AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)

By EMILE SOUVESTRE

With a Preface by JOSEPH BERTRAND, of the French Academy

EMILE SOUVESTRE

No one succeeds in obtaining a prominent place in literature, or insurrounding himself with a faithful and steady circle of admirers drawnfrom the fickle masses of the public, unless he possesses originality, constant variety, and a distinct personality. It is quite possible togain for a moment a few readers by imitating some original featurein another; but these soon vanish and the writer remains alone andforgotten. Others, again, without belonging to any distinct groupof authors, having found their standard in themselves, moralists andeducators at the same time, have obtained undying recognition. 

Of the latter class, though little known outside of France, is EmileSouvestre, who was born in Morlaix, April 15, 1806, and died at ParisJuly 5, 1854. He was the son of a civil engineer, was educated atthe college of Pontivy, and intended to follow his father's career byentering the Polytechnic School. His father, however, died in 1823, andSouvestre matriculated as a law-student at Rennes. But the young studentsoon devoted himself entirely to literature. His first essay, a tragedy, 'Le Siege de Missolonghi' (1828), was a pronounced failure. Disheartenedand disgusted he left Paris and established himself first as a lawyerin Morlaix. Then he became proprietor of a newspaper, and was afterwardappointed a professor in Brest and in Mulhouse. In 1836 he contributedto the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' some sketches of life in Brittany, whichobtained a brilliant success. Souvestre was soon made editor of LaRevue de Paris, and in consequence early found a publisher for his firstnovel, 'L'Echelle de Femmes', which, as was the case with his secondwork, Riche et Pauvre', met with a very favorable reception. Hisreputation was now made, and between this period and his death he gaveto France about sixty volumes--tales, novels, essays, history, anddrama. 

A double purpose was always very conspicuous in his books: he aspired tothe role of a moralist and educator, and was likewise a most impressivepainter of the life, character, and morals of the inhabitants ofBrittany. 

The most significant of his books are perhaps 'Les Derniers Bretons(1835-1837, 4 vols. ), Pierre Landais (1843, 2 vols. ), Le Foyer Breton(1844, 2 vols. ), Un Philosophe sons les Toits, crowned by the Academy(1850), Confessions d'un Ouvrier (1851), Recits et Souvenirs (1853), Souvenirs d'un Vieillard (1854); also La Bretagne Pittoresque (1845), and, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols. )'. His comedies deserve honorable mention: 'Henri Hamelin, L'Oncle Baptiste(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, etc'. In 1848, Souvestre was appointedprofessor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devotedto popular lectures. He held this post till 1853, lecturing partly inParis, partly in Switzerland. 

His death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literaryworld. A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow. Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of abeacon-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the works of Emile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by theirmorality and by their instructive character. They will always commandthe entire respect and applause of mankind. And thus it happens that, like many others, he was only fully appreciated after his death. 

Even those of his 'confreres' who did not seem to esteem him, whenalive, suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss inhis demise. They expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneousliterature discovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and theFrench Academy, which had at its proper time crowned his 'Philosophesons les Toits' as a work contributing supremely to morals, kept hismemory green by bestowing on his widow the "Prix Lambert, " designed forthe "families of authors who by their integrity, and by the probityof their efforts have well deserved this token from the Republique desLettres. "

 JOSEPH BERTRAND de 'Academie Francaise. 

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

BOOK 1. 

CHAPTER I. NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS

January 1st

The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another yearis separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of thepast! The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister. But while all looksare turned toward the future, mine revert to the past. Everyone smilesupon the new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom timehas just wrapped in her winding-sheet. The past year!--at least I knowwhat she was, and what she has given me; while this one comes surroundedby all the forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the cloudsthat mantle her? Is it the storm or the sunshine? Just now it rains, andI feel my mind as gloomy as the sky. I have a holiday today; but whatcan one do on a rainy day? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I determine to light my fire. 

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goesout! I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair. 

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year? All thosewho are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces--dothey understand what makes them so gay? Do they even know what is themeaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year's gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of thevulgar. I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, andI bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce. 

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was NumaPompilius who added January and February. The former took its namefrom Janus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened the new year, theysurrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom ofvisits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year's gifts. The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dryfigs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of "the sweetness of the auspicesunder which the year should begin its course, " and a small piece ofmoney called stips, which foreboded riches. )

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor. Thelittle speech I have just addressed to myself has restored me myself-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I couldnow enjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning'smilk, and the pot of preserves is empty! Anyone else would have beenvexed: as for me, I affect the most supreme indifference. There remainsa hard crust, which I break by main strength, and which I carelesslynibble, as a man far above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls. 

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy byreason of the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story ofan Englishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his teawithout sugar. There are hours in life when the most trifling crosstakes the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, whichmakes the object small or great according to the end you look through. 

Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me. It isa mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piledon one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks. It wasbut yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for thefirst snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tilesand stone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seemno more than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the backyard; the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making medream of the panting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparationsand dishwater; and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the oldtower of Montmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching itsarms over the city. 

My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man's housewhich faces my attic. 

The influence of New-Year's Day is visible there. The servants have anair of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-Year's gifts, received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the courtwith the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; andthe visitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes, or toys. Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a newcarriage, drawn by thoroughbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps. They are, without doubt, the New-Year's gift presented to the mistressof the house by her husband; for she comes herself to look at the newequipage. Very soon she gets into it with a little girl, all streamingwith laces, feathers and velvets, and loaded with parcels which she goesto distribute as New-Year's gifts. The door is shut, the windows aredrawn up, the carriage sets off. 

Thus all the world are exchanging good wishes and presents to-day. Ialone have nothing to give or to receive. Poor Solitary! I do not evenknow one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer. 

Then let my wishes for a happy New Year go and seek out all my unknownfriends--lost in the multitude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet!

To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty havecreated a solitude in the midst of the crowd! unhappy laborers, who arecondemned to toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in silenceand desertion, and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxicating pangs oflove and friendship!

To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turnedtoward some polar star, while you tread with indifference over the richharvests of reality!

To you, honest fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain yourfamilies! to you, poor widows, weeping and working by a cradle! to you, young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, largeenough to lead through it the wife of your choice! to you, all bravesoldiers of work and of self-sacrifice!

To you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, whopity the suffering; who walk through the world like the symbolicalVirgin of Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race!

Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings. I lookabout me: my window is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs ofbread which in my brown study I had just scattered on the roof. At thissight a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myselfjust now, when I complained that I had nothing to give: thanks to me, the sparrows of this part of the town will have their New-Year's gifts!

Twelve o'clock. --A knock at my door; a poor girl comes in, and greetsme by name. At first I do not recollect her; but she looks at me, andsmiles. Ah! it is Paulette! But it is almost a year since I have seenher, and Paulette is no longer the same: the other day she was a child, now she is almost a young woman. 

Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has always the sameopen and straightforward look--the same mouth, smiling at every word, as if to court your sympathy--the same voice, somewhat timid, yetexpressing fondness. Paulette is not pretty--she is even thought plain;as for me, I think her charming. Perhaps that is not on her account, buton my own. Paulette appears to me as one of my happiest recollections. 

It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal buildings wereilluminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the nightwinds, and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts of flame intothe midst of the Champ de Mars. Suddenly, one of those unaccountablealarms which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the dense crowd:they cry out, they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall, and thefrightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive struggles. Iescaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, whenthe cries of a perishing child arrested me: I reentered that humanchaos, and, after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it atthe peril of my life. 

That was two years ago: since then I had not seen the child again butat long intervals, and I had almost forgotten her; but Paulette's memorywas that of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the yearto offer me her wishes for my happiness. She brought me, besides, awallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted and reared it: it wassomething that belonged wholly to herself; for it was by her care, herperseverance, and her patience, that she had obtained it. 

The wallflower had grown in a common pot; but Paulette, who is abandbox-maker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ornamentedwith arabesques. These might have been in better taste, but I did notfeel the attention and good-will the less. 

This unexpected present, the little girl's modest blushes, thecompliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind ofmist which had gathered round my mind; my thoughts suddenly changedfrom the leaden tints of evening to the brightest colors of dawn. I madePaulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart. 

At first the little girl replied in monosyllables; but very soonthe tables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with shortinterjections her long and confidential talk. The poor child leads ahard life. She was left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives with an old grandmother, who has "brought them up to poverty, "as she always calls it. 

However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sisterPerrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprenticeto a printer. All would go well if it were not for losses and want ofwork--if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites whichgrow larger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine fornothing. Paulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and thather wood costs too much. The fireplace in their garret is so large thata fagot makes no more show in it than a match; it is so near the roofthat the wind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon thehearth; so they have left off using it. Henceforth they must be contentwith an earthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals. Thegrandmother had often spoken of a stove that was for sale at thebroker's close by; but he asked seven francs for it, and the times aretoo hard for such an expense: the family, therefore, resign themselvesto cold for economy!

As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulnessand low spirits. The first disclosures of the little bandbox-makercreated within me a wish that soon became a plan. I questioned her abouther daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she mustgo, with her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the differentpeople for whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I told thechild that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her awaywith fresh thanks. 

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bidit welcome; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, andthe day, which began so loweringly, had become bright. I sang as I movedabout my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out. 

Three o'clock. --All is settled with my neighbor, the chimney-doctor; hewill repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new. At five o'clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette'sgrandmother's room. 

Midnight. --All has gone off well. At the hour agreed upon, I was at theold bandbox-maker's; she was still out. My Piedmontese

 [In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named "Piedmontese" or "Savoyard, " as they usually come from that country. ]

fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace, taken from my winter stock. I shall make up for them by warming myselfwith walking, or by going to bed earlier. 

My heart beat at every step that was heard on the staircase; I trembledlest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoilmy intended surprise. But no!--see everything ready: the lighted stovemurmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle ofoil for it is provided on the shelf. The chimney-doctor is gone. Nowmy fear lest they should come is changed into impatience at their notcoming. At last I hear children's voices; here they are: they push openthe door and rush in--but they all stop in astonishment. 

At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands therelike a magician in the midst of these wonders, they draw back almostfrightened. Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and the arrival ofthe grandmother, who is more slowly mounting the stairs, finishes theexplanation. Then come tears, ecstasies, thanks!

But the wonders are not yet ended. The little sister opens the oven, anddiscovers some chestnuts just roasted; the grandmother puts her hand onthe bottles of cider arranged on the dresser; and I draw forth from thebasket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some freshrolls. 

Now their wonder turns into admiration; the little family have neverseen such a feast! They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat; it isa complete banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it. I hadbrought only the supper: and the bandbox-maker and her children suppliedthe enjoyment. 

What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a hubbub of questions whichwaited for no reply, of replies which answered no question! The oldwoman herself shared in the wild merriment of the little ones! Ihave always been struck at the ease with which the poor forget theirwretchedness. Being used to live only for the present, they make a gainof every pleasure as soon as it offers itself. But the surfeited richare more difficult to satisfy: they require time and everything to suitbefore they will consent to be happy. 

The evening has passed like a moment. The old woman told me the historyof her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sangan old ballad with her fresh young voice. Henry told us what he knows ofthe great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. Atlast we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the partof the happy family. 

I have come home slowly, ruminating with a full heart, and pureenjoyment, on the simple events of my evening. It has given me muchcomfort and much instruction. Now, no New-Year's Day will come amissto me; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give andnothing to receive. 

As I came in, I met my rich neighbor's new equipage. She, too, hadjust returned from her evening's party; and, as she sprang from thecarriage-step with feverish impatience, I heard her murmur "At last!"

I, when I left Paulette's family, said "So soon!"

CHAPTER II. THE CARNIVAL

February 20th

What a noise out of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts andcries? Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the Carnival, and themaskers are passing. 

Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalianfestivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names. That whichit has given to these "days of liberty" announces the ending of thefeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; carn-ival means, literally, "farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days' farewell to the"blessed pullets and fat hams, " so celebrated by Pantagruel's minstrel. Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughlybefore he begins to repent. 

Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one ofthese mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires such an effortfor men to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest atintervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by theirrule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they alltalk at once from the rising to the setting of the sun. 

Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year tobe decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraintduring the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies andwishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain. For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of theSaturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family. "

The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--onfoot, in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who can attract the mostattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosityor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to theemployments and troubles of yesterday. 

Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;our whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival! And yet man has needof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Canhe not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Economists havebeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of thehuman race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of itsleisure! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find itrelaxation? Work supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness thatgives it a relish. O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find usamusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word, invent a Carnival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one. 

Three o'clock. --I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. Asthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. SoI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup ofthe coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look inmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors. 

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters aretoo fond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by alwaysbantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders one's laughter by making onethink:--Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, hepreaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to befound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees themiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardlytricks without hating it. 

Let us call up all the heroes of his book.... Gil Blas, Fabrice, Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;bring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are thebrilliant maskers!

Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollectedI had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my atticneighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man, and has a passion for pictures and prints. He comes home almost everyday with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know helives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him showshis poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and his widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and achild--had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first totranslate the letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised thathe should have this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil ourpromises. 

The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into theink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when Iperceive that I have not my dictionary. Now, a Parisian who would speakEnglish without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings;the ground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I runthen to the bookbinder's, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by inthe square. 

The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking, andI see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. This latterhas a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexed and outof humor. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get up inthe morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour. 

I ask whether they have sent for a doctor. 

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have moneyin one's pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead ofsavings. "

"But you, " said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"

"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horseis friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share ofthe draught, and eat his feed by himself. "

"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"

"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I'm going to the ball. "

"You mean to leave him alone?"

"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summerresort. ]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply. "Ihave promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer's. Those who are sickmay take their broth; my physic is white wine. "

So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume ofa waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it. 

In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate manwho lay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with thethoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hearme. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproachinginstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible forthe consequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man. 

At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, and stamped his foot. "Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water forfootbaths, pray?"

"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!" I replied. 

"Let him go to the hospital, then!"

"How can he by himself?"

Pierre seemed to make up his mind. 

"Well, I'm going to take him, " resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid ofhim sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had nottaken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but thebookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, half supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackneycarriage. I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with theimpatient waterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the otherto dine at Courtville Gardens!

Six o'clock. --I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened ithimself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directedto his son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sitdown. 

It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur. Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bedof straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end ofthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings withoutframes turned against the wall. 

At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hardcrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'. Heperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a littleashamed. 

"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor, " said he, with asmile. 

I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for theCarnival. 

M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper. 

"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way, " resumed he, beginningagain to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts ofepicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there aresome also for the ears and the eyes. "

I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquetwhich could make up to him for such a supper. 

Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with themagisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, herummaged behind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, overwhich he passed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of thelamp. 

It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, his daughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment ofmusicians who appeared in the background. At first sight I recognizedthe subject, which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared itto be a splendid copy of Jordaens. 

"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor, and an originalretouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, thedress of the young woman, and the accessories. One can countthe pencil-strokes of the Hercules of painters. It is not only amasterpiece, sir; it is a treasure--a relic! The picture at the Louvremay be a pearl, this is a diamond!"

And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light, he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off thewonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave thecrusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptiedhis glass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, hisnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for theeyes. "

"You see that I also have my treat, " he resumed, nodding his head withan air of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this is the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival. "

"But if this painting is really so precious, " replied I, "it ought to beworth a high price. "

"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In goodtimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousandfrancs. "

I started back. 

"And you have bought it?" cried I. 

"For nothing, " replied he, lowering his voice. "These brokers are asses;mine mistook this for a student's copy; he let me have it for fiftylouis, ready money! This morning I took them to him, and now he wishesto be off the bargain. "

"This morning!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the lettercontaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son'swidow, which was still on the little table. 

He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the workof Jordaens in an ecstasy. 

"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust indelight. "What relief! what fire! Where can one find such transparencyof color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!"

As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment foradmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder. 

"You are dazzled, " said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!What do you say to the bargain I have made?"

"Pardon me, " replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have donebetter. "

M. Antoine raised his head. 

"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived aboutthe merit or value of a painting?"

"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinkingthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might havehad--"

"What then?"

"The family itself, sir. "

The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt. Inhis eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable ofunderstanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up withoutanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in itshiding-place behind the prints. 

It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away. 

Seven o'clock. --When I come in again, I find my water boiling overmy lamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out mycoffee-things. 

The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive ofdomestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of abachelor's housekeeping. 

Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritualnourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the sensesand the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightfulactivity to the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, andtransports it to the land of the Arabian Nights. 

When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before ablazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, whichseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited bythe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled downover them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took adistinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, Isee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality. 

At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottageon a hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, andthrough the garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the beeshumming. 

Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted withapple-trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting fortheir master! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with thesound of the axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf andbranches; and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see afigure of myself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!

The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break offmy meditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then rememberthat I have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to themilkwoman's. 

Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left whenquite young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she hasnot gone back to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the title they give her; but her kindness, which neversleeps, makes her worthy of the name of mother. 

A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes goodher humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leavingthe rest to God. 

At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one ofthe corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. Theywear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they holdlarge slices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to theeyes with his, and that is the reason of their mirth. 

Mother Denis points them out to me. 

"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, puttingher hand on the head of the little glutton. 

"He has had no breakfast, " puts in one of the others by way of excuse. 

"Poor little thing, " said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in thestreets of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-goodGod!"

"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently. 

"What I do is little enough, " said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that foronce they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will makeup for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountainsto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again. "

Here her eyes filled with tears. 

"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"resumed I. 

"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter ofthese little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, andgives you heart to live. "

As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and addedsome apples and a handful of nuts to them. 

"Come, my little dears, " she cried, "put these into your pockets againstto-morrow. "

Then, turning to me:

"To-day I am ruining myself, " added she; "but we must all have ourCarnival. "

I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected. 

At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholdingthe egotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happyself-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had allkept their Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for thesenses or the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart. 

CHAPTER III. WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW

March 3d

A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better havecompared it to a night of fever! What alternate fits of restlessness andsleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!what a chaos of mournful and confused fancies! We can neither sleepnor wake; we seek in vain for repose, and we stop short on the brink ofaction. Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and thelast third in repenting. 

When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each ofus regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in ourminds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man islike the drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himselfstaggering. 

And why am I uncertain and restless--I, a poor day-laborer in theworld--who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose workit avails itself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, myunseen friend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, onwhom the solitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whomall monologues are addressed and who is but the shadow of our ownconscience. 

A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly openedin the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travellingquietly, and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, andI must choose between them. One is only the continuation of that I havefollowed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects. On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on theother are great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is, whether I shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for one of those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Eversince yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the twoand I remain undecided. 

Where shall I find light--who will advise me?

Sunday, 4th. --See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!Spring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, andmy wallflower begins to blow again. 

We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of thesixteenth century sang with so much feeling:

 Now the gladsome month of May All things newly doth array; Fairest lady, let me too In thy love my life renew. 

The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatterto them every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opensout before me in all its splendor. 

He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesquevariety of such a view. He has never contemplated these tile-coloredheights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyesthese gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardenswaves, the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the sparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled toa blaze of fire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps ofcivilization, carpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted withthe myriad inhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect tothe domestic cat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush; he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear ora cloudy sky; nor the thousand effects of light, that make these upperregions a theatre with ever-changing scenes! How many times have mydays of leisure passed away in contemplating this wonderful sight; indiscovering its darker or brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, inthis unknown world for the impressions of travel that wealthy touristslook for lower!

Nine o'clock. --But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up thecrumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away, come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sightof the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my presencethat frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand. Then, why this fearful suspense? In vain I look around: the roof is clear, the windows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from mybreakfast to attract them by an ampler feast. Their chirpings increase, they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, butwithout daring to alight. 

Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panicswhich make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are notmore reasonable than men!

With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenlyI perceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of twopricked-up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-catshowed itself at the corner of the gutter. The cunning fellow was lyingthere in wait, hoping the crumbs would bring him some game. 

And I had accused my guests of cowardice! I was so sure that no dangercould menace them! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had onlyforgotten the corner behind me!

In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from havingforgotten a single corner!

Ten o'clock. --I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have keptit shut so long that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be ableto take possession of them again. My eyes search in succession all thepoints of the jumbled and confused prospect, passing on or stoppingaccording to what they light upon. 

Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they arethose of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have longremarked. 

One is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile isshadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; theother is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach myattic by snatches. When their windows are open, that of the work-womandiscovers a humble but decent abode; the other, an elegantly furnishedroom. But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they takedown the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now rememberthat the young singer passed under my window this morning with her veildown, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inwardtrouble. Ah! I guess it all. Her means are exhausted in elegant fancies, or have been taken away by some unexpected misfortune, and now she hasfallen from luxury to indigence. While the work-woman manages not onlyto keep her little room, but also to furnish it with decent comfort byher steady toil, that of the singer is become the property of brokers. The one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; the other sailsslowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laborious industry. 

Alas! is there not here a lesson for us all? Is it really in hazardousexperiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, thatthe wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom? Ought heto consider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages, or as a game in which the future is determined by a few throws? Why seekthe risk of extreme chances? For what end hasten to riches by dangerousroads? Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliantsuccesses, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty? Ah! if men butknew in what a small dwelling joy can live, and how little it costs tofurnish it!

Twelve o'clock. --I have been walking up and down my attic for a longtime, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground! My doubts increase, like shadows encroaching more and more on some bright space; my fearsmultiply; and the uncertainty becomes every moment more painful to me!It is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening! I holdthe dice of my future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them. 

Three o'clock. --The sky has become cloudy, and a cold wind begins toblow from the west; all the windows which were opened to the sunshine ofa beautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite side of the street, the lodger on the last story has not yet left his balcony. 

One knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches, and the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole. Indeed, one might haveguessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is theornament of his balcony in mid-air; for there are two things especiallyloved by all old soldiers--flowers and children. They have been so long, obliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut offfrom the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin lifeat an age when others end it. The tastes of their early years, whichwere arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again withtheir white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spendagain in old age. Besides, they have been condemned to be destroyers forso long that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating, andseeing life spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grace andan attraction the more for those who have been the agents of unbendingforce; and the watching over the frail germs of life has all the charmsof novelty for these old workmen of death. 

Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his balcony. He is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing theseeds of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet-pea. Henceforthhe will come every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protectthe young shoots from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for thetendrils to climb on, and carefully to regulate their supply of waterand heat!

How much labor to bring in the desired harvest! For that, how many timesshall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day! Butthen, in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in cloudsthrough our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucco, knows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heatupon us to burning, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceivenothing but green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze willcome cool and fresh to him through these perfumed shades. His assiduouscare will be rewarded at last. 

We must sow the seeds, and tend the growth, if we would enjoy theflower. 

Four o'clock. --The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon fora long time are become darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain poursdown! Those who are caught in it fly in every direction, some laughingand some crying. 

I always find particular amusement in these helter-skelters, caused bya sudden storm. It seems as if each one, when thus taken by surprise, loses the factitious character that the world or habit has given him, and appears in his true colors. 

See, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenlyforgets his indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy!He is a thrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, isafraid to spoil his hat. 

That pretty woman yonder, on the contrary, whose looks are so modest, and whose dress is so elaborate, slackens her pace with the increasingstorm. She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not thinkof her velvet cloak spotted by the hail! She is evidently a lioness insheep's clothing. 

Here, a young man, who was passing, stops to catch some of thehailstones in his hand, and examines them. By his quick andbusiness-like walk just now, you would have taken him for a tax-gathereron his rounds, when he is a young philosopher, studying the effects ofelectricity. And those schoolboys who leave their ranks to run after thesudden gusts of a March whirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, butwho now fly with bursts of laughter; those national guards, who quit themartial attitude of their days of duty to take refuge under a porch! Thestorm has caused all these transformations. 

See, it increases! The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter. I seeevery one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a billannounces is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few months. Ayear ago all the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter wereemployed in beautifying it, but their works are already destroyed by theleaving of so many tenants; the cornices of the front are disfigured bymud; the arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon themto announce the sale of the effects. The splendid shop has lost some ofits embellishments with each change of the tenant. See it now empty, andleft open to the passersby. How much does its fate resemble that of somany who, like it, only change their occupation to hasten the faster toruin!

I am struck by this last reflection: since the morning everything seemsto speak to me, and with the same warning tone. Everything says: "Takecare! be content with your happy, though humble lot; happiness can beretained only by constancy; do not forsake your old patrons for theprotection of those who are unknown!"

Are they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warningcome from within? Is it not I myself who give this language to all thatsurrounds me? The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound atwill. But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom? The low voicethat speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tellsus what we are, that is to say, what is our capability. Bad conductresults, for the most part, from mistaking our calling. There are somany fools and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves. The question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we aresuited!

What should I do among these many experienced financial speculators? Iam only a poor sparrow, born among the housetops, and should alwaysfear the enemy crouching in the dark corner; I am a prudent workman, and should think of the business of my neighbors who so suddenlydisappeared; I am a timid observer, and should call to mind the flowersso slowly raised by the old soldier, or the shop brought to ruin byconstant change of masters. Away from me, ye banquets, over which hangsthe sword of Damocles! I am a country mouse. Give me my nuts and hollowtree, and I ask nothing besides--except security. 

And why this insatiable craving for riches? Does a man drink more whenhe drinks from a large glass? Whence comes that universal dread ofmediocrity, the fruitful mother of peace and liberty? Ah! there is theevil which, above every other, it should be the aim of both public andprivate education to anticipate! If that were got rid of, what treasonswould be spared, what baseness avoided, what a chain of excess andcrime would be forever broken! We award the palm to charity, and toself-sacrifice; but, above all, let us award it to moderation, for itis the great social virtue. Even when it does not create the others, itstands instead of them. 

Six o'clock. --I have written a letter of thanks to the promoters ofthe new speculation, and have declined their offer! This decision hasrestored my peace of mind. I stopped singing, like the cobbler, as longas I entertained the hope of riches: it is gone, and happiness is comeback!

O beloved and gentle Poverty! pardon me for having for a moment wishedto fly from thee, as I would from Want. Stay here forever with thycharming sisters, Pity, Patience, Sobriety, and Solitude; be ye myqueens and my instructors; teach me the stern duties of life; remove farfrom my abode the weakness of heart and giddiness of head which followprosperity. Holy Poverty! teach me to endure without complaining, to impart without grudging, to seek the end of life higher than inpleasure, farther off than in power. Thou givest the body strength, thoumakest the mind more firm; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which therich attach themselves as to a rock, becomes a bark of which death maycut the cable without awakening all our fears. Continue to sustain me, Othou whom Christ hath called Blessed!

CHAPTER IV. LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER

April 9th

The fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth theirshoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the basketsof the flower-girls--all the world have begun their walks again on thequays and boulevards. After dinner, I, too, descend from my attic tobreathe the evening air. 

It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the daythe plaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonouswhiteness; heavily laden carts make the streets shake under their hugewheels; the eager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a momentfrom business, cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the cityaltogether has something harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, assoon as the stars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the whitehouses is quenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rollingbut that of the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; yousee only the lounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has givenplace to leisure. Now each one may breathe after the fierce race throughthe business of the day, and whatever strength remains to him he givesto pleasure! See the ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, theeating-shops along the walks set out with dainties, and the twinklinglanterns of the newspaper criers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside thepen, the ruler, and the apron; after the day spent in work, it must havethe evening for enjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put offall serious matter till tomorrow. 

I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the generalgayety, but to contemplate it. If the enjoyments of others embitterjealous minds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams ofsunshine, which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope. 

Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feelmyself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is myown kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother'sshare in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthlybattle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others, let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, "Those, too, are Alexanders. "

While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me. Icrossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stoppedbefore the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there areto learn in the streets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits, foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of allclimates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations! It is theworld seen in samples!

Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from theshop-windows and the tradesman's display of goods. Nothing has beentaught them, but they have a rude notion of everything. They haveseen pineapples at Chevet's, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in theValentine Hall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and tosmoke the calumet of peace; they have seen Carter's lions fed; theyknow the principal national costumes contained in Babin's collection;Goupil's display of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and thesittings of the English Parliament before their eyes; they have becomeacquainted with Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, atthe office-door of the Illustrated News. We can certainly instruct them, but not astonish them; for nothing is completely new to them. You maytake the Paris ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, andat every wonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle thematter with that favorite and conclusive answer of his class--"I know. "

But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of theworld, does not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walksthrough it; it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a firststep of the ladder always set up before us in a vision. When we seethem, how many voyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do wedream of, what pictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop nearthe Chinese baths, with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled with magnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the NewWorld, described by the author of Atala, opening themselves out beforeme. 

Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin totire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces yousee in the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! Ahalf-seen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, opena thousand vistas to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what theseimperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipherthe mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a historyon a gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, which finds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of theactual. 

Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a greathouse, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man wassitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out hishat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had thatlook of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a longstruggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt. His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, asif he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remainedmute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar, who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escapecomplaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too. 

Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage, lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowlyout, and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could justdistinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of aball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak overthe pale face of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened andfollowed the rich man's equipage until it disappeared in the night. 

I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, andpassed on quickly. 

I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of thedisease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of himwho suffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives inaffluence. 

All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, andretired into my own heart. The animated and moving sight in the streetsgave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems whichhave been written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of eachhuman struggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in ourdays. 

I pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat andvictory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealotswho have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history ofCain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walkedon as chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew meout from my own thoughts. 

I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would livein comfort and without ostentation, and who love serious reflection, delight to find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lightedstreet; one heard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the stepsof some of the inhabitants returning quietly home. 

I instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only oncebefore. 

That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of theSeine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect ofa lake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, when I was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they hadgathered round a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked thecause of his tears. 

"It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries, " said a mason, whowas returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; "the servantwho took care of him met with some friends there, and told the child towait for him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink madehim more thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot findhis way home. "

"Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?"

"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, thathe is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval--there aretwelve hundred Duvals in Paris. "

"Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?"

"I should not think, indeed! Don't you see that he is a gentleman'schild? He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; hedoes not know what to do by himself. "

Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above theothers. 

"We cannot leave him in the street, " said some. 

"The child-stealers would carry him off, " continued others. 

"We must take him to the overseer. "

"Or to the police-office. "

"That's the thing. Come, little one!"

But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at thenames of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward theparapet. In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resistthe more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of alittle boy was heard through the confusion. 

"I know him well--I do, " said he, looking at the lost child; "he belongsin our part of the town. "

"What part is it?"

"Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards--Rue des Magasins. "

"And you have seen him before?"

"Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, wherethere is an iron gate with gilt points. "

The child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying. The little boyanswered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such detailsas left no room for doubt. The other child understood him, for he wentup to him as if to put himself under his protection. 

"Then you can take him to his parents?" asked the mason, who hadlistened with real interest to the little boy's account. 

"I don't care if I do, " replied he; "it's the way I'm going. "

"Then you will take charge of him?"

"He has only to come with me. "

And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set offtoward the postern-gate of the Louvre. 

The lost child followed him. 

"I hope he will take him right, " said I, when I saw them go away. 

"Never fear, " replied the mason; "the little one in the blouse isthe same age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black fromwhite;' poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!"

The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thoughtcame into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against anymistake. 

I was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side, talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The contrast intheir dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fancifulchildren's dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; hiscoat was skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came downin plaits from his waist to his boots of polished leather withmother-of-pearl buttons, and his ringlets were half hid by a velvet cap. The appearance of his guide, on the contrary, was that of the class whodwell on the extreme borders of poverty, but who there maintain theirground with no surrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces ofdifferent shades, indicated the perseverance of an industrious motherstruggling against the wear and tear of time; his trousers were becometoo short, and showed his stockings darned over and over again; and itwas evident that his shoes were not made for him. 

The countenances of the two children were not less different than theirdress. That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blueeye, his fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look ofinnocence and happiness. The features of the other, on the contrary, hadsomething rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexiondark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened bytoo early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streetsthronged by carriages, and followed their countless turnings withouthesitation. 

I found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father, who was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsibleduty had made him careful and prudent. He had learned those hard butforcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply theplace of. Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him fromschool, and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped beforethe printshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of theengravings. In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, whichthe little wanderer seemed to know again. Notwithstanding his fatigue, he hurried on; he was agitated by mixed feelings; at the sight of hishouse he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the giltpoints; a lady who was standing at the entrance received him in herarms, and from the exclamations of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soonperceived she was his mother. 

Not seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search ofthem in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety. 

I explained to her in a few words what had happened. She thanked mewarmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized andbrought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared. 

It was for the first time since then that I had come into this part ofParis. Did the mother continue grateful? Had the children met again, andhad the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them thatbarrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not dividethem?

While putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixedmy eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw itopen, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown, Irecognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found nearthe parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of thelatter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and evenspruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; hewore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap. Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunchof lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses andprimroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by. M. Duval's son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the cornerof the street. 

Then I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; helooked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me. 

"Forgive me if I do not make you a bow, " said he, merrily, "but I wantboth my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me. "

"You are, then, become great friends?" said I. 

"Oh! I should think so, " said the child; "and now my father is richtoo!"

"How's that?"

"Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he workson his own account; and, as for me, I go to school. "

"Yes, " replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decoratedhis little coat; "and I see that you are head-boy!"

"Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first inthe class. "

"Are you now going to your lessons?"

"Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we playtogether, and where my mother can always have flowers. "

"Then it is the same as if it were partly your own. "

"So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by, sir. "

He nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared. 

I went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief. If I had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluenceand want, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Heartygood-will had smoothed down the more rugged inequalities on both sides, and had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between thehumble workshop and the stately mansion. Instead of hearkening to thevoice of interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice, and there was no place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of thebeggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man, I had found here the happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers andblessing him! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine intowith no regard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love. 

CHAPTER V. COMPENSATION

Sunday, May 27th

Capital cities have one thing peculiar to them: their days of rest seemto be the signal for a general dispersion and flight. Like birds thatare just restored to liberty, the people come out of their stone cages, and joyfully fly toward the country. It is who shall find a greenhillock for a seat, or the shade of a wood for a shelter; they gatherMay flowers, they run about the fields; the town is forgotten untilthe evening, when they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn in theirhats, and their hearts gladdened by pleasant thoughts and recollectionsof the past day; the next day they return again to their harness and towork. 

These rural adventures are most remarkable at Paris. When the fineweather comes, clerks, shop keepers, and workingmen look forwardimpatiently for the Sunday as the day for trying a few hours of thispastoral life; they walk through six miles of grocers' shops andpublic-houses in the faubourgs, in the sole hope of finding a realturnip-field. The father of a family begins the practical education ofhis son by showing him wheat which has not taken the form of a loaf, and cabbage "in its wild state. " Heaven only knows the encounters, thediscoveries, the adventures that are met with! What Parisian has not hadhis Odyssey in an excursion through the suburbs, and would not be ableto write a companion to the famous Travels by Land and by Sea from Paristo St. Cloud?

We do not now speak of that floating population from all parts, for whomour French Babylon is the caravansary of Europe: a phalanx of thinkers, artists, men of business, and travellers, who, like Homer's hero, havearrived in their intellectual country after beholding "many peoples andcities;" but of the settled Parisian, who keeps his appointed place, andlives on his own floor like the oyster on his rock, a curious vestige ofthe credulity, the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages. 

For one of the singularities of Paris is, that it unites twentypopulations completely different in character and manners. By theside of the gypsies of commerce and of art, who wander through all theseveral stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet race of people with anindependence, or with regular work, whose existence resembles the dialof a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to the same hours. Ifno other city can show more brilliant and more stirring forms of life, no other contains more obscure and more tranquil ones. Great cities arelike the sea: storms agitate only the surface; if you go to the bottom, you find a region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise. 

For my part, I have settled on the verge of this region, but do notactually live in it. I am removed from the turmoil of the world, andlive in the shelter of solitude, but without being able to disconnectmy thoughts from the struggle going on. I follow at a distance all itsevents of happiness or grief; I join the feasts and the funerals; forhow can he who looks on, and knows what passes, do other than take part?Ignorance alone can keep us strangers to the life around us: selfishnessitself will not suffice for that. 

These reflections I made to myself in my attic, in the intervals of thevarious household works to which a bachelor is forced when he hasno other servant than his own ready will. While I was pursuing mydeductions, I had blacked my boots, brushed my coat, and tied mycravat; I had at last arrived at the important moment when we pronouncecomplacently that all is finished, and that well. 

A grand resolve had just decided me to depart from my usual habits. Theevening before, I had seen by the advertisements that the next day wasa holiday at Sevres, and that the china manufactory would be open to thepublic. I was tempted by the beauty of the morning, and suddenly decidedto go there. 

On my arrival at the station on the left bank, I noticed the crowdhurrying on in the fear of being late. Railroads, besides many otheradvantages, possess that of teaching the French punctuality. They willsubmit to the clock when they are convinced that it is their master;they will learn to wait when they find they will not be waited for. Social virtues, are, in a great degree, good habits. How many greatqualities are grafted into nations by their geographical position, bypolitical necessity, and by institutions! Avarice was destroyed for atime among the Lacedaemonians by the creation of an iron coinage, tooheavy and too bulky to be conveniently hoarded. 

I found myself in a carriage with two middle-aged women belonging to thedomestic and retired class of Parisians I have spoken of above. A fewcivilities were sufficient to gain me their confidence, and after someminutes I was acquainted with their whole history. 

They were two poor sisters, left orphans at fifteen, and had lived eversince, as those who work for their livelihood must live, by economyand privation. For the last twenty or thirty years they had workedin jewelry in the same house; they had seen ten masters succeed oneanother, and make their fortunes in it, without any change in their ownlot. They had always lived in the same room, at the end of one of thepassages in the Rue St. Denis, where the air and the sun are unknown. They began their work before daylight, went on with it till afternightfall, and saw year succeed to year without their lives being markedby any other events than the Sunday service, a walk, or an illness. 

The younger of these worthy work-women was forty, and obeyed her sisteras she did when a child. The elder looked after her, took care of her, and scolded her with a mother's tenderness. At first it was amusing;afterward one could not help seeing something affecting in these twogray-haired children, one unable to leave off the habit of obeying, theother that of protecting. 

And it was not in that alone that my two companions seemed younger thantheir years; they knew so little that their wonder never ceased. We hadhardly arrived at Clamart before they involuntarily exclaimed, like theking in the children's game, that they "did not think the world was sogreat"!

It was the first time they had trusted themselves on a railroad, andit was amusing to see their sudden shocks, their alarms, and theircourageous determinations: everything was a marvel to them! They hadremains of youth within them, which made them sensible to things whichusually only strike us in childhood. Poor creatures! they had still thefeelings of another age, though they had lost its charms. 

But was there not something holy in this simplicity, which had beenpreserved to them by abstinence from all the joys of life? Ah! accursedbe he who first had the bad courage to attach ridicule to that nameof "old maid, " which recalls so many images of grievous deception, ofdreariness, and of abandonment! Accursed be he who can find a subjectfor sarcasm in involuntary misfortune, and who can crown gray hairs withthorns!

The two sisters were called Frances and Madeleine. This day's journeywas a feat of courage without example in their lives. The fever ofthe times had infected them unawares. Yesterday Madeleine had suddenlyproposed the idea of the expedition, and Frances had accepted itimmediately. Perhaps it would have been better not to yield to the greattemptation offered by her younger sister; but "we have our folliesat all ages, " as the prudent Frances philosophically remarked. Asfor Madeleine, there are no regrets or doubts for her; she is thelife-guardsman of the establishment. 

"We really must amuse ourselves, " said she; "we live but once. "

And the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean maxim. It was evident thatthe fever of independence was at its crisis in both of them. 

And in truth it would have been a great pity if any scruple hadinterfered with their happiness, it was so frank and genial! The sightof the trees, which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, causedthem unceasing admiration. The meeting a train passing in the contrarydirection, with the noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shuttheir eyes and utter a cry; but it had already disappeared! They lookaround, take courage again, and express themselves full of astonishmentat the marvel. 

Madeleine declares that such a sight is worth the expense of thejourney, and Frances would have agreed with her if she had notrecollected, with some little alarm, the deficit which such an expensemust make in their budget. The three francs spent upon this singleexpedition were the savings of a whole week of work. Thus the joy of theelder of the two sisters was mixed with remorse; the prodigal child nowand then turned its eyes toward the back street of St. Denis. 

But the motion and the succession of objects distract her. See thebridge of the Val surrounded by its lovely landscape: on the right, Paris with its grand monuments, which rise through the fog, or sparklein the sun; on the left, Meudon, with its villas, its woods, its vines, and its royal castle! The two work-women look from one window to theother with exclamations of delight. One fellow-passenger laughs at theirchildish wonder; but to me it is deeply touching, for I see in it thesign of a long and monotonous seclusion: they are the prisoners of work, who have recovered liberty and fresh air for a few hours. 

At last the train stops, and we get out. I show the two sisters the paththat leads to Sevres, between the railway and the gardens, and they goon before, while I inquire about the time of returning. 

I soon join them again at the next station, where they have stopped atthe little garden belonging to the gatekeeper; both are already in deepconversation with him while he digs his garden-borders, and marks outthe places for flower-seeds. He informs them that it is the time forhoeing out weeds, for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, andfor destroying the insects on the rose-trees. Madeleine has on the sillof her window two wooden boxes, in which, for want of air and sun, shehas never been able to make anything grow but mustard and cress; but shepersuades herself that, thanks to this information, all other plantsmay henceforth thrive in them. At last the gatekeeper, who is sowing aborder with mignonette, gives her the rest of the seeds which he doesnot want, and the old maid goes off delighted, and begins to act overagain the dream of Paired and her can of milk, with these flowers of herimagination. 

On reaching the grove of acacias, where the fair was going on, I lostsight of the two sisters. I went alone among the sights: there werelotteries going on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drinking, and for shooting with the cross-bow. I have always been struck by thespirit of these out-of-door festivities. In drawing-room entertainments, people are cold, grave, often listless, and most of those who go thereare brought together by habit or the obligations of society; in thecountry assemblies, on the contrary, you only find those who areattracted by the hope of enjoyment. There, it is a forced conscription;here, they are volunteers for gayety! Then, how easily they are pleased!How far this crowd of people is yet from knowing that to be pleased withnothing, and to look down on everything, is the height of fashion andgood taste! Doubtless their amusements are often coarse; elegance andrefinement are wanting in them; but at least they have heartiness. Oh, that the hearty enjoyments of these merry-makings could be retainedin union with less vulgar feeling! Formerly religion stamped its holycharacter on the celebration of country festivals, and purified thepleasures without depriving them of their simplicity. 

The hour arrives at which the doors of the porcelain manufactory and themuseum of pottery are open to the public. I meet Frances and Madeleineagain in the first room. Frightened at finding themselves in the midstof such regal magnificence, they hardly dare walk; they speak in a lowtone, as if they were in a church. 

"We are in the king's house, " said the eldest sister, forgetting thatthere is no longer a king in France. 

I encourage them to go on; I walk first, and they make up their minds tofollow me. 

What wonders are brought together in this collection! Here we see claymoulded into every shape, tinted with every color, and combined withevery sort of substance!

Earth and wood are the first substances worked upon by man, and seemmore particularly meant for his use. They, like the domestic animals, are the essential accessories of his life; therefore there must be amore intimate connection between them and us. Stone and metals requirelong preparations; they resist our first efforts, and belong less to theindividual than to communities. Earth and wood are, on the contrary, theprincipal instruments of the isolated being who must feed and shelterhimself. 

This, doubtless, makes me feel so much interested in the collection I amexamining. These cups, so roughly modelled by the savage, admit me toa knowledge of some of his habits; these elegant yet incorrectly formedvases of the Indian tell me of a declining intelligence, --in which stillglimmers the twilight of what was once bright sunshine; these jars, loaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the Arab rudely and ignorantlycopied by the Spaniard! We find here the stamp of every race, everycountry, and every age. 

My companions seemed little interested in these historical associations;they looked at all with that credulous admiration which leaves no roomfor examination or discussion. Madeleine read the name written underevery piece of workmanship, and her sister answered with an exclamationof wonder. 

In this way we reached a little courtyard, where they had thrown awaythe fragments of some broken china. 

Frances perceived a colored saucer almost whole, of which she tookpossession as a record of the visit she was making; henceforth she wouldhave a specimen of the Sevres china, "which is only made for kings!"I would not undeceive her by telling her that the products of themanufactory are sold all over the world, and that her saucer, beforeit was cracked, was the same as those that are bought at the shops forsixpence! Why should I destroy the illusions of her humble existence?Are we to break down the hedge-flowers that perfume our paths? Thingsare oftenest nothing in themselves; the thoughts we attach to them alonegive them value. To rectify innocent mistakes, in order to recover someuseless reality, is to be like those learned men who will see nothing ina plant but the chemical elements of which it is composed. 

On leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who had taken possessionof me with the freedom of artlessness, invited me to share the luncheonthey had brought with them. I declined at first, but they insistedwith so much good-nature, that I feared to pain them, and with someawkwardness gave way. 

We had only to look for a convenient spot. I led them up the hill, and we found a plot of grass enamelled with daisies, and shaded by twowalnut-trees. 

Madeleine could not contain herself for joy. All her life she haddreamed of a dinner out on the grass! While helping her sister to takethe provisions from the basket, she tells me of all her expeditions intothe country that had been planned, and put off. Frances, on the otherhand, was brought up at Montmorency, and before she became an orphan shehad often gone back to her nurse's house. That which had the attractionof novelty for her sister, had for her the charm of recollection. Shetold of the vintage harvests to which her parents had taken her; therides on Mother Luret's donkey, that they could not make go to the rightwithout pulling him to the left; the cherry-gathering; and the sails onthe lake in the innkeeper's boat. 

These recollections have all the charm and freshness of childhood. Frances recalls to herself less what she has seen than what she hasfelt. While she is talking the cloth is laid, and we sit down undera tree. Before us winds the valley of Sevres, its many-storied housesabutting upon the gardens and the slopes of the hill; on the other sidespreads out the park of St. Cloud, with its magnificent clumps of treesinterspersed with meadows; above stretch the heavens like an immenseocean, in which the clouds are sailing! I look at this beautifulcountry, and I listen to these good old maids; I admire, and I aminterested; and time passes gently on without my perceiving it. 

At last the sun sets, and we have to think of returning. While Madeleineand Frances clear away the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to askthe hour. The merrymaking is at its height; the blasts of the trombonesresound from the band under the acacias. For a few moments I forgetmyself with looking about; but I have promised the two sisters to takethem back to the Bellevue station; the train cannot wait, and I makehaste to climb the path again which leads to the walnut-trees. 

Just before I reached them, I heard voices on the other side of thehedge. Madeleine and Frances were speaking to a poor girl whose clotheswere burned, her hands blackened, and her face tied up with bloodstainedbandages. I saw that she was one of the girls employed at the gunpowdermills, which are built further up on the common. An explosion had takenplace a few days before; the girl's mother and elder sister were killed;she herself escaped by a miracle, and was now left without any means ofsupport. She told all this with the resigned and unhopeful manner ofone who has always been accustomed to suffer. The two sisters were muchaffected; I saw them consulting with each other in a low tone: thenFrances took thirty sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which wasall they had left, and gave them to the poor girl. I hastened on to thatside of the hedge; but, before I reached it, I met the two old sisters, who called out to me that they would not return by the railway, but onfoot!

I then understood that the money they had meant for the journey had justbeen given to the beggar! Good, like evil, is contagious: I run to thepoor wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for my own place, and return to Frances and Madeleine, and tell them I will walk withthem. 

 .......................... 

I am just come back from taking them home; and have left them delightedwith their day, the recollection of which will long make them happy. This morning I was pitying those whose lives are obscure and joyless;now, I understand that God has provided a compensation with every trial. The smallest pleasure derives from rarity a relish otherwise unknown. Enjoyment is only what we feel to be such, and the luxurious man feelsno longer: satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation preservesto the other that first of earthly blessings: the being easily madehappy. Oh, that I could persuade every one of this! that so the richmight not abuse their riches, and that the poor might have patience. Ifhappiness is the rarest of blessings, it is because the reception of itis the rarest of virtues. 

Madeleine and Frances! ye poor old maids whose courage, resignation, and generous hearts are your only wealth, pray for the wretched who givethemselves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and envy; and for theunfeeling into whose enjoyments no pity enters. 

BOOK 2. 

CHAPTER VI. UNCLE MAURICE

June 7th, Four O'clock A. M. 

I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing sojoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, ina top story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really areup among the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, andthe breeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there thata wandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attic, and that the songs of the industrious work-woman welcome the dawn ofday. The lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, while here labor, light, and song already reign. 

What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search forfood, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrowsshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in thesunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcomethe morning with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, wheneverything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of daystrikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wandstruck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood! It is a moment ofrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and abreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! itis but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course:the great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, itscollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion. 

The tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of ourfirst years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the airis fragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our life'smorning-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Wheredo this sadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from? The course seems to be the same with individuals and withcommunities: at starting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted;and at the goal, the bitter disappointment or reality! The road, whichbegan among hawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or inprecipices! Why is there so much confidence at first, so much doubt atlast? Has, then, the knowledge of life no other end but to make itunfit for happiness? Must we condemn ourselves to ignorance if we wouldpreserve hope? Is the world and is the individual man intended, afterall, to find rest only in an eternal childhood?

How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has theadvantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply intothe same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always givethe same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn itto the subject which occupies another mind, or interests another'sfeelings; and so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever toknock at the same doors!

I interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order. I hate thelook of disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or anunaptness for spiritual life. To arrange the things among which we haveto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use betweenthem and us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without whichman tends to the savage state. What, in fact, is social organization buta series of habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of ournature?

I distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whomdisorder is of no consequence--who can live at ease in an Augean stable. What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. Themind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything, still throw some light around. If our tastes did not reveal ourcharacter, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts. 

While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on thelittle almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. I looked for the day ofthe month, and I saw these words written in large letters: "FETE DIEU!"

It is to-day! In this great city, where there are no longer any publicreligious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is, in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The daykept in honor of the Creator, " says Chateaubriand, "happens at a timewhen the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods andfields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;there is not a single widowed plant in the fields. "

What recollections these words have just awakened! I left off what I wasabout, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head betweenmy two hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the firstdays of my childhood were passed. 

The 'Fete Dieu' was then one of the great events of my life! It wasnecessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserveto share in it. I still recollect with what raptures of expectation Igot up on the morning of the day. There was a holy joy in the air. Theneighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures, worked in tapestry, along the streets. I went from one to another, by turns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythologicalcompositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV, and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour. All this world of phantomsseemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silentand motionless--at the holy ceremony. I looked, alternately in fearand wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at thefeet of the perpetually smiling shepherdess. Sometimes, when the windblew behind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figuresthemselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from thewall, and take their places in the procession! But these impressionswere vague and transitory. The feeling that predominated over everyother was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy. In the midst of all thefloating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, youfelt transported in spite of yourself. The joyful sounds of the festivalwere repeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes. You weremore indulgent, more holy, more loving! For God was not only manifestinghimself without, but also within us. 

And then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphalarches made of green boughs! What competition among the differentparishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession wasto halt! It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautifulof his possessions!

It was there I made my first sacrifice!

The wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and theTabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown thewhole! All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked. I alone possesseda flower worthy of such a place. It was on the rose-tree given me by mymother on my birthday. I had watched it for several months, and therewas no other bud to blow on the tree. There it was, half open, in itsmossy nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all a child'spride! I hesitated for some moments. No one had asked me for it; Imight easily avoid losing it. I should hear no reproaches, but one rosenoiselessly within me. When every one else had given all they had, oughtI alone to keep back my treasure? Ought I to grudge to God one of thegifts which, like all the rest, I had received from him? At this lastthought I plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put at thetop of the Tabernacle. Ah! why does the recollection of this sacrifice, which was so hard and yet so sweet to me, now make me smile? Is itso certain that the value of a gift is in itself, rather than in theintention? If the cup of cold water in the gospel is remembered to thepoor man, why should not the flower be remembered to the child? Let usnot look down upon the child's simple act of generosity; it is thesewhich accustom the soul to self-denial and to sympathy. I cherished thismoss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman; I had reason to cherish italways, as the record of the first victory won over myself. 

It is now many years since I witnessed the celebration of the 'FeteDieu'; but should I again feel in it the happy sensations of formerdays? I still remember how, when the procession had passed, I walkedthrough the streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. I felt intoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed withthe fragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and I seemed no longerto touch the ground as I went along. I smiled at everything; the wholeworld was Paradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that God was floatingin the air!

Moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might bemore intense on certain days, but at the same time it continued throughthe ordinary course of my life. Many years thus passed for me in anexpansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if notfrom coming, at least from staying with me. Sure of not being alone, Isoon took heart again, like the child who recovers its courage, becauseit hears its mother's voice close by. Why have I lost that confidence ofmy childhood? Shall I never feel again so deeply that God is here?

How strange the association of our thoughts! A day of the month recallsmy infancy, and see, all the recollections of my former years aregrowing up around me! Why was I so happy then? I consider well, andnothing is sensibly changed in my condition. I possess, as I didthen, health and my daily bread; the only difference is, that I amnow responsible for myself! As a child, I accepted life when it came;another cared and provided for me. So long as I fulfilled my presentduties I was at peace within, and I left the future to the prudence ofmy father! My destiny was a ship, in the directing of which I had noshare, and in which I sailed as a common passenger. There was the wholesecret of childhood's happy security. Since then worldly wisdom hasdeprived me of it. When my lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I thought to make myself master of it by means of a long insight intothe future. I have filled the present hour with anxieties, by occupyingmy thoughts with the future; I have put my judgment in the place ofProvidence, and the happy child is changed into the anxious man. 

A melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson. Who knows that, if I had trusted more to Him who rules the world, I should not have beenspared all this anxiety? It may be that happiness is not possible herebelow, except on condition of living like a child, giving ourselves upto the duties of each day as it comes, and trusting in the goodness ofour heavenly Father for all besides. 

This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice! Whenever I have need to strengthenmyself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see again thegentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear hisvoice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembranceof him protects my life, and gives it light. He, too, was a saint andmartyr here below. Others have pointed out the path of heaven; he hastaught us to see those of earth aright. 

But, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrificesperformed in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has everheard of my Uncle Maurice? Perhaps I alone remember his name, and stillrecall his history. 

Well! I will write it, not for others, but for myself! They say that, at the sight of the Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a moredignified attitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raisedand ennobled by the recollection of a good man's life!

A ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which I write; thebreeze brings me in the scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheelabout my window with joyful twitterings. The image of my Uncle Mauricewill be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and thefragrance. 

Seven o'clock. --It is with men's lives as with days: some dawn radiantwith a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds. That of my UncleMaurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly, when he came intothe world, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding theseanticipations, which might be called hopes, he continued to live, suffering and deformed. 

He was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attractions ofchildhood. He was oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for hisdeformity. In vain the little hunchback opened his arms to the world:the world scoffed at him, and went its way. 

However, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the childdirected all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. With her hefound shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man musttake his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with thatwhich others had refused with contempt. His education wouldhave qualified him for any course of life; and he became anoctroi-clerk--[The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at theentrance of the town]--in one of the little toll-houses at the entranceof his native town. 

He was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with norelaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mother's visits. On fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under theshade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent, her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard theclinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournfulprofile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; hecould every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowedneck, and exchange a smile with her!

This comfort was soon to be taken from him. His old mother fell sick, and at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. Maurice wasovercome at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave himalone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He knelt bythe bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, hepressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mothertried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands werecold, her voice was already gone. She could only press her lips againstthe forehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!

They tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himselfon that now motionless form. 

"Dead!" cried he; "dead! She who had never left me, she who was the onlyone in the world who loved me! You, my mother, dead! What then remainsfor me here below?"

A stifled voice replied:

"God!"

Maurice, startled, raised himself! Was that a last sigh from the dead, or his own conscience, that had answered him? He did not seek to know, but he understood the answer, and accepted it. 

It was then that I first knew him. I often went to see him in his littletoll-house. He joined in my childish games, told me his finest stories, and let me gather his flowers. Deprived as he was of all externalattractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came tohim, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcomefor everyone. Deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with agentle patience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid the insults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. "

No other clerk showed so much honesty, zeal, and intelligence; but thosewho otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved wererepelled by his deformity. As he had no patrons, he found his claimswere always disregarded. They preferred before him those who were betterable to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favorwhen letting him keep the humble office which enabled him to live. UncleMaurice bore injustice as he had borne contempt; unfairly treated bymen, he raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of Him whocannot be deceived. 

He lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poorbut not as forlorn as he, also lodged. Among these neighbors there wasa single woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which cameboth wind and rain. She was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothingto recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it. She wasnever seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret. She worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloomseemed to envelop her like a shroud. Her dejection affected Maurice; heattempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words. Itwas easy to see that she preferred her silence and her solitude to thelittle hunchback's good-will; he perceived it, and said no more. 

But Toinette's needle was hardly sufficient for her support, andpresently work failed her! Maurice learned that the poor girl was inwant of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit. He immediately went to them privately and engaged to pay them for whatthey supplied Toinette with. 

Things went on in this way for several months. The young dressmakercontinued out of work, until she was at last frightened at the billsshe had contracted with the shopkeepers. When she came to an explanationwith them, everything was discovered. Her first impulse was to run toUncle Maurice, and thank him on her knees. Her habitual reserve hadgiven way to a burst of deepest feeling. It seemed as if gratitude hadmelted all the ice of that numbed heart. 

Being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchbackcould give greater efficacy to his good offices. Toinette became to hima sister, for whose wants he had a right to provide. It was the firsttime since the death of his mother that he had been able to share hislife with another. The young woman received his attentions with feeling, but with reserve. All Maurice's efforts were insufficient to dispel hergloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed hersense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. Her heart was a closedbook, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read. Intruth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness ofbeing no longer alone, and took Toinette such as her long trials hadmade her; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but stillto enjoy her company. 

This thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusionof all besides. The poor girl was as forlorn as himself; she had becomeaccustomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look onhim with an affectionate sympathy! What more could he wish for? Untilthen, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had beenrepelled by Maurice as a dream; but chance seemed willing to make it areality. After much hesitation he took courage, and decided to speak toher. 

It was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed hissteps toward the work-woman's garret just as he was about to enter, he thought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maiden's name. He quickly pushed open the door, and perceived Toinette weeping, andleaning on the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor. 

At the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran tohim, crying out:

"Ah! come in--come in! It is he that I thought was dead: it is Julien;it is my betrothed!"

Maurice tottered, and drew back. A single word had told him all!

It seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about tobreak; but the same voice that he had heard by his mother's deathbedagain sounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. God was stillhis friend!

He himself accompanied the newly-married pair on the road when they leftthe town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denied tohim, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb. 

It was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he saidby the Father which is in heaven. He felt His presence everywhere; itwas to him in the place of all else. When he died, it was with a smile, and like an exile setting out for his own country. He who had consoledhim in poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustice andforsaken by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him. 

Eight o'clock. --All I have just written has pained me! Till now I havelooked into life for instruction how to live. Is it then true thathuman maxims are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, prudence, moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth, which alone can face great misfortunes? and that, if man has need ofvirtues for others, he has need of religion for himself?

When, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry heart, as the Scriptureexpresses it, we think we are sufficient for ourselves; strong, happy, and beloved, we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape everystorm in spite of the gods. But later in life, when the back isbowed, when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affections growchill-then, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out ourarms, like the child overtaken by night, and we call for help to Him whois everywhere. 

I was asking this morning why this growing confusion alike for societyand for the individual? In vain does human reason from hour to hourlight some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow everdarker! Is it not because we are content to withdraw farther and fartherfrom God, the Sun of spirits?

But what do these hermit's reveries signify to the world? The inwardturmoils of most men are stifled by the outward ones; life does not givethem time to question themselves. Have they time to know what they are, and what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the next lease orthe last price of stock? Heaven is very high, and wise men look only atthe earth. 

But I--poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek neither powernor riches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelterof my spirit--I can go back with impunity to these recollections of mychildhood; and, if this our great city no longer honors the name ofGod with a festival, I will strive still to keep the feast to Him in myheart. 

CHAPTER VII. THE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME

Sunday, July 1st

Yesterday the month dedicated to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romansended. To-day we enter on July. 

In ancient Rome this latter month was called Quintiles (the fifth), because the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began inMarch. When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this nameof Quintiles was preserved, as well as those that followed--Sexteles, September, October, November, December--although these designations didnot accord with the newly arranged order of the months. At last, aftera time the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was calledJulius, whence we have July. Thus this name, placed in the calendar, isbecome the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal epitaphon Time's highway, engraved by the admiration of man. 

How many similar inscriptions are there! Seas, continents, mountains, stars, and monuments, have all in succession served the same purpose! Wehave turned the whole world into a Golden Book, like that in whichthe state of Venice used to enroll its illustrious names and its greatdeeds. It seems that mankind feels a necessity for honoring itself inits elect ones, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosingheroes from among its own race. The human family love to preservethe memory; of the parvenus of glory, as we cherish that of a greatancestor, or of a benefactor. 

In fact, the talents granted to a single individual do not benefithimself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, foreveryone suffers or benefits by his actions. Genius is a lighthouse, meant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock uponwhich this lighthouse is built. 

I love to dwell upon these thoughts; they explain to me in what consistsour admiration for glory. When glory has benefited men, that admirationis gratitude; when it is only remarkable in itself, it is the prideof race; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples ofhumanity. 

Who knows whether we do not obey the same instinct in submitting to thehand of power? Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, orthe consequences of a conquest, the multitude delight to surround theirchiefs with privileges--whether it be that their vanity makes them thusto aggrandize one of their own creations, or whether they try to concealthe humiliation of subjection by exaggerating the importance of thosewho rule them. They wish to honor themselves through their master; theyelevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround himwith a halo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected uponthemselves. It is still the fable of the dog who contents himself withthe chain and collar, so that they are of gold. 

This servile vanity is not less natural or less common than the vanityof dominion. Whoever feels himself incapable of command, at leastdesires to obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to considerthemselves dishonored when they became the property of a mere countafter having been that of a prince, and Saint-Simon mentions a valet whowould only wait upon marquises. 

July 7th, seven o'clock P. M. --I have just now been up the Boulevards;it was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in theRue Lepelletier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossingrecognized the persons in some of these as we went by, and mentionedtheir names; they were those of celebrated or powerful men, thesuccessful ones of the day. 

Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes, whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious looksthese possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read onhis lips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind. 

"Look at them, the lucky fellows!" thought he; "all the pleasuresof wealth, all the enjoyments of pride, are theirs. Their names arerenowned, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sovereigns of theworld, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor andunknown, toil painfully along the road below, they wing their way overthe mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of prosperity. "

I have come home in deep thought. Is it true that there are theseinequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men?Do genius and authority really wear life as a crown, while the greaterpart of mankind receive it as a yoke? Is the difference of rank but adifferent use of men's dispositions and talents, or a real inequalityin their destinies? A solemn question, as it regards the verification ofGod's impartiality. 

July 8th, noon. --I went this morning to call upon a friend from thesame province as myself, who is the first usher-in-waiting to one of ourministers. I took him some letters from his family, left for him by atraveller just come from Brittany. He wished me to stay. 

"To-day, " said he, "the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day ofrest with his family. His younger sisters are arrived; he will take themthis morning to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friendsto a private ball. I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of theday. We can dine together; read the news while you are waiting for me. "

I sat down at a table covered with newspapers, all of which I lookedover by turns. Most of them contained severe criticisms on the lastpolitical acts of the minister; some of them added suspicions as to thehonor of the minister himself. 

Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take themto his master. 

He was then about to read these accusations, to suffer silently theabuse of all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation orto scorn! Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to endure theinsults of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies, his ignorance, or his vices. 

But, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be foundpoisoned? Would not one reach some spot in his heart where the woundwould be incurable? What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacksof envious hatred or furious conviction? The Christians yielded only thefragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man inpower gives up his peace, his affections, his honor, to the cruel bitesof the pen. 

While I was musing upon these dangers of greatness, the usher enteredhastily. Important news had been received: the minister is just summonedto the council; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud. 

I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at thedoor, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to thecouncil. The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much familyhappiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesmanin it. 

The usher came back discontented and disappointed. The more or less ofliberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer of the politicalatmosphere. If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at hispost, the country is in danger. His opinion on public affairs is but acalculation of his own interest. My friend is almost a statesman. 

I had some conversation with him, and he told me several curiousparticulars of public life. 

The new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though hestill retains his personal regard for them. Though separated from themby the colors he fights under, they remain united by old associations;but the exigencies of party forbid him to meet them. If theirintercourse continued, it would awaken suspicion; people would imaginethat some dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be heldto be traitors desirous to sell themselves, and he the corrupt ministerprepared to buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to break offfriendships of twenty years' standing, and to sacrifice attachmentswhich had become a second nature. 

Sometimes, however, the minister still gives way to his old feelings; hereceives or visits his friends privately; he shuts himself up withthem, and talks of the times when they could be open friends. By dintof precautions they have hitherto succeeded in concealing this blot offriendship against policy; but sooner or later the newspapers will beinformed of it, and will denounce him to the country as an object ofdistrust. 

For whether hatred be honest or dishonest, it never shrinks from anyaccusation. Sometimes it even proceeds to crime. The usher assured methat several warnings had been given the minister which had made himfear the vengeance of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out onfoot. 

Then, from one thing to another, I learned what temptations came in tomislead or overcome his judgment; how he found himself fatally ledinto obliquities which he could not but deplore. Misled by passion, over-persuaded by entreaties, or compelled for reputation's sake, he hasmany times held the balance with an unsteady hand. How sad the conditionof him who is in authority! Not only are the miseries of power imposedupon him, but its vices also, which, not content with torturing, succeedin corrupting him. 

We prolonged our conversation till it was interrupted by the minister'sreturn. He threw himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers, and with an anxious manner went into his own room. An instant afterwardhis bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to allthose invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; theyspoke mysteriously of bad news transmitted by the telegraph, and in suchcircumstances an entertainment would seem to insult the public sorrow. 

I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seenis an answer to my doubts the other day. Now I know with what pangs menpay for their dignities; now I understand

 That Fortune sells what we believe she gives. 

This explains to me the reason why Charles V. Aspired to the repose ofthe cloister. 

And yet I have only glanced at some of the sufferings attached to power. What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitatedfrom the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of thatpath of pain along which they must forever bear the burden of theirresponsibility? of that chain of decorums and ennuis which encompassesevery act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?

The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies. If men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keephim separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with acontinual worship, and, by a constant ceremonial, keep up for himthe superhuman part they have granted him. Our masters cannot remainabsolute, except on condition of being treated as idols. 

But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life theymust lead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment tothemselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used toregulate, hour by hour, the actions of the king and queen; "so that, "says Voltaire, "by reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns ofSpain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment. " Itwas by this law that Philip III, when sick, was obliged to endure suchan excess of heat that he died in consequence, because the Duke ofUzeda, who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber, happened to be absent. 

When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, shewas about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquetteforbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endangered theirlives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whomthey had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon fortheir crime. Every one knows the anecdote related by Madame Campan ofMarie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, whenthe chemise was about to be presented to her by one of the assistants, a lady of very ancient family entered and claimed the honor, as she hadthe right by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil herduty, a lady of higher rank appeared, and in her turn took the garmentshe was about to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still highertitle came in her turn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no otherthan the king's sister. The chemise was in this manner passed from handto hand, with ceremonies, courtesies, and compliments, before it cameto the queen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with coldfor the great honor of etiquette. 

12th, seven o'clock, P. M. --On coming home this evening, I saw, standingat the door of a house, an old man, whose appearance and featuresreminded me of my father. There was the same beautiful smile, the samedeep and penetrating eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and thesame careless attitude. 

I began living over again the first years of my life, and recalling tomyself the conversations of that guide whom God in his mercy had givenme, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn. 

When my father spoke, it was not only to bring our two minds together byan interchange of thought, but his words always contained instruction. 

Not that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father fearedeverything that had the appearance of a lesson. He used to say thatvirtue could make herself devoted friends, but she did not take pupils:therefore he was not desirous to teach goodness; he contented himselfwith sowing the seeds of it, certain that experience would make themgrow. 

How often has good grain fallen thus into a corner of the heart, and, when it has been long forgotten, all at once put forth the blade andcome into ear! It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, andwe do not know its value till we find ourselves in need of it. 

Among the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings, there is one which now returns to my memory, doubtless because the timeis come to derive its lesson from it. 

My father, who was apprenticed at the age of twelve to one of thosetrading collectors who call themselves naturalists, because they put allcreation under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had always leda life of poverty and labor. Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turnsshop-boy, clerk, and laborer, he was made to bear alone all the workof a trade of which his master reaped all the profits. In truth, thislatter had a peculiar talent for making the most of the labor of otherpeople. Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, noone knew better how to sell it. His words were a net, in which peoplefound themselves taken before they were aware. And since he was devotedto himself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and thebuyer as prey, he used them both with that obstinate perseverance whichavarice teaches. 

My father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own onlyon Sunday. The master naturalist, who used to spend the day at the houseof an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on condition thathe dined out, and at his own expense. But my father used secretly totake with him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and, leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valleyof Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of theMarne. Excited by the fresh air, the penetrating perfume of the growingvegetation, or the fragrance of the honeysuckles, he would walk on untilhunger or fatigue made itself felt. Then he would sit under a hedge, or by the side of a stream, and would make a rustic feast, by turnson watercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from thehedges; he would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then in greatest vogue, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of JeanJacques, of whom he possessed three old volumes. The day was thus passedalternately in activity and rest, in pursuit and meditation, until thedeclining sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he wouldarrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a wholeweek. 

One day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close toit, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in sorting the plantshe had just gathered. He was an elderly man with an honest face; buthis eyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows, had a somewhatuneasy and timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, a gray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stockings, and held anivory-headed cane under his arm. His appearance was that of a smallretired tradesman who was living on his means, and rather below thegolden mean of Horace. 

My father, who had great respect for age, civilly raised his hat tohim as he passed. In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; thestranger stooped to take it up, and recognized it. 

"It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos, " said he; "I have not yet seen any ofthem in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?"

My father replied that it was to be found in abundance on the top of thehill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium. 

"That, too!" repeated the old man more briskly. "Ah! I shall go and lookfor them; I have gathered them formerly on the hillside of Robaila. "

My father proposed to take him. The stranger accepted his proposal withthanks, and hastened to collect together the plants he had gathered; butall of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple. He observed to hiscompanion that the road he was going was halfway up the hill, and ledin the direction of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue; that bygoing to the top he would consequently turn out of his road, and that itwas not right he should take this trouble for a stranger. 

My father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the moreeagerness he showed, the more obstinately the old man refused; iteven seemed to my father that his good intention at last excited hissuspicion. He therefore contented himself with pointing out the road tothe stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him. 

Many hours passed by, and he thought no more of the meeting. He hadreached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in amossy glade, he read once more the last volume of Emile. The delight ofreading it had so completely absorbed him that he had ceased to see orhear anything around him. With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist, herepeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him. 

An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; heraised his head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had metbefore on the crossroad at Viroflay. 

He was loaded with plants, the collection of which seemed to have puthim into high good-humor. 

"A thousand thanks, sir, " said he to my father. "I have found all thatyou told me of, and I am indebted to you for a charming walk. "

My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply. The stranger hadgrown quite familiar, and even asked if his young "brother botanist" didnot think of returning to Paris. My father replied in the affirmative, and opened his tin box to put his book back in it. 

The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence askthe name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseau's Emile. 

The stranger immediately became grave. 

They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with thewarmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this workhad made him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent. The formerextolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had madehim a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of greatthinkers, who reign in spite of time and space, and gather together apeople of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenlyinterrupted him:

"And how do you know, " said he, mildly, "whether Jean Jacques would notexchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one ofthe wood-cutters whose chimneys' smoke we see? What has fame brought himexcept persecution? The unknown friends whom his books may have madefor him content themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while thedeclared enemies that they have drawn upon him pursue him with violenceand calumny! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times hasit been wounded by satire? And be assured that human pride is like theSybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf. Theactivity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost alwaysturns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he growsolder; the ideal he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual;he is like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots andblemishes in the most beautiful face. I will not speak of strongertemptations and of deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is akingdom; but what virtuous man is not afraid of being a king? He whofeels only his great powers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of ournature--preparing for great failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy manwho wrote this book is no object of admiration or of envy; but, if youhave a feeling heart, pity him!"

My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companionpronounced these last words, did not know what to answer. 

Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle tothat of Versailles; a carriage was passing. 

The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamationof surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:

"There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!"

Then the carriage disappeared in the distance. 

My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wideopen, and his hands clasped. 

Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned towardhim:

"You see, " said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his latermisfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself:he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to allhe is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signifyless if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, assoon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomespublic property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivialactions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, whichevery passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps youwill say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing myConfessions. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my housethrough the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opened the doors andwindows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir. Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seenRousseau. "

Nine o'clock. --Ah! now I understand my father's story! It contains theanswer to one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I nowfeel that fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, when they dazzle the soul, both are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but 'un deuil eclatant de bonheur!

 'Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. 

 [Henry VIII. , Act II. , Scene 3. ]

CHAPTER VIII. MISANTHROPY AND REPENTANCE

August 3d, Nine O'clock P. M. 

There are days when everything appears gloomy to us; the world, like thesky, is covered by a dark fog. Nothing seems in its place; we see onlymisery, improvidence, and cruelty; the world seems without God, andgiven up to all the evils of chance. 

Yesterday I was in this unhappy humor. After a long walk in thefaubourgs, I returned home, sad and dispirited. 

Everything I had seen seemed to accuse the civilization of which we areso proud! I had wandered into a little by-street, with which I was notacquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the middle of those dreadfulabodes where the poor are born, to languish and die. I looked at thosedecaying walls, which time has covered with a foul leprosy; thosewindows, from which dirty rags hang out to dry; those fetid gutters, which coil along the fronts of the houses like venomous reptiles! I feltoppressed with grief, and hastened on. 

A little farther on I was stopped by the hearse of a hospital; a deadman, nailed down in his deal coffin, was going to his last abode, without funeral pomp or ceremony, and without followers. There was nothere even that last friend of the outcast--the dog, which a painter hasintroduced as the sole attendant at the pauper's burial! He whom theywere preparing to commit to the earth was going to the tomb, as he hadlived, alone; doubtless no one would be aware of his end. In this battleof society, what signifies a soldier the less?

But what, then, is this human society, if one of its members can thusdisappear like a leaf carried away by the wind?

The hospital was near a barrack, at the entrance of which old men, women, and children were quarrelling for the remains of the coarsebread which the soldiers had given them in charity! Thus, beings likeourselves daily wait in destitution on our compassion till we givethem leave to live! Whole troops of outcasts, in addition to the trialsimposed on all God's children, have to endure the pangs of cold, hunger, and humiliation. Unhappy human commonwealth! Where man is in a worsecondition than the bee in its hive, or the ant in its subterranean city!

Ah! what then avails our reason? What is the use of so many highfaculties, if we are neither the wiser nor the happier for them? Whichof us would not exchange his life of labor and trouble with that of thebirds of the air, to whom the whole world is a life of joy?

How well I understand the complaint of Mao, in the popular tales of the'Foyer Breton' who, when dying of hunger and thirst, says, as he looksat the bullfinches rifling the fruit-trees:

"Alas! those birds are happier than Christians; they have no need ofinns, or butchers, or bakers, or gardeners. God's heaven belongs tothem, and earth spreads a continual feast before them! The tiny fliesare their game, ripe grass their cornfields, and hips and haws theirstore of fruit. They have the right of taking everywhere, without payingor asking leave: thus comes it that the little birds are happy, and singall the livelong day!"

But the life of man in a natural state is like that of the birds; heequally enjoys nature. "The earth spreads a continual feast before him. "What, then, has he gained by that selfish and imperfect associationwhich forms a nation? Would it not be better for every one to turn againto the fertile bosom of nature, and live there upon her bounty in peaceand liberty?

August 20th, four o'clock A. M. --The dawn casts a red glow on mybed-curtains; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below. Here I am again leaning on my elbows by the windows, inhaling thefreshness and gladness of this first wakening of the day. 

My eye always passes over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, andsunlight, with the same pleasure; but to-day it stops at the end of abuttress which separates our house from the next. 

The storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, and dustcarried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and, being fixedthere by the rain, has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some greengrass has sprung up. Among it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day issurmounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head. 

This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall to theneighboring sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich crops whichare now falling beneath the sickle; it has recalled to me thebeautiful walks I took as a child through my native province, when thethreshing-floors at the farmhouses resounded from every part with thesound of a flail, and when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, camein by all the roads. I still remember the songs of the maidens, thecheerfulness of the old men, the open-hearted merriment of the laborers. There was, at that time, something in their looks both of pride andfeeling. The latter came from thankfulness to God, the former from thesight of the harvest, the reward of their labor. They felt indistinctlythe grandeur and the holiness of their part in the general work of theworld; they looked with pride upon their mountains of corn-sheaves, andthey seemed to say, Next to God, it is we who feed the world!

What a wonderful order there is in all human labor!

While the husbandman furrows his land, and prepares for every one hisdaily bread, the town artizan, far away, weaves the stuff in which heis to be clothed; the miner seeks underground the iron for his plow; thesoldier defends him against the invader; the judge takes care thatthe law protects his fields; the tax-comptroller adjusts his privateinterests with those of the public; the merchant occupies himself inexchanging his products with those of distant countries; the men ofscience and of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, whichdraws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains ofour iron roads! Thus all unite together, all help one another; thetoil of each one benefits himself and all the world; the work has beenapportioned among the different members of the whole of society by atacit agreement. If, in this apportionment, errors are committed, if certain individuals have not been employed according to theircapacities, those defects of detail diminish in the sublime conceptionof the whole. The poorest man included in this association has hisplace, his work, his reason for being there; each is something in thewhole. 

There is nothing like this for man in the state of nature. As he dependsonly upon himself, it is necessary that he be sufficient for everything. All creation is his property; but he finds in it as many hindrances ashelps. He must surmount these obstacles with the single strength thatGod has given him; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance andopportunity. No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him; heis nothing to any one. He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his ownsingle powers; while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the wholeof society. 

But, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of somevices in detail, I cursed the latter, and almost envied the life of thesavage. 

One of the infirmities of our nature is always to mistake feeling forevidence, and to judge of the season by a cloud or a ray of sunshine. 

Was the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, reallythe effect of civilization? Must we accuse society of having createdthese evils, or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has alleviatedthem? Could the women and children, who were receiving the coarse breadfrom the soldier, hope in the desert for more help or pity? That deadman, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares ofa hospital, a coffin and the humble grave where he was about to rest?Alone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in hisden, and would now be serving as food for vultures! These benefits ofhuman society are shared, then, by the most destitute. Whoever eats thebread that another has reaped and kneaded, is under an obligation to hisbrother, and cannot say he owes him nothing in return. The poorest of ushas received from society much more than his own single strength wouldhave permitted him to wrest from nature. 

But cannot society give us more? Who doubts it? Errors have beencommitted in this distribution of tasks and workers. Time will diminishthe number of them; with new lights a better division will arise; theelements of society go on toward perfection, like everything else. Thedifficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time, whose progress can never be forced on without danger. 

August 14th, six o'clock A. M. --My garret window rises upon the roof likea massive watch-tower. The corners are covered by large sheets of lead, which run into the tiles; the successive action of cold and heat hasmade them rise, and so a crevice has been formed in an angle on theright side. There a sparrow has built her nest. 

I have followed the progress of this aerial habitation from the firstday. I have seen the bird successively bring the straw, moss, and wooldesigned for the construction of her abode; and I have admired thepersevering skill she expended in this difficult work. At first, my newneighbor spent her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden, andin chirping along the gutters; a fine lady's life seemed the only one tosuit her. Then all of a sudden, the necessity of preparing a shelterfor her brood transformed our idler into a worker; she no longer gaveherself either rest or relaxation. I saw her always either flying, fetching, or carrying; neither rain nor sun stopped her. A strikingexample of the power of necessity! We are indebted to it not only formost of our talents, but for many of our virtues!

Is it not necessity that has given the people of less favored climatesthat constant activity which has placed them so quickly at the head ofnations? As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, theyhave supplied them by their industry; necessity has sharpened theirunderstanding, endurance awakened their foresight. While elsewhere man, warmed by an ever brilliant sun, and loaded with the bounties of theearth, was remaining poor, ignorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts hedid not attempt to explore, here he was forced by necessity to wrest hisfood from the ground, to build habitations to defend himself from theintemperance of the weather, and to warm his body by clothing himselfwith the wool of animals. Work makes him both more intelligent and morerobust: disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher on the ladder ofcreation, while those more favored by nature remain on the step nearestto the brutes. 

I made these reflections while looking at the bird, whose instinctseemed to have become more acute since she had been occupied in work. At last the nest was finished; she set up her household there, and Ifollowed her through all the phases of her new existence. 

When she had sat on the eggs, and the young ones were hatched, she fedthem with the most attentive care. The corner of my window had becomea stage of moral action, which fathers and mothers might come to takelessons from. The little ones soon became large, and this morning I haveseen them take their first flight. One of them, weaker than the others, was not able to clear the edge of the roof, and fell into the gutter. I caught him with some difficulty, and placed him again on the tile infront of his house, but the mother has not noticed him. Once freed fromthe cares of a family, she has resumed her wandering life among thetrees and along the roofs. In vain I have kept away from my window, totake from her every excuse for fear; in vain the feeble little birdhas called to her with plaintive cries; his bad mother has passed by, singing and fluttering with a thousand airs and graces. Once only thefather came near; he looked at his offspring with contempt, and thendisappeared, never to return!

I crumbled some bread before the little orphan, but he did not know howto peck it with his bill. I tried to catch him, but he escaped into theforsaken nest. What will become of him there, if his mother does notcome back!

August 15th, six o'clock. --This morning, on opening my window, I foundthe little bird dying upon the tiles; his wounds showed me that he hadbeen driven from the nest by his unworthy mother. I tried in vain towarm him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; hiseyes were already closed, and his wings hung down! I placed him on theroof in a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window. The struggle of lifeagainst death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us. 

Happily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my oldneighbor; his conversation will distract my thoughts. 

It was my portress. Excellent woman! She wished me to read a letter fromher son the sailor, and begged me to answer it for her. 

I kept it, to copy it in my journal. Here it is:

 "DEAR MOTHER: This is to tell you that I have been very well ever since the last time, except that last week I was nearly drowned with the boat, which would have been a great loss, as there is not a better craft anywhere. 

 "A gust of wind capsized us; and just as I came up above water, I saw the captain sinking. I went after him, as was my duty, and, after diving three times, I brought him to the surface, which pleased him much; for when we were hoisted on board, and he had recovered his senses, he threw his arms round my neck, as he would have done to an officer. 

 "I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this has delighted me. But it isn't all; it seems that fishing up the captain has reminded them that I had a good character, and they have just told me that I am promoted to be a sailor of the first class! Directly I knew it, I cried out, 'My mother shall have coffee twice a day!' And really, dear mother, there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now have a larger allowance to send you. 

 "I include by begging you to take care of yourself if you wish to do me good; for nothing makes me feel so well as to think that you want for nothing. 

 "Your son, from the bottom of my heart, "JACQUES. "

This is the answer that the portress dictated to me:

 "MY GOOD JACQUOT: It makes me very happy to see that your heart is still as true as ever, and that you will never shame those who have brought you up. I need not tell you to take care of your life, because you know it is the same as my own, and that without you, dear child, I should wish for nothing but the grave; but we are not bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty. 

 "Do not fear for my health, good Jacques; I was never better! I do not grow old at all, for fear of making you unhappy. I want nothing, and I live like a lady. I even had some money over this year, and as my drawers shut very badly, I put it into the savings' bank, where I have opened an account in your name. So, when you come back, you will find yourself with an income. I have also furnished your chest with new linen, and I have knitted you three new sea-jackets. 

 "All your friends are well. Your cousin is just dead, leaving his widow in difficulties. I gave her your thirty francs' remittance and said that you had sent it her; and the poor woman remembers you day and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put that money in another sort of savings' bank; but there it is our hearts that get the interest. 

 "Good-bye, dear Jacquot. Write to me often, and always remember the good God, and your old mother, "PHROSINE MILLOT. "

Good son, and worthy mother! how such examples bring us back to a lovefor the human race! In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy thefate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; butimpartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes. We find, onexamination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the goodso far abounds that we are not in the habit of noticing it, while theevil strikes us precisely on account of its being the exception. Ifnothing is perfect, nothing is so bad as to be without its compensationor its remedy. What spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evilsof society! how much does the moral world redeem the material!

That which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is hispower of deliberate affection and of enduring self-sacrifice. The motherwho took care of her brood in the corner of my window devoted tothem the necessary time for accomplishing the laws which insure thepreservation of her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not arational choice. When she had accomplished the mission appointed herby Providence, she cast off the duty as we get rid of a burden, andshe returned again to her selfish liberty. The other mother, on thecontrary, will go on with her task as long as God shall leave her herebelow: the life of her son will still remain, so to speak, joined to herown; and when she disappears from the earth, she will leave there thatpart of herself. 

Thus, the affections make for our species an existence separate fromall the rest of creation. Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrialimmortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man aloneperpetuates himself. 

CHAPTER IX. THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT

September 15th, Eight O'clock

This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For thenearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt inher little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, butMother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of ouracquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; mypatronage has become her property. 

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who isa joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairsagain immediately to send him to me. 

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovialas usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?

Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, thatshe might think she had received her full share already. Were I to livea hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made herknown to me, and which obtained for her my respect. 

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had noticedher empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted byits forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have alwaysinstinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brotherin poverty. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hopeto those whose very existence is in peril--the only means by which someorphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of the tradesman is not toenrich himself, but to live! The purchase you make of him is more thanan exchange--it is a good action. 

Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost thatfresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon amongthe poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working tobecome, according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, aworshipper of Saint Monday. The wages of the week, which was alwaysreduced to two or three working days, were completely dedicated by himto the worship of this god of the Barriers, --[The cheap wine shops areoutside the Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise. ]--andGenevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of thehousehold. 

One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, Iheard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices ofseveral women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken bysobs. On looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a childin her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be claimingher wages from her. The poor woman, who without doubt had exhaustedevery explanation and every excuse, was crying in silence, and one ofher neighbors was trying in vain to appease the countrywoman. Excited bythat love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too wellexcuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nursewas launching forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spiteof myself, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and notthinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. 

The joiner had just come from the Barriers, where he had passed part ofthe day at a public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and untied at thethroat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in his hand he heldhis cap, which he had just picked up out of the mud; his hair was indisorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face. Hecame reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called Genevieve. 

She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at thesight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with tears. 

The countrywoman and the neighbor had followed her. 

"Come! come!" cried the former in a rage, "do you intend to pay me, after all?"

"Ask the master for the money, " ironically answered the woman fromthe next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against thecounter. 

The countrywoman looked at him. 

"Ah! he is the father, " returned she. "Well, what idle beggars! not tohave a penny to pay honest people; and get tipsy with wine in that way. "

The drunkard raised his head. 

"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've hadnothing but brandy! But I am going back again to get some wine! Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at the 'Perela Tuille'. "

Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the till, and began to rummage in it. 

"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbor tothe countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takesall?"

"Is that my fault?" replied the nurse, angrily. "They owe to me, andsomehow or other they must pay me!"

And letting loose her tongue, as these women out of the country do, shebegan relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, andall the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she recalled allshe had done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of herrights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother, who no doubt fearedthat her violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle. 

Whether it is that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination toescape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot say; butshe rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. The joiner, who wasstill rummaging in the till, was startled, and raised his head. 

At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her armsthe baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She rantoward the counter, and throwing herself behind her husband, cried:

"Michael, defend your son!"

The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with astart. 

"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"

His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed overhis features. 

"Robert, " resumed he; "it is Robert!"

He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, buthe tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. 

"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she. "It is I who havefed and brought it up: if you don't pay me for what has made it live, itought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not go until Ihave my due, or the baby. "

"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Robertagainst her bosom. 

"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "thehospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food ofits little ones. "

At the word "Foundling, " Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. Withher arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and hertwo hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remainedwith her back against it, like a lioness defending her young. Theneighbor and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we couldinterfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visibleeffort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon Genevieve and thechild, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but when he turned toward us, he again became stupid and hesitating. 

At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried out, "Wait!"

And going to a tub filled with water, he plunged his face into itseveral times. 

Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemedastonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution hadpartly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then heturned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up. 

"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him. "

The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and stayedbefore him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child wouldhave a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and renewedher claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. At first Michaellistened to her attentively, and when he comprehended her meaning, hegave the child back to its mother. 

"How much do we owe you?" asked he. 

The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, whichamounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom ofhis pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted byfrowns; low curses began to escape him. All of a sudden he rummaged inhis breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up above his head:

"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he with a joyful laugh; "a watch, a good one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry day; but itis not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! ah! go and sellit for me, neighbor, and if that is not enough, I have my earrings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me; the earrings will square all! Theyshall not say you have been disgraced on account of the child--no, noteven if I must pledge a bit of my flesh! My watch, my earrings, and myring--get rid of all of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the little fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve; I will puthim to bed. "

And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him with afirm step to his cradle. 

It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael fromthis day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early everymorning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to finish theday with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not leave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruit-shop, and worked in it on his ownaccount. 

They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been forthe expenses which the child required. Everything was given up to hiseducation. He had gone through the regular school training, had studiedmathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had only begun towork a few months ago. Till now, they had been exhausting every resourcewhich their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in hisbusiness; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: theseed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by. 

While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael hadcome in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were wanted. 

During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was alsoscrutinizing the joiner. 

The excesses of his youth and the labor of his manhood have deeplymarked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stoop, hislegs are shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight inhis whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow anddespondency. He answers my questions by monosyllables, and like a manwho wishes to avoid conversation. Whence comes this dejection, when onewould think he had all he could wish for? I should like to know!

Ten o'clock. --Michael is just gone downstairs to look for a tool he hasforgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the secret ofhis and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause of it!

Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he isidle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them anymore. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made gladtheir lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father preparedeverything to receive their dear associate in their toils; and at themoment when they were thus about to be repaid for all their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just engaged himself to acontractor at Versailles. 

Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forwardthe necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an importantcontract, the facilities he should have in his new position of improvinghimself in his trade, and the hopes he had of turning his knowledgeto advantage. At, last, when his mother, having come to the end of herarguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed her, and went away that hemight avoid any further remonstrances. 

He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes ofhis return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he onlystayed a few moments with them. 

"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded, " Michael said tome just now. "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, and God hasgiven me an ambitious and avaricious one! I had always said to myselfthat when once he was grown up we should have him always with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts. His mother was alwaysthinking of getting him married, and having children again to care for. You know women always will busy themselves about others. As for me, Ithought of him working near my bench, and singing his new songs; for hehas learnt music, and is one of the best singers at the Orpheon. 

"A dream, sir, truly! Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembers neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, wasthe day we expected him; he should have come to supper with us. NoRobert to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargainto arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, afterthe customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have guessed how itwould have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my likings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of a thankless son! Was itfor this I took the trouble to cure myself of drinking, to break withmy friends, to become an example to the neighborhood? The jovial goodfellow has made a goose of himself. Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no!you see women and children are our bane. They soften our hearts; theylead us a life of hope and affection; we pass a quarter of our lives infostering the growth of a grain of corn which is to be everything to usin our old age, and when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear isempty!"

While he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eyes fierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could only think ofcommonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The joiner pretended heneeded a tool, and left me. 

Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue hasfailed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not feltthis weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at least once, the mournful exclamation of Brutus?

But if virtue is only a word, what is there then in life that is trueand real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It does notalways give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings some other. Inthe world everything is ruled by order, and has its proper and necessaryconsequences, and virtue cannot be the sole exception to the generallaw. If it had been prejudicial to those who practised it, experiencewould have avenged them; but experience has, on the contrary, made itmore universal and more holy. We only accuse it of being a faithlessdebtor because we demand an immediate payment, and one apparent to oursenses. We always consider life as a fairytale, in which every goodaction must be rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as paymenta peaceful conscience, self-content, or a good name among men--treasuresthat are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do notfeel till after we have lost them!

Michael is come back, and has returned to his work. His son has not yetarrived. 

By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he becameexcited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, always addingsomething to his griefs. He had just wound up his confidential discourseby speaking to me of a joiner's business which he had hoped to buy, andwork to good account with Robert's help. The present owner had made afortune by it, and, after thirty years of business, he was thinking ofretiring to one of the ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreat for the frugal and successful workingman. Michael hadnot indeed the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhapshe could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence wouldhave been a security for him, for the young man could not fail to insurethe prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he had thepower of invention and bringing to perfection. His father had discoveredamong his drawings a new plan for a staircase, which had occupied histhoughts for a long time; and he even suspected him of having engagedhimself to the Versailles contractor for the very purpose of executingit. The youth was tormented by this spirit of invention, which tookpossession of all his thoughts, and, while devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to his feelings. 

Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. Isaw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very pride madehim more sensitive to that son's neglect. 

Six o'clock P. M. --I have just finished a happy day. How many eventshave happened within a few hours, and what a change for Genevieve andMichael!

He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, while I laid the cloth for my breakfast. 

Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, andGenevieve entered with Robert. 

The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed itimmediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure. 

The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into hisarms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, whoseface shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrainherself with difficulty. 

I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease andcivility. 

"I expected you yesterday, " said Michael Arout, rather dryly. 

"Forgive me, father, " replied the young workman, "but I had business atSt. Germain's. I was not able to come back till it was very late, andthen the master kept me. "

The joiner looked at his son sidewise, and then took up his hammeragain. 

"All right, " muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with otherpeople we must do as they wish; but there are some who would like betterto eat brown bread with their own knife than partridges with the silverfork of a master. "

"And I am one of those, father, " replied Robert, merrily, "but, as theproverb says, 'you must shell the peas before you can eat them. ' It wasnecessary that I should first work in a great workshop--"

"To go on with your plan of the staircase, " interrupted Michael, ironically. 

"You must now say Monsieur Raymond's plan, father, " replied Robert, smiling. 

"Why?"

"Because I have sold it to him. "

The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly. 

"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. 

"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him. "

Michael threw down the board and tool. 

"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an ideainto his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells itto a rich man, who will take the honor of it himself. "

"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. 

"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion. "You understand nothingabout it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workmannever gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldierwould give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it forthe honor it does him! Ah, thunder! if I had ever made a discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of my eyes! Don'tyou see that a new invention is like a child to a workman? He takes careof it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it isonly a poor creature who sells it. "

Robert colored a little. 

"You will think differently, father, " said he, "when you know why I soldmy plan. "

"Yes, and you will thank him for it, " added Genevieve, who could nolonger keep silence. 

"Never!" replied Michael. 

"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he sold it only for our sakes!"

The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It wasnecessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he hadentered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positivelyrefused to sell his business unless one half of the two thousand francswere first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum thathe had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he had had anopportunity of trying his invention, and of finding a purchaser. Thanksto the money he received for it, he had just concluded the bargain withBenoit, and had brought his father the key of the new work-yard. 

This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modestyand simplicity that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; Michaelpressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he seemed to ask hispardon for having unjustly accused him. 

All was now explained with honor to Robert. The conduct which hisparents had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affection; hehad neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even thenobler inspiration of inventive genius: his whole motive and single aimhad been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for proving hisgratitude had come, and he had returned them sacrifice for sacrifice!

After the explanations and exclamations of joy were over, all three wereabout to leave me; but, the cloth being laid, I added three more places, and kept them to breakfast. 

The meal was prolonged: the fare was only tolerable; but theover-flowings of affection made it delicious. Never had I betterunderstood the unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment inthat happiness which is always shared with others; in that communityof interests which unites such various feelings; in that association ofexistences which forms one single being of so many! What is man withoutthose home affections, which, like so many roots, fix him firmly inthe earth, and permit him to imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness--do not all these come from them? Without family life wherewould man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself? A community inlittle, is it not this which teaches us how to live in the great one?Such is the holiness of home, that, to express our relation with God, wehave been obliged to borrow the words invented for our family life. Menhave named themselves the sons of a heavenly Father!

Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union. Do not letus unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the caprices ofchance and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this holy law; let uscarry the principles and the habits of home beyond set bounds; and, ifit may be, let us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentileswhen he exclaimed to the newborn children of Christ: "Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind. "

BOOK 3. 

CHAPTER X. OUR COUNTRY

October 12th, Seven O'clock A. M. 

The nights are already become cold and long; the sun, shining through mycurtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even whenmy eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast undermy counterpane. Every morning there begins a long argument between myactivity and my indolence; and, snugly wrapped up to the eyes, I waitlike the Gascon, until they have succeeded in coming to an agreement. 

This morning, however, a light, which shone from my door upon mypillow, awoke me earlier than usual. In vain I turned on my side;the persevering light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into everyposition. At last, quite out of patience, I sat up and hurled mynightcap to the foot of the bed!

(I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions ofthis pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbolsof the vehement emotions of the mind; for our language has borrowed itsmost common images from them. )

But be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humor, grumbling at mynew neighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished tosleep. We are all made thus; we do not understand that others may liveon their own account. Each one of us is like the earth, according to theold system of Ptolemy, and thinks he can have the whole universe revolvearound himself. On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to:'Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bonnet'. 

I had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mine to theother end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from thewarm bedclothes, while making a host of evil reflections upon theinconvenience of having neighbors. 

For more than a month I had not had to complain of those whom chancehad given me; most of them only came in to sleep, and went away againon rising. I was almost always alone on this top story--alone with theclouds and the sparrows!

But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, likethe seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take merepassengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along thelanding-place belonging to our attics! How many companions of a few dayshave disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the livingwhich whirls continually under the scourge of necessity, and others inthat resting-place of the dead, who sleep under the hand of God!

Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. Wrapped up in selfishness, he lived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss wasneither mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; therewas merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied inour house. 

It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last fewdays. 

To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is gone withmy nightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlierthan suits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carrieshis misfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, withcheerfulness and moderation. 

But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wreck of aman. In the place of one of his arms hangs an empty sleeve; his left legis made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; butabove these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon hiscountenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice, the tone of which has, so to speak, the accent of goodness, we seethat the soul has remained entire in the half-destroyed covering. Thefortress is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrisonis quite hearty. 

Decidedly, the more I think of this excellent man, the more I reproachmyself for the sort of malediction I bestowed on him when I awoke. 

We are generally too indulgent in our secret wrongs toward our neighbor. All ill-will which does not pass the region of thought seems innocent tous, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse without examination the sinwhich does not betray itself by action!

But are we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws? Besidesthese external relations, is there not a real relation of feelingbetween men? Do we not owe to all those who live under the same heavenas ourselves the aid not only of our acts but of our purposes? Ought notevery human life to be to us like a vessel that we accompany with ourprayers for a happy voyage? It is not enough that men do not harmone another; they must also help and love one another! The papalbenediction, 'Urbi et orbi'! should be the constant cry from all hearts. To condemn him who does not deserve it, even in the mind, even by apassing thought, is to break the great law, that which has establishedthe union of souls here below, and to which Christ has given the sweetname of charity. 

These thoughts came into my mind as I finished dressing, and I said tomyself that Father Chaufour had a right to reparation from me. To makeamends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him just now, I owedhim some explicit proof of sympathy. I heard him humming a tune inhis room; he was at work, and I determined that I would make the firstneighborly call. 

Eight o'clock P. M. --I found Father Chaufour at a table lighted by alittle smoky lamp, without a fire, although it is already cold, andmaking large pasteboard boxes; he was humming a popular song in a lowtone. I had hardly entered the room when he uttered an exclamation ofsurprise and pleasure. 

"Eh! is it you, neighbor? Come in, then! I did not think you got up soearly, so I put a damper on my music; I was afraid of waking you. "

Excellent man! while I was sending him to the devil he was puttinghimself out of his way for me!

This thought touched me, and I paid my compliments on his having becomemy neighbor with a warmth which opened his heart. 

"Faith! you seem to me to have the look of a good Christian, " said he ina voice of soldierlike cordiality, and shaking me by the hand. "I do notlike those people who look on a landing-place as a frontier line, andtreat their neighbors as if they were Cossacks. When men snuff the sameair, and speak the same lingo, they are not meant to turn their backsto each other. Sit down there, neighbor; I don't mean to order you; onlytake care of the stool; it has but three legs, and we must put good-willin place of the fourth. "

"It seems that that is a treasure which there is no want of here, " Iobserved. 

"Good-will!" repeated Chaufour; "that is all my mother left me, and Itake it no son has received a better inheritance. Therefore they used tocall me Monsieur Content in the batteries. "

"You are a soldier, then?"

"I served in the Third Artillery under the Republic, and afterwardin the Guard, through all the commotions. I was at Jemappes and atWaterloo; so I was at the christening and at the burial of our glory, asone may say!"

I looked at him with astonishment. 

"And how old were you then, at Jemappes?" asked I. 

"Somewhere about fifteen, " said he. 

"How came you to think of being a soldier so early?"

"I did not really think about it. I then worked at toy-making, and neverdreamed that France would ask me for anything else than to make herdraught-boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls. But I had an old uncleat Vincennes whom I went to see from time to time--a Fontenoy veteran inthe same rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to have risento that of a marshal. Unluckily, in those days there was no way forcommon people to get on. My uncle, whose services would have got himmade a prince under the other, had then retired with the mere rank ofsub-lieutenant. But you should have seen him in his uniform, his crossof St. Louis, his wooden leg, his white moustaches, and his noblecountenance. You would have said he was a portrait of one of those oldheroes in powdered hair which are at Versailles!

"Every time I visited him, he said something which remained fixed in mymemory. But one day I found him quite grave. 

"'Jerome, ' said he, 'do you know what is going on on the frontier?'

"'No, lieutenant, ' replied I. 

"'Well, ' resumed he, 'our country is in danger!'

"I did not well understand him, and yet it seemed something to me. 

"'Perhaps you have never thought what your country means, ' continued he, placing his hand on my shoulder; `it is all that surrounds you, all thathas brought you up and fed you, all that you have loved! This groundthat you see, these houses, these trees, those girls who go along therelaughing--this is your country! The laws which protect you, the breadwhich pays for your work, the words you interchange with others, thejoy and grief which come to you from the men and things among which youlive--this is your country! The little room where you used to seeyour mother, the remembrances she has left you, the earth where sherests--this is your country! You see it, you breathe it, everywhere!Think to yourself, my son, of your rights and your duties, youraffections and your wants, your past and your present blessings; writethem all under a single name--and that name will be your country!'

"I was trembling with emotion, and great tears were in my eyes. 

"'Ah! I understand, ' cried I; 'it is our home in large; it is that partof the world where God has placed our body and our soul. '

"'You are right, Jerome, ' continued the old soldier; 'so you comprehendalso what we owe it. '

"'Truly, ' resumed I, 'we owe it all that we are; it is a question oflove. '

"'And of honesty, my son, ' concluded he. 'The member of a family whodoes not contribute his share of work and of happiness fails in hisduty, and is a bad kinsman; the member of a partnership who does notenrich it with all his might, with all his courage, and with all hisheart, defrauds it of what belongs to it, and is a dishonest man. Itis the same with him who enjoys the advantages of having a country, anddoes not accept the burdens of it; he forfeits his honor, and is a badcitizen!'

"'And what must one do, lieutenant, to be a good citizen?' asked I. 

"'Do for your country what you would do for your father and mother, 'said he. 

"I did not answer at the moment; my heart was swelling, and the bloodboiling in my veins; but on returning along the road, my uncle's wordswere, so to speak, written up before my eyes. I repeated, 'Do for yourcountry what you would do for your father and mother. ' And my country isin danger; an enemy attacks it, while I--I turn cups and balls!

"This thought tormented me so much all night that the next day Ireturned to Vincennes to announce to the lieutenant that I had justenlisted, and was going off to the frontier. The brave man pressed uponme his cross of St. Louis, and I went away as proud as an ambassador. 

"That is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer under the Republic before Ihad cut my wisdom teeth. "

All this was told quietly, and in the cheerful spirit of him who looksupon an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance. 

While he spoke, Father Chaufour grew animated, not on account ofhimself, but of the general subject. Evidently that which occupied himin the drama of life was not his own part, but the drama itself. 

This sort of disinterestedness touched me. I prolonged my visit, andshowed myself as frank as possible, in order to win his confidence inreturn. In an hour's time he knew my position and my habits; I was onthe footing of an old acquaintance. 

I even confessed the ill-humor the light of his lamp put me into a shorttime before. He took what I said with the touching cheerfulness whichcomes from a heart in the right place, and which looks upon everythingon the good side. He neither spoke to me of the necessity which obligedhim to work while I could sleep, nor of the deprivations of the oldsoldier compared to the luxury of the young clerk; he only struck hisforehead, accused himself of thoughtlessness, and promised to put listround his door!

O great and beautiful soul! with whom nothing turns to bitterness, andwho art peremptory only in duty and benevolence!

October 15th. --This morning I was looking at a little engraving Ihad framed myself, and hung over my writing-table; it is a design ofGavarni's; in which, in a grave mood, he has represented a veteran and aconscript. 

By often contemplating these two figures, so different in expression, and so true to life, both have become living in my eyes; I have seenthem move, I have heard them speak; the picture has become a real scene, at which I am present as spectator. 

The veteran advances slowly, his hand leaning on the shoulder of theyoung soldier. His eyes, closed for ever, no longer perceive the sunshining through the flowering chestnut-trees. In the place of his rightarm hangs an empty sleeve, and he walks with a wooden leg, the sound ofwhich on the pavement makes those who pass turn to look. 

At the sight of this ancient wreck from our patriotic wars, the greaternumber shake their heads in pity, and I seem to hear a sigh or animprecation. 

"See the worth of glory!" says a portly merchant, turning away his eyesin horror. 

"What a deplorable use of human life!" rejoins a young man who carries avolume of philosophy under his arm. 

"The trooper would better not have left his plow, " adds a countryman, with a cunning air. 

"Poor old man!" murmurs a woman, almost crying. 

The veteran has heard, and he knits his brow; for it seems to him thathis guide has grown thoughtful. The latter, attracted by what he hearsaround him, hardly answers the old man's questions, and his eyes, vaguely lost in space, seem to be seeking there for the solution of someproblem. 

I seem to see a twitching in the gray moustaches of the veteran; hestops abruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm:

"They all pity me, " says he, "because they do not understand it; but ifI were to answer them--"

"What would you say to them, father?" asks the young man, withcuriosity. 

"I should say first to the woman who weeps when she looks at me, to keepher tears for other misfortunes; for each of my wounds calls to mindsome struggle for my colors. There is room for doubting how some menhave done their duty; with me it is visible. I carry the account of myservices, written with the enemy's steel and lead, on myself; to pity mefor having done my duty is to suppose I would better have been false toit. "

"And what would you say to the countryman, father?"

"I should tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, we must firstsecure the country itself; and that, as long as there are foreignersready to eat our harvest, there must be arms to defend it. "

"But the young student, too, shook his head when he lamented such a useof life. "

"Because he does not know what self-sacrifice and suffering can teach. The books that he studies we have put in practice, though we neverread them: the principles he applauds we have defended with powder andbayonet. "

"And at the price of your limbs and your blood. The merchant said, whenhe saw your maimed body, 'See the worth of glory!"'

"Do not believe him, my son: the true glory is the bread of the soul;it is this which nourishes self-sacrifice, patience, and courage. TheMaster of all has bestowed it as a tie the more between men. When wedesire to be distinguished by our brethren, do we not thus prove ouresteem and our sympathy for them? The longing for admiration is but oneside of love. No, no; the true glory can never be too dearly paid for!That which we should deplore, child, is not the infirmities which provea generous self-sacrifice, but those which our vices or our imprudencehave called forth. Ah! if I could speak aloud to those who, whenpassing, cast looks of pity upon me, I should say to the young man whoseexcesses have dimmed his sight before he is old, 'What have you donewith your eyes?' To the slothful man, who with difficulty drags alonghis enervated mass of flesh, 'What have you done with your feet?' To theold man, who is punished for his intemperance by the gout, 'What haveyou done with your hands?' To all, 'What have you done with the days Godgranted you, with the faculties you should have employed for the good ofyour brethren?' If you cannot answer, bestow no more of your pity uponthe old soldier maimed in his country's cause; for he--he at least--canshow his scars without shame. "

October 16th. --The little engraving has made me comprehend better themerits of Father Chaufour, and I therefore esteem him all the more. 

He has just now left my attic. There no longer passes a single daywithout his coming to work by my fire, or my going to sit and talk byhis board. 

The old artilleryman has seen much, and likes to tell of it. For twentyyears he was an armed traveller throughout Europe, and he fought withouthatred, for he was possessed by a single thought--the honor of thenational flag! It might have been his superstition, if you will; but itwas, at the same time, his safeguard. 

The word FRANCE, which was then resounding so gloriously through theworld, served as a talisman to him against all sorts of temptation. Tohave to support a great name may seem a burden to vulgar minds, but itis an encouragement to vigorous ones. 

"I, too, have had many moments, " said he to me the other day, "when Ihave been tempted to make friends with the devil. War is not preciselythe school for rural virtues. By dint of burning, destroying, andkilling, you grow a little tough as regards your feelings; 'and, whenthe bayonet has made you king, the notions of an autocrat come intoyour head a little strongly. But at these moments I called to mind thatcountry which the lieutenant spoke of to me, and I whispered to myselfthe well-known phrase, 'Toujours Francais! It has been laughed at since. People who would make a joke of the death of their mother have turned itinto ridicule, as if the name of our country was not also a noble and abinding thing. For my part, I shall never forget from how many folliesthe title of Frenchman has kept me. When, overcome with fatigue, Ihave found myself in the rear of the colors, and when the musketrywas rattling in the front ranks, many a time I heard a voice, whichwhispered in my ear, 'Leave the others to fight, and for today take careof your own hide!' But then, that word Francais! murmured within me, andI pressed forward to help my comrades. At other times, when, irritatedby hunger, cold, and wounds, I have arrived at the hovel of someMeinherr, I have been seized by an itching to break the master's back, and to burn his hut; but I whispered to myself, Francais! and this namewould not rhyme with either incendiary or murderer. I have, in thisway, passed through kingdoms from east to west, and from north to south, always determined not to bring disgrace upon my country's flag. Thelieutenant, you see, had taught me a magic word--My country! Not onlymust we defend it, but we must also make it great and loved. "

October 17th. --To-day I have paid my neighbor a long visit. A chanceexpression led the way to his telling me more of himself than he had yetdone. 

I asked him whether both his limbs had been lost in the same battle. 

"No, no!" replied he; "the cannon only took my leg; it was the Clamartquarries that my arm went to feed. "

And when I asked him for the particulars--

"That's as easy as to say good-morning, " continued he. "After the greatbreak-up at Waterloo, I stayed three months in the camp hospital to givemy wooden leg time to grow. As soon as I was able to hobble a little, Itook leave of headquarters, and took the road to Paris, where I hoped tofind some relative or friend; but no--all were gone, or underground. Ishould have found myself less strange at Vienna, Madrid, or Berlin. Andalthough I had a leg the less to provide for, I was none the better off;my appetite had come back, and my last sous were taking flight. 

"I had indeed met my old colonel, who recollected that I had helpedhim out of the skirmish at Montereau by giving him my horse, and he hadoffered me bed and board at his house. I knew that the year before hehad married a castle and no few farms, so that I might become permanentcoat-brusher to a millionaire, which was not without its temptations. It remained to see if I had not anything better to do. One evening I setmyself to reflect upon it. 

"'Let us see, Chaufour, ' said I to myself; 'the question is to act likea man. The colonel's place suits you, but cannot you do anything better?Your body is still in good condition, and your arms strong; do you notowe all your strength to your country, as your Vincennes uncle said?Why not leave some old soldier, more cut up than you are, to get hishospital at the colonel's? Come, trooper, you are still fit for anotherstout charge or two! You must not lay up before your time. '

"Whereupon I went to thank the colonel, and to offer my services to anold artilleryman, who had gone back to his home at Clamart, and who hadtaken up the quarryman's pick again. 

"For the first few months I played the conscript's part--that is to say, there was more stir than work; but with a good will one gets the betterof stones, as of everything else. I did not become, so to speak, theleader of a column, but I brought up the rank among the good workmen, and I ate my bread with a good appetite, seeing I had earned it witha good will. For even underground, you see, I still kept my pride. Thethought that I was working to do my part in changing rocks into housespleased my heart. I said to myself, 'Courage, Chaufour, my old boy; youare helping to beautify your country. ' And that kept up my spirit. 

"Unfortunately, some of my companions were rather too sensible to thecharms of the brandy-bottle; so much so, that one day one of them, whocould hardly distinguish his right hand from his left, thought proper tostrike a light close to a charged mine. The mine exploded suddenly, and sent a shower of stone grape among us, which killed three men, andcarried away the arm of which I have now only the sleeve. "

"So you were again without means of living?" said I to the old soldier. 

"That is to say, I had to change them, " replied he, quietly. "Thedifficulty was to find one which would do with five fingers instead often; I found it, however. "

"How was that?"

"Among the Paris street-sweepers. "

"What! you have been one--"

"Of the pioneers of the health force for a while, neighbor, and that wasnot my worst time either. The corps of sweepers is not so low as it isdirty, I can tell you! There are old actresses in it who could neverlearn to save their money, and ruined merchants from the exchange; weeven had a professor of classics, who for a little drink would reciteLatin to you, or Greek tragedies, as you chose. They could not havecompeted for the Monthyon prize; but we excused faults on account ofpoverty, and cheered our poverty by our good-humor and jokes. I was asragged and as cheerful as the rest, while trying to be something better. Even in the mire of the gutter I preserved my faith that nothing isdishonorable which is useful to our country. 

"'Chaufour, ' said I to myself with a smile, 'after the sword, thehammer; after the hammer, the broom; you are going downstairs, my oldboy, but you are still serving your country. '"

"'However, you ended by leaving your new profession?' said I. "

"A reform was required, neighbor. The street-sweepers seldom have theirfeet dry, and the damp at last made the wounds in my good leg openagain. I could no longer follow the regiment, and it was necessary tolay down my arms. It is now two months since I left off working in thesanitary department of Paris. 

"At the first moment I was daunted. Of my four limbs, I had now only myright hand, and even that had lost its strength; so it was necessaryto find some gentlemanly occupation for it. After trying a little ofeverything, I fell upon card-box making, and here I am at cases for thelace and buttons of the national guard; it is work of little profit, butit is within the capacity of all. By getting up at four and workingtill eight, I earn sixty-five centimes; my lodging and bowl of souptake fifty of them, and there are three sous over for luxuries. So I amricher than France herself, for I have no deficit in my budget; and Icontinue to serve her, as I save her lace and buttons. "

At these words Father Chaufour looked at me with a smile, and with hisgreat scissors began cutting the green paper again for his cardboardcases. My heart was touched, and I remained lost in thought. 

Here is still another member of that sacred phalanx who, in the battleof life, always march in front for the example and the salvation of theworld! Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry; for this one it is"Country, " for that "Home, " for a third "Mankind;" but they allfollow the same standard--that of duty; for all the same divine lawreigns--that of self-sacrifice. To love something more than one'sself--that is the secret of all that is great; to know how to live forothers--that is the aim of all noble souls. 

CHAPTER XI. MORAL USE OF INVENTORIES

November 13th, Nine O'clock P. M. 

I had well stopped up the chinks of my window; my little carpet wasnailed down in its place; my lamp, provided with its shade, cast asubdued light around, and my stove made a low, murmuring sound, as ifsome live creature was sharing my hearth with me. 

All was silent around me. But, out of doors the snow and rain swept theroofs, and with a low, rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters;sometimes a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles, whichrattled together like castanets, and afterward it was lost in the emptycorridor. Then a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through myveins: I drew the flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me, Ipulled my threadbare velvet cap over my eyes, and, letting myself sinkdeeper into my easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and lightwhich shone through the door of the stove, I gave myself up to asensation of enjoyment, made more lively by the consciousness of thestorm which raged without. My eyes, swimming in a sort of mist, wanderedover all the details of my peaceful abode; they passed from my prints tomy bookcase, resting upon the little chintz sofa, the white curtains ofthe iron bedstead, and the portfolio of loose papers--those archivesof the attics; and then, returning to the book I held in my hand, theyattempted to seize once more the thread of the reading which had beenthus interrupted. 

In fact, this book, the subject of which had at first interested me, hadbecome painful to me. I had come to the conclusion that the pictures ofthe writer were too sombre. His description of the miseries of theworld appeared exaggerated to me; I could not believe in such excess ofpoverty and of suffering; neither God nor man could show themselves soharsh toward the sons of Adam. The author had yielded to an artistictemptation: he was making a show of the sufferings of humanity, as Neroburned Rome for the sake of the picturesque. 

Taken altogether, this poor human house, so often repaired, so muchcriticised, is still a pretty good abode; we may find enough in it tosatisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them; the happinessof the wise man costs but little, and asks but little space. 

These consoling reflections became more and more confused. At last mybook fell on the ground without my having the resolution to stoop andtake it up again; and insensibly overcome by the luxury of the silence, the subdued light, and the warmth, I fell asleep. 

I remained for some time lost in the sort of insensibility belonging toa first sleep; at last some vague and broken sensations came over me. It seemed to me that the day grew darker, that the air became colder. I half perceived bushes covered with the scarlet berries which foretellthe coming of winter. I walked on a dreary road, bordered here and therewith juniper-trees white with frost. Then the scene suddenly changed. I was in the diligence; the cold wind shook the doors and windows; thetrees, loaded with snow, passed by like ghosts; in vain I thrust mybenumbed feet into the crushed straw. At last the carriage stopped, and, by one of those stage effects so common in sleep, I found myself alonein a barn, without a fireplace, and open to the winds on all sides. I saw again my mother's gentle face, known only to me in my earlychildhood, the noble and stern countenance of my father, the little fairhead of my sister, who was taken from us at ten years old; all my deadfamily lived again around me; they were there, exposed to the bitingsof the cold and to the pangs of hunger. My mother prayed by the resignedold man, and my sister, rolled up on some rags of which they had madeher a bed, wept in silence, and held her naked feet in her little bluehands. 

It was a page from the book I had just read transferred into my ownexistence. 

My heart was oppressed with inexpressible anguish. Crouched in a corner, with my eyes fixed upon this dismal picture, I felt the cold slowlycreeping upon me, and I said to myself with bitterness:

"Let us die, since poverty is a dungeon guarded by suspicion, apathy, and contempt, and from which it is vain to try to escape; let us die, since there is no place for us at the banquet of the living!"

And I tried to rise to join my mother again, and to wait at her feet forthe hour of release. 

This effort dispelled my dream, and I awoke with a start. 

I looked around me; my lamp was expiring, the fire in my stoveextinguished, and my half-opened door was letting in an icy wind. Igot up, with a shiver, to shut and double-lock it; then I made for thealcove, and went to bed in haste. 

But the cold kept me awake a long time, and my thoughts continued theinterrupted dream. 

The pictures I had lately accused of exaggeration now seemed but a toofaithful representation of reality; and I went to sleep without beingable to recover my optimism--or my warmth. 

Thus did a cold stove and a badly closed door alter my point of view. All went well when my blood circulated properly; all looked gloomy whenthe cold laid hold on me. 

This reminds me of the story of the duchess who was obliged to pay avisit to the neighboring convent on a winter's day. The convent waspoor, there was no wood, and the monks had nothing but their disciplineand the ardor of their prayers to keep out the cold. The duchess, whowas shivering with cold, returned home, greatly pitying the poor monks. While the servants were taking off her cloak and adding two more logs toher fire, she called her steward, whom she ordered to send some woodto the convent immediately. She then had her couch moved close to thefireside, the warmth of which soon revived her. The recollection of whatshe had just suffered was speedily lost in her present comfort, when thesteward came in again to ask how many loads of wood he was to send. 

"Oh! you may wait, " said the great lady carelessly; "the weather is verymuch milder. "

Thus, man's judgments are formed less from reason than from sensation;and as sensation comes to him from the outward world, so he findshimself more or less under its influence; by little and little heimbibes a portion of his habits and feelings from it. 

It is not, then, without cause that, when we wish to judge of astranger beforehand, we look for indications of his character in thecircumstances which surround him. The things among which we live arenecessarily made to take our image, and we unconsciously leave in thema thousand impressions of our minds. As we can judge by an empty bedof the height and attitude of him who has slept in it, so the abode ofevery man discovers to a close observer the extent of his intelligenceand the feelings of his heart. Bernardin de St. -Pierre has related thestory of a young girl who refused a suitor because he would never haveflowers or domestic animals in his house. Perhaps the sentence wassevere, but not without reason. We may presume that a man insensibleto beauty and to humble affection must be ill prepared to feel theenjoyments of a happy marriage. 

14th, seven o'clock P. M. --This morning, as I was opening my journal towrite, I had a visit from our old cashier. 

His sight is not so good as it was, his hand begins to shake, and thework he was able to do formerly is now becoming somewhat laborious tohim. I had undertaken to write out some of his papers, and he came forthose I had finished. 

We conversed a long time by the stove, while he was drinking a cup ofcoffee which I made him take. 

M. Rateau is a sensible man, who has observed much and speaks little; sothat he has always something to say. 

While looking over the accounts I had prepared for him, his look fellupon my journal, and I was obliged to acknowledge that in this way Iwrote a diary of my actions and thoughts every evening for private use. From one thing to another, I began speaking to him of my dream the daybefore, and my reflections about the influence of outward objects uponour ordinary sentiments. He smiled. 

"Ah! you, too, have my superstitions, " he said, quietly. "I have alwaysbelieved, like you, that you may know the game by the lair: it isonly necessary to have tact and experience; but without them we commitourselves to many rash judgments. For my part. I have been guilty ofthis more than once, but sometimes I have also drawn a right conclusion. I recollect especially an adventure which goes as far back as the firstyears of my youth--"

He stopped. I looked at him as if I waited for his story, and he told itme at once. 

At this time he was still but third clerk to an attorney at Orleans. Hismaster had sent him to Montargis on different affairs, and he intendedto return in the diligence the same evening, after having receivedthe amount of a bill at a neighboring town; but they kept him at thedebtor's house, and when he was able to set out the day had alreadyclosed. 

Fearing not to be able to reach Montargis in good time, he took acrossroad they pointed out to him. Unfortunately the fog increased, nostar was visible in the heavens, and the darkness became so greatthat he lost his road. He tried to retrace his steps, passed twentyfootpaths, and at last was completely astray. 

After the vexation of losing his place in the diligence, came thefeeling of uneasiness as to his situation. He was alone, on foot, lostin a forest, without any means of finding his right road again, and witha considerable sum of money about him, for which he was responsible. His anxiety was increased by his inexperience. The idea of a forest wasconnected in his mind with so many adventures of robbery and murder, that he expected some fatal encounter every instant. 

To say the truth, his situation was not encouraging. The place was notconsidered safe, and for some time past there had been rumors of thesudden disappearance of several horse-dealers, though there was no traceof any crime having been committed. 

Our young traveller, with his eyes staring forward, and his earslistening, followed a footpath which he supposed might take him to somehouse or road; but woods always succeeded to woods. At last he perceiveda light at a distance, and in a quarter of an hour he reached thehighroad. 

A single house, the light from which had attracted him, appeared at alittle distance. He was going toward the entrance gate of the courtyard, when the trot of a horse made him turn his head. A man on horseback hadjust appeared at the turning of the road, and in an instant was close tohim. 

The first words he addressed to the young man showed him to be thefarmer himself. He related how he had lost himself, and learned from thecountryman that he was on the road to Pithiviers. Montargis was threeleagues behind him. 

The fog had insensibly changed into a drizzling rain, which wasbeginning to wet the young clerk through; he seemed afraid of thedistance he had still to go, and the horseman, who saw his hesitation, invited him to come into the farmhouse. 

It had something of the look of a fortress. Surrounded by a pretty highwall, it could not be seen except through the bars of the great gate, which was carefully closed. The farmer, who had got off his horse, didnot go near it, but, turning to the right, reached another entranceclosed in the same way, but of which he had the key. 

Hardly had he passed the threshold when a terrible barking resoundedfrom each end of the yard. The farmer told his guest to fear nothing, and showed him the dogs chained up to their kennels; both were of anextraordinary size, and so savage that the sight of their master himselfcould not quiet them. 

A boy, attracted by their barking, came out of the house and took thefarmer's horse. The latter began questioning him about some orders hehad given before he left the house, and went toward the stable to seethat they had been executed. 

Thus left alone, our clerk looked about him. 

A lantern which the boy had placed on the ground cast a dim light overthe courtyard. All around seemed empty and deserted. Not a trace wasvisible of the disorder often seen in a country farmyard, and whichshows a temporary cessation of the work which is soon to be resumedagain. Neither a cart forgotten where the horses had been unharnessed, nor sheaves of corn heaped up ready for threshing, nor a plow overturnedin a corner and half hidden under the freshly-cut clover. The yard wasswept, the barns shut up and padlocked. Not a single vine creeping upthe walls; everywhere stone, wood, and iron!

He took up the lantern and went up to the corner of the house. Behindwas a second yard, where he heard the barking of a third dog, and acovered wall was built in the middle of it. 

Our traveller looked in vain for the little farm garden, where pumpkinsof different sorts creep along the ground, or where the bees from thehives hum under the hedges of honeysuckle and elder. Verdure andflowers were nowhere to be seen. He did not even perceive the sight of apoultry-yard or pigeon-house. The habitation of his host was everywherewanting in that which makes the grace and the life of the country. 

The young man thought that his host must be of a very careless or a verycalculating disposition, to concede so little to domestic enjoyments andthe pleasures of the eye; and judging, in spite of himself, by what hesaw, he could not help feeling a distrust of his character. 

In the mean time the farmer returned from the stables, and made himenter the house. 

The inside of the farmhouse corresponded to its outside. The whitewashedwalls had no other ornament than a row of guns of all sizes; the massivefurniture hardly redeemed its clumsy appearance by its great solidity. The cleanliness was doubtful, and the absence of all minor conveniencesproved that a woman's care was wanting in the household concerns. Theyoung clerk learned that the farmer, in fact, lived here with no one buthis two sons. 

Of this, indeed, the signs were plain enough. A table with the clothlaid, that no one had taken the trouble to clear away, was left near thewindow. The plates and dishes were scattered upon it without any order, and loaded with potato-parings and half-picked bones. Several emptybottles emitted an odor of brandy, mixed with the pungent smell oftobacco-smoke. 

After seating his guest, the farmer lighted his pipe, and his two sonsresumed their work by the fireside. Now and then the silence was justbroken by a short remark, answered by a word or an exclamation; and thenall became as mute as before. 

"From my childhood, " said the old cashier, "I had been very sensible tothe impression of outward objects; later in life, reflection had taughtme to study the causes of these impressions rather than to drive themaway. I set myself, then, to examine everything around me with greatattention. 

"Below the guns, I had remarked on entering, some wolftraps weresuspended, and to one of them still hung the mangled remains of a wolf'spaw, which they had not yet taken off from the iron teeth. The blackenedchimneypiece was ornamented by an owl and a raven nailed on the wall, their wings extended, and their throats with a huge nail through each;a fox's skin, freshly flayed, was spread before the window; and a larderhook, fixed into the principal beam, held a headless goose, whose bodyswayed about over our heads. 

"My eyes were offended by all these details, and I turned them againupon my hosts. The father, who sat opposite to me, only interrupted hissmoking to pour out his drink, or address some reprimand to hissons. The eldest of these was scraping a deep bucket, and the bloodyscrapings, which he threw into the fire every instant, filled the roomwith a disagreeable fetid smell; the second son was sharpening somebutcher's knives. I learned from a word dropped from the father thatthey were preparing to kill a pig the next day. 

"These occupations and the whole aspect of things inside the house toldof such habitual coarseness in their way of living as seemed to explain, while it formed the fitting counterpart of, the forbidding gloominessof the outside. My astonishment by degrees changed into disgust, and mydisgust into uneasiness. I cannot detail the whole chain of ideas whichsucceeded one another in my imagination; but, yielding to an impulse Icould not overcome, I got up, declaring I would go on my road again. 

"The farmer made some effort to keep me; he spoke of the rain, of thedarkness, and of the length of the way. I replied to all by the absolutenecessity there was for my being at Montargis that very night; andthanking him for his brief hospitality, I set off again in a haste whichmight well have confirmed the truth of my words to him. 

"However, the freshness of the night and the exercise of walking did notfail to change the directions of my thoughts. When away from the objectswhich had awakened such lively disgust in me, I felt it graduallydiminishing. I began to smile at the susceptibility of my feelings, and then, in proportion as the rain became heavier and colder, thesestrictures on myself assumed a tone of ill-temper. I silently accusedmyself of the absurdity of mistaking sensation for admonitions of myreason. After all, were not the farmer and his sons free to live alone, to hunt, to keep dogs, and to kill a pig? Where was the crime of it?With less nervous susceptibility, I should have accepted the shelterthey offered me, and I should now be sleeping snugly on a truss ofstraw, instead of walking with difficulty through the cold and drizzlingrain. I thus continued to reproach myself, until, toward morning, Iarrived at Montargis, jaded and benumbed with cold. 

"When, however, I got up refreshed, toward the middle of the next day, I instinctively returned to my first opinion. The appearance of thefarmhouse presented itself to me under the same repulsive colors whichthe evening before had determined me to make my escape from it. Reasonitself remained silent when reviewing all those coarse details, and wasforced to recognize in them the indications of a low nature, or else thepresence of some baleful influence. 

"I went away the next day without being able to learn anythingconcerning the farmer or his sons; but the recollection of my adventureremained deeply fixed in my memory. 

"Ten years afterward I was travelling in the diligence through thedepartment of the Loiret; I was leaning from the window, and looking atsome coppice ground now for the first time brought under cultivation, and the mode of clearing which one of my travelling companions wasexplaining to me, when my eyes fell upon a walled inclosure, with aniron-barred gate. Inside it I perceived a house with all the blindsclosed, and which I immediately recollected; it was the farmhouse whereI had been sheltered. I eagerly pointed it out to my companion, andasked who lived in it. 

"'Nobody just now, ' replied he. 

"'But was it not kept, some years ago, by a farmer and his two sons?'

"'The Turreaus;' said my travelling companion, looking at me; 'did youknow them?'

"'I saw them once. '

"He shook his head. 

"'Yes, yes!' resumed he; 'for many years they lived there like wolves intheir den; they merely knew how to till land, kill game, and drink. Thefather managed the house, but men living alone, without women to lovethem, without children to soften them, and without God to make themthink of heaven, always turn into wild beasts, you see; so one morningthe eldest son, who had been drinking too much brandy, would not harnessthe plow-horses; his father struck him with his whip, and the son, whowas mad drunk, shot him dead with his gun. '"

16th, P. M. --I have been thinking of the story of the old cashier thesetwo days; it came so opportunely upon the reflections my dream hadsuggested to me. 

Have I not an important lesson to learn from all this?

If our sensations have an incontestable influence upon our judgments, how comes it that we are so little careful of those things which awakenor modify these sensations? The external world is always reflected in usas in a mirror, and fills our minds with pictures which, unconsciouslyto ourselves, become the germs of our opinions and of our rules ofconduct. All the objects which surround us are then, in reality, so manytalismans whence good and evil influences are emitted, and it is forus to choose them wisely, so as to create a healthy atmosphere for ourminds. 

Feeling convinced of this truth, I set about making a survey of myattic. 

The first object on which my eyes rest is an old map of the history ofthe principal monastery in my native province. I had unrolled it withmuch satisfaction, and placed it on the most conspicuous part of thewall. Why had I given it this place? Ought this sheet of old worm-eatenparchment to be of so much value to me, who am neither an antiquary nora scholar? Is not its real importance in my sight that one of the abbotswho founded it bore my name, and that I shall, perchance, be ableto make myself a genealogical tree of it for the edification of myvisitors? While writing this, I feel my own blushes. Come, down with themap! let us banish it into my deepest drawer. 

As I passed my glass, I perceived several visiting cards complacentlydisplayed in the frame. By what chance is it that there are onlynames that make a show among them? Here is a Polish count--a retiredcolonel--the deputy of my department. Quick, quick, into the fire withthese proofs of vanity! and let us put this card in the handwriting ofour office-boy, this direction for cheap dinners, and the receipt ofthe broker where I bought my last armchair, in their place. Theseindications of my poverty will serve, as Montaigne says, 'mater masuperbe', and will always make me recollect the modesty in which thedignity of the lowly consists. 

I have stopped before the prints hanging upon the wall. This largeand smiling Pomona, seated on sheaves of corn, and whose basket isoverflowing with fruit, only produces thoughts of joy and plenty; I waslooking at her the other day, when I fell asleep denying such a thingas misery. Let us give her as companion this picture of Winter, in whicheverything tells of sorrow and suffering: one picture will modify theother. 

And this Happy Family of Greuze's! What joy in the children's eyes! Whatsweet repose in the young woman's face! What religious feeling in thegrandfather's countenance! May God preserve their happiness to them! butlet us hang by its side the picture of this mother, who weeps over anempty cradle. Human life has two faces, both of which we must dare tocontemplate in their turn. 

Let me hide, too, these ridiculous monsters which ornament mychimneypiece. Plato has said that "the beautiful is nothing else thanthe visible form of the good. " If it is so, the ugly should be thevisible form of the evil, and, by constantly beholding it, the mindinsensibly deteriorates. 

But above all, in order to cherish the feelings of kindness and pity, let me hang at the foot of my bed this affecting picture of the LastSleep! Never have I been able to look at it without feeling my hearttouched. 

An old woman, clothed in rags, is lying by a roadside; her stick is ather feet, and her head rests upon a stone; she has fallen asleep; herhands are clasped; murmuring a prayer of her childhood, she sleeps herlast sleep, she dreams her last dream!

She sees herself, again a strong and happy child, keeping the sheep onthe common, gathering the berries from the hedges, singing, curtsying topassers-by, and making the sign of the cross when the first star appearsin the heavens! Happy time, filled with fragrance and sunshine! Shewants nothing yet, for she is ignorant of what there is to wish for. 

But see her grown up; the time is come for working bravely: she mustcut the corn, thresh the wheat, carry the bundles of flowering cloveror branches of withered leaves to the farm. If her toil is hard, hopeshines like a sun over everything and it wipes the drops of sweat away. The growing girl already sees that life is a task, but she still singsas she fulfills it. 

By-and-bye the burden becomes heavier; she is a wife, she is a mother!She must economize the bread of to-day, have her eye upon the morrow, take care of the sick, and sustain the feeble; she must act, in short, that part of an earthly Providence, so easy when God gives us his aid, so hard when he forsakes us. She is still strong, but she is anxious;she sings no longer!

Yet a few years, and all is overcast. The husband's health is broken;his wife sees him pine away by the now fireless hearth; cold and hungerfinish what sickness had begun; he dies, and his widow sits on theground by the coffin provided by the charity of others, pressing her twohalf-naked little ones in her arms. She dreads the future, she weeps, and she droops her head. 

At last the future has come; the children are grown up, but they are nolonger with her. Her son is fighting under his country's flag, and hissister is gone. Both have been lost to her for a long time--perhapsforever; and the strong girl, the brave wife, the courageous mother, ishenceforth only a poor old beggar-woman, without a family, and withouta home! She weeps no more, sorrow has subdued her; she surrenders, andwaits for death. 

Death, that faithful friend of the wretched, is come: not hideous andwith mockery, as superstition represents, but beautiful, smiling, andcrowned with stars! The gentle phantom stoops to the beggar; its palelips murmur a few airy words, which announce to her the end of herlabors; a peaceful joy comes over the aged beggarwoman, and, leaning onthe shoulder of the great Deliverer, she has passed unconsciously fromher last earthly sleep to her eternal rest. 

Lie there, thou poor way-wearied woman! The leaves will serve thee for awinding-sheet. Night will shed her tears of dew over thee, and the birdswill sing sweetly by thy remains. Thy visit here below will not haveleft more trace than their flight through the air; thy name is alreadyforgotten, and the only legacy thou hast to leave is the hawthorn sticklying forgotten at thy feet!

Well! some one will take it up--some soldier of that great human hostwhich is scattered abroad by misery or by vice; for thou art not anexception, thou art an instance; and under the same sun which shinesso pleasantly upon all, in the midst of these flowering vineyards, thisripe corn, and these wealthy cities, entire generations suffer, succeedeach other, and still bequeath to each the beggar's stick!

The sight of this sad picture shall make me more grateful for what Godhas given me, and more compassionate for those whom he has treated withless indulgence; it shall be a lesson and a subject for reflection forme. 

Ah! if we would watch for everything that might improve and instructus; if the arrangements of our daily life were so disposed as to be aconstant school for our minds! but oftenest we take no heed of them. Manis an eternal mystery to himself; his own person is a house into whichhe never enters, and of which he studies the outside alone. Each ofus need have continually before him the famous inscription which onceinstructed Socrates, and which was engraved on the walls of Delphi by anunknown hand:

 KNOW THYSELF. 

CHAPTER XII. THE END OF THE YEAR

December 30th, P. M. 

I was in bed, and hardly recovered from the delirious fever which hadkept me for so long between life and death. My weakened brain wasmaking efforts to recover its activity; my thoughts, like rays of lightstruggling through the clouds, were still confused and imperfect; attimes I felt a return of the dizziness which made a chaos of all myideas, and I floated, so to speak, between alternate fits of mentalwandering and consciousness. 

Sometimes everything seemed plain to me, like the prospect which, fromthe top of some high mountain, opens before us in clear weather. Wedistinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, even the cottage perched onthe edge of the ravine; then suddenly there comes a gust of wind ladenwith mist, and all is confused and indistinct. 

Thus, yielding to the oscillations of a half-recovered reason, I allowedmy mind to follow its various impulses without troubling myself toseparate the real from the imaginary; I glided softly from one to theother, and my dreams and waking thoughts succeeded closely upon oneanother. 

Now, while my mind is wandering in this unsettled state, see, underneaththe clock which measures the hours with its loud ticking, a femalefigure appears before me!

At first sight I saw enough to satisfy me that she was not a daughter ofEve. In her eye was the last flash of an expiring star, and her face hadthe pallor of an heroic death-struggle. She was dressed in a drapery ofa thousand changing colors of the brightest and the most sombre hues, and held a withered garland in her hand. 

After having contemplated her for some moments, I asked her name, andwhat brought her into my attic. Her eyes, which were following themovements of the clock, turned toward me, and she replied:

"You see in me the year which is just drawing to its end; I come toreceive your thanks and your farewell. "

I raised myself on my elbow in surprise, which soon gave place to bitterresentment. 

"Ah! you want thanks, " cried I; "but first let me know what for?

"When I welcomed your coming, I was still young and vigorous: you havetaken from me each day some little of my strength, and you have ended byinflicting an illness upon me; already, thanks to you, my blood is lesswarm, my muscles less firm, and my feet less agile than before! Youhave planted the germs of infirmity in my bosom; there, where the summerflowers of life were growing, you have wickedly sown the nettles of oldage!

"And, as if it were not enough to weaken my body, you have alsodiminished the powers of my soul; you have extinguished her enthusiasm;she is become more sluggish and more timid. Formerly her eyes took inthe whole of mankind in their generous survey; but you have made hernearsighted, and now she hardly sees beyond herself! That is what youhave done for my spiritual being: then as to my outward existence, seeto what grief, neglect, and misery you have reduced it! For the manydays that the fever has kept me chained to this bed, who has taken careof this home in which I placed all my joy? Shall I not find my closetsempty, my bookcase, stripped, all my poor treasures lost throughnegligence or dishonesty? Where are the plants I cultivated, the birds Ifed? All are gone! my attic is despoiled, silent and solitary! As it isonly for the last few moments that I have returned to a consciousness ofwhat surrounds me, I am even ignorant who has nursed me during my longillness! Doubtless some hireling, who will leave when all my means ofrecompense are exhausted! And what will my masters, for whom I ambound to work, have said to my absence? At this time of the year, whenbusiness is most pressing, can they have done without me, will theyeven have tried to do so? Perhaps I am already superseded in the humblesituation by which I earned my daily bread! And it is thou-thou alone, wicked daughter of Time--who hast brought all these misfortunes uponme: strength, health, comfort, work--thou hast taken all from me. I haveonly received outrage and loss from thee, and yet thou darest to claimmy gratitude!"

"Ah! die then, since thy day is come; but die despised and cursed; andmay I write on thy tomb the epitaph the Arabian poet inscribed upon thatof a king:

 "'Rejoice, thou passer-by: he whom we have buried here cannot live again. '"

 ....................... 

I was wakened by a hand taking mine; and opening my eyes, I recognizedthe doctor. 

After having felt my pulse, he nodded his head, sat down at the foot ofthe bed, and looked at me, rubbing his nose with his snuffbox. I havesince learned that this was a sign of satisfaction with the doctor. 

"Well! so we wanted old snub-nose to carry us off?" said M. Lambert, inhis half-joking, half-scolding way. "What the deuce of a hurry we werein! It was necessary to hold you back with both arms at least!"

"Then you had given me up, doctor?" asked I, rather alarmed. 

"Not at all, " replied the old physician. "We can't give up what wehave not got; and I make it a rule never to have any hope. We are butinstruments in the hands of Providence, and each of us should say, withAmbroise Pare: 'I tend him, God cures him!"'

"May He be blessed then, as well as you, " cried I; "and may my healthcome back with the new year!"

M. Lambert shrugged his shoulders. 

"Begin by asking yourself for it, " resumed he, bluntly. "God has givenit you, and it is your own sense, and not chance, that must keep it foryou. One would think, to hear people talk, that sickness comes upon uslike the rain or the sunshine, without one having a word to say in thematter. Before we complain of being ill we should prove that we deserveto be well. "

I was about to smile, but the doctor looked angry. 

"Ah! you think that I am joking, " resumed he, raising his voice; "buttell me, then, which of us gives his health the same attention that hegives to his business? Do you economize your strength as you economizeyour money? Do you avoid excess and imprudence in the one case with thesame care as extravagance or foolish speculations in the other? Doyou keep as regular accounts of your mode of living as you do ofyour income? Do you consider every evening what has been wholesomeor unwholesome for you, with the same care that you bring to theexamination of your expenditure? You may smile; but have you not broughtthis illness on yourself by a thousand indiscretions?"

I began to protest against this, and asked him to point out theseindiscretions. The old doctor spread out his fingers, and began toreckon upon them one by one. 

"Primo, " cried he, "want of exercise. You live here like a mouse ina cheese, without air, motion, or change. Consequently, the bloodcirculates badly, the fluids thicken, the muscles, being inactive, donot claim their share of nutrition, the stomach flags, and the braingrows weary. 

"Secundo. Irregular food. Caprice is your cook; your stomach a slave whomust accept what you give it, but who presently takes a sullen revenge, like all slaves. 

"Tertio. Sitting up late. Instead of using the night for sleep, youspend it in reading; your bedstead is a bookcase, your pillows a desk!At the time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you lead it throughthese nocturnal orgies, and you are surprised to find it the worse forthem the next day. 

"Quarto. Luxurious habits. Shut up in your attic, you insensiblysurround yourself with a thousand effeminate indulgences. You must havelist for your door, a blind for your window, a carpet for your feet, aneasy-chair stuffed with wool for your back, your fire lit at thefirst sign of cold, and a shade to your lamp; and thanks to all theseprecautions, the least draught makes you catch cold, common chairs giveyou no rest, and you must wear spectacles to support the light ofday. You have thought you were acquiring comforts, and you have onlycontracted infirmities. 

"Quinto"

"Ah! enough, enough, doctor!" cried I. "Pray, do not carry yourexamination farther; do not attach a sense of remorse to each of mypleasures. "

The old doctor rubbed his nose with his snuffbox. 

"You see, " said he, more gently, and rising at the same time, "you wouldescape from the truth. You shrink from inquiry--a proof that you areguilty. 'Habemus confitentem reum'! But at least, my friend, do not goon laying the blame on Time, like an old woman. "

Thereupon he again felt my pulse, and took his leave, declaring that hisfunction was at an end, and that the rest depended upon myself. 

When the doctor was gone, I set about reflecting upon what he had said. 

Although his words were too sweeping, they were not the less true in themain. How often we accuse chance of an illness, the origin of which weshould seek in ourselves! Perhaps it would have been wiser to let himfinish the examination he had begun. 

But is there not another of more importance--that which concernsthe health of the soul? Am I so sure of having neglected no means ofpreserving that during the year which is now ending? Have I, as one ofGod's soldiers upon earth, kept my courage and my arms efficient? ShallI be ready for the great review of souls which must pass before Him WHOIS in the dark valley of Jehoshaphat?

Darest thou examine thyself, O my soul! and see how often thou hasterred?

First, thou hast erred through pride! for I have not duly valued thelowly. I have drunk too deeply of the intoxicating wines of genius, andhave found no relish in pure water. I have disdained those words whichhad no other beauty than their sincerity; I have ceased to love mensolely because they are men--I have loved them for their endowments; Ihave contracted the world within the narrow compass of a pantheon, andmy sympathy has been awakened by admiration only. The vulgar crowd, which I ought to have followed with a friendly eye because it iscomposed of my brothers in hope or grief, I have let pass by with asmuch indifference as if it were a flock of sheep. I am indignant withhim who rolls in riches and despises the man poor in worldly wealth; andyet, vain of my trifling knowledge, I despise him who is poor in mind--Iscorn the poverty of intellect as others do that of dress; I take creditfor a gift which I did not bestow on myself, and turn the favor offortune into a weapon with which to attack others. 

Ah! if, in the worst days of revolutions, ignorance has revolted andraised a cry of hatred against genius, the fault is not alone inthe envious malice of ignorance, but comes in part, too, from thecontemptuous pride of knowledge. 

Alas! I have too completely forgotten the fable of the two sons of themagician of Bagdad. 

One of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of destiny, was born blind, while the other enjoyed all the delights of sight. The latter, proud ofhis own advantages, laughed at his brother's blindness, and disdainedhim as a companion. One morning the blind boy wished to go out with him. 

"To what purpose, " said he, "since the gods have put nothing in commonbetween us? For me creation is a stage, where a thousand charming scenesand wonderful actors appear in succession; for you it is only anobscure abyss, at the bottom of which you hear the confused murmur ofan invisible world. Continue then alone in your darkness, and leave thepleasures of light to those upon whom the day-star shines. "

With these words he went away, and his brother, left alone, began to crybitterly. His father, who heard him, immediately ran to him, and triedto console him by promising to give him whatever he desired. 

"Can you give me sight?" asked the child. 

"Fate does not permit it, " said the magician. 

"Then, " cried the blind boy, eagerly, "I ask you to put out the sun!"

Who knows whether my pride has not provoked the same wish on the part ofsome one of my brothers who does not see?

But how much oftener have I erred through levity and want of thought!How many resolutions have I taken at random! how many judgments have Ipronounced for the sake of a witticism! how many mischiefs have I notdone without any sense of my responsibility! The greater part of menharm one another for the sake of doing something. We laugh at the honorof one, and compromise the reputation of another, like an idle man whosaunters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches and destroyingthe most beautiful flowers. 

And, nevertheless, it is by this very thoughtlessness that the fame ofsome men is created. It rises gradually, like one of those mysteriousmounds in barbarous countries, to which a stone is added by everypasserby; each one brings something at random, and adds it as he passes, without being able himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal or agibbet. Who will dare look behind him, to see his rash judgments held upthere to view?

Some time ago I was walking along the edge of the green mound on whichthe Montmartre telegraph stands. Below me, along one of the zigzag pathswhich wind up the hill, a man and a girl were coming up, and arrested myattention. The man wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resemblanceto a wild beast; and he held a thick stick in his hand, with which hedescribed various strange figures in the air. He spoke very loud, andin a voice which seemed to me convulsed with passion. He raised hiseyes every now and then with an expression of savage harshness, and itappeared to me that he was reproaching and threatening the girl, andthat she was listening to him with a submissiveness which touched myheart. Two or three times she ventured a few words, doubtless in theattempt to justify herself; but the man in the greatcoat began againimmediately with his loud and angry voice, his savage looks, and histhreatening evolutions in the air. I followed him with my eyes, vainlyendeavoring to catch a word as he passed, until he disappeared behindthe hill. 

I had evidently just seen one of those domestic tyrants whose sullentempers are excited by the patience of their victims, and who, thoughthey have the power to become the beneficent gods of a family, chooserather to be their tormentors. 

I cursed the unknown savage in my heart, and I felt indignant that thesecrimes against the sacred peace of home could not be punished as theydeserve, when I heard his voice approaching nearer. He had turned thepath, and soon appeared before me at the top of the slope. 

The first glance, and his first words, explained everything to me: inplace of what I had taken for the furious tones and terrible looks of anangry man, and the attitude of a frightened victim, I had before me onlyan honest citizen, who squinted and stuttered, but who was explainingthe management of silkworms to his attentive daughter. 

I turned homeward, smiling at my mistake; but before I reached myfaubourg I saw a crowd running, I heard calls for help, and everyfinger pointed in the same direction to a distant column of flame. Amanufactory had taken fire, and everybody was rushing forward to assistin extinguishing it. 

I hesitated. Night was coming on; I felt tired; a favorite book wasawaiting me; I thought there would be no want of help, and I went on myway. 

Just before I had erred from want of consideration; now it was fromselfishness and cowardice. 

But what! have I not on a thousand other occasions forgotten the dutieswhich bind us to our fellowmen? Is this the first time I have avoidedpaying society what I owe it? Have I not always behaved to my companionswith injustice, and like the lion? Have I not claimed successively everyshare? If any one is so ill-advised as to ask me to return some littleportion, I get provoked, I am angry, I try to escape from it by everymeans. How many times, when I have perceived a beggar sitting huddled upat the end of the street, have I not gone out of my way, for fear thatcompassion would impoverish me by forcing me to be charitable! How oftenhave I doubted the misfortunes of others, that I might with justiceharden my heart against them. 

With what satisfaction have I sometimes verified the vices of the poorman, in order to show that his misery is the punishment he deserves!

Oh! let us not go farther--let us not go farther! I interrupted thedoctor's examination, but how much sadder is this one! We pity thediseases of the body; we shudder at those of the soul. 

I was happily disturbed in my reverie by my neighbor, the old soldier. 

Now I think of it, I seem always to have seen, during my fever, thefigure of this good old man, sometimes leaning against my bed, andsometimes sitting at his table, surrounded by his sheets of pasteboard. 

He has just come in with his glue-pot, his quire of green paper, andhis great scissors. I called him by his name; he uttered a joyfulexclamation, and came near me. 

"Well! so the bullet is found again!" cried he, taking my two hands intothe maimed one which was left him; "it has not been without trouble, Ican tell you; the campaign has been long enough to win two clasps in. I have seen no few fellows with the fever batter windmills during myhospital days: at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a chimney wason fire in his stomach, and who was always calling for the fire-engines;but the third day it all went out of itself. But with you it has lastedtwenty-eight days--as long as one of the Little Corporal's campaigns. "

"I am not mistaken then; you were near me?"

"Well! I had only to cross the passage. This left hand has not made youa bad nurse for want of the right; but, bah! you did not know what handgave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar of a fever from beingdrowned--for all the world like Poniatowski in the Elster. "

The old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too much affected tospeak, pressed his hand against my breast. He saw my emotion, andhastened to put an end to it. 

"By-the-bye, you know that from to-day you have a right to drawyour rations again, " resumed he gayly; "four meals, like the Germanmeinherrs--nothing more! The doctor is your house steward. "

"We must find the cook, too, " replied I, with a smile. 

"She is found, " said the veteran. 

"Who is she?"

"Genevieve. "

"The fruit-woman?"

"While I am talking she is cooking for you, neighbor; and do not fearher sparing either butter or trouble. As long as life and death werefighting for you, the honest woman passed her time in going up and downstairs to learn which way the battle went. And, stay, I am sure this isshe. "

In fact we heard steps in the passage, and he went to open the door. 

"Oh, well!" continued he, "it is Mother Millot, our portress, anotherof your good friends, neighbor, and whose poultices I recommend to you. Come in, Mother Millot--come in; we are quite bonny boys this morning, and ready to step a minuet if we had our dancing-shoes. "

The portress came in, quite delighted. She brought my linen, washed andmended by herself, with a little bottle of Spanish wine, the gift of hersailor son, and kept for great occasions. I would have thanked her, but the good woman imposed silence upon me, under the pretext that thedoctor had forbidden me to speak. I saw her arrange everything in mydrawers, the neat appearance of which struck me; an attentive handhad evidently been there, and day by day put straight the unavoidabledisorder consequent on sickness. 

As she finished, Genevieve arrived with my dinner; she was followed byMother Denis, the milk-woman over the way, who had learned, at thesame time, the danger I had been in, and that I was now beginning tobe convalescent. The good Savoyard brought me a new-laid egg, which sheherself wished to see me eat. 

It was necessary to relate minutely all my illness to her. At everydetail she uttered loud exclamations; then, when the portress warned herto be less noisy, she excused herself in a whisper. They made a circlearound me to see me eat my dinner; each mouthful I took was accompaniedby their expressions of satisfaction and thankfulness. Never had theKing of France, when he dined in public, excited such admiration amongthe spectators. 

As they were taking the dinner away, my colleague, the old cashier, entered in his turn. 

I could not prevent my heart beating as I recognized him. How would theheads of the firm look upon my absence, and what did he come to tell me?

I waited with inexpressible anxiety for him to speak; but he sat down byme, took my hand, and began rejoicing over my recovery, without saying aword about our masters. I could not endure this uncertainty any longer. 

"And the Messieurs Durmer, " asked I, hesitatingly, "how have theytaken--the interruption to my work?"

"There has been no interruption, " replied the old clerk, quietly. 

"What do you mean?"

"Each one in the office took a share of your duty; all has gone on asusual, and the Messieurs Durmer have perceived no difference. "

This was too much. After so many instances of affection, this filled upthe measure. I could not restrain my tears. 

Thus the few services I had been able to do for others had beenacknowledged by them a hundredfold! I had sown a little seed, and everygrain had fallen on good ground, and brought forth a whole sheaf. Ah!this completes the lesson the doctor gave me. If it is true that thediseases, whether of the mind or body, are the fruit of our follies andour vices, sympathy and affection are also the rewards of our havingdone our duty. Every one of us, with God's help, and within thenarrow limits of human capability, himself makes his own disposition, character, and permanent condition. 

Everybody is gone; the old soldier has brought me back my flowers andmy birds, and they are my only companions. The setting sun reddens myhalf-closed curtains with its last rays. My brain is clear, and my heartlighter. A thin mist floats before my eyes, and I feel myself in thathappy state which precedes a refreshing sleep. 

Yonder, opposite the bed, the pale goddess in her drapery of a thousandchanging colors, and with her withered garland, again appears before me;but this time I hold out my hand to her with a grateful smile. 

"Adieu, beloved year! whom I but now unjustly accused. That which I havesuffered must not be laid to thee; for thou wast but a tract throughwhich God had marked out my road--a ground where I had reaped theharvest I had sown. I will love thee, thou wayside shelter, for thosehours of happiness thou hast seen me enjoy; I will love thee even forthe suffering thou hast seen me endure. Neither happiness nor sufferingcame from thee; but thou hast been the scene for them. Descend againthen, in peace, into eternity, and be blest, thou who hast left meexperience in the place of youth, sweet memories instead of past time, and gratitude as payment for good offices. "

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 Always to mistake feeling for evidence Ambroise Pare: 'I tend him, God cures him!' Are we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws Attach a sense of remorse to each of my pleasures Brought them up to poverty But above these ruins rises a calm and happy face Carn-ival means, literally, "farewell to flesh!" Coffee is the grand work of a bachelor's housekeeping Contemptuous pride of knowledge Death, that faithful friend of the wretched Defeat and victory only displace each other by turns Did not think the world was so great Do they understand what makes them so gay? Each of us regards himself as the mirror of the community Ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness Every one keeps his holidays in his own way Fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought Favorite and conclusive answer of his class--"I know" Fear of losing a moment from business Finishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to repent Fortune sells what we believe she gives Her kindness, which never sleeps Houses are vessels which take mere passengers Hubbub of questions which waited for no reply I make it a rule never to have any hope Ignorant of what there is to wish for Looks on an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance Make himself a name: he becomes public property Moderation is the great social virtue More stir than work My patronage has become her property No one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give Not desirous to teach goodness Nothing is dishonorable which is useful Our tempers are like an opera-glass Poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress Power of necessity Prisoners of work Progress can never be forced on without danger Question is not to discover what will suit us Richer than France herself, for I have no deficit in my budget Ruining myself, but we must all have our Carnival Satisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them Sensible man, who has observed much and speaks little So much confidence at first, so much doubt at las Sullen tempers are excited by the patience of their victims The happiness of the wise man costs but little The man in power gives up his peace Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation Virtue made friends, but she did not take pupils We do not understand that others may live on their own account We are not bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty What have you done with the days God granted you What a small dwelling joy can live You may know the game by the lair