ARTISTS' WIVES

By Alphonse Daudet

Translated by Laura Ensor

Illustrated by De Bieler, Myrbach; And Rossi

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PROLOGUE. 

_Stretched at full length, on the great divan of a studio, cigar inmouth, two friends--a poet and a painter--were talking together oneevening after dinner_. 

_It was the hour of confidences and effusion. The lamp burned softlybeneath its shade, limiting its circle of light to the intimacy of theconversation, leaving scarcely distinct the capricious luxury of thevast walls, cumbered with canvases, hangings, panoplies, surmounted by aglass roof through which the sombre blue shades of the night penetratedunhindered. The portrait of a woman, leaning slightly forward, as if tolisten, alone stood out a little from the shadow; young with intelligenteyes, a grave and sweet mouth and a spirituel smile which seemed todefend the husband's easel from fools and disparagers. A low chairpushed away from the fire, two little blue shoes lying on the carpet, indicated also the presence of a child in the house; and indeed from thenext room, within which mother and child had but just disappeared, came occasional bursts of soft laughter, of childish babble; thepretty flutterings of a nest going off to sleep. All this shed over theartistic interior a vague perfume of family happiness which the poetbreathed in with delight:_

"_Decidedly, my dear fellow?" he said to his friend, "you were in theright. There are no two ways of being happy. Happiness lies in this andin nothing else. You must find me a wife!_"

THE PAINTER. 

_Good Heavens, no! not on any account. Find one for yourself, if you arebent upon it. As for me, I will have nothing to do with it. _

THE POET. 

_And why?_

THE PAINTER. 

_Because--because artists ought never to marry. _

THE POET. 

_That's rather too good. You dare to say that, and the lamp does notgo out suddenly, and the walls don't fall down upon your head! But justthink, wretch, that for two hours past, you have been setting before methe enviable spectacle of the very happiness you forbid me. Are you bychance like those odious millionaires whose well-being is in-creased bythe sufferings of others, and who better enjoy their own fireside whenthey reflect that it is raining out of doors, and that there are plentyof poor devils without a shelter?_

THE PAINTER. 

_Think of me what you will. I have too much affection for you to helpyou to commit a folly--an irreparable folly. _

THE POET. 

_Come! what is it? You are not satisfied? And yet it seems to me thatone breathes in happiness here, just as freely as one does the air ofheaven at a country window. _

THE PAINTER. 

_You are right, I am happy, completely happy, I love my wife with all myheart. When I think of my child, I laugh aloud to myself with pleasure. Marriage for me has been a harbour of calm and safe waters, not one inwhich you make fast to a ring on the shore, at the risk of rustingthere for ever, but one of those blue creeks where sails and masts arerepaired for fresh excursions into unknown countries, I never worked aswell as I have since my marriage. All my best pictures date from then. _

THE POET. 

_Well then!_

THE PAINTER. 

_My dear fellow, at the risk of seeming a coxcomb, I will say that Ilook upon my happiness as a kind of miracle, something abnormal andexceptional. Yes! the more I see what marriage is, the more I look backwith terror at the risk I ran. I am like those who, ignorant of thedangers they have unwittingly gone through, turn pale when all is over, amazed at their own audacity. _

THE POET. 

_But what then are these terrible dangers?_

THE PAINTER. 

_The first and greatest of all, is the loss or degradation of one'stalent. This should count, I think, with an artist. For observe thatat this moment, I am not speaking of the ordinary conditions of life. Igrant you, that in general marriage is an excellent thing, and that themajority of men only begin to be of some account when the family circlecompletes them or makes them greater. Often, indeed, it is necessary toa profession. A bachelor lawyer cannot even be imagined. He would nothave the needful air of weight and gravity. But for all of us, painters, poets, sculptors, musicians, who live outside of life, wholly occupiedin studying it, in reproducing it, holding ourselves always a littleremote from it, as one steps back from a picture the better to see it, Isay that marriage can only be the exception. To that nervous, exacting, impressionable being, that child-man that we call an artist, a specialtype of woman, almost impossible to find, is needful, and the safestthing to do is not to look for her. Ah! how well our great Delacroix, whom you admire so much, understood that! What a fine existence was his, bounded by his studio wall, devoted exclusively to Art! I was lookingthe other day at his cottage at Champrosay and the prim little gardenfull of roses, where he sauntered alone for twenty years! It has thecalm and the narrowness of celibacy. Well now! think for a moment ofDelacroix married, father of a family, with all the preoccupations ofchildren to bring up, of money matters, of illnesses; do you believe hiswork would have been the same?_

THE POET. 

_You cite Delacroix, I reply Victor Hugo. Do you think that marriagehampered him for instance, while writing so many admirable books?_

THE PAINTER. 

_I think as a matter of fact, that marriage did not hamper him inanything. But all husbands have not the genius that obtains pardon, nor a halo of glory with which to dry the tears they cause to flow. Itcannot be very amusing to be the wife of a genius. There are plenty oflabourers' wives who are happier. _

THE POET. 

_A curious thing, all the same, this special pleading against marriage, by a married man, who is happy in being so. _

THE PAINTER. 

_I repeat that I don't give myself as an example. My opinion is formed byall the sad things I have seen elsewhere; all the misunderstandingsso frequent in the households of artists, and caused solely by theirabnormal life. Look at that sculptor who, in full maturity of age andtalent, has just exiled himself, leaving wife and children behind him. Public opinion condemns him, and certainly I offer no excuse for him. And, nevertheless, I can well understand how he arrived at such a point!Here was a fellow who adored his art, and had a horror of the world, andsociety. The wife, though amiable and intelligent, instead of shieldinghim from the social obligations he loathed, condemned him for someten years to all the exactions they involved. Thus she induced him toundertake a lot of official busts, horrible respectabilities in velvetskull caps, frights of women utterly devoid of grace; she disturbed himten times a day with importunate visitors, and then every eveninglaid out for him a dress suit and light gloves, and dragged him fromdrawing-room to drawing-room. You will tell me he could have rebelled, could have replied point-blank: "No!" But don't you know that the veryfact of our sedentary existences leaves us more than other men dependenton domestic influence? The atmosphere of the home envelopes us, and ifsome touch of the ideal does not lighten it, soon wearies and drags usdown. Moreover, the artist as a rule puts what force and energy hehas into his work, and after his solitary and patient struggles, findshimself left with no will to oppose to the petty importunities of life. With him, feminine tyrannies have free play. No one is more easilyconquered and subdued. Only, beware! He must not be made to feel theyoke too heavily. If one day the invisible bonds with which he issurreptitiously fettered are drawn too tight and arrest the artisticeffort, he will all at once tear them asunder, and, mistrusting his ownweakness, will fly like our sculptor, over the hills and far away. _

_The wife of this sculptor was astounded at his flight. The unhappycreature is still wondering: "What can I have done to him?" Nothing. She simply did not understand him. For it is not enough to be good andintelligent to be the true helpmate of an artist, A woman must alsopossess infinite tact, smiling abnegation; and all this is found only bya miracle in a young creature, curious though ignorant as regards life. She is pretty, she has married a well-known man, received everywhere;why should she not wish to show herself a little on his arm? Is itnot quite natural? The husband, on the contrary, growing intolerantof society as his talent progresses, finding time short, and artengrossing, refuses to be exhibited. Behold them both miserable, andwhether the man gives in or resists, his life is henceforward turnedfrom its course, and from its tranquillity. Ah! how many of theseill-matched couples have I known, where the wife was sometimesexecutioner, sometimes victim, but more often executioner, and nearlyalways unwittingly so! The other evening I was at Dargenty's, themusician. There were but a few guests, and he was asked to play. Hardlyhad he begun one off those pretty mazurkas with a Polish rhythm, whichmake him the successor of Chopin, when his wife began to talk, quitelow at first, then a little louder. By degrees the fire of conversationspread. At the end of a minute I was the only listener. Then he shut thepiano, and said to me with a heart-rent smile: "It is always like thishere--my wife does not care for music. " Can you imagine anything moreterrible than to marry a woman who does not care for your art? Take myword for it, my friend, and don't marry. You are alone, you are free;keep as precious things, your liberty and your loneliness. _

THE POET. 

_That is all very well! You talk at your ease of solitude. Presently, when I am gone, if some idea occurs to you, you will gently follow itby the side of your dying embers, without feeling around you thatatmosphere of isolation, so vast, so empty, that in it inspirationevaporates and disperses. And one may yet fear to be alone in the hoursof work; but there are moments of discouragement and weariness, whenone doubts oneself ones art even. That is the moment when it must behappiness to find a faithful and loving heart, ever ready to sympathizewith one's depression, to which one may appeal without fearing todisconcert a confidence and enthusiasm that are, in fact, unalterable. And then the child. That sweet unconscious baby smile, is not that thebest moral rejuvenescence one can have? Ah! I have often thought overthat. For us artists, vain as all must be who live by success, by thatsuperficial esteem, capricious and fleeting, that we call the vogue; forus, above all others, children are indispensable. They alone can consoleus for growing old. All that we lose, the child gains. The success wehave missed, we think: "He will have it" and in proportion as our hairgrows thin, we have the joy of seeing it grow again, curly, golden, fullof life, on a little fair head at our side. _

THE PAINTER. 

_Ah, poet! poet! have you thought also of all the mouthfuls by whichwith the end of pen or brush we must nourish a brood?_

THE POET. 

_Well! say what you like, the artist is made for family life, andthat is so true, that those among us who do not marry, take refuge intemporary companionships, like travellers who, tired of being alwayshome-less, end by settling in a room in some hotel, and pass their livesunder the hackneyed notice of the signboard: "Apartments by the month ornight?"_

THE PAINTER. 

_Such are all in the wrong. They accept the worries of wedlock and willnever know its joys. _

THE POET. 

_"You acknowledge then that there are some joys?"_

_Here the painter, instead of replying, rose, searched out from amongdrawings and sketches a much-thumbed manuscript, and returning to hiscompanion:_

_"We might argue like this, " said he, "for ever so long without eitherconvincing the other. But since, notwithstanding my observations, youseem determined to try marriage, here is a little work I beg you toread. It is written--I would have you note--by a married man, much inlove with his wife, very happy in his home, an observer who, spendinghis life among artists, amused himself by sketching one or two suchhouseholds as I spoke of just now. From the first to the last line ofthis book, all is true, so true that the author would never publish it. Read it, and come to me when you have read it. I think you will havechanged your mind. "_

_The poet took the manuscript and carried it home with him; but he didnot keep the little book with all the needful care, for I have been ableto detach a few leaves from it and boldly offer them to the public. _

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MADAME HEURTEBISE. 

She was certainly not intended for an artist's wife, above all forsuch an artist as this outrageous fellow, impassioned, uproarious andexuberant, who, with his nose in the air and bristling moustaches, rushed through life defiantly flaunting the eccentric and whirlwind-likename of Heurtebise, * like a challenge thrown down to all the absurdconventionalities and prejudices of the _bourgeois_ class. How, and bywhat strange charm had the little woman, brought up in a jeweller'sshop, behind rows of watch chains and strings of rings, found the meansof captivating this poet?

* Hit the blast (literally). 

Picture to yourself the affected graces of a shopwoman withinsignificant features, cold and ever-smiling eyes, complacent andplacid physiognomy, devoid of real elegance, but having a certain lovefor glitter and tinsel, no doubt caught at her father's shopwindow, making her take pleasure in many-coloured satin bows, sashes andbuckles; and her hair glossy with cosmetic, stiffly arranged by thehairdresser over a small, obstinate, narrow forehead, where the totalabsence of wrinkles told less of youth than of complete lack of thought. Such as she was, however, Heurtebise loved and wooed her, and as hehappened to possess a small income, found no difficulty in winning her. 

What pleased her in this marriage was the idea of wedding an author, a well-known man, who would take her to the theatre as often as shewished. As for him, I verily believe that her sham elegance born of theshop, her pretentious manners, pursed up mouth, and affectedly upliftedlittle finger, fascinated him and appeared to him the height, ofParisian refinement; for he was born a peasant and in spite of hisintelligence remained one to the end of his days. 

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Tempted by a quiet happiness and the family life of which he had been solong deprived, Heurtebise spent two years far from his friends, buriedin the country, or in out-of-way suburban nooks, within easy distanceof that great city Paris, which overexcited him even while he yet soughtits attenuated atmosphere, just like those invalids who are recommendedsea air, but who, too delicate to bear it in all its strength, arecompelled to inhale it from a distance of some miles. From time to time, his name appeared in a newspaper or magazine at the end of an article;but already the freshness of style, the bursts of eloquence, werelacking by which he had been formerly known. We thought: "He is toohappy! his happiness has spoilt him. "

However, one day he returned amongst us, and we immediately saw that hewas not happy. His pallid countenance, drawn features contracted by aperpetual irritability, the violent manners degenerated into a nervousrage, the hollow sound of his once fine ringing laugh, all showed thathe was an altered man. Too proud to admit that he had made a mistake, he would, not complain, but the old friends who gathered round himwere soon convinced that he had made a most foolish marriage, and thathenceforth his life must prove a failure. On the other hand, MadameHeurtebise appeared to us, after two years of married life, exactly thesame as we had beheld her in the vestry on her wedding day. She worethe same calm and simpering smile, she had as much as ever the air ofa shopwoman in her Sunday clothes, only she had gained self-possession. She talked now. In the midst of artistic discussions into whichHeurtebise passionately threw himself, with arbitrary assertions, brutalcontempt, or blind enthusiasm, the false and honeyed voice of hiswife would suddenly make irruption, forcing him to listen to some idlereasoning or foolish observation invariably outside of the subjectof discussion. Embarrassed and worried, he would cast us an imploringglance, and strive to resume the interrupted conversation. Then at last, wearied out by her familiar and constant contradiction, by the sillinessof her birdlike brain, inflated and empty as any cracknel, he held histongue, and silently resigned himself to let her go on to the bitterend. But this determined silence exasperated Madame, seemed to hermore insulting, more disdainful than anything. Her sharp voice becamediscordant, and growing higher and shriller, stung and buzzed, likethe ceaseless teasing of a fly, till at last her enraged husband in histurn, burst out brutal and terrific. 

She emerged from these incessant quarrels, which always ended in tears, rested and refreshed, as a lawn after a watering, but he remainedbroken, fevered, incapable of work, Little by little his very violencewas worn out One evening when I was present at one of these odiousscenes, as Madame Heurtebise triumphantly left the table, I saw on herhusband's face bent downwards during the quarrel and now upraised, anexpression of scorn and anger that no words could any longer express. The little woman went off shutting the door with a sharp snap, and he, flushed, with his eyes full of tears, and his mouth distorted by anironical and despairing smile, made like any school-boy behind hismaster's back, an atrocious gesture of mingled rage and pain. After afew moments, I heard him murmur, in a voice strangled by emotion: "Ah, if it were not for the child, how I would be off at once!"

For they had a child, a poor little fellow, handsome and dirty, whocrawled all over the place, played with dogs bigger than himself, withthe spiders in the garden, and made mud-pies. His mother only noticedhim to declare him "disgusting" and that she had not put him out tonurse. 

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She clung in fact to all the little shopkeeper traditions of her youth, and the untidy home in which she went about from early morn in elaboratecostumes and astonishingly dressed hair, recalled the back-shops so dearto her heart, rooms black with filth and want of air, where in theshort intervals of rest from commercial life, badly cooked meals werehurriedly eaten, at a bare wooden table, listening all the while for thetinkle of the shop-bell. With this class, nothing has importance butthe street, the street with its passing purchasers and idlers, and itsoverflowing holiday crowd, that on Sundays throng the side walks andpavements. And how bored she was, wretched creature, in the country, howshe regretted the Paris life! Heurtebise, on the contrary, requiredthe country for his mental health. Paris still bewildered him like somecountrified boor on his first visit. His wife could not understand it, and bitterly complained of her exile. By way of diversion she invitedher old acquaintances, and when her husband was absent they amusedthemselves by turning over his papers, his memoranda, and the work hewas engaged upon. 

"Do look, my dear, how funny it is. He shuts himself up to write this. He paces up and down, talking to himself. As for me, I understandnothing of what he does. "

And then came endless regrets, and recollections of her past life. 

"Ah! if I had known. When I think that I might have married Aubertot andFajon, the linen-drapers. " She always spoke of the two partners at thesame time, as though she would have married the firm. Neither did sherestrain her feelings in her husband's presence. 

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She disturbed him, prevented all work, settling down with her friends inthe very room he was writing in, and filling it with the sillychatter of idle women, who talked loud, full of disdain for a literaryprofession which brought in so little, and whose most laborious hoursalways resemble a capricious idleness. From time to time Heurtebisestrove to escape from the life which he felt was daily becoming moredismal. He rushed off to Paris, hired a small room at an hotel, tried tofancy he was a bachelor; but suddenly he thought of his son, and with adesperate longing to embrace him hurried back the same evening into thecountry. 

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On these occasions, in order to avoid the inevitable scene on hisreturn, he took a friend back with him and kept him there as long as hecould. As soon as he was no longer alone face to face with his wife, his fine intellect awoke and his interrupted schemes of work little bylittle and one after the other came back to him. But what anguish it waswhen his friends left! He would have kept his guests for ever, clingingto them by all the strength of his _ennui_. With what sadness would heaccompany us to the stand of the little suburban omnibus which bore usback to Paris! and when we left, how slowly he turned homewards over thedusty road, with rounded shoulders and listless arms, listening to thevanishing wheels. 

In truth their _tête-à-tête_ life had become unbearable, and to avoidit, he tried always to keep his house full. With his easy goodnature, his weariness and indifference, he was soon surrounded by a lot ofliterary starvelings. A set of scribblers, lazy, cracked day-dreamers, settled down upon him and became more at home than himself; and as hiswife was but a fool, incapable of judging, because they talked moreloudly, she found them charming and very superior to her husband. Thedays were spent in idle discussions. There was a clash of empty words, a firing of smallest shot, and poor Heurtebise, motionless and silentin the midst of the tumult, merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes, however, towards the end of an interminable repast, when allhis guests, elbows on table, began around the brandy flasks one ofthose lengthy maundering conversations, benumbing like clouds of tobaccosmoke, an immense feeling of disgust would seize hold of him, and nothaving the courage to turn out all these poor wretches, he would himselfdisappear and remain absent for a week. 

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"My house is full of imbeciles, " he said one day to me. "I dare notreturn. " With this kind of existence, he no longer wrote. His name wasnever seen, and his fortune, squandered in a perpetual craving to havepeople in his house, disappeared in the outstretched hands around him. 

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It was a long time since we had met when I received one morning a lineof his dear little handwriting, formerly so firm, now trembling anduncertain. "We are in Paris. Come and see me. I am so dull. " I found himwith his wife, his child and his dogs, in a lugubrious little apartmentin the Batignolles. The disorder which in this narrow space could not bespread about, seemed more hideous even than in the country. While thechild and dogs rolled about in rooms the size of a chessboardcompartment, Heurtebise; who was ill, lay with his face to the wall, ina state of utter prostration. His wife, dressed out as usual, and everplacid, hardly looked at him. "I don't know what is the matter withhim, " she said to me with a gesture of indifference. On seeing me he hadfor a moment a return of gaiety, and a minute of his old hearty laugh, but it was soon stifled. As they had kept up in Paris all their suburbanhabits, there appeared at the breakfast hour, in the midst of thishousehold disorganized by poverty and illness, a parasite, a seedylooking little bald man, cranky and peevish, of whom they always spokeas "the man who has read Proudhon. " It was thus that Heurtebise, whoprobably had never known his name, introduced him to everybody. When hewas asked "Who is that?" he unhesitatingly replied, "Oh! a very cleverfellow, who has thoroughly studied Proudhon. " His knowledge wascertainly not very apparent, for this deep thinker rarely made himselfheard except to complain at table of an ill-cooked roast or a spoiltsauce. On this occasion, the man who had read Proudhon declared that thebreakfast was detestable, which however did not prevent his devouringthe larger half of it himself. 

How long and lugubrious this meal by the bedside of my sick friendappeared to me! The wife gossiped as usual, with a tap now and then tothe child, a bone to the dogs, and a smile to the philosopher. Not oncedid Heurtebise turn towards us, and yet he was not asleep. I hardly knowwhether he thought. Dear, valiant fellow! In those paltry and ceaselessstruggles, the mainspring of his strong nature had broken, and he wasalready beginning to die. The silent death agony, which however wasrather an abandonment of life, lasted several months; and then MadameHeurtebise found herself a widow. Then, as no tears had dimmed her cleareyes, as she always bestowed the same care on her glossy locks, and asAubertot and Fajon were still available, she married Aubertot and Fajon. Perhaps it was Aubertot, perhaps it was Fajon, perhaps even both ofthem. In any case, she was able to resume the life she was fitted for, and the voluble gossip and eternal smile of the shopwoman. 

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THE CREDO OF LOVE. 

To be the wife of a poet! that had been the dream of her life! butruthless fate, instead of the romantic and fevered existence she sighedfor, had doomed her to a peaceful, humdrum happiness, and married her toa rich man at Auteuil, gentle and amiable, perhaps indeed a trifleold for her, possessed of but one passion, --perfectly inoffensive andunexciting--that of horticulture. This excellent man spent his dayspruning, scissors in hand, tending and trimming a magnificent collectionof rose trees, heating a greenhouse, watering flower beds; and really itmust be admitted that, for a poor little heart hungering after an ideal, this was hardly sufficient food. Nevertheless for ten years her liferemained straightforward and uniform, like the smooth sanded paths inher husband's garden, and she pursued it with measured steps, listeningwith resigned weariness to the dry and irritating sound of theever-moving scissors, or to the monotonous and endless showers that fellfrom the watering pots on to the leafy shrubs. The rabid horticulturistbestowed on his wife the same scrupulous attention he gave to hisflowers. He carefully regulated the temperature of the drawing-room, overcrowded with nosegays, fearing for her the April frosts or Marchsun; and like the plants in pots that are put out and taken in at statedtimes, he made her live methodically, ever watchful of a change ofbarometer or phase of the moon. 

She remained like this for a long time, closed in by the four wallsof the conjugal garden, innocent as a clematis, full however of wildaspirations towards other gardens, less staid, less humdrum, where therose trees would fling out their branches untrained, and the wild growthof weed and briar be taller than the trees, and blossom with unknown andfantastic flowers, luxuriantly coloured by a warmer sun. Such gardensare rarely found save in the books of poets, and so she read manyverses, all unknown to the nurseryman, who knew no other poetry than afew almanac distichs such as:

 Quand il pleut à la Saint-Médard, Il pleut quarante jours plus tard. *

 * When it rains on Saint Medard's day, It rains on for forty more days. 

At haphazard, the unfortunate creature ravenously devoured the paltriestrhymes, satisfied if she found in them lines ending in "love" and"passion"; then closing the book, she would spend hours dreaming andsighing: "That would have been the husband for me!"

It is probable that all this would have remained in a state of vagueaspiration, if at the terrible age of thirty, which seems to be thedecisive critical moment for woman's virtue, as twelve o'clock is forthe day's beauty, the irresistible Amaury had not chanced to cross herpath. Amaury was a drawing-room poet, one of those fanatics in dresscoat and grey kid gloves, who between ten o'clock and midnight, goand recite to the world their ecstasies of love, their raptures, theirdespair, leaning mournfully against the mantel-piece, in the blaze ofthe lights, while seated around him women, in full evening dress, listenentranced behind their fans. 

This one might pose as the very ideal of his kind; with his vulgar butirresistible countenance, sunken eye, pallid complexion, hair cut shortand moustaches stiffly plastered with cosmetic. A desperate man suchas women love, hopeless of life but irreproachably dressed, a lyricenthusiast, chilled and disheartened, in whom the madness of inspirationcan be divined only in the loose and neglected tie of his cravat. Butalso what success awaits him, when he delivers in a strident voicea tirade from his poem, the _Credo of Love_, more especially the oneending in this extraordinary line:

 Moi, je crois à l'amour comme je crois en Dieu! *

 * I believe in love as I believe in God. 

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Mark you, I strongly suspect the rascal cares as little for God, as forthe rest; but women do not look so closely. They are easily caught bya birdlime of words, and every time Amaury recites his _Credo of Love_, you are certain to see all round the drawing-room rows upon rows oflittle rosy mouths, eagerly opening, ready to swallow the taking baitof mawkish sentimentality. Just fancy! A poet who has such beautifulmoustaches and who believes in love as he believes in God. 

For the nurseryman's wife this proved indeed irresistible. In threesittings she was conquered. Only, as at the bottom of this elegiacnature there was some honesty and pride, she would not stoop to anypaltry fault. Moreover the poet himself declared in his _Credo_, thathe only understood one way of erring: that which was openly declared andready to defy both law and society. Taking therefore the _Credo of Love_for her guide, the young woman one fine day escaped from the garden atAuteuil and went off to throw herself into her poet's arms. --"I can nolonger live with that man! Take me away!"

In such cases the husband is always _that man_, even when he is ahorticulturist. 

For a moment Amaury was staggered. How on earth could he have imaginedthat an ordinary little housewife of thirty would have taken in earnesta love poem, and followed it out literally? However he put the best facehe could on his over-good fortune, and as the lady had, thanks to herlittle Auteuil garden, remained fresh and pretty, he carried her offwithout a murmur. The first days, all was delightful. They feared lestthe husband should track them. They thought it advisable to hide underfictitious names, change hotels, inhabit the most remote quarters of thetown, the suburbs of Paris, the outlying districts. 

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In the evening they stealthily sallied forth and took sentimental walksalong the fortifications. Oh the wonderful power of romance! The moreshe was alarmed, the more precautions, window blinds and lowered veils, were necessary, the greater did her poet seem. At night, they opened thelittle window of their room and gazing at the stars rising on high abovethe signal lights of the neighbouring railway, she made him repeat againand again his wonderful verses:

 Moi, je crois à l'amour comme je crois en Dieu. 

And it was delightful!

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Unfortunately it did not last. The husband left them too muchundisturbed. The fact is, _that man_ was a philosopher. His wife gone, he had closed the green door of his oasis and quietly set about trimminghis roses again, happy in the thought that these at least, attachedto the soil by long roots, would not be able to run away from him. Ourreassured lovers returned to Paris and then suddenly the young womanfelt that some change had come over her poet. Their flight, fear ofdetection, and constant alarms, --all these things which had fedher passion existing no longer, she began to understand and see thesituation clearly. 

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Moreover, at every moment, in the settling of their little household, in the thousand paltry details of every day life, the man she was livingwith showed himself more thoroughly. 

The few and scarce generous, heroic or delicate feelings he possessedwere spun out in his verses, and he kept none for his personal use. He was mean, selfish, above all very niggardly, a fault love seldomforgives. Then he had cut off his moustaches, and was disfigured bythe loss. How different from that fine gloomy fellow with his carefullycurled locks, as he appeared one evening declaiming his _Credo_, in theblaze of two chandeliers! Now, in the enforced retreat he was undergoingon her account, he gave way to all his crotchets, the greatest of whichwas fancying himself always ill. Indeed, from constantly playing atconsumption, one ends by believing in it. The poet Amaury was fond ofdecoctions, wrapped himself up in plaisters, and covered his chimneypiece with phials and powders. For some time the little woman took upquite seriously her part of a nursing sister. Her devotion seemed toexcuse her fault and give an object to her life. But she soon tired ofit. In spite of herself, in the stuffy room where the poet sat wrappedin flannel, she could not help thinking of her little garden so sweetlyscented, and the kind nurseryman seen from afar in the midst ofhis shrubs and flowerbeds, appeared to her as simple, touching anddisinterested, as this other one was exacting and egotistical. 

At the end of a month, she loved her husband, really loved him, not withthe affection induced by habit, but with a real and true love. One dayshe wrote him a long letter full of passion and repentance. He didnot vouchsafe a reply. Perhaps he thought she was not yet sufficientlypunished. Then she despatched letter after letter, humbled herself, begged him to allow her to return, saying she would die rather thancontinue to live with that man. It was now the lover's turn to be called"that man. " Strange to say, she hid herself from him to write; forshe believed him still in love, and while imploring her husband'sforgiveness, she feared the exaltation of her lover. 

"He will never allow me to leave, " she said to herself. Accordingly, when by dint of supplications she obtained forgivenessand the nurseryman--I have already mentioned that he was aphilosopher, --consented to take her back, the return to her own homebore all the mysterious and dramatic aspect of flight. She literallyeloped with her husband. It was her last culpable pleasure. One eveningas the poet, tired of their dual existence, and proud of his regrownmoustaches, had gone to an evening party to recite his _Credo of Love_, she jumped into a cab that was awaiting her at the end of the street andreturned with her old husband to the little garden at Auteuil, for evercured of her ambition to be the wife of a poet. It is true that thisfellow was not much of a poet!

[Illustration: p055-066]

THE TRANSTEVERINA. 

The play was just over, and while the crowd, with its many variedimpressions, hurried away and poured out under the glare of theprincipal portico of the theatre, a few friends, of whom I was one, awaited the poet at the artists' entrance in order to congratulate him. His production had not, indeed, been very successful. Too powerful tosuit the timid and trivial imagination of the public of our day, itwas quite beyond the range of the stage, limited as that is byconventionalities and tolerated traditions. Pedantic criticism declared:"It is not fit for the stage!" and the scoffers of the boulevardsrevenged themselves for the emotion these magnificent verses had giventhem by repeating: "It won't pay!" As for us, we were proud of thefriend who had dared to roll forth in a ringing peal, his splendidgolden rhymes, flashing the best product of his genius beneath theartificial and murderous light of the lustres, and presenting hispersonages in life-like size, heedless of the optical illusion of themodern stage, of the dimness of opera-glass and defective vision. 

Amid a motley crowd of scene shifters, firemen, and _figurants_ muffledup in comforters, the poet approached us, his tall figure bent double, his coat collar chillily turned up over his thin beard and long grizzledhair. He seemed depressed. The scant applause of the hired claque andliterary friends confined to a corner of the house foretold a limitednumber of representations, choice and rare spectators, and postersrapidly replaced without giving his name a chance of being known. Whenone has worked twenty of talent and life, this obstinate refusal ofthe public to comprehend is wearying and disheartening, and one ends bythinking: "Perhaps after all they are right. " Fear paralyses and wordsfail. Our acclamations and enthusiastic greetings somewhat cheered him. "Really do you think so? Is it well done? 'Tis true I have given all Iknew. " And his feverish hands anxiously clutched ours, his eyes fullof tears sought a sincere and reassuring glance. It was the imploringanguish of the sick person, asking the doctor: "It is not true, I'mnot going to die?" No! poet, you will not die. The operettas and fairypieces that have had hundreds of representations and thousands ofspectators will be long since forgotten, scattered to the winds withtheir last playbills, while your work will ever remain fresh and living. 

As we stood on the now deserted pavement, exhorting and cheering him, aloud contralto voice vulgarised by an Italian accent burst upon us. 

"Hullo, artist! enough _pouégie_. Let's go and eat the _estoufato!_"

[Illustration: p058-069]

At the same moment a stout woman wrapped up in a hooded cape and a redtartan shawl linked her arm in that of our friend, in a manner sobrutal and despotic that his countenance and attitude became at onceembarrassed. 

"My wife, " he said, then turning towards her with a hesitating smile:

"Suppose we take them home and show them how you make an _estoufato?_"

Flattered in the conceit of her culinary accomplishments, the Italiangraciously consented to receive us, and five or six of us started offfor the heights of Montmartre where they dwelt, to share their stewedbeef. 

I confess I took a certain interest in the artist's home life. Since hismarriage our friend had led a very secluded existence, almost always inthe country; but what I knew of his life whetted my curiosity. Fifteenyears before, when in all the freshness of a romantic imagination, he had met in the suburbs of Rome a magnificent creature with whom heimmediately fell desperately in love. Maria Assunta, her father, and abrood of brothers and sisters inhabited one of those little houses ofthe Transtevera with walls uprising from the waters of the Tiber, and anold fishing boat rocking level with the door. One day he caught sight ofthe handsome Italian girl, with bare feet in the sand, red skirt tightlypleated around her, and unbleached linen sleeves tucked up to theshoulders, catching eels out of a large gleaming wet net. The silveryscales glistening through the meshes full of water, the golden riverand scarlet petticoat, the beautiful black eyes deep and pensive, whichseemed darkened in their musing by the surrounding sunlight struck theartist, perhaps even rather trivially, like some coloured print on thetitlepage of a song in a music-seller's window. 

[Illustration: p060-071]

It so chanced that the girl was heart-whole, having till now bestowedher affections on a big tom-cat, yellow and sly, also a great fisher ofeels, who bristled up all over when anyone approached his mistress. 

[Illustration: p061-072]

Beasts and men, our lover managed to tame all these folk, was married atSanta-Maria of the Transtevera and brought back to France the beautifulAssunta and her _cato_. 

Ah! poor fellow, he ought also to have brought away at the same timesome of the sunlight of that country, a scrap of the blue sky, theeccentric costume and the bulrushes of the Tiber, and the large swingnets of the _Ponte Rotto_; in fact the frame with the picture. Then hewould have been spared the cruel disenchantment he experienced when, having settled in a modest flat on the fourth storey, on the heights ofMontmartre, he saw his handsome Transteverina decked out in a crinoline, a flounced dress, and a Parisian bonnet, which, constantly out ofbalance on the top of her heavy braids, assumed the most independentattitudes. Under the clear cold light of Parisian skies, the unfortunateman soon perceived that his wife was a fool, an irretrievable fool. Nota single idea even lurked in the velvety depths of those beautiful blackeyes, lost in infinite contemplation. They glittered like an animal'sin the calm of digestion, or in a chance gleam of light, nothing more. Withal the lady was common, vulgar, accustomed to govern by a slap allthe little world of her native hut, and the least opposition threw herinto uncontrollable rages. 

Who would have guessed that the fine mouth, straitened by silence intothe purest shape of an antique face, would suddenly open to let flowtorrents of vulgar abuse? Without respect for herself or for him, outloud, in the street, at the theatre, she would pick a quarrel with him, and indulge in scenes of fearful jealousy. To crown all, devoid ofany artistic feeling, she was completely ignorant of her husband'sprofession and language, of manners, in fact of everything. The littleFrench she could be taught, only made her forget Italian, and the resultwas that she composed a kind of half and half jargon which had the mostcomical effect. In short this love story, begun like one of Lamartine'spoems, was ending like a novel of Champfleury's. After having for a longtime struggled to civilise this wild woman, the poet saw he must abandonthe task. Too honourable to leave her, probably still too much in love, he made up his mind to shut himself up, see no one, and work hard. Thefew intimate friends he admitted to his house, saw that they embarrassedhim and ceased to come. 

[Illustration: p064-075]

Hence it was that for the last fifteen years he had been living boxed upin his household like in a leper's cell. 

As I pondered over this wretched existence, I watched the strange couplewalking before me. He, slender, tall and round-shouldered. 

[Illustration: p065-076]

She, squarely built, heavy, shaking her shawl by an impatient shrugof her shoulders, with a free gait like a man's. She was tolerablycheerful, her speech was loud, and from time to time she turned round tosee if we followed, familiarly shouting and calling by name those of usshe happened to know, accentuating her words by much gesticulation asshe would have hailed a fishing boat on the Tiber. When we reached theirhouse, the _concierge_, furious at seeing so noisy a crew at such anunearthly hour, tried to prevent our entry. The Italian and he had afearful row on the staircase. We were all dotted about on the windingstairs dimly lighted by the dying gas, ill at ease, uncomfortable, hardly knowing if we ought not to come down again. 

"Come, quick, let us go up, " said the poet in a low tone, and wefollowed him silently, while, leaning over the banisters that shookunder her weight and anger, the Italian let fly a volley of abuse inwhich Roman imprecations alternated with the vocabulary of theback slums. What a return home for the poet who had just roused theadmiration of artistic Paris, and still retained in his fevered eyesthe dazzling intoxication of his first performance! What a humiliatingrecall to every-day life!

It was only by the fireside in his little sitting room that the icychill caused by this silly adventure was dispelled, and we should soonhave completely forgotten it, had it not been for the piercing voice andbursts of laughter of the signora whom we heard in the kitchen tellingher maid how soundly she had rated that _choulato!_ When the table waslaid and supper ready, she came and seated herself amongst us, havingtaken off her shawl, bonnet and veil, and I was able to examine her atmy leisure. She was no longer handsome. The square face, the broad heavyjaw, the coarse hair turning grey, and above all the vulgar expressionof the mouth, contrasted singularly with the eternal and meaninglessreverie of the dreamy gaze. Resting her elbows on the table, familiarand shapeless, she joined in the conversation without for an instantlosing sight of her plate. Just over her head, proud amid all themelancholy rubbish of the drawing-room, a large portrait signed by anillustrious name, stood out of the surrounding shade, --it was MariaAssunta at twenty. The purple costume, the milky white of the pleatedwimple, the bright gold of the over-abundant imitation jewelry, set offmagnificently the brilliancy of a sunny complexion, the velvety shadesof the thick hair growing low on the forehead, which seemed to be unitedby an almost imperceptible down to the superb and straight line ofthe eyebrows. How could such an exuberance of life and beauty havedeteriorated and become such a mass of vulgarity? And curiously whilethe Transteverina talked, I interrogated her lovely eyes, so deep andsoft on the canvas. 

[Illustration: p068-079]

The excitement of the meal had put her in a good humour. To cheer upthe poet, to whom his mingled failure and glory were doubly painful, she thumped him on the back, laughed with her mouth full, saying in herhideous jargon, that it was not worth while for such a trifle to flingoneself head downwards from the _campanile del Duomo_. 

[Illustration: p069-080]

"Isn't it true, _il cato?_" she added turning to the old tom-catcrippled by rheumatism, snoring in front of the fire. Then suddenly, inthe middle of an interesting discussion, she screamed out to her husbandin a voice senseless and brutal as the crack of a rifle:

"Hey! artist! _la lampo qui filo!_"

The poor fellow immediately interrupted his conversation to wind up thelamp, humble, submissive, anxious to avoid the scene he dreaded, andwhich in spite of all, he did not escape. 

On returning from the theatre we had stopped at the _Maison d'Or_ to geta bottle of choice wine to wash down the _estoufato_. All along the roadMaria Assunta had piously carried it under her shawl, and on her arrivalshe had placed it on the table where she could cast tender looks uponit, for Roman women are fond of good wine. Already twice or three timesmistrustful of her husband's absence of mind, and the length of hisarms, she had said:

"Mind the _boteglia_--you're going to break it. "

At last, as she went off to the kitchen to take up with her own handsthe famous _estoufato_, she again called out to him:

"Whatever you do, don't break the _boteglia_. "

Unluckily, the moment his wife had disappeared, the poet seized theopportunity to talk about art, theatres, success, so freely and with somuch gusto and vivacity, that--crash! By a gesture more eloquent thanthe others, the wonderful bottle was thrown down and fell to the groundin a thousand pieces. Never have I beheld such terror. He stopped short, and became deadly pale. At the same moment, Assunta's contralto washeard in the next room, and the Italian appeared on the threshold withflashing eyes, lips swollen with rage, red with the heat of the kitchenrange. 

"The _boteglia!_" she roared in a terrible voice. 

Then timidly bending down to me, he whispered:

"Say it's you. "

And the poor devil was so frightened, that I felt his long legs trembleunder the table. 

[Illustration: p075-086]

A COUPLE OF SINGERS. 

How could they help falling in love? Handsome and famous as they bothwere, singing in the same operas, living each night during five wholeacts the same artificial and passionate existence. You cannot play withfire without being burnt. You cannot say twenty times a month: "I loveyou!" to the sighing of a flute or the tremolos of a violin, without atlast being caught by the emotion of your own voice. In course of time, passion awoke in the surrounding harmonies, the rhythmical surprises, the gorgeousness of costume and scenery. It was wafted to them throughthe window that Elsa and Lohengrin threw wide open on a night vibratingwith sound and luminousness:

"Come let us breathe the intoxicating perfumes. "

It slipped in between the white columns of the Capulets' balcony, whereRomeo and Juliet linger in the dawning light of day:

"It was the nightingale, and not the lark. "

And softly it caught Faust and Marguerite in a ray of moonlight, thatrose from the rustic bench to the shutters of their little chamber, amidthe entangled ivy and blossoming roses:

"Let me once more gaze upon thy face. "

Soon all Paris knew their love and became interested in it. It was thewonder of the season. The world came to admire the two splendid starsgently gravitating towards each other in the musical firmament of theOpera House. At last one evening, after an enthusiastic recall, as thecurtain fell, separating the house full of noisy applause and thestage littered with bouquets, where the white gown of Juliet sweptover scattered camellia blossoms, the two singers were seized with anirresistible impulse, as though their love, a shade artificial, had butawaited the emotion of a splendid success to reveal itself. 

[Illustration: p077-088]

Hands were clasped, vows exchanged, vows consecrated by the distantand persistent plaudits of the house. The two stars had made theirconjunction. 

After the wedding, some time passed before they were again seen on thestage. Then, when their holiday was ended, they reappeared in thesame piece. This reappearance was a revelation. Until then, of the twosingers, the man had been the most prized. Older and more accustomed tothe public, whose foibles and preferences he had studied, he held thepit and boxes under the spell of his voice. Beside him, the other oneseemed but an admirably gifted pupil, the promise of a future genius;but her voice was young and had angles in it, just as her shoulders weretoo slight and thin. And when on her return she appeared in one of herformer parts, and the full rich, powerful sound poured out in the veryfirst notes, abundant and pure, like the water of some sparkling spring, there ran through the house such a thrill of delight and surprise, thatall the interest of the evening was concentrated on her. For the youngwoman, it was one of those happy days, in which the ambient atmospherebecomes limpid, light and vibrating, wafting towards one all theradiance and adulations of success. As for the husband, they almostforgot to applaud him, and as a dazzling light ever seems to make theshade around it darker, so he, found himself relegated, as it were, tothe most insignificant part of the stage, as if he were neither more norless than a mere walking gentleman. 

After all, the passion that was revealed in the songstress's acting, inher voice full of charm and tenderness, was inspired by him. He alonelent fire to the glances of those deep eyes, and that idea ought to havemade him proud, but the comedian's vanity proved stronger. At the endof the performance he sent for the leader of the _claque_ and rated himsoundly. They had missed his entry and his exit, forgotten the recall atthe third act; he would complain to the manager, &c. 

Alas! In vain he struggled, in vain did the paid applause greet him, the good graces of the public, henceforth bestowed on his wife, remaineddefinitively acquired to her. She was fortunate too in a choice of partsappropriate to her talent and her beauty, in which she appeared with allthe assurance of a woman of the world entering a ball-room, dressed inthe colours best suited to her, and certain of an ovation. At each freshsuccess the husband was depressed, nervous, and irritable. This voguewhich left him and so absolutely became hers only, seemed to him a kindof robbery. For a long while he strove to hide from every one, moreespecially from his wife, this unavowable anguish; but one evening, asshe was going up the stairs leading to her dressing-room, holding upwith both hands her skirt-laden with bouquets, carried away by hertriumphal success, she said to him with a voice still overcome by theexcitement of applause: "We have had a magnificent house to-night. " Hereplied: "You think so!" in such an ironical and bitter tone, that theyoung wife suddenly understood all. 

Her husband was jealous! Not with the jealousy of a lover, who willonly allow his wife to be beautiful for him, but with the jealousy of anartist, cold, furious, implacable. At times, when she stopped at the endof an air and multitudes of bravos were thrown to her from outstretchedhands, he affected an indifferent and absent manner, and his listlessgaze seemed to say to the spectators: "When you have finishedapplauding, I'll sing. "

Ah! the applause, that sound like hail reechoing so delightfully throughthe lobbies, the house, and the side scenes, once the sweets of it aretasted, it is impossible to live without it. Great actors do not die ofillness or old age, they cease to exist when applause no longer greetsthem. At the indifference of the public, this one was really seized witha feeling of despair. He grew thin, became peevish and bad-tempered. Invain did he reason with himself, look his incurable folly well in theface, repeat to himself before he came on the stage:

"And yet she is my wife, and I love her!"

In the artificial atmosphere of the stage the true sentiment of lifevanished at once. He still loved the wife, but detested the singer. Sherealized it, and as one nurses an invalid, watched the sad mania. Atfirst she thought of lessening her success, of making a sparing use andnot giving the full power of her voice and talent; but her resolutionslike those of her husband could not withstand the glare of thefootlights. Her talent, almost unconsciously, overstepped her will. Thenshe humbled herself before him, belittled herself. She asked his advice, inquired if he thought her interpretation correct, if he understood thepart in that way. 

Of course he was never satisfied. With assumed goodnature, in the toneof false friendship that comedians use so much amongst each other, hewould say, on the evenings of her greatest successes:

"You must watch yourself, dear, you are not doing very well just now, not improving. "

At other times he tried to prevent her singing:

"Take care, you are lavishing yourself. You are doing too much. Don'twear out your luck. Believe me, you ought to take a holiday. "

He even condescended to the most paltry pretexts. Said she had a cold, was not in good voice. Or else he would try to pick some mean stagequarrel:

"You took up the end of the duet too quickly; you spoilt my effect. Youdid it on purpose. "

He never saw, poor wretch, that it was he who hindered her bye play, hurrying on with his cue in order to prevent any applause, and in hisanxiety to regain the public ear, monopolizing the front of the stage, leaving his wife in the background. She never complained, for she lovedhim too well; moreover success makes us indulgent and every eveningshe was compelled to quit the shade in which she strove to conceal andefface herself, to obey the summons enthusiastically calling her to thefootlights. This singular jealousy was soon noticed at the theatre, andtheir fellow actors made fun of it. They overwhelmed the singer withcompliments about his wife's singing. They thrust under his eyes thenewspaper article in which after four long columns devoted to the star, the critic bestowed a few lines to the fast fading vogue of the husband. One day, having just read one of these articles, he rushed into hiswife's dressing-room, holding the open paper in his hand and said toher, pale with rage:

"The fellow must have been your lover. " He had indeed reached thisdegree of injustice. In fact the unhappy woman, praised and envied, whose name figured in large type on the play bills and might be read onall the walls of Paris, who was seized upon as a successful advertisingmedium and placed on the tiny gilt labels of the confectioner orperfumer, led the saddest and most humiliating of lives. She dared notopen a paper for fear of reading her own praises, wept over the flowersthat were thrown to her and which she left to die in a corner of herdressing-room, that she might avoid perpetuating at home the cruelmemories of her triumphant evenings. She even wanted to quit the stage, but her husband objected. 

[Illustration: p084-095]

"It will be said that I make you leave it. " And the horrible torturecontinued for both. 

One night of a first representation, the songstress was going to thefront, when somebody said to her: "Mind what you are about. There isa cabal in the house against you. " She laughed at the idea. A cabalagainst her? And for what reason, Good Heavens! She who only met withsympathy, who did not belong to any coterie! It was true however. Inthe middle of the opera, in a grand duet with her husband, at the momentwhen her magnificent voice had reached the highest pitch of its compass, finishing the sound in a succession of notes, even and pure like therounded pearls of a necklace, a volley of hisses cut her short. Theaudience was as much moved and surprised as herself. All remainedbreathless, as though each one felt prisoner within them the passageshe had not been able to finish. Suddenly a horrible, mad idea flashedacross her mind. He was alone on the stage, in front of her. She gazedat him steadily and saw in his eyes the passing gleam of a cruel smile. The poor woman understood all. Sobs suffocated her. 

She could only burst into tears and blindly disappear through thecrowded side scenes. 

It was her own husband who had had her hissed!

[Illustration: p086-097]

[Illustration: p088-099]

A MISUNDERSTANDING -- THE WIFE'S VERSION. 

What can be the matter with him? What can he complain of? I cannotunderstand it. And yet I have done all I could to make him happy. To besure, I don't say that instead of a poet I would not rather have marrieda notary or a lawyer, something rather more serious, rather less vagueas a profession; nevertheless, such as he was he took my fancy. I thought him a trifle visionary, but charming all the same, andwell-mannered; besides he had some fortune, and I thought that oncemarried poetizing would not prevent him from seeking out some goodappointment which would set us quite at ease. 

[Illustration: p089-100]

[Illustration: p090-101]

He, too at that time seemed to find me to his taste. When he came to seeme at my aunt's in the country, he could not find words enough to admirethe order and arrangement of our little house, kept like a convent, "Itis so quaint!" he used to say. He would laugh and call me all sorts ofnames taken from the poems and romances he had read. That shocked me alittle I confess; I should have liked him to be more serious. But itwas not until we were married and settled in Paris, that I felt all thedifference of our two natures. 

I had dreamed of a little home kept scrupulously bright and clean;instead of which, he began at once to encumber our apartment withuseless old-fashioned furniture, covered with dust, and with fadedtapestries, old as the hills. In everything it was the same. Would youbelieve that he obliged me to put away in the attic a sweetlypretty Empire clock, which had come to me from my aunt, and somesplendidly-framed pictures given me by my school friends. He thoughtthem hideous. I am still wondering why? For after all, his study was onemass of lumber, of old smoky pictures; statuettes I blushed to look at, chipped antiquities of all kinds, good for nothing; vases that would nothold water, odd cups, chandeliers covered with verdigris. 

[Illustration: p094-105]

By the side of my beautiful rosewood piano, he had put another, a littleshabby thing with all the polish off, half-the notes wanting, and soold and worn that one could hardly hear it. I began to think: "Goodgracious! is an artist then, really a little mad? Does he only care foruseless things, and despise all that is useful?"

When I saw his friends', the society he received, it was still worse. Men with long hair, great beards, scarcely combed, badly dressed, whodid not hesitate to smoke in my presence, while to listen to them mademe quite uncomfortable, so widely opposed were their ideas to mine. Theyused long words, fine phrases, nothing natural, nothing simple. Thenwith all this, not a notion of ordinary civilities: you might ask themto dinner twenty times running, and there would be never a call, nevera return of any kind. Not even a card or a bonbon on New Year's day. Nothing. Some of these gentry were married and brought their wives tosee us. You should have seen the style of these persons! For every daywear, superb toilettes such as thank heaven, I would wear at no time!And so ill-arranged, without order or method. Hair loose, skirtstrailing, and such a bold display of their talents! There were some whosang like actresses, played the piano like professors, all talked onevery subject just like men. I ask you, is this reasonable?

Ought serious women once married to think of anything but the care oftheir household? This is what I tried to make my husband understand, when he was vexed at seeing me give up my music. Music is all very wellwhen one is a little girl and has nothing better to do. But candidly, I should consider myself very ridiculous if I sat down every day to thepiano. 

[Illustration: p098-109]

Oh! I am quite aware that his great complaint against me is that Iwished to draw him from the strange society I considered so dangerousfor him. "You have driven away all my friends?" he often used to sayreproachfully. Yes, I did do so, and I don't regret it. Those creatureswould have ended by driving him crazy. After leaving them, he wouldoften spend the night in making rhymes and in marching up and down andtalking aloud. As if he were not already sufficiently eccentric andoriginal in himself without being excited by others! What caprices, whatwhims have I not put up with! Suddenly one morning, he would appear inmy room: "Quick, get your hat--we are off to the country. " Then onemust leave everything, sewing, household affairs, take a carriage, goby rail, spend a mint of money! And I, who only thought of economy! Forafter all, it is not with fifteen thousand francs (six hundred pounds)a year that one can be counted rich in Paris or make any provision forone's children. At first he used to laugh at my observations, and tryto make me laugh; then when he saw how firmly I was resolved to remainserious, he found fault with my simplicity and my taste for home. AmI to blame because I detest theatres and concerts, and those artisticsoirées to which he wished to drag me, and where he met his oldacquaintances, a lot of scatterbrains, dissipated and Bohemian?

At one time, I thought he was becoming more reasonable. I had managed towith-draw him from his good-for-nothing circle of friends, and to gatherround us a society of sensible people, well-settled in life, who mightbe of use to us. But no! Monsieur was bored. He was always bored, from morning till night. At our little soirees, where I was careful toarrange a whist table and a tea table, all as it should be, he wouldappear with such a face! in such a temper! When we were alone, it wasjust the same. Nevertheless, I was full of little attentions. I used tosay to him: "Read me something of what you are doing. " He recited to meverses, tirades, of which I understood nothing, but I put on an air ofinterest, and here and there made some little remark, which by the way, inevitably had the knack of annoying him. In a year, working night andday, he could only make of all his rhymes, one single volume which neversold, I said to him: "Ah! you see, " just in a reasoning spirit, to bringhim to something more comprehensible, more remunerative, He got into afrightful rage, and afterwards sank into a state of gloomy depressionwhich made me very unhappy. My friends advised me as well as they could:"You see, my dear, it is the ennui and bad temper of an unoccupied man. If he worked a little more, he would not be so gloomy. "

Then I set to work, and all my belongings too, to seek him anappointment, I moved heaven and earth, I made I don't know how manyvisits to the wives of government officials, heads of departments; Ieven penetrated into a minister's office. It was a surprise I reservedfor him, I said to my-self: "We shall see whether he will be pleasedthis time, " At length, the day when I received his nomination in alovely envelope with five big seals, I carried it myself to his table, half wild with joy. It was provision for the future, comfort, selfcontent, the tranquillity of regular work. Do you know what he did? Hesaid: "He would never forgive me. " After which he tore the minister'sletter into a thousand pieces, and rushed out, banging the doors. Oh!these artists, poor unsettled brains taking life all the wrong way! Whatcould be done with such a man? I should have liked to talk to him, toreason with him. In vain. Those were indeed right, who had said to me:"He is a madman. " Of what use moreover to talk to him? We do notspeak the same language. He would not understand me, any more than Iunderstand him. And now, here we must sit and look at each other. I seehatred in his glance, and yet I have true affection for him. It is verypainful. 

 * * * * *

A MISUNDERSTANDING -- THE HUSBAND'S VERSION. 

I had thought of everything, taken all my precautions. I would not havea Parisian, because Parisian women alarm me. I would not have a richwife because she might be too exacting and extravagant. I alsodreaded family ties, that terrible network of homely affections, whichmonopolizes, imprisons, dwarfs and stifles. My wife was the realizationof my fondest dreams. I said to myself: "She will owe me everything. "

[Illustration: p091-102]

What pleasure to educate this simple mind to the contemplation ofbeauty, to initiate this pure soul to my enthusiasms and hopes, to givelife, in short, to this statue! The fact is she had the air of astatue, with her great serious calm eyes, her regular Greek profile, herfeatures, which although rather too marked and severe, were softened bythe rose-tinted bloom of youth and the shadow of the waving hair. Addedto all this was a faint provincial accent that was my especial joy, anaccent to which with closed eyes, I listened as a recollection of happychildhood, the echo of a tranquil life in some far away, utterly unknownnook. And to think that now, this accent has become unbearable to me!But in those days, I had faith. I loved, I was happy, and disposed tobe still more so. Full of ardour for my work, I had as soon as I wasmarried begun a new poem, and in the evening I read to her the versesof the day. I wished to make her enter completely into my existence. Thefirst time or two, she said to me: "Very pretty, " and I was gratefulto her for this childish approbation, hoping that in time she wouldcomprehend better what was the very breath of my life. 

Poor creature! How I must have bored her! After having read her myverses, I explained them to her, seeking in her beautiful astonishedeyes the hoped-for gleam of light, ever fancying I should surprise it. 

[Illustration: p095-106]

I obliged her to give me her opinion and I passed over all that wasfoolish to retain only what a chance inspiration might contain of good. I so longed to make of her my true help mate, the real artist's wife!But no! She could not understand. In vain did I read to her the greatpoets, choosing the strongest, the tenderest, --the golden rhymes of thelove poems fell upon her ear as coldly and tediously as a hailstorm. Once I remember, we were reading _la Nuit d'Octobre_; she interruptedme, to ask for something more serious! I tried then to explain to herthat there is nothing in the world more serious than poetry, which isthe very essence of life, floating above it like a glory of light, in the % vibrations of which words and thoughts are elevated andtransfigured. Oh! what a disdainful smile passed over her pretty mouthand what condescension in her glance! As though a child or a madman hadspoken to her. 

What have I not thus wasted of strength and useless eloquence! Nothingwas of any use. I stumbled perpetually against what she called goodsense, reason, that eternal excuse of dried up hearts and narrow minds. And it was not only poetry that bored her. Before our marriage, I hadbelieved her to be a musician. She seemed to understand the piecesshe played, aided by the underlinings of her teacher. Scarcely was shemarried when she closed her piano, and gave up her music. 

[Illustration: p099-110]

Can there be anything more melancholy than this abandonment by the youngwife of all that had pleased in the young girl? The reply given, thepart ended, the actress quits her costume. It was all done with a viewto marriage; a surface of petty accomplishments, of pretty smiles, andfleeting elegance. With her the change was instantaneous. At first Ihoped that the taste I could not give her, an artistic intelligence andlove of the beautiful, would come to her in spite of herself, throughthe medium of this wonderful Paris, with its unconscious refininginfluence on eyes and mind. But what can be done with a woman who doesnot know how to open a book, to look at a picture, who is always boredand refuses to see anything? I soon understood that I must resign myselfto have by my side nothing but a housewife, active and economical, indeed very economical. According to Proudhon, a woman, nothing more. Icould have shaped my course accordingly; so many artists are in the sameplight! But this modest rôle was not enough for her. 

Little by little, slyly, silently, she managed to get rid of all myfriends. We had not made any difference in our talk because of * herpresence. We talked as we always had done in the past, but she neverunderstood the irony or the fantasy of our artistic exaggerations, ofour wild axioms, or paradoxes, in which-an idea is travestied only tofigure more brilliantly. It only irritated and puzzled her. Seated ina quiet corner of the drawing-room, she listened and said nothing, planning all the while how she should eliminate one by one those whoso much shocked her. Notwithstanding the seeming friendliness of thewelcome, there could already be felt in my rooms that thin currentof cold air, which warns that the door is open and that it is time toleave. 

My friends once gone, she replaced them by her own. I found myselfsurrounded by an absurd set of worthies, strangers to art, who hatedpoetry and scorned it because "it made no money. " On purpose the namesof fashionable writers who manufacture plays and novels by the dozenwere cited before me, with the remark: "So and so makes a great deal ofmoney!"

Make money! this is the all-important point for these creatures, andI had the pain of seeing my wife think with them. In this fatalatmosphere, her provincial habits, her mean and narrow views were madestill more odious by an incredible stinginess. 

Fifteen thousand francs (six hundred pounds) a year! It seemed to methat with this income we could live without fear of the morrow. Notat all! She was always grumbling, talking of economy, reform, goodinvestments. As she overpowered me with these dull details, I felt alldesire and taste for work ebb away from me. Sometimes she came tomy table and scornfully turned over the scattered half-writtenpages:--"Only that!" she would say, counting the hours lost upon theinsignificant little lines. Ah I if I had listened to her, my glorioustitle of poet, which it has taken me so many years to win, would be nowdragged through the black mire of sensational literature. And whenI think that to this selfsame woman I had at first opened my heart, confided all my dreams; and when I think that the contempt she nowshows me because I do not make money dates from the first days of ourmarriage; I am indeed ashamed, both of myself and of her. 

I make no money! That explains everything, the reproach of her glance, her admiration for fruitful commonplaces, culminating in the steps shetook but lately to obtain for me I don't know what post in a governmentoffice. 

At this, however, I resisted. No defence remains to me but this, a forceof inertia, which yields to no assault, to no persuasion. She may speakfor hours, freeze me with her chilliest smile, my thought ever escapesher, will always escape her. And we have come to this! Married andcondemned to live together, leagues of distance separate us; and we areboth too weary, too utterly discouraged, to care to make one step thatmight draw us together. It is horrible!

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ASSAULT WITH VIOLENCE. 

MR. PETITBRY, Chamber Counsel. 

_To Madame Nina de B. , at her Aunt's house, in Moulins_. 

Madame, conformably to the wishes of Madame your aunt, I have lookedinto the matter in question. I have noted down one by one all thedifferent points and submitted your grievances to the most scrupulousinvestigation. Well, on my soul and conscience, I do not find thefruit ripe enough, or to speak plainly, I do not consider that you havesufficient grounds to justify your petition for a judicial separation. Let us not forget that the French law is a very downright kind of thing, totally devoid of delicate feeling for nice distinctions. It recognizesonly acts, serious, brutal acts, and unfortunately it is these actswe lack. Most assuredly I have been deeply touched while reading theaccount of the first year of your married life, so very painful to you. You have paid dearly for the glory of marrying a famous artist, one ofthose men in whom fame and adulation develop monstrous egotism, and whounder penalty of shattering the frail and timid life that would attachitself to theirs, must live alone. Ah! madame, since the commencement ofmy career, how many wretched wives have I not beheld in the same cruelposition as yourself! Artists who live only by and for the public, carrynothing home to their hearth but fatigue from glory, or the melancholyof their disappointments. An ill-regulated existence, without compassor rudder, subversive ideas contrary to all social conventionality, contempt of family life and its happiness, cerebral excitement soughtfor in the abuse of tobacco and strong drink, without mentioninganything else, this constitutes the terrible artistic element from whichyour dear Aunt is desirous of withdrawing you; but I must repeat, thatwhile I fully comprehend her anxiety, nay her remorse even at havingconsented to such a marriage, I cannot see that matters have reached apoint calculated to warrant your petition. 

I have, however, set down the outlines of a judicial memorandum, inwhich your principal grievances are grouped and skilfully brought intoprominence. Here are the principal divisions of the work:

1°. _Insulting conduct of Monsieur towards Madame's family_. --Refusalto receive our Aunt from Moulins, who brought us up, and is tenderlyattached to us. --Nicknames such as _Tata Bobosse_, Fairy Carabossa, and others, bestowed on that venerable old maid, whose back is slightlybent. --Jests and quips, drawings in pen and pencil of the aforesaid andher infirmity. 

2°. _Unsociableness_. --Refusal to see Ma-dame's friends, to make weddingcalls, to send cards, to answer invitations, etc. 

3°. _Wanton extravagance_. --Money lent without acknowledgment to allkinds of Bohemians. --Open house and free quarters, turning the houseinto an inn. --Constant subscriptions for statues, tombs, and productionsof unfortunate fellow artists. --Starting an artistic and literarymagazine!!!

4°. _Insulting conduct to Madame_. --Having said out loud when alludingto us: "What a fool!"

5°. _Cruelty and violence_. --Excessive brutality on the part ofMonsieur. --Rage on the slightest pretext. --Breakage of china andfurniture. --Scandalous rows, offensive expressions. 

All this, as you see, dear Madame, constitutes a somewhat respectableamount of evidence, but is not however sufficient. We lack assault withviolence. Ah! if we had only an assault with violence, a tiny littleassault before witnesses, our case would be grand! But now that you haveput a hundred and fifty miles between your husband and yourself we canscarcely hope for an incident of this kind. I say "hope" because in thepresent state of affairs, a brutal act on the part of this man would bethe most fortunate thing that could befall you. 

I remain, Madame, awaiting your commands, your devoted and obedientservant, Petitbry. 

PS. --Violence before witnesses, of course!

[Illustration: p115-126]

_To Monsieur Petitbry, in Paris_. 

What, Sir! have we come to such a pass as this! Is this what your lawshave made of antique French chivalry! So then, when a misunderstandingis often sufficient to separate two hearts for ever, your law courtsrequire acts of violence to justify such a separation. Is it notscandalous, unjust, barbarous, outrageous? To think that in order toregain her freedom, my poor darling will be obliged to run her neckinto the halter, to abandon herself to all the fury of that monster, to excite it even. But no matter, our mind is made up. An assault withpersonal violence is necessary. Well! we will have it. No later thanto-morrow, Nina will return to Paris, How will she be received? Whatwill take place there? I cannot think of it without a shudder. At thisidea my hand trembles, my eyes become dimmed. Ah! Monsieur. Ah! MonsieurPetitbry. Ah!

Nina's unhappy Aunt. 

MR. MARESTANG, ATTORNEY At the Law Court of the Seine. 

_To Monsieur Henri de B. , Literary man in Paris_. 

Be calm, be calm, be calm! I forbid your going to Moulins or rushing offin pursuit of the fugitive. It is more judicious and safer to await herreturn in your own house, by your fireside. In point of fact, what hastaken place? You refused to receive that ridiculous and ill-natured oldmaid; your wife has gone to join her. You should have expected as much. Family ties are very strong in the heart of such an extremely youthfulbride. You were in too great a hurry. Remember that this Aunt broughther up, that she has no other relations in the world. She has herhusband, you will say. Ah! my dear fellow, between ourselves we mayadmit that husbands are not always amiable. I know one more especiallywho in spite of his good heart is so nervous, so violent! I am wellaware that hard work and artistic preoccupations have a good deal to dowith it. Be that as it may, the bird has been scared, and has flown backto its former cage. Don't be alarmed, it won't stay there long. EitherI am very much mistaken or the Parisian of yesterday will soon weary ofthe antiquated surroundings, and ere long regret the vivacities of herpoet. Above all don't stir. 

Your old friend, Marestang. 

_To Monsieur Marestang, attorney in Paris_. 

At the same moment with your rational and friendly letter, I received atelegram from Moulins, announcing Nina's return. Ah! what a true prophetyou were! She is coming back this evening, all alone, just as she leftme, without the slightest advance on my part. The thing now will be toarrange so easy and agreeable a life for her, that she shall neveragain be tempted to leave me. I have laid in a stock of tenderness andpatience during her week's absence. There is only one point on whichI remain inflexible: I will not again receive that horrible _TataBobosse_, that blue stocking of 1820, who gave me her niece only in thehopes that my modest fame would serve to heighten hers. Remember, mydear Marestang, that ever since my marriage this wicked little old womanhas always come between my wife and me, pushing her hump into all ouramusements at the theatres, the exhibitions, in society, in the country, everywhere in fact. And you wonder after that, at my having displayeda certain haste in getting rid of her, and packing her off to her goodtown of Moulins. Indeed, my dear fellow, you have no idea of all theharm those old maids, suspicious and ignorant of life, are capable ofdoing in a young household. This one had stuffed my wife's prettylittle head full of false, old fashioned, preposterous ideas, trumperysentimentality of the time of Ipsiboé or young Florange: "Ah! if mylady love saw me!" For her, I was a poâte, the poâte one sees on thefrontispieces of Renduel or Ladvocat, crowned with laurels, a lyreon his hips, and his short velvet-collared cloak blown aside by aParnassian gust of wind. That was the husband she had promised herniece, and you may fancy how terribly my poor Nina must have beendisappointed. Nevertheless I admit that I was very bungling with thedear child. As you say, I wanted to go ahead too rapidly, I frightenedher. It was my part gently to modify all that the rather narrowing andfalse education of the convent and the sentimental dreams of the Aunthad effected, leaving the provincial perfume time to evaporate. Howeverall this can be repaired since she is returning. She is returning, mydear friend! This evening, I shall go and meet her at the station and weshall walk home arm in arm, reconciled and happy. 

Henri de B. 

_Nina de B. To her Aunt in Moulins_. 

He was waiting for me at the station and greeted me with a smile andopen arms, as though I were returning from some ordinary journey. Youcan imagine that I put on my iciest appearance. Directly I reached home, I shut myself up in my room, where I dined alone, pleading fatigue. After which, I locked myself in. He came to bid me good-night throughthe key-hole, and to my great surprise, went away on tiptoe withoutanger or importunity. This morning, I called on Monsieur Petitbry, whogave me detailed instructions as to the way I was to act, the hour, place, witnesses. Ah! my dear Aunt, if you knew how frightened I am asthe hour draws near. 

[Illustration: p121-132]

His violence is so dreadful. Even when he is gentle like yesterday, hiseyes have flashes of lightning. However, I will try and be courageous inthinking of you, my darling Aunt. Besides, as Monsieur Petitbry said tome, it is only a short painful moment to get over, and then we will bothresume our former quiet life, so calm and happy. 

Nina de B. 

[Illustration: p122-134]

[Illustration: p123-134]

_From the same to the same_. 

Dear Aunt, I am writing to you from my bed, torn by the emotions ofthat terrible scene. Who could have supposed that things would take thisturn? Nevertheless I had taken every precaution. I had warned Marthe andher sister, who were to come at one o'clock, and I had chosen for thegreat scene the moment when on leaving the table, the servants areclearing away in the dining-room next to the study. From early mornmy plans were laid; an hour of scales and exercises on the piano, the_Cloches du Monastère_, the _Rêveries de Rosellen_, all the pieceshe hates. This did not prevent his working away without betraying theslightest irritability. At breakfast, the same patience. A detestablebreakfast, scraps, and the sweet dishes he loathes. And if you had seenmy costume! A dress with a cape some five years out of date, a littleblack silk apron, and uncurled hair! In vain I sought for some signsof irritation, that well-known straight line that Monsieur hollows outbetween his eyebrows at the least annoyance. Well no! nothing! Really Imight have thought they had changed my husband. He said to me in a calmand rather sad tone:

"Ah, you have done your hair in the old way. "

I hardly answered, not wishing to hurry on matters before my witnesseshad arrived, and then, strangely enough, I felt somewhat moved and upsetbeforehand by the scene I was trying to get up. At last, after a fewstill shorter replies on my part, he rose from the table and went intohis own room. I followed him trembling. I heard my friends stationingthemselves in the little drawing-room, and Pierre who came and went, arranging the glasses and silver. The decisive moment had arrived. Hemust now be brought to the needful point of violence, and it seemedto me this would be easy, after all I had done since the morning toirritate him. 

When I entered his study I must have been very pale. I felt myself inthe lion's cage. The thought flashed across me: "Suppose he killed me!"He did not present a very terrible appearance, however, leaning back onhis divan, a cigar in his mouth. 

"Do I disturb you?" I asked in my most ironical voice. 

He replied gently:

"No. You see. I am not working. "

Myself, viciously:

"Ah! indeed you don't work then at all, now?"

He still very mild. 

"You are mistaken, my dear. On the contrary, I work a great deal. Onlyour craft is one in which a great deal of work can be done withouthaving a tool in hand. "

"And what may you be doing at this moment? Ah! yes, I know, your playin verse; always the same thing for the last two years. It is certainlylucky that your wife had a fortune! That allows you to idle at yourease. "

I thought he would have sprung upon me at this. Not a bit of it. He cameup to me and took hold of my hands gently:

"Come, is it to be always the same thing? Are we to begin our life ofwarfare again? If so, why did you come back?"

I confess I felt rather moved by his sad and affectionate tone; butI thought of you, my poor Aunt, of your exile, of his harsh conducttowards us, and that gave me courage. I said to him the bitterest, mostwounding things I could think of--I know not what--that I wished toheaven I had never married an artist; that at Moulins, every one pitiedme; that I found my friends married to magistrates, serious, influentialmen, in good positions, while he--If even he made money--But no, Monsieur would work for fame only! and what fame!

[Illustration: p127-138]

At Moulins no one knew him; at Paris, his pieces were hissed. His booksdid not sell. And so on, and so on. My brain seemed to whirl round asall the malicious words came from me one after the other. He lookedat me without replying, in chilly anger. Of course this coldnessexasperated me still more. I was so much excited, that I no longerrecognized my own voice, raised to an extraordinary pitch, and the lastwords I screamed at him--I can't remember what unjust and mad remarkit was--seemed to buzz indistinctly in my ears. For a moment, I thoughtMonsieur Petitbry's assault with violence was an accomplished fact. Pallid, with set teeth Henri made two steps towards me:

"Madame!"

Then suddenly, his anger fell, his face became impassive again, andhe looked at me with so scornful, insolent and calm a glance, that mypatience came to an end. I raised my hand, and gave him the best box onthe ear I ever gave in my life. At the noise, the door opened, and mywitnesses appeared solemn and indignant. 

"Monsieur! this is infamous!"

"Yes, isn't it?" said the poor fellow, showing his red cheek. 

You can imagine my confusion. Happily, I took the line of fainting, andmelting into torrents of tears, which relieved me greatly. At present, Henri is in my room. He watches by me, nurses me, and is reallymost kind. What can I do? What a checkmate! This will not prove verysatisfactory to Monsieur Petitbry. 

Nina de B. 

[Illustration: p129-140]

[Illustration: p130-141]

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BOHEMIA AT HOME. 

I hardly fancy it would be possible to find in the whole of Paris, amore lively and peculiar house than that of the sculptor Simaise. Lifethere is one continual round of festivities. At whatever hour you dropin upon them, a sound of singing and laughter, or the jingle of a piano, guitar, or tamtam greets you. You can never enter the studio withoutfinding a waltz going on, or a set of quadrilles, or a game ofbattledore and shuttlecock, or else it is cumbered with all the litterand preparations for a ball; shreds of tulle and ribbons lying scatteredamong the sculptor's chisels; artificial flowers hanging over the busts, and spangled skirts spreading over groups of moist clay. 

[Illustration: p134-145]

The fact is that four big t daughters of sixteen to twenty-five yearsof age, all very pretty indeed, take up a great deal of room; and whenthese young ladies whirl round with their hair streaming down theirbacks, with floating ribbons, long pins, and showy ornaments, it reallyseems as if instead of four there were eight, sixteen, thirty-two MissesSimaise, as dashing the one as the other, talking and laughing loudly, with the hoydenish manner peculiar to artists' daughters, with thestudio jests, the familiarity of students, and knowing also better thananyone how to dismiss a creditor or blow up a tradesman impertinentenough to present his bill at an inopportune moment. 

[Illustration: p135-146]

These young damsels are the real mistresses of the house. From earlydawn the father works, chisels, models unceasingly, for he has nosettled income. At first he was ambitious and strove to do good work;some early successful exhibitions promised him future fame; but thenecessity of providing for the support of his family, the clothing, feeding and future establishment of his children, threw him backinto the ordinary work of the trade. As for Madame Simaise, she neverattended to anything. 

Very handsome when she married, very much admired in the artistic worldinto which her husband introduced her, at first satisfied with beingonly a pretty woman, later on she resigned herself to the part of awoman who had been pretty. A créole by birth, at least such was herpretension--although it was asserted that her parents had never leftCourbevoie, --she spent the days from morning to night in a hammock swungup in turn in all the different rooms of the house, fanning herself andtaking siestas, full of contempt for the material details of everydaylife. She had so often sat to her husband as model for Hebes and Dianas, that she fancied her only duty was to pass through life carrying someemblem of a goddess, such as a crescent on her head or a goblet in herhand. Indeed the disorder of the establishment was a sight in itself. The least thing necessitated a full hour's search. 

"Have you seen my thimble? Marthe, Eva, Geneviève, Madeleine, who hasseen my thimble?"

The drawers, in which books, powder, rouge, spangles, spoons and fansare tossed at haphazard, though crammed full, contain absolutely nothinguseful; moreover they belong to strange pieces of furniture, curious, battered and incomplete. And how peculiar is the house itself! As theyare constantly changing their residence, they never have time to settleanywhere, and this merry household seems to be perpetually awaiting thesetting to rights indispensable after a ball. Only so many things arelacking, that it is not worth while settling, and as long as they canput on a bit of finery, display themselves out of doors with somethingof a meteor flash, a semblance of style and appearance of luxury, honouris saved! Encampment does not in any way distress this migratory tribe. Through the half-opened doors, their poverty is betrayed by the fourbare walls of an unfurnished chamber, or the litter of an overcrowdedroom. It is bohemianism in the domestic circle, a life full ofimprovidence and surprises. 

At the very moment when they sit down to table, they suddenly perceivethat everything is wanting, and that the breakfast must be sent out forat once. In this manner hours are spent rapidly, bustling and idling, and herein lies a certain advantage. After a late breakfast, one doesnot need to dine, but can sup at the ball, which fills up nearly everyevening. These ladies also give evening parties. Tea is drunk out ofall kinds of queer receptacles, goblets, old tankards, ancient glasses, Japanese shells, the whole chipped and cracked by the constant moves. 

[Illustration: p138-149]

The serene calm of both mother and daughters in the midst of thispoverty is truly admirable. They have indeed other ideas running throughthe brain than mere housekeeping details. One has plaited her hairlike a Swiss girl, another is curled like any English baby, and MadameSimaise, from the top of her hammock, lives in the beatitude of herformer beauty. As for father Simaise, he is always delighted. As longas he hears the merry laugh of his daughters around him, he is readycheerfully to assume all the weight of this disorderly existence. To himare addressed in a coaxing manner such requests as: "Papa, I want abonnet. Papa, I must have a dress. " Sometimes the winter is severe. Theyare in such request, receive so many invitations. Pooh! the father hasbut to get up a couple of hours earlier. They will have a fire only inthe studio, where all the family will gather. The girls will cut out andmake their own dresses, while the hammock ropes swing slowly to and fro, and the father works on, perched upon his high stool. 

[Illustration: p139-150]

Have you ever met these ladies in society? The moment they appear thereis a commotion. It is long since the first two came out, but they arealways so well adorned and so smart, that they are in great request aspartners. They have as much success as the younger sisters, almost asmuch as the mother in former days; moreover they carry off their tawdryjewelry and finery so well, and have such charming easy manners, withthe giddy laugh of spoilt children, and such a Spanish way of flirtingwith a fan. Nevertheless they do not get married. No admirer has everbeen able to get over the sight of that singular home. The wasteful anduseless extravagance, the want of plates, the profusion of old tapestryin holes, of antique and ungilt lustres, the draughty doors, theconstant visits of creditors, the slatternly appearance of the youngladies in slipshod slippers and dressing gowns, put to flight the bestintentioned. In truth, it is not everyone who could resign himself tohang up the hammock of an idle woman in his home for the rest of hislife. 

I am very much afraid that the Misses Simaise will never marry. Theyhad, however, a golden and unique opportunity during the Commune. Thefamily had taken refuge in Normandy, in a small and very litigious town, full of lawyers, attorneys, and business men. No sooner had the fatherarrived, than he looked out for orders. His fame as a sculptor was ofservice to him, and as in the public square of the town there happenedto be a statue of Cujas done by him, all the notabilities of the placewanted to have their busts done. 

[Illustration: p141-152]

The mother at once fastened up the hammock in a corner of the studio, and the young ladies organized a few parties. They at once met withgreat success. Here at least, poverty seemed but an accident due toexile; the disorder of the establishment was accounted for. The handsomegirls laughed loudly themselves at their destitution. 

[Illustration: p142-153]

They had started off without anything; and nothing could be had nowParis was closed. It lent to them an extra charm. It called to mindtravelling gipsies, combing their beautiful hair in barns, and quenchingtheir thirst in streams. The least poetical compared them in their mindsto the exiles of Coblentz, those ladies of Marie-Antoinette's court who, obliged to fly in haste, without powder or hoops, or bedchamber women, were driven to all sorts of makeshifts, learning to wait upon themselves, and keeping up the frivolity of the French court, the piquant smile ofthe lost patches. 

[Illustration: p143-154]

Every evening a throng of dazzled lawyers crowded Simaise's studio. Tothe sounds of a hired piano, all this little world danced the polka, waltzed, schottisched, --they still schottische in Normandy. "I shallend by marrying off one, " thought old Simaise; and the fact is if onehad gone off, all the others would have followed suit. Unluckily thefirst never went off, but it was a near touch. Amongst the numerouspartners of these young ladies, in that corps de ballet of lawyers, attorneys and solicitors, the most rabid dancer was a widowed lawyer, who was extremely attentive to the eldest daughter. He was called bythem "the first dancing attorney, " in memory of Moliere's ballets, andcertainly, considering the rate at which the fellow whirled round, PapaSimaise might well build the greatest hopes on him. But then businessmen do not dance like everybody else. This fellow, all the time he waswaltzing, reflected silently: "The Simaise family is charming. Tra, lala, la la la, but it's useless their trying to hurry me on, la la la, lala la. I shall not propose till the gates of Paris are reopened. Tra lala, and I shall be able to make all necessary inquiries, la la la!" Thusthought the first dancing attorney, and in fact, directly the blockadeof Paris was raised, he got his information about the family, and themarriage did not come off. 

Since then, the poor little creatures have missed many other chances. However, this has in no way spoilt the happiness of the singularhousehold. On the contrary, the more they live, the merrier they are. Last winter they changed quarters three times, were sold up once, andnotwithstanding all this, gave two large fancy balls!

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FRAGMENT OF A WOMAN'S LETTER FOUND IN THE RUE NOTRE-DAME-DES-CHAMPS

... What it has cost me to marry an artist! Oh, my dear! if I had known!but young girls have singular ideas about so many things. Just imaginethat at the Exhibition, when I read in the catalogue the addresses offar-away quiet streets at the further end of Paris, I pictured to myselfpeaceable, stay-at-home lives, devoted to work and the family circle, and I said to myself (feeling beforehand a certainty that I should bedreadfully jealous), "That is the sort of husband to suit me. He willalways be with me. We shall spend our days together; he at his pictureor sculpture, while I read or sew beside him, in the concentrated lightof the studio. " Poor dear innocent! I had not the faintest idea thenwhat a studio really was, nor of the singular creatures one meets there. Never, in gazing at those statues of bold undressed goddesses had theidea occurred to me that there were women daring enough to--and thateven I myself----. Otherwise, I can assure you I should never havemarried a sculptor. No, indeed, most decidedly not! I must own, theywere all against this marriage at home; notwithstanding my husband'sfortune, his already famous name, and the fine house he was having builtfor us two. It was I alone who would have it so. He was so elegant, socharming, so eager. I thought, however, he meddled a little too muchabout my dress, and the arrangement of my hair: "Do your hair like this;so, " and he would amuse himself by placing a flower in the midst ofmy curls with far greater skill than any one of our milliners. So muchexperience in a man was alarming, wasn't it? I ought to have distrustedhim. Well, you will see. Listen. 

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We returned from our honeymoon. While I was busy settling myself in mypretty and charmingly furnished rooms, that paradise you know so well, my husband, from the moment of his arrival, had set to work and spentthe days at his studio, which was away from the house. When he returnedin the evening, he would talk to me with feverish eagerness of his nextsubject for exhibition. 

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The subject was "a Roman lady leaving the bath. " He wanted the marbleto reproduce that faint shiver of the skin at the contact of air, themoisture of the delicate textures clinging to the shoulders, and allsorts of other fine things which I no longer remember. Between you andme, when he speaks to me of his sculpture, I do-not always understandhim very well. However, I used to say confidently: "It will be verypretty, " and already I saw myself treading the finely sanded walksadmiring my husband's work, a beautiful marble sculpture gleaming whiteagainst the green hangings; while behind me I heard whispered: "the wifeof the sculptor. "

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At last one day, curious to see how our Roman lady was getting on, theidea occurred to me, to go and take him by surprise in his studio, whichI had not yet visited. It was one of the first times I had gone outalone, and I had made myself very smart, I can tell you. When I arrived, I found the door of the little garden leading to the ground floor, wideopen. So I walked straight in; and, conceive my indignation, when Ibeheld my husband in a white smock like a stone mason, with ruffledhair, hands grimed with clay, and in front of him, upright on aplatform, a woman, my dear, a great creature, almost undressed, and looking just as composed in this airy costume as though it wereperfectly natural. 

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Her wretched clothes covered with mud, thick walking boots, and a roundhat trimmed with a feather out of curl, were thrown beside her on achair. All this I saw in an instant, for you may imagine how I fled. Etienne would have spoken to me--detained me; but with a gesture ofhorror at the clay-covered hands, I rushed off to mama, and reached herbarely alive. You can imagine my appearance. 

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"Good heavens, dear child! what is the matter?"

I related to mama what I had seen, where this dreadful woman was, andin what costume. And I cried, and cried. My mother, much moved, tried toconsole me, explained to me that it must have been a model. 

"What! but it is abominable; no one ever told me about that before I wasmarried!"

Hereupon Etienne arrived, greatly distressed, and tried in his turn tomake me understand that a model is not a woman like other women, andthat besides sculptors cannot get on without them; but these reasonshad no effect upon me, and I stoutly declared I would have nothing todo with a husband who spent his days _tête-à-tête_ with young ladies insuch a costume. 

"Come, my dear Etienne, " said poor mama, trying hard to arrangeeverything peaceably, "could you not out of respect for your wife'sfeelings, replace this creature by a dummy, a lay figure?"

My husband bit his moustaches furiously. 

"Quite impossible, dear mother. "

"Still, my dear, it seems to me--a bright idea! milliners havepasteboard heads on which they trim bonnets. Well, what can be done fora head, could it not be done for----?" It seems this is not possible. 

At least, this was what Etienne tried to demonstrate at great length, with all sorts of details and technical words. He really looked veryunhappy. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I dried mytears, and I saw that my grief affected him deeply. At last, afteran endless discussion, it was agreed that since the model wasindispensable, I should be there whenever she came. There chanced tobe on one side of the studio a very convenient little lumber-room, fromwhich I could see without being seen. I ought to be ashamed, you willsay, of being jealous of such kind of creatures, and of showing myjealousy. But, my pet, you must have gone through these emotions beforeyou can offer an opinion about them. 

Next day, the model was to be there. I therefore summoned up my courage, and installed myself in my hiding-place, with the express condition thatat the least tap at the partition my husband should come to me at once. Scarcely had I shut myself in, when the dreadful model I had seenthe other day arrived, dressed Heaven knows how, and so wretched inappearance, that I asked myself how I could have been jealous of a womanwho could walk abroad without a scrap of white cuff at her wrists, and in an old shawl with green fringe. Well, my dear, when I saw thiscreature throw off shawl and dress in the middle of the studio, andbegin to undress in the coolest and boldest manner, it had an effectupon me I cannot describe. I choked with rage. I thumped at thepartition. Etienne came to me. I trembled; I was pale. He laughed at me, gently re-assured me, and returned to his work. By this time the womanwas standing up, half-naked, her thick hair loosened and hanging downher back in glossy heaviness. It was no longer the poor wretch of amoment ago, but already almost a statue, notwithstanding her common andlistless air. My heart died within me. However, I said nothing. All atonce, I heard my husband cry: "The left leg; the left leg forward. " Andas the model did not understand him at once, he went to her, and--Oh! Icould contain myself no longer. I knocked. He did not hear me. I knockedagain, furiously. This time he ran to me, frowning a little at beingdisturbed in the heat of work. "Come, Armande, do be reasonable!"Bathed in tears, I leant my head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out: "Ican't bear it, my dear, I can't; indeed, I can't!"

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At this, without answering me, he went sharply into the studio, and madea sign to that horror of a woman, who dressed herself and departed. 

For several days, Etienne did not return to the studio. He remainedat home with me, would not go out, refused even to see his friends;otherwise he was quite kind and gentle, but he had such a melancholyair. Once I asked him timidly: "You are not working any more?" whichearned me this reply: "One can't work without a model. " I had not thecourage to pursue the subject, for I felt how much I was to blame, and that he had a right to be vexed with me. Nevertheless, by dint ofcaresses and endearments, I cajoled him into returning to his studio andtrying to finish the statue--how do they say it? out of his head, fromimagination, in short, by mama's process. To me, this seemed quitefeasible; but it gave the poor fellow endless trouble. Every eveninghe came in, with irritated nerves and more and more discouraged; almostill, indeed. To cheer him up, I used often to go and see him. I alwayssaid: "It is charming. " But, as a fact, the statue made no progresswhatever. I don't even know if he worked at it. When I arrived, I wouldfind him always smoking on his divan, or perhaps, rolling up pellets ofclay, which he angrily threw against the opposite wall. 

One afternoon, when I was gazing at the unfortunate Roman lady, who, half modelled, had been so long in stepping out of her bath, an ideaoccurred to me. The Roman lady was about the same figure as myself;perhaps at a pinch I might----

"What do you mean by a well-turned leg?" I asked my husband suddenly. 

He explained it to me at great length, showing me all that was stilllacking to his statue, and which he could by no means give it without amodel. Poor fellow! He had such a heart-broken air as he said this. Doyou know what I did? Well, I bravely picked up the drapery which waslying in a corner, I went into my hiding-place; then, very softlywithout saying a word, while he was still looking at his statue, Iplaced myself on the platform in front of him, in the costume andattitude in which I had seen that abominable model. Ah my dear I Whatemotion I felt when he raised his eyes! I could have laughed andcried. I was blushing all over. And that tiresome muslin took somuch arranging. Never mind! Etienne was so delighted that I was soonre-assured. Indeed, to hear him, my dear, you might suppose----. 

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A GREAT MAN'S WIDOW

No one was astonished at hearing she was going to marry again. Notwithstanding all his genius, perhaps even on account of his genius, the great man had for fifteen years led her a hard life, full ofcaprices and mad freaks that had attracted the attention of allParis. On the high road to fame, over which he had so triumphantly andhurriedly travelled, like those who are to die young, she had sat behindhim, humbly and timidly, in a corner of the chariot, ever fearful ofcollisions. Whenever she complained, relatives, friends, every one wasagainst her: "Respect his weaknesses, " they would say to her, "they arethe weaknesses of a god. Do not disturb him, do not worry him. Rememberthat your husband does not belong exclusively to you. He belongs muchmore to Art, to his country, than to his family. And who knows ifeach of the faults you reproach him with has not given us some sublimecreation?" At last, however, her patience was worn out, she rebelled, became indignant and even unjust, so much indeed, that at the moment ofthe great man's death, they were on the point of demanding a judicialseparation and ready to see their great and celebrated name dragged intothe columns of a society paper. 

After the agitation of this unhappy match, the anxieties of the lastillness, and the sudden death which for a moment revived her formeraffection, the first months of her widowhood acted on the young womanlike a healthy calming water-cure. The enforced retirement, the quietcharm of mitigated sorrow, lent to her thirty-five years a second youthalmost as attractive as the first. 

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Moreover black suited her, and then she had the responsible and ratherproud look of a woman left alone in life, with all the weight of a greatname to carry honourably. Mindful of the fame of the departed one, thatwretched fame that had cost her so many tears, and now grew day by day, like a magnificent flower nourished by the black earth of the tomb, shewas to be seen draped in her long sombre veils holding interviews withtheatrical managers and publishers, busying herself in getting herhusband's operas put again on the stage, superintending the printing ofhis posthumous works and unfinished manuscripts, bestowing on all thesedetails a kind of solemn care and as it were the respect for a shrine. 

It was at this moment that her second husband met her. He too was amusician, almost unknown it is true, the author of a few waltzesand songs, and of two little operas, of which the scores, charminglyprinted, were scarcely more played than sold. With a pleasantcountenance, a handsome fortune that he owed to his exceedingly_bourgeois_ family, he had above all an infinite respect for genius, a curiosity about famous men, and the ingenuous enthusiasm of a stillyouthful artist. Thus when he met the wife of the great man, he wasdazzled and bewildered. It was as though the image of the glorious museherself had appeared to him. He at once fell in love, and as the widowwas beginning to receive a few friends, he had himself presented to her. There his passion grew in the atmosphere of genius that still lingeredin all the corners of the drawing-room. There was the bust of themaster, the piano he composed on, his scores spread over all thefurniture, melodious even to look at, as though from between theirhalf-opened pages, the written phrases re-echoed musically. The actualand very real charm of the widow surrounded by those austere memories asby a frame that became her, brought his love to a climax. 

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After hesitating a long time, the poor fellow at last proposed, butin such humble and timid terms! "He knew how unworthy he was of her. Heunderstood all the regret she would feel, in exchanging her illustriousname for his, so unknown and insignificant. " And a thousand otherartless phrases in the same style. In reality, the lady was indeed verymuch flattered by her conquest; however, she played the comedy of abroken heart, and assumed the disdainful, wearied airs of a woman whoselife is ended without hopes of renewal. She, who had never in her lifebeen so quiet and comfortable as since the death of her great man, sheactually found tears with which to mourn for him, and an enthusiasticardour in speaking of him. This, of course, only inflamed her youthfuladorer the more and made him more eloquent and persuasive. 

In short, this severe widowhood ended in a marriage; but the widow didnot abdicate, and remained--although married--more than ever the widowof a great man; well knowing that herein lay, in the eyes of her secondhusband, her real prestige. As she felt herself much older than he, toprevent his perceiving it, she overwhelmed him with her disdain, witha kind of vague pity, and unexpressed and offensive regret at hercondescending marriage. However, he was not wounded by it, quite thecontrary. He was so convinced of his inferiority and thought it sonatural that the memory of such a man should reign despotically in herheart! In order the better to maintain in him this humble attitude, shewould at times read over with him the letters the great man hadwritten to her when he was courting her. This return towards the pastrejuvenated her some fifteen years, lent her the assurance of a handsomeand beloved woman, seen through all the wild love and delightfulexaggeration of written passion. That she had since then changed heryoung husband cared little, loving her on the faith of another, anddrawing therefrom I know not what strange kind of vanity. It seemedto him that these passionate appeals added to his own, and that heinherited a whole past of love. 

A strange couple indeed! It was in society, however, that they presentedthe most curious spectacle. I sometimes caught sight of them at thetheatre. No one would have recognized the timid and shy young woman, whoformerly accompanied the _maestro_, lost in the gigantic shadow he castaround him. Now, seated upright in the front of the box, she displayedherself, attracting all eyes by the pride of her own glance. It might besaid that her head was surrounded by her first husband's halo of glory, his name re-echoing around her like a homage or a reproach. The otherone, seated a little behind her, with the subservient physiognomy of oneready for every abnegation in life, watched each of her movements, readyto attend to her slightest wish. 

At home, the peculiarity of their attitude was still more noticeable. Iremember a certain evening party they gave a year after their marriage. The husband moved about among the crowd of guests, proud but ratherembarrassed at gathering together so many in his own house. The wife, disdainful, melancholy, and very superior, was on that evening more thanever the widow of a great man! She had a peculiar way of glancing at herhusband from over her shoulder, of calling him "my poor dear friend, " ofcasting on him all the wearisome drudgery of the reception, with an airof saying: "You are only fit for that. " Around her gathered a circle offormer friends, those who had been spectators of the brilliant debuts ofthe great man, of his struggles, and his success. She simpered to them;played the young girl! They had known her so young! Nearly all ofthem called her by her Christian name, "Anaïs. " They formed a kind ofconaculum, which the poor husband respectfully approached, to hear hispredecessor spoken of. They recalled the glorious first nights, thoseevenings on which nearly every battle was won, and the great man'smanias, his way of working; how, in order to summon up inspiration, heinsisted on his wife being by his side, decked out in full ball dress. "Do you remember, Anaïs?" And Anaïs sighed and blushed. 

It was at that time that he had written his most tender pieces, aboveall _Savonarole_, the most passionate of his creations, with a grandduet, interwoven with rays of moonshine, the perfume of roses and thewarbling of nightingales. An enthusiast sat down and played it on thepiano, amid a silence of attentive emotion. At the last note of themagnificent piece, the lady burst into tears. "I cannot help it, " shesaid, "I have never been able to hear it without weeping. " The greatman's old friends surrounded his unhappy widow with sympatheticexpressions, coming up to her one by one, like at a funereal ceremony, to give a thrilling clasp to her hand. "Come, come, Anaïs, becourageous. " And the drollest thing was to see the second husband, standing by the side of his wife, deeply touched and affected, shakinghands all round, and accepting, he too, his share of sympathy. "Whatgenius! what genius!" he repeated as he mopped his eyes. It was at thesame time ridiculous and affecting. 

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THE DECEIVER. 

I have loved but one woman in my life, the painter D------ said one dayto us. 

I spent five years of perfect happiness and peaceful and fruitfultranquillity with her. I may say that to her I owe my present celebrity, so easy was work, and so spontaneous was inspiration by her side. Evenwhen I first met her, she seemed to have been mine from time immemorial. Her beauty, her character were the realization of all my dreams. Thatwoman never left me; she died in my house, in my arms, loving to thelast. Well, when I think of her, it is with a feeling of rage. If Istrive to recall her, the same as I ever saw her during those fiveyears, in all the radiance of love, with her lithe yielding figure, thegilded pallor of her cheeks, her oriental Jewish features, regular anddelicate in the soft roundness of her face, her slow speech as velvetyas her glance, if I seek to embody that charming vision, it is only inorder the more fiercely to cry to it: "I hate you!"

Her name was Clotilde. At the house of the mutual acquaintances where wemet, she was known under the name of Madame Deloche, and was said to bethe widow of a captain in the merchant service. Indeed, she appeared tohave travelled a great deal. In the course of conversation, she wouldsuddenly say: When I was at Tampico; or else: once in the harbour atValparaiso. But apart from this, there was no trace in her manners orlanguage of a wandering existence, nothing betrayed the disorder orprecipitation of sudden departures or abrupt returns. She was a thoroughParisian, dressed in perfect good taste, without any of those bur-noosesor eccentric _sarapés_ by which one recognizes the wives of officers andsailors who are always arrayed in travelling costume. 

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When I found that I loved her, my first, my only idea was to ask her inmarriage. Someone spoke on my behalf. She simply replied that she wouldnever marry again. Henceforth I avoided meeting her; and as my thoughtswere too wholly absorbed and occupied by her to allow me to work, I determined to travel. I was busily engaged in preparations for mydeparture, when one morning, in my own apartment, in the midst of allthe litter of opened drawers and scattered trunks, to my great surprise, I saw Madame Deloche enter. 

"Why are you leaving?" she said softly. "Because you love me? I alsolove. I love you. Only (and here her voice shook a little) only, I ammarried. " And she told me her history. 

It was a romance of love and desertion. Her husband drank, struck her!At the end of three years they had separated Her family, of whom sheseemed very proud, held a high position in Paris, but ever since hermarriage had refused to receive her. She was the niece of the ChiefRabbi. Her sister, the widow of a superior officer, had married for thesecond time a Chief Ranger of the woods and forests of Saint-Germain. Asfor her, ruined by her husband, she had fortunately had a very thorougheducation and possessed some accomplishments, by which she was able toaugment her resources. She gave music lessons in various rich housesof the Chaussée d'Antin and Faubourg Saint Honoré, and gained an amplelivelihood. 

The story was touching, although somewhat lengthy, full of thepretty repetitions, the interminable incidents that entangle femininediscourse. 

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Indeed she took several days to relate it. I had hired for us two, alittle house in the Avenue de l'Impératrice, standing between the silentstreets and peaceful lawns. I could have spent a year listening to andlooking at her, without a thought for my work. She was the first to sendme back to my studio, and I could not prevent her from again taking upher lessons. I was touched by her concern for the dignity of her life. I admired the proud spirit, notwithstanding that I could not help beingrather humiliated at her expressed determination to owe nothing save toher own exertions. We were therefore separated all day long, and onlymet in the evening in our little house. 

With what joy did I not return home, what impatience I felt when she waslate, and how happy I was when I found her there before me! She wouldbring me back bouquets and choice flowers from her journeys to Paris. Often I pressed upon her some present, but she laughingly said she wasricher than I; and in truth her lessons must have been very well paid, for she always dressed in an expensively elegant manner, and the blackdresses which, with coquettish care for her complexion and style ofbeauty she preferred, had the dull softness of velvet, the brilliancyof satin and jet, a confusion of silken lace, which revealed to theastonished eye, under an apparent simplicity, a world of feminineelegance in the thousand shades contained in a single colour. 

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Moreover her occupation was by no means laborious, she said. All herpupils, daughters of bankers or stock brokers, loved and respected her;and many a time she would show me a bracelet or a ring, that had beenpresented as a mark of gratitude for her care. Except for our work, wenever left one another, and we went nowhere. Only on Sundays she wentoff to Saint-Germain to see her sister, the wife of the Chief Ranger, with whom she was now reconciled. I would accompany her to the station. She would return the same evening, and often in the long summer days, wewould agree to meet at some station on the way, by the riverside or inthe woods. She would tell me about her visit, the children's good looks, the air of happiness that reigned in the household. My heart bled forher, deprived of the pleasures of family life as she was doomed to be;and my tenderness increased tenfold in order to make her forget thefalseness of her position, so painful to a woman of her character. 

What a happy time of perfect confidence, and how well I worked! Isuspected nothing. All she said seemed so true, so natural. I could onlyreproach her with one thing. When talking of the houses she frequented, and the different families of her pupils, she would indulge in asuperabundance of imaginary details and fancied intrigues, which sheinvented without any _apropos_. 

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Calm herself, she was ever conjuring up romances around her, and herlife was spent in composing dramatic situations. These idle fanciesdisturbed my happiness. I, who longed to leave the world and society, inorder to devote myself exclusively to her, found her too much taken upby indifferent subjects. However, I could easily excuse this defect in ayoung and unhappy woman, whose life had been hitherto a sad romance, theissue of which could not be foreseen. 

Once only did a suspicion or rather a presentiment cross my mind. OneSunday evening she failed to return home. I was in despair. What couldI do? Go to Saint-Germain? I might compromise her. Nevertheless, after adreadful night of anguish, I had decided on starting, when she arrived, looking pale and worried. Her sister was ill, she had been obliged tostay and nurse her. I believed all she told me, not distrusting theoverflow of words called forth by the slightest question, which swampedthe principal matter in a deluge of idle details: such as the hour ofarrival, the rudeness of a guard, the lateness of the train. Twice orthree times in the same week, she returned to Saint-Germain and sleptthere; then, her sister's illness over, she resumed her regular andpeaceful existence. 

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Unfortunately, shortly after this, she in her turn fell ill. She cameback one day from her lessons, shivering, wet, and fevered. Inflammationof the lungs set in; from the first her case was serious, and soon--thedoctor told me--hopeless. My despair was maddening. Then I thought onlyof soothing her last moments. The family she loved so well, of which shewas so proud, I would bring to her deathbed. Without letting her know, I first wrote to her sister at Saint-Germain, and I went off atonce myself to her uncle, the Chief Rabbi. I hardly remember at whatunreasonable hour I reached his house. Great catastrophes throw such aconfusion into life and upset every detail. I fancy the good Rabbi wasdining. He came out into the hall, wondering and amazed, to speak to me. 

"Monsieur, " I said to him, "there are moments when all hatred mustcease. "

He turned his venerable face towards me with a bewildered look. 

I resumed:

"Your niece is dying!"

"My niece! But I have no niece; you are mistaken. "

"Oh, Sir! I implore you, lay aside all foolish family rancour. I amspeaking of Madame Deloche, the wife of Captain----"

"I do not know Madame Deloche. You are mistaken, my son, I assure you. "

And he gently pushed me toward the door, taking me for a hoaxer ora madman. I must in fact have appeared very odd. What I heard was sounexpected, so terrible. She had lied to me then. Wherefore?

Suddenly an idea flashed across me. I directed the cabman to drive meto the address of one of those pupils of whom she had so often spoken tome, the daughter of a well-known banker. 

I inquired of the servant: "Madame Deloche?"

"There is no one here of that name. "

"Yes, I know that. It is a lady who gives music lessons to your youngladies. "

"We have no young ladies here, not even a piano. I don't know what youmean. "

And he angrily shut the door in my face. 

I made no further inquiries. I felt sure of meeting with the sameanswer, the same disappointment. On my return to our little house, they gave me a letter with the postmark of Saint-Germain. I openedit, instinctively guessing the contents. The Chief Ranger also had noknowledge of Madame Deloche. Moreover he had neither wife nor child. 

This was the last blow. Thus for five years each of her words had beena lie. A thousand jealous thoughts took possession of me, and madly, hardly knowing what I was about, I entered the room in which she wasdying. All the questions that were torturing me burst forth over thatbed of suffering: "Why did you go to Saint-Germain on Sundays? Where didyou spend your days? Where did you spend that night? Come, answerme. " And I bent over her, seeking in the depths of her still proud andbeautiful eyes answers that I awaited with anguish; but she remainedmute and impassive. 

I resumed, trembling with rage: "You never gave any lessons. I have beeneverywhere. Nobody knows you. Whence came that money, those laces, thosejewels?" She threw me a glance full of despairing sadness, and that wasall. In truth, I ought to have spared her, and allowed her to die inpeace. But I had loved her too well. My jealousy was stronger than mypity. I continued: "For five years you have deceived me, lying to meevery day, every hour. You knew my whole life, and I knew nothing ofyours. Nothing, not even your name. For it is not yours, is it, the nameyou bear? Ah liar! liar! What, she is going to die, and I do not evenknow by what name to call her! Come, tell me who you are? Whence comeyou? Why did you intrude into my life? Speak! Tell me something!"

Vain efforts! Instead of answering, she with difficulty turned her faceto the wall, as though she feared that her last glance might betray hersecret. And thus the unhappy creature died! Died without a word, liar tothe last. 

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THE COMTESSE IRMA. 

"_M. Charles d'Athis, literary man, has the honour to inform you of thebirth of his son Robert. _

"_The child is doing well. _"

Some dozen years ago, all literary and artistic Paris received thislittle note on the glossiest of paper, embossed with the arms of theCounts of d'Athis-Mons, of whom the last Charles d'Athis had--whilestill young--succeeded in making for himself a genuine reputation as apoet. 

"The child is doing well. " And the mother? Of her there was no mentionin the note. Every one knew her but too well. She was the daughter of anold poacher of Seine et Oise; a quondam model, named Irma Salle, whoseportrait had figured in every exhibition, as the original had in everystudio. Her low forehead, lip curled like an antique, this chance returnof the peasant's face to primitive lines--a turkey herd with Greekfeatures--the slightly tanned skin common to all whose childhoodis spent in the open air, giving to fair hair reflections of palesilkiness, adorned this minx with a kind of wild originality, completedby a pair of magnificently green eyes, burning beneath heavy eyebrows. 

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One night, on leaving a _bal de l'Opéra_, d'Athis had taken her to supwith him, and though this was two years ago, the supper still continued. But, whereas Irma had become completely a part of the poet's life, this intimation of the child's birth, curt and haughty as it was, sufficiently indicated how little she was considered by him. And intruth, in this temporary household, the woman was scarcely more than ahousekeeper, showing in the management of the gentleman-poet's housethe hard shrewdness of her dual nature of peasant and courtesan; andendeavouring, at no matter what price, to render herself indispensable. 

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Too rustic, and too stupid to understand anything of d'Athis' genius, ofthose fine verses, fashionable and refined, which made of him a sort ofParisian Tennyson, she nevertheless understood how to bend to all hiswhims, and be silent under his contempt; as if in the depths of thatpeasant nature lurked something of the boor's humble admiration for hislord. The birth of the child only served to accentuate her unimportancein the house. 

When the dowager Comtesse d'Athis-Mons, the mother of the poet, adistinguished and very great lady, learned that a grandson was born toher, a sweet little Vicomte, duly recognized and authenticated by theauthor of his being, * she was seized with a wish to see and kiss thechild. It was, to be sure, a rather bitter reflection for the formerreader to Queen Marie-Amélie to think that the heir of such a great nameshould have such a mother; but, keeping strictly to the terms ofthe _billets de faire pari_ the venerable lady could forget that thecreature existed. 

* According to French law, an unmarried man recognizing his illegitimatechild, thereby confers on him all the rights of a legitimate one, including both title and fortune. 

When she went to see the child out at nurse, she chose the days on whichshe would be sure not to meet any one; she admired him, spoilt him, tookhim to her heart, worshipped him with that grandmotherly adoration whichis the last love of a woman's life, giving her an excuse for livinga few years longer in order to see the little ones springing up andgrowing around her. Then when the baby Vicomte was a little bigger andreturned to live with his father and mother, a treaty was made, forthe Comtesse could not give up her beloved visits; at the sound of thegrandmother's ring, Irma humbly and silently disappeared, or else thechild was taken to his grandmother's house, and thus spoilt by histwo mothers. He loved them equally, somewhat astonished to feel inthe warmth of their caresses, a kind of exclusive-ness, a wish tomonopolize. D'Athis, careless of everything but his verses, absorbed byhis growing fame, was content to adore his little Robert, to talk of himto everyone and to imagine that the child belonged to him, and him only. This illusion did not last. 

"I should like to see you married, " his mother said to him one day. 

"Yes, but how about the child?" "Don't worry yourself about that. I havepicked out for you a young girl of good family but poor, who adores you. I have introduced Robert to her, and they are already great friends. Besides, the first year I will keep the darling with me. Afterwards, weshall see. "

[Illustration: p200-211]

"And--the mother?" hesitated the poet, reddening a little, for it wasthe first time that he had spoken of Irma to his mother. 

[Illustration: p201-212]

"Pooh!" replied the old dowager, laughing, "we will settle somethinghandsome on her, and I am quite sure she will soon be married also. The_bourgeois_ of Paris is not particular. "

That very evening, d'Athis, who had never been desperately in lovewith his mistress, spoke to her of these arrangements and found her asusual--submissive and apparently docile to his will. But the nextday, when he returned home, he found that mother and child had flown. Finally, they were discovered in a wretched hut on the borders of theForest of Rambouillet, with Irma's father; and when the poet arrived hefound his son, his young prince, in his velvet and lace, jumping onthe old poacher's knee, playing with his pipe, running after the hens, delighted to shake his fair curls in the fresh air. D'Athis, though muchupset by emotion, pretended to laugh the affair off, and wished at onceto take his fugitives home with him. But Irma did not see the matterin the same light. She had been dismissed; she took her child with her. What more natural? Nothing short of the poet's promise that he wouldgive up all thoughts of marriage decided her to return. Moreover, shemade her own conditions. It had been too long forgotten that she wasRobert's mother. Always to disappear and hide whenever Madame d'Athisappeared, was no longer possible for her. The child was growing too oldfor her to be exposed to such humiliations before him. It was thereforeagreed that as Madame d'Athis had refused to be brought into contactwith her son's mistress, she should no longer go to his house, but thatthe child should be brought to her every day. 

Then began for the old grandmother a regular torture. Every day freshpretexts were made to keep the child away; he had coughed, it was toocold, it was raining. Then came his walks, rides, gymnastic exercises. The poor old lady never saw her grandson. At first she tried complainingto d'Athis; but women alone have the secret of carrying on these littlewarfares. Their ruses remain invisible, like the hidden stitches whichcatch back the folds and laces of their dress. The poet could seenothing of it; and the saddened grandmother spent her life in waitingfor her darling's visit, in watching for him in the street, when hewalked out with a servant; and these furtive kisses and hasty glancesonly augmented her maternal passion without satisfying it. 

During this time, Irma Salle--always by means of the child--succeeded ingaining ground in the father's heart. She was the recognized head of thehouse now, received visitors, gave parties, settled herself as a womanwho means to remain where she is. Still she took care to say from timeto time to the little Vicomte, before his father: "Do you remember thechickens at Grandpapa Salle's? Shall we go back and see them?"

[Illustration: p204-215]

And by this everlasting threat of departure, she paved the way to theend she had in view--marriage. 

It took her five years to become a Comtesse, but at length she gainedher point. One day, the poet came in fear and trembling to announce tohis mother that he had decided to marry his mistress, and the old lady, instead of being indignant hailed the calamity as a deliverance, seeingbut one thing in the marriage; the possibility of once more entering herson's door, and of freely indulging her affection for her little Robert. 

[Illustration: p205-216]

In truth, the real honeymoon was for the grandmother. D'Athis, afterthis rash act, wished to be away from Paris for a time. He felt uneasythere. And as the child, clinging to his mother's skirts ruled thehouse, they all established themselves in Irma's native country, withinhail of old father Salle's chickens. It was indeed the most curious, themost ill-assorted household that could be imagined. Grandmama d'Athisand Grandpapa Salle met each night at the evening toilet of theirgrandson. The old poacher, his short black pipe wedged into the cornerof his mouth; and the former reader at the Tuileries, with her silveryhair, and her imposing manner, together watched the lovely child rollingbefore them on the carpet, and admired him equally. The one broughthim from Paris the newest, most expensive, most showy toys; the othermanufactured for him the most splendid whistles from bits of elder; and, by Jove! the Dauphin hesitated between them!

Upon the whole, among all these beings grouped as it were by forcearound a cradle, the only really unhappy one was Charles d'Athis. Hiselegant and patrician inspiration suffered from this life in the depthsof a forest, like a delicate Parisian woman for whom the country air istoo strong. He could no longer work, and far from that terrible Pariswho shuts her gates so quickly against the absent, he felt himselfalready nearly forgotten. Fortunately the child was there, and when thechild smiled, the father thought no more of his successes as a poet, norof the past of Irma Salle. 

And now, would you know the finale of this singular drama? Read thebrief note bordered with black, that I received only a few days ago, andwhich is the last page of this truly Parisian adventure:

"_M. Le Comte and Mme. La Comtesse d'Athis grieve to inform you of thedeath of their son Robert!_"

Unhappy creatures! Imagine them all four gazing at each other beforethat empty cradle!

[Illustration: p207-218]

[Illustration: p208-219]

[Illustration: p211-222]

THE CONFIDENCES OF AN ACADEMIC COAT. 

That morning was the dawn of a glorious day for the sculptor Guillardin. 

Elected on the previous day a member of the _Institut_, he was aboutto inaugurate before the five Academies gathered together in solemnconcourse, his academic coat, a magnificent garment ornamented withgreen palm-leaves, resplendent in its new cloth and silken embroidery, colour of hope. The blessed coat, opened ready to slip on, lay spread onan arm-chair, and Guillardin contemplated it tenderly as he arranged thebow of his white tie. 

"Above all no hurry, " thought the good fellow. "I have plenty of time. "

The fact is that in his feverish impatience he had dressed a couple ofhours too soon; and the beautiful Madame Guillardin--always very slowover her dressing--had positively declared that on this day she wouldonly be ready at the precise moment--not a minute earlier, do you hear!

Unfortunate Guillardin! What could he do to kill the time?

"Well, all the same, I will try on my coat, " he said, and gently asthough he were handling tulle and lace, he lifted the precious frippery, and having donned it with infinite precaution, he placed himself infront of his looking-glass. Oh! what a charming picture themirror disclosed to him! What an amiable little Academician, freshlyhatched, happy, smiling, grizzled, and protuberant, with arms too shortin proportion to his figure, which in the new sleeves acquired a stiffand automatic dignity!

[Illustration: p213-224]

Thoroughly satisfied with his appearance, Guillardin marched up anddown, bowed as though entering the Academy, smiled to his colleagues ofthe fine arts, and assumed academical attitudes. Nevertheless, whateverpride one may feel at one's personal appearance, it is impossible toremain two hours in full dress, before a looking-glass. At last ourAcademician felt somewhat fatigued, and fearful lest he should rumplehis coat, made up his mind to take it off and lay it back very carefullyon the arm-chair. Then seating himself opposite on the other side of thefireplace, with his legs stretched out and his two hands crossed overhis dress waistcoat, he began to indulge in sweet dreams as he gazed atthe green coat. 

Like the traveller who, arrived at the end of his journey, likesto remember the dangers and difficulties that have beset his path, Guillardin retraced his life, year by year, from the day when he beganto learn modelling in Jouffroy's studio. Ah! the outset is hard in thatconfounded profession. He remembered the fireless winters, the sleeplessnights, the endless walks in search of work, the desperate rageexperienced at feeling so small, so lost, and unknown in the immensecrowd that pushes, hustles, upsets, and crushes. And yet all alone, without patronage or money, he had managed to rise. By sheer talent, sir! And his head thrown back, and eyes half-shut, the worthy man keptrepeating out loud to himself: "By sheer talent. Nothing but talent. "

[Illustration: p215-226]

A long burst of laughter, dry and creaky like an old man's laugh, suddenly interrupted him. Slightly startled, Guillardin glanced aroundthe room. He was alone, quite alone, _tête-à-tête_ with his green coat, the ghost of an Academician solemnly spread out opposite him, on theother side of the fire. And still the insolent laugh rang on. Then ashe looked at it more intently, the sculptor almost fancied that his coatwas no longer in the place where he had put it, but really seated in thearm-chair, with tails turned up, and sleeves resting on the arms of thechair, the fronts puffed out with an appearance of life. Incredible asit may seem, it was this thing that was laughing. Yes, it was from thissingular green coat that arose the uncontrollable fits of laughter bywhich it was agitated, shaken and convulsed, causing it to jerk itstails, throw itself back in the chair, and at moments place its twosleeves against its sides, as though to check this supernatural andinextinguishable excess of mirth. At the same time, a feeble voice, slyand mischievous, could be heard saying between two hiccups: "Oh dear, oh dear, how it hurts one to laugh like this! How it hurts one to laughlike this!" "Who the devil is there, for mercy's sake?" asked the poorAcademician with wide staring eyes. 

The voice continued still more slyly and mischievously:

"But it's I, Monsieur Guillardin, I, your palm-embroidered coat, waitingfor you to start for the reception. I must crave pardon for having sounseasonably interrupted your musing; but really it is too funny to hearyou talk of your talent! I could not restrain myself. Come, you can't beserious? Can you conscientiously believe that your talent has sufficedto raise you so rapidly to the point you have attained in life; that ithas given you all you possess: honours, position, fame, fortune? Doyou really think that possible, Guillardin? Examine yourself, my dearfriend, before answering; go down, far, far down, into your inmostconscience. Now, answer me? Don't you see you dare not?"

"And yet, " stammered Guillardin, with comical hesitation, "I've.... I'veworked a great deal. "

"Oh yes, a great deal, you have fagged tremendously. You are a toiler, a drudge, you knock off a great deal of work. You count your task by thehour, like a cabdriver. But the spark, my dear boy, which, like a goldenbee flits through the brain of the true artist, and emits from its wingsboth light and music, when has it ever visited you? Not once, and youare well aware of it. It has always frightened you, that divine littlebee! And yet it is this only that gives real talent. Ah! I know many whoalso work, but very differently from you, with all the anxiety and feverof sincere research, and yet who will never reach the point you haveattained. Look here, acknowledge this much, now we are alone. Your onetalent has been marrying a pretty woman. "

"Monsieur!" interrupted Guillardin, turning purple. The voice proceededunchanged: "Ah well! This burst of indignation is a good sign. It provesto me what all the world knows indeed; that you are certainly more foolthan knave. Come, come, you need not roll such furious eyes at me. Inthe first place, if you touch me, if you make the least crease or tearin me, it will be impossible to go to the reception to-day, and then, what will Madame Guillardin say? For after all, it is to her that allthe glory of this great day is due. 

[Illustration: p219-230]

It is she whom the five Academies are about to receive, and I can assureyou that if I appeared at the _Institut_ on her pretty person, stillso elegant and slender notwithstanding her age, I should cut a verydifferent figure than with you. Confound it, Monsieur Guillardin, we must look facts in the face! You owe everything to that woman;everything, your house, your forty thousand francs (sixteen hundredpounds) a year, your cross of the Legion of Honour, your laurels, yourmedals. "

And with the gesture of a one-armed man, the green coat, with its emptyembroidered sleeve, pointed out to the unfortunate sculptor the gloriousinsignia hung up on the walls of his alcove. Then, as though wishingthe better to torment his victim, to assume every aspect, and everyattitude, the cruel coat drew nearer the fire, and leaning forward onhis arm-chair with a little old-fashioned and confidential air, he spokefamiliarly, in the tone of a long-established intimacy:

"Come, old boy, what I've said seems to upset you. Yet it is better youshould know what everybody is aware of. And who could tell you betterthan your own coat? Let us reason a little. What had you when youmarried? Nothing. What did your wife bring you? Nothing. Then how doyou explain your present fortune? You are going to repeat again that youhave, worked very hard. But my poor friend, working day and night, withall the patronage and the orders from government which have certainlynot been wanting to you since your marriage, you have never made morethan fifteen thousand francs (six hundred pounds) a year. Can you forone moment suppose that was sufficient to keep up an establishment likeyours? Remember that the beautiful Madame Guillardin has always beencited as a model of elegance, frequenting the richest society. Of courseI am well aware that shut up as you were from morning till night in yourstudio, you never gave a thought to all this. You were satisfied withsaying to your friends: 'I have a wife who is a surprisingly skilfulmanager. With what I gain, she not only pays our expenses, but managesalso to put by money. ' It was you who were surprising, poor man! Thetruth was that you had married one of those pretty little unscrupulouscreatures of which Paris is full, an ambitious flirt, serious in whatconcerned your interests and unprejudiced in regard of her own, knowinghow to reconcile your affairs and her pleasures. The life of thesewomen, my dear fellow, resembles a dance programme in which sums wouldbe placed side by side with the dancers' names. Yours reasoned in thefollowing manner: 'My husband has no talent, no fortune, no good lookseither; but he is an excellent man, good-natured, credulous, as littlein the way as possible. Provided he leaves me free to amuse myself asI choose, I can undertake to give him all he lacks!' And from that dayforth, money, orders, decorations from all countries kept pouringin upon your studio, with their pretty metallic sound and theirmany-coloured ribbons. Look at the row on my lapel. Then one finemorning, Madame was seized with the fancy--a fancy of beauty on thewane--to be the wife of an Academician, and it is her delicatelygloved hand that has opened before you one by one all the doors of thesanctuary. Ah! my poor old fellow, your colleagues alone can tell youwhat all these green palms have cost you!"

"You lie, you lie!" screamed Guillardin, half choked by indignation. 

"Ah no! my old friend, indeed I do not lie. You need only to lookaround you presently, when you enter the reception hall. You will see amalicious gleam in every eye, a smile at the corner of every lip, while they will whisper as you pass by: 'Here is the beautiful MadameGuillardin's husband. ' For you will never be anything else in life, mydear fellow, but the husband of a pretty woman. "

This time, Guillardin could bear it no longer. Pale with rage, hebounded forward, to seize and dash into the fire, after first tearingfrom it the pretty green palm wreath, this insolent and raving coat; buta door opens and a well-known voice, tinged with a mixture of contemptand mild condescension, opportunely awakes him from his horriblenightmare:

"Oh! that is just like you, asleep at the corner of the fire on such animportant day!"

And Madame Guillardin stands before him, tall and still handsome, although rather too imposing with her almost natural pink complexion, her powdered hair, and the exaggerated brilliancy of her painted eyes. With the gesture of the superior woman, she takes up the green-palmedcoat, and briskly, with a little smile, helps her husband to don it;while he, poor man, still trembling with the horrors of his nightmare, draws a deep sigh of relief and thinks to himself: "Thank goodness! Itwas a dream!"

[Illustration: p224-235]