A SECOND HOME BY HONORE DE BALZAC Translated by Clara Bell DEDICATION To Madame la Comtesse Louise de Turheim as a token of remembrance and affectionate respect. A SECOND HOME The Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, formerly one of the darkest and mosttortuous of the streets about the Hotel de Ville, zigzagged round thelittle gardens of the Paris Prefecture, and ended at the Rue Martroi, exactly at the angle of an old wall now pulled down. Here stood theturnstile to which the street owed its name; it was not removed till1823, when the Municipality built a ballroom on the garden plotadjoining the Hotel de Ville, for the fete given in honor of the Ducd'Angouleme on his return from Spain. The widest part of the Rue du Tourniquet was the end opening into theRue de la Tixeranderie, and even there it was less than six feetacross. Hence in rainy weather the gutter water was soon deep at thefoot of the old houses, sweeping down with it the dust and refusedeposited at the corner-stones by the residents. As the dust-cartscould not pass through, the inhabitants trusted to storms to washtheir always miry alley; for how could it be clean? When the summersun shed its perpendicular rays on Paris like a sheet of gold, but aspiercing as the point of a sword, it lighted up the blackness of thisstreet for a few minutes without drying the permanent damp that rosefrom the ground-floor to the first story of these dark and silenttenements. The residents, who lighted their lamps at five o'clock in the month ofJune, in winter never put them out. To this day the enterprisingwayfarer who should approach the Marais along the quays, past the endof the Rue du Chaume, the Rues de l'Homme Arme, des Billettes, and desDeux-Portes, all leading to the Rue du Tourniquet, might think he hadpassed through cellars all the way. Almost all the streets of old Paris, of which ancient chronicles laudthe magnificence, were like this damp and gloomy labyrinth, where theantiquaries still find historical curiosities to admire. For instance, on the house then forming the corner where the Rue du Tourniquetjoined the Rue de la Tixeranderie, the clamps might still be seen oftwo strong iron rings fixed to the wall, the relics of the chains putup every night by the watch to secure public safety. This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been constructed in away that bore witness to the unhealthiness of these old dwellings;for, to preserve the ground-floor from damp, the arches of the cellarsrose about two feet above the soil, and the house was entered up threeoutside steps. The door was crowned by a closed arch, of which thekeystone bore a female head and some time-eaten arabesques. Threewindows, their sills about five feet from the ground, belonged to asmall set of rooms looking out on the Rue du Tourniquet, whence theyderived their light. These windows were protected by strong iron bars, very wide apart, and ending below in an outward curve like the bars ofa baker's window. If any passer-by during the day were curious enough to peep into thetwo rooms forming this little dwelling, he could see nothing; for onlyunder the sun of July could he discern, in the second room, two bedshung with green serge, placed side by side under the paneling of anold-fashioned alcove; but in the afternoon, by about three o'clock, when the candles were lighted, through the pane of the first room anold woman might be seen sitting on a stool by the fireplace, where shenursed the fire in a brazier, to simmer a stew, such as porters' wivesare expert in. A few kitchen utensils, hung up against the wall, werevisible in the twilight. At that hour an old table on trestles, but bare of linen, was laidwith pewter-spoons, and the dish concocted by the old woman. Threewretched chairs were all the furniture of this room, which was at oncethe kitchen and the dining-room. Over the chimney-piece were a pieceof looking-glass, a tinder-box, three glasses, some matches, and alarge, cracked white jug. Still, the floor, the utensils, thefireplace, all gave a pleasant sense of the perfect cleanliness andthrift that pervaded the dull and gloomy home. The old woman's pale, withered face was quite in harmony with thedarkness of the street and the mustiness of the place. As she satthere, motionless, in her chair, it might have been thought that shewas as inseparable from the house as a snail from its brown shell; herface, alert with a vague expression of mischief, was framed in a flatcap made of net, which barely covered her white hair; her fine, grayeyes were as quiet as the street, and the many wrinkles in her facemight be compared to the cracks in the walls. Whether she had beenborn to poverty, or had fallen from some past splendor, she now seemedto have been long resigned to her melancholy existence. From sunrise till dark, excepting when she was getting a meal ready, or, with a basket on her arm, was out purchasing provisions, the oldwoman sat in the adjoining room by the further window, opposite ayoung girl. At any hour of the day the passer-by could see theneedlewoman seated in an old, red velvet chair, bending over anembroidery frame, and stitching indefatigably. Her mother had a green pillow on her knee, and busied herself withhand-made net; but her fingers could move the bobbin but slowly; hersight was feeble, for on her nose there rested a pair of thoseantiquated spectacles which keep their place on the nostrils by thegrip of a spring. By night these two hardworking women set a lampbetween them; and the light, concentrated by two globe-shaped bottlesof water, showed the elder the fine network made by the threads on herpillow, and the younger the most delicate details of the pattern shewas embroidering. The outward bend of the window had allowed the girlto rest a box of earth on the window-sill, in which grew some sweetpeas, nasturtiums, a sickly little honeysuckle, and some convolvulusthat twined its frail stems up the iron bars. These etiolated plantsproduced a few pale flowers, and added a touch of indescribablesadness and sweetness to the picture offered by this window, in whichthe two figures were appropriately framed. The most selfish soul who chanced to see this domestic scene wouldcarry away with him a perfect image of the life led in Paris by theworking class of women, for the embroideress evidently lived by herneedle. Many, as they passed through the turnstile, found themselveswondering how a girl could preserve her color, living in such acellar. A student of lively imagination, going that way to cross tothe Quartier-Latin, would compare this obscure and vegetative life tothat of the ivy that clung to these chill walls, to that of thepeasants born to labor, who are born, toil, and die unknown to theworld they have helped to feed. A house-owner, after studying thehouse with the eye of a valuer, would have said, "What will become ofthose two women if embroidery should go out of fashion?" Among the menwho, having some appointment at the Hotel de Ville or the Palais deJustice, were obliged to go through this street at fixed hours, eitheron their way to business or on their return home, there may have beensome charitable soul. Some widower or Adonis of forty, brought sooften into the secrets of these sad lives, may perhaps have reckonedon the poverty of this mother and daughter, and have hoped to becomethe master at no great cost of the innocent work-woman, whose nimbleand dimpled fingers, youthful figure, and white skin--a charm due, nodoubt, to living in this sunless street--had excited his admiration. Perhaps, again, some honest clerk, with twelve hundred francs a year, seeing every day the diligence the girl gave to her needle, andappreciating the purity of her life, was only waiting for improvedprospects to unite one humble life with another, one form of toil toanother, and to bring at any rate a man's arm and a calm affection, pale-hued like the flowers in the window, to uphold this home. Vague hope certainly gave life to the mother's dim, gray eyes. Everymorning, after the most frugal breakfast, she took up her pillow, though chiefly for the look of the thing, for she would lay herspectacles on a little mahogany worktable as old as herself, and lookout of the window from about half-past eight till ten at the regularpassers in the street; she caught their glances, remarked on theirgait, their dress, their countenance, and almost seemed to be offeringher daughter, her gossiping eyes so evidently tried to attract somemagnetic sympathy by manoeuvres worthy of the stage. It was evidentthat this little review was as good as a play to her, and perhaps hersingle amusement. The daughter rarely looked up. Modesty, or a painful consciousness ofpoverty, seemed to keep her eyes riveted to the work-frame; and onlysome exclamation of surprise from her mother moved her to show hersmall features. Then a clerk in a new coat, or who unexpectedlyappeared with a woman on his arm, might catch sight of the girl'sslightly upturned nose, her rosy mouth, and gray eyes, always brightand lively in spite of her fatiguing toil. Her late hours had left atrace on her face by a pale circle marked under each eye on the freshrosiness of her cheeks. The poor child looked as if she were made forlove and cheerfulness--for love, which had drawn two perfect archesabove her eyelids, and had given her such a mass of chestnut hair, that she might have hidden under it as under a tent, impenetrable tothe lover's eye--for cheerfulness, which gave quivering animation toher nostrils, which carved two dimples in her rosy cheeks, and madeher quick to forget her troubles; cheerfulness, the blossom of hope, which gave her strength to look out without shuddering on the barrenpath of life. The girl's hair was always carefully dressed. After the manner ofParis needlewomen, her toilet seemed to her quite complete when shehad brushed her hair smooth and tucked up the little short curls thatplayed on each temple in contrast with the whiteness of her skin. Thegrowth of it on the back of her neck was so pretty, and the brownline, so clearly traced, gave such a pleasing idea of her youth andcharm, that the observer, seeing her bent over her work, and unmovedby any sound, was inclined to think of her as a coquette. Suchinviting promise had excited the interest of more than one young man, who turned round in the vain hope of seeing that modest countenance. "Caroline, there is a new face that passes regularly by, and not oneof the old ones to compare with it. " These words, spoken in a low voice by her mother one August morning in1815, had vanquished the young needlewoman's indifference, and shelooked out on the street; but in vain, the stranger was gone. "Where has he flown to?" said she. "He will come back no doubt at four; I shall see him coming, and willtouch your foot with mine. I am sure he will come back; he has beenthrough the street regularly for the last three days; but his hoursvary. The first day he came by at six o'clock, the day beforeyesterday it was four, yesterday as early as three. I remember seeinghim occasionally some time ago. He is some clerk in the Prefet'soffice who has moved to the Marais. --Why!" she exclaimed, afterglancing down the street, "our gentleman of the brown coat has takento wearing a wig; how much it alters him!" The gentleman of the brown coat was, it would seem, the individual whocommonly closed the daily procession, for the old woman put on herspectacles and took up her work with a sigh, glancing at her daughterwith so strange a look that Lavater himself would have found itdifficult to interpret. Admiration, gratitude, a sort of hope forbetter days, were mingled with pride at having such a pretty daughter. At about four in the afternoon the old lady pushed her foot againstCaroline's, and the girl looked up quickly enough to see the newactor, whose regular advent would thenceforth lend variety to thescene. He was tall and thin, and wore black, a man of about forty, with a certain solemnity of demeanor; as his piercing hazel eye metthe old woman's dull gaze, he made her quake, for she felt as thoughhe had the gift of reading hearts, or much practice in it, and hispresence must surely be as icy as the air of this dank street. Was thedull, sallow complexion of that ominous face due to excess of work, orthe result of delicate health? The old woman supplied twenty different answers to this question; butCaroline, next day, discerned the lines of long mental suffering onthat brow that was so prompt to frown. The rather hollow cheeks of theUnknown bore the stamp of the seal which sorrow sets on its victims asif to grant them the consolation of common recognition and brotherlyunion for resistance. Though the girl's expression was at first one oflively but innocent curiosity, it assumed a look of gentle sympathy asthe stranger receded from view, like a last relation following in afuneral train. The heat of the weather was so great, and the gentleman was soabsent-minded, that he had taken off his hat and forgotten to put it onagain as he went down the squalid street. Caroline could see the sternlook given to his countenance by the way the hair was brushed from hisforehead. The strong impression, devoid of charm, made on the girl bythis man's appearance was totally unlike any sensation produced by theother passengers who used the street; for the first time in her lifeshe was moved to pity for some one else than herself and her mother;she made no reply to the absurd conjectures that supplied material forthe old woman's provoking volubility, and drew her long needle insilence through the web of stretched net; she only regretted nothaving seen the stranger more closely, and looked forward to themorrow to form a definite opinion of him. It was the first time, indeed, that a man passing down the street hadever given rise to much thought in her mind. She generally had nothingbut a smile in response to her mother's hypotheses, for the old womanlooked on every passer-by as a possible protector for her daughter. And if such suggestions, so crudely presented, gave rise to no evilthoughts in Caroline's mind, her indifference must be ascribed to thepersistent and unfortunately inevitable toil in which the energies ofher sweet youth were being spent, and which would infallibly mar theclearness of her eyes or steal from her fresh cheeks the bloom thatstill colored them. For two months or more the "Black Gentleman"--the name they had givenhim--was erratic in his movements; he did not always come down the Ruedu Tourniquet; the old woman sometimes saw him in the evening when hehad not passed in the morning, and he did not come by at such regularhours as the clerks who served Madame Crochard instead of a clock;moreover, excepting on the first occasion, when his look had given theold mother a sense of alarm, his eyes had never once dwelt on theweird picture of these two female gnomes. With the exception of twocarriage-gates and a dark ironmonger's shop, there were in the Rue duTourniquet only barred windows, giving light to the staircases of theneighboring houses; thus the stranger's lack of curiosity was not tobe accounted for by the presence of dangerous rivals; and MadameCrochard was greatly piqued to see her "Black Gentleman" always lostin thought, his eyes fixed on the ground, or straight before him, asthough he hoped to read the future in the fog of the Rue duTourniquet. However, one morning, about the middle of September, Caroline Crochard's roguish face stood out so brightly against thedark background of the room, looking so fresh among the belatedflowers and faded leaves that twined round the window-bars, the dailyscene was gay with such contrasts of light and shade, of pink andwhite blending with the light material on which the pretty needlewomanwas working, and with the red and brown hues of the chairs, that thestranger gazed very attentively at the effects of this living picture. In point of fact, the old woman, provoked by her "Black Gentleman's"indifference, had made such a clatter with her bobbins that the gloomyand pensive passer-by was perhaps prompted to look up by the unusualnoise. The stranger merely exchanged glances with Caroline, swift indeed, butenough to effect a certain contact between their souls, and both wereaware that they would think of each other. When the stranger came byagain, at four in the afternoon, Caroline recognized the sound of hisstep on the echoing pavement; they looked steadily at each other, andwith evident purpose; his eyes had an expression of kindliness whichmade him smile, and Caroline colored; the old mother noted them withsatisfaction. Ever after that memorable afternoon, the Gentleman inBlack went by twice a day, with rare exceptions, which both the womenobserved. They concluded from the irregularity of the hours of hishomecoming that he was not released so early, nor so preciselypunctual as a subordinate official. All through the first three winter months, twice a day, Caroline andthe stranger thus saw each other for so long as it took him totraverse the piece of road that lay along the length of the door andthree windows of the house. Day after day this brief interview had thehue of friendly sympathy which at last had acquired a sort offraternal kindness. Caroline and the stranger seemed to understandeach other from the first; and then, by dint of scrutinizing eachother's faces, they learned to know them well. Ere long it came to be, as it were, a visit that the Unknown owed to Caroline; if by anychance her Gentleman in Black went by without bestowing on her thehalf-smile of his expressive lips, or the cordial glance of his browneyes, something was missing to her all day. She felt as an old mandoes to whom the daily study of a newspaper is such an indispensablepleasure that on the day after any great holiday he wanders aboutquite lost, and seeking, as much out of vagueness as for want ofpatience, the sheet by which he cheats an hour of life. But these brief meetings had the charm of intimate friendliness, quiteas much for the stranger as for Caroline. The girl could no more hidea vexation, a grief, or some slight ailment from the keen eye of herappreciative friend than he could conceal anxiety from hers. "He must have had some trouble yesterday, " was the thought thatconstantly arose in the embroideress' mind as she saw some change inthe features of the "Black Gentleman. " "Oh, he has been working too hard!" was a reflection due to anothershade of expression which Caroline could discern. The stranger, on his part, could guess when the girl had spent Sundayin finishing a dress, and he felt an interest in the pattern. Asquarter-day came near he could see that her pretty face was clouded byanxiety, and he could guess when Caroline had sat up late at work; butabove all, he noted how the gloomy thoughts that dimmed the cheerfuland delicate features of her young face gradually vanished by degreesas their acquaintance ripened. When winter had killed the climbers andplants of her window garden, and the window was kept closed, it wasnot without a smile of gentle amusement that the stranger observed theconcentration of the light within, just at the level of Caroline'shead. The very small fire and the frosty red of the two women's facesbetrayed the poverty of their home; but if ever his own countenanceexpressed regretful compassion, the girl proudly met it with assumedcheerfulness. Meanwhile the feelings that had arisen in their hearts remained buriedthere, no incident occurring to reveal to either of them how deep andstrong they were in the other; they had never even heard the sound ofeach other's voice. These mute friends were even on their guardagainst any nearer acquaintance, as though it meant disaster. Eachseemed to fear lest it should bring on the other some grief moreserious than those they felt tempted to share. Was it shyness orfriendship that checked them? Was it a dread of meeting withselfishness, or the odious distrust which sunders all the residentswithin the walls of a populous city? Did the voice of conscience warnthem of approaching danger? It would be impossible to explain theinstinct which made them as much enemies as friends, at onceindifferent and attached, drawn to each other by impulse, and severedby circumstance. Each perhaps hoped to preserve a cherished illusion. It might almost have been thought that the stranger feared lest heshould hear some vulgar word from those lips as fresh and pure as aflower, and that Caroline felt herself unworthy of the mysteriouspersonage who was evidently possessed of power and wealth. As to Madame Crochard, that tender mother, almost angry at herdaughter's persistent lack of decisiveness, now showed a sulky face tothe "Black Gentleman, " on whom she had hitherto smiled with a sort ofbenevolent servility. Never before had she complained so bitterly ofbeing compelled, at her age, to do the cooking; never had her catarrhand her rheumatism wrung so many groans from her; finally, she couldnot, this winter, promise so many ells of net as Caroline had hithertobeen able to count on. Under these circumstances, and towards the end of December, at thetime when bread was dearest, and that dearth of corn was beginning tobe felt which made the year 1816 so hard on the poor, the strangerobserved on the features of the girl whose name was still unknown tohim, the painful traces of a secret sorrow which his kindest smilescould not dispel. Before long he saw in Caroline's eyes the dimnessattributed to long hours at night. One night, towards the end of themonth, the Gentleman in Black passed down the Rue du Tourniquet at thequite unwonted hour of one in the morning. The perfect silence allowedof his hearing before passing the house the lachrymose voice of theold mother, and Caroline's even sadder tones, mingling with the swishof a shower of sleet. He crept along as slowly as he could; and then, at the risk of being taken up by the police, he stood still below thewindow to hear the mother and daughter, while watching them throughthe largest of the holes in the yellow muslin curtains, which wereeaten away by wear as a cabbage leaf is riddled by caterpillars. Theinquisitive stranger saw a sheet of paper on the table that stoodbetween the two work-frames, and on which stood the lamp and theglobes filled with water. He at once identified it as a writ. MadameCrochard was weeping, and Caroline's voice was thick, and had lost itssweet, caressing tone. "Why be so heartbroken, mother? Monsieur Molineux will not sell us upor turn us out before I have finished this dress; only two nights moreand I shall take it home to Madame Roguin. " "And supposing she keeps you waiting as usual?--And will the money forthe gown pay the baker too?" The spectator of this scene had long practice in reading faces; hefancied he could discern that the mother's grief was as false as thedaughter's was genuine; he turned away, and presently came back. Whenhe next peeped through the hole in the curtain, Madame Crochard was inbed. The young needlewoman, bending over her frame, was embroideringwith indefatigable diligence; on the table, with the writ lay atriangular hunch of bread, placed there, no doubt, to sustain her inthe night and to remind her of the reward of her industry. Thestranger was tremulous with pity and sympathy; he threw his purse inthrough a cracked pane so that it should fall at the girl's feet; andthen, without waiting to enjoy her surprise, he escaped, his cheekstingling. Next morning the shy and melancholy stranger went past with a look ofdeep preoccupation, but he could not escape Caroline's gratitude; shehad opened her window and affected to be digging in the square window-box buried in snow, a pretext of which the clumsy ingenuity plainlytold her benefactor that she had been resolved not to see him onlythrough the pane. Her eyes were full of tears as she bowed her head, as much as to say to her benefactor, "I can only repay you from myheart. " But the Gentleman in Black affected not to understand the meaning ofthis sincere gratitude. In the evening, as he came by, Caroline wasbusy mending the window with a sheet of paper, and she smiled at him, showing her row of pearly teeth like a promise. Thenceforth theStranger went another way, and was no more seen in the Rue dueTourniquet. It was one day early in the following May that, as Caroline was givingthe roots of the honeysuckle a glass of water, one Saturday morning, she caught sight of a narrow strip of cloudless blue between the blacklines of houses, and said to her mother: "Mamma, we must go to-morrow for a trip to Montmorency!" She had scarcely uttered the words, in a tone of glee, when theGentleman in Black came by, sadder and more dejected than ever. Caroline's innocent and ingratiating glance might have been taken foran invitation. And, in fact, on the following day, when MadameCrochard, dressed in a pelisse of claret-colored merinos, a silkbonnet, and striped shawl of an imitation Indian pattern, came out tochoose seats in a chaise at the corner of the Rue du FaubourgSaint-Denis and the Rue d'Enghien, there she found her Unknown standinglike a man waiting for his wife. A smile of pleasure lighted up theStranger's face when his eye fell on Caroline, her neat feet shod inplum-colored prunella gaiters, and her white dress tossed by a breezethat would have been fatal to an ill-made woman, but which displayedher graceful form. Her face, shaded by a rice-straw bonnet lined withpink silk, seemed to beam with a reflection from heaven; her broad, plum-colored belt set off a waist he could have spanned; her hair, parted in two brown bands over a forehead as white as snow, gave heran expression of innocence which no other feature contradicted. Enjoyment seemed to have made Caroline as light as the straw of herhat; but when she saw the Gentleman in Black, radiant hope suddenlyeclipsed her bright dress and her beauty. The Stranger, who appearedto be in doubt, had not perhaps made up his mind to be the girl'sescort for the day till this revelation of the delight she felt onseeing him. He at once hired a vehicle with a fairly good horse, todrive to Saint-Leu-Taverny, and he offered Madame Crochard and herdaughter seats by his side. The mother accepted without ado; butpresently, when they were already on the way to Saint-Denis, she wasby way of having scruples, and made a few civil speeches as to thepossible inconvenience two women might cause their companion. "Perhaps, monsieur, you wished to drive alone to Saint-Leu-Taverny, "said she, with affected simplicity. Before long she complained of the heat, and especially of her cough, which, she said, had hindered her from closing her eyes all night; andby the time the carriage had reached Saint-Denis, Madame Crochardseemed to be fast asleep. Her snores, indeed, seemed, to the Gentlemanin Black, rather doubtfully genuine, and he frowned as he looked atthe old woman with a very suspicious eye. "Oh, she is fast asleep, " said Caroline quilelessly; "she never ceasedcoughing all night. She must be very tired. " Her companion made no reply, but he looked at the girl with a smilethat seemed to say: "Poor child, you little know your mother!" However, in spite of his distrust, as the chaise made its way down thelong avenue of poplars leading to Eaubonne, the Stranger thought thatMadame Crochard was really asleep; perhaps he did not care to inquirehow far her slumbers were genuine or feigned. Whether it were that thebrilliant sky, the pure country air, and the heady fragrance of thefirst green shoots of the poplars, the catkins of willow, and theflowers of the blackthorn had inclined his heart to open like all thenature around him; or that any long restraint was too oppressive whileCaroline's sparkling eyes responded to his own, the Gentleman in Blackentered on a conversation with his young companion, as aimless as theswaying of the branches in the wind, as devious as the flitting of thebutterflies in the azure air, as illogical as the melodious murmur ofthe fields, and, like it, full of mysterious love. At that season isnot the rural country as tremulous as a bride that has donned hermarriage robe; does it not invite the coldest soul to be happy? Whatheart could remain unthawed, and what lips could keep its secret, onleaving the gloomy streets of the Marais for the first time since theprevious autumn, and entering the smiling and picturesque valley ofMontmorency; on seeing it in the morning light, its endless horizonsreceding from view; and then lifting a charmed gaze to eyes whichexpressed no less infinitude mingled with love? The Stranger discovered that Caroline was sprightly rather than witty, affectionate, but ill educated; but while her laugh was giddy, herwords promised genuine feeling. When, in response to her companion'sshrewd questioning, the girl spoke with the heartfelt effusiveness ofwhich the lower classes are lavish, not guarding it with reticencelike people of the world, the Black Gentleman's face brightened, andseemed to renew its youth. His countenance by degrees lost the sadnessthat lent sternness to his features, and little by little they gaineda look of handsome youthfulness which made Caroline proud and happy. The pretty needlewoman guessed that her new friend had been longweaned from tenderness and love, and no longer believed in thedevotion of woman. Finally, some unexpected sally in Caroline's lightprattle lifted the last veil that concealed the real youth and genuinecharacter of the Stranger's physiognomy; he seemed to bid farewell tothe ideas that haunted him, and showed the natural liveliness that laybeneath the solemnity of his expression. Their conversation had insensibly become so intimate, that by the timewhen the carriage stopped at the first houses of the stragglingvillage of Saint-Leu, Caroline was calling the gentleman MonsieurRoger. Then for the first time the old mother awoke. "Caroline, she has heard everything!" said Roger suspiciously in thegirl's ear. Caroline's reply was an exquisite smile of disbelief, which dissipatedthe dark cloud that his fear of some plot on the old woman's part hadbrought to this suspicious mortal's brow. Madame Crochard was amazedat nothing, approved of everything, followed her daughter and MonsieurRoger into the park, where the two young people had agreed to wanderthrough the smiling meadows and fragrant copses made famous by thetaste of Queen Hortense. "Good heavens! how lovely!" exclaimed Caroline when standing on thegreen ridge where the forest of Montmorency begins, she saw lying ather feet the wide valley with its combes sheltering scatteredvillages, its horizon of blue hills, its church towers, its meadowsand fields, whence a murmur came up, to die on her ear like the swellof the ocean. The three wanderers made their way by the bank of anartificial stream and came to the Swiss valley, where stands a chaletthat had more than once given shelter to Hortense and Napoleon. WhenCaroline had seated herself with pious reverence on the mossy woodenbench where kings and princesses and the Emperor had rested, MadameCrochard expressed a wish to have a nearer view of a bridge that hungacross between two rocks at some little distance, and bent her stepstowards that rural curiosity, leaving her daughter in Monsieur Roger'scare, though telling them that she would not go out of sight. "What, poor child!" cried Roger, "have you never longed for wealth andthe pleasures of luxury? Have you never wished that you might wear thebeautiful dresses you embroider?" "It would not be the truth, Monsieur Roger, if I were to tell you thatI never think how happy people must be who are rich. Oh yes! I oftenfancy, especially when I am going to sleep, how glad I should be tosee my poor mother no longer compelled to go out, whatever theweather, to buy our little provisions, at her age. I should like herto have a servant who, every morning before she was up, would bringher up her coffee, nicely sweetened with white sugar. And she lovesreading novels, poor dear soul! Well, and I would rather see herwearing out her eyes over her favorite books than over twisting herbobbins from morning till night. And again, she ought to have a littlegood wine. In short, I should like to see her comfortable--she is sogood. " "Then she has shown you great kindness?" "Oh yes, " said the girl, in a tone of conviction. Then, after a shortpause, during which the two young people stood watching MadameCrochard, who had got to the middle of the rustic bridge, and wasshaking her finger at them, Caroline went on: "Oh yes, she has been so good to me. What care she took of me when Iwas little! She sold her last silver forks to apprentice me to the oldmaid who taught me to embroider. --And my poor father! What did she notgo through to make him end his days in happiness!" The girl shiveredat the remembrance, and hid her face in her hands. --"Well! come! letus forget past sorrows!" she added, trying to rally her high spirits. She blushed as she saw that Roger too was moved, but she dared notlook at him. "What was your father?" he asked. "He was an opera-dancer before the Revolution, " said she, with an airof perfect simplicity, "and my mother sang in the chorus. My father, who was leader of the figures on the stage, happened to be present atthe siege of the Bastille. He was recognized by some of theassailants, who asked him whether he could not lead a real attack, since he was used to leading such enterprises on the boards. My fatherwas brave; he accepted the post, led the insurgents, and was rewardedby the nomination to the rank of captain in the army of Sambre-et-Meuse, where he distinguished himself so far as to rise rapidly to be acolonel. But at Lutzen he was so badly wounded that, after a year'ssufferings, he died in Paris. --The Bourbons returned; my mother couldobtain no pension, and we fell into such abject misery that we werecompelled to work for our living. For some time past she has beenailing, poor dear, and I have never known her so little resigned; shecomplains a good deal, and, indeed, I cannot wonder, for she has knownthe pleasures of an easy life. For my part, I cannot pine for delightsI have never known, I have but one thing to wish for. " "And that is?" said Roger eagerly, as if roused from a dream. "That women may continue to wear embroidered net dresses, so that Imay never lack work. " The frankness of this confession interested the young man, who lookedwith less hostile eyes on Madame Crochard as she slowly made her wayback to them. "Well, children, have you had a long talk?" said she, with ahalf-laughing, half-indulgent air. "When I think, Monsieur Roger, thatthe 'little Corporal' has sat where you are sitting, " she went on aftera pause. "Poor man! how my husband worshiped him! Ah! Crochard did wellto die, for he could not have borne to think of him where _they_ havesent him!" Roger put his finger to his lips, and the good woman went on verygravely, with a shake of her head: "All right, mouth shut and tongue still! But, " added she, unhooking abit of her bodice, and showing a ribbon and cross tied round her neckby a piece of black ribbon, "they shall never hinder me from wearingwhat _he_ gave to my poor Crochard, and I will have it buried withme. " On hearing this speech, which at that time was regarded as seditious, Roger interrupted the old lady by rising suddenly, and they returnedto the village through the park walks. The young man left them for afew minutes while he went to order a meal at the best eating-house inTaverny; then, returning to fetch them, he led the way through thealleys cut in the forest. The dinner was cheerful. Roger was no longer the melancholy shade thatwas wont to pass along the Rue du Tourniquet; he was not the "BlackGentleman, " but rather a confiding young man ready to take life as itcame, like the two hard-working women who, on the morrow, might lackbread; he seemed alive to all the joys of youth, his smile was quiteaffectionate and childlike. When, at five o'clock, this happy meal was ended with a few glasses ofchampagne, Roger was the first to propose that they should join thevillage ball under the chestnuts, where he and Caroline dancedtogether. Their hands met with sympathetic pressure, their hearts beatwith the same hopes; and under the blue sky and the slanting, rosybeams of sunset, their eyes sparkled with fires which, to them, madethe glory of the heavens pale. How strange is the power of an idea, ofa desire! To these two nothing seemed impossible. In such magicmoments, when enjoyment sheds its reflections on the future, the soulforesees nothing but happiness. This sweet day had created memoriesfor these two to which nothing could be compared in all their pastexistence. Would the source prove to be more beautiful than the river, the desire more enchanting than its gratification, the thing hoped formore delightful than the thing possessed? "So the day is already at an end!" On hearing this exclamation fromher unknown friend when the dance was over, Caroline looked at himcompassionately, as his face assumed once more a faint shade ofsadness. "Why should you not be as happy in Paris as you are here?" she asked. "Is happiness to be found only at Saint-Leu? It seems to me that I canhenceforth never be unhappy anywhere. " Roger was struck by these words, spoken with the glad unrestraint thatalways carries a woman further than she intended, just as pruderyoften lends her greater cruelty than she feels. For the first timesince that glance, which had, in a way, been the beginning of theirfriendship, Caroline and Roger had the same idea; though they did notexpress it, they felt it at the same instant, as a result of a commonimpression like that of a comforting fire cheering both under thefrost of winter; then, as if frightened by each other's silence, theymade their way to the spot where the carriage was waiting. But beforegetting into it, they playfully took hands and ran together down thedark avenue in front of Madame Crochard. When they could no longer seethe white net cap, which showed as a speck through the leaves wherethe old woman was--"Caroline!" said Roger in a tremulous voice, andwith a beating heart. The girl was startled, and drew back a few steps, understanding theinvitation this question conveyed; however, she held out her hand, which was passionately kissed, but which she hastily withdrew, for bystanding on tiptoe she could see her mother. Madame Crochard affected blindness, as if, with a reminiscence of herold parts, she was only required to figure as a supernumerary. The adventures of these two young people were not continued in the Ruedu Tourniquet. To see Roger and Caroline once more, we must leap intothe heart of modern Paris, where, in some of the newly-built houses, there are apartments that seem made on purpose for newly-marriedcouples to spend their honeymoon in. There the paper and paint are asfresh as the bride and bridegroom, and the decorations are in blossomlike their love; everything is in harmony with youthful notions andardent wishes. Half-way down the Rue Taitbout, in a house whose stone walls werestill white, where the columns of the hall and the doorway were as yetspotless, and the inner walls shone with the neat painting which ourrecent intimacy with English ways had brought into fashion, there was, on the second floor, a small set of rooms fitted by the architect asthough he had known what their use would be. A simple airy ante-room, with a stucco dado, formed an entrance into a drawing-room anddining-room. Out of the drawing-room opened a pretty bedroom, with abathroom beyond. Every chimney-shelf had over it a fine mirror elegantlyframed. The doors were crowded with arabesques in good taste, and thecornices were in the best style. Any amateur would have discernedthere the sense of distinction and decorative fitness which mark thework of modern French architects. For above a month Caroline had been at home in this apartment, furnished by an upholsterer who submitted to an artist's guidance. Ashort description of the principal room will suffice to give us anidea of the wonders it offered to Caroline's delighted eyes when Rogerinstalled her there. Hangings of gray stuff trimmed with green silkadorned the walls of her bedroom; the seats, covered with light-coloredwoolen sateen, were of easy and comfortable shapes, and in thelatest fashion; a chest of drawers of some simple wood, inlaid withlines of a darker hue, contained the treasures of the toilet; awriting-table to match served for inditing love-letters on scentedpaper; the bed, with antique draperies, could not fail to suggestthoughts of love by its soft hangings of elegant muslin; thewindow-curtains, of drab silk with green fringe, were always half drawnto subdue the light; a bronze clock represented Love crowning Psyche;and a carpet of Gothic design on a red ground set off the otheraccessories of this delightful retreat. There was a smalldressing-table in front of a long glass, and here the needlewoman sat, out of patience with Plaisir, the famous hairdresser. "Do you think you will have done to-day?" said she. "Your hair is so long and so thick, madame, " replied Plaisir. Caroline could not help smiling. The man's flattery had no doubtrevived in her mind the memory of the passionate praises lavished byher lover on the beauty of her hair, which he delighted in. The hairdresser having done, a waiting-maid came and held counsel withher as to the dress in which Roger would like best to see her. It wasthe beginning of September 1816, and the weather was cold; she chose agreen _grenadine_ trimmed with chinchilla. As soon as she was dressed, Caroline flew into the drawing-room and opened a window, out of whichshe stepped on to the elegant balcony, that adorned the front of thehouse; there she stood, with her arms crossed, in a charming attitude, not to show herself to the admiration of the passers-by and see themturn to gaze at her, but to be able to look out on the Boulevard atthe bottom of the Rue Taitbout. This side view, really very comparableto the peephole made by actors in the drop-scene of a theatre, enabledher to catch a glimpse of numbers of elegant carriages, and a crowd ofpersons, swept past with the rapidity of _Ombres Chinoises_. Notknowing whether Roger would arrive in a carriage or on foot, theneedlewoman from the Rue du Tourniquet looked by turns at thefoot-passengers, and at the tilburies--light cabs introduced into Parisby the English. Expressions of refractoriness and of love passed by turns over heryouthful face when, after waiting for a quarter of an hour, neitherher keen eye nor her heart had announced the arrival of him whom sheknew to be due. What disdain, what indifference were shown in herbeautiful features for all the other creatures who were bustling likeants below her feet. Her gray eyes, sparkling with fun, now positivelyflamed. Given over to her passion, she avoided admiration with as muchcare as the proudest devote to encouraging it when they drive aboutParis, certainly feeling no care as to whether her fair countenanceleaning over the balcony, or her little foot between the bars, and thepicture of her bright eyes and delicious turned-up nose would beeffaced or no from the minds of the passers-by who admired them; shesaw but one face, and had but one idea. When the spotted head of acertain bay horse happened to cross the narrow strip between the tworows of houses, Caroline gave a little shiver and stood on tiptoe inhope of recognizing the white traces and the color of the tilbury. Itwas he! Roger turned the corner of the street, saw the balcony, whipped thehorse, which came up at a gallop, and stopped at the bronze-green doorthat he knew as well as his master did. The door of the apartment wasopened at once by the maid, who had heard her mistress' exclamation ofdelight. Roger rushed up to the drawing-room, clasped Caroline in hisarms, and embraced her with the effusive feeling natural when twobeings who love each other rarely meet. He led her, or rather theywent by a common impulse, their arms about each other, into the quietand fragrant bedroom; a settee stood ready for them to sit by thefire, and for a moment they looked at each other in silence, expressing their happiness only by their clasped hands, andcommunicating their thoughts in a fond gaze. "Yes, it is he!" she said at last. "Yes, it is you. Do you know, Ihave not seen you for three long days, an age!--But what is thematter? You are unhappy. " "My poor Caroline--" "There, you see! 'poor Caroline'--" "No, no, do not laugh, my darling; we cannot go to the Feydeau Theatretogether this evening. " Caroline put on a little pout, but it vanished immediately. "How absurd I am! How can I think of going to the play when I see you?Is not the sight of you the only spectacle I care for?" she cried, pushing her fingers through Roger's hair. "I am obliged to go to the Attorney-General's. We have a knotty casein hand. He met me in the great hall at the Palais; and as I am toplead, he asked me to dine with him. But, my dearest, you can go tothe theatre with your mother, and I will join you if the meetingbreaks up early. " "To the theatre without you!" cried she in a tone of amazement; "enjoyany pleasure you do not share! O my Roger! you do not deserve a kiss, "she added, throwing her arms round his neck with an artless andimpassioned impulse. "Caroline, I must go home and dress. The Marais is some way off, and Istill have some business to finish. " "Take care what you are saying, monsieur, " said she, interrupting him. "My mother says that when a man begins to talk about his business, heis ceasing to love. " "Caroline! Am I not here? Have I not stolen this hour from mypitiless--" "Hush!" said she, laying a finger on his mouth. "Don't you see that Iam in jest. " They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger's eye fell on anobject brought home that morning by the cabinetmaker. Caroline's oldrosewood embroidery-frame, by which she and her mother had earnedtheir bread when they lived in the Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, hadbeen refitted and polished, and a net dress, of elaborate design, wasalready stretched upon it. "Well, then, my dear, I shall do some work this evening. As I stitch, I shall fancy myself gone back to those early days when you used topass by me without a word, but not without a glance; the days when theremembrance of your look kept me awake all night. Oh my dear old frame--the best piece of furniture in my room, though you did not give itme!--You cannot think, " said she, seating herself on Roger's knees;for he, overcome by irresistible feelings, had dropped into a chair. "Listen. --All I can earn by my work I mean to give to the poor. Youhave made me rich. How I love that pretty home at Bellefeuille, lessbecause of what it is than because you gave it me! But tell me, Roger, I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille--can I? You mustknow: is it legal or permissible?" As she saw a little affirmative grimace--for Roger hated the name ofCrochard--Caroline jumped for glee, and clapped her hands. "I feel, " said she, "as if I should more especially belong to you. Usually a woman gives up her own name and takes her husband's--" Anidea forced itself upon her and made her blush. She took Roger's handand led him to the open piano. --"Listen, " said she, "I can play mysonata now like an angel!" and her fingers were already running overthe ivory keys, when she felt herself seized round the waist. "Caroline, I ought to be far from hence!" "You insist on going? Well, go, " said she, with a pretty pout, but shesmiled as she looked at the clock and exclaimed joyfully, "At anyrate, I have detained you a quarter of an hour!" "Good-bye, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, " said he, with the gentleirony of love. She kissed him and saw her lover to the door; when the sound of hissteps had died away on the stairs she ran out on to the balcony to seehim get into the tilbury, to see him gather up the reins, to catch aparting look, hear the crack of his whip and the sound of his wheelson the stones, watch the handsome horse, the master's hat, the tiger'sgold lace, and at last to stand gazing long after the dark corner ofthe street had eclipsed this vision. Five years after Mademoiselle Caroline de Bellefeuille had taken upher abode in the pretty house in the Rue Taitbout, we again look in onone of those home-scenes which tighten the bonds of affection betweentwo persons who truly love. In the middle of the blue drawing-room, infront of the window opening to the balcony, a little boy of four wasmaking a tremendous noise as he whipped the rocking-horse, whose twocurved supports for the legs did not move fast enough to please him;his pretty face, framed in fair curls that fell over his white collar, smiled up like a cherub's at his mother when she said to him from thedepths of an easy-chair, "Not so much noise, Charles; you will wakeyour little sister. " The inquisitive boy suddenly got off his horse, and treading on tiptoeas if he were afraid of the sound of his feet on the carpet, came upwith one finger between his little teeth, and standing in one of thosechildish attitudes that are so graceful because they are so perfectlynatural, raised the muslin veil that hid the rosy face of a littlegirl sleeping on her mother's knee. "Is Eugenie asleep, then?" said he, quite astonished. "Why is sheasleep when we are awake?" he added, looking up with large, liquidblack eyes. "That only God can know, " replied Caroline, with a smile. The mother and boy gazed at the infant, only that morning baptized. Caroline, now about four-and-twenty, showed the ripe beauty which hadexpanded under the influence of cloudless happiness and constantenjoyment. In her the Woman was complete. Delighted to obey her dear Roger's every wish, she had acquired theaccomplishments she had lacked; she played the piano fairly well, andsang sweetly. Ignorant of the customs of a world that would havetreated her as an outcast, and which she would not have cared for evenif it had welcomed her--for a happy woman does not care for the world--she had not caught the elegance of manner or learned the art ofconversation, abounding in words and devoid of ideas, which is currentin fashionable drawing-rooms; on the other hand, she worked hard togain the knowledge indispensable to a mother whose chief ambition isto bring up her children well. Never to lose sight of her boy, to givehim from the cradle that training of every minute which impresses onthe young a love of all that is good and beautiful, to shelter himfrom every evil influence and fulfil both the painful duties of anurse and the tender offices of a mother, --these were her chiefpleasures. The coy and gentle being had from the first day so fully resignedherself never to step beyond the enchanted sphere where she found allher happiness, that, after six years of the tenderest intimacy, shestill knew her lover only by the name of Roger. A print of the pictureof the Psyche lighting her lamp to gaze on Love in spite of hisprohibition, hung in her room, and constantly reminded her of theconditions of her happiness. Through all these six years her humblepleasures had never importuned Roger by a single indiscreet ambition, and his heart was a treasure-house of kindness. Never had she longedfor diamonds or fine clothes, and had again and again refused theluxury of a carriage which he had offered her. To look out from herbalcony for Roger's cab, to go with him to the play or make excursionswith him, on fine days in the environs of Paris, to long for him, tosee him, and then to long again, --these made up the history of herlife, poor in incidents but rich in happiness. As she rocked the infant, now a few months old, on her knee, singingthe while, she allowed herself to recall the memories of the past. Shelingered more especially on the months of September, when Roger wasaccustomed to take her to Bellefeuille and spend the delightful dayswhich seem to combine the charms of every season. Nature is equallyprodigal of flowers and fruit, the evenings are mild, the morningsbright, and a blaze of summer often returns after a spell of autumngloom. During the early days of their love, Caroline had ascribed theeven mind and gentle temper, of which Roger gave her so many proofs, to the rarity of their always longed-for meetings, and to their modeof life, which did not compel them to be constantly together, as ahusband and wife must be. But now she could remember with rapturethat, tortured by foolish fears, she had watched him with tremblingduring their first stay on this little estate in the Gatinais. Vainsuspiciousness of love! Each of these months of happiness had passedlike a dream in the midst of joys which never rang false. She hadalways seen that kind creature with a tender smile on his lips, asmile that seemed to mirror her own. As she called up these vivid pictures, her eyes filled with tears; shethought she could not love him enough, and was tempted to regard herambiguous position as a sort of tax levied by Fate on her love. Finally, invincible curiosity led her to wonder for the thousandthtime what events they could be that led so tender a heart as Roger'sto find his pleasure in clandestine and illicit happiness. Sheinvented a thousand romances on purpose really to avoid recognizingthe true reason, which she had long suspected but tried not to believein. She rose, and carrying the baby in her arms, went into thedining-room to superintend the preparations for dinner. It was the 6th of May 1822, the anniversary of the excursion to thePark of Saint-Leu, which had been the turning-point of her life; eachyear it had been marked by heartfelt rejoicing. Caroline chose thelinen to be used, and arranged the dessert. Having attended with joyto these details, which touched Roger, she placed the infant in herpretty cot and went out on to the balcony, whence she presently sawthe carriage which her friend, as he grew to riper years, now usedinstead of the smart tilbury of his youth. After submitting to thefirst fire of Caroline's embraces and the kisses of the little roguewho addressed him as papa, Roger went to the cradle, looked at hislittle sleeping daughter, kissed her forehead, and then took out ofhis pocket a document covered with black writing. "Caroline, " said he, "here is the marriage portion of MademoiselleEugenie de Bellefeuille. " The mother gratefully took the paper, a deed of gift of securities inthe State funds. "Buy why, " said she, "have you given Eugenie three thousand francs ayear, and Charles no more than fifteen hundred?" "Charles, my love, will be a man, " replied he. "Fifteen hundred francsare enough for him. With so much for certain, a man of courage isabove poverty. And if by chance your son should turn out a nonentity, I do not wish him to be able to play the fool. If he is ambitious, this small income will give him a taste for work. --Eugenie is a girl;she must have a little fortune. " The father then turned to play with his boy, whose effusive affectionshowed the independence and freedom in which he was brought up. Nosort of shyness between the father and child interfered with the charmwhich rewards a parent for his devotion; and the cheerfulness of thelittle family was as sweet as it was genuine. In the evening amagic-lantern displayed its illusions and mysterious pictures on awhite sheet to Charles' great surprise, and more than once the innocentchild's heavenly rapture made Caroline and Roger laugh heartily. Later, when the little boy was in bed, the baby woke and craved itslimpid nourishment. By the light of a lamp in the chimney corner, Roger enjoyed the scene of peace and comfort, and gave himself up tothe happiness of contemplating the sweet picture of the child clingingto Caroline's white bosom as she sat, as fresh as a newly opened lily, while her hair fell in long brown curls that almost hid her neck. Thelamplight enhanced the grace of the young mother, shedding over her, her dress, and the infant, the picturesque effects of strong light andshadow. The calm and silent woman's face struck Roger as a thousand timessweeter than ever, and he gazed tenderly at the rosy, pouting lipsfrom which no harsh word had ever been heard. The very same thoughtwas legible in Caroline's eyes as she gave a sidelong look at Roger, either to enjoy the effect she was producing on him, or to see whatthe end of the evening was to be. He, understanding the meaning ofthis cunning glance, said with assumed regret, "I must be going. Ihave a serious case to be finished, and I am expected at home. Dutybefore all things--don't you think so, my darling?" Caroline looked him in the face with an expression at once sad andsweet, with the resignation which does not, however, disguise thepangs of a sacrifice. "Good-bye, then, " said she. "Go, for if you stay an hour longer Icannot so lightly bear to set you free. " "My dearest, " said he with a smile, "I have three days' holiday, andam supposed to be twenty leagues away from Paris. " A few days after this anniversary of the 6th of May, Mademoiselle deBellefeuille hurried off one morning to the Rue Saint-Louis, in theMarais, only hoping she might not arrive too late at a house where shecommonly went once a week. An express messenger had just come toinform her that her mother, Madame Crochard, was sinking under acomplication of disorders produced by constant catarrh and rheumatism. While the hackney coach-driver was flogging up his horses atCaroline's urgent request, supported by the promise of a handsomepresent, the timid old women, who had been Madame Crochard's friendsduring her later years, had brought a priest into the neat andcomfortable second-floor rooms occupied by the old widow. MadameCrochard's maid did not know that the pretty lady at whose house hermistress so often dined was her daughter, and she was one of the firstto suggest the services of a confessor, in the hope that this priestmight be at least as useful to herself as to the sick woman. Betweentwo games of boston, or out walking in the Jardin Turc, the oldbeldames with whom the widow gossiped all day had succeeded in rousingin their friend's stony heart some scruples as to her former life, some visions of the future, some fears of hell, and some hopes offorgiveness if she should return in sincerity to a religious life. Soon this solemn morning three ancient females had settled themselves inthe drawing-room where Madame Crochard was "at home" every Tuesday. Each in turn left her armchair to go to the poor old woman's bedsideand sit with her, giving her the false hopes with which people deludethe dying. At the same time, when the end was drawing near, when the physiciancalled in the day before would no longer answer for her life, thethree dames took counsel together as to whether it would not be wellto send word to Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Francoise having beenduly informed, it was decided that a commissionaire should go to theRue Taitbout to inform the young relation whose influence was sodisquieting to the four women; still, they hoped that the Auvergnatwould be too late in bringing back the person who so certainly heldthe first place in the widow Crochard's affections. The widow, evidently in the enjoyment of a thousand crowns a year, would not havebeen so fondly cherished by this feminine trio, but that neither ofthem, nor Francoise herself knew of her having any heir. The wealthenjoyed by Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, whom Madame Crochard, inobedience to the traditions of the older opera, never allowed herselfto speak of by the affectionate name of daughter, almost justified thefour women in their scheme of dividing among themselves the oldwoman's "pickings. " Presently the one of these three sibyls who kept guard over the sickwoman came shaking her head at the other anxious two, and said: "It is time we should be sending for the Abbe Fontanon. In another twohours she will neither have the wit nor the strength to write a line. " Thereupon the toothless old cook went off, and returned with a manwearing a black gown. A low forehead showed a small mind in thispriest, whose features were mean; his flabby, fat cheeks and doublechin betrayed the easy-going egotist; his powdered hair gave him apleasant look, till he raised his small, brown eyes, prominent under aflat forehead, and not unworthy to glitter under the brows of aTartar. "Monsieur l'Abbe, " said Francoise, "I thank you for all your advice;but believe me, I have taken the greatest care of the dear soul. " But the servant, with her dragging step and woe-begone look, wassilent when she saw that the door of the apartment was open, and thatthe most insinuating of the three dowagers was standing on the landingto be the first to speak with the confessor. When the priest hadpolitely faced the honeyed and bigoted broadside of words fired offfrom the widow's three friends, he went into the sickroom to sit byMadame Crochard. Decency, and some sense of reserve, compelled thethree women and old Francoise to remain in the sitting-room, and tomake such grimaces of grief as are possible in perfection only to suchwrinkled faces. "Oh, is it not ill-luck!" cried Francoise, heaving a sigh. "This isthe fourth mistress I have buried. The first left me a hundred francsa year, the second a sum of fifty crowns, and the third a thousandcrowns down. After thirty years' service, that is all I have to callmy own. " The woman took advantage of her freedom to come and go, to slip into acupboard, whence she could hear the priest. "I see with pleasure, daughter, " said Fontanon, "that you have pioussentiments; you have a sacred relic round your neck. " Madame Crochard, with a feeble vagueness which seemed to show that shehad not all her wits about her, pulled out the Imperial Cross of theLegion of Honor. The priest started back at seeing the Emperor's head;he went up to the penitent again, and she spoke to him, but in such alow tone that for some minutes Francoise could hear nothing. "Woe upon me!" cried the old woman suddenly. "Do not desert me. What, Monsieur l'Abbe, do you think I shall be called to account for mydaughter's soul?" The Abbe spoke too low, and the partition was too thick for Francoiseto hear the reply. "Alas!" sobbed the woman, "the wretch has left me nothing that I canbequeath. When he robbed me of my dear Caroline, he parted us, andonly allowed me three thousand francs a year, of which the capitalbelongs to my daughter. " "Madame has a daughter, and nothing to live on but an annuity, "shrieked Francoise, bursting into the drawing-room. The three old crones looked at each other in dismay. One of them, whose nose and chin nearly met with an expression that betrayed asuperior type of hypocrisy and cunning, winked her eyes; and as soonas Francoise's back was turned, she gave her friends a nod, as much asto say, "That slut is too knowing by half; her name has figured inthree wills already. " So the three old dames sat on. However, the Abbe presently came out, and at a word from him thewitches scuttered down the stairs at his heels, leaving Francoisealone with her mistress. Madame Crochard, whose sufferings increasedin severity, rang, but in vain, for this woman, who only called out, "Coming, coming--in a minute!" The doors of cupboards and wardrobeswere slamming as though Francoise were hunting high and low for a lostlottery ticket. Just as this crisis was at a climax, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille cameto stand by her mother's bed, lavishing tender words on her. "Oh my dear mother, how criminal I have been! You are ill, and I didnot know it; my heart did not warn me. However, here I am--" "Caroline--" "What is it?" "They fetched a priest--" "But send for a doctor, bless me!" cried Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. "Francoise, a doctor! How is it that these ladies never sent for adoctor?" "They sent for a priest----" repeated the old woman with a gasp. "She is so ill--and no soothing draught, nothing on her table!" The mother made a vague sign, which Caroline's watchful eyeunderstood, for she was silent to let her mother speak. "They brought a priest--to hear my confession, as they said. --Beware, Caroline!" cried the old woman with an effort, "the priest made metell him your benefactor's name. " "But who can have told you, poor mother?" The old woman died, trying to look knowingly cunning. If Mademoisellede Bellefeuille had noted her mother's face she might have seen whatno one ever will see--Death laughing. To enter into the interests that lay beneath this introduction to mytale, we must for a moment forget the actors in it, and look back atcertain previous incidents, of which the last was closely concernedwith the death of Madame Crochard. The two parts will then form awhole--a story which, by a law peculiar to life in Paris, was made upof two distinct sets of actions. Towards the close of the month of November 1805, a young barrister, aged about six-and-twenty, was going down the stairs of the hotelwhere the High Chancellor of the Empire resided, at about threeo'clock one morning. Having reached the courtyard in full eveningdress, under a keen frost, he could not help giving vent to anexclamation of dismay--qualified, however, by the spirit which rarelydeserts a Frenchman--at seeing no hackney coach waiting outside thegates, and hearing no noises such as arise from the wooden shoes orharsh voices of the hackney-coachmen of Paris. The occasional pawingof the horses of the Chief Justice's carriage--the young man havingleft him still playing _bouillote_ with Cambaceres--alone rang out inthe paved court, which was scarcely lighted by the carriage lamps. Suddenly the young lawyer felt a friendly hand on his shoulder, andturning round, found himself face to face with the Judge, to whom hebowed. As the footman let down the steps of his carriage, the oldgentleman, who had served the Convention, suspected the junior'sdilemma. "All cats are gray in the dark, " said he good-humoredly. "The ChiefJustice cannot compromise himself by putting a pleader in the rightway! Especially, " he went on, "when the pleader is the nephew of anold colleague, one of the lights of the grand Council of State whichgave France the Napoleonic Code. " At a gesture from the chief magistrate of France under the Empire, thefoot-passenger got into the carriage. "Where do you live?" asked the great man, before the footman whoawaited his orders had closed the door. "Quai des Augustins, monseigneur. " The horses started, and the young man found himself alone with theMinister, to whom he had vainly tried to speak before and after thesumptuous dinner given by Cambaceres; in fact, the great man hadevidently avoided him throughout the evening. "Well, Monsieur _de_ Granville, you are on the high road!" "So long as I sit by your Excellency's side--" "Nay, I am not jesting, " said the Minister. "You were called two yearssince, and your defence in the case of Simeuse and Hauteserre hadraised you high in your profession. " "I had supposed that my interest in those unfortunate emigres had doneme no good. " "You are still very young, " said the great man gravely. "But the HighChancellor, " he went on, after a pause, "was greatly pleased with youthis evening. Get a judgeship in the lower courts; we want men. Thenephew of a man in whom Cambaceres and I take great interest must notremain in the background for lack of encouragement. Your uncle helpedus to tide over a very stormy season, and services of that kind arenot forgotten. " The Minister sat silent for a few minutes. "Beforelong, " he went on, "I shall have three vacancies open in the LowerCourts and in the Imperial Court in Paris. Come to see me, and takethe place you prefer. Till then work hard, but do not be seen at myreceptions. In the first place, I am overwhelmed with work; andbesides that, your rivals may suspect your purpose and do you harmwith the patron. Cambaceres and I, by not speaking a word to you thisevening, have averted the accusation of favoritism. " As the great man ceased speaking, the carriage drew up on the Quai desAugustins; the young lawyer thanked his generous patron for the twolifts he had conferred on him, and then knocked at his door prettyloudly, for the bitter wind blew cold about his calves. At last theold lodgekeeper pulled up the latch; and as the young man passed hiswindow, called out in a hoarse voice, "Monsieur Granville, here is aletter for you. " The young man took the letter, and in spite of the cold, tried toidentify the writing by the gleam of a dull lamp fast dying out. "Frommy father!" he exclaimed, as he took his bedroom candle, which theporter at last had lighted. And he ran up to his room to read thefollowing epistle:-- "Set off by the next mail; and if you can get here soon enough, your fortune is made. Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems has lost her sister; she is now an only child; and, as we know, she does not hate you. Madame Bontems can now leave her about forty thousand francs a year, besides whatever she may give her when she marries. I have prepared the way. "Our friends will wonder to see a family of old nobility allying itself to the Bontems; old Bontems was a red republican of the deepest dye, owning large quantities of the nationalized land, that he bought for a mere song. But he held nothing but convent lands, and the monks will not come back; and then, as you have already so far derogated as to become a lawyer, I cannot see why we should shrink from a further concession to the prevalent ideas. The girl will have three hundred thousand francs; I can give you a hundred thousand; your mother's property must be worth fifty thousand crowns, more or less; so if you choose to take a judgeship, my dear son, you are quite in a position to become a senator as much as any other man. My brother-in-law the Councillor of State will not indeed lend you a helping-hand; still, as he is not married, his property will some day be yours, and if you are not senator by your own efforts, you will get it through him. Then you will be perched high enough to look on at events. Farewell. Yours affectionately. " So young Granville went to bed full of schemes, each fairer than thelast. Under the powerful protection of the High Chancellor, the ChiefJustice, and his mother's brother--one of the originators of the Code--he was about to make a start in a coveted position before thehighest court of the Empire, and he already saw himself a member ofthe bench whence Napoleon selected the chief functionaries of therealm. He could also promise himself a fortune handsome enough to keepup his rank, for which the slender income of five thousand francs froman estate left him by his mother would be quite insufficient. To crown his ambitious dreams with a vision of happiness, he called upthe guileless face of Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems, the companion ofhis childhood. Until he came to boyhood his father and mother had madeno objection to his intimacy with their neighbor's pretty littledaughter; but when, during his brief holiday visits to Bayeux, hisparents, who prided themselves on their good birth, saw what friendsthe young people were, they forbade his ever thinking of her. Thus forten years past Granville had only had occasional glimpses of the girl, whom he still sometimes thought of as "his little wife. " And in thosebrief moments when they met free from the active watchfulness of theirfamilies, they had scarcely exchanged a few vague civilities at thechurch door or in the street. Their happiest days had been those when, brought together by one of those country festivities known in Normandyas _Assemblees_, they could steal a glance at each other from afar. In the course of the last vacation Granville had twice seen Angelique, and her downcast eyes and drooping attitude had led him to supposethat she was crushed by some unknown tyranny. He was off by seven next morning to the coach office in the RueNotre-Dame-des-Victoires, and was so lucky as to find a vacant seat inthe diligence then starting for Caen. It was not without deep emotion that the young lawyer saw once morethe spires of the cathedral at Bayeux. As yet no hope of his life hadbeen cheated, and his heart swelled with the generous feelings thatexpand in the youthful soul. After the too lengthy feast of welcome prepared by his father, whoawaited him with some friends, the impatient youth was conducted to ahouse, long familiar to him, standing in the Rue Teinture. His heartbeat high when his father--still known in the town of Bayeux as theComte de Granville--knocked loudly at a carriage gate off which thegreen paint was dropping in scales. It was about four in theafternoon. A young maid-servant, in a cotton cap, dropped a shortcurtsey to the two gentlemen, and said that the ladies would soon behome from vespers. The Count and his son were shown into a low room used as adrawing-room, but more like a convent parlor. Polished panels of darkwalnut made it gloomy enough, and around it some old-fashioned chairscovered with worsted work and stiff armchairs were symmetricallyarranged. The stone chimney-shelf had no ornament but a discoloredmirror, and on each side of it were the twisted branches of a pair ofcandle-brackets, such as were made at the time of the Peace of Utrecht. Against a panel opposite, young Granville saw an enormous crucifix ofebony and ivory surrounded by a wreath of box that had been blessed. Though there were three windows to the room, looking out on acountry-town garden, laid out in formal square beds edged with box, theroom was so dark that it was difficult to discern, on the wall oppositethe windows, three pictures of sacred subjects painted by a skilled hand, and purchased, no doubt, during the Revolution by old Bontems, who, asgovernor of the district, had never neglected his opportunities. Fromthe carefully polished floor to the green checked holland curtainseverything shone with conventual cleanliness. The young man's heart felt an involuntary chill in this silent retreatwhere Angelique dwelt. The habit of frequenting the glittering Parisdrawing-rooms, and the constant whirl of society, had effaced from hismemory the dull and peaceful surroundings of a country life, and thecontrast was so startling as to give him a sort of internal shiver. Tohave just left a party at the house of Cambaceres, where life was solarge, where minds could expand, where the splendor of the ImperialCourt was so vividly reflected, and to be dropped suddenly into asphere of squalidly narrow ideas--was it not like a leap from Italyinto Greenland?--"Living here is not life!" said he to himself, as helooked round the Methodistical room. The old Count, seeing his son'sdismay, went up to him, and taking his hand, led him to a window, where there was still a gleam of daylight, and while the maid waslighting the yellow tapers in the candle branches he tried to clearaway the clouds that the dreary place had brought to his brow. "Listen, my boy, " said he. "Old Bontems' widow is a frenzied bigot. 'When the devil is old--' you know! I see that the place goes againstthe grain. Well, this is the whole truth; the old woman ispriest-ridden; they have persuaded her that it was high time to makesure of heaven, and the better to secure Saint Peter and his keys shepays before-hand. She goes to Mass every day, attends every service, takes the communion every Sunday God has made, and amuses herself byrestoring chapels. She had given so many ornaments, and albs, andchasubles, she has crowned the canopy with so many feathers, that onthe occasion of the last Corpus Christi procession as great a crowdcame together as to see a man hanged, just to stare at the priests intheir splendid dresses and all the vessels regilt. This house too is asort of Holy Land. It was I who hindered her from giving those threepictures to the Church--a Domenichino, a Correggio, and an Andrea delSarto--worth a good deal of money. " "But Angelique?" asked the young man. "If you do not marry her, Angelique is done for, " said the Count. "Ourholy apostles counsel her to live a virgin martyr. I have had theutmost difficulty in stirring up her little heart, since she has beenthe only child, by talking to her of you; but, as you will easilyunderstand, as soon as she is married you will carry her off to Paris. There, festivities, married life, the theatres, and the rush ofParisian society, will soon make her forget confessionals, andfasting, and hair shirts, and Masses, which are the exclusivenourishment of such creatures. " "But the fifty thousand francs a year derived from Church property?Will not all that return--" "That is the point!" exclaimed the Count, with a cunning glance. "Inconsideration of this marriage--for Madame Bontems' vanity is not alittle flattered by the notion of grafting the Bontems on to thegenealogical tree of the Granvilles--the aforenamed mother agreesto settle her fortune absolutely on the girl, reserving only alife-interest. The priesthood, therefore, are set against the marriage;but I have had the banns published, everything is ready, and in a weekyou will be out of the clutches of the mother and her Abbes. You willhave the prettiest girl in Bayeux, a good little soul who will give youno trouble, because she has sound principles. She has been mortified, as they say in their jargon, by fasting and prayer--and, " he added in alow voice, "by her mother. " A modest tap at the door silenced the Count, who expected to see thetwo ladies appear. A little page came in, evidently in a great hurry;but, abashed by the presence of the two gentlemen, he beckoned to ahousekeeper, who followed him. Dressed in a blue cloth jacket withshort tails, and blue-and-white striped trousers, his hair cut shortall round, the boy's expression was that of a chorister, so stronglywas it stamped with the compulsory propriety that marks every memberof a bigoted household. "Mademoiselle Gatienne, " said he, "do you know where the books are forthe offices of the Virgin? The ladies of the Congregation of theSacred Heart are going in procession this evening round the church. " Gatienne went in search of the books. "Will they go on much longer, my little man?" asked the Count. "Oh, half an hour at most. " "Let us go to look on, " said the father to his son. "There will besome pretty women there, and a visit to the Cathedral can do us noharm. " The young lawyer followed him with a doubtful expression. "What is the matter?" asked the Count. "The matter, father, is that I am sure I am right. " "But you have said nothing. " "No; but I have been thinking that you have still ten thousand francsa year left of your original fortune. You will leave them to me--aslong a time hence as possible, I hope. But if you are ready to give mea hundred thousand francs to make a foolish match, you will surelyallow me to ask you for only fifty thousand to save me from such amisfortune, and enjoy as a bachelor a fortune equal to what yourMademoiselle Bontems would bring me. " "Are you crazy?" "No, father. These are the facts. The Chief Justice promised meyesterday that I should have a seat on the Bench. Fifty thousandfrancs added to what I have, and to the pay of my appointment, willgive me an income of twelve thousand francs a year. And I then shallmost certainly have a chance of marrying a fortune, better than thisalliance, which will be poor in happiness if rich in goods. " "It is very clear, " said his father, "that you were not brought upunder the old _regime_. Does a man of our rank ever allow his wife tobe in his way?" "But, my dear father, in these days marriage is--" "Bless me!" cried the Count, interrupting his son, "then what my old_emigre_ friends tell me is true, I suppose. The Revolution has leftus habits devoid of pleasure, and has infected all the young men withvulgar principles. You, like my Jacobin brother-in-law, will harangueme, I suppose, on the Nation, Public Morals, and Disinterestedness!--Good Heavens! But for the Emperor's sisters, where should we be?" The still hale old man, whom the peasants on the estate persisted incalling the Signeur de Granville, ended his speech as they entered theCathedral porch. In spite of the sanctity of the place, and even as hedipped his fingers in the holy water, he hummed an air from the operaof _Rose et Colas_, and then led the way down the side aisles, stopping by each pillar to survey the rows of heads, all in lines likeranks of soldiers on parade. The special service of the Sacred Heart was about to begin. The ladiesaffiliated to that congregation were in front near the choir, so theCount and his son made their way to that part of the nave, and stoodleaning against one of the columns where there was least light, whencethey could command a view of this mass of faces, looking like a meadowfull of flowers. Suddenly, close to young Granville, a voice, sweeterthan it seemed possible to ascribe to a human being, broke into song, like the first nightingale when winter is past. Though it mingled withthe voices of a thousand other women and the notes of the organ, thatvoice stirred his nerves as though they vibrated to the too full andtoo piercing sounds of a harmonium. The Parisian turned round, and, seeing a young figure, though, the head being bent, her face wasentirely concealed by a large white bonnet, concluded that the voicewas hers. He fancied that he recognized Angelique in spite of a brownmerino pelisse that wrapped her, and he nudged his father's elbow. "Yes, there she is, " said the Count, after looking where his sonpointed, and then, by an expressive glance, he directed his attentionto the pale face of an elderly woman who had already detected thestrangers, though her false eyes, deep set in dark circles, did notseem to have strayed from the prayer-book she held. Angelique raised her face, gazing at the altar as if to inhale theheavy scent of the incense that came wafted in clouds over the twowomen. And then, in the doubtful light that the tapers shed down thenave, with that of a central lamp and of some lights round thepillars, the young man beheld a face which shook his determination. Awhite watered-silk bonnet closely framed features of perfectregularity, the oval being completed by the satin ribbon tie thatfastened it under her dimpled chin. Over her forehead, very sweetthough low, hair of a pale gold color parted in two bands and fellover her cheeks, like the shadow of leaves on a flower. The arches ofher eyebrows were drawn with the accuracy we admire in the bestChinese paintings. Her nose, almost aquiline in profile, wasexceptionally firmly cut, and her lips were like two rose lineslovingly traced with a delicate brush. Her eyes, of a light blue, wereexpressive of innocence. Though Granville discerned a sort of rigid reserve in this girlishface, he could ascribe it to the devotion in which Angelique was rapt. The solemn words of prayer, visible in the cold, came from betweenrows of pearls, like a fragrant mist, as it were. The young maninvoluntarily bent over her a little to breathe this diviner air. Thismovement attracted the girl's notice; her gaze, raised to the altar, was diverted to Granville, whom she could see but dimly in the gloom;but she recognized him as the companion of her youth, and a memorymore vivid than prayer brought a supernatural glow to her face; sheblushed. The young lawyer was thrilled with joy at seeing the hopes ofanother life overpowered by those of love, and the glory of thesanctuary eclipsed by earthly reminiscences; but his triumph wasbrief. Angelique dropped her veil, assumed a calm demeanor, and wenton singing without letting her voice betray the least emotion. Granville was a prey to one single wish, and every thought of prudencevanished. By the time the service was ended, his impatience was sogreat that he could not leave the ladies to go home alone, but came atonce to make his bow to "his little wife. " They bashfully greeted eachother in the Cathedral porch in the presence of the congregation. Madame Bontems was tremulous with pride as she took the Comte deGranville's arm, though he, forced to offer it in the presence of allthe world was vexed enough with his son for his ill-advisedimpatience. For about a fortnight, between the official announcement of theintended marriage of the Vicomte de Granville to Mademoiselle Bontemsand the solemn day of the wedding, he came assiduously to visit hislady-love in the dismal drawing-room, to which he became accustomed. His long calls were devoted to watching Angelique's character; for hisprudence, happily, had made itself heard again in the day after theirfirst meeting. He always found her seated at a little table of someWest Indian wood, and engaged in marking the linen of her trousseau. Angelique never spoke first on the subject of religion. If the younglawyer amused himself with fingering the handsome rosary that she keptin a little green velvet bag, if he laughed as he looked at a relicsuch as usually is attached to this means of grace, Angelique wouldgently take the rosary out of his hands and replace it in the bagwithout a word, putting it away at once. When, now and then, Granvillewas so bold as to make mischievous remarks as to certain religiouspractices, the pretty girl listened to him with the obstinate smile ofassurance. "You must either believe nothing, or believe everything the Churchteaches, " she would say. "Would you wish to have a woman without areligion as the mother of your children?--No. --What man may dare judgeas between disbelievers and God? And how can I then blame what theChurch allows?" Angelique appeared to be animated by such fervent charity, the youngman saw her look at him with such perfect conviction, that hesometimes felt tempted to embrace her religious views; her firm beliefthat she was in the only right road aroused doubts in his mind, whichshe tried to turn to account. But then Granville committed the fatal blunder of mistaking theenchantment of desire for that of love. Angelique was so happy inreconciling the voice of her heart with that of duty, by giving way toa liking that had grown up with her from childhood, that the deludedman could not discern which of the two spoke the louder. Are not allyoung men ready to trust the promise of a pretty face and to inferbeauty of soul from beauty of feature? An indefinable impulse leadsthem to believe that moral perfection must co-exist with physicalperfection. If Angelique had not been at liberty to give vent to hersentiments, they would soon have dried up in her heart like a plantwatered with some deadly acid. How should a lover be aware of bigotryso well hidden? This was the course of young Granville's feelings during thatfortnight, devoured by him like a book of which the end is absorbing. Angelique, carefully watched by him, seemed the gentlest of creatures, and he even caught himself feeling grateful to Madame Bontems, who, byimplanting so deeply the principles of religion, had in some degreeinured her to meet the troubles of life. On the day named for signing the inevitable contract, Madame Bontemsmade her son-in-law pledge himself solemnly to respect her daughter'sreligious practices, to allow her entire liberty of conscience, topermit her to go to communion, to church, to confession as often asshe pleased, and never to control her choice of priestly advisers. Atthis critical moment Angelique looked at her future husband with suchpure and innocent eyes, that Granville did not hesitate to give hisword. A smile puckered the lips of the Abbe Fontanon, a pale man, whodirected the consciences of this household. Mademoiselle Bontems, by aslight nod, seemed to promise that she would never take an unfairadvantage of this freedom. As to the old Count, he gently whistled thetune of an old song, _Va-t-en-voir s'ils viennent_ ("Go and see ifthey are coming on!") A few days after the wedding festivities of which so much is thoughtin the provinces, Granville and his wife went to Paris, whither theyoung man was recalled by his appointment as public prosecutor to theSupreme Court of the Seine circuit. When the young couple set out to find a residence, Angelique used theinfluence that the honeymoon gives to every wife in persuading herhusband to take a large apartment in the ground-floor of a house atthe corner of the Vieille Rue du Temple and the Rue NueveSaint-Francois. Her chief reason for this choice was that the housewas close to the Rue d'Orleans, where there was a church, and not farfrom a small chapel in the Rue Saint-Louis. "A good housewife provides for everything, " said her husband, laughing. Angelique pointed out to him that this part of Paris, known as theMarais, was within easy reach of the Palais de Justice, and that thelawyers they knew lived in the neighborhood. A fairly large gardenmade the apartment particularly advantageous to a young couple; thechildren--if Heaven should send them any--could play in the open air;the courtyard was spacious, and there were good stables. The lawyer wished to live in the Chaussee d'Antin, where everything isfresh and bright, where the fashions may be seen while still new, where a well-dressed crowd throngs the Boulevards, and the distance isless to the theatres or places of amusement; but he was obliged togive way to the coaxing ways of a young wife, who asked this as hisfirst favor; so, to please her, he settled in the Marais. Granville'sduties required him to work hard--all the more, because they were newto him--so he devoted himself in the first place to furnishing hisprivate study and arranging his books. He was soon established in aroom crammed with papers, and left the decoration of the house to hiswife. He was all the better pleased to plunge Angelique into thebustle of buying furniture and fittings, the source of so muchpleasure and of so many associations to most young women, because hewas rather ashamed of depriving her of his company more often than theusages of early married life require. As soon as his work was fairlyunder way, he gladly allowed his wife to tempt him out of his study toconsider the effect of furniture or hangings, which he had before onlyseen piecemeal or unfinished. If the old adage is true that says a woman may be judged of from herfront door, her rooms must express her mind with even greaterfidelity. Madame de Granville had perhaps stamped the various thingsshe had ordered with the seal of her own character; the young lawyerwas certainly startled by the cold, arid solemnity that reigned inthese rooms; he found nothing to charm his taste; everything wasdiscordant, nothing gratified the eye. The rigid mannerism thatprevailed in the sitting-room at Bayeux had invaded his home; thebroad panels were hollowed in circles, and decorated with thosearabesques of which the long, monotonous mouldings are in such badtaste. Anxious to find excuses for his wife, the young husband beganagain, looking first at the long and lofty ante-room through which theapartment was entered. The color of the panels, as ordered by hiswife, was too heavy, and the very dark green velvet used to cover thebenches added to the gloom of this entrance--not, to be sure, animportant room, but giving a first impression--just as we measure aman's intelligence by his first address. An ante-room is a kind ofpreface which announces what is to follow, but promises nothing. The young husband wondered whether his wife could really have chosenthe lamp of an antique pattern, which hung in the centre of this barehall, the pavement of black and white marble, and the paper inimitation of blocks of stone, with green moss on them in places. Ahandsome, but not new, barometer hung on the middle of one of thewalls, as if to accentuate the void. At the sight of it all, he lookedround at his wife; he saw her so much pleased by the red braid bindingto the cotton curtains, so satisfied with the barometer and thestrictly decent statue that ornamented a large Gothic stove, that hehad not the barbarous courage to overthrow such deep convictions. Instead of blaming his wife, Granville blamed himself, accusinghimself of having failed in his duty of guiding the first steps inParis of a girl brought up at Bayeux. From this specimen, what might not be expected of the other rooms?What was to be looked for from a woman who took fright at the barelegs of a Caryatid, and who would not look at a chandelier or acandle-stick if she saw on it the nude outlines of an Egyptian bust?At this date the school of David was at the height of its glory; allthe art of France bore the stamp of his correct design and his love ofantique types, which indeed gave his pictures the character of coloredsculpture. But none of these devices of Imperial luxury found civicrights under Madame de Granville's roof. The spacious, squaredrawing-room remained as it had been left from the time of Louis XV. , in white and tarnished gold, lavishly adorned by the architect withcheckered lattice-work and the hideous garlands due to the uninventivedesigners of the time. Still, if harmony at least had prevailed, ifthe furniture of modern mahogany had but assumed the twisted forms ofwhich Boucher's corrupt taste first set the fashion, Angelique's roomwould only have suggested the fantastic contrast of a young couple inthe nineteenth century living as though they were in the eighteenth;but a number of details were in ridiculous discord. The consoles, theclocks, the candelabra, were decorated with the military trophieswhich the wars of the Empire commended to the affections of theParisians; and the Greek helmets, the Roman crossed daggers, and theshields so dear to military enthusiasm that they were introduced onfurniture of the most peaceful uses, had no fitness side by side withthe delicate and profuse arabesques that delighted Madame dePompadour. Bigotry tends to an indescribably tiresome kind of humility which doesnot exclude pride. Whether from modesty or by choice, Madame deGranville seemed to have a horror of light and cheerful colors;perhaps, too, she imagined that brown and purple beseemed the dignityof a magistrate. How could a girl accustomed to an austere life haveadmitted the luxurious divans that may suggest evil thoughts, theelegant and tempting boudoirs where naughtiness may be imagined? The poor husband was in despair. From the tone in which he approved, only seconding the praises she bestowed on herself, Angeliqueunderstood that nothing really pleased him; and she expressed so muchregret at her want of success, that Granville, who was very much inlove, regarded her disappointment as a proof of her affection insteadof resentment for an offence to her self-conceit. After all, could heexpect a girl just snatched from the humdrum of country notions, withno experience of the niceties and grace of Paris life, to know or doany better? Rather would he believe that his wife's choice had beenoverruled by the tradesmen than allow himself to own the truth. If hehad been less in love, he would have understood that the dealers, always quick to discern their customers' ideas, had blessed Heavenfor sending them a tasteless little bigot, who would take theirold-fashioned goods off their hands. So he comforted the prettyprovincial. "Happiness, dear Angelique, does not depend on a more or less elegantpiece of furniture; it depends on the wife's sweetness, gentleness, and love. " "Why, it is my duty to love you, " said Angelique mildly, "and I canhave no more delightful duty to carry out. " Nature has implanted in the heart of woman so great a desire toplease, so deep a craving for love, that, even in a youthful bigot, the ideas of salvation and a future existence must give way to thehappiness of early married life. And, in fact, from the month ofApril, when they were married, till the beginning of winter, thehusband and wife lived in perfect union. Love and hard work have thegrace of making a man tolerably indifferent to external matters. Beingobliged to spend half the day in court fighting for the gravestinterests of men's lives or fortunes, Granville was less alive thananother might have been to certain facts in his household. If, on a Friday, he found none but Lenten fare, and by chance askedfor a dish of meat without getting it, his wife, forbidden by theGospel to tell a lie, could still, by such subterfuges as arepermissible in the interests of religion, cloak what was premeditatedpurpose under some pretext of her own carelessness or the scarcity inthe market. She would often exculpate herself at the expense of thecook, and even go so far as to scold him. At that time young lawyersdid not, as they do now, keep the fasts of the Church, the fourrogation seasons, and the vigils of festivals; so Granville was not atfirst aware of the regular recurrence of these Lenten meals, which hiswife took care should be made dainty by the addition of teal, moor-hen, and fish-pies, that their amphibious meat or high seasoning mightcheat his palate. Thus the young man unconsciously lived in strictorthodoxy, and worked out his salvation without knowing it. On week-days he did not know whether his wife went to Mass or no. OnSundays, with very natural amiability, he accompanied her to church tomake up to her, as it were, for sometimes giving up vespers in favorof his company; he could not at first fully enter into the strictnessof his wife's religious views. The theatres being impossible in summerby reason of the heat, Granville had not even the opportunity of thegreat success of a piece to give rise to the serious question ofplay-going. And, in short, at the early stage of a union to which a manhas been led by a young girl's beauty, he can hardly be exacting as tohis amusements. Youth is greedy rather than dainty, and possession hasa charm in itself. How should he be keen to note coldness, dignity, andreserve in the woman to whom he ascribes the excitement he himselffeels, and lends the glow of the fire that burns within him? He musthave attained a certain conjugal calm before he discovers that a bigotsits waiting for love with her arms folded. Granville, therefore, believed himself happy till a fatal eventbrought its influence to bear on his married life. In the month ofNovember 1808 the Canon of Bayeux Cathedral who had been the keeper ofMadame Bontems' conscience and her daughter's, came to Paris, spurredby the ambition to be at the head of a church in the capital--aposition which he regarded perhaps as the stepping-stone to abishopric. On resuming his former control of this wandering lamb, hewas horrified to find her already so much deteriorated by the air ofParis, and strove to reclaim her to his chilly fold. Frightened by theexhortations of this priest, a man of about eight-and-thirty, whobrought with him, into the circle of the enlightened and tolerantParis clergy, the bitter provincial catholicism and the inflexiblebigotry which fetter timid souls with endless exactions, Madame deGranville did penance and returned from her Jansenist errors. It would be tiresome to describe minutely all the circumstances whichinsensibly brought disaster on this household; it will be enough torelate the simple facts without giving them in strict order of time. The first misunderstanding between the young couple was, however, aserious one. When Granville took his wife into society she never declined solemnfunctions, such as dinners, concerts, or parties given by the Judgessuperior to her husband in the legal profession; but for a long timeshe constantly excused herself on the plea of a sick headache whenthey were invited to a ball. One day Granville, out of patience withthese assumed indispositions, destroyed a note of invitation to a ballat the house of a Councillor of State, and gave his wife only a verbalinvitation. Then, on the evening, her health being quite abovesuspicion, he took her to a magnificent entertainment. "My dear, " said he, on their return home, seeing her wear an offensiveair of depression, "your position as a wife, the rank you hold insociety, and the fortune you enjoy, impose on you certain duties ofwhich no divine law can relieve you. Are you not your husband's pride?You are required to go to balls when I go, and to appear in a becomingmanner. " "And what is there, my dear, so disastrous in my dress?" "It is your manner, my dear. When a young man comes up to speak toyou, you look so serious that a spiteful person might believe youdoubtful of your own virtue. You seem to fear lest a smile should undoyou. You really look as if you were asking forgiveness of God for thesins that may be committed around you. The world, my dearest, is not aconvent. --But, as you mentioned your dress, I may confess to you thatit is no less a duty to conform to the customs and fashions ofSociety. " "Do you wish that I should display my shape like those indecent womenwho wear gowns so low that impudent eyes can stare at their bareshoulders and their--" "There is a difference, my dear, " said her husband, interrupting her, "between uncovering your whole bust and giving some grace to yourdress. You wear three rows of net frills that cover your throat up toyour chin. You look as if you had desired your dressmaker to destroythe graceful line of your shoulders and bosom with as much care as acoquette would devote to obtaining from hers a bodice that mightemphasize her covered form. Your bust is wrapped in so many folds thatevery one was laughing at your affectation of prudery. You would bereally grieved if I were to repeat the ill-natured remarks made onyour appearance. " "Those who admire such obscenity will not have to bear the burthen ifwe sin, " said the lady tartly. "And you did not dance?" asked Granville. "I shall never dance, " she replied. "If I tell you that you ought to dance!" said her husband sharply. "Yes, you ought to follow the fashions, to wear flowers in your hair, and diamonds. Remember, my dear, that rich people--and we are rich--are obliged to keep up luxury in the State. Is it not far better toencourage manufacturers than to distribute money in the form of almsthrough the medium of the clergy?" "You talk as a statesman!" said Angelique. "And you as a priest, " he retorted. The discussion was bitter. Madame de Granville's answers, thoughspoken very sweetly and in a voice as clear as a church bell, showedan obstinacy that betrayed priestly influence. When she appealed tothe rights secured to her by Granville's promise, she added that herdirector specially forbade her going to balls; then her husbandpointed out to her that the priest was overstepping the regulations ofthe Church. This odious theological dispute was renewed with great violence andacerbity on both sides when Granville proposed to take his wife to theplay. Finally, the lawyer, whose sole aim was to defeat the perniciousinfluence exerted over his wife by her old confessor, placed thequestion on such a footing that Madame de Granville, in a spirit ofdefiance, referred it by writing to the Court of Rome, asking in somany words whether a woman could wear low gowns and go to the play andto balls without compromising her salvation. The reply of the venerable Pope Pius VII. Came at once, stronglycondemning the wife's recalcitrancy and blaming the priest. Thisletter, a chapter on conjugal duties, might have been dictated by thespirit of Fenelon, whose grace and tenderness pervaded every line. "A wife is right to go wherever her husband may take her. Even if shesins by his command, she will not be ultimately held answerable. "These two sentences of the Pope's homily only made Madame de Granvilleand her director accuse him of irreligion. But before this letter had arrived, Granville had discovered thestrict observance of fast days that his wife forced upon him, and gavehis servants orders to serve him with meat every day in the year. However much annoyed his wife might be by these commands, Granville, who cared not a straw for such indulgence or abstinence, persistedwith manly determination. Is it not an offence to the weakest creature that can think at all tobe compelled to do, by the will of another, anything that he wouldotherwise have done simply of his own accord? Of all forms of tyranny, the most odious is that which constantly robs the soul of the merit ofits thoughts and deeds. It has to abdicate without having reigned. Theword we are readiest to speak, the feelings we most love to express, die when we are commanded to utter them. Ere long the young man ceased to invite his friends, to give partiesor dinners; the house might have been shrouded in crape. A house wherethe mistress is a bigot has an atmosphere of its own. The servants, who are, of course, under her immediate control, are chosen among aclass who call themselves pious, and who have an unmistakablephysiognomy. Just as the jolliest fellow alive, when he joins the_gendarmerie_, has the countenance of a gendarme, so those who givethemselves over to the habit of lowering their eyes and preserving asanctimonious mien clothes them in a livery of hypocrisy which roguescan affect to perfection. And besides, bigots constitute a sort of republic; they all know eachother; the servants they recommend and hand on from one to another area race apart, and preserved by them, as horse-breeders will admit noanimal into their stables that has not a pedigree. The more theimpious--as they are thought--come to understand a household ofbigots, the more they perceive that everything is stamped with anindescribable squalor; they find there, at the same time, anappearance of avarice and mystery, as in a miser's home, and the dankscent of cold incense which gives a chill to the stale atmosphere of achapel. This methodical meanness, this narrowness of thought, which isvisible in every detail, can only be expressed by one word--Bigotry. In these sinister and pitiless houses Bigotry is written on thefurniture, the prints, the pictures; speech is bigoted, the silence isbigoted, the faces are those of bigots. The transformation of men andthings into bigotry is an inexplicable mystery, but the fact isevident. Everybody can see that bigots do not walk, do not sit, do notspeak, as men of the world walk, sit, and speak. Under their roofevery one is ill at ease, no one laughs, stiffness and formalityinfect everything, from the mistress' cap down to her pincushion; eyesare not honest, the folks are more like shadows, and the lady of thehouse seems perched on a throne of ice. One morning poor Granville discerned with grief and pain that all thesymptoms of bigotry had invaded his home. There are in the worlddifferent spheres in which the same effects are seen though producedby dissimilar causes. Dulness hedges such miserable homes round withwalls of brass, enclosing the horrors of the desert and the infinitevoid. The home is not so much a tomb as that far worse thing--aconvent. In the center of this icy sphere the lawyer could study hiswife dispassionately. He observed, not without keen regret, thenarrow-mindedness that stood confessed in the very way that her hairgrew, low on the forehead, which was slightly depressed; he discoveredin the perfect regularity of her features a certain set rigidity whichbefore long made him hate the assumed sweetness that had bewitchedhim. Intuition told him that one day of disaster those thin lips mightsay, "My dear, it is for your good!" Madame de Granville's complexion was acquiring a dull pallor and anaustere expression that were a kill-joy to all who came near her. Wasthis change wrought by the ascetic habits of a pharisaism which is notpiety any more than avarice is economy? It would be hard to say. Beauty without expression is perhaps an imposture. This imperturbableset smile that the young wife always wore when she looked at Granvilleseemed to be a sort of Jesuitical formula of happiness, by which shethought to satisfy all the requirements of married life. Her charitywas an offence, her soulless beauty was monstrous to those who knewher; the mildness of her speech was an irritation: she acted, not onfeeling, but on duty. There are faults which may yield in a wife to the stern lessons ofexperience, or to a husband's warnings; but nothing can counteractfalse ideas of religion. An eternity of happiness to be won, set inthe scale against worldly enjoyment, triumphs over everything andmakes every pang endurable. Is it not the apotheosis of egotism, ofSelf beyond the grave? Thus even the Pope was censured at the tribunalof the priest and the young devotee. To be always in the right is afeeling which absorbs every other in these tyrannous souls. For some time past a secret struggle had been going on between theideas of the husband and wife, and the young man was soon weary of abattle to which there could be no end. What man, what temper, canendure the sight of a hypocritically affectionate face and categoricalresistance to his slightest wishes? What is to be done with a wife whotakes advantage of his passion to protect her coldness, who seemsdetermined on being blandly inexorable, prepares herself ecstaticallyto play the martyr, and looks on her husband as a scourge from God, ameans of flagellation that may spare her the fires of purgatory? Whatpicture can give an idea of these women who make virtue hateful bydefying the gentle precepts of that faith which Saint John epitomizedin the words, "Love one another"? If there was a bonnet to be found in a milliner's shop that wascondemned to remain in the window, or to be packed off to thecolonies, Granville was certain to see it on his wife's head; if amaterial of bad color or hideous design were to be found, she wouldselect it. These hapless bigots are heart-breaking in their notions ofdress. Want of taste is a defect inseparable from false pietism. And so, in the home-life that needs the fullest sympathy, Granvillehad no true companionship. He went out alone to parties and thetheatres. Nothing in his house appealed to him. A huge Crucifix thathung between his bed and Angelique's seemed figurative of his destiny. Does it not represent a murdered Divinity, a Man-God, done to death inall the prime of life and beauty? The ivory of that cross was lesscold than Angelique crucifying her husband under the plea of virtue. This it was that lay at the root of their woes; the young wife sawnothing but duty where she should have given love. Here, one AshWednesday, rose the pale and spectral form of Fasting in Lent, ofTotal Abstinence, commanded in a severe tone--and Granville did notdeem it advisable to write in his turn to the Pope and take theopinion of the Consistory on the proper way of observing Lent, theEmber days, and the eve of great festivals. His misfortune was too great! He could not even complain, for whatcould he say? He had a pretty young wife attached to her duties, virtuous--nay, a model of all the virtues. She had a child every year, nursed them herself, and brought them up in the highest principles. Being charitable, Angelique was promoted to rank as an angel. The oldwomen who constituted the circle in which she moved--for at that timeit was not yet "the thing" for young women to be religious as a matterof fashion--all admired Madame de Granville's piety, and regarded her, not indeed as a virgin, but as a martyr. They blamed not the wife'sscruples, but the barbarous philoprogenitiveness of the husband. Granville, by insensible degrees, overdone with work, bereft ofconjugal consolations, and weary of a world in which he wanderedalone, by the time he was two-and-thirty had sunk into the Slough ofDespond. He hated life. Having too lofty a notion of theresponsibilities imposed on him by his position to set the example ofa dissipated life, he tried to deaden feeling by hard study, and begana great book on Law. But he was not allowed to enjoy the monastic peace he had hoped for. When the celestial Angelique saw him desert worldly society to work athome with such regularity, she tried to convert him. It had been areal sorrow to her to know that her husband's opinions were notstrictly Christian; and she sometimes wept as she reflected that ifher husband should die it would be in a state of final impenitence, sothat she could not hope to snatch him from the eternal fires of Hell. Thus Granville was a mark for the mean ideas, the vacuous arguments, the narrow views by which his wife--fancying she had achieved thefirst victory--tried to gain a second by bringing him back within thepale of the Church. This was the last straw. What can be more intolerable than the blindstruggle in which the obstinacy of a bigot tries to meet the acumen ofa lawyer? What more terrible to endure than the acrimonious pin-pricksto which a passionate soul prefers a dagger-thrust? Granvilleneglected his home. Everything there was unendurable. His children, broken by their mother's frigid despotism, dared not go with him tothe play; indeed, Granville could never give them any pleasure withoutbringing down punishment from their terrible mother. His loving naturewas weaned to indifference, to a selfishness worse than death. Hisboys, indeed, he saved from this hell by sending them to school at anearly age, and insisting on his right to train them. He rarelyinterfered between his wife and her daughters; but he was resolvedthat they should marry as soon as they were old enough. Even if he had wished to take violent measures, he could have found nojustification; his wife, backed by a formidable army of dowagers, would have had him condemned by the whole world. Thus Granville had nochoice but to live in complete isolation; but, crushed under thetyranny of misery, he could not himself bear to see how altered he wasby grief and toil. And he dreaded any connection or intimacy withwomen of the world, having no hope of finding any consolation. The improving history of this melancholy household gave rise to noevents worthy of record during the fifteen years between 1806 and1825. Madame de Granville was exactly the same after losing herhusband's affection as she had been during the time when she calledherself happy. She paid for Masses, beseeching God and the Saints toenlighten her as to what the faults were which displeased her husband, and to show her the way to restore the erring sheep; but the morefervent her prayers, the less was Granville to be seen at home. For about five years now, having achieved a high position as a judge, Granville had occupied the _entresol_ of the house to avoid livingwith the Comtesse de Granville. Every morning a little scene tookplace, which, if evil tongues are to be believed, is repeated in manyhouseholds as the result of incompatibility of temper, of moral orphysical malady, or of antagonisms leading to such disaster as isrecorded in this history. At about eight in the morning a housekeeper, bearing no small resemblance to a nun, rang at the Comte deGranville's door. Admitted to the room next to the Judge's study, shealways repeated the same message to the footman, and always in thesame tone: "Madame would be glad to know whether Monsieur le Comte has had a goodnight, and if she is to have the pleasure of his company atbreakfast. " "Monsieur presents his compliments to Madame la Comtesse, " the valetwould say, after speaking with his master, "and begs her to hold himexcused; important business compels him to be in court this morning. " A minute later the woman reappeared and asked on madame's behalfwhether she would have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur le Comte beforehe went out. "He is gone, " was always the rely, though often his carriage was stillwaiting. This little dialogue by proxy became a daily ceremonial. Granville'sservant, a favorite with his master, and the cause of more than onequarrel over his irreligious and dissipated conduct, would even gointo his master's room, as a matter of form, when the Count was notthere, and come back with the same formula in reply. The aggrieved wife was always on the watch for her husband's return, and standing on the steps so as to meet him like an embodiment ofremorse. The petty aggressiveness which lies at the root of themonastic temper was the foundation of Madame de Granville's; she wasnow five-and-thirty, and looked forty. When the count was compelled bydecency to speak to his wife or to dine at home, she was only too wellpleased to inflict her company upon him, with her acid-sweet remarksand the intolerable dulness of her narrow-minded circle, and she triedto put him in the wrong before the servants and her charitablefriends. When, at this time, the post of President in a provincial court wasoffered to the Comte de Granville, who was in high favor, he begged tobe allowed to remain in Paris. This refusal, of which the Keeper ofthe Seals alone knew the reasons, gave rise to extraordinaryconjectures on the part of the Countess' intimate friends and of herdirector. Granville, a rich man with a hundred thousand francs a year, belonged to one of the first families of Normandy. His appointment tobe Presiding Judge would have been the stepping-stone to a peer'sseat; whence this strange lack of ambition? Why had he given up hisgreat book on Law? What was the meaning of the dissipation which fornearly six years had made him a stranger to his home, his family, hisstudy, to all he ought to hold dear? The Countess' confessor, whobased his hopes of a bishopric quite as much on the families hegoverned as on the services he rendered to an association of which hewas an ardent propagator, was much disappointed by Granville'srefusal, and tried to insinuate calumnious explanations: "If Monsieurle Comte had such an objection to provincial life, it was perhapsbecause he dreaded finding himself under the necessity of leading aregular life, compelled to set an example of moral conduct, and tolive with the Countess, from whom nothing could have alienated him butsome illicit connection; for how could a woman so pure as Madame deGranville ever tolerate the disorderly life into which her husband haddrifted?" The sanctimonious woman accepted as facts these hints, whichunluckily were not merely hypothetical, and Madame de Granville wasstricken as by a thunderbolt. Angelique, knowing nothing of the world, of love and its follies, wasso far from conceiving of any conditions of married life unlike thosethat had alienated her husband as possible, that she believed him tobe incapable of the errors which are crimes in the eyes of any wife. When the Count ceased to demand anything of her, she imagined that thetranquillity he now seemed to enjoy was in the course of nature; and, as she had really given to him all the love which her heart wascapable of feeling for a man, while the priest's conjectures were theutter destruction of the illusions she had hitherto cherished, shedefended her husband; at the same time, she could not eradicate thesuspicion that had been so ingeniously sown in her soul. These alarms wrought such havoc in her feeble brain that they made herill; she was worn by low fever. These incidents took place during Lent1822; she would not pretermit her austerities, and fell into a declinethat put her life in danger. Granville's indifference was addedtorture; his care and attention were such as a nephew feels himselfbound to give to some old uncle. Though the Countess had given up her persistent nagging andremonstrances, and tried to receive her husband with affectionatewords, the sharpness of the bigot showed through, and one speech wouldoften undo the work of a week. Towards the end of May, the warm breath of spring, and more nourishingdiet than her Lenten fare, restored Madame de Granville to a littlestrength. One morning, on coming home from Mass, she sat down on astone bench in the little garden, where the sun's kisses reminded herof the early days of her married life, and she looked back across theyears to see wherein she might have failed in her duty as a wife andmother. She was broken in upon by the Abbe Fontanon in an almostindescribable state of excitement. "Has any misfortune befallen you, Father?" she asked with filialsolicitude. "Ah! I only wish, " cried the Normandy priest, "that all the woesinflicted on you by the hand of God were dealt out to me; but, myadmirable friend, there are trials to which you can but bow. " "Can any worse punishments await me than those with which Providencecrushes me by making my husband the instrument of His wrath?" "You must prepare yourself, daughter, to yet worse mischief than weand your pious friends had ever conceived of. " "Then I may thank God, " said the Countess, "for vouchsafing to use youas the messenger of His will, and thus, as ever, setting the treasuresof mercy by the side of the scourges of His wrath, just as in bygonedays He showed a spring to Hagar when He had driven her into thedesert. " "He measures your sufferings by the strength of your resignation andthe weight of your sins. " "Speak; I am ready to hear!" As she said it she cast her eyes up toheaven. "Speak, Monsieur Fontanon. " "For seven years Monsieur Granville has lived in sin with a concubine, by whom he has two children; and on this adulterous connection he hasspent more than five hundred thousand francs, which ought to have beenthe property of his legitimate family. " "I must see it to believe it!" cried the Countess. "Far be it from you!" exclaimed the Abbe. "You must forgive, mydaughter, and wait in patience and prayer till God enlightens yourhusband; unless, indeed, you choose to adopt against him the meansoffered you by human laws. " The long conversation that ensued between the priest and his penitentresulted in an extraordinary change in the Countess; she abruptlydismissed him, called her servants who were alarmed at her flushedface and crazy energy. She ordered her carriage--countermanded it--changed her mind twenty times in the hour; but at last, at aboutthree o'clock, as if she had come to some great determination, shewent out, leaving the whole household in amazement at such a suddentransformation. "Is the Count coming home to dinner?" she asked of his servant, towhom she would never speak. "No, madame. " "Did you go with him to the Courts this morning?" "Yes, madame. " "And to-day is Monday?" "Yes, madame. " "Then do the Courts sit on Mondays nowadays?" "Devil take you!" cried the man, as his mistress drove off aftersaying to the coachman: "Rue Taitbout. " Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was weeping: Roger, sitting by her side, held one of her hands between his own. He was silent, looking by turnsat little Charles--who, not understanding his mother's grief, stoodspeechless at the sight of her tears--at the cot where Eugenie laysleeping, and Caroline's face, on which grief had the effect of rainfalling across the beams of cheerful sunshine. "Yes, my darling, " said Roger, after a long silence, "that is thegreat secret: I am married. But some day I hope we may form but onefamily. My wife has been given over ever since last March. I do notwish her dead; still, if it should please God to take her to Himself, I believe she will be happier in Paradise than in a world to whosegriefs and pleasures she is equally indifferent. " "How I hate that woman! How could she bear to make you unhappy? Andyet it is to that unhappiness that I owe my happiness!" Her tears suddenly ceased. "Caroline, let us hope, " cried Roger. "Do not be frightened byanything that priest may have said to you. Though my wife's confessoris a man to be feared for his power in the congregation, if he shouldtry to blight our happiness I would find means--" "What could you do?" "We would go to Italy: I would fly--" A shriek that rang out from the adjoining room made Roger start andMademoiselle de Bellefeuille quake; but she rushed into thedrawing-room, and there found Madame de Granville in a dead faint. Whenthe Countess recovered her senses, she sighed deeply on finding herselfsupported by the Count and her rival, whom she instinctively pushedaway with a gesture of contempt. Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille rose towithdraw. "You are at home, madame, " said Granville, taking Caroline by the arm. "Stay. " The Judge took up his wife in his arms, carried her to the carriage, and got into it with her. "Who is it that has brought you to the point of wishing me dead, ofresolving to fly?" asked the Countess, looking at her husband withgrief mingled with indignation. "Was I not young? you thought mepretty--what fault have you to find with me? Have I been false to you?Have I not been a virtuous and well-conducted wife? My heart hascherished no image but yours, my ears have listened to no other voice. What duty have I failed in? What have I ever denied you?" "Happiness, madame, " said the Count severely. "You know, madame, thatthere are two ways of serving God. Some Christians imagine that bygoing to church at fixed hours to say a _Paternoster_, by attendingMass regularly and avoiding sin, they may win heaven--but they, madame, will go to hell; they have not loved God for himself, theyhave not worshiped Him as He chooses to be worshiped, they have madeno sacrifice. Though mild in seeming, they are hard on theirneighbors; they see the law, the letter, not the spirit. --This is howyou have treated me, your earthly husband; you have sacrificed myhappiness to your salvation; you were always absorbed in prayer when Icame to you in gladness of heart; you wept when you should havecheered my toil; you have never tried to satisfy any demands I havemade on you. " "And if they were wicked, " cried the Countess hotly, "was I to lose mysoul to please you?" "It is a sacrifice which another, a more loving woman, has dared tomake, " said Granville coldly. "Dear God!" she cried, bursting into tears, "Thou hearest! Has he beenworthy of the prayers and penance I have lived in, wearing myself outto atone for his sins and my own?--Of what avail is virtue?" "To win Heaven, my dear. A woman cannot be at the same time the wifeof a man and the spouse of Christ. That would be bigamy; she mustchoose between a husband and a nunnery. For the sake of futureadvantage you have stripped your soul of all the love, all thedevotion, which God commands that you should have for me, you havecherished no feeling but hatred--" "Have I not loved you?" she put in. "No, madame. " "Then what is love?" the Countess involuntarily inquired. "Love, my dear, " replied Granville, with a sort of ironical surprise, "you are incapable of understanding it. The cold sky of Normandy isnot that of Spain. This difference of climate is no doubt the secretof our disaster. --To yield to our caprices, to guess them, to findpleasure in pain, to sacrifice the world's opinion, your pride, yourreligion even, and still regard these offerings as mere grains ofincense burnt in honor of the idol--that is love--" "The love of ballet-girls!" cried the Countess in horror. "Such flamescannot last, and must soon leave nothing but ashes and cinders, regretor despair. A wife ought, in my opinion, to bring you true friendship, equable warmth--" "You speak of warmth as negroes speak of ice, " retorted the Count, with a sardonic smile. "Consider that the humblest daisy has morecharms than the proudest and most gorgeous of the red hawthorns thatattract us in spring by their strong scent and brilliant color. --Atthe same time, " he went on, "I will do you justice. You have kept soprecisely in the straight path of imaginary duty prescribed by law, that only to make you understand wherein you have failed towards me, Ishould be obliged to enter into details which would offend yourdignity, and instruct you in matters which would seem to you toundermine all morality. " "And you dare to speak of morality when you have but just left thehouse where you have dissipated your children's fortune indebaucheries?" cried the Countess, maddened by her husband'sreticence. "There, madame, I must correct you, " said the Count, coollyinterrupting his wife. "Though Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille is rich, it is at nobody's expense. My uncle was master of his fortune, and hadseveral heirs. In his lifetime, and out of pure friendship, regardingher as his niece, he gave her the little estate of Bellefeuille. Asfor anything else, I owe it to his liberality--" "Such conduct is only worthy of a Jacobin!" said the sanctimoniousAngelique. "Madame, you are forgetting that your own father was one of theJacobins whom you scorn so uncharitably, " said the Count severely. "Citizen Bontems was signing death-warrants at a time when my unclewas doing France good service. " Madame de Granville was silenced. But after a short pause, theremembrance of what she had just seen reawakened in her soul thejealousy which nothing can kill in a woman's heart, and she murmured, as if to herself--"How can a woman thus destroy her own soul and thatof others?" "Bless me, madame, " replied the Count, tired of this dialogue, "youyourself may some day have to answer that question. " The Countess wasscared. "You perhaps will be held excused by the merciful Judge, whowill weigh our sins, " he went on, "in consideration of the convictionwith which you have worked out my misery. I do not hate you--I hatethose who have perverted your heart and your reason. You have prayedfor me, just as Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille has given me her heartand crowned my life with love. You should have been my mistress andthe prayerful saint by turns. --Do me the justice to confess that I amno reprobate, no debauchee. My life was cleanly. Alas! after sevenyears of wretchedness, the craving for happiness led me by animperceptible descent to love another woman and make a second home. And do not imagine that I am singular; there are in this citythousands of husbands, all led by various causes to live this twofoldlife. " "Great God!" cried the Countess. "How heavy is the cross Thou hastlaid on me to bear! If the husband Thou hast given me here below inThy wrath can only be made happy through my death, take me toThyself!" "If you had always breathed such admirable sentiments and suchdevotion, we should be happy yet, " said the Count coldly. "Indeed, " cried Angelique, melting into a flood of tears, "forgive meif I have done any wrong. Yes, monsieur, I am ready to obey you in allthings, feeling sure that you will desire nothing but what is just andnatural; henceforth I will be all you can wish your wife to be. " "If your purpose, madame, is to compel me to say that I no longer loveyou, I shall find the cruel courage to tell you so. Can I command myheart? Can I wipe out in an instant the traces of fifteen years ofsuffering?--I have ceased to love. --These words contain a mystery asdeep as lies the words _I love_. Esteem, respect, friendship may bewon, lost, regained; but as to love--I might school myself for athousand years, and it would not blossom again, especially for a womantoo old to respond to it. " "I hope, Monsieur le Comte, I sincerely hope, that such words may notbe spoken to you some day by the woman you love, and in such a toneand accent--" "Will you put on a dress _a la Grecque_ this evening, and come to theOpera?" The shudder with which the Countess received the suggestion was a mutereply. Early in December 1833, a man, whose perfectly white hair and wornfeatures seemed to show that he was aged by grief rather than byyears, was walking at midnight along the Rue Gaillon. Having reached ahouse of modest appearance, and only two stories high, he paused tolook up at one of the attic windows that pierced the roof at regularintervals. A dim light scarcely showed through the humble panes, someof which had been repaired with paper. The man below was watching thewavering glimmer with the vague curiosity of a Paris idler, when ayoung man came out of the house. As the light of the street lamp fellfull on the face of the first comer, it will not seem surprising that, in spite of the darkness, this young man went towards the passer-by, though with the hesitancy that is usual when we have any fear ofmaking a mistake in recognizing an acquaintance. "What, is it you, " cried he, "Monsieur le President? Alone at thishour, and so far from the Rue Saint-Lazare. Allow me to have the honorof giving you my arm. --The pavement is so greasy this morning, that ifwe do not hold each other up, " he added, to soothe the elder man'ssusceptibilities, "we shall find it hard to escape a tumble. " "But, my dear sir, I am no more than fifty-five, unfortunately forme, " replied the Comte de Granville. "A physician of your celebritymust know that at that age a man is still hale and strong. " "Then you are in waiting on a lady, I suppose, " replied HoraceBianchon. "You are not, I imagine, in the habit of going about Parison foot. When a man keeps such fine horses----" "Still, when I am not visiting in the evening, I commonly return fromthe Courts or the club on foot, " replied the Count. "And with large sums of money about you, perhaps!" cried the doctor. "It is a positive invitation to the assassin's knife. " "I am not afraid of that, " said Granville, with melancholyindifference. "But, at least, do not stand about, " said the doctor, leading theCount towards the boulevard. "A little more and I shall believe thatyou are bent of robbing me of your last illness, and dying by someother hand than mine. " "You caught me playing the spy, " said the Count. "Whether on foot orin a carriage, and at whatever hour of the night I may come by, I havefor some time past observed at a window on the third floor of yourhouse the shadow of a person who seems to work with heroic constancy. " The Count paused as if he felt some sudden pain. "And I take as greatan interest in that garret, " he went on, "as a citizen of Paris mustfeel in the finishing of the Palais Royal. " "Well, " said Horace Bianchon eagerly, "I can tell you--" "Tell me nothing, " replied Granville, cutting the doctor short. "Iwould not give a centime to know whether the shadow that moves acrossthat shabby blind is that of a man or a woman, nor whether theinhabitant of that attic is happy or miserable. Though I was surprisedto see no one at work there this evening, and though I stopped tolook, it was solely for the pleasure of indulging in conjectures asnumerous and as idiotic as those of idlers who see a building lefthalf finished. For nine years, my young--" the Count hesitated to usea word; then he waved his hand, exclaiming--"No, I will not say friend--I hate everything that savors of sentiment. --Well, for nine yearspast I have ceased to wonder that old men amuse themselves withgrowing flowers and planting trees; the events of life have taughtthem disbelief in all human affection; and I grew old within a fewdays. I will no longer attach myself to any creature but tounreasoning animals, or plants, or superficial things. I think more ofTaglioni's grace than of all human feeling. I abhor life and the worldin which I live alone. Nothing, nothing, " he went on, in a tone thatstartled the younger man, "no, nothing can move or interest me. " "But you have children?" "My children!" he repeated bitterly. "Yes--well, is not my eldestdaughter the Comtesse de Vandenesse? The other will, through hersister's connections, make some good match. As to my sons, have theynot succeeded? The Viscount was public prosecutor at Limoges, and isnow President of the Court at Orleans; the younger is publicprosecutor in Paris. --My children have their own cares, their ownanxieties and business to attend to. If of all those hearts one hadbeen devoted to me, if one had tried by entire affection to fill upthe void I have here, " and he struck his breast, "well, that one wouldhave failed in life, have sacrificed it to me. And why should he? Why?To bring sunshine into my few remaining years--and would he havesucceeded? Might I not have accepted such generosity as a debt? But, doctor, " and the Count smiled with deep irony, "it is not for nothingthat we teach them arithmetic and how to count. At this moment perhapsthey are waiting for my money. " "O Monsieur le Comte, how could such an idea enter your head--you whoare kind, friendly, and humane! Indeed, if I were not myself a livingproof of the benevolence you exercise so liberally and so nobly--" "To please myself, " replied the Count. "I pay for a sensation, as Iwould to-morrow pay a pile of gold to recover the most childishillusion that would but make my heart glow. --I help my fellow-creaturesfor my own sake, just as I gamble; and I look for gratitude from none. I should see you die without blinking; and I beg of you to feel thesame with regard to me. I tell you, young man, the events of lifehave swept over my heart like the lavas of Vesuvius over Herculaneum. The town is there--dead. " "Those who have brought a soul as warm and as living as yours was tosuch a pitch of indifference are indeed guilty!" "Say no more, " said the Count, with a shudder of aversion. "You have a malady which you ought to allow me to treat, " saidBianchon in a tone of deep emotion. "What, do you know of a cure for death?" cried the Count irritably. "I undertake, Monsieur le Comte, to revive the heart you believe to befrozen. " "Are you a match for Talma, then?" asked the Count satirically. "No, Monsieur le Comte. But Nature is as far above Talma as Talma issuperior to me. --Listen: the garret you are interested in is inhabitedby a woman of about thirty, and in her love is carried to fanaticism. The object of her adoration is a young man of pleasing appearance butendowed by some malignant fairy with every conceivable vice. Thisfellow is a gambler, and it is hard to say which he is most addictedto--wine or women; he has, to my knowledge, committed acts deservingpunishment by law. Well, and to him this unhappy woman sacrificed alife of ease, a man who worshiped her, and the father of her children. --But what is wrong, Monsieur le Comte?" "Nothing. Go on. " "She has allowed him to squander a perfect fortune; she would, Ibelieve, give him the world if she had it; she works night and day;and many a time she has, without a murmur, seen the wretch she adoresrob her even of the money saved to buy the clothes the children need, and their food for the morrow. Only three days ago she sold her hair, the finest hair I ever saw; he came in, she could not hide the goldpiece quickly enough, and he asked her for it. For a smile, for akiss, she gave up the price of a fortnight's life and peace. Is it notdreadful, and yet sublime?--But work is wearing her cheeks hollow. Herchildren's crying has broken her heart; she is ill, and at this momenton her wretched bed. This evening they had nothing to eat; thechildren have not strength to cry, they were silent when I went up. " Horace Bianchon stood still. Just then the Comte de Granville, inspite of himself, as it were, had put his hand into his waistcoatpocket. "I can guess, my young friend, how it is that she is yet alive if youattend her, " said the elder man. "O poor soul!" cried the doctor, "who could refuse to help her? I onlywish I were richer, for I hope to cure her of her passion. " "But how can you expect me to pity a form of misery of which the joysto me would seem cheaply purchased with my whole fortune!" exclaimedthe Count, taking his hand out of his pocket empty of the notes whichBianchon had supposed his patron to be feeling for. "That woman feels, she is alive! Would not Louis XV. Have given his kingdom to rise fromthe grave and have three days of youth and life! And is not that thehistory of thousands of dead men, thousands of sick men, thousands ofold men?" "Poor Caroline!" cried Bianchon. As he heard the name the Count shuddered, and grasped the doctor's armwith the grip of an iron vise, as it seemed to Bianchon. "Her name is Caroline Crochard?" asked the President, in a voice thatwas evidently broken. "Then you know her?" said the doctor, astonished. "And the wretch's name is Solvet. --Ay, you have kept your word!"exclaimed Granville; "you have roused my heart to the most terriblepain it can suffer till it is dust. That emotion, too, is a gift fromhell, and I always know how to pay those debts. " By this time the Count and the doctor had reached the corner of theRue de la Chaussee d'Antin. One of those night-birds who wonder roundwith a basket on their back and crook in hand, and were, during theRevolution, facetiously called the Committee of Research, was standingby the curbstone where the two men now stopped. This scavenger had ashriveled face worthy of those immortalized by Charlet in hiscaricatures of the sweepers of Paris. "Do you ever pick up a thousand-franc note?" "Now and then, master. " "And you restore them?" "It depends on the reward offered. " "You're the man for me, " cried the Count, giving the man athousand-franc note. "Take this, but, remember, I give it to you oncondition of your spending it at the wineshop, of your getting drunk, fighting, beating your wife, blacking your friends' eyes. That willgive work to the watch, the surgeon, the druggist--perhaps to thepolice, the public prosecutor, the judge, and the prison warders. Donot try to do anything else, or the devil will be revenged on yousooner or later. " A draughtsman would need at once the pencil of Charlet and of Callot, the brush of Teniers and of Rembrandt, to give a true notion of thisnight-scene. "Now I have squared accounts with hell, and had some pleasure for mymoney, " said the Count in a deep voice, pointing out the indescribablephysiognomy of the gaping scavenger to the doctor, who stoodstupefied. "As for Caroline Crochard!--she may die of hunger andthirst, hearing the heartrending shrieks of her starving children, andconvinced of the baseness of the man she loves. I will not give a souto rescue her; and because you have helped her, I will see you nomore----" The Count left Bianchon standing like a statue, and walked as brisklyas a young man to the Rue Saint-Lazare, soon reaching the little housewhere he resided, and where, to his surprise, he found a carriagewaiting at the door. "Monsieur, your son, the attorney-general, came about an hour since, "said the man-servant, "and is waiting for you in your bedroom. " Granville signed to the man to leave him. "What motive can be strong enough to require you to infringe the orderI have given my children never to come to me unless I send for them?"asked the Count of his son as he went into the room. "Father, " replied the younger man in a tremulous voice, and with greatrespect, "I venture to hope that you will forgive me when you haveheard me. " "Your reply is proper, " said the Count. "Sit down, " and he pointed toa chair, "But whether I walk up and down, or take a seat, speakwithout heeding me. " "Father, " the son went on, "this afternoon, at four o'clock, a veryyoung man who was arrested in the house of a friend of mine, whom hehad robbed to a considerable extent, appealed to you. --He says he isyour son. " "His name?" asked the Count hoarsely. "Charles Crochard. " "That will do, " said the father, with an imperious wave of the hand. Granville paced the room in solemn silence, and his son took care notto break it. "My son, " he began, and the words were pronounced in a voice so mildand fatherly, that the young lawyer started, "Charles Crochard spokethe truth. --I am glad you came to me to-night, my good Eugene, " headded. "Here is a considerable sum of money"--and he gave him a bundleof banknotes--"you can make any use of them you think proper in thismatter. I trust you implicitly, and approve beforehand whateverarrangements you may make, either in the present or for the future. --Eugene my dear son, kiss me. We part perhaps for the last time. Ishall to-morrow crave my dismissal from the King, and I am going toItaly. "Though a father owes no account of his life to his children, he isbound to bequeath to them the experience Fate sells him so dearly--isit not a part of their inheritance?--When you marry, " the count wenton, with a little involuntary shudder, "do not undertake it lightly;that act is the most important of all which society requires of us. Remember to study at your leisure the character of the woman who is tobe your partner; but consult me too, I will judge of her myself. Alack of union between husband and wife, from whatever cause, leads toterrible misfortune; sooner or later we are always punished forcontravening the social law. --But I will write to you on this subjectfrom Florence. A father who has the honor of presiding over a supremecourt of justice must not have to blush in the presence of his son. Good-bye. " PARIS, February 1830-January 1842. ADDENDUM The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. Beaumesnil, Mademoiselle The Middle Classes Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country ParsonIn addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman La Grande Breteche Crochard, Charles The Middle Classes Fontanon, Abbe The Government Clerks Honorine The Member for Arcis Granville, Vicomte de (later Comte) The Gondreville Mystery Honorine Farewell (Adieu) Cesar Birotteau Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of Eve Cousin Pons Granville, Comtesse Angelique de The Thirteen A Daughter of Eve Granville, Vicomte de A Daughter of Eve The Country Parson Granville, Baron Eugene de Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Molineux, Jean-Baptiste The Purse Cesar Birotteau Regnier, Claude-Antoine The Gondreville Mystery Roguin, Madame Cesar Birotteau At the Sign of the Cat and Racket Pierrette A Daughter of Eve Vandenesse, Comtesse Felix de A Daughter of Eve The Muse of the Department