italy, in the hope of dissipating his grief. 

Ah, never travel when the heart is troubled! You sleep with the echo ofa dear name in your thoughts, and the half sleep of nights on a trainis feverish and full of nightmares. Amedee suffered tortures from it. In the midst of the continual noise of the cars he thought he could hearsad voices crying loudly the name of a beloved lost one. Sometimes thetumult would become quiet for a little; brakes, springs, wheels, allparts of the furious cast-iron machine seemed to him tired of howlingthe deafening rhythmical gallop, and the vigorously rocked travellercould distinguish in the diminished uproar a strain of music, at firstconfused like a groan, then more distinct, but always the same cruel, haunting monotone--the fragment of a song that Maria once sang whenthey were both children. Suddenly a mournful and prolonged whistle wouldresound through the night. The express rushed madly into a tunnel. Underthe sonorous roof, the frightful concert redoubled, exasperating himamong all these metallic clamors; but Amedee still heard a distant soundlike that of a blacksmith's hammer, and each heavy blow made his heartbound painfully. 

Ah! never travel, and above all, never travel alone, if your heart issad! How hostile and inhospitable the first sensation is that one feelsthen when entering an unknown city! Amedee was obliged to submit to thetiresome delay of looking after his baggage in a commonplace station;the hasty packing into an omnibus of tired-out travellers, dartingglances of bad humor and suspicion; to the reception upon the hotelsteps by the inevitable Swiss porter with his gold-banded cap, murderingall the European languages, greeting all the newcomers, and gettingmixed in his "Yes, sir, " "Ja, wohl, " and "Si, signor. " Amedee was aninexperienced tourist, who did not drag along with him a dozen trunks, and had not a rich and indolent air; so he was quickly despatched by theSwiss polyglot into a fourth-story room, which looked out into an openwell, and was so gloomy that while he washed his hands he was afraidof falling ill and dying there without help. A notice written in fourlanguages hung upon the wall, and, to add to his cheerfulness, itadvised him to leave all his valuables at the office of the hotel--asif he had penetrated a forest infested with brigands. The rigid writingwarned him still further that they looked upon him as a probablesharper, and that his bill would be presented every five days. 

The tiresome life of railroads and table-d'hotes began for him. 

He would be dragged about from city to city, like a bag of wheat or acask of wine. He would dwell in pretentious and monumental hotels, wherehe would be numbered like a convict; he would meet the same carnivorousEnglish family, with whom he might have made a tour of the world withoutexchanging one word; swallowing every day the tasteless soup, oldfish, tough vegetables, and insipid wine which have an internationalreputation, so to speak. But above all, he was to have the horror, everyevening upon going to his room, of passing through those uniform anddesolate corridors, faintly lighted by gas, where before each door arepairs of cosmopolitan shoes--heavy alpine shoes, filthy German boots, the conjugal boots of my lord and my lady, which make one think, bytheir size, of the troglodyte giants--awaiting, with a fatigued air, their morning polish. 

The imprudent Amedee was destined to all sorts of weariness, all sortsof deceptions, and all the homesickness of a solitary traveller. At thesight of the famous monuments and celebrated sites, which have becomein some way looked upon as models for painters and material forliterary development, Amedee felt that sensation of "already seen" whichparalyzes the faculty of admiration. Dare we say it? The dome in Milan, that enormous quiver of white marble arrows, did not move him. Hewas indifferent to the sublime medley of bronze in the Baptistery inFlorence; and the leaning tower at Pisa produced simply the effect ofmystification. He walked miles through the museums and silent galleries, satiated with art and glutted with masterpieces. He was disgusted tofind that he could not tolerate a dozen "Adorations of the Shepherds, "or fourteen "Descents from the Cross, " consecutively, even if theywere signed with the most glorious names. The scenes of suffering andmartyrdom, so many times repeated, were particularly distasteful tohim; and he took a still greater dislike even to a certain monk, alwaysrepresented on his knees in prayer with an axe sticking in his tonsure, than to the everlasting St. Sebastian pierced with arrows. His deadenedand depraved attention discerned only the disagreeable and ugly sideof a work of art. In the adorable artless originals he could see onlychildish and barbarous drawing, and he thought the old colorists'yolk-of-an-egg tone monotonous. 

He wished to spur his sensations, to see something extraordinary. Hetravelled toward Venice, the noiseless city, the city without birds orverdure, toward that silent country of sky, marble, and water; but oncethere, the reality seemed inferior to his dream. He had not that shockof surprise and enthusiasm in the presence of St. Mark's and the Doges'palace which he had hoped for. He had read too many descriptions of allthese wonders; seen too many more or less faithful pictures, and in hisdisenchantment he recalled a lamp-shade which once, in his own home, hadexcited his childish imagination--an ugly lampshade of blue pasteboardupon which was printed a nocturnal fete, the illuminations upon theducal palace being represented by a row of pin-pricks. 

Once more I repeat it, never travel alone, and above all, never goto Venice alone and without love! For young married people in theirhoneymoon, or a pair of lovers, the gondola is a floating boudoir, anest upon the waters like a kingfisher's. But for one who is sad, andwho stretches himself upon the sombre cushions of the bark, the gondolais a tomb. 

Toward the last of January, Amedee suddenly returned to Paris. He wouldnot be obliged to see Maurice or his young bride at once. They had beenmarried one month and would remain in the South until the end of winter. He was recalled by the rehearsals of his drama. The notary who hadcharge of his affairs gave him twelve thousand pounds' income, a largecompetency, which enabled him to work for the pure and disinterestedlove of art, and without concessions to common people. The young poetfurnished an elegant apartment in an old and beautiful house on theQuai d'Orsay, and sought out some of his old comrades--among others PaulSillery, who now held a distinguished place in journalism and reappeareda little in society, becoming very quickly reconciled with life. 

His first call was upon Madame Roger. He was very glad to see Maurice'smother; she was a little sad, but indulgent to Maurice, and resigned toher son's marriage, because she felt satisfied that he had acted like aman of honor. He also went at once to Montmartre to embrace Louise andMadame Gerard, who received him with great demonstrations. They were notso much embarrassed in money matters, for Maurice was very generousand had aided his wife's family. Louise gave lessons now for a properremuneration, and Madame Gerard was able to refuse, with tears ofgratitude, the poet's offer of assistance, who filially opened his purseto her. He dined as usual with his old friends, and they had tact enoughnot to say too much about the newly married ones; but there was oneempty place at the table. He was once more seized with thoughts of theabsent, and returned to his room that evening with an attack of theblues. 

The rehearsal of his piece, which had just begun at the ComedieFrancaise, the long sittings at the theatre, and the changes to bemade from day to day, were a useful and powerful distraction for AmedeeViolette's grief. L'Atelier, when played the first week in April, didnot obtain more than a respectful greeting from the public; it wasan indifferent success. This vulgar society, these simple, plain, sentiments, the sweetheart in a calico gown, the respectable old man inshort frock and overalls, the sharp lines where here and there boldlyrang out a slang word of the faubourg; above all, the scene representinga mill in full activity, with its grumbling workmen, its machines inmotion, even the continual puffing of steam, all displeased the worldlypeople and shocked them. This was too abrupt a change from luxuriousdrawing-rooms, titled persons, aristocratic adulteresses, anddeclarations of love murmured to the heroine in full toilette by a loverleaning his elbow upon the piano, with all the airs and graces of afirst-class dandy. However, Jocquelet, in the old artisan's role, wasemphatic and exaggerated, and an ugly and commonplace debutante was anutter failure. The criticisms, generally routine in character, werenot gracious, and the least surly ones condemned Amedee's attempt, qualifying it as an honorable effort. There were some slashes;one "long-haired" fellow from the Cafe de Seville failed in hiscriticism--the very one who once wrote a description of the violation ofa tomb--to crush the author of L'Atelier in an ultra-classical article, wherein he protested against realism and called to witness all thesilent, sculptured authors in the hall. 

It was a singular thing, but Amedee was easily consoled over hisfailure. He did not have the necessary qualities to succeed in thetheatrical line? Very well, he would give it up, that was all! Itwas not such a great misfortune, upon the whole, to abandon the mostdifficult art of all, but not the first; which did not allow a poet toact his own free liking. Amedee began to compose verses for himself--forhis own gratification; to become intoxicated with his own rhymes andfancies; to gather with a sad pleasure the melancholy flowers that histrouble had caused to blossom in his heart. 

Meanwhile summer arrived, and Maurice returned to Paris with his wifeand a little boy, born at Nice, and Amedee must go to see them, althoughhe knew in advance that the visit would make him unhappy. 

The amateur painter was handsomer than ever. He was alone in his studio, wearing his same red jacket. He had decorated and even crammed theroom full of luxurious and amusing knickknacks. The careless young manreceived his friend as if nothing had happened between them, and aftertheir greetings and inquiries as to old friends, and the events that hadhappened since their last meeting, they lighted their cigarettes. 

"Well, what have you done?" asked the poet. "You had great projects ofwork. Have you carried out your plans? Have you many sketches to showme?"

"Upon my word, no! Almost nothing. Do you know, when I was there Iabandoned myself to living; I played the lizard in the sun. Happiness isvery engrossing, and I have been foolishly happy. "

Then placing his hand upon his friend's, who sat near him, he added:

"But I owe that happiness to you, my good Amedee. "

Maurice said this carelessly, in order to satisfy his conscience. Didhe remember, did he even suspect how unhappy the poet had been, and wasnow, on account of this happiness? A bell rang. 

"Ah!" exclaimed the master of the house, joyfully. 

"It is Maria returning with the baby from a walk in the gardens. Thislittle citizen will be six weeks old to-morrow, and you must see what ahandsome little fellow he is already. "

Amedee felt stifled with emotion. He was about to see her again! To seeher as a wife and a mother was quite different, of course. 

She appeared, raising the portiere with one hand, while behind herappeared the white bonnet and rustic face of the nurse. No! she was notchanged, but maternity, love, and a rich and easy life had expanded herbeauty. She was dressed in a fresh and charming toilette. She blushedwhen she first recognized Amedee; and he felt with sadness that hispresence could only awaken unpleasant recollections in the young woman'smind. 

"Kiss each other, like old acquaintances, " said the painter, laughing, with the air of a man who is loved and sure of himself. 

But Amedee contented himself with kissing the tips of her glove, andthe glance with which Maria thanked him for this reserve was one moretorture for him to endure. She was grateful to him and gave him a kindsmile. 

"My mother and my sister, " said she, graciously, "often have thepleasure of a visit from you, Monsieur Amedee. I hope that you will notmake us jealous, but come often to see Maurice and me. "

"Maurice and me!" How soft and tender her voice and eyes became as shesaid these simple words, "Maurice and me!" Ah, were they not one! Howshe loved him! How she loved him!

Then Amedee must admire the baby, who was now awake in his nurse's arms, aroused by his father's noisy gayety. The child opened his blue eyes, asserious as those of an old man's, and peeped out from the depth of lace, feebly squeezing the finger that the poet extended to him. 

"What do you call him?" asked Amedee, troubled to find anything to say. 

"Maurice, after his father, " quickly responded Maria, who also put amint of love into these words. 

Amedee could endure no more. He made some pretext for withdrawing andwent away, promising that he would see them again soon. 

"I shall not go there very often!" he said to himself, as he descendedthe steps, furious with himself that he was obliged to hold back a sob. 

He went there, however, and always suffered from it. He was the one whohad made this marriage; he ought to rejoice that Maurice, softenedby conjugal life and paternity, did not return to his recklessness offormer days; but, on the contrary, the sight of this household, Maria'shappy looks, the allusions that she sometimes made of gratitude toAmedee; above all Maurice's domineering way in his home, his way ofspeaking to his wife like an indulgent master to a slave delightedto obey, all displeased and unmanned him. He always left Maurice'sdispleased with himself, and irritated with the bad sentiments that hehad in his heart; ashamed of loving another's wife, the wife of his oldcomrade; and keeping up all the same his friendship for Maurice, whom hewas never able to see without a feeling of envy and secret bitterness. 

He managed to lengthen the distance between his visits to the youngpair, and to put another interest into his life. He was now a man ofleisure, and his fortune allowed him to work when he liked andfelt inspired. He returned to society and traversed the midst ofmiscellaneous parlors, greenrooms, and Bohemian society. He loiteredabout these places a great deal and lost his time, was interested by allthe women, duped by his tender imagination; always expending too muchsensibility in his fancies; taking his desires for love, and devotinghimself to women. 

The first of his loves was a beautiful Madame, whom he met in theCountess Fontaine's parlors. She was provided with a very old husbandbelonging to the political and financial world; a servant of severalregimes, who having on many occasions feathered his own nest, made falsestatements of accounts, and betrayed his vows, his name could not bespoken in public assemblies without being preceded by the epithet ofhonorable. A man so seriously occupied in saving the Capitol, that is tosay, in courageously sustaining the stronger, approving the majoritiesin all of their mean actions and thus increasing his own ground, sinecures, tips, stocks, and various other advantages, necessarilyneglected his charming wife, and took very little notice of the ridiculethat she inflicted upon him often, and to which he seemed predestined. 

The fair lady--with a wax doll's beauty, not very young, confiningherself to George Sand in literature, making three toilettes a day, andhaving a large account at the dentist's--singled out the young poet witha romantic head, and rapidly traversed with him the whole route throughthe country of Love. Thanks to modern progress, the voyage is now madeby a through train. After passing the smaller stations, "blushingbehind the fan, " a "significant pressure of the hand, " "appointment in amuseum, " etc. , and halting at a station of very little importance called"scruples" (ten minutes' pause), Amedee reached the terminus of the lineand was the most enviable of mortals. He became Madame's lapdog, theessential ornament in her drawing-room, figured at all the dinners, balls, and routs where she appeared, stifled his yawns at the back ofher box at the Opera, and received the confidential mission of goingto hunt for sweetmeats and chocolates in the foyer. His recompenseconsisted in metaphysical conversations and sentimental seances, inwhich he was not long in discovering that his heart was blinded by hisemotions. At the end of a few months of this commonplace happiness, the rupture took place without any regrets on either side, and Amedeereturned, without a pang, the love-tokens he had received, namely: aphotograph, a package of letters in imitation of fashionable romances, written in long, angular handwriting, after the English style, upon verychic paper; and, we must not forget, a white glove which was a littleyellowed from confinement in the casket, like the beautiful Madameherself. 

A tall girl, with a body like a goddess, who earned three hundred francsa month by showing her costumes on the Vaudeville stage, and who gaveone louis a day to her hairdresser, gave Amedee a new experience inlove, more expensive, but much more amusing than the first. There wereno more psychological subtleties or hazy consciences; but she had fine, strong limbs and the majestic carriage of a cardinal's mistress goingthrough the Rue de Constance in heavy brocade garments, to see JeanHuss burned; and her voluptuous smile showed teeth made to devourpatrimonies. Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Rose de Juin's--that was theyoung lady's theatrical name--charming head was full of the foolishnessand vanity of a poor actress. Her attacks of rage when she read anarticle in the journals which cut her up, her nervous attacks andtorrents of tears when they gave her parts with only fifteen lines in anew piece, had begun to annoy Amedee, when chance gave him a new rivalin the person of Gradoux, an actor in the Varietes, the ugly clownwhose chronic cold in the head and ugly face seemed for twenty years sodelicious to the most refined public in the world. Relieved of a largenumber of bank-notes, Violette discreetly retired. 

He next carried on a commonplace romance with a pretty little girl whoseacquaintance he made one evening at a public fete. Louison was twentyyears old, and earned her living at a famous florist's, and was as pinkand fresh as an almond-bush in April. She had had only two lovers, gayfellows--an art student first--then a clerk in a novelty store, who hadgiven her the not very aristocratic taste for boating. It was on theMarne, seated near Louison in a boat moored to the willows on the Iled'Amour, that Amedee obtained his first kiss between two stanzas ofa boating song, and this pretty creature, who never came to seehim without bringing him a bouquet, charmed the poet. He rememberedBeranger's charming verses, "I am of the people as well, my love!" feltthat he loved, and was softened. In reality, he had turned this naivehead. Louison became dreamy, asked for a lock of his hair, which shealways carried with her in her 'porte-monnaie', went to get her fortunetold to know whether the dark-complexioned young man, the knave ofclubs, would be faithful to her for a long time. Amedee trusted thissimple heart for some time, but at length he became tired of hervulgarities. She was really too talkative, not minding her h's andpunctuating her discourse with "for certain" and "listen to me, then, "calling Amedee "my little man, " and eating vulgar dishes. One day sheoffered to kiss him, with a breath that smelled of garlic. She was theone who left him, from feminine pride, feeling that he no longer lovedher, and he almost regretted her. 

Thus his life passed; he worked a little and dreamed much. He wentas rarely as possible to Maurice Roger's house. Maurice had decidedlyturned out to be a good husband, and was fond of his home and playingwith his little boy. Every time that Amedee saw Maria it meant severaldays of discouragement, sorrow, and impossibility of work. 

"Well! well!" he would murmur, throwing down his pen, when the youngwoman's face would rise between his thoughts and his page; "I amincurable; I shall always love her. "

In the summer of 1870 Amedee, being tired of Paris, thought of a newtrip, and he was upon the point of going again, unfortunate fellow! tosee the Swiss porters who speak all the languages in the world, and toview the melancholy boots in the hotel corridors, when the war brokeout. The poet's passage through the midst of the revolutionary "beards"in the Cafe de Seville, and the parliamentary cravats in the Countess'sdrawing-room, had disgusted him forever with politics. He also was verysuspicious of the Liberal ministers and all the different phases ofthe malady that was destroying the Second Empire. But Amedee was a goodFrenchman. The assaults upon the frontiers, and the first battles lost, made a burning blush suffuse his face at the insult. When Paris wasthreatened he asked for arms, like the others, and although he had not amilitary spirit, he swore to do his duty, and his entire duty, too. Onebeautiful September morning he saw Trochu's gilded cap passing among thebayonets; four hundred thousand Parisians were there, like himself, full of good-will, who had taken up their guns with the resolve to diesteadfast. Ah, the misery of defeat! All these brave men for five monthscould only fidget about the place and eat carcases. May the good Godforgive the timid and the prattler! Alas! Poor old France! After so muchglory! Poor France of Jeanne d'Arc and of Napoleon!

CHAPTER XVI. IN TIME OF WAR

The great siege lasted nearly three months. Upon the thirtieth ofNovember they had fought a battle upon the banks of the Marne, then fortwenty-four hours the fight had seemed to slacken, and there was a heavysnow-storm; but they maintained that the second of December would bedecisive. That morning the battalion of the National Guard, of whichAmedee Violette was one, went out for the first time, with the ordersimply to hold themselves in reserve in the third rank, by the fort'scannons, upon a hideous plain at the east of Paris. 

Truly this National Guard did not make a bad appearance. They were atrifle awkward, perhaps, in their dark-blue hooded cloaks, with theirtin-plate buttons, and armed with breech-loading rifles, and encumberedwith canteens, basins, and pouches, all having an unprepared and too-newlook. They all came from the best parts of the city, with acceleratedsteps and a loud beating of drums, and headed, if you please, by theirmajor on horseback, a truss-maker, who had formerly been quartermasterof the third hussars. Certainly they only asked for service; it was nottheir fault, after all, if one had not confidence in them, and if theywere not sent to the front as soon as they reached the fortifications. While crossing the drawbridge they had sung the Marseillaise like menready to be shot down. What spoiled their martial appearance, perhaps, were their strong hunting-boots, their leather leggings, knit gloves, and long gaiters; lastly, that comfortable air of people who havebrought with them a few dainties, such as a little bread with somethingeatable between, some tablets of chocolate, tobacco, and a phial filledwith old rum. They had not gone two kilometres outside the ramparts, andwere near the fort, where for the time being the artillery was silent, when a staff officer who was awaiting them upon an old hack of a horse, merely skin and bones, stopped them by a gesture of the hand, and saidsharply to their major to take position on the left of the road, inan open field. They then stacked their arms there and broke ranks, andrested until further orders. 

What a dismal place! Under a canopy of dull clouds, the earth bare withhalf-melted snow, with the low fort rising up before them as if in anattitude of defence, here and there groups of ruined houses, a millwhose tall chimney and walls had been half destroyed by shells, butwhere one still read, in large black letters, these words, "Soap-makerto the Nobility;" and through this desolated country was a long andmuddy road which led over to where the battle field lay, and in themidst of which, presenting a symbol of death, lay the dead body of ahorse. 

In front of the National Guard, on the other side of the road, abattalion, which had been strongly put to the test the night before, were cooking. They had retreated as far as this to rest a little, and had spent all that night without shelter under the falling snow. Exhausted, bespattered, in rags, they were dolefully crouched aroundtheir meagre green-wood fires; the poor creatures were to be pitied. Underneath their misshapen caps they all showed yellow, wrinkled, andunshaven faces. The bitter, cold wind that swept over the plainmade their thin shoulders, stooping from fatigue, shiver, and theirshoulder-blades protruded under their faded capes. Some of them werewounded, too slightly to be sent away in the ambulance, and wore abouttheir wrists and foreheads bands of bloody linen. When an officer passedwith his head bent and a humiliated air, nobody saluted him. Thesemen had suffered too much, and one could divine an angry and insolentdespair in their gloomy looks, ready to burst out and tell of theirinjuries. They would have disgusted one if they had not excited one'spity. Alas, they were vanquished!

The Parisians were eager for news as to recent military operations, forthey had only read in the morning papers--as they always did duringthis frightful siege--enigmatical despatches and bulletins purposelybristling with strategic expressions not comprehensible to the outsider. But all, or nearly all, had kept their patriotic hopes intact, or, tospeak more plainly, their blind fanatical patriotism, and were certainagainst all reason of a definite victory; they walked along the road inlittle groups, and drew near the red pantaloons to talk a little. 

"Well, it was a pretty hot affair on the thirtieth, wasn't it? Is ittrue that you had command of the Marne? You know what they say in Paris, my children? That Trochu knows something new, that he is going to makehis way through the Prussian lines and join hands with the helpingarmies--in a word that we are going to strike the last blow. "

At the sight of these spectres of soldiers, these unhappy men brokendown with hunger and fatigue, the genteel National Guards, warmly cladand wrapped up for the winter, commenced to utter foolish speeches andbig hopes which had been their daily food for several months: "Breakthe iron circle;" "not one inch, not a stone;" "war to the knife;" "onegrand effort, " etc. But the very best talkers were speedily discouragedby the shrugging of shoulders and ugly glances of the soldiers, thatwere like those of a snarling cur. 

Meanwhile, a superb sergeant-major of the National Guard, newlyequipped, a big, full-blooded fellow, with a red beard, the husband ofa fashionable dressmaker, who every evening at the beer-house, afterhis sixth glass of beer would show, with matches, an infallible planfor blocking Paris and crushing the Prussian army like pepper, and wasfoolish enough to insist upon it. 

"Now then, you, my good fellow, " said he, addressing an insignificantcorporal just about to eat his stew, as if he were questioning an oldtactician or a man skilled like Turenne or Davoust; "do you see? you hitit in this affair of day before yesterday. Give us your opinion. Are thepositions occupied by Ducrot as strong as they pretend? Is it victoryfor to-day?"

The corporal turned around suddenly; with a face the color of boxwood, and his blue eyes shining with rage and defiance, he cried in a hoarsevoice:

"Go and see for yourselves, you stay-at-homes!"

Saddened and heart-broken at the demoralization of the soldiers, theNational Guards withdrew. 

"Behold the army which the Empire has left us!" said the dressmaker'shusband, who was a fool. 

Upon the road leading from Paris, pressing toward the cannon's mouthwhich was commencing to grumble again in the distance, a battalion ofmilitia arrived, a disorderly troop. They were poor fellows from thedepartments in the west, all young, wearing in their caps the Brittanycoat-of-arms, and whom suffering and privation had not yet entirelydeprived of their good country complexions. They were less worn out thanthe other unfortunate fellows whose turn came too often, and didnot feel the cold under their sheepskins, and still respected theirofficers, whom they knew personally, and were assured in case ofaccident of absolution given by one of their priests, who marched in therear file of the first company, with his cassock tucked up and hisRoman hat over his eyes. These country fellows walked briskly, a littlehelter-skelter, like their ancestors in the time of Stofflet and M. Dela Rochejaquelin, but with a firm step and their muskets well placedupon their shoulders, by Ste. Anne! They looked like soldiers inearnest. 

When they passed by the National Guard, the big blond waved his cap inthe air, furiously shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Long live the Republic!"

But once more the fanatical patriot's enthusiasm fell flat. The Bretonswere marching into danger partly from desire, but more from duty anddiscipline. At the very first shot these simple-minded creatures reachthe supreme wisdom of loving one's country and losing one's life forit, if necessary, without interesting themselves in the variedmystifications one calls government. Four or five of the men, more orless astonished at the cry which greeted them, turned their placid, countrified faces toward the National Guard, and the battalion passedby. 

The dressmaker's husband--he did nothing at his trade, for his wifeadored him, and he spent at cafes all the money which she gave him--wasextremely scandalized. During this time Amedee Violette was dreamilywalking up and down before the stacks of guns. His warlike ardor ofthe first few days had dampened. He had seen and heard too many foolishthings said and done since the beginning of this horrible siege; hadtaken part too many times in one of the most wretched spectacles inwhich a people can show vanity in adversity. He was heart broken to seehis dear compatriots, his dear Parisians, redouble their boastingafter each defeat and take their levity for heroism. If he admired theresignation of the poor women standing in line before the door of abutcher's shop, he was every day more sadly tormented by the braggingof his comrades, who thought themselves heroes when playing a game ofcorks. The official placards, the trash in the journals, inspired himwith immense disgust, for they had never lied so boldly or flattered thepeople with so much low meanness. It was with a despairing heart and thecertitude of final disaster that Amedee, needing a little sleep afterthe fatigue, wandered through Paris's obscure streets, barely lightedhere and there by petroleum lamps, under the dark, opaque winter sky, where the echoes of the distant cannonading unceasingly growled like thebarking of monstrous dogs. 

What solitude! The poet had not one friend, not one comrade to whom hecould confide his patriotic sorrows. Paul Sillery was serving in thearmy of the Loire. Arthur Papillon, who had shown such boisterousenthusiasm on the fourth of September, had been nominated prefet in aPyrenean department, and having looked over his previous studies, theformer laureate of the university examinations spent much of his timetherein, far from the firing, in making great speeches and haranguingfrom the top of the balconies, in which speeches the three hundredheroes of antiquity in a certain mountain-pass were a great deal toooften mentioned. Amedee sometimes went to see Jocquelet in the theatres, where they gave benefit performances for the field hospitals or tocontribute to the molding of a new cannon. The actor, wearing a shortuniform and booted to the thighs, would recite with enormous successpoems of the times in which enthusiasm and fine sentiments took theplace of art and common sense. What can one say to a triumphant actorwho takes himself for a second Tyrtee, and who after a second recall isconvinced that he is going to save the country, and that Bismarck andold William had better look after their laurels. 

As to Maurice Roger, at the beginning of the campaign he sent hismother, wife, and child into the country, and, wearing the doublegolden stripe of a lieutenant upon his militia jacket, he was now at theoutposts near his father's old friend, Colonel Lantz. 

Owing to a scarcity of officers, they had fished up the old Colonelfrom the depths of his engineer's office, and had torn him away from hissquares and compasses. Poor old fellow! His souvenirs of activity wentas far back as the Crimea and Sebastopol. Since that time he had noteven seen a pickaxe glisten in the sun, and, behold, they asked thisworthy man to return to the trench, and to powder his despatcheswith earth ploughed up by bombs, like Junot at Toulon in the fearlessbattery. 

Well, he did not say "No, " and after kissing his three portionlessdaughters on the forehead, he took his old uniform, half-eaten up bymoths, from a drawer, shook the grains of pepper and camphor from it, and, with his slow, red-tapist step, went to make his excavators workas far as possible from the walls and close by the Prussians. I cantell you, the men of the auxiliary engineers and the gentlemen with theAmerican-caps had not joked for some time over his African cape or hissuperannuated cap, which seemed to date from Pere Bugeaud. One day, when a German bomb burst among them, and they all fell to the groundexcepting Colonel Lantz, who had not flinched. He tranquilly settled hisglasses upon his nose and wiped off his splashed beard as coolly as hehad, not long since, cleaned his India-ink brushes. Bless me! it gaveyou a lesson, gentlemen snobs, to sustain the honor of the special army, and taught you to respect the black velvet plastron and double redbands on the trousers. In spite of his appearance of absence of mindand deafness, the Colonel had just before heard murmured around him thewords "old Lantz, " and "old dolphin. " Very well, gentlemen officers, youknow now that the old army was composed of good material!

Maurice Roger was ordered from his battalion to Colonel Lantz, and didhis duty like a true soldier's son, following his chief into the mostperilous positions, and he no longer lowered his head or bent hisshoulders at the whistling of a bomb. It was genuine military blood thatflowed in his veins, and he did not fear death; but life in the openair, absence from his wife, the state of excitement produced by thewar, and this eagerness for pleasure common to all those who risktheir lives, had suddenly awakened his licentious temperament. Whenhis service allowed him to do so, he would go into Paris and spendtwenty-four hours there, profiting by it to have a champagne dinner atBrebant's or Voisin's, in company with some beautiful girl, and to eatthe luxurious dishes of that time, such as beans, Gruyere cheese, andthe great rarity which had been secretly raised for three months on thefifth floor, a leg of mutton. 

One evening Amedee Violette was belated upon the boulevards, and sawcoming out of a restaurant Maurice in full uniform, with one of thepretty comedienes from the Varietes leaning upon his arm. This meetinggave Amedee one heart-ache the more. It was for such a husband as this, then, that Maria, buried in some country place, was probably at thisvery time overwhelmed with fears about his safety. It was for thisincorrigible rake that she had disdained her friend from childhood, andscorned the most delicate, faithful, and tender of lovers. 

Finally, to kill time and to flee from solitude, Amedee went to the Cafede Seville, but he only found a small group of his former acquaintancesthere. No more literary men, or almost none. The "long-haired" ones hadto-day the "regulation cut, " and wore divers head-gears, for the mostof the scattered poets carried cartridge-boxes and guns; but some of thepolitical "beards" had not renounced their old customs; the war andthe fall of the Empire had been a triumph for them, and the fourth ofSeptember had opened every career for them. Twenty of these "beards"had been provided with prefectures; at least all, or nearly all, of themoccupied public positions. There was one in the Government of NationalDefence, and three or four others, chosen from among the most rabidones, were members of the Committee on Barricades; for, improbable asthe thing may seem today, this commission existed and performed itsduties, a commission according to all rules, with an organized office, alarge china inkstand, stamped paper, verbal reports read and voted uponat the beginning of each meeting; and, around a table covered with greencloth, these professional instigators of the Cafe de Seville, theseteachers of insurrection, generously gave the country the benefit of thepractical experience that they had acquired in practising with the gameof dominoes. 

The "beards" remaining in Paris were busied with employments more orless considerable in the government, but did not do very much, theoffices in which they worked for France's salvation usually closed atfour o'clock, and they went as usual to take their appetizers at theCafe de Seville. It was there that Amedee met them again, and mixed anewin their conversations, which now dwelt exclusively upon patriotic andmilitary subjects. These "beards" who would none of them have been ableto command "by the right flank" a platoon of artillery, had all at oncebeen endowed by some magical power with the genius of strategy. Everyevening, from five to seven, they fought a decisive battle upon eachmarble table, sustained by the artillery of the iced decanter whichrepresented Mount Valerien, a glass of bitters, that is to say, Vinoy's brigade, feigned to attack a saucer representing the Montretoutbatteries; while the regular army and National Guard, symbolized by aglass of vermouth and absinthe, were coming in solid masses from thesouth, and marching straight into the heart of the enemy, the match-box. 

There were scheming men among these "beards, " and particularly terribleinventors, who all had an infallible way of destroying at a blowthe Prussian army, and who accused General Trochu of treason, and ofrefusing their offers, giving as a reason the old prejudices of militarylaws among nations. One of these visionary people had formerly beenphysician to a somnambulist, and took from his pocket--with his tobaccoand cigarette papers--a series of bottles labelled: cholera, yellowfever, typhus fever, smallpox, etc. , and proposed as a very simple thingto go and spread these epidemics in all the German camps, by the aid ofa navigable balloon, which he had just invented the night before upongoing to bed. Amedee soon became tired of these braggarts and lunatics, and no longer went to the Cafe de Seville. He lived alone and shuthimself up in his discouragement, and he had never perhaps had it weighmore heavily upon his shoulders than this morning of the second ofDecember, the last day of the battle of Champigny, while he was sadlypromenading before the stacked guns of his battalion. 

The dark clouds, heavy with snow, were hurrying by, the tormentingrumble of the cannons, the muddy country, the crumbling buildings, andthese vanquished soldiers shivering under their rags, all threw the poetinto the most gloomy of reveries. Then humanity so many ages, centuries, perhaps, old, had only reached this point: Hatred, absurd war, fratricidal murder! Progress? Civilization? Mere words! No rest, nopeaceful repose, either in fraternity or love! The primitive brutealways reappears, the right of the stronger to hold in its clutchesthe pale cadaver of justice! What is the use of so many religions, philosophies, all the noble dreams, all the grand impulses of thethought toward the ideal and good? This horrible doctrine of thepessimists was true then! We are, then, like animals, eternallycondemned to kill each other in order to live? If that is so, one mightas well renounce life, and give up the ghost!

Meanwhile the cannonading now redoubled, and with its tragic grumblingwas mingled the dry crackling sound of the musketry; beyond a woodedhillock, which restricted the view toward the southeast, a very thickwhite smoke spread over the horizon, mounting up into the gray sky. Thefight had just been resumed there, and it was getting hot, for soon theambulances and army-wagons drawn by artillery men began to pass. Theywere full of the wounded, whose plaintive moans were heard as theypassed. They had crowded the least seriously wounded ones into theomnibus, which went at a foot pace, but the road had been broken up bythe bad weather, and it was pitiful to behold these heads shaken asthey passed over each rut. The sight of the dying extended upon bloodymattresses was still more lugubrious to see. The frightful processionof the slaughtered went slowly toward the city to the hospitals, butthe carriages sometimes stopped, only a hundred steps from the positionoccupied by the National Guards, before a house where a provisionaryhospital had been established, and left their least transportable onesthere. The morbid but powerful attraction that horrible sights exertover a man urged Amedee Violette to this spot. This house had beenspared from bombardment and protected from pillage and fire by theGeneva flag; it was a small cottage which realized the dream of everyshopkeeper after he has made his fortune. Nothing was lacking, not eventhe earthen lions at the steps, or the little garden with its glitteringweather-vane, or the rock-work basin for goldfish. On warm days the pastsummer passers-by might have seen very often, under the green arbor, bourgeoisie in their shirt-sleeves and women in light dresses eatingmelons together. The poet's imagination fancied at once this picture ofa Parisian's Sunday, when suddenly a young assistant appeared at anopen window on the first floor, wiping his hands upon his blood-stainedapron. He leaned out and called to a hospital attendant, that Amedee hadnot noticed before, who was cutting linen upon a table in the garden:

"Well, Vidal, you confounded dawdler, " exclaimed he, impatiently, "arethose bandages ready? Good God! are we to have them to-day or tomorrow?"

"Make room, if you please!" said at this moment a voice at Amedee'selbow, who stepped aside for two stretchers borne by four brothersof the Christian doctrine to pass. The poet gave a start and a cry ofterror. He recognized in the two wounded men Maurice Roger and ColonelLantz. 

Wounded, both of them, yes! and mortally. Only one hour ago. 

Affairs had turned out badly for us down there, then, on the borders ofthe Marne. They did a foolish thing to rest one day and give the enemytime to concentrate his forces; when they wished to renew the attackthey dashed against vast numbers and formidable artillery. Two generalskilled! So many brave men sacrificed! Now they beat a retreat once moreand lose the ground. One of the chief generals, with lowered head anddrooping shoulders, more from discouragement than fatigue, stood glassin hand, observing from a distance our lines, which were breaking. 

"If we could fortify ourselves there at least, " said he, pointing to aneminence which overlooked the river, "and establish a redoubt--in onenight with a hundred picks it could be done. I do not believe that theenemy's fire could reach this position--it is a good one. "

"We could go there and see, General, " said some one, very quietly. 

It was Pere Lantz, the "old dolphin, " who was standing there withMaurice beside him and three or four of the auxiliary engineers; and, upon my word, in spite of his cap, which seemed to date from the time ofHorace Vernet's "Smala, " the poor man, with his glasses upon his nose, long cloak, and pepper colored beard, had no more prestige than apoliceman in a public square, one of those old fellows who chasechildren off the grass, threatening them with their canes. 

"When I say that the German artillery will not reach there, " murmuredthe head general, "I am not sure of it. But you are right, Colonel. Wemust see. Send two of your men. "

"With your permission, General, " said Pere Lantz, "I will go myself. "Maurice bravely added at once:

"Not without me, Colonel!"

"As you please, " said the General, who had already pointed his glassupon another point of the battlefield. 

Followed by the only son of his companion in arms in Africa and theCrimea, this office clerk and dauber in watercolors walked to the frontas tranquilly as he would have gone to the minister's office with hisumbrella under his arm. At the very moment when the two officers reachedthe plateau, a projectile from the Prussian batteries fell upon a chestand blew it up with a frightful uproar. The dead and wounded were heapedupon the ground. Pere Lantz saw the foot-soldiers fleeing, and theartillery men harnessing their wagons. 

"What!" exclaimed he, rising up to his full height, "do they abandon theposition?"

The Colonel's face was transfigured; opening wide his long cloak andshowing his black velvet plastron upon which shone his commander'scross, he drew his sword, and, putting his cap upon the tip of it, bareheaded, with his gray hair floating in the wind, with open arms hethrew himself before the runaways. 

"Halt!" he commanded, in a thundering tone. "Turn about, wretches, turnabout! You are here at a post of honor. Form again, my men! Gunners, toyour places! Long life to France!"

Just then a new shell burst at the feet of the Colonel and of Maurice, and they both fell to the ground. 

Amedee, staggering with emotion and a heart bursting with grief andfear, entered the hospital behind the two litters. 

"Put them in the dining-room, " said one of the brothers. "There isnobody there. The doctor will come immediately. "

The young man with the bloody apron came in at once, and after a look atthe wounded man he gave a despairing shake of the head, and, shrugginghis shoulders, said:

"There is nothing to be done they will not last long. "

In fact, the Colonel was dying. They had thrown an old woollen coveringover him through which the hemorrhage showed itself by large stains ofblood which were constantly increasing and penetrating the cloth. Thewounded man seemed to be coming out of his faint; he half opened hiseyes, and his lips moved. 

The doctor, who had just come in, came up to the litter upon which theold officer was lying and leaned over him. 

"Did you wish to say anything?" he asked. 

The old Colonel, without moving his head, turned his sad gaze upon thesurgeon, oh! so sad, and in a voice scarcely to be heard he murmured:

"Three daughters--to marry--without a dowry! Three--three--!"

Then he heaved a deep sigh, his blue eyes paled and became glassy. Colonel Lantz was dead. 

Do not despair, old military France! You will always have thesesimple-hearted soldiers who are ready to sacrifice themselves for yourflag, ready to serve you for a morsel of bread, and to die for you, bequeathing their widows and orphans to you! Do not despair, old Franceof the one hundred years' war and of '92!

The brothers, who wore upon their black robes the red Geneva cross, were kneeling around the body and praying in a low tone. The assistantsurgeon noticed Amedee Violette for the first time, standing motionlessin a corner of the room. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked him, brusquely. 

"I am this poor officer's friend, " Amedee replied, pointing to Maurice. 

"So be it! stay with him--if he asks for a drink you have the tea thereupon the stove. You, gentlemen, " added he, addressing the brothers, who arose after making the sign of the cross, "you will return to thebattle-field, I suppose?"

They silently bowed their heads, the eldest of them closed the deadman's eyes. As they were all going out together, the assistant surgeonsaid to them, in a petulant tone of voice:

"Try to bring me some not quite so much used up. "

Maurice Roger was about to die, too. His shirt was stained with blood, and a stream ran down from his forehead upon his blond moustache, but hewas still beautiful in his marble-like pallor. Amedee carefully raisedup one of the wounded man's arms and placed it upon the stretcher, keeping his friend's hand in his own. Maurice moved slightly at thetouch, and ended by opening his eyes. 

"Ah, how thirsty I am!" he groaned. 

Amedee went to the stove and got the pot of tea, and leaned over to helpthe unfortunate man drink it. Maurice looked at him with surprise. Herecognized Amedee. 

"You, Amedee!--where am I, then?"

He attempted in vain to rise. His head dropped slightly to the left, andhe saw, not two steps from him, the lifeless body of his old colonel, with eyes closed and features already calmed by the first moments ofperfect repose. 

"My Colonel!" said he. "Ah! I understand--I remember-! How they ranaway--miserable cowards! But you, Amedee? Why are you here--?"

His friend could not restrain his tears, and Maurice murmured:

"Done for, am I not?"

"No, no!" exclaimed Amedee, with animation. "They are going to dressyour wounds at once--They will come soon! Courage, my good Maurice!Courage!"

Suddenly the wounded man had a terrible chill; his teeth chattered, andhe said again:

"I am thirsty!--something to drink, my friend!--give me something todrink!"

A few swallows of tea calmed him a little. He closed his eyes as ifto rest, but a moment after he opened them, and, fixing them upon hisfriend's face, he said to him in a faint voice:

"You know--Maria, my wife--marry her--I confide them to you--she and myson--"

Then, doubtless tired out by the fatigue of having spoken these words, he seemed to collapse and sink down into the litter, which was saturatednow with his blood. A moment later he began to pant for breath. Amedeeknelt by his side, and tears fell upon his hands, while between thedying man's gasps he could hear in the distance, upon the battlefield, the uninterrupted rumbling of the cannon as it mowed down others. 

CHAPTER XVII. "WHEN YOUTH, THE DREAM, DEPARTS"

The leaves are falling!

This October afternoon is deliciously serene, there is not a cloud inthe grayish-blue sky, where the sun, which has shed a pure and steadylight since morning, has begun majestically to decline, like a good kingwho has grown old after a long and prosperous reign. How soft the airis! How calm and fresh! This is certainly one of the most beautifulof autumn days. Below, in the valley, the river sparkles like liquidsilver, and the trees which crown the hill-tops are of a lurid gold andcopper color. The distant panorama of Paris is grand and charming, withall its noted edifices and the dome of the Invalides shining like goldoutlined upon the horizon. As a loving and coquettish woman, who wishesto be regretted, gives at the moment of departure her most intoxicatingsmile to a friend, so the close of autumn had put on for one of her lastdays all her splendid charms. 

But the leaves are falling!

Amedee Violette is walking alone in his garden at Meudon. It is hiscountry home, where he has lived for eight years. A short time afterthe close of the war he married Maurice's widow. He is walking upon theterrace planted with lindens that are now more than half-despoiled oftheir leaves, admiring the beautiful picture and thinking. 

He is celebrated, he has worked hard and has built up a reputationby good, sincere books, as a poet. Doubtless, some persons are stilljealous of him, and he is often treated with injustice, but he isestimated by the dignity of his life, which his love of art fillsentirely, and he occupies a superior position in literature. Althoughhis resources are modest, they are sufficient to exempt him fromanxieties of a trivial nature. Living far from society, in the closeintimacy of those that he loves, he does not know the miseries ofambition and vanity. Amedee Violette should be happy. 

His old friend, Paul Sillery, who breakfasted with him that morningin Meudon, is condemned to daily labor and the exhausting life of ajournalist; and when he was seated in the carriage which took him backto Paris that morning, to forced labor, to the article to be knocked offfor tomorrow, in the midst of the racket and chattering of an editor'soffice, beside an interrupted cigar laid upon the edge of a table, heheaved a deep sigh as he thought of Amedee. 

Ah, this Violette was to be envied! With money, home, and a family, hewas not obliged to disseminate his ideas right and left. He had leisure, and could stop when he was not in the spirit of writing; he could thinkbefore he wrote and do some good work. It was not astonishing, to besure, that he produced veritable works of art when he is cheered by theatmosphere of affection. First, he adores his wife, that is easily seen, and he looks upon Maurice's little son as his own, the little fellow isso pretty and attractive with his long, light curls. Certainly, one cansee that Madame Violette has a never-to-be-forgotten grief, but what akind and grateful glance she gives her husband! Could anything be moretouching than Louise Gerard, that excellent old maid, the life of thehouse, who has the knack of making pleasing order and elegant comfortreign in the house, while she surrounds her mother, the paralyticGrandmother Gerard, with every care? Truly, Amedee has arranged his lifewell. He loves and is loved: he has procured for mind and body valuableand certain customs. He is a wise and fortunate man. 

While Paul Sillery, buried in the corner of a carriage, allowed himselfto be almost carried away by jealousy of his friend, Amedee, detained bythe charm of this beautiful day which is drawing to a close, walks withslow, lingering steps under the lindens on the terrace. 

The leaves are falling around him!

A very slight breeze is rising, the blue sky is fading a little below;in the nearest Paris suburb the windows are shining in the oblique raysof the setting sun. It will soon be night, and upon this carpet of deadleaves, which crackle under the poet's tread, other leaves will fall. They fall rarely, slowly, but continually. The frost of the night beforehas blighted them all. Dried up and rusty, they barely hang to thetrees, so that the slightest wind that passes over them gathers them oneafter another, detaching them from their branches; whirling an instantin the golden light, they at last rejoin, with a sad little sound, theirwithered sisters, who sprinkle the gravel walks. The leaves fall, theleaves fall!

Amedee Violette is filled with melancholy. 

He ought to be happy. What can he reproach destiny with? Has he not theone he always desired for his wife? Is she not the sweetest and best ofcompanions for him? Yes! but he knows very well that she consented tomarry him in order to obey Maurice's last wish, he knows very well thatMaria's heart is buried in the soldier's grave at Champigny. She has setapart a sanctuary within herself where burns, as a perpetual light, the remembrance of the adored dead, of the man to whom she gave herselfwithout reserve, the father of her son, the hero who tore himself fromher arms to shed his blood for his country. 

Amedee may be certain of the gratitude and devotion of his wife, but henever will have her love, for Maurice, a posthumous rival, rises betweenthem. Ah, this Maurice! He had loved Maria very little or not veryfaithfully! She should remember that he had first betrayed her, that butfor Amedee he would have abandoned her and she never would have been hiswife. If she knew that in Paris when she was far away he had deceivedher! But she never would know anything of it, for Amedee has too muchdelicacy to hurt the memory of the dead, and he respects and evenadmires this fidelity of illusion and love in Maria. He suffers fromit. The one to whom he has given his name, his heart, and his life, isinconsolable, and he must be resigned to it. Although remarried, she isa widow at the bottom of her heart, and it is in vain that she puts onbright attire, her eyes and her smile are in mourning forever. 

How could she forget her Maurice when he is before her every day inher son, who is also named Maurice and whose bright, handsome facestrikingly resembles his father's? Amedee feels a presentiment that in afew years this child will be another Maurice, with the same attractionsand vices. The poet does not forget that his dying friend confided theorphan to him, and he endeavors to be kind and good to him and to bringhim up well. He sometimes has a feeling of sorrow when he discoversthe same instincts and traits in the child as in the man whom he had sodearly loved and who had made him such trouble; in spite of all, he cannot feel the sentiments of a father for another's son. His own union hasbeen sterile. 

Poor Amedee! Yet he is envied! The little joy that he has is mingledwith grief and sorrow, and he dares not confide it to the excellentLouise--who suspects it, however--whose old and secret attachment forhim he surmises now, and who is the good genius of his household. Had heonly realized it before! It might have been happiness, genuine happinessfor him!

The leaves fall! the leaves fall!

After breakfast, while they were smoking their cigars and walking alongbeside the masses of dahlias, upon which the large golden spider hadspun its silvery web, Amedee Violette and Paul Sillery had talkedof times past and the comrades of their youth. It was not a very gayconversation, for since then there had been the war, the Commune. Howmany were dead! How many had disappeared! And, then, this retrospectivereview proves to one that one can be entirely deceived as to certainpeople, and that chance is master. 

Such an one, whom they had once considered as a great prose writer, asthe leader of a sect, and whose doctrines of art five or six faithfuldisciples spread while copying his waistcoats and even imitating hismanner of speaking with closed teeth, is reduced to writing stories forobscene journals. "Chose, " the fiery revolutionist, had obtained a goodplace; and the modest "Machin, " a man hardly noticed in the clubs, hadpublished two exquisite books, genuine works of art. 

All of the "beards" and "long-haired" men had taken unexpected paths. But the politicians, above all, were astonishing in the variety of theirdestinies. Among the cafe's frequenters at the hour for absinthe onecould count eight deputies, three ministers, two ambassadors, onetreasurer, and thirty exiles at Noumea awaiting the long-expectedamnesty. The most interesting, everything considered, is that imbecile, that old fanatic of a Dubief, the man that never drank anything butsweetened water; for he, at least, was shot on the barricades by theVersaillese soldiers. 

One person of whom the very thought disgusted the two friends wasthat jumping-jack of an Arthur Papillon. Universal suffrage, with itsaccustomed intelligence, had not failed to elect this nonentity andbombastic fool, and to-day he flounders about like a fish out of waterin the midst of this political cesspool. Having been enriched by alarge dowry, he has been by turns deputy, secretary, vice-president, president, head of committees, under secretary of State, in one word, everything that it was possible to be. For the time being he rantsagainst the clergy, and his wife, who is ugly, rich, and pious, has justput their little girl into the Oiseaux school. He has not yet becomeminister, but rest assured he will reach that in time. He is very vain, full of confidence in himself, not more honest than necessary, and veryobtrusive. Unless in the meantime they decide to establish a rotationproviding that all the deputies be ministers by turns, Arthur Papillonis the inevitable, necessary man mentioned. In such a case, this wouldbe terrible, for his eloquence would flow in torrents, and he would beone of the most agitating of microbes in the parliamentary culture. 

And Jocquelet? Ah! the two friends only need to speak his name to burstinto peals of laughter, for the illustrious actor now fills the universewith his glory and ridiculousness. Jocquelet severed the chain some timeago which bound him to the Parisian theatres. Like the tricolored flag, he has made the tour of Europe several times; like the English standard, he has crossed every ocean. He is the modern Wandering Actor, and thecapitals of the Old World and both Americas watch breathless with desirefor him to deign to shower over them the manna of his monologues. AtChicago, they detached his locomotive, and he intended, at the sight ofthis homage proportioned to his merits, to become a naturalized Americancitizen. But they proposed a new tour for him in old Europe, and out offilial remembrance he consented to return once more among us. As usual, he gathered a cartload of gold and laurels. He was painfully surprisedupon reaching Stockholm by water not to be greeted by the squadrons withvolleys of artillery, as was once done in honor of a famous cantatrice. Let Diplomacy look sharp! Jocquelet is indifferent to the court ofSweden!

After Paul Sillery's departure Amedee turned over in his mind variousother recollections of former days. He has been a trifle estranged fromMadame Roger since his marriage to Maria, but he sometimes takes littleMaurice to see her. She has sheltered and given each of Colonel Lantz'sdaughters a dowry. Pretty Rosine Combarieu's face rises up before him, his childhood's companion, whom he met at Bullier's and never has seensince. What has become of the poor little creature? Amedee almost hopesthat she is dead. Ah, how sad these old memories are in the autumn, whenthe leaves are falling and the sun is setting!

It has set, it has plunged beneath the horizon, and suddenly all isdark. Over the darkened landscape in the vast pearl-colored sky spreadsthe melancholy chill which follows the farewell of day. The white smokefrom the city has turned gray, the river is like a dulled mirror. Amoment ago, in the sun's last rays, the dead leaves, as they fell, looked like a golden rain, now they seem a dark snow. 

Where are all your illusions and hopes of other days, Amedee Violette?You think this evening of the rapid flight of years, of the snowy flakesof winter which are beginning to fall on your temples. You have theproof to-day of the impossibility of absolutely requited love in thisworld. You know that happiness, or what is called so, exists only bysnatches and lasts only a moment, and how commonplace it often isand how sad the next day! You depend upon your art for consolation. Oppressed by the monotonous ennui of living, you ask for theforgetfulness that only the intoxication of poetry and dreams can giveyou. Alas! Poor sentimentalist, your youth is ended!

And still the leaves fall!

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 Break in his memory, like a book with several leaves torn out Dreams, instead of living Egotists and cowards always have a reason for everything Eternally condemned to kill each other in order to live Fortunate enough to keep those one loves God forgive the timid and the prattler! Good form consists, above all things, in keeping silent Happiness exists only by snatches and lasts only a moment He does not know the miseries of ambition and vanity He almost regretted her How sad these old memorics are in the autumn Inoffensive tree which never had harmed anybody Intimate friend, whom he has known for about five minutes It was all delightfully terrible! Learned that one leaves college almost ignorant Mild, unpretentious men who let everybody run over them My good fellow, you are quite worthless as a man of pleasure Never travel when the heart is troubled! Not more honest than necessary Now his grief was his wife, and lived with him Paint from nature Poor France of Jeanne d'Arc and of Napoleon Redouble their boasting after each defeat Society people condemned to hypocrisy and falsehood Take their levity for heroism Tediousness seems to ooze out through their bindings The leaves fall! the leaves fall! The sincere age when one thinks aloud Tired smile of those who have not long to live Trees are like men; there are some that have no luck Universal suffrage, with its accustomed intelligence Upon my word, there are no ugly ones (women) Very young, and was in love with love Voice of the heart which alone has power to reach the heart Were certain against all reason When he sings, it is because he has something to sing about