COSMOPOLIS By Paul Bourget With a Preface by JULES LEMAITRE, of the French academy, PAUL BOURGET Born in Amiens, September 2, 1852, Paul Bourget was a pupil at theLycee Louis le Grand, and then followed a course at the Ecole des HautesEtudes, intending to devote himself to Greek philology. He, however, soon gave up linguistics for poetry, literary criticism, and fiction. When yet a very young man, he became a contributor to various journalsand reviews, among others to the 'Revue des deux Mondes, La Renaissance, Le Parlement, La Nouvelle Revue', etc. He has since given himself upalmost exclusively to novels and fiction, but it is necessary to mentionhere that he also wrote poetry. His poetical works comprise: 'Poesies(1872-876), La Vie Inquiete (1875), Edel (1878), and Les Aveux (1882)'. With riper mind and to far better advantage, he appeared a few yearslater in literary essays on the writers who had most influenced hisown development--the philosophers Renan, Taine, and Amiel, the poetsBaudelaire and Leconte de Lisle; the dramatist Dumas fils, and thenovelists Turgenieff, the Goncourts, and Stendhal. Brunetiere saysof Bourget that "no one knows more, has read more, read better, ormeditated, more profoundly upon what he has read, or assimilated itmore completely. " So much "reading" and so much "meditation, " even whenaccompanied by strong assimilative powers, are not, perhaps, the mostdesirable and necessary tendencies in a writer of verse or of fiction. To the philosophic critic, however, they must evidently be invaluable;and thus it is that in a certain self-allotted domain of literaryappreciation allied to semi-scientific thought, Bourget stands to-daywithout a rival. His 'Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine (1883), Nouveaux Essais (1885), and Etudes et Portraits (1888)' are certainlynot the work of a week, but rather the outcome of years of self-cultureand of protracted determined endeavor upon the sternest lines. In fact, for a long time, Bourget rose at 3 a. M. And elaborated anxiously studyafter study, and sketch after sketch, well satisfied when he sometimesnoticed his articles in the theatrical 'feuilleton' of the 'Globe' andthe 'Parlement', until he finally contributed to the great 'Debats'itself. A period of long, hard, and painful probation must always belaid down, so to speak, as the foundation of subsequent literary fame. But France, fortunately for Bourget, is not one of those places wherethe foundation is likely to be laid in vain, or the period of probationto endure for ever and ever. In fiction, Bourget carries realistic observation beyond the externals(which fixed the attention of Zola and Maupassant) to states of themind: he unites the method of Stendhal to that of Balzac. He is alwaysinteresting and amusing. He takes himself seriously and persists inregarding the art of writing fiction as a science. He has wit, humor, charm, and lightness of touch, and ardently strives after philosophy andintellectuality--qualities that are rarely found in fiction. It may wellbe said of M. Bourget that he is innocent of the creation of a singlestupid character. The men and women we read of in Bourget's novels areso intellectual that their wills never interfere with their hearts. The list of his novels and romances is a long one, considering the factthat his first novel, 'L'Irreparable, ' appeared as late as 1884. Itwas followed by 'Cruelle Enigme (1885); Un Crime d'Amour (1886); AndreCornelis and Mensonges (1887); Le Disciple (1889); La Terre promise;Cosmopolis (1892), crowned by the Academy; Drames de Famille (1899);Monique (1902)'; his romances are 'Une Idylle tragique (1896); LaDuchesse Bleue (1898); Le Fantome (1901); and L'Etape (1902)'. 'Le Disciple' and 'Cosmopolis' are certainly notable books. The lattermarks the cardinal point in Bourget's fiction. Up to that time he hadseen environment more than characters; here the dominant interest ispsychic, and, from this point on, his characters become more and morelike Stendhal's, "different from normal clay. " Cosmopolis is perfectlycharming. Bourget is, indeed, the past-master of "psychological"fiction. To sum up: Bourget is in the realm of fiction what Frederic Amiel isin the realm of thinkers and philosophers--a subtle, ingenious, highlygifted student of his time. With a wonderful dexterity of pen, a veryacute, almost womanly intuition, and a rare diffusion of grace about allhis writings, it is probable that Bourget will remain less known as acritic than as a romancer. Though he neither feels like Loti nor seeslike Maupassant--he reflects. JULES LEMAITRE de l'Academie Francaise. AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION I send you, my dear Primoli, from beyond the Alps, the romance ofinternational life, begun in Italy almost under your eyes, to which Ihave given for a frame that ancient and noble Rome of which you are soardent an admirer. To be sure, the drama of passion which this book depicts has noparticularly Roman features, and nothing was farther from my thoughtsthan to trace a picture of the society so local, so traditional, whichexists between the Quirinal and the Vatican. The drama is not evenItalian, for the scene might have been laid, with as much truth, atVenice, Florence, Nice, St. Moritz, even Paris or London, the variouscities which are like quarters scattered over Europe of the fluctuating'Cosmopolis, ' christened by Beyle: 'Vengo adesso da Cosmopoli'. It isthe contrast between the rather incoherent ways of the rovers of highlife and the character of perennity impressed everywhere in the greatcity of the Caesars and of the Popes which has caused me to choose thespot where even the corners speak of a secular past, there to evoke somerepresentatives of the most modern, as well as the most arbitrary andthe most momentary, life. You, who know better than any one the motleyworld of cosmopolites, understand why I have confined myself to paintinghere only a fragment of it. That world, indeed, does not exist, it canhave neither defined customs nor a general character. It is composedof exceptions and of singularities. We are so naturally creatures ofcustom, our continual mobility has such a need of gravitating around onefixed axis, that motives of a personal order alone can determine us uponan habitual and voluntary exile from our native land. It is so, now inthe case of an artist, a person seeking for instruction and change; nowin the case of a business man who desires to escape the consequences ofsome scandalous error; now in the case of a man of pleasure in searchof new adventures; in the case of another, who cherishes prejudicesfrom birth, it is the longing to find the "happy mean;" in the case ofanother, flight from distasteful memories. The life of the cosmopolitecan conceal all beneath the vulgarity of its whims, from snobberyin quest of higher connections to swindling in quest of easier prey, submitting to the brilliant frivolities of the sport, the sombreintrigues of policy, or the sadness of a life which has been a failure. Such a variety of causes renders at once very attractive and almostimpracticable the task of the author who takes as a model thatever-changing society so like unto itself in the exterior ritesand fashions, so really, so intimately complex and composite in itsfundamental elements. The writer is compelled to take from it a seriesof leading facts, as I have done, essaying to deduce a law which governsthem. That law, in the present instance, is the permanence of race. Contradictory as may appear this result, the more one studies thecosmopolites, the more one ascertains that the most irreducible ideawithin them is that special strength of heredity which slumbers beneaththe monotonous uniform of superficial relations, ready to reawaken assoon as love stirs the depths of the temperament. But there again adifficulty, almost insurmountable, is met with. Obliged to concentratehis action to a limited number of personages, the novelist can notpretend to incarnate in them the confused whole of characters which thevague word race sums up. Again, taking this book as an example, you andI, my dear Primoli, know a number of Venetians and of English women, of Poles and of Romans, of Americans and of French who have nothingin common with Madame Steno, Maud and Boleslas Gorka, Prince d'Ardea, Marquis Cibo, Lincoln Maitland, his brother-in-law, and the Marquis deMontfanon, while Justus Hafner only represents one phase out of twentyof the European adventurer, of whom one knows neither his religion, his family, his education, his point of setting out, nor his point ofarriving, for he has been through various ways and means. My ambitionwould be satisfied were I to succeed in creating here a group ofindividuals not representative of the entire race to which they belong, but only as possibly existing in that race--or those races. For severalof them, Justus Hafner and his daughter Fanny, Alba Steno, FlorentChapron, Lydia Maitland, have mixed blood in their veins. May thesepersonages interest you, my dear friend, and become to you as real asthey have been to me for some time, and may you receive them in yourpalace of Tor di Nona as faithful messengers of the grateful affectionfelt for you by your companion of last winter. PAUL BOURGET. PARIS, November 16, 1892. COSMOPOLIS BOOK 1. CHAPTER I. A DILETTANTE AND A BELIEVER Although the narrow stall, flooded with heaped-up books and papers, leftthe visitor just room enough to stir, and although that visitor was oneof his regular customers, the old bookseller did not deign to move fromthe stool upon which he was seated, while writing on an unsteady desk. His odd head, with its long, white hair, peeping from beneath a onceblack felt hat with a broad brim, was hardly raised at the sound ofthe opening and shutting of the door. The newcomer saw an emaciated, shriveled face, in which, from behind spectacles, two brown eyestwinkled slyly. Then the hat again shaded the paper, which the knottyfingers, with their dirty nails, covered with uneven lines traced ina handwriting belonging to another age, and from the thin, tall form, enveloped in a greenish, worn-out coat, came a faint voice, the voice ofa man afflicted with chronic laryngitis, uttering as an apology, with astrong Italian accent, this phrase in French: "One moment, Marquis, the muse will not wait. " "Very well, I will; I am no muse. Listen to your inspirationcomfortably, Ribalta, " replied, with a laugh, he whom the vendor ofold books received with such original unconstraint. He was evidentlyaccustomed to the eccentricities of the strange merchant. In Rome--forthis scene took place in a shop at the end of one of the most ancientstreets of the Eternal City, a few paces from the Place d'Espagne, sowell known to tourists--in the city which serves as a confluent for somany from all points of the world, has not that sense of the odd beenobliterated by the multiplicity of singular and anomalous types strandedand sheltering there? You will find there revolutionists like boorishRibalta, who is ending in a curiosity-shop a life more eventful than themost eventful of the sixteenth century. Descended from a Corsican family, this personage came to Rome when veryyoung, about 1835, and at first became a seminarist. On the point ofbeing ordained a priest, he disappeared only to return, in 1849, so rabid a republican that he was outlawed at the time of thereestablishment of the pontifical government. He then served assecretary to Mazzini, with whom he disagreed for reasons which clashedwith Ribalta's honor. Would passion for a woman have involved him insuch extravagance? In 1870 Ribalta returned to Rome, where he opened, if one may apply such a term to such a hole, a book-shop. But he is anamateur bookseller, and will refuse you admission if you displease him. Having inherited a small income, he sells or he does not, following hisfancy or the requirements of his own purchases, to-day asking you twentyfrancs for a wretched engraving for which he paid ten sous, to-morrowgiving you at a low price a costly book, the value of which he knows. Rabid Gallophobe, he never pardoned his old general the campaign ofDijon any more than he forgave Victor Emmanuel for having left theVatican to Pius IX. "The house of Savoy and the papacy, " said he, whenhe was confidential, "are two eggs which we must not eat on the samedish. " And he would tell of a certain pillar of St. Peter's hollowedinto a staircase by Bernin, where a cartouch of dynamite was placed. If you were to ask him why he became a book collector, he would bid youstep over a pile of papers, of boarding and of folios. Then he wouldshow you an immense chamber, or rather a shed, where thousands ofpamphlets were piled up along the walls: "These are the rules of allthe convents suppressed by Italy. I shall write their history. " Then hewould stare at you, for he would fear that you might be a spy sentby the king with the sole object of learning the plans of his mostdangerous enemy--one of those spies of whom he has been so much in awethat for twenty years no one has known where he slept, where he ate, where he hid when the shutters of his shop in the Rue Borgognona wereclosed. He expected, on account of his past, and his secret manner, to be arrested at the time of the outrage of Passanante as one of themembers of those Circoli Barsanti, to whom a refractory corporal gavehis name. But, on examining the dusty cartoons of the old book-stall, the policediscovered nothing except a prodigious quantity of grotesque versesdirected against the Piedmontese and the French, against the Germans andthe Triple Alliance, against the Italian republicans and the ministers, against Cavour and Signor Crispi, against the University of Rome and theInquisition, against the monks and the capitalists! It was, no doubt, one of those pasquinades which his customers watched him at work upon, thinking, as he did so, how Rome abounded in paradoxical meetings. For, in 1867, that same old Garibaldian exchanged shots at Mentana withthe Pope's Zouaves, among whom was Marquis de Montfanon, for so wascalled the visitor awaiting Ribalta's pleasure. Twenty-three years hadsufficed to make of the two impassioned soldiers of former days twoinoffensive men, one of whom sold old volumes to the other! And thereis a figure such as you will not find anywhere else--the French noblemanwho has come to die near St. Peter's. Would you believe, to see him with his coarse boots, dressed in a simplecoat somewhat threadbare, a round hat covering his gray head, that youhave before you one of the famous Parisian dandies of 1864? Listento this other history. Scruples of devoutness coming in the wake of aserious illness cast at one blow the frequenter of the 'Cafe Anglais'and gay suppers into the ranks of the pontifical zouaves. A firstsojourn in Rome during the last four years of the government of Pius IX, in that incomparable city to which the presentiment of the approachingtermination of a secular rule, the advent of the Council, and the Frenchoccupation gave a still more peculiar character, was enchantment. Allthe germs of piety instilled in the nobleman by the education of theJesuits of Brughetti ended by reviving a harvest of noble virtues, in the days of trial which came only too quickly. Montfanon made thecampaign of France with the other zouaves, and the empty sleeve whichwas turned up in place of his left arm attested with what courage hefought at Patay, at the time of that sublime charge when the heroicGeneral de Sonis unfurled the banner of the Sacred Heart. He had been aduelist, sportsman, gambler, lover, but to those of his old companionsof pleasure whom chance brought to Rome he was only a devotee who livedeconomically, notwithstanding the fact that he had saved the remnants ofa large fortune for alms, for reading and for collecting. Every one has that vice, more or less, in Rome, which is in itself themost surprising museum of history and of art. Montfanon is collectingdocuments in order to write the history of the French nobility and ofthe Church. His mistresses of the time when he was the rival of theGramont-Caderousses and the Demidoffs would surely not recognize himany more than he would them. But are they as happy as he seems to haveremained through his life of sacrifice? There is laughter in his blueeyes, which attest his pure Germanic origin, and which light up hisface, one of those feudal faces such as one sees in the portraits hungupon the walls of the priories of Malta, where plainness has race. Athick, white moustache, in which glimmers a vague reflection of gold, partly hides a scar which would give to that red face a terrible lookwere it not for the expression of those eyes, in which there is fervormingled with merriment. For Montfanon is as fanatical on certainsubjects as he is genial and jovial on others. If he had the power hewould undoubtedly have Ribalta arrested, tried, and condemned withintwenty-four hours for the crime of free-thinking. Not having it, heamused himself with him, so much the more so as the vanquished Catholicand the discontented Socialists have several common hatreds. Even onthis particular morning we have seen with what indulgence he bore thebrusqueness of the old bookseller, at whom he gazed for ten minuteswithout disconcerting him in the least. At length the revolutionistseemed to have finished his epigram, for with a quiet smile he carefullyfolded the sheet of paper, put it in a wooden box which he locked. Thenhe turned around. "What do you desire, Marquis?" he asked, without any furtherpreliminary. "First of all, you will have to read me your poem, old redshirt, " saidMontfanon, "which will only be my recompense for having awaited yourgood pleasure more patiently than an ambassador. Let us see whom are youabusing in those verses? Is it Don Ciccio or His Majesty? You will notreply? Are you afraid that I shall denounce you at the Quirinal?" "No flies enter a closed mouth, " replied the old conspirator, justifyingthe proverb by the manner in which he shut his toothless mouth, intowhich, indeed, at that moment, neither a fly nor the tiniest grain ofdust could enter. "An excellent saying, " returned the Marquis, with a laugh, "and one Ishould like to see engraved on the facade of all the modern parliaments. But between your poetry and your adages have you taken the time towrite for me to that bookseller at Vienna, who owns the last copy of thepamphlet on the trial of the bandit Hafner?" "Patience, " said the merchant. "I will write. " "And my document on the siege of Rome, by Bourbon, those three notarialdeeds which you promised me, have you dislodged them?" "Patience, patience, " repeated the merchant, adding, as he pointed witha comical mixture of irony and of despair to the disorder in his shop, "How can you expect me to know where I am in the midst of all this?" "Patience, patience, " repeated Montfanon. "For a month you have beensinging that old refrain. If, instead of composing wretched verses, you would attend to your correspondence, and, if, instead of buyingcontinually, you would classify this confused mass. .. . But, " said he, more seriously, with a brusque gesture, "I am wrong to reproach you foryour purchases, since I have come to speak to you of one of the last. Cardinal Guerillot told me that you showed him, the other day, aninteresting prayer-book, although in very bad condition, which you foundin Tuscany. Where is it?" "Here it is, " said Ribalta, who, leaping over several piles of volumesand thrusting aside with his foot an enormous heap of cartoons, openedthe drawer of a tottering press. In that drawer he rummaged among anaccumulation of odd, incongruous objects: old medals and old nails, bookbindings and discolored engravings, a large leather box gnawed byinsects, on the outside of which could be distinguished a partly effacedcoat-of-arms. He opened that box and extended toward Montfanon a volumecovered with leather and studded. One of the clasps was broken, and whenthe Marquis began to turn over the pages, he could see that the interiorhad not been better taken care of than the exterior. Colored prints hadoriginally ornamented the precious work; they were almost effaced. Theyellow parchment had been torn in places. Indeed, it was a shapelessruin which the curious nobleman examined, however, with the greatestcare, while Ribalta made up his mind to speak. "A widow of Montalcino, in Tuscany, sold it to me. She asked me anenormous price, and it is worth it, although it is slightly damaged. Forthose are miniatures by Matteo da Siena, who made them for Pope PiusII Piccolomini. Look at the one which represents Saint Blaise, who isblessing the lions and panthers. It is the best preserved. Is it notfine?" "Why try to deceive me, Ribalta?" interrupted Montfanon, with a gestureof impatience. "You know as well as I that these miniatures are verymediocre, and that they do not in the least resemble Matteo's compactwork; and another proof is that the prayerbook is dated 1554. See!"and, with his remaining hand, very adroitly he showed the merchant thefigures; "and as I have quite a memory for dates, and as I am interestedin Siena, I have not forgotten that Matteo died before 1500. I did notgo to college with Machiavelli, " continued he, with some brusqueness, "but I will tell you that which the Cardinal would have told you if youhad not deceived him by your finesse, as you tried to deceive me justnow. Look at this partly effaced signature, which you have not been ableto read. I will decipher it for you. Blaise de Mo, and then a c, withseveral letters missing, just three, and that makes Montluc in theorthography of the time, and the b is in a handwriting which you mighthave examined in the archives of that same Siena, since you come fromthere. Now, with regard to this coat-of-arms, " and he closed the book todetail to his stupefied companion the arms hardly visible on the cover, "do you see a wolf, which was originally of gold, and turtles of gales?Those are the arms which Montluc has borne since the year 1554, when hewas made a citizen of Siena for having defended it so bravely againstthe terrible Marquis de Marignan. As for the box, " he took it in itsturn to study it, "these are really the half-moons of the Piccolominis. But what does that prove? That after the siege, and just as it wasnecessary to retire to Montalcino, Montluc gave his prayer-book, as asouvenir, to some of that family. The volume was either lost or stolen, and finally reduced to the state in which it now is. This book, too, isproof that a little French blood was shed in the service of Italy. Butthose who have sold it have forgotten that, like Magenta and Solferino, you have only memory for hatred. Now that you know why I want yourprayer-book, will you sell it to me for five hundred francs?" The bookseller listened to that discourse with twenty contradictoryexpressions upon his face. From force of habit he felt for Montfanon asort of respect mingled with animosity, which evidently rendered it verypainful for him to have been surprised in the act of telling an untruth. It is necessary, to be just, to add that in speaking of the greatpainter Matteo and of Pope Pius II in connection with that unfortunatevolume, he had not thought that the Marquis, ordinarily very economicaland who limited his purchases to the strict domain of ecclesiasticalhistory, would have the least desire for that prayer-book. He hadmagnified the subject with a view to forming a legend and to takingadvantage of some rich, unversed amateur. On the other hand, if the name of Montluc meant absolutely nothing tohim, it was not the same with the direct and brutal allusion which hisinterlocutor had made to the war of 1859. It is always a thorn in theflesh of those of our neighbors from beyond the Alps who do not love us. The pride of the Garibaldian was not far behind the generosity of theformer zouave. With an abruptness equal to that of Montfanon, he tookup the volume and grumbled as he turned it over and over in his inkyfingers: "I would not sell it for six hundred francs. No, I would not sell it forsix hundred francs. " "It is a very large sum, " said Montfanon. "No, " continued the good man, "I would not sell it. " Then extending itto the Marquis, in evident excitement, he cried: "But to you I will sellit for four hundred francs. " "But I have offered you five hundred francs for it, " said the nonplussedpurchaser. "You know that is a small sum for such a curiosity. " "Take it for four, " insisted Ribalta, growing more and more eager, "nota sou less, not a sou more. It is what it cost me. And you shall haveyour documents in two days and the Hafner papers this week. But wasthat Bourbon who sacked Rome a Frenchman?" he continued. "And Charlesd'Anjou, who fell upon us to make himself King of the two Sicilies? AndCharles VIII, who entered by the Porte du Peuple? Were they Frenchmen?Why did they come to meddle in our affairs? Ah, if we were to calculateclosely, how much you owe us! Was it not we who gave you Mazarin, Massena, Bonaparte and many others who have gone to die in your army inRussia, in Spain and elsewhere? And at Dijon? Did not Garibaldi stupidlyfight for you, who would have taken from him his country? We are quitson the score of service. .. . But take your prayer-book-good-evening, good-evening. You can pay me later. " And he literally pushed the Marquis out of the stall, gesticulating andthrowing down books on all sides. Montfanon found himself in the streetbefore having been able to draw from his pocket the money he had gotready. "What a madman! My God, what a madman!" said he to himself, with alaugh. He left the shop at a brisk pace, with the precious book underhis arm. He understood, from having frequently come in contact withthem, those southern natures, in which swindling and chivalry elbowwithout harming one another--Don Quixotes who set their own windmills inmotion. He asked himself: "How much would he still make after playing the magnamimous with me?"His question was never to be answered, nor was he to know that Ribaltahad bought the rare volume among a heap of papers, engravings, and oldbooks, paying twenty-five francs for all. Moreover, two encounters whichfollowed one upon the other on leaving the shop, prevented him frommeditating on that problem of commercial psychology. He paused for amoment at the end of the street to cast a glance at the Place d'Espagne, which he loved as one of those corners unchanged for the last thirtyyears. On that morning in the early days of May, the square, with itssinuous edge, was indeed charming with bustle and light, with thehouses which gave it a proper contour, with the double staircase of LaTrinite-des-Monts lined with idlers, with the water which gushed froma large fountain in the form of a bark placed in the centre-one ofthe innumerable caprices in which the fancy of Bernin, that illusivedecorator, delighted to indulge. Indeed, at that hour and in that light, the fountain was as natural in effect as were the nimble hawkers whoheld in their extended arms baskets filled with roses, narcissus, redanemones, fragile cyclamens and dark pansies. Barefooted, with sparklingeyes, entreaties upon their lips, they glided among the carriages whichpassed along rapidly, fewer than in the height of the season, stillquite numerous, for spring was very late this year, and it camewith delightful freshness. The flower-sellers besieged the hurriedpassers-by, as well as those who paused at the shop-windows, and, devoutCatholic as Montfanon was, he tasted, in the face of the picturesquescene of a beautiful morning in his favorite city, the pleasure ofcrowning that impression of a bright moment by a dream of eternity. He had only to turn his eyes to the right, toward the College de laPropagande, a seminary from which all the missions of the world set out. But it was decreed that the impassioned nobleman should not enjoyundisturbed the bibliographical trifle obtained so cheaply and which hecarried under his arm, nor that feeling so thoroughly Roman; a suddenapparition surprised him at the corner of a street, at an angle of thesidewalk. His bright eyes lost their serenity when a carriage passed byhim, a carriage, perfectly appointed, drawn by two black horses, andin which, notwithstanding the early hour, sat two ladies. The one wasevidently an inferior, a companion who acted as chaperon to the other, a young girl of almost sublime beauty, with large black eyes, whichcontrasted strongly with a pale complexion, but a pallor in which therewas warmth and life. Her profile, of an Oriental purity, was so muchon the order of the Jewish type that it left scarcely a doubt as to theHebrew origin of the creature, a veritable vision of loveliness, whoseemed created, as the poets say, "To draw all hearts in her wake. "But no! The jovial, kindly face of the Marquis suddenly darkened as hewatched the girl about to turn the corner of the street, and whobowed to a very fashionable young man, who undoubtedly knew the latepontifical zouave, for he approached him familiarly, saying, in amocking tone and in a French which came direct from France: "Well! Now I have caught you, Marquis Claude-Francois de Montfanon!. .. She has come, you have seen her, you have been conquered. Have your eyesfeasted upon divine Fanny Hafner? Tremble! I shall denounce you to hisEminence, Cardinal Guerillot; and if you malign his charming catechistI will be there to testify that I saw you hypnotized as she passed, aswere the people of Troy by Helen. And I know very positively that Helenhad not so modern a grace, so beautiful a mind, so ideal a profile, sodeep a glance, so dreamy a mouth and such a smile. Ah, how lovely sheis! When shall you call?" "If Monsieur Julien Dorsenne, " replied Montfanon, in the same mockingtone, "does not pay more attention to his new novel than he is doingat this moment, I pity his publisher. Come here, " he added, brusquely, dragging the young man to the angle of Rue Borgognona. "Did you see thevictoria stop at No. 13, and the divine Fanny, as you call her, alight?. .. . She has entered the shop of that old rascal, Ribalta. She will notremain there long. She will come out, and she will drive away in hercarriage. It is a pity she will not pass by us again. We should havehad the pleasure of seeing her disappointed air. This is what she is insearch of, " added he, with a gay laugh, exhibiting his purchase, "butwhich she could not have were she to offer all the millions which herhonest father has stolen in Vienna. Ha, ha!" he concluded, laughingstill more heartily, "Monsieur de Montfanon rose first; this morninghas not been lost, and you, Monsieur, can see what I obtained at thecuriosity-shop of that old fellow who will not make a plaything of thisobject, at least, " he added, extending the book to his interlocutor, atwhom he glanced with a comical expression of triumph. "I do not wish to look at it, " responded Dorsenne. "But, yes, " hecontinued, as Montfanon shrugged his shoulders, "in my capacity ofnovelist and observer, since you cast it at my head, I know already whatit is. What do you bet?. .. It is a prayer-book which bears the signatureof Marshal de Montluc, and which Cardinal Guerillot discovered. Is thattrue? He spoke to Mademoiselle Hafner about it, and he thought he wouldmitigate your animosity toward her by telling you she was an enthusiastand wished to buy it. Is that true as well? And you, wretched man, hadonly one thought, to deprive that poor little thing of the trifle. Is that true? We spent the evening before last together at CountessSteno's; she talked to me of nothing but her desire to have the book onwhich the illustrious soldier, the great believer, had prayed. She toldme of all her heroic resolutions. Later she went to buy it. But theshop was closed; I noticed it on passing, and you certainly went there, too. .. . Is that true?. .. And, now that I have detailed to you the story, explain to me, you who are so just, why you cherish an antipathy sobitter and so childish--excuse the word!--for an innocent, young girl, who has never speculated on 'Change, who is as charitable as a wholeconvent, and who is fast becoming as devout as yourself. Were it notfor her father, who will not listen to the thought of conversion beforemarriage, she would already be a Catholic, and--Protestants as they arefor the moment--she would never go anywhere but to church. .. When she isaltogether a Catholic, and under the protection of a Sainte-Claudine anda Sainte-Francoise, as you are under the protection of Saint-Claude andSaint-Francois, you will have to lay down your arms, old leaguer, andacknowledge the sincerity of the religious sentiments of that child whohas never harmed you. " "What! She has done nothing to me?". .. Interrupted Montfanon. "But it isquite natural that a sceptic should not comprehend what she has done tome, what she does to me daily, not to me personally, but to my opinions. When one has, like you, learned intellectual athletics in the circus ofthe Sainte-Beuves and Renans, one must think it fine that Catholicism, that grand thing, should serve as a plaything for the daughter of apirate who aims at an aristocratic marriage. It may, too, amuse youthat my holy friend, Cardinal Guerillot, should be the dupe of thatintriguer. But I, Monsieur, who have received the sacrament by the sideof a Sonis, I can not admit that one should make use of what was thefaith of that hero to thrust one's self into the world. I do not admitthat one should play the role of dupe and accomplice to an old man whomI venerate and whom I shall enlighten, I give you my word. " "And as for this ancient relic, " he continued, again showing thevolume, "you may think it childish that I do not wish it mixed up in theshameful comedy. But no, it shall not be. They shall not exhibit withwords of emotion, with tearful eyes, this breviary on which once prayedthat grand soldier; yes, Monsieur, that great believer. She has donenothing to me, " he repeated, growing more and more excited, his redface becoming purple with rage, "but they are the quintessence of whatI detest the most, people like her and her father. They are theincarnation of the modern world, in which there is nothing moredespicable than these cosmopolitan adventurers, who play at grandseigneur with the millions filibustered in some stroke on the Bourse. First, they have no country. What is this Baron Justus Hafner--German, Austrian, Italian? Do you know? They have no religion. The name, thefather's face, that of the daughter, proclaim them Jews, and they areProtestants--for the moment, as you have too truthfully said, while theyprepare themselves to become Mussulmen or what not. For the moment, when it is a question of God!. .. They have no family. Where was this manreared? What did his father, his mother, his brothers, his sisters do?Where did he grow up? Where are his traditions? Where is his past, allthat constitutes, all that establishes the moral man?. .. Just look. Allis mystery in this personage, excepting this, which is very clear: if hehad received his due in Vienna, at the time of the suit of the 'CreditAustro-Dalmate', in 1880, he would be in the galleys, instead of inRome. The facts were these: there were innumerable failures. I knowsomething about it. My poor cousin De Saint-Remy, who was with the Comtede Chambord, lost the bread of his old age and his daughter's dowry. There were suicides and deeds of violence, notably that of a certainSchroeder, who went mad on account of that crash, and who killedhimself, after murdering his wife and his two children. And the Baroncame out of it unsullied. It is not ten years since the occurrence, andit is forgotten. When he settled in Rome he found open doors, extendedhands, as he would have found them in Madrid, London, Paris, orelsewhere. People go to his house; they receive him! And you wish meto believe in the devoutness of that man's daughter!. .. No, a thousandtimes no; and you yourself, Dorsenne, with your mania for paradoxes andsophisms, you have the right spirit in you, and these people horrify youin reality, as they do me. " "Not the least in the world, " replied the writer, who had listened tothe Marquis's tirade; with an unconvinced smile, he repeated: "Notthe least in the world. .. . You have spoken of me as an acrobat or anathlete. I am not offended, because it is you, and because I know thatyou love me dearly. Let me at least have the suppleness of one. First, before passing judgment on a financial affair I shall wait until Iunderstand it. Hafner was acquitted. That is enough, for one thing. Werehe even the greatest rogue in the universe, that would not prevent hisdaughter from being an angel, for another. As for that cosmopolitanismfor which you censure him, we do not agree there; it is just that whichinterests me in him. Thirdly, . .. I should not consider that I had lostthe six months spent in Rome, if I had met only him. Do not look atme as if I were one of the patrons of the circus, Uncle Beuve, or poorMonsieur Renan himself, " he continued, tapping the Marquis's shoulder. "I swear to you that I am very serious. Nothing interests me more thanthese exceptions to the general rule--than those who have passed throughtwo, three, four phases of existence. Those individuals are mymuseum, and you wish me to sacrifice to your scruples one of my finestsubjects. .. . Moreover, "--and the malice of the remark he was about tomake caused the young man's eyes to sparkle "revile Baron Hafner as muchas you like, " he continued; "call him a thief and a snob, an intriguerand a knave, if it pleases you. But as for being a person who does notknow where his ancestors lived, I reply, as did Bonhomet when hereached heaven and the Lord said to him: 'Still a chimney-doctor, Bonhomet?'--'And you, Lord?'. For you were born in Bourgogne, Monsieurde Montfanon, of an ancient family, related to all the nobility-uponwhich I congratulate you--and you have lived here in Rome for almosttwenty-four years, in the Cosmopolis which you revile. " "First of all, " replied the Pope's former soldier, holding up hismutilated arm, "I might say that I no longer count, I do not live. Andthen, " his face became inspired, and the depths of that narrow mind, often blinded but very exalted, suddenly appeared, "and then, my Rometo me, Monsieur, has nothing in common with that of Monsieur Hafner norwith yours, since you are come, it seems, to pursue studies of moralteratology. Rome to me is not Cosmopolis, as you say, it is Metropolis, it is the mother of cities. .. . You forget that I am a Catholic in everyfibre, and that I am at home here. I am here because I am a monarchist, because I believe in old France as you believe in the modern world; andI serve her in my fashion, which is not very efficacious, but which isone way, nevertheless. .. . The post of trustee of Saint Louis, which Iaccepted from Corcelle, is to me my duty, and I will sustain it in thebest way in my power. .. . Ah! that ancient France, how one feels hergrandeur here, and what a part she is known to have had in Christianity!It is that chord which I should like to have heard vibrate in a fluentwriter like you, and not eternally those paradoxes, those sophisms. Butwhat matters it to you who date from yesterday and who boast of it, "he added, almost sadly, "that in the most insignificant corners of thiscity centuries of history abound? Does your heart blush at the sight ofthe facade of the church of Saint-Louis, the salamander of Francois Iand the lilies? Do you know why the Rue Bargognona is called thus, and that near by is Saint-Claudedes-Bourguignons, our church? Haveyou visited, you who are from the Vosges, that of your province, Saint-Nicolas-des-Lorrains? Do you know Saint-Yves-des-Bretons?" "But, " and here his voice assumed a gay accent, "I have thoroughlycharged into that rascal of a Hafner. I have laid him before you withoutany hesitation. I have spoken to you as I feel, with all the fervor ofmy heart, although it may seem sport to you. You will be punished, forI shall not allow you to escape. I will take you to the France of otherdays. You shall dine with me at noon, and between this and then we willmake the tour of those churches I have just named. During that time wewill go back one hundred and fifty years in the past, into that worldin which there were neither cosmopolites nor dilettantes. It is the oldworld, but it is hardy, and the proof is that it has endured; while yoursociety-look where it is after one hundred years in France, in Italy, inEngland--thanks to that detestable Gladstone, of whom pride has made asecond Nebuchadnezzar. It is like Russia, your society; according to theonly decent words of the obscene Diderot, 'rotten before mature!' Come, will you go?" "You are mistaken, " replied the writer, "in thinking that. I do not loveyour old France, but that does not prevent me from enjoying the new. Onecan like wine and champagne at the same time. But I am not at liberty. Imust visit the exposition at Palais Castagna this morning. " "You will not do that, " exclaimed impetuous Montfanon, whose severe faceagain expressed one of those contrarieties which caused it to brightenwhen he was with one of whom he was fond as he was of Dorsenne. "Youwould not have gone to see the King assassinated in '93? The selling atauction of the old dwelling of Pope Urban VII is almost as tragical! Itis the beginning of the agony of what was Roman nobility. I know. Theydeserve it all, since they were not killed to the last man on the stepsof the Vatican when the Italians took the city. We should have doneit, we who had no popes among our grand-uncles, if we had not been busyfighting elsewhere. But it is none the less pitiful to see the hammer ofthe appraisers raised above a palace with which is connected centuriesof history. Upon my life, if I were Prince d'Ardea--if I had inheritedthe blood, the house, the titles of the Castagnas, and if I thought Ishould leave nothing behind me of that which my fathers had amassed--Iswear to you, Dorsenne, I should die of grief. And if you recall thefact that the unhappy youth is a spoiled child of eight-and-twenty, surrounded by flatterers, without parents, without friends, withoutcounsellors, that he risked his patrimony on the Bourse among thieves ofthe integrity of Monsieur Hafner, that all the wealth collected by thatsuccession of popes, of cardinals, of warriors, of diplomatists, has served to enrich ignoble men, you would think the occurrence toolamentable to have any share in it, even as a spectator. Come, I willtake you to Saint-Claude. " "I assure you I am expected, " replied Dorsenne, disengaging his arm, which his despotic friend had already seized. "It is very strange that Ishould meet you on the way, having the rendezvous I have. I, who doteon contrasts, shall not have lost my morning. Have you the patience tolisten to the enumeration of the persons whom I shall join immediately?It will not be very long, but do not interrupt me. You will be angry ifyou will survive the blow I am about to give you. Ah, you do not wishto call your Rome a Cosmopolis; then what do you say to the party withwhich, in twenty minutes, I shall visit the ancient palace of UrbanVII? First of all, we have your beautiful enemy, Fanny Hafner, andher father, the Baron, representing a little of Germany, a little ofAustria, a little of Italy and a little of Holland. For it seems theBaron's mother was from Rotterdam. Do not interrupt. We shall haveCountess Steno to represent Venice, and her charming daughter, Alba, torepresent a small corner of Russia, for the Chronicle claims that shewas the child, not of the defunct Steno, but of Werekiew-Andre, youknow, the one who killed himself in Paris five or six years ago, bycasting himself into the Seine, not at all aristocratically, from thePont de la Concorde. We shall have the painter, the celebrated LincolnMaitland, to represent America. He is the lover of Steno, whom hestole from Gorka during the latter's trip to Poland. We shall have thepainter's wife, Lydia Maitland, and her brother, Florent Chapron, torepresent a little of France, a little of America, and a little ofAfrica; for their grandfather was the famous Colonel Chapron mentionedin the Memorial, who, after 1815, became a planter in Alabama. That oldsoldier, without any prejudices, had, by a mulattress, a son whom herecognized and to whom he left--I do not know how many dollars. 'Inde'Lydia and Florent. Do not interrupt, it is almost finished. We shallhave, to represent England, a Catholic wedded to a Pole, Madame Gorka, the wife of Boleslas, and, lastly, Paris, in the form of your servant. It is now I who will essay to drag you away, for were you to join ourparty, you, the feudal, it would be complete. .. . Will you come?" "Has the blow satisfied you?" asked Montfanon. "And the unhappy man hastalent, " he exclaimed, talking of Dorsenne as if the latter were notpresent, "and he has written ten pages on Rhodes which are worthy ofChateaubriand, and he has received from God the noblest gifts--poetry, wit, the sense of history; and in what society does he delight! But, come, once for all, explain to me the pleasure which a man of yourgenius can find in frequenting that international Bohemia, more or lessgilded, in which there is not one being who has standing or a history. I no longer allude to that scoundrel Hafner and his daughter, since youhave for her, novelist that you are, the eyes of Monsieur Guerillot. But that Countess Steno, who must be at least forty, who has a growndaughter, should she not remain quietly in her palace at Venice, respectably, bravely, instead of holding here that species of salon fortransients, through which pass all the libertines of Europe, instead ofhaving lover after lover, a Pole after a Russian, an American after aPole? And that Maitland, why did he not obey the only good sentimentwith which his compatriots are inspired, the aversion to negro blood, an aversion which would prevent them from doing what he has done--frommarrying an octoroon? If the young woman knows of it, it is terrible, and if she does not it is still more terrible. And Madame Gorka, thathonest creature, for I believe she is, and truly pious as well, who hasnot observed for the past two years that her husband was the Countess'slover, and who does not see, moreover, that it is now Maitland's turn. And that poor Alba Steno, that child of twenty, whom they drag throughthese improper intrigues! Why does not Florent Chapron put an end tothe adultery of her sister's husband? I know him. He once came to see mewith regard to a monument he was raising in Saint-Louis in memory of hiscousin. He respects the dead, that pleased me. But he is a dupe in thissinister comedy at which you are assisting, you, who know all, whileyour heart does not revolt. " "Pardon, pardon!" interrupted Dorsenne, "it is not a question of that. You wander on and you forget what you have just asked me. .. . Whatpleasure do I find in the human mosaic which I have detailed to you? Iwill tell you, and we will not talk of the morals, if you please, whenwe are simply dealing with the intellect. I do not pride myself on beinga judge of human nature, sir leaguer; I like to watch and to study it, and among all the scenes it can present I know of none more suggestive, more peculiar, and more modern than this: You are in a salon, at adining-table, at a party like that to which I am going this morning. Youare with ten persons who all speak the same language, are dressed by thesame tailor, have read the same morning paper, think the same thoughtsand feel the same sentiments. .. . But these persons are like those Ihave just enumerated to you, creatures from very different points ofthe world and of history. You study them with all that you know of theirorigin and their heredity, and little by little beneath the varnish ofcosmopolitanism you discover their race, irresistible, indestructiblerace! In the mistress of the house, very elegant, very cultured, forexample, a Madame Steno, you discover the descendant of the Doges, thepatrician of the fifteenth century, with the form of a queen, strengthin her passion and frankness in her incomparable immorality; while in aFlorent Chapron or a Lydia you discover the primitive slave, the blackhypnotized by the white, the unfreed being produced by centuries ofservitude; while in a Madame Gorka you recognize beneath her smilingamiability the fanaticism of truth of the Puritans; beneath the artisticrefinement of a Lincoln Maitland you find the squatter, invinciblycoarse and robust; in Boleslas Gorka all the nervous irritability ofthe Slav, which has ruined Poland. These lineaments of race are hardlyvisible in the civilized person, who speaks three or four languagesfluently, who has lived in Paris, Nice, Florence, here, that samefashionable, monotonous life. But when passion strikes its blow, whenthe man is stirred to his inmost depths, then occurs the conflict ofcharacteristics, more surprising when the people thus brought togetherhave come from afar: And that is why, " he concluded with a laugh, "Ihave spent six months in Rome without hardly having seen a Roman, busy, observing the little clan which is so revolting to you. It is probablythe twentieth I have studied, and I shall no doubt study twenty more, for not one resembles another. Are you indulgently inclined towardme, now that you have got even with me in making me hold forth at thiscorner, like the hero of a Russian novel? Well, now adieu. " Montfanon had listened to the discourse with an inpenetrable air. In thereligious solitude in which he was awaiting the end, as he said, nothingafforded him greater pleasure than the discussion of ideas. But he wasinspired by the enthusiasm of a man who feels with extreme ardor, andwhen he was met by the partly ironical dilettanteism of Dorsenne he wasalmost pained by it, so much the more so as the author and he had somecommon theories, notably an extreme fancy for heredity and race. A sortof discontented grimace distorted his expressive face. He clicked histongue in ill-humor, and said: "One more question!. .. And the result of all that, the object? To whatend does all this observation lead you?" "To what should it lead me? To comprehend, as I have told you, " repliedDorsenne. "And then?" "There is no then, " answered the young man, "one debauchery is likeanother. " "But among the people whom you see living thus, " said Montfanon, aftera pause, "there are some surely whom you like and whom you dislike, forwhom you entertain esteem and for whom you feel contempt? Have you notthought that you have some duties toward them, that you can aid them inleading better lives?" "That, " said Dorsenne, "is another subject which we will treat of someother day, for I am afraid now of being late. .. . Adieu. " "Adieu, " said the Marquis, with evident regret at parting. Then, brusquely: "I do not know why I like you so much, for in the main youincarnate one of those vices of mind which inspire me with the mosthorror, that dilettanteism set in vogue by the disciples of MonsieurRenan, and which is the very foundation of the decline. You will recoverfrom it, I hope. You are so young!" Then becoming again jovial andmocking: "May you enjoy yourself in your descent of Courtille; Ialmost forgot that I had a message to give to you for one of thesupernumeraries of your troop. Will you tell Gorka that I have dislodgedthe book for which he asked me before his departure?" "Gorka, " replied Julien, "has been in Poland three months on familybusiness. I just told you how that trip cost him his mistress. " "What, " said Montfanon, "in Poland? I saw him this morning as plainly asI see you. He passed the Fountain du Triton in a cab. If I had not beenin such haste to reach Ribalta's in time to save the Montluc, I couldhave stopped him, but we were both in too great a hurry. " "You are sure that Gorka is in Rome--Boleslas Gorka?" insisted Dorsenne. "What is there surprising in that?" said Montfanon. "It is quite naturalthat he should not wish to remain away long from a city where he hasleft a wife and a mistress. I suppose your Slav and your Anglo-Saxonhave no prejudices, and that they share their Venetian with adilettanteism quite modern. It is cosmopolitan, indeed. .. . Well, oncemore, adieu. .. . Deliver my message to him if you see him, and, " his faceagain expressed a childish malice, "do not fail to tell MademoiselleHafner that her father's daughter will never, never have this volume. Itis not for intriguers!" And, laughing like a mischievous schoolboy, hepressed the book more tightly under his arm, repeating: "She shall nothave it. Listen. .. . And tell her plainly. She shall not have it!" CHAPTER II. THE BEGINNING OF A DRAMA "There is an intelligent man, who never questions his ideas, " saidDorsenne to himself, when the Marquis had left him. "He is like theSocialists. What vigor of mind in that old wornout machine!" And for abrief moment he watched, with a glance in which there was at least asmuch admiration as pity, the Marquis, who was disappearing down the Ruede la Propagande, and who walked at the rapid pace characteristic ofmonomaniacs. They follow their thoughts instead of heeding objects. However, the care he exercised in avoiding the sun's line for the shadeattested the instincts of an old Roman, who knew the danger of the firstrays of spring beneath that blue sky. For a moment Montfanon pausedto give alms to one of the numerous mendicants who abound in theneighborhood of the Place d'Espagne, meritorious in him, for with hisone arm and burdened with the prayer-book it required a veritable effortto search in his pocket. Dorsenne was well enough acquainted with thatoriginal personage to know that he had never been able to say "no"to any one who asked charity, great or small, of him. Thanks to thatsystem, the enemy of beautiful Fanny Hafner was always short of cashwith forty thousand francs' income and leading a simple existence. The costly purchase of the relic of Montluc proved that the antipathyconceived for Baron Justus's charming daughter had become a species ofpassion. Under any other circumstances, the novelist, who delightedin such cases, would not have failed to meditate ironically on thatfeeling, easy enough of explanation. There was much more irrationalinstinct in it than Montfanon himself suspected. The old leaguer wouldnot have been logical if he had not had in point of race an inquisitionpartiality, and the mere suspicion of Jewish origin should haveprejudiced him against Fanny. But he was just, as Dorsenne had told him, and if the young girl had been an avowed Jewess, living up zealously toher religion, he would have respected but have avoided her, and he neverwould have spoken of her with such bitterness. The true motive of his antipathy was that he loved Cardinal Guerillot, as was his habit in all things, with passion and with jealousy, and hecould not forgive Mademoiselle Hafner for having formed an intimacy withthe holy prelate in spite of him, Montfanon, who had vainly warned theold Bishop de Clermont against her whom he considered the most wily ofintriguers. For months vainly did she furnish proofs of her sincerityof heart, the Cardinal reporting them in due season to the Marquis, whopersisted in discrediting them, and each fresh good deed of his enemyaugmented his hatred by aggravating the uneasiness which was caused him, notwithstanding all, by a vague sense of his iniquity. But Dorsenne no sooner turned toward the direction of the PalaisCastagna than he quickly forgot both Mademoiselle Hafner's andMontfanon's prejudices, in thinking only of one sentence uttered by thelatter that which related to the return of Boleslas Gorka. The news wasunexpected, and it awakened in the writer such grave fears that hedid not even glance at the shop-window of the French bookseller atthe corner of the Corso to see if the label of the "Fortieth thousand"flamed upon the yellow cover of his last book, the Eclogue Mondaine, brought out in the autumn, with a success which his absence of sixmonths from Paris, had, however, detracted from. He did not even thinkof ascertaining if the regimen he practised, in imitation of Lord Byron, against embonpoint, would preserve his elegant form, of which he was soproud, and yet mirrors were numerous on the way from the Place d'Espagneto the Palais Castagna, which rears its sombre mass on the margin of theTiber, at the extremity of the Via Giulia, like a pendant of the PalaisSacchetti, the masterwork of Sangallo. Dorsenne did not indulge in hisusual pastime of examining the souvenirs along the streets which met hiseye, and yet he passed in the twenty minutes which it took him toreach his rendezvous a number of buildings teeming with centuriesof historical reminiscences. There was first of all the vast PalaisBorghese--the piano of the Borghese, as it has been called, from theform of a clavecin adopted by the architect--a monument of splendor, which was, less than two years later, to serve as the scene of asituation more melancholy than that of the Palais Castagna. Dorsenne had not an absent glance for the sumptuous building--he passedunheeding the facade of St. -Louis, the object of Montfanon's admiration. If the writer did not profess for that relic of ancient France thepiety of the Marquis, he never failed to enter there to pay his literaryrespects to the tomb of Madame de Beaumont, to that 'quia non sunt' ofan epitaph which Chateaubriand inscribed upon her tombstone, with morevanity, alas, than tenderness. For the first time Dorsenne forgot it; heforgot also to gaze with delight upon the rococo fountain on the PlaceNavonne, that square upon which Domitian had his circus, and whichrecalls the cruel pageantries of imperial Rome. He forgot, too, themutilated statue which forms the angle of the Palais Braschi, twopaces farther--two paces still farther, the grand artery of the CorsoVictor-Emmanuel demonstrated the effort at regeneration of present Rome;two paces farther yet, the Palais Farnese recalls the grandeur of modernart, and the tragedy of contemporary monarchies. Does not the thought ofMichelangelo seem to be still imprinted on the sombre cross-beam of thatimmense sarcophagus, which was the refuge of the last King of Naples?But it requires a mind entirely free to give one's self up to the charmof historical dilettanteism which cities built upon the past conjure up, and although Julien prided himself, not without reason, on being aboveemotion, he was not possessed of his usual independence of mind duringthe walk which took him to his "human mosaic, " as he picturesquelyexpressed it, and he pondered and repondered the following questions: "Boleslas Gorka returned? And two days ago I saw his wife, who did notexpect him until next month. Montfanon is not, however, imaginative. Boleslas Gorka returned? At the moment when Madame Steno is mad overMaitland--for she is mad! The night before last, at her house at dinner, she looked at him--it was scandalous. Gorka had a presentiment of itthis winter. When the American attempted to take Alba's portrait thefirst time, the Pole put a stop to it. It was fine for Montfanon to talkof division between these two men. When Boleslas left here, Maitland andthe Countess were barely acquainted and now----If he has returned itis because he has discovered that he has a rival. Some one has warnedhim--an enemy of the Countess, a confrere of Maitland. Such pieces ofinfamy occur among good friends. If Gorka, who is a shot like Casal, kills Maitland in a duel, it will make one deceiver less. If he avengeshimself upon his mistress for that treason, it would be a matter ofindifference to me, for Catherine Steno is a great rogue. .. . But mylittle friend, my poor, charming Alba, what would become of her if thereshould be a scandal, bloodshed, perhaps, on account of her mother'sfolly? Gorka returned? And he did not write it to me, to me who havereceived several letters from him since he went away; to me, whom heselected last autumn as the confidant of his jealousies, under thepretext that I knew women, and, with the vain hope of inspiring me. .. . His silence and return no longer seem like a romance; they savor ratherof a drama, and with a Slav, as much a Slav as he is, one may expectanything. I know not what to think of it, for he will be at the PalaisCastagna. Poor, charming Alba!" The monologue did not differ much from a monologue uttered under similarcircumstances by any young man interested in a young girl whose motherdoes not conduct herself becomingly. It was a touching situation, buta very common one, and there was no necessity for the author to come toRome to study it, one entire winter and spring. If that interest wentbeyond a study, Dorsenne possessed a very simple means of preventing hislittle friend, as he said, from being rendered unhappy by the conduct ofthat mother whom age did not conquer. Why not propose for her hand? Hehad inherited a fortune, and his success as an author had augmentedit. For, since the first book which had established his reputation, the'Etudes de Femmes, ' published in 1879, not a single one of the fifteennovels or selections from novels had remained unnoticed. His personalcelebrity could, strictly speaking, combine with it family celebrity, for he boasted that his grandfather was a cousin of that brave GeneralDorsenne whom Napoleon could only replace at the head of his guard byFriant. All can be told in a word. Although the heirs of the hero of theEmpire had never recognized the relationship, Julien believed in it, and when he said, in reply to compliments on his books, "At my agemy grand-uncle, the Colonel of the Guard, did greater things, " hewas sincere in his belief. But it was unnecessary to mention it, for, situated as he was, Countess Steno would gladly have accepted him as ason-in-law. As for gaining the love of the young girl, with his handsomeface, intelligent and refined, and his elegant form, which he hadretained intact in spite of his thirty-seven years, he might have doneso. Nothing, however, was farther from his thoughts than such a project, for, as he ascended the steps of the staircase of the palace formerlyoccupied by Urban VII, he continued, in very different terms, his monologue, a species of involuntary "copy" which is writteninstinctively in the brain of the man of letters when he is particularlyfond of literature. At times it assumes a written form, and it is the most marked ofprofessional distortions, the most unintelligible to the illiterate, whothink waveringly and who do not, happily for them, suffer the continualservitude to precision of word and to too conscientious thought. "Yes; poor, charming Alba!" he repeated to himself. "How unfortunatethat the marriage with Countess Gorka's brother could not have beenarranged four months ago. Connection with the family of her mother'slover would be tolerably immoral! But she would at least have had lesschance of ever knowing it; and the convenient combination by which themother has caused her to form a friendship with that wife in order thebetter to blind the two, would have bordered a little more on propriety. To-day Alba would be Lady Ardrahan, leading a prosaic English life, instead of being united to some imbecile whom they will find for herhere or elsewhere. She will then deceive him as her mother deceived thelate Steno--with me, perhaps, in remembrance of our pure intimacy ofto-day. That would be too sad! Do not let us think of it! It is thefuture, of the existence of which we are ignorant, while we do know thatthe present exists and that it has all rights. I owe to the Contessinamy best impressions of Rome, to the vision of her loveliness in thisscene of so grand a past. And this is a sensation which is enjoyable; tovisit the Palais Castagna with the adorable creature upon whom rests themenace of a drama. To enjoy the Countess Steno's kindness, otherwisethe house would not have that tone and I would never have obtained thelittle one's friendship. To rejoice that Ardea is a fool, that he haslost his fortune on the Bourse, and that the syndicate of his creditors, presided over by Monsieur Ancona, has laid hands upon his palace. For, otherwise, I should not have ascended the steps of this papal staircase, nor have seen this debris of Grecian sarcophagi fitted into the walls, and this garden of so intense a green. As for Gorka, he may havereturned for thirty-six other reasons than jealousy, and Montfanon isright: Caterina is cunning enough to inveigle both the painter and him. She will make Maitland believe that she received Gorka for the sake ofMadame Gorka, and to prevent him from ruining that excellent woman atgaming. She will tell Boleslas that there was nothing more between herand Maitland than Platonic discussions on the merits of Raphael andPerugino. .. . And I should be more of a dupe than the other two formissing the visit. It is not every day that one has a chance to seeauctioned, like a simple Bohemian, the grand-nephew of a pope. " The second suite of reflections resembled more than the first the realDorsenne, who was often incomprehensible even to his best friends. Theyoung man with the large, black eyes, the face with delicate features, the olive complexion of a Spanish monk, had never had but one passion, too exceptional not to baffle the ordinary observer, and developed ina sense so singular that to the most charitable it assumed either anattitude almost outrageous or else that of an abominable egotism andprofound corruption. Dorsenne had spoken truly, he loved to comprehend--to comprehend as thegamester loves to game, the miser to accumulate money, the ambitious toobtain position--there was within him that appetite, that taste, thatmania for ideas which makes the scholar and the philosopher. But aphilosopher united by a caprice of nature to an artist, and by that offortune and of education to a worldly man and a traveller. The abstractspeculations of the metaphysician would not have sufficed for him, norwould the continuous and simple creation of the narrator who narratesto amuse himself, nor would the ardor of the semi-animal of theman-of-pleasure who abandons himself to the frenzy of vice. He inventedfor himself, partly from instinct, partly from method, a compromisebetween his contradictory tendencies, which he formulated in afashion slightly pedantic, when he said that his sole aim was to"intellectualize the forcible sensations;" in clearer terms, he dreamedof meeting with, in human life, the greatest number of impressions itcould give and to think of them after having met them. He thought, with or without reason, to discover in his two favoritewriters, Goethe and Stendhal, a constant application of a similarprinciple. His studies had, for the past fourteen years when he hadbegun to live and to write, passed through the most varied spherespossible to him. But he had passed through them, lending his presencewithout giving himself to them, with this idea always present in hismind: that he existed to become familiar with other customs, to watchother characters, to clothe other personages and the sensations whichvibrated within them. The period of his revival was marked by theachievement of each one of his books which he composed then, persuadedthat, once written and construed, a sentimental or social experiencewas not worth the trouble of being dwelt upon. Thus is explained theincoherence of custom and the atmospheric contact, if one may so expressit, which are the characteristics of his work. Take, for example, hisfirst collection of novels, the 'Etudes de Femmes, ' which made himfamous. They are about a sentimental woman who loved unwisely, and whospent hours from excess of the romantic studying the avowed or disguiseddemi-monde. By the side of that, 'Sans Dieu, ' the story of a dramaof scientific consciousness, attests a continuous frequenting of theMuseum, the Sorbonne and the College of France, while 'Monsieur dePremier' presents one of the most striking pictures of the contemporarypolitical world, which could only have been traced by a familiar of thePalais Bourbon. On the other hand, the three books of travel pretentiously named'Tourisime, ' 'Les Profils d'Etrangeres' and the 'Eclogue Mondaine, 'which fluctuated between Florence and London, St. -Moritz and Bayreuth, revealed long sojourns out of France; a clever analysis of the Italian, English, and German worlds; a superficial but true knowledge of thelanguages, the history and literature, which in no way accords with'l'odor di femina', exhale from every page. These contrasts are broughtout by a mind endowed with strangely complex qualities, dominated by afirm will and, it must be said, a very mediocre sensibility. The lastpoint will appear irreconcilable with the extreme and almost morbiddelicacy of certain of Dorsenne's works. It is thus however. He had verylittle heart. But, on the other hand, he had an abundance of nervesand nerves, and their irritability suffice for him who desires to painthuman passions, above all, love, with its joys and its sorrows, ofwhich one does not speak to a certain extent when one experiences them. Success had come to Julien too early not to have afforded him occasionfor several adventures. In each of the centres traversed in the courseof his sentimental vagabondage he tried to find a woman in whom wasembodied all the scattered charms of the district. He had formedinnumerable intimacies. Some had been frankly affectionate. Themajority were Platonic. Others had consisted of the simple coquetry offriendship, as was the case with Mademoiselle Steno. The young man hadnever employed more vanity than enthusiasm. Every woman, mistress orfriend, had been to him, nine times out of ten, a curiosity, then amodel. But, as he held that the model could not be recognized by anyexterior sign, he did not think that he was wrong in making use of hisprestige as a writer, for what he called his "culture. " He was capableof justice, the defense which he made of Fanny Hafner to Montfanonproved it; of admiration, his respect for the noble qualities of thatsame Montfanon testify to it; of compassion, for without it he wouldnot have apprehended at once with so much sympathy the result which thereturn of Count Gorka would have on the destiny of innocent Alba Steno. On reaching the staircase of the Palais Castagna, instead of hastening, as was natural, to find out at least what meant the return to Romeof the lover whom Madame Steno deceived, he collected his startledsensibilities before meeting Alba, and, pausing, he scribbled in anote-book which he drew from his pocket, with a pencil always withinreach of his fingers, in a firm hand, precise and clear, this notesavoring somewhat of sentimentalism: "25 April, '90. Palais Castagna. --Marvellous staircase constructed byBalthazar Peruzzi; so broad and long, with double rows of stairs, likethose of Santa Colomba, near Siena. Enjoyed above all the sight ofan interior garden so arranged, so designed that the red flowers, theregularity of the green shrubs, the neat lines of the graveled walksresemble the features of a face. The idea of the Latin garden, opposedto the Germanic or Anglo-Saxon, the latter respecting the irregularityof nature, the other all in order, humanizing and administering even tothe flower-garden. " "Subject the complexity of life to a thought harmonious and clear, aconstant mark of the Latin genus, for a group of trees as well as anentire nation, an entire religion--Catholicism. It is the contraryin the races of the North. Significance of the word: the forests havetaught man liberty. " He had hardly finished writing that oddly interpreted memorandum, andwas closing his note-book, when the sound of a familiar voice causedhim to turn suddenly. He had not heard ascend the stairs a personage whowaited until he finished writing, and who was no other than one of theactors in his "troupe" to use his expression, one of the persons of theparty of that morning organized the day before at Madame Steno's, andjust the one whom the intolerable marquis had defamed with so muchardor, the father of beautiful Fanny Hafner, Baron Justus himself. Therenowned founder of the 'Credit Austro-Dalmate' was a small, thinman, with blue eyes of an acuteness almost insupportable, in a face ofneutral color. His ever-courteous manner, his attire, simple and neat, his speech serious and discreet, gave to him that species of distinctionso common to old diplomatists. But the dangerous adventurer was betrayedby the glance which Hafner could not succeed in veiling with indifferentamiability. The man-of-the-world, which he prided himself upon havingbecome, was visible through all by certain indefinable trifles, andabove all by those eyes, of a restlessness so singular in so wealthy aman, indicating an enigmatical and obscure past of dark and contrastingstruggles, of covetous sharpness, of cold calculation and indomitableenergy. Fanatical Montfanon, who abused the daughter with suchunjustness, judged the father justly. The son of a Jew of Berlin andof a Dutch Protestant, Justus Hafner was inscribed on the civil stateregisters as belonging to his mother's faith. But the latter died whenJustus was very young, and he was not reared in any other liturgy thanthat of money. From his father, a persevering and skilful jeweller, buttoo prudent to risk or gain much, he learned the business of preciousstones, to which he added that of laces, paintings, old materials, tapestries, rare furniture. An infallible eye, the patience of a German united with his Israelitishand Dutch extraction, soon amassed for him a small capital, which hisfather's bequest augmented. At twenty-seven Justus had not less thanfive hundred thousand marks. Two imprudent operations on the Bourse, enterprises to force fortune and to obtain the first million, ruined thetoo-audacious courtier, who began again the building up of his fortuneby becoming a diamond broker. He went to Paris, and there, in a wretched little room on the RueMontmartre, in three years, he made his second capital. He then managedit so well that in 1870, at the time of the war, he had made good hislosses. The armistice found him in England, where he had married thedaughter of a Viennese agent, in London, for the purpose of startinga vast enterprise of revictualing the belligerent armies. The enormousprofits made by the father-in-law and the son-in-law during that yeardetermined them to found a banking-house which should have its principalseat in Vienna and a branch in Berlin. Justus Hafner, a passionateadmirer of Herr von Bismarck, controlled, besides, a newspaper. He triedto gain the favor of the great statesman, who refused to aid the formerdiamond merchant in gratifying political ambitions cherished from anearly age. It was a bitter disappointment to the persevering man, who, having triedhis luck in Prussia, emigrated definitively to Vienna. The establishmentof the 'Credit Austro-Dalmate, ' launched with extraordinary claims, permitted him at length to realize at least one of his chimeras. Hiswealth, while not equaling that of the mighty financiers of the epoch, increased with a rapidity almost magical to a cipher high enough topermit him, from 1879, to indulge in the luxurious life which can notbe led by any one with an income short of five hundred thousand francs. Contrary to the custom of speculators of his genus, Hafner in timeinvested his earnings safely. He provided against the coming demolitionof the structure so laboriously built up. The 'Credit Austro-Dalmate'had suffered in great measure owing to innumerable public and privatedisasters and scandals, such as the suicide and murder in the Schroederfamily. Suits were begun against a number of the founders, among them JustusHafner. He was acquitted, but with such damage to his financialintegrity and in the face of such public indignation that he abandonedAustria for Italy and Vienna for Rome. There, heedless of first rebuffs, he undertook to realize the third great object of his life, the gainingof social position. To the period of avidity had succeeded, as itfrequently does with those formidable handlers of money, the period ofvanity. Being now a widower, he aimed at his daughter's marriage with astrength of will and a complication of combinations equal to his formerefforts, and that struggle for connection with high life was disguisedbeneath the cloak of the most systematically adopted politeness ofdeportment. How had he found the means, in the midst of struggles andhardships, to refine himself so that the primitive broker and speculatorwere almost unrecognizable in the baron of fifty-four, decorated withseveral orders, installed in a magnificent palace, the father ofa charming daughter, and himself an agreeable conversationalist, acourteous gentleman, an ardent sportsman? It is the secret of thosenatures created for social conquest, like a Napoleon for war anda Talleyrand for diplomacy. Dorsenne asked himself the questionfrequently, and he could not solve it. Although he boasted of watchingthe Baron with an intellectual curiosity, he could not restrain ashudder of antipathy each time he met the eyes of the man. And on this particular morning it was especially disagreeable to himthat those eyes had seen him making his unoffending notes, althoughthere was scarcely a shade of gentle condescension--that of a great lordwho patronizes a great artist--in the manner in which Hafner addressedhim. "Do not inconvenience yourself for me, dear sir, " said he to Dorsenne. "You work from nature, and you are right. I see that your next novelwill touch upon the ruin of our poor Prince d'Ardea. Do not be too hardon him, nor on us. " The artist could not help coloring at that benign pleasantry. It wasall the more painful to him because it was at once true and untrue. Howshould he explain the sort of literary alchemy, thanks to which he wasenabled to affirm that he never drew portraits, although not a lineof his fifteen volumes was traced without a living model? He replied, therefore, with a touch of ill-humor: "You are mistaken, my dear Baron. I do not make notes on persons. " "All authors say that, " answered the Baron, shrugging his shoulderswith the assumed good-nature which so rarely forsook him, "and they areright. .. . At any rate, it is fortunate that you had something to write, for we shall both be late in arriving at a rendezvous where there areladies. .. . It is almost a quarter past eleven, and we should have beenthere at eleven precisely. .. . But I have one excuse, I waited for mydaughter. " "And she has not come?" asked Dorsenne. "No, " replied Hafner, "at the last moment she could not make up hermind. She had a slight annoyance this morning--I do not know what oldbook she had set her heart on. Some rascal found out that she wantedit, and he obtained it first. .. . But that is not the true cause of herabsence. The true cause is that she is too sensitive, and she finds itso sad that there should be a sale of the possessions of this ancientfamily. .. . I did not insist. What would she have experienced had sheknown the late Princess Nicoletta, Pepino's mother? When I came to Romeon a visit for the first time, in '75, what a salon that was and what aPrincess!. .. She was a Condolmieri, of the family of Eugene IV. " "How absurd vanity renders the most refined man, " thought Julien, suiting his pace to the Baron's. "He would have me believe that he wasreceived at the house of that woman who was politically the blackestof the black, the most difficult to please in the recruiting of hersalon. .. . Life is more complex than the Montfanons even know of! Thisgirl feels by instinct that which the chouan of a marquis feels bydoctrine, the absurdity of this striving after nobility, with a fatherwho forgets the broker and who talks of the popes of the Middle Agesas of a trinket!. .. While we are alone, I must ask this old fox what heknows of Boleslas Gorka's return. He is the confidant of Madame Steno. He should be informed of the doings and whereabouts of the Pole. " The friendship of Baron Hafner for the Countess, whose financial adviserhe was, should have been for Dorsenne a reason for avoiding such asubject, the more so as he was convinced of the man's dislike for him. The Baron could, by a single word perfidiously repeated, injure him verymuch with Alba's mother. But the novelist, similar on that point to themajority of professional observers, had only the power of analysis of aretrospective order. Never had his keen intelligence served him to avoidone of those slight errors of conversation which are important mistakeson the pitiful checker-board of life. Happily for him, he cherished noambition except for his pleasure and his art, without which he wouldhave found the means of making for himself, gratuitously, enough enemiesto clear all the academies. He, therefore, chose the moment when the Baron arrived at the landing onthe first floor, pausing somewhat out of breath, and after the agent hadverified their passes, to say to his companion: "Have you seen Gorka since his arrival?" "What? Is Boleslas here?" asked Justus Hafner, who manifested hisastonishment in no other manner than by adding: "I thought he was stillin Poland. " "I have not seen him myself, " said Dorsenne. He already regretted havingspoken too hastily. It is always more prudent not to spread the firstreport. But the ignorance of that return of Countess Steno's bestfriend, who saw her daily, struck the young man with such surprise thathe could not resist adding: "Some one, whose veracity I can not doubt, met him this morning. " Then, brusquely: "Does not this sudden returnmake you fearful?" "Fearful?" repeated the Baron. "Why so?" As he uttered those wordshe glanced at the writer with his usual impassive expression, which, however, a very slight sign, significant to those who knew him, belied. In exchanging those few words the two men had passed into the first roomof "objects of art, " having belonged to the apartment of "His EminencePrince d'Ardea, " as the catalogue said, and the Baron did not raise thegold glass which he held at the end of his nose when near the smallestdisplay of bric-a-brac, as was his custom. As he walked slowly throughthe collection of busts and statues of that first room, called "Marbles"on the catalogue, without glancing with the eye of a practised judgeat the Gobelin tapestry upon the walls, it must have been that heconsidered as very grave the novelist's revelation. The latter had saidtoo much not to continue: "Well, I who have not been connected with Madame Steno for years, likeyou, trembled for her when that return was announced to me. She does notknow what Gorka is when he is jealous, or of what he is capable. " "Jealous? Of whom?" interrupted Hafner. "It is not the first time I haveheard the name of Boleslas uttered in connection with the Countess. Iconfess I have never taken those words seriously, and I should not havethought that you, a frequenter of her salon, one of her friends, wouldhesitate on that subject. Rest assured, Gorka is in love with hischarming wife, and he could not make a better choice. Countess Caterinais an excellent person, very Italian. She is interested in him, as inyou, as in Maitland, as in me; in you because you write such admirablebooks, in Maitland because he paints like our best masters, in Boleslason account of the sorrow he had in the death of his first child, inme because I have so delicate a charge. She is more than an excellentperson, she is a truly superior woman, very superior. " He uttered hishypocritical speech with such perfect ease that Dorsenne was surprisedand irritated. That Hafner did not believe one treacherous word of whathe said the novelist was sure, he who, from the indiscreet confidencesof Gorka, knew what to think of the Venetian's manner, and he; too, understood the Baron's glance! At any other time he would have admiredthe policy of the old stager. At that moment the novelist was vexedby it, for it caused him to play a role, very common but not veryelevating, that of a calumniator, who has spoken ill of a woman withwhom he dined the day before. He, therefore, quickened his pace as muchas politeness would permit, in order not to remain tete-a-tete with theBaron, and also to rejoin the persons of their party already arrived. They emerged from the first room to enter a second, marked "Porcelain;"then a third, "Frescoes of Perino del Vaga, " on account of the ceilingupon which the master painted a companion to his vigorous piece atGenoa--"Jupiter crushing the Giants"--and, lastly, into a fourth, called"The Arazzi, " from the wonderful panels with which it was decorated. A few visitors were lounging there, for the season was somewhatadvanced, and the date which M. Ancona had chosen for the executionproved either the calculation of profound hatred or else the adroit ruseof a syndicate of retailers. All the magnificent objects in the palacewere adjudged at half the value they would have brought a few monthssooner or later. The small group of curios stood out in contrast to theprofusion of furniture, materials, objects of art of all kinds, whichfilled the vast rooms. It was the residence of five hundred years ofpower and of luxury, where masterpieces, worthy of the great Medicis, and executed in their time, alternated with the gewgaws of theeighteenth century and bronzes of the First Empire, with silver trinketsordered but yesterday in London. Baron Justus could not resist these. Heraised his glass and called Dorsenne to show him a curious armchair, the carving of a cartel, the embroidery on some material. One glancesufficed for him to judge. .. . If the novelist had been capable ofobserving, he would have perceived in the detailed knowledge the bankerhad of the catalogue the trace of a study too deep not to accord withsome mysterious project. "There are treasures here, " said he. "See these two Chinese vases withconvex lids, with the orange ground decorated with gilding. Those arepieces no longer made in China. It is a lost art. And this tete-a-tetedecorated with flowers; and this pluvial cope in this case. What amarvel! It is as good as the one of Pius Second, which was at Pienza andwhich has been stolen. I could have bought it at one time for fifteenhundred francs. It is worth fifteen thousand, twenty thousand, all ofthat. Here is some faience. It was brought from Spain when CardinalCastagna came from Madrid, when he took the place of Pius Fifth assponsor of Infanta Isabella. Ah, what treasures! But you go like thewind, " he added, "and perhaps it is better, for I would stop, andCavalier Fossati, the auctioneer, to whom those terrible creditors ofPeppino have given charge of the sale, has spies everywhere. You noticean object, you are marked as a solid man, as they say in Germany. You are noted. I shall be down on his list. I have been caught by himenough. Ha! He is a very shrewd man! But come, I see the ladies. We should have remembered that they were here, " and smiling--but atwhom?--at Fossati, at himself or his companion?--he made the latterread the notice hung on the door of a transversal room, which bore thisinscription: "Salon of marriage-chests. " There were, indeed, ranged along the walls about fifteen of thosewooden cases painted and carved, of those 'cassoni' in which it was thefashion, in grand Italian families, to keep the trousseaux destined forthe brides. Those of the Castagnas proved, by their escutcheons, whatalliances the last of the grand-nephews of Urban VII, the actual Princed'Ardea, entered into. Three very elegant ladies were examining thechests; in them Dorsenne recognized at once fair and delicate AlbaSteno, Madame Gorka, with her tall form, her fair hair, too, and herstrong English profile, and pretty Madame Maitland, with her olivecomplexion, who did not seem to have inherited any more negro blood thanjust enough to tint her delicate face. Florent Chapron, the painter'sbrother-in-law, was the only man with those three ladies. Countess Stenoand Lincoln Maitland were not there, and one could hear the musicalvoice of Alba spelling the heraldry carved on the coffers, formerlyopened with tender curiosity by young girls, laughing and dreaming byturns like her. "Look, Maud, " said she to Madame Gorka, "there is the oak of the DellaRovere, and there the stars of the Altieri. " "And I have found the column of the Colonna, " replied Maud Gorka. "And you, Lydia?" said Mademoiselle Steno to Madame Maitland. "And I, the bees of the Barberini. " "And I, the lilies of the Farnese, " said in his turn Florent Chapron, who, having raised his head first, perceived the newcomers. He greetedthem with a pleasant smile, which was reflected in his eyes and whichshowed his white teeth. "We no longer expected you, sirs. Every one hasdisappointed us. Lincoln did not wish to leave his atelier. It seemsthat Mademoiselle Hafner excused herself yesterday to these ladies. Countess Steno has a headache. We did not even count on the Baron, whois usually promptness personified. " "I was sure Dorsenne would not fail us, " said Alba, gazing at the youngman with her large eyes, of a blue as clear as those of Madame Gorkawere dark. "Only that I expected we should meet him on the staircase aswe were leaving, and that he would say to us, in surprise: 'What, I amnot on time?' Ah, " she continued, "do not excuse yourself, but replyto the examination in Roman history we are about to put you through. Wehave to follow here a veritable course studying all these old chests. What are the arms of this family?" she asked, leaning with Dorsenne overone of the cassoni. "You do not know? The Carafa, famous man! Andwhat Pope did they have? You do not know that either? Paul Fourth, sirnovelist. If ever you visit us in Venice, you will be surprised at theDoges. " She employed so affectionate a grace in that speech, and she was soapparently in one of her moods--so rare, alas! of childish joyousness, that Dorsenne, preoccupied as he was, felt his heart contract on heraccount. The simultaneous absence of Madame Steno and Lincoln Maitlandcould only be fortuitous. But persuaded that the Countess lovedMaitland, and not doubting that she was his mistress, the absence ofboth appeared singularly suspicious to him. Such a thought sufficedto render the young girl's innocent gayety painful to him. That gayetywould become tragical if it were true that the Countess's other loverhad returned unexpectedly, warned by some one. Dorsenne experiencedgenuine agitation on asking Madame Gorka: "How is Boleslas?" "Very well, I suppose, " said his wife. "I have not had a letter to-day. Does not one of your proverbs say, 'No news is good news?'" Baron Hafner was beside Maud Gorka when she uttered that sentence. Involuntarily Dorsenne looked at him, and involuntarily, master as hewas of himself, he looked at Dorsenne. It was no longer a question of asimple hypothesis. That Boleslas Gorka had returned to Rome unknown tohis wife constituted, for any one who knew of his relations with MadameSteno, and of the infidelity of the latter, an event full of formidableconsequences. Both men were possessed by the same thought. Wasthere still time to prevent a catastrophe? But each of them in thiscircumstance, as is so often the case in important matters of life, wasto show the deepness of his character. Not a muscle of Hafner's facequivered. It was a question, perhaps, of rendering a service to a womanin danger, whom he loved with all the feeling of which he was capable. That woman was the mainspring of his social position in Rome. She wasstill more. A plan for Fanny's marriage, as yet secret, but on thepoint of being consummated, depended upon Madame Steno. But he felt itimpossible to attempt to render her any service before having spent halfan hour in the rooms of the Palais Castagna, and he began to employ thathalf hour in a manner which would be most profitable to his possiblepurchases, for he turned to Madame Gorka and said to her, with therather exaggerated politeness habitual to him: "Countess, if you will permit me to advise you, do not pause so longbefore these coffers, interesting as they may be. First, as I have justtold Dorsenne, Cavalier Fossati, the agent, has his spies everywherehere. Your position has already been remarked, you may be sure, so thatif you take a fancy for one, he will know it in advance, and he willmanage to make you pay double, triple, and more for it. And then wehave to see so much, notably a cartoon of twelve designs by oldmasters, which Ardea did not even suspect he had, and which Fossatidiscovered--would you believe?--worm-eaten, in a cupboard in one of thegranaries. " "There is some one whom your collection would interest, " said Florent, "my brother-in-law. " "Well, " replied Madame Gorka to Hafner with her habitual good-nature, "there are at least two of these coffers that I like and wish to have. I said it in so loud a tone that it is not worth the trouble of hopingthat your Cavalier Fossati does not know it, if he really has thatmode of espionage in practice. But forty or fifty pounds more make nodifference--nor forty thousand even. " "Baron Hafner will warn you that your tone is not low enough, " laughedAlba Steno, "and he will add his great phrase: 'You will never bediplomatic. ' But, " added the girl, turning toward Dorsenne, having drawnback from silent Lydia Maitland, and arranging to fall behind with theyoung man, "I am about to employ a little diplomacy in order to findout whether you have any trouble. " And here her mobile face changed itsexpression, looking into Julien's with genuine anxiety. "Yes, " said she, "I have never seen you so preoccupied as you seem to be this morning. Do you not feel well? Have you received ill news from Paris? What ailsyou?" "I preoccupied?" replied Dorsenne. "You are mistaken. There isabsolutely nothing, I assure you. " It was impossible to lie with moreapparent awkwardness, and if any one merited the scorn of Baron Hafner, it was he. Hardly had Madame Gorka spoken, when he had, with therapidity of men of vivid imagination, seen Countess Steno and Maitlandsurprised by Gorka, at that very moment, in some place of rendezvous, and that surprise followed by a challenge, perhaps an immediate murder. And, as Alba continued to laugh merrily, his presentiment of her sadfate became so vivid that his face actually clouded over. He feltimpelled to ascertain, when she questioned him, how great a friendshipshe bore him. But his effort to hide his emotion rendered his voice soharsh that the young girl resumed: "I have vexed you by my questioning?" "Not the least in the world, " he replied, without being able to find aword of friendship. He felt at that moment incapable of talking, asthey usually did, in that tone of familiarity, partly mocking, partlysentimental, and he added: "I simply think this exposition somewhatmelancholy, that is all. " And, with a smile, "But we shall lose theopportunity of having it shown us by our incomparable cicerone, " andhe obliged her, by quickening her pace, to rejoin the group piloted byHafner through the magnificence of the almost deserted apartment. "See, " said the former broker of Berlin and of Paris, now an enlightenedamateur--"see, how that charlatan of a Fossati has taken care not toincrease the number of trinkets now that we are in the reception-rooms. These armchairs seem to await invited guests. They are known. They havebeen illustrated in a magazine of decorative art in Paris. And thatdining-room through that door, with all the silver on the table, wouldyou not think a fete had been prepared?" "Baron, " said Madame Gorka, "look at this material; it is of theeighteenth century, is it not?" "Baron, " asked Madame Maitland, "is this cup with the lid old Vienna orCapadimonte?" "Baron, " said Florent Chapron, "is this armor of Florentine or Milaneseworkmanship?" The eyeglass was raised to the Baron's thin nose, his small eyesglittered, his lips were pursed up, and he replied, in words as exactas if he had studied all the details of the catalogue verbatim. Theirthanks were soon followed by many other questions, in which two voicesalone did not join, that of Alba Steno and that of Dorsenne. Underany other circumstances, the latter would have tried to dissipate theincreasing sadness of the young girl, who said no more to him afterhe repulsed her amicable anxiety. In reality, he attached no greatimportance to it. Those transitions from excessive gayety to suddendepression were so habitual with the Contessina, above all when withhim. Although they were the sign of a vivid sentiment, the young mansaw in them only nervous unrest, for his mind was absorbed with otherthoughts. He asked himself if, at any hazard, after the manner in which MadameGorka had spoken, it would not be more prudent to acquaint LincolnMaitland with the secret return of his rival. Perhaps the drama had notyet taken place, and if only the two persons threatened were warned, nodoubt Hafner would put Countess Steno upon her guard. But when wouldhe see her? What if he, Dorsenne, should at once tell Maitland'sbrother-in-law of Gorka's return, to that Florent Chapron whom he saw atthe moment glancing at all the objects of the princely exposition? Thestep was an enormous undertaking, and would have appeared so to anyone but Julien, who knew that the relations between Florent Chapron andLincoln Maitland were of a very exceptional nature. Julien knew thatFlorent--sent when very young to the Jesuits of Beaumont, in England, bya father anxious to spare him the humiliation which his blood would calldown upon him in America--had formed a friendship with Lincoln, a pupilin the same school. He knew that the friendship for the schoolmate hadturned to enthusiasm for the artist, when the talent of his old comradehad begun to reveal itself. He knew that the marriage, which had placedthe fortune of Lydia at the service of the development of the painter, had been the work of that enthusiasm at an epoch when Maitland, spoiledby the unwise government of his mother, and unappreciated by the public, was wrung by despair. The exceptional character of the marriage wouldhave surprised a man less heeding of moral peculiarities than wasDorsenne, who had observed, all too frequently, the silence and reserveof that sister not to look upon her as a sacrifice. He fancied thatadmiration for his brother-in-law's genius had blinded Florent to such adegree that he was the first cause of the sacrifice. "Drama for drama, " said he to himself, as the visit drew near its close, and after a long debate with himself. "I should prefer to have it onerather than the other in that family. I should reproach myself all mylife for not having tried every means. " They were in the last room, andBaron Hafner was just fastening the strings of an album of drawings, when the conviction took possession of the young man in a definitemanner. Alba Steno, who still maintained silence, looked at him againwith eyes which revealed the struggle of her interest for him and of herwounded pride. She longed, without doubt, at the moment they wereabout to separate, to ask him, according to their intimate and charmingcustom, when they should meet again. He did not heed her--any more thanhe did the other pair of eyes which told him to be more prudent, andwhich were those of the Baron; any more than he did the observation ofMadame Gorka, who, having remarked the ill-humor of Alba, was seekingthe cause, which she had long since divined was the heart of the younggirl; any more than the attitude of Madame Maitland, whose eyes at timesshot fire equal to her brother's gentleness. He took the latter by thearm, and said to him aloud: "I should like to have your opinion on a small portrait I have noticedin the other room, my dear Chapron. " Then, when they were before thecanvas which had served as a pretext for the aside, he continued, in alow voice: "I heard very strange news this morning. Do you know BoleslasGorka is in Rome unknown to his wife?" "That is indeed strange, " replied Maitland's brother-in-law, addingsimply, after a silence: "Are you certain of it?" "As certain as that we are here, " said Dorsenne. "One of my friends, Marquis de Montfanon, met him this morning. " A fresh silence ensued between the two, during which Julien felt thatthe arm upon which he rested trembled. Then they joined the party, whileFlorent said aloud: "It is an excellent piece of painting, which has, unfortunately, been revarnished too much. " "May I have done right!" thought Julien. "He understood me. " CHAPTER III. BOLESLAS GORKA Hardly ten minutes had passed since Dorsenne had spoken as he had toFlorent Chapron, and already the imprudent novelist began to wonderwhether it would not have been wiser not to interfere in any way in anadventure in which his intervention was of the least importance. The apprehension of an immediate drama which had possessed him, for thefirst time, after the conversation with Montfanon, for the second time, in a stronger manner, by proving the ignorance of Madame Gorka onthe subject of the husband's return--that frightful and irresistibleevocation in a clandestine chamber, suddenly deluged with blood, wasbanished by the simplest event. The six visitors exchanged theirlast impressions on the melancholy and magnificence of the Castagnaapartments, and they ended by descending the grand staircase with thepillars, through the windows of which staircase smiled beneath thescorching sun the small garden which Dorsenne had compared to a face. The young man walked a little in advance, beside Alba Steno, whom he nowtried, but in vain, to cheer. Suddenly, at the last turn of the broadsteps which tempered the decline gradually, her face brightened withsurprise and pleasure. She uttered a slight cry and said: "There is mymother!" And Julien saw the Madame Steno, whom he had seen, in an accessof almost delirious anxiety, surprised, assassinated by a betrayedlover. She was standing upon the gray and black mosaic of the peristyle, dressed in the most charming morning toilette. Her golden hair wasgathered up under a large hat of flowers, over which was a white veil;her hand toyed with the silver handle of a white parasol, and in thereflection of that whiteness, with her clear, fair complexion, with herlovely blue eyes in which sparkled passion and intelligence, with herfaultless teeth which gleamed when she smiled, with her form stillslender notwithstanding the fulness of her bust, she seemed to be acreature so youthful, so vigorous, so little touched by age that astranger would never have taken her to be the mother of the tall younggirl who was already beside her and who said to her-- "What imprudence! Ill as you were this morning, to go out in this sun. Why did you do so?" "To fetch you and to take you home!" replied the Countess gayly. "Iwas ashamed of having indulged myself! I rose, and here I am. Good-day, Dorsenne. I hope you kept your eyes open up there. A story might bewritten on the Ardea affair. I will tell it to you. Good-day, Maud. Howkind of you to make lazy Alba exercise a little! She would have quite adifferent color if she walked every morning. Goodday, Florent. Good-day, Lydia. The master is not here? And you, old friend, what have you donewith Fanny?" She distributed these simple "good-days" with a grace so delicate, asmile so rare for each one--tender for her daughter, spirituelle for theauthor, grateful for Madame Gorka, amicably surprised for Chapron andMadame Maitland, familiar and confiding for her old friend, as shecalled the Baron. She was evidently the soul of the small party, for hermere presence seemed to have caused animation to sparkle in every eye. All talked at once, and she replied, as they walked toward thecarriages, which waited in a court of honor capable of holding seventygala chariots. One after the other these carriages advanced. The horsespawed the ground; the harnesses shone; the footmen and coachmen weredressed in perfect liveries; the porter of the Palais Castagna, with hislong redingote, on the buttons of which were the symbolical chestnutsof the family, had beneath his laced hat such a dignified bearing thatJulien suddenly found it absurd to have imagined an impassioned dramain connection with such people. The last one left, while watching theothers depart, he once more experienced the sensation so common to thosewho are familiar with the worst side of the splendor of society and whoperceive in them the moral misery and ironical gayety. "You are becoming a great simpleton, my friend, Dorsenne, " said he, seating himself more democratically in one of those open cabs calledin Rome a botte. "To fear a tragical adventure for the woman who ismistress of herself to such a degree is something like casting one'sself into the water to prevent a shark from drowning. If she hadnot upon her lips Maitland's kisses, and in her eyes the memory ofhappiness, I am very much mistaken. She came from a rendezvous. It waswritten for me, in her toilette, in the color upon her cheeks, in hertiny shoes, easy to remove, which had not taken thirty steps. And withwhat mastery she uttered her string of falsehoods! Her daughter, MadameGorka, Madame Maitland, how quickly she included them all! That is whyI do not like the theatre, where one finds the actress who employs thattone to utter her: 'Is the master not here?'" He laughed aloud, then his thoughts, relieved of all anxiety, took a newcourse, and, using the word of German origin familiar to Cosmopolitans, to express an absurd action, he said: "I have made a pretty schlemylade, as Hafner would say, in relating to Florent Gorka's unexpected arrival. It was just the same as telling him that Maitland was the Countess'slover. That is a conversation at which I should like to assist, thatwhich will take place between the two brothers-in-law. Should I be verymuch surprised to learn that this unattached negro is the confidant ofhis great friend? It is a subject to paint, which has never been welltreated; the passionate friendships of a Tattet for a Musset, of anEckermann for a Goethe, of an Asselineau for a Beaudelaire, the totalabsorption of the admirer in the admired. Florent found that the geniusof the great painter had need of a fortune, and he gave him his sister. Were he to find that that genius required a passion in order to developstill more, he would not object. My word of honor! He glanced at theCountess just now with gratitude! Why not, after all? Lincoln is acolorist of the highest order, although his desire to be with the tidehas led him into too many imitations. But it is his race. Young MadameMaitland has as much sense as the handle of a basket; and Madame Stenois one of those extraordinary women truly created to exalt the ideals ofan artist. Never has he painted anything as he painted the portrait ofAlba. I can hear this dialogue: "'You know the Pole has returned? What Pole? The Countess's. What? Youbelieve those calumnies?' Ah, what comedies here below! 'Gad! The cabmanhas also committed his 'schlemylade'. I told him Rue Sistina, near LaTrinite-des-Monts, and here he is going through Place Barberini insteadof cutting across Capo le Case. It is my fault as well. I should nothave heeded it had there been an earthquake. Let us at least admire theTriton of Bernin. What a sculptor that man was! yet he never thought ofnature except to falsify it. " These incoherent remarks were made with a good-nature decidedlyoptimistic, as could be seen, when the fiacre finally drew up at thegiven address. It was that of a very modest restaurant decorated withthis signboard: 'Trattoria al Marzocco. ' And the 'Marzocco', the lionsymbolical of Florence, was represented above the door, resting his pawon the escutcheon ornamented with the national lys. The appearance ofthat front did not justify the choice which the elegant Dorsenne hadmade of the place at which to dine when he did not dine in society. But his dilettantism liked nothing better than those sudden leaps fromsociety, and M. Egiste Brancadori, who kept the Marzocco, was one ofthose unconscious buffoons of whom he was continually in search in reallife, one of those whom he called his "Thebans", in reference to KingLear. "I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban, " cried the madking, one knows not why, when he meets "poor Tom" on the heath. That Dorsenne's Parisian friends, the Casals, the Machaults, the DeVardes, those habitues of the club, might not judge him too severely, heexplained that the Theban born in Florence was a cook of the first orderand that the modest restaurant had its story. It amused so paradoxicalan observer as Julien was. He often said, "Who will ever dare to writethe truth of the history?" This, for example: Pope Pius IX, having askedthe Emperor to send him some troops to protect his dominions, the latteragreed to do so--an occupation which bore two results: a Corsican hatredof the half of Italy against France and the founding of the Marzoccoby Egiste Brancadori, says the Theban or the doctor. It was one of thepleasantries of the novelist to pretend to have cured his dyspepsia inItaly, thanks to the wise and wholesome cooking of the said Egiste. Inreality, and more simply, Brancadori was the old cook of a Russian lord, one of the Werekiews, the cousin of pretty Alba Steno's real father. That Werekiew, renowned in Rome for the daintiness of his dinners, diedsuddenly in 1866. Several of the frequenters of his house, advised bya French officer of the army of occupation, and tired of clubs, hotels, and ordinary restaurants, determined to form a syndicate and to employhis former cook. They, with his cooperation, established a sort ofsuperior cafe, to which with some pride they gave the name of theCulinary Club. By assuring to each one a minimum of sixteen meals forseven francs, they kept for four years an excellent table, at which wereto be found all the distinguished tourists in Rome. The year 1870 haddisbanded that little society of connoisseurs and of conversationalists, and the club was metamorphosed into a restaurant, almost unknown, except to a few artists or diplomats who were attracted by the ancientsplendors of the place, and, above all, by the knowledge of the"doctor's" talents. It was not unusual at eight o'clock for the three small rooms whichcomposed the establishment to be full of men in white cravats, whitewaistcoats and evening coats. To cosmopolitan Dorsenne this was asingularly interesting sight; a member of the English embassy here, of the Russian embassy farther on, two German attaches elsewhere, two French secretaries near at hand from St. Siege, another from theQuirinal. What interested the novelist still more was the conversationof the doctor himself, genial Brancadori, who could neither read norwrite. But he had preserved a faithful remembrance of all his oldcustomers, and when he felt confidential, standing erect upon thethreshold of his kitchen, of the possession of which he was soinsolently proud, he repeated curious stories of Rome in the days ofhis youth. His gestures, so conformable to the appearance of things, hismobile face and his Tuscan tongue, which softened into h all the harshe's between two vowels, gave a savor to his stories which delighted aseeker after local truths. It was in the morning especially, when therewas no one in the restaurant, that he voluntarily left his ovens tochat, and if Dorsenne gave the address of the Marzocco to his cabman, itwas in the hope that the old cook would in his manner sketch for him thestory of the ruin of Ardea. Brancadori was standing by the bar wherewas enthroned his niece, Signorina Sabatina, with a charming Florentineface, chin a trifle long, forehead somewhat broad, nose somewhat short, a sinuous mouth, large, black eyes, an olive complexion and waving hair, which recalled in a forcible manner the favorite type of the first ofthe Ghirlandajos. "Uncle, " said the young girl, as soon as she perceived Dorsenne, "wherehave you put the letter brought for the Prince?" In Italy every foreigner is a prince or a count, and the profoundgood-nature which reigns in the habit gives to those titles, inthe mouths of those who employ them, an amiability often free fromcalculation. There is no country in the world where there is a truer, amore charming familiarity of class for class, and Brancadori immediatelygave a proof of it in addressing as "Carolei"--that is to say, "mydear"--him whom his daughter had blazoned with a coronet, and he cried, fumbling in the pockets of the alpaca waistcoat which he wore over hisapron of office: "The brain is often lacking in a gray head. I put it in the pocket of mycoat in order to be more sure of not forgetting it. I changed my coat, because it was warm, and left it with the letter in my apartments. " "You can look for it after lunch, " said Dorsenne. "No, " replied the young girl, rising, "it is not two steps from here; Iwill go. The concierge of the palace where your Excellency lives broughtit himself, and said it must be delivered immediately. " "Very well, go and fetch it, " replied Julien, who could not suppress asmile at the honor paid his dwelling, "and I will remain here andtalk with my doctor, while he gives me the prescription for thismorning--that is to say, his bill of fare. Guess whence I come, Brancadori, " he added, assured of first stirring the cook's curiosity, then his power of speech. "From the Palais Castagna, where they areselling everything. " "Ah! Per Bacco!" exclaimed the Tuscan, with evident sorrow upon hisold parchment-like face, scorched from forty years of cooking. "If thedeceased Prince Urban can see it in the other world, his heart willbreak, I assure you. The last time he came to dine here, about tenyears ago, on Saint Joseph's Day, he said to me: 'Make me some fritters, Egiste, like those we used to have at Monsieur d'Epinag's, MonsieurClairin's, Fortuny's, and poor Henri Regnault's. ' And he was happy!'Egiste, ' said he to me, 'I can die contented! I have only one son, butI shall leave him six millions and the palace. If it was Gigi I shouldbe less easy, but Peppino!' Gigi was the other one, the elder, who died, the gay one, who used to come here every day--a fine fellow, but bad!You should have heard him tell of his visit to Pius Ninth on the dayupon which he converted an Englishman. Yes, Excellency, he convertedhim by lending him by mistake a pious book instead of a novel. TheEnglishman took the book, read it, read another, a third, and became aCatholic. Gigi, who was not in favor at the Vatican, hastened to tellthe Holy Father of his good deed. 'You see, my son, ' said Pius Ninth, 'what means our Lord God employs!' Ah, he would have used thosemillions for his amusement, while Peppino! They were all squanderedin signatures. Just think, the name of Prince d'Ardea meant money! Hespeculated, he lost, he won, he lost again, he drew up bills of exchangeafter bills of exchange. And every time he made a move such as Iam making with my pencil--only I can not sign my name--it meant onehundred, two hundred thousand francs to go into the world. And now hemust leave his house and Rome. What will he do, Excellency, I ask you?"With a shake of his head he added: "He should reconstruct his fortuneabroad. We have this saying: 'He who squanders gold with his hands willsearch for it with his feet. ' But Sabatino is coming! She has been asnimble as a cat. " The good man's invaluable mimetic art, his proverbs, the story of thefete of St. Joseph, the original evocation of the heir of the Castagnascontinually signing and signing, the coarse explanation of hisruin--very true, however--everything in the recital had amused Dorsenne. He knew enough Italian to appreciate the untranslatable passages ofthe language of the man of the people. He was again on the verge oflaughter, when the fresco madonna, as he sometimes designated the younggirl, handed him an envelope the address upon which soon converted hissmile into an undisguised expression of annoyance. He pushed asidethe day's bill of fare which the old cook presented to him and said, brusquely: "I fear I can not remain to breakfast. " Then, openingthe letter: "No, I can not; adieu. " And he went out, in a manner soprecipitate and troubled that the uncle and niece exchanged smilingglances. Those typical Southerners could not think of any other troublein connection with so handsome a man as Dorsenne than that of the heart. "Chi ha l'amor nel petto, " said Signorina Sabatina. "Ha lo spron nei fianchi, " replied the uncle. That naive adage which compares the sharp sting which passion drivesinto our breasts to the spurring given the flanks of a horse, was nottrue of Dorsenne. The application of the proverb to the circumstance wasnot, however, entirely erroneous, and the novelist commented upon it inhis passion, although in another form, by repeating to himself, as hewent along the Rue Sistina: "No, no, I can not interfere in that affair, and I shall tell him so firmly. " He examined again the note, the perusal of which had rendered him moreuneasy than he had been twice before that morning. He had not beenmistaken in recognizing on the envelope the handwriting of BoleslasGorka, and these were the terms, teeming with mystery under thecircumstances, in which the brief message was worded: "I know you to be such a friend to me, dear Julien, and I have foryour character, so chivalrous and so French, such esteem that I havedetermined to turn to you in an era of my life thoroughly tragical. Iwish to see you immediately. I shall await you at your lodging. I havesent a similar note to the Cercle de la Chasse, another to the bookshopon the Corso, another to your antiquary's. Wheresoever my appeal findsyou, leave all and come at once. You will save more for me than life. For a reason which I will tell you, my return is a profound secret. Noone, you understand, knows of it but you. I need not write more to afriend as sincere as you are, and whom I embrace with all my heart. " "It is unequalled!" said Dorsenne, crumpling the letter with risinganger. "He embraces me with all his heart. I am his most sincere friend!I am chivalrous, French, the only person he esteems! What disagreeablecommission does he wish me to undertake for him? Into what scrape is heabout to ask me to enter, if he has not already got me into it? I knowthat school of protestation. We are allied for life and death, are wenot? Do me a favor! And they upset your habits, encroach upon yourtime, embark you in tragedies, and when you say 'No' to them-then theysquarely accuse you of selfishness and of treason! It is my fault, too. Why did I listen to his confidences? Have I not known for years that aman who relates his love-affairs on so short an acquaintance as ours isa scoundrel and a fool? And with such people there can be no possibleconnection. He amused me at the beginning, when he told me his slyintrigue, without naming the person, as they all do at first. He amusedme still more by the way he managed to name her without violating thatwhich people in society call honor. And to think that the women believein that honor and that discretion! And yet it was the surest means ofentering Steno's, and approaching Alba. .. . I believe I am about to payfor my Roman flirtation. If Gorka is a Pole, I am from Lorraine, andthe heir of the Castellans will only make me do what I agree to, nothingmore. " In such an ill-humor and with such a resolution, Julien reached thedoor of his house. If that dwelling was not the palace alluded to bySignorina Sabatina, it was neither the usually common house as commontoday in new Rome as in contemporary Paris, modern Berlin, and incertain streets of London opened of late in the neighborhood of HydePark. It was an old building on the Place de la Trinite-des-Monts, at anangle of the two streets Sistina and Gregoriana. Although reduced to thestate of a simple pension, more or less bourgeoise, that house had itsname marked in certain guide-books, and like all the corners of ancientRome it preserved the traces of a glorious, artistic history. Thesmall columns of the porch gave it the name of the tempietto, or littletemple, while several personages dear to litterateurs had lived there, from the landscape painter Claude Lorrain to the poet Francois Coppee. A few paces distant, almost opposite, lived Poussin, and one of thegreatest among modern English poets, Keats, died quite near by, the JohnKeats whose tomb is to be seen in Rome, with that melancholy epitaphupon it, written by himself: Here lies one whose name was writ in water. It was seldom that Dorsenne returned home without repeating to himselfthe translation he had attempted of that beautiful 'Ci-git un don't lenom, jut ecrit sur de l'eau'. Sometimes he repeated, at evening, this delicious fragment: The sky was tinged with tender green and pink. This time he entered in a more prosaic manner; for he addressed theconcierge in the tone of a jealous husband or a debtor hunted bycreditors: "Have you given the key to any one, Tonino?" he asked. "Count Gorka said that your Excellency asked him to await you here, "replied the man, with a timidity rendered all the more comical by theformidable cut of his gray moustache and his imperial, which made him acaricature of the late King Victor Emmanuel. He had served in '59 under the Galantuomo, and he paid the homage of aveteran of Solferino to that glorious memory. His large eyes rolled withfear at the least confusion, and he repeated: "Yes, he said that your Excellency asked him to wait, " while Dorsenneascended the staircase, saying aloud: "More and more perfect. But thistime the familiarity passes all bounds; and it is better so. I have beenso surprised and annoyed from the first that I shall be easily able torefuse the imprudent fellow what he will ask of me. " In his anger thenovelist sought to arm himself against his weakness, of which hewas aware--not the weakness of insufficient will, but of a too vividperception of the motives which the person with whom he was in conflictobeyed. He, however, was to learn that there is no greater dissolvent ofrancor than intelligent curiosity. His was, indeed, aroused by a simpledetail, which consisted in ascertaining under what conditions the Polehad travelled; his dressing-case, his overcoat and his hat, still whitewith the dust of travel, were lying upon the table in the antechamber. Evidently he had come direct from Warsaw to the Place de laTrinite-des-Monts. A prey to what delirium of passion? Dorsenne hadnot time to ask the question any more than he had presence of mindto compose his manner to such severity that it would cut short allfamiliarity on the part of his strange visitor. At the noise made bythe opening of the antechamber door, Boleslas started up. He seizedboth hands of the man into whose apartments he had obtruded himself. Hepressed them. He gazed at him with feverish eyes, with eyes which hadnot closed for hours, and he murmured, drawing the novelist into thetiny salon: "You have come, Julien, you are here! Ah, I thank you for havinganswered my call at once! Let me look at you, for I am sure I havea friend beside me, one in whom I can trust, with whom I can speakfrankly, upon whom I can depend. If this solitude had lasted much longerI should have become mad. " Although Madame Steno's lover belonged to the class of excitable, nervous people who exaggerate their feelings by an unconscious wildnessof tone and of manner, his face bore the traces of a trouble too deepnot to be startling. Julien, who had seen him set out, three months before, so radiantlyhandsome, was struck by the change which had taken place during such abrief absence. He was the same Boleslas Gorka, that handsome man, thatadmirable human animal, so refined and so strong, in which was embodiedcenturies of aristocracy--the Counts de Gorka belong to the ancienthouse of Lodzia, with which are connected so many illustriousPolish families, the Opalenice-Opalenskis, the Bnin-Bninskis, thePonin-Poniniskis and many others--but his cheeks were sunken beneath hislong, brown beard, in which were glints of gold; his eyes were heavy asif from wakeful nights, his nostrils were pinched and his face was pale. The travel-stains upon his face accentuated the alteration. Yet the native elegance of that face and form gave grace to hislassitude. Boleslas, in the vigorous and supple maturity of histhirty-four years, realized one of those types of manly beauty soperfect that they resist the strongest tests. The excesses of emotion, as those of libertinism, seem only to invest the man with a newprestige; the fact is that the novelist's room, with its collection ofbooks, photographs, engravings, paintings and moldings, invested thatform, tortured by the bitter sufferings of passion, with a poesy towhich Dorsenne could not remain altogether insensible. The atmosphere, impregnated with Russian tobacco and the bluish vapor which filledthe room, revealed in what manner the betrayed lover had divertedhis impatience, and in the centre of the writing-table a cup with abacchanal painted in red on a black ground, of which Julien was veryproud, contained the remains of about thirty cigarettes, thrown asidealmost as soon as lighted. Their paper ends had been gnawed with anervousness which betrayed the young man's condition, while he repeated, in a tone so sad that it almost called forth a shudder: "Yes, I should have gone mad. " "Calm yourself, my dear Boleslas, I implore you, " replied Dorsenne. Whathad become of his ill-humor? How could he preserve it in the presence ofa person so evidently beside himself? Julien continued, speaking to hiscompanion as one speaks to a sick child: "Come, be seated. Be a littlemore tranquil, since I am here, and you have reason to count on myfriendship. Speak to me. Explain to me what has happened. If thereis any advice to give you, I am ready. I am prepared to render you aservice. My God! In what a state you are!" "Is it not so?" said the other, with a sort of ironical pride. It wassufficient that he had a witness of his grief for him to display it withsecret vanity. "Is it not so?" he continued. "Could you only know howI have suffered. This is nothing, " said he, alluding to his haggardappearance. "It is here that you should read, " he struck his breast, then passing his hands over his brow and his eyes, as if to exorcise anightmare. "You are right. I must be calm, or I am lost. " After a prolonged silence, during which he seemed to have gatheredtogether his thoughts and to collect his will, for his voice had becomedecided and sharp, he began: "You know that I am here unknown to anyone, even to my wife. " "I know it, " replied Dorsenne. "I have just left the Countess. Thismorning I visited the Palais Castagna with her, Hafner, Madame Maitland, Florent Chapron. " He paused and added, thinking it better not to lie onminor points, "Madame Steno and Alba were there, too. " "Any one else?" asked Boleslas, with so keen a glance that the authorhad to employ all his strength to reply: "No one else. " There was a silence between the two men. Dorsenne anticipated from his question toward what subject theconversation was drifting. Gorka, now lying rather than sitting uponthe divan in the small room, appeared like a beast that, at any moment, might bound. Evidently he had come to Julien's a prey to the mad desireto find out something, which is to jealousy what thirst is to certainpunishments. When one has tasted the bitter draught of certainty, onedoes not suffer less. Yet one walks toward it, barefooted, on the heatedpavement, heedless of the heat. The motives which led Boleslas to choosethe French novelist as the one from whom to obtain his information, demonstrated that the feline character of his physiognomy was notdeceptive. He understood Dorsenne much better than Dorsenne understoodhim. He knew him to be nervous, on the one hand, and perspicacious onthe other. If there was an intrigue between Maitland and Madame Steno, Julien had surely observed it, and, approached in a certain manner, hewould surely betray it. Moreover--for that violent and crafty natureabounded in perplexities--Boleslas, who passionately admired theauthor's talent, experienced a sort of indefinable attraction inexhibiting himself before him in the role of a frantic lover. He was oneof the persons who would have his photograph taken on his deathbed, somuch importance did he attach to his person. He would, no doubt, havebeen insulted, if the author of 'Une Eglogue Mondaine' had portrayedin a book himself and his love for Countess Steno, and yet he had onlyapproached the author, had only chosen him as a confidant with the vaguehope of impressing him. He had even thought of suggesting to him somecreation resembling himself. Yes, Gorka was very complex, for he was notcontented with deceiving his wife, he allowed the confiding creature toform a friendship with the daughter of her husband's mistress. Still, hedeceived her with remorse, and had never ceased bearing her an affectionas sorrowful as it was respectful. But it required Dorsenne to admitthe like anomalies, and the rare sensation of being observed in hispassionate frenzy attracted the young man to some one who was at oncea sure confidant, a possible portrayer, a moral accomplice. It wasnecessary now, but it would not be an easy matter, to make of him hisinvoluntary detective. "You see, " resumed he suddenly, "to what miserable, detailed inquiriesI have descended, I who always had a horror of espionage, as of someterrible degradation. I shall question you frankly, for you are myfriend. And what a friend! I intended to use artifice with you at first, but I was ashamed. Passion takes possession of me and distorts me. No matter what infamy presents itself, I rush into it, and then I amafraid. Yes, I am afraid of myself! But I have suffered so much! You donot understand? Well! Listen, " continued he, covering Dorsenne with oneof those glances so scrutinizing that not a gesture, not a quiver of hiseyelids, escaped him, "and tell me if you have ever imagined for one ofyour romances a situation similar to mine. You remember the mortal fearin which I lived last winter, with the presence of my brother-in-law, and the danger of his denouncing me to my poor Maud, from stupidity, from a British sense of virtue, from hatred. You remember, also, whatthat voyage to Poland cost me, after those long months of anxiety? Thepress of affairs and the illness of my aunt coming just at the momentwhen I was freed from Ardrahan, inspired me with miserable forebodings. I have always believed in presentiments. I had one. I was not mistaken. From the first letter I received--from whom you can guess--I saw thatthere was taking place in Rome something which threatened me in what Iheld dearest on earth, in that love for which I sacrificed all, towardwhich I walked by trampling on the noblest of hearts. Was Catherineceasing to love me? When one has spent two years of one's life in apassion--and what years!--one clings to it with every fibre! I willspare you the recital of those first weeks spent in going here andthere, in paying visits to relatives, in consulting lawyers, in caringfor my sick aunt, in fulfilling my duty toward my son, since thegreater part of the fortune will go to him. And always with this firmconviction: She no longer writes to me as formerly, she no longer lovesme. Ah! if I could show you the letter she wrote when I was absent oncebefore. You have a great deal of talent, Julien, but you have nevercomposed anything more beautiful. " He paused, as if the part of the confession he was approaching cost hima great effort, while Dorsenne interpolated: "A change of tone in correspondence is not, however, sufficient toexplain the fever in which I see you. " "No, " resumed Gorka, "but it was not merely a change of tone. Icomplained. For the first time my complaint found no echo. I threatenedto cease writing. No reply. I wrote to ask forgiveness. I received aletter so cold that in my turn I wrote an angry one. Another silence!Ah! You can imagine the terrible effect produced upon me by an unsignedletter which I received fifteen days since. It arrived one morning. Itbore the Roman postmark. I did not recognize the handwriting. I openedit. I saw two sheets of paper on which were pasted cuttings from aFrench journal. I repeat it was unsigned; it was an anonymous letter. " "And you read it?" interrupted Dorsenne. "What folly!" "I read it, " replied the Count. "It began with words of startling truthrelative to my own situation. That our affairs are known to others wemay be sure, since we know theirs. We should, consequently, rememberthat we are at the mercy of their indiscretion, as they are at ours. The beginning of the note served as a guarantee of the truth of the end, which was a detailed, minute recital of an intrigue which Madame Stenohad been carrying on during my absence, and with whom? With the manwhom I always mistrusted, that dauber who wanted to paint Alba'sportrait--but whose desires I nipped in the bud--with the fellow whodegraded himself by a shameful marriage for money, and who calls himselfan artist--with that American--with Lincoln Maitland!" Although the childish and unjust hatred of the jealous--the hatred whichdegrades us in lowering the one we love-had poisoned his discourse withits bitterness, he did not cease watching Dorsenne. He partly raisedhimself on the couch and thrust his head forward as he uttered the nameof his rival, glancing keenly at the novelist meanwhile. The latterfortunately had been rendered indignant at the news of the anonymousletter, and he repeated, with an astonishment which in no way aided hisinterlocutor: "Wait, " resumed Boleslas; "that was merely a beginning. The next day Ireceived another letter, written and sent under the same conditions; theday after, a third. I have twelve of them--do you hear? twelve--in myportfolio, and all composed with the same atrocious knowledge of thecircle in which we move, as was the first. At the same time I wasreceiving letters from my poor wife, and all coincided, in the terribleseries, in a frightful concordance. The anonymous letter told me:'To-day they were together two hours and a quarter, ' while Maud wrote:'I could not go out to-day, as agreed upon, with Madame Steno, forshe had a headache. ' Then the portrait of Alba, of which they toldme incidentally. The anonymous letters detailed to me the events, theprolongation of sitting, while my wife wrote: 'We again went to seeAlba's portrait yesterday. The painter erased what he had done. 'Finally it became impossible for me to endure it. With their abominableminuteness of detail, the anonymous letters gave me even the address oftheir rendezvous! I set out. I said to myself, 'If I announce my arrivalto my wife they will find it out, they will escape me. ' I intended tosurprise them. I wanted--Do I know what I wanted? I wanted to suffer nolonger the agony of uncertainty. I took the train. I stopped neither daynor night. I left my valet yesterday in Florence, and this morning I wasin Rome. "My plan was made on the way. I would hire apartments near theirs, inthe same street, perhaps in the same house. I would watch them, one, twodays, a week. And then--would you believe it? It was in the cab whichwas bearing me directly toward that street that I saw suddenly, clearlywithin me, and that I was startled. I had my hand upon this revolver. "He drew the weapon from his pocket and laid it upon the divan, as if hewished to repulse any new temptation. "I saw myself as plainly as I seeyou, killing those two beings like two animals, should I surprise them. At the same time I saw my son and my wife. Between murder and me therewas, perhaps, just the distance which separated me from the street, andI felt that it was necessary to fly at once--to fly that street, to flyfrom the guilty ones, if they were really guilty; to fly from myself! Ithought of you, and I have come to say to you, 'My friend, this is howthings are; I am drowning, I am lost; save me. '" "You have yourself found the salvation, " replied Dorsenne. "It is inyour son and your wife. See them first, and if I can not promise youthat you will not suffer any more, you will no longer be tempted bythat horrible idea. " And he pointed to the pistol, which gleamed in thesunlight that entered through the casement. Then he added: "And you willhave the idea still less when you will have been able to prove 'de visu'what those anonymous letters were worth. Twelve letters in fifteendays, and cuttings from how many papers? And they claim that we inventheinousness in our books! If you like, we will search together for theperson who can have elaborated that little piece of villany. It must bea Judas, a Rodin, an Iago--or Iaga. But this is not the moment to wastein hypotheses. "Are you sure of your valet? You must send him a despatch, and in thatdespatch the copy of another addressed to Madame Gorka, which yourman will send this very evening. You will announce your arrival fortomorrow, making allusion to a letter written, so to speak, from Poland, and which was lost. This evening from here you will take the train forFlorence, from which place you will set out again this very night. Youwill be in Rome again to-morrow morning. You will have avoided, not onlythe misfortune of having become a murderer, though you would not havesurprised any one, I am sure, but the much more grave misfortune ofawakening Madame Gorka's suspicions. Is it a promise?" Dorsenne rose to prepare a pen and paper: "Come, write the despatchimmediately, and render thanks to your good genius which led you toa friend whose business consists in imagining the means of solvinginsoluble situations. " "You are quite right, " Boleslas replied, after taking in his hand thepen which he offered to the other, "it is fortunate. " Then, castingaside the pen as he had the revolver, "I can not. No, I can not, as longas I have this doubt within me. Ah, it is too horrible! I can see themplainly. You speak to me of my wife; but you forget that she lovesme, and at the first glance she would read me, as you did. You can notimagine what an effort it has cost me for two years never to arousesuspicion. I was happy, and it is easy to deceive when one has nothingto hide but happiness. To-day we should not be together five minutesbefore she would seek, and she would find. No, no; I can not. I needsomething more. " "Unfortunately, " replied Julien, "I cannot give it to you. There is noopium to lull asleep doubts such as those horrible anonymous lettershave awakened. What I know is this, that if you do not follow my adviceMadame Gorka will not have a suspicion, but certainty. It is now perhapstoo late. Do you wish me to tell you what I concealed from you on seeingyou so troubled? You did not lose much time in coming from the stationhither, and probably you did not look out of your cab twice. But youwere seen. By whom? By Montfanon. He told me so this morning almost onthe threshold of the Palais Castagna. If I had not gathered from somewords uttered by your wife that she was ignorant of your presence inRome, I--do you hear?--I should have told her of it. Judge now of yoursituation!" He spoke with an agitation which was not assumed, so much was hetroubled by the evidence of danger which Gorka's obstinacy presented. The latter, who had begun to collect himself, had a strange light in hiseyes. Without doubt his companion's nervousness marked the moment he wasawaiting to strike a decisive blow. He rose with so sudden a start thatDorsenne drew back. He seized both of his hands, but with such forcethat not a quiver of the muscles escaped him: "Yes, Julien, you have the means of consoling me, you have it, " said hein a voice again hoarse with emotion. "What is it?" asked the novelist. "What is it? You are an honest man, Dorsenne; you are a great artist;you are my friend, and a friend allied to me by a sacred bond, almosta brother-in-arms; you, the grandnephew of a hero who shed his blood bythe side of my grandfather at Somo-Sierra. Give me your word of honorthat you are absolutely certain Madame Steno is not Maitland's mistress, that you never thought it, have never heard it said, and I will believeyou, I will obey you! Come, " continued he, pressing the writer's handwith more fervor, "I see you hesitate!" "No, " said Julien, disengaging himself from the wild grasp, "I do nothesitate. I am sorry for you. Were I to give you that word, would ithave any weight with you for five minutes? Would you not be persuadedimmediately that I was perjuring myself to avoid a misfortune?" "You hesitate, " interrupted Boleslas. Then, with a burst of wildlaughter, he said, "It is then true! I like that better! It is frightfulto know it, but one suffers less--To know it' As if I did not know shehad lovers before me, as if it were not written on Alba's every featurethat she is Werekiew's child, as if I had not heard it said seventytimes before knowing her that she had loved Branciforte, San Giobbe, Strabane, ten others. Before, during, or after, what difference does itmake? Ah, I was sure on knocking at your door--at this door of honor--Ishould hear the truth, that I would touch it as I touch this object, "and he laid his hand upon a marble bust on the table. "You see I hear it like a man. You can speak to me now. Who knows?Disgust is a great cure for passion. I will listen to you. Do not spareme!" "You are mistaken, Gorka, " replied Dorsenne. "What I have to say to you, I can say very simply. I was, and I am, convinced that in a quarter ofan hour, in an hour, tomorrow, the day after, you will consider me aliar or an imbecile. But, since you misinterpreted my silence, it is myduty to speak, and I do so. I give you my word of honor I have never hadthe least suspicion of a connection between Madame Steno and Maitland, nor have their relations seemed changed to me for a second since yourabsence. I give you my word of honor that no one, do you hear, noone has spoken of it to me. And, now, act as you please, think as youplease. I have said all I can say. " The novelist uttered those words with a feverish energy which was causedby the terrible strain he was making upon his conscience. But Gorka'slaugh had terrified him so much the more as at the same instant thejealous lover's disengaged hand was voluntarily or involuntarilyextended toward the weapon which gleamed upon the couch. The vision ofan immediate catastrophe, this time inevitable, rose before Julien. His lips had spoken, as his arm would have been out stretched, by anirresistible instinct, to save several lives, and he had made thefalse statement, the first and no doubt the last in his life, withoutreflecting. He had no sooner uttered it than he experienced such anexcess of anger that he would at that moment almost have preferrednot to be believed. It would indeed have been a comfort to him if hisvisitor had replied by one of those insulting negations which permit oneman to strike another, so great was his irritation. On the contrary, he saw the face of Madame Steno's lover turned toward him with anexpression of gratitude upon it. Boleslas's lips quivered, his handswere clasped, two large tears gushed from his burning eyes and rolleddown his cheeks. When he was able to speak, he moaned: "Ah, my friend, how much good you have done me! From what a nightmareyou have relieved me. Ah! Now I am saved! I believe you, I believe you. You are intimate with them. You see them every day. If there had beenanything between them you would know it. You would have heard it talkedof. Ah! Thanks! Give me your hand that I may press it. Forget all I saidto you just now, the slander I uttered in a moment of delirium. I knowvery well it was untrue. And now, let me embrace you as I would if youhad really saved me from drowning. Ah, my friend, my only friend!" And he rushed up to clasp to his bosom the novelist, who replied withthe words uttered at the beginning of this conversation: "Calm yourself, I beseech you, calm yourself!" and repeating to himself, brave and loyalman that he was: "I could not act differently, but it is hard!" BOOK 2. CHAPTER IV. APPROACHING DANGER "I could not act differently, " repeated Dorsenne on the evening of thateventful day. He had given his entire afternoon to caring for Gorka. Hemade him lunch. He made him lie down. He watched him. He took him in aclosed carriage to Portonaccio, the first stopping-place on the Florenceline. Indeed, he made every effort not to leave alone for a moment theman whose frenzy he had rather suspended than appeased, at the price, alas, of his own peace of mind! For, once left alone, in solitude andin the apartments on the Place de la Trinite, where twenty detailstestified to the visit of Gorka, the weight of the perjured word ofhonor became a heavy load to the novelist, so much the more heavy whenhe discovered the calculating plan followed by Boleslas. His tardypenetration permitted him to review the general outline of theirconversation. He perceived that not one of his interlocutor's sentences, not even the most agitated, had been uttered at random. From reply toreply, from confidence to confidence, he, Dorsenne, had become involvedin the dilemma without being able to foresee or to avoid it; he wouldeither have had to accuse a woman or to lie with one of those lies whicha manly conscience does not easily pardon. He did not forgive himselffor it. "It is so much worse, " said he to himself, "as it will prevent nothing. A person vile enough to pen anonymous letters will not stop there. Shewill find the means of again unchaining the madman. .. . But whowrote those letters? Gorka may have forged them in order to have anopportunity to ask me the question he did. .. . And yet, no. .. . Thereare two indisputable facts--his state of jealousy and his extraordinaryreturn. Both would lead one to suppose a third, a warning. But given bywhom?. .. He told me of twelve anonymous letters. .. . Let us assume thathe received one or two. .. . But who is the author of those?" The immediate development of the drama in which Julien found himselfinvolved was embodied in the answer to the question. It was not easyto formulate. The Italians have a proverb of singular depth which thenovelist recalled at that moment. He had laughed a great deal whenhe heard sententious Egiste Brancadori repeat it. He repeated it tohimself, and he understood its meaning. 'Chi non sa fingersi amico, nonsa essere nemico. "He who does not know how to disguise himself asa friend, does not know how to be an enemy. " In the little corner ofsociety in which Countess Steno, the Gorkas and Lincoln Maitland moved, who was hypocritical and spiteful enough to practise that counsel? "It is not Madame Steno, " thought Julien; "she has related all herselfto her lover. I knew a similar case. But it involved degraded Parisians, not a Dogesse of the sixteenth century found intact in the Venice oftoday, like a flower of that period preserved. Let us strike her off. Let us strike off, too, Madame Gorka, the truthful creature who couldnot even condescend to the smallest lie for a trinket which she desires. It is that which renders her so easily deceived. What irony!. .. Let usstrike off Florent. He would allow himself to be killed, if necessary, like a Mameluke at the door of the room where his genial brother-in-lawwas dallying with the Countess. .. . Let us strike off the Americanhimself. I have met such a case, a lover weary of a mistress, denouncinghimself to her in order to be freed from his love-affair. But he was aroue, and had nothing in common with this booby, who has a talentfor painting as an elephant has a trunk--what irony! He married thisoctoroon to have money. But it was a base act which freed him fromcommerce, and permitted him to paint all he wanted, as he wanted. He allows Steno to love him because she is diabolically pretty, notwithstanding her forty years, and then she is, in spite of all, areal noblewoman, which flattered him. He has not one dollar's-worth ofmoral delicacy in his heart. But he has an abundance of knavery. .. . Letus, too, strike out his wife. She is such a veritable slave whom themere presence of a white person annihilates to such a degree that shedares not look her husband in the face. .. . It is not Hafner. The slyfox is capable of doing anything by cunning, but is he capable ofundertaking a useless and dangerous piece of rascality? Never. .. . Fannyis a saint escaped from the Golden Legend, no matter what Montfanonthinks! I have now reviewed the entire coterie. .. . I was about to forgetAlba. .. . It is too absurd even to think of her. .. . Too absurd? Why?" Dorsenne was, on formulating that fantastic thought, upon the point ofretiring. He took up, as was his habit, one of the books on his table, in order to read a few pages, when once in bed. He had thus within hisreach the works by which he strengthened his doctrine of intransitiveintellectuality; they were Goethe's Memoirs; a volume of George Sand'scorrespondence, in which were the letters to Flaubert; the 'Discours dela Methode' by Descartes, and the essay by Burckhart on the Renaissance. But, after turning over the leaves of one of those volumes, he closed itwithout having read twenty lines. He extinguished his lamp, but he couldnot sleep. The strange suspicion which crossed his mind had somethingmonstrous about it, applied thus to a young girl. What a suspicion andwhat a young girl! The preferred friend of his entire winter, she onwhose account he had prolonged his stay in Rome, for she was the mostgraceful vision of delicacy and of melancholy in the framework ofa tragical and solemn past. Any other than Dorsenne would not haveadmitted such an idea without being inspired with horror. But Dorsenne, on the contrary, suddenly began to dive into that sinister hypothesis, to help it forward, to justify it. No one more than he suffered from amoral deformity which the abuse of a certain literary work inflictson some writers. They are so much accustomed to combining artificialcharacters with creations of their imaginations that they constantlyfulfil an analogous need with regard to the individuals they know best. They have some friend who is dear to them, whom they see almost daily, who hides nothing from them and from whom they hide nothing. But if theyspeak to you of him you are surprised to find that, while continuing tolove that friend, they trace to you in him two contradictory portraitswith the same sincerity and the same probability. They have a mistress, and that woman, even in the space sometimes of oneday, sees them, with fear, change toward her, who has remained the same. It is that they have developed in them to a very intense degree theimagination of the human soul, and that to observe is to them onlya pretext to construe. That infirmity had governed Julien from earlymaturity. It was rarely manifested in a manner more unexpected than inthe case of charming Alba Steno, who was possibly dreaming of him at thevery moment when, in the silence of the night, he was forcing himself toprove that she was capable of that species of epistolary parricide. "After all, " he said to himself, for there is iconoclasm in theexcessively intellectual, and they delight in destroying their dearestmoral or sentimental idols, the better to prove their strength, "afterall, have I really understood her relations toward her mother? When Icame to Rome in November, when I was to be presented to the Countess, what did not only one, but nine or ten persons tell me? That MadameSteno had a liaison with the husband of her daughter's best friend, andthat the little one was grieving about it. I went to the house. I sawthe child. She was sad that evening. I had the curiosity to wish to readher heart. .. . It is six months since then. We have met almost daily, often twice a day. She is so hermetically sealed that I am no fartheradvanced than I was on the first day. I have seen her glance at hermother as she did this morning, with loving, admiring eyes. I have seenher turn pale at a word, a gesture, on her part. I have seen herembrace Maud Gorka, and play tennis with that same friend so gayly, soinnocently. I have seen that she could not bear the presence of Maitlandin a room, and yet she asked the American to take her portrait. .. . Is she guileless?. .. Is she a hypocrite? Or is she tormented bydoubt-divining, not divining-believing, not believing in-her mother? Isshe underhand in any case, with her eyes the color of the sea? Has shethe ambiguous mind at once of a Russian and an Italian?. .. This would bea solution of the problem, that she was a girl of extraordinary inwardenergy, who, both aware of her mother's intrigues and detesting themwith an equal hatred, had planned to precipitate the two men upon eachother. For a young girl the undertaking is great. I will go to theCountess's to-morrow night, and I will amuse myself by watching Alba, tosee. .. If she is innocent, my deed will be inoffensive. If perchance sheis not?" It is vain to profess to one's own heart a complaisant dandyism ofmisanthropy. Such reflections leave behind them a tinge of a remorse, above all when they are, as these, absolutely whimsical and founded on asimple paradox of dilettantism. Dorsenne experienced a feeling of shamewhen he awoke the following morning, and, thinking of the mystery ofthe letters received by Gorka, he recalled the criminal romance he hadconstructed around the charming and tender form of his little friend;happily for his nerves, which were strained by the consideration of theformidable problem. If it is not some one in the Countess's circle, whohas written those letters? He received, on rising, a voluminous packageof proofs with the inscription: "Urgent. " He was preparing to giveto the public a collection of his first articles, under the title of'Poussiere d'Idees. ' Dorsenne was a faithful literary worker. Usually, involved titlesserve to hide in a book-stall shop--made goods, and romance writers ordramatic authors who pride themselves on living to write, and who seekinspiration elsewhere than in regularity of habits and the work-table, have their efforts marked from the first by sterility. Obscure orfamous, rich or poor, an artist must be an artisan and practise thesefruitful virtues--patient application, conscientious technicality, absorption in work. When he seated himself at his table Dorsenne washeart and soul in his business. He closed his door, he opened no lettersnor telegrams, and he spent ten hours without taking anything but twoeggs and some black coffee, as he did on this particular day, whenlooking over the essays of his twenty-fifth year with the talent ofhis thirty-fifth, retouching here a word, rewriting an entire page, dissatisfied here, smiling there at his thought. The pen flew, carryingwith it all the sensibility of the intellectual man who had completelyforgotten Madame Steno, Gorka, Maitland, and the calumniated Contessina, until he should awake from his lucid intoxication at nightfall. As hecounted, in arranging the slips, the number of articles prepared, hefound there were twelve. "Like Gorka's letters, " said he aloud, with a laugh. He now feltcoursing through his veins the lightness which all writers of his kindfeel when they have labored on a work they believe good. "I have earnedmy evening, " he added, still in a loud voice. "I must now dress and goto Madame Steno's. A good dinner at the doctor's. A half-hour's walk. The night promises to be divine. I shall find out if they have newsof the Palatine, "--the name he gave Gorka in his moments of gayety. "Ishall talk in a loud voice of anonymous letters. If the author ofthose received by Boleslas is there, I shall be in the best position todiscover him; provided that it is not Alba. .. . Decidedly--that would besad!" It was ten o'clock in the evening, when the young man, faithful to hisprogramme, arrived at the door of the large house on the Rue du VingtSeptembre occupied by Madame Steno. It was an immense modern structure, divided into two distinct parts; to the left a revenue building andto the right a house on the order of those which are to be seen on theborders of Park Monceau. The Villa Steno, as the inscription in goldupon the black marble door indicated, told the entire story of theCountess's fortune--that fortune appraised by rumor, with its habitualexaggeration, now at twenty, now at thirty, millions. She had in realitytwo hundred and fifty thousand francs' income. But as, in 1873, CountMichel Steno, her husband, died, leaving only debts, a partly ruinedpalace at Venice and much property heavily mortgaged, the amount of thatincome proved the truth of the title, "superior woman, " applied by herfriends to Alba's mother. Her friends likewise added: "She has been themistress of Hafner, who has aided her with his financial advice, " anatrocious slander which was so much the more false as it was before everknowing the Baron that she had begun to amass her wealth. This is howshe managed it: At the close of 1873, when, as a young widow, living in retirement inthe sumptuous and ruined dwelling on the Grand Canal, she was strugglingwith her creditors, one of the largest bankers in Rome came to proposeto her a very advantageous scheme. It dealt with a large piece of landwhich belonged to the Steno estate, a piece of land in Rome, in oneof the suburbs, between the Porta Salara and the Porta Pia, a sort ofvillage which the deceased Cardinal Steno, Count Michel's uncle, hadbegun to lay out. After his demise, the land had been rented in lots tokitchen-gardeners, and it was estimated that it was worth about fortycentimes a square metre. The financier offered four francs for it, underthe pretext of establishing a factory on the site. It was a large sumof money. The Countess required twenty-four hours in which to consider, and, at the end of that time, she refused the offer, which won for herthe admiration of the men of business who knew of the refusal. In 1882, less than ten years later, she sold the same land for ninety francsa metre. She saw, on glancing at a plan of Rome, and in recalling thehistory of modern Italy, first, that the new masters of the Eternal Citywould centre all their ambition in rebuilding it, then that the portioncomprised between the Quirinal and the two gates of Salara and Pia wouldbe one of the principal points of development; finally, that if shewaited she would obtain a much greater sum than the first offer. Andshe had waited, applying herself to watching the administration of herpossessions like the severest of intendants, depriving herself, stoppingup gaps with unhoped-for profits. In 1875, she sold to the NationalGallery a suite of four panels by Carpaccio, found in one of her countryhouses, for one hundred and twenty thousand francs. She had been asactive and practical in her material life as she had been light andaudacious in her sentimental experiences. The story circulated ofher infidelity to Steno with Werekiew at St. Petersburg, where thediplomatist was stationed, after one year of marriage, was confirmedby the wantonness of her conduct, of which she gave evidence as soon asfree. At Rome, where she lived a portion of the year after the sale of herland, out of which she retained enough to build the double house, shecontinued to increase her fortune with the same intelligence. A veryadvantageous investment in Acqua Marcia enabled her to double in fiveyears the enormous profits of her first operation. And what proved stillmore the exceptional good sense with which the woman was endowed, whenlove was not in the balance, she stopped on those two gains, just atthe time when the Roman aristocracy, possessed by the delirium ofspeculation, had begun to buy stocks which had reached their highestvalue. To spend the evening at the Villa Steno, after spending all the morningof the day before at the Palais Castagna, was to realize one of thoseparadoxes of contradictory sensations such as Dorsenne loved, for poorArdea had been ruined in having attempted to do a few years later thatwhich Countess Catherine had done at the proper moment. He, too, hadhoped for an increase in the value of property. Only he had bought theland at seventy francs a metre, and in '90 it was not worth more thantwenty-five. He, too, had calculated that Rome would improve, and onthe high-priced land he had begun to build entire streets, imagining hecould become like the Dukes of Bedford and of Westminster in London, the owner of whole districts. His houses finished, they did not rent, however. To complete the rest he had to borrow. He speculated in orderto pay his debts, lost, and contracted more debts in order to pay thedifference. His signature, as the proprietor of the Marzocco had said, was put to innumerable bills of exchange. The result was that on all thewalls of Rome, including that of the Rue Vingt Septembre on which wasthe Villa Steno, were posted multi-colored placards announcing the sale, under the management of Cavalier Fossati, of the collection of art andof furniture of the Palais Castagna. "To foresee is to possess power, " said Dorsenne to himself, ringing atMadame Steno's door and summing up thus the invincible association ofideas which recalled to him the palace of the ruined Roman Prince at thedoor of the villa of the triumphant Venetian: "It is the real Alpha andOmega. " The comparison between the lot of Madame Steno and that of the heir ofthe Castagnas had almost caused the writer to forget his plan of inquiryas to the author of the anonymous letters. It was to be impressed uponhim, however, when he entered the hall where the Countess received everyevening. Ardea himself was there, the centre of a group composed ofAlba Steno, Madame Maitland, Fanny Hafner and the wealthy Baron, who, standing aloof and erect, leaning against a console, seemed like abeneficent and venerable man in the act of blessing youth. Julien wasnot surprised on finding so few persons in the vast salon, any more thanhe was surprised at the aspect of the room filled with old tapestry, bric-a-brac, furniture, flowers, and divans with innumerable cushions. He had had the entire winter in which to observe the interior of thathouse, similar to hundreds of others in Vienna, Madrid, Florence, Berlin, anywhere, indeed, where the mistress of the house appliesherself to realizing an ideal of Parisian luxury. He had amused himselfmany an evening in separating from the almost international frameworklocal features, those which distinguished the room from others of thesame kind. No human being succeeds in being absolutely factitious in hishome or in his writings. The author had thus noted that the salon bore adate, that of the Countess's last journey to Paris in 1880. It was tobe seen in the plush and silk of the curtains. The general coloring, in which green predominated, a liberty egotistical in so brilliant ablonde, had too warm a tone and betrayed the Italian. Italy was also tobe found in the painted ceiling and in the frieze which ran all around, as well as in several paintings scattered about. There were two panelsby Moretti de Brescia in the second style of the master, called hissilvery manner, on account of the delicate and transparent fluidity ofthe coloring; a 'Souper chez le Pharisien' and a 'Jesus ressuscite surle rivage', which could only have come from one of the very old palacesof a very ancient family. Dorsenne knew all that, and he knew, too, forwhat reasons he found almost empty at that time of the year the hall soanimated during the entire winter, the hall through which he had seenpass a veritable carnival of visitors: great lords, artists, politicalmen, Russians and Austrians, English and French--pellmell. TheCountess was far from occupying in Rome the social position which herintelligence, her fortune and her name should have assured her. For, having been born a Navagero, she combined on her escutcheon the cross ofgold of the Sebastien Navagero who was the first to mount the walls ofLepante, with the star of the grand Doge Michel. But one particular trait of character had always prevented her fromsucceeding on that point. She could not bear ennui nor constraint, norhad she any vanity. She was positive and impassioned, in the manner ofthe men of wealth to whom their meditated--upon combinations serveto assure the conditions of their pleasures. Never had Madame Stenodisplayed diplomacy in the changes of her passions, and they had beennumerous before the arrival of Gorka, to whom she had remained faithfultwo years, an almost incomprehensible thing! Never had she, save in herown home, observed the slightest bounds when there was a question ofreaching the object of her desire. Moreover, she had not in Rome tosupport her any member of the family to which she belonged, and she hadnot joined either of the two sets into which, since 1870, the society ofthe city was divided. Of too modern a mind and of a manner too bold, shehad not been received by the admirable woman who reigns at the Quirinal, and who had managed to gather around her an atmosphere of such nobleelevation. These causes would have brought about a sort of semi-ostracism, had theCountess not applied herself to forming a salon of her own, the recruitsfor which were almost altogether foreigners. The sight of new faces, the variety of conversation, the freedom of manner, all in that movingworld, pleased the thirst for diversion which, in that puissant, spontaneous, and almost manly immoral nature, was joined with very justclear-sightedness. If Julien paused for a moment surprised at the doorof the hall, it was not, therefore, on finding it empty at the end ofthe season; it was on beholding there, among the inmates, Peppino Ardea, whom he had not met all winter. Truly, it was a strange time to appearin new scenes when the hammer of the appraiser was already raised aboveall which had been the pride and the splendor of his name. But thegrand-nephew of Urban VII, seated between sublime Fanny Hafner, in paleblue, and pretty Alba Steno, in bright red, opposite Madame Maitland, so graceful in her mauve toilette, had in no manner the air of a mancrushed by adversity. The subdued light revealed his proud manly face, which had lost noneof its gay hauteur. His eyes, very black, very brilliant, and veryunsteady, seemed almost in the same glance to scorn and to smile, whilehis mouth, beneath its brown moustache, wore an expression of disdain, disgust, and sensuality. The shaven chin displayed a bluish shade, whichgave to the whole face a look of strength, belied by the slender andnervous form. The heir of the Castagnas was dressed with an affectationof the English style, peculiar to certain Italians. He wore too manyrings on his fingers, too large a bouquet in his buttonhole, and aboveall he made too many gestures to allow for a moment, with his darkcomplexion, of any doubt as to his nationality. It was he who, of allthe group, first perceived Julien, and he said to him, or rather calledout familiarly: "Ah, Dorsenne! I thought you had gone away. We have not seen you at theclub for fifteen days. " "He has been working, " replied Hafner, "at some new masterpiece, at aromance which is laid in Roman society, I am sure. Mistrust him, Prince, and you, ladies, disarm the portrayer. " "I, " resumed Ardea, laughing pleasantly, "will give him notes uponmyself, if he wants them, as long as this, and I will illustrate hisromance into the bargain with photographs which I once had a rage fortaking. .. . See, Mademoiselle, " he added, turning to Fanny, "that is howone ruins one's self. I had a mania for the instantaneous ones. It wasvery innocent, was it not? It cost me thirty thousand francs a year, forfour years. " Dorsenne had heard that it was a watchword between Peppino Ardea and hisfriends to take lightly the disaster which came upon the Castagna familyin its last and only scion. He was not expecting such a greeting. He wasso disconcerted by it that he neglected to reply to the Baron's remark, as he would have done at any other time. Never did the founder of the'Credit Austyr-Dalmate' fail to manifest in some such way his profoundaversion for the novelist. Men of his species, profoundly cynical andcalculating, fear and scorn at the same time a certain literature. Moreover, he had too much tact not to be aware of the instinctiverepulsion with which he inspired Julien. But to Hafner, all socialstrength was tariffed, and literary success as much as any other. As hewas afraid, as on the staircase of the Palais Castagna, that he hadgone too far, he added, laying his hand with its long, supple fingersfamiliarly upon the author's shoulder: "This is what I admire in him: It is that he allows profane persons, such as we are, to plague him, without ever growing angry. He is theonly celebrated author who is so simple. .. . But he is better than anauthor; he is a veritable man-of-the-world. " "Is not the Countess here?" asked Dorsenne, addressing Alba Steno, andwithout replying any more to the action, so involuntarily insulting, of the Baron than he had to his sly malice or to the Prince'sfacetious offer. Madame Steno's absence had again inspired him with anapprehension which the young girl dissipated by replying: "My mother is on the terrace. .. . We were afraid it was too cool forFanny. ". .. . It was a very simple phrase, which the Contessina utteredvery simply, as she fanned herself with a large fan of white feathers. Each wave of it stirred the meshes of her fair hair, which she worecurled upon her rather high forehead. Julien understood her too well notto perceive that her voice, her gestures, her eyes, her entire being, betrayed a nervousness at that moment almost upon the verge of sadness. Was she still reserved from the day before, or was she a prey to oneof those inexplicable transactions, which had led Dorsenne in hismeditations of the night to such strange suspicions? Those suspicionsreturned to him with the feeling that, of all the persons present, Albawas the only one who seemed to be aware of the drama which undoubtedlywas brewing. He resolved to seek once more for the solution of theliving enigma which that singular girl was. How lovely she appeared tohim that evening with, those two expressions which gave her an almosttragical look! The corners of her mouth drooped somewhat; her upper lip, almost too short, disclosed her teeth, and in the lower part of her paleface was a bitterness so prematurely sad! Why? It was not the time toask the question. First of all, it was necessary for the young man to goin search of Madame Steno on the terrace, which terminated in a paradiseof Italian voluptuousness, the salon furnished in imitation of Paris. Shrubs blossomed in large terra-cotta vases. Statuettes were to beseen on the balustrade, and, beyond, the pines of the Villa Bonaparteoutlined their black umbrellas against a sky of blue velvet, strewn withlarge stars. A vague aroma of acacias, from a garden near by, floatedin the air, which was light, caressing, and warm. The soft atmospheresufficed to convict of falsehood the Contessina, who had evidentlywished to justify the tete-a-tete of her mother and of Maitland. The twolovers were indeed together in the perfume, the mystery and the solitudeof the obscure and quiet terrace. It took Dorsenne, who came from the bright glare of the salon, a momentto distinguish in the darkness the features of the Countess who, dressedall in white, was lying upon a willow couch with soft cushions of silk. She was smoking a cigarette, the lighted end of which, at each breathshe drew, gave sufficient light to show that, notwithstanding thecoolness of the night, her lovely neck, so long and flexible, aboutwhich was clasped a collar of pearls, was bare, as well as her fairshoulders and her perfect arms, laden with bracelets, which were visiblethrough her wide, flowing sleeves. On advancing, Julien recognized, through the vegetable odors of that spring night, the strong scent ofthe Virginian tobacco which Madame Steno had used since she had fallenin love with Maitland, instead of the Russian "papyrus" to which Gorkahad accustomed her. It is by such insignificant traits that amorouswomen recognize a love profoundly, insatiably sensual, the only oneof which the Venetian was capable. Their passionate desire to givethemselves up still more leads them to espouse, so to speak, theslightest habits of the men whom they love in that way. Thus areexplained those metamorphoses of tastes, of thoughts, even ofappearance, so complete, that in six months, in three months ofseparation they become like different people. By the side of thatgraceful and supple vision, Lincoln Maitland was seated on a lowchair. But his broad shoulders, which his evening coat set off in theiramplitude, attested that before having studied "Art"--and even whilestudying it--he had not ceased to practise the athletic sports of hisEnglish education. As soon as he was mentioned, the term "large" wasevoked. Indeed, above the large frame was a large face, somewhat red, with a large, red moustache, which disclosed, in broad smiles, hislarge, strong teeth. Large rings glistened on his large fingers. He presented a type exactlyopposite to that of Boleslas Gorka. If the grandson of the PolishCastellan recalled the dangerous finesse of a feline, of a slender andbeautiful panther, Maitland could be compared to one of those mastiffsin the legends, with a jaw and muscles strong enough to strangle lions. The painter in him was only in the eye and in the hand, in consequenceof a gift as physical as the voice to a tenor. But that instinct, almostabnormal, had been developed, cultivated to excess, by the energy ofwill in refinement, a trait so marked in the Anglo-Saxons of the NewWorld when they like Europe, instead of detesting it. For the timebeing, the longing for refinement seemed reduced to the passionateinhalations of that divine, fair rose of love which was Madame Steno, a rose almost too full-blown, and which the autumn of forty years hadbegun to fade. But she was still charming. And how little Maitlandheeded the fact that his wife was in the room near by, the windows ofwhich cast forth a light which caused to stand out more prominently theshadow of the voluptuous terrace! He held his mistress's hand within hisown, but abandoned it when he perceived Dorsenne, who took particularpains to move a chair noisily on approaching the couple, and to say, ina loud voice, with a merry laugh: "I should have made a poor gallant abbe of the last century, for atnight I can really see nothing. If your cigarette had not served me as abeacon-light I should have run against the balustrade. " "Ah, it is you, Dorsenne, " replied Madame Steno, with a sharpnesscontrary to her habitual amiability, which proved to the novelist thatfirst of all he was the "inconvenient third" of the classical comedies, then that Hafner had reported his imprudent remarks of the day before. "So much the better, " thought he, "I shall have forewarned her. Onreflection she will be pleased. It is true that at this moment there isno question of reflection. " As he said those words to himself, he talkedaloud of the temperature of the day, of the probabilities of the weatherfor the morrow, of Ardea's good-humor. He made, indeed, twenty triflingremarks, in order to manage to leave the terrace and to leave thelovers to their tete-a-tete, without causing his withdrawal to becomenoticeable by indiscreet haste, as disagreeable as suggestive. "When may we come to your atelier to see the portrait finished, Maitland?" he asked, still standing, in order the better to manage hisretreat. "Finished?" exclaimed the Countess, who added, employing a diminutivewhich she had used for several weeks: "Do you then not know that Lincohas again effaced the head?" "Not the entire head, " said the painter, "but the face is to bedone over. You remember, Dorsenne, those two canvases by Pier deltaFrancesca, which are at Florence, Duc Federigo d'Urbino and his wifeBattista Sforza. Did you not see them in the same room with La Calomnieby Botticelli, with a landscape in the background? It is drawn likethis, " and he made a gesture with his thumb, "and that is what I amtrying to obtain, the necessary curve on which all faces depend. Thereis no better painter in Italy. " "And Titian and Raphael?" interrupted Madame Steno. "And the Sienese and the Lorenzetti, of whom you once raved? Youwrote to me of them, with regard to my article on your exposition of'eighty-six; do you remember?" inquired the writer. "Raphael?" replied Maitland. .. . "Do you wish me to tell you what Raphaelreally was? A sublime builder. And Titian? A sublime upholsterer. Itis true, I admired the Sienese very much, " he added, turning towardDorsenne. "I spent three months in copying the Simone Martini of themunicipality, the Guido Riccio, who rides between two strongholds ona gray heath, where there is not a sign of a tree or a house, but onlylances and towers. Do I remember Lorenzetti? Above all, the fresco atSan Francesco, in which Saint Francois presents his order to the Pope, that was his best work. .. . Then, there is a cardinal, with his fingerson his lips, thus!" another gesture. "Well, I remember it, you see, because there is an anecdote. It is portrayed on a wall--oh, a grandportrayal, but without the subject, flutt!". .. . And he made ahissing sound with his lips, "while Pier della Francesca, Carnevale, Melozzo, ". .. . He paused to find a word which would express the verycomplicated thought in his head, and he concluded: "That is painting. " "But the Assumption by Titian, and the Transfiguration by Raphael, "resumed the Countess, who added in Italian, with an accent ofenthusiasm: "Ah, the bellezza!" "Do not worry, Countess, " said Dorsenne, laughing heartily, "those arean artist's opinions. Ten years ago, I said that Victor Hugo was anamateur and Alfred de Musset a bourgeois. But, " he added, "as I am notdescended from the Doges nor the Pilgrim Fathers, I, a poor, degenerateGallo-Roman, fear the dampness on account of my rheumatism, and ask yourpermission to reenter the house. " Then, as he passed through the doorof the salon: "Raphael, a builder! Titian, an upholsterer! Lorenzetti, a reproducer!" he repeated to himself. "And the descendant of the Doges, who listened seriously to those speeches, her ideal should be a madonnaen chromo! Of the first order! As for Gorka, if he had not made me losemy entire day yesterday, I should think I had been dreaming, so littleis there any question of him. .. . And Ardea, who continues to laugh athis ruin. He is not bad for an Italian. But he talks too much about hisaffairs, and it is in bad taste!". .. . Indeed, as he turned toward thegroup assembled in a corner of the salon, he heard the Prince relatinga story about Cavalier Fossati, to whom was entrusted the charge of thesale: "How much do you think will be realized on all?" I asked him, finally. "Oh, " he replied, "very little. .. . But a little and a little more endby making a great deal. With what an air he added: 'E gia il moschino econte'--Already the gnat is a count. ' The gnat was himself. 'A few moresales like yours, my Prince, and my son, the Count of Fossati, will havehalf a million. He will enter the club and address you with the familiar'thou' when playing 'goffo' against you. That is what there is in thisgia (already). .. . On my honor, I have not been happier than since Ihave, not a sou. " "You are an optimist, Prince, " said Hafner, "and whatsoever our friendDorsenne here present may claim, it is necessary to be optimistic. " "You are attacking him again, father, " interrupted Fanny, in a tone ofrespectful reproach. "Not the man, " returned the Baron, "but his ideas--yes, and above allthose of his school. .. . Yes, yes, " he continued, either wishing tochange the conversation, which Ardea persisted in turning upon his ruin, or finding very well organized a world in which strokes like that of theCredit Austro-Dalmate are possible, he really felt a deep aversion tothe melancholy and pessimism with which Julien's works were tinged. Andhe continued: "On listening to you, Ardea, just now, and on seeing thisgreat writer enter, I am reminded by contrast of the fashion now invogue of seeing life in a gloomy light. " "Do you find it very gay?" asked Alba, brusquely. "Good, " said Hafner; "I was sure that, in talking against pessimism, Ishould make the Contessina talk. .. . Very gay?" he continued. "No. Butwhen I think of the misfortunes which might have come to all of us here, for instance, I find it very tolerable. Better than living in anotherepoch, for example. One hundred and fifty years ago, Contessina, inVenice, you would have been liable to arrest any day under a warrant ofthe Council of Ten. .. . And you, Dorsenne, would have been exposed to thecudgel like Monsieur de Voltaire, by some jealous lord. .. . And Princed'Ardea would have run the risk of being assassinated or beheaded ateach change of Pope. And I, in my quality of Protestant, should havebeen driven from France, persecuted in Austria, molested in Italy, burned in Spain. " As can be seen, he took care to choose between his two inheritances. Hehad done so with an enigmatical good-nature which was almost ironical. He paused, in order not to mention what might have come to MadameMaitland before the suppression of slavery. He knew that the very prettyand elegant young lady shared the prejudices of her American compatriotsagainst negro blood, and that she made every effort to hide the blemishupon her birth to the point of never removing her gloves. It may, however, in justice be added, that the slightly olive tinge in hercomplexion, her wavy hair, and a vague bluish reflection in the whitesof her eyes would scarcely have betrayed the mixture of race. She didnot seem to have heeded the Baron's pause, but she arranged, with anabsent air, the folds of her mauve gown, while Dorsenne replied: "Itis a fine and specious argument. .. . Its only fault is that it has nofoundation. For I defy you to imagine yourself what you would have beenin the epoch of which you speak. We say frequently, 'If I had lived ahundred years ago. ' We forget that a hundred years ago we should nothave been the same; that we should not have had the same ideas, the sametastes, nor the same requirements. It is almost the same as imaginingthat you could think like a bird or a serpent. " "One could very well imagine what it would be never to have been born, "interrupted. Alba Steno. She uttered the sentence in so peculiar a manner that the discussionbegun by Hafner was nipped in the bud. The words produced their effect upon the chatter of the idlers who onlypartly believed in the ideas they put forth. Although there is always aparadox in condemning life amid a scene of luxury when one is not morethan twenty, the Contessina was evidently sincere. Whence came thatsincerity? From what corner of her youthful heart, wounded almost todeath? Dorsenne was the only person who asked himself the question, forthe conversation turned at once, Lydia Maitland having touched withher fan the sleeve of Alba, who was two seats from her, to ask her thisquestion with an irony as charming, after the young girl's words, as itwas involuntary: "It is silk muslin, is it not?" "Yes, " replied the Contessina, who rose and leaned over, to offer tothe curious gaze of her pretty neighbor her arm, which gleamed frail, nervous, and softly fair through the transparent red material, with abow of ribbon of the same color tied at her slender shoulder and hergraceful wrist, while Ardea, by the side of Fanny, could be heard sayingto the daughter of Baron Justus, more beautiful than ever that evening, in her pallor slightly tinged with pink by some secret agitation: "You visited my palace yesterday, Mademoiselle?" "No, " she replied. "Ask her why not, Prince, " said Hafner. "Father!" cried Fanny, with a supplication in her black eyes which Ardeahad the delicacy to obey, as he resumed: "It is a pity. Everything there is very ordinary. But you would havebeen interested in the chapel. Indeed, I regret that the most, thoseobjects before which my ancestors have prayed so long and which end bybeing listed in a catalogue. .. . They even took the reliquary from me, because it was by Ugolina da Siena. I will buy it back as soon as I can. Your father applauds my courage. I could not part from those objectswithout real sorrow. " "But it is the feeling she has for the entire palace, " said the Baron. "Father!" again implored Fanny. "Come, compose yourself, I will not betray you, " said Hafner, whileAlba, taking advantage of having risen, left the group. She walkedtoward a table at the other extremity of the room, set in the styleof an English table, with tea and iced drinks, saying to Julien, whofollowed her: "Shall I prepare your brandy and soda, Dorsenne?" "What ails you, Contessina?" asked the young man, in a whisper, whenthey were alone near the plateau of crystal and the collection ofsilver, which gleamed so brightly in the dimly lighted part of the room. "Yes, " he persisted, "what ails you? Are you still vexed with me?" "With you?" said she. "I have never been. Why should I be?" sherepeated. "You have done nothing to me. " "Some one has wounded you?" asked Julien. He saw that she was sincere, and that she scarcely remembered theill-humor of the preceding day. "You can not deceive a friend such as Iam, " he continued. "On seeing you fan yourself, I knew that you had someannoyance. I know you so well. " "I have no annoyance, " she replied, with an impatient frown. "I can notbear to hear lies of a certain kind. That is all!" "And who has lied?" resumed Dorsenne. "Did you not hear Ardea speak of his chapel just now, he who believes inGod as little as Hafner, of whom no one knows whether he is a Jew or aGentile!. .. Did you not see poor Fanny look at him the while? Anddid you not remark with what tact the Baron made the allusion to thedelicacy which had prevented his daughter from visiting the PalaisCastagna with us? And did that comedy enacted between the two men giveyou no food for thought?" "Is that why Peppino is here?" asked Julien. "Is there a plan on footfor the marriage of the heiress of Papa Hafner's millions and thegrand-nephew of Pope Urban VII? That will furnish me with a fine subjectof conversation with some one of my acquaintance!". .. . And the merethought of Montfanon learning such news caused him to laugh heartily, while he continued, "Do not look at me so indignantly, dear Contessina. But I see nothing so sad in the story. Fanny to marry Peppino? Why not?You yourself have told me that she is partly Catholic, and that herfather is only awaiting her marriage to have her baptized. She will behappy then. Ardea will keep the magnificent palace we saw yesterday, andthe Baron will crown his career in giving to a man ruined on the Bourse, in the form of a dowry, that which he has taken from others. " "Be silent, " said the young girl, in a very grave voice, "you inspireme with horror. That Ardea should have lost all scruples, and that heshould wish to sell his title of a Roman prince at as high a price aspossible, to no matter what bidder, is so much the more a matter ofindifference, for we Venetians do not allow ourselves to be imposed uponby the Roman nobility. We all had Doges in our families when the fathersof these people were bandits in the country, waiting for some poor monkof their name to become Pope. That Baron Hafner sells his daughter as heonce sold her jewels is also a matter of indifference to me. But youdo not know her. You do not know what a creature, charming andenthusiastic, simple and sincere, she is, and who will never, nevermistrust that, first of all, her father is a thief, and, then, that heis selling her like a trinket in order to have grand-children who shallbe at the same time grandnephews of the Pope, and, finally, that Peppinodoes not love her, that he wants her dowry, and that he will have forher as little feeling as they have for her. " She glanced at MadameMaitland. "It is worse than I can tell you, " she said, enigmatically, asif vexed by her own words, and almost frightened by them. "Yes, " said Julien, "it would be very sad; but are you sure that you donot exaggerate the situation? There is not so much calculation in life. It is more mediocre and more facile. Perhaps the Prince and the Baronhave a vague project. " "A vague project?" interrupted Alba, shrugging her shoulders. "There isnever anything vague with a Hafner, you may depend. What if I were totell you that I am positive--do you hear--positive that it is he whoholds between his fingers the largest part of the Prince's debts, andthat he caused the sale by Ancona to obtain the bargain?" "It is impossible!" exclaimed Dorsenne. "You saw him yourself yesterdaythinking of buying this and that object. " "Do not make me say any more, " said Alba, passing over her brow andher eyes two or three times her hand, upon which no ring sparkled--thathand, very supple and white, whose movements betrayed extremenervousness. "I have already said too much. It is not my business, andpoor Fanny is only to me a recent friend, although I think her veryattractive and affectionate. .. . When I think that she is on the point ofpledging herself for life, and that there is no one, that there can beno one, to cry: They lie to you! I am filled with compassion. That isall. It is childish!" It is always painful to observe in a young person the exact perceptionof the sinister dealings of life, which, once entered into the mind, never allows of the carelessness so natural at the age of twenty. The impression of premature disenchantment Alba Steno had many timesgiven to Dorsenne, and it had indeed been the principal attraction tothe curious observer of the feminine character, who still was struck bythe terrible absence of illusion which such a view of the projects ofFanny's father revealed. Whence did she know them? Evidently from MadameSteno herself. Either the Baron and the Countess had talked of thembefore the young girl too openly to leave her in any doubt, or shehad divined what they did not tell her, through their conversation. Onseeing her thus, with her bitter mouth, her bright eyes, so visibly aprey to the fever of suppressed loathing, Dorsenne again was impressedby the thought of her perfect perspicacity. It was probable that she hadapplied the same force of thought to her mother's conduct. It seemedto him that on raising, as she was doing, the wick of the silver lampbeneath the large teakettle, that she was glancing sidewise at theterrace, where the end of the Countess's white robe could be seenthrough the shadow. Suddenly the mad thoughts which had so greatlyagitated him on the previous day possessed him again, and the plan hehad formed of imitating his model, Hamlet, in playing in Madame Steno'ssalon the role of the Danish prince before his uncle occurred to him. Absently, with his customary air of indifference, he continued: "Rest assured, Ardea does not lack enemies. Hafner, too, has plenty ofthem. Some one will be found to denounce their plot, if there is a plot, to lovely Fanny. An anonymous letter is so quickly written. " He had no sooner uttered those words than he interrupted himself withthe start of a man who handles a weapon which he thinks unloaded andwhich suddenly discharges. It was, really, to discharge a duty in the face of his own scepticismthat he had spoken thus, and he did not expect to see another shade ofsadness flit across Alba's mobile and proud face. There was in the corners of her mouth more disgust, her eyes expressedmore scorn, while her hands, busy preparing the tea, trembled as shesaid, with an accent so agitated that her friend regretted his cruelplan: "Ah! Do not speak of it! It would be still worse than her presentignorance. At least, now she knows nothing, and if some miserable personwere to do as you say she would know in part without being sure. .. . Howcould you smile at such a supposition?. .. No! Poor, gentle Fanny! I hopeshe will receive no anonymous letters. They are so cowardly and make somuch trouble!" "I ask your pardon if I have wounded you, " replied Dorsenne. He hadtouched, he felt it, a tender spot in that heart, and perceived withgrief that not only had Alba Steno not written the anonymous lettersaddressed to Gorka, but that, on the contrary, she had received someherself. From whom? Who was the mysterious denunciator who had warnedin that abominable manner the daughter of Madame Steno after the lover?Julien shuddered as he continued: "If I smiled, it was because I believeMademoiselle Hafner, in case the misfortune should come to her, sensibleenough to treat such advice as it merits. An anonymous letter does notdeserve to be read. Any one infamous enough to make use of weapons ofthat sort does not deserve that one should do him the honor even toglance at what he has written. " "Is it not so?" said the girl. There was in her eyes, the pupils ofwhich suddenly dilated, a gleam of genuine gratitude which convinced hercompanion that he had seen correctly. He had uttered just the wordsof which she had need. In the face of that proof, he was suddenlyoverwhelmed by an access of shame and of pity--of shame, because in histhoughts he had insulted the unhappy girl--of pity, because she had tosuffer a blow so cruel, if, indeed, her mother had been exposed to her. It must have been on the preceding afternoon or that very morning thatshe had received the horrible letter, for, during the visit to thePalais Castagna, she had been, by turns, gay and quiet, but so childish, while on that particular evening it was no longer the child whosuffered, but the woman. Dorsenne resumed: "You see, we writers are exposed to those abominations. A book whichsucceeds, a piece which pleases, an article which is extolled, callsforth from the envious unsigned letters which wound us or those whom welove. In such cases, I repeat, I burn them unread, and if ever in yourlife such come to you, listen to me, little Countess, and follow theadvice of your friend, Dorsenne, for he is your friend; you know it, doyou not, your true friend?" "Why should I receive anonymous letters?" asked the girl, quickly. "Ihave neither fame, beauty, nor wealth, and am not to be envied. " As Dorsenne looked at her, regretting that he had said so much, sheforced her sad lips to smile, and added: "If you are really my friend, instead of making me lose time by your advice, of which I shall probablynever have need, for I shall never become a great authoress, help meto serve the tea, will you? It should be ready. " And with her slenderfingers she raised the lid of the kettle, saying: "Go and ask MadameMaitland if she will take some tea this evening, and Fanny, too. .. . Ardea takes whiskey and the Baron mineral water. .. . You can ring forhis glass of vichy. .. . There. .. . You have delayed me. .. . There are morecallers and nothing is ready. .. . Ah, " she cried, "it is Maud!"--then, with surprise, "and her husband!" Indeed, the folding doors of the hall opened to admit Maud Gorka, arobust British beauty, radiant with happiness, attired in a gown ofblack crepe de Chine with orange ribbons, which set off to advantageher fresh color. Behind her came Boleslas. But he was no longer thetraveller who, thirty-six hours before, had arrived at the Place de laTrinite-des-Monts, mad with anxiety, wild with jealousy, soiled by thedust of travel, his hair disordered, his hands and face dirty. Itwas, though somewhat thinner, the elegant Gorka whom Dorsenne hadknown--tall, slender, and perfumed, in full dress, a bouquet in hisbuttonhole, his lips smiling. To the novelist, knowing what he knew, the smile and the composure had something in them more terrible than thefrenzy of the day before. He comprehended it by the manner in which thePole gave him his hand. One night and a day of reflection had underminedhis work, and if Boleslas had enacted the comedy to the point of lullinghis wife's suspicions and of deciding on the visit of that evening, itwas because he had resolved not to consult any one and to lead his owninquiry. He was succeeding in the beginning; he had certainly perceivedMadame Steno's white gown upon the terrace, while radiant Maud explainedhis unexpected return with her usual ingenuousness. "This is what comes of sending to a doting father accounts of our boy'shealth. .. . I wrote him the other day that Luc had a little fever. Hewrote to ask about its progress. I did not receive his letter. He becameuneasy, and here he is. " "I will tell mamma, " said Alba, passing out upon the terrace, but herhaste seemed too slow to Dorsenne. He had such a presentiment of dangerthat he did not think of smiling, as he would have done on any otheroccasion, at the absolute success of the deception which he and Boleslashad planned on the preceding day, and of which the Count had said, witha fatuity now proven: "Maud will be so happy to see me that she willbelieve all. " It was a scene both simple and tragical--of that order in which insociety the most horrible incidents occur without a sound, without agesture, amid phrases of conventionality and in a festal framework!Two of the spectators, at least, besides Julien, understood itsimportance-Ardea and Hafner. For neither the one nor the other hadfailed to notice the relations between Madame Steno and Maitland, muchless her position with regard to Gorka. The writer, the grand seigneur, and the business man had, notwithstanding the differences of age and ofposition, a large experience of analogous circumstances. They knew of what presence of mind a courageous woman was capable, whensurprised, as was the Venetian. All these have declared since that theyhad never imagined more admirable self-possession, a composure moresuperbly audacious, than that displayed by Madame Steno, at thatdecisive moment. She appeared on the threshold of the French window, surprised and delighted, just in the measure she conformably should be. Her fair complexion, which the slightest emotion tinged with carmine, was bewitchingly pink. Not a quiver of her long lashes veiled her deepblue eyes, which gleamed brightly. With her smile, which exhibited herlovely teeth, the color of the large pearls which were twined abouther neck, with the emeralds in her fair hair, with her fine shouldersdisplayed by the slope of her white corsage, with her delicate waist, with the splendor of her arms from which she had removed the glovesto yield them to the caresses of Maitland, and which gleamed with moreemeralds, with her carriage marked by a certain haughtiness, she wastruly a woman of another age, the sister of those radiant princesseswhom the painters of Venice evoke beneath the marble porticoes, amongapostles and martyrs. She advanced to Maud Gorka, whom she embracedaffectionately, then, pressing Boleslas's hand, she said in a voice sowarm, in which at times there were deep tones, softened by the habitualuse of the caressing dialect of the lagoon: "What a surprise! And you could not come to dine with us? Well, sitdown, both of you, and relate to me the Odyssey of the traveller, " and, turning toward Maitland, who had followed her into the salon with theinsolent composure of a giant and of a lover: "Be kind, my little Linco, and fetch me my fan and my gloves, which Ileft on the couch. " At that moment Dorsenne, who had only one fear, that of meeting Gorka'seyes--he could not have borne their glance--was again by the side ofAlba Steno. The young girl's face, just now so troubled, was radiant. Itseemed as if a great weight had been lifted from the pretty Contessina'smind. "Poor child, " thought the writer, "she would not think her mother couldbe so calm were she guilty. The Countess's manner is the reply to theanonymous letter. Have they written all to her? My God! Who can it be?" And he fell into a deep revery, interrupted only by the hum of theconversation, in which he did not participate. It would have satisfiedhim had he observed, instead of meditated, that the truth with regard tothe author of the anonymous letters might have become clear to him, asclear as the courage of Madame Steno in meeting danger--as the blindconfidence of Madame Gorka--as the disdainful imperturbability ofMaitland before his rival and the suppressed rage of that rival--asthe finesse of Hafner in sustaining the general conversation--as theassiduous attentions of Ardea to Fanny--as the emotion of the latter--asclear as Alba's sense of relief. All those faces, on Boleslas'sentrance, had expressed different feelings. Only one had, for severalminutes, expressed the joy of crime and the avidity of ultimatelysatisfied hatred. But as it was that of little Madame Maitland, the silent creature, considered so constantly by him as stupid andinsignificant, Dorsenne had not paid more attention to it than had theother witnesses the surprising reappearance of the betrayed lover. Every country has a metaphor to express the idea that there is noworse water than that which is stagnant. Still waters run deep, say theEnglish, and the Italians, Still waters ruin bridges. These adages would not be accurate if one did not forget them inpractise, and the professional analyst of the feminine heart hadentirely forgotten them on that evening. CHAPTER V. COUNTESS STENO A woman less courageous than the Countess, less capable of looking asituation in the face and of advancing to it, such an evening wouldhave marked the prelude to one of those nights of insomnia when the mindexhausts in advance all the agonies of probable danger. Countess Stenodid not know what weakness and fear were. A creature of energy and of action, who felt herself to be above alldanger, she attached no meaning to the word uneasiness. So she slept, on the night which followed that soiree, a sleep as profound, asrefreshing, as if Gorka had never returned with vengeance in his heart, with threats in his eyes. Toward ten o'clock the following morning, she was in the tiny salon, or rather, the office adjoining her bedroom, examining several accounts brought by one of her men of business. Risingat seven o'clock, according to her custom, she had taken the cold bathin which, in summer as well as winter, she daily quickened her blood. She had breakfasted, 'a l'anglaise', following the rule to which sheclaimed to owe the preservation of her digestion, upon eggs, cold meat, and tea. She had made her complicated toilette, had visited her daughterto ascertain how she had slept, had written five letters, for hercosmopolitan salon compelled her to carry on an immense correspondence, which radiated between Cairo and New York, St. Petersburg and Bombay, taking in Munich, London, and Madeira, and she was as faithful infriendship as she was inconstant in love. Her large handwriting, soelegant in its composition, had covered pages and pages before she said:"I have a rendezvous at eleven o'clock with Maitland. Ardea will be hereat ten to talk of his marriage. I have accounts from Finoli to examine. I hope that Gorka will not come, too, this morning. ". .. . Persons in whomthe feeling of love is very complete, but very physical, are thus. They give themselves and take themselves back altogether. The Countessexperienced no more pity than fear in thinking of her betrayed lover. She had determined to say to him, "I no longer love you, " frankly, openly, and to offer him his choice between a final rupture or a firmfriendship. The only annoyance depended upon the word of explanation, which shedesired to see postponed until afternoon, when she would be free, anannoyance which, however, did not prevent her from examining with herusual accuracy the additions and multiplications of her intendant, whostood near her with a face such as Bonifagio gave to his Pharisees. Hemanaged the seven hundred hectares of Piove, near Padua, Madame Steno'sfavorite estate. She had increased the revenue from it tenfold, by thedraining of a sterile and often malignant lagoon, which, situated ametre below the water-level, had proved of surprising fertility; andshe calculated the probable operations for weeks in advance withthe detailed and precise knowledge of rural cultivation which is thecharacteristic of the Italian aristocracy and the permanent cause of itsvitality. "Then you estimate the gain from the silkworms at about fifty kilos ofcocoons to an ounce?" "Yes, Excellency, " replied the intendant. "One hundred ounces of yellow; one hundred times fifty makes fivethousand, " resumed the Countess. "At four francs fifty?" "Perhaps five, Excellency, " said the intendant. "Let us say twenty-two thousand five hundred, " said the Countess, "and as much for the Japanese. .. . That will bring us in our outlay forbuilding. " "Yes, Excellency. And about the wine?" "I am of the opinion, after what you have told me of the vineyard, thatyou should sell as quickly as possible to Kauffmann's agent all thatremains of the last crop, but not at less than six francs. You know itis necessary that our casks be emptied and cleaned after the month ofAugust. .. . If we were to fail this time, for the first year that wemanufacture our wine with the new machine, it would be too bad. " "Yes, Excellency. And the horses?" "I think that is an opportunity we should not let escape. My advice isthat you take the express to Florence to-day at two o'clock. You willreach Verona to-morrow morning. You will conclude the bargain. Thehorses will be sent to Piove the same evening. .. . "We have finished just in time, " she continued, arranging theintendant's papers. She put them herself in their envelope, which shegave him. She had an extremely delicate sense of hearing, and sheknew that the door of the antechamber opened. It seemed that theadministrator took away in his portfolio all the preoccupation of thisextraordinary woman. For, after concluding that dry conversation, orrather that monologue, she had her clearest and brightest smile withwhich to receive the new arrival, who was, fortunately, Prince d'Ardea. She said to the servant: "I wish to speak with the Prince. If any one asks for me, do not admithim and do not send any one hither. Bring me the card. " Then, turningtoward the young man, "Well, Simpaticone, " it was the nickname she gavehim, "how did you finish your evening?" "You would not believe me, " replied Peppino Ardea, laughing; "I, whono longer have anything, not even my bed. I went to the club and Iplayed. .. . For the first time in my life I won. " He was so gay in relating his childish prank, he jested so merrily abouthis ruin, that the Countess looked at him in surprise, as he had lookedat her on entering. .. . We understand ourselves so little, and we knowso little about our own singularities of character, that each one wassurprised at finding the other so calm. Ardea could not comprehend thatMadame Steno should not be at least uneasy about Gorka's return andthe consequences which might result therefrom. She, on the other hand, admired the strange youth who, in his misfortune, could find suchjoviality at his command. He had evidently expended as much care uponhis toilette as if he had not to take some immediate steps to assurehis future, and his waistcoat, the color of his shirt, his cravat, hisyellow shoes, the flower in his buttonhole, all united to make of him anamiable and incorrigibly frivolous dandy. She felt the need which strongcharacters have in the presence of weak ones; that of acting for theyouth, of aiding him in spite of himself, and she attacked at once thequestion of marriage with Fanny Hafner. With her usual common-sense, andwith her instinct of arranging everything, Madame Steno perceived in theunion so many advantages for every one that she was in haste to concludeit as quickly as if it involved a personal affair. The marriage was earnestly desired by the Baron, who had spoken of it toher for months. It suited Fanny, who would be converted to Catholicismwith the consent of her father. It suited the Prince, who at one strokewould be freed from his embarrassment. Finally, it suited the name ofCastagna. Although Peppino was its only representative at that time, and as, by an old family tradition, he bore a title different from thepatronymic title of Pope Urban VII, the sale of the celebrated palacehad called forth a scandal to which it was essential to put an end. TheCountess had forgotten that she had assisted, without a protestation, inthat sale. Had she not known through Hafner that he had bought at a lowprice an enormous heap of the Prince's bills of exchange? Did she notknow the Baron well enough to be sure that M. Noe Ancona, the implacablecreditor who sold the palace, was only the catspaw of this terriblefriend? In a fit of ill-humor at the Baron, had she not herself accusedhim in Alba's presence of this very simple plan, to bring Ardea to afinal catastrophe in order to offer him salvation in the form ofthe union with Fanny, and to execute at the same time an excellentoperation? For, once freed from the mortgages which burdened them, thePrince's lands and buildings would regain their true value, and theimprudent speculator would find himself again as rich, perhaps richer. "Come, " said Madame Steno to the Prince, after a moment's silence andwithout any preamble, "it is now time to talk business. You dined by theside of my little friend yesterday; you had the entire evening in whichto study her. Answer me frankly, would she not make the prettiest littleRoman princess who could kneel in her wedding-gown at the tomb ofthe apostles? Can you not see her in her white gown, under her veil, alighting at the staircase of Saint Peter's from the carriage with thesuperb horses which her father has given her? Close your eyes and seeher in your thoughts. Would she not be pretty? Would she not?" "Very pretty, " replied Ardea, smiling at the tempting vision MadameSteno had conjured up, "but she is not fair. And you know, to me, awoman who is not fair--ah, Countess! What a pity that in Venice, fiveyears ago, on a certain evening--do you remember?" "How much like you that is!" interrupted she, laughing her deep, clearlaugh. "You came to see me this morning to talk to me of a marriage, unhoped for with your reputation of gamester, of supper-giver, of'mauvais sujet'; of a marriage which fulfils conditions most improbable, so perfect are they--beauty, youth, intelligence, fortune, and even, ifI have read my little friend aright, the beginning of an interest, of avery deep interest. And, for a little, you would make a declaration tome. Come, come!" and she extended to him for a kiss her beautiful hand, on which gleamed large emeralds. "You are forgiven. But answer--yes orno. Shall I make the proposal? If it is yes, I will go to the PalaceSavorelli at two o'clock. I will speak to my friend Hafner. He willspeak to his daughter, and it will not depend upon me if you have nottheir reply this evening or to-morrow morning. Is it yes? Is it no?" "This evening? To-morrow?" exclaimed the Prince, shaking his head witha most comical gesture. "I can not decide like that. It is an ambush! Icome to talk, to consult you. " "And on what?" asked Madame Steno, with a vivacity almost impatient. "Can I tell you anything you do not already know? In twenty-four hours, in forty-eight, in six months, what difference will there be, I prayyou? We must look at things as they are, however. To-morrow, the dayafter, the following days, will you be less embarrassed?" "No, " said the Prince, "but--" "There is no but, " she resumed, allowing him to say no more than she hadallowed her intendant. The despotism natural to puissant personalitiesscorned to be disguised in her, when there were practical decisions inwhich she was to take part. "The only serious objection you made to mewhen I spoke to you of this marriage six months ago was that Fannywas not a Catholic. I know today that she has only to be asked to beconverted. So do not let us speak of that. " "No, " said the Prince, "but--" "As for Hafner, " continued the Countess, "you will say he is my friendand that I am partial, but that partiality even is an opinion. He isprecisely the father-in-law you need. Do not shake your head. He willrepair all that needs repairing in your fortune. You have been robbed, my poor Peppino. You told me so yourself. .. . Become the Baron'sson-in-law, and you will have news of your robbers. I know. .. . Thereis the Baron's origin and the suit of ten years ago with all the'pettogolezzi' to which it gave rise. All that has not the commonmeaning. The Baron began life in a small way. He was from a familyof Jewish origin--you see, I do not deceive you--but converted twogenerations back, so that the story of his change of religion since hisstay in Italy is a calumny, like the rest. He had a suit in which he wasacquitted. You would not require more than the law, would you?" "No, but--" "For what are you waiting, then?" concluded Madame Steno. "That it maybe too late? How about your lands?" "Ah! let me breathe, let me fan myself, " said Ardea, who, indeed, tookone of the Countess's fans from the desk. "I, who have never known inthe morning what I would do in the evening, I, who have always livedaccording to my pleasure, you ask me to take in five minutes theresolution to bind myself forever!" "I ask you to decide what you wish to do, " returned the Countess. "It isvery amusing to travel at one's pleasure. But when it is a question ofarranging one's life, this childishness is too absurd. I know of onlyone way: to see one's aim and to march directly to it. Yours is veryclear--to get out of this dilemma. The way is not less clear; it ismarriage with a girl who has five millions dowry. Yes or no, will youhave her?. .. Ah, " said she, suddenly interrupting herself, "I shallnot have a moment to myself this morning, and I have an appointment ateleven o'clock!". .. . She looked at the timepiece on her table, whichindicated twenty-five minutes past ten. She had heard the door open. The footman was already before her and presented to her a card upon asalver. She took the card, looked at it, frowned, glanced again at theclock, seemed to hesitate, then: "Let him wait in the small salon, and say that I will be there immediately, " said she, and turning againtoward Ardea: "You think you have escaped. You have not. I do not giveyou permission to go before I return. I shall return in fifteen minutes. Would you like some newspapers? There are some. Books? There are some. Tobacco? This box is filled with cigars. .. . In a quarter of an hour Ishall be here and I will have your reply. I wish it, do you hear? I wishit". .. . And on the threshold with another smile, using that time a termof patois common in Northern Italy and which is only a corruption of'schiavo' or servant: 'Ciao Simpaticone. ' "What a woman!" said Peppino Ardea, when the door was closed upon theCountess. "Yes, what a pity that five years ago in Venice I was notfree! Who knows? If I had dared, when she took me to my hotel in hergondola. She was about to leave San Giobbe. She had not yet acceptedBoleslas. She would have advised--have directed me. I should havespeculated on the Bourse, as she did, with Hafner's counsel. But not inthe quality of son-in-law. I should not have been obliged to marry. Andshe would not now have such bad tobacco. ". .. . He was on the point oflighting one of the Virginian cigarettes, a present from Maitland. Hethrew it away, making a grimace with his air of a spoiled child, at therisk of scorching the rug which lay upon the marble floor; and he passedinto the antechamber in order to fetch his own case in the pocket of thelight overcoat he had prudently taken on coming out after eight o'clock. As he lighted one of the cigarettes in that case, filled with so-calledEgyptian tobacco, mixed with opium and saltpetre, which he preferred tothe tobacco of the American, he mechanically glanced at the card whichthe servant had left on going from the room-the card of the unknownvisitor for whom Madame Steno had left him. Ardea read upon it, with astonishment, these words: Count Boleslas Gorka. "She is better than I thought her, " said he, on reentering the desertedoffice. "She had no need to bid me not to go. I think I should wait tosee her return from that conversation. " It was indeed Boleslas whom the Countess found in the salon, which shehad chosen as the room the most convenient for the stormy explanationshe anticipated. It was isolated at the end of the hall, and was likea pendant to the terrace. It formed, with the dining-room, the entireground-floor, or, rather, the entresol of the house. Madame Steno'sapartments, as well as the other small salon in which Peppino was, wereon the first floor, together with the rooms set apart for the Contessinaand her German governess, Fraulein Weber, for the time being on ajourney. The Countess had not been mistaken. At the first glance exchanged on thepreceding day with Gorka, she had divined that he knew all. She wouldhave suspected it, nevertheless, since Hafner had told her the few wordsindiscreetly uttered by Dorsenne on the clandestine return of thePole to Rome. She had not at that time been mistaken in Boleslas'sintentions, and she had no sooner looked in his face than she feltherself to be in peril. When a man has been the lover of a woman asthat man had been hers, with the vibrating communion of a voluptuousnessunbroken for two years, that woman maintains a sort of physiological, quasi-animal instinct. A gesture, the accent of a word, a sigh, ablush, a pallor, are signs for her that her intuition interprets withinfallible certainty. How and why is that instinct accompanied byabsolute oblivion of former caresses? It is a particular case of thatinsoluble and melancholy problem of the birth and death of love. MadameSteno had no taste for reflection of that order. Like all vigorous andsimple creatures, she acknowledged and accepted it. As on the previousday, she became aware that the presence of her former lover no longertouched in her being the chord which had rendered her so weak to himduring twenty-five months, so indulgent to his slightest caprices. Itleft her as cold as the marble of the bas-relief by Mino da Fiesolefitted into the wall just above the high chair upon which he leaned. Boleslas, notwithstanding the paroxysm of lucid fury which he sufferedat that moment, and which rendered him capable of the worst violence, had on his part a knowledge of the complete insensibility in which hispresence left her. He had seen her so often, in the course of their longliaison, arrive at their morning rendezvous at that hour, in similartoilettes, so fresh, so supple, so youthful in her maturity, so eagerfor kisses, tender and ardent. She had now in her blue eyes, in hersmile, in her entire person, some thing at once so gracious and soinaccessible, which gives to an abandoned lover the mad longing tostrike, to murder, a woman who smiles at him with such a smile. At thesame time she was so beautiful in the morning light, subdued by thelowered blinds, that she inspired him with an equal desire to clasp herin his arms whether she would or no. He had recognized, when she enteredthe room, the aroma of a preparation which she had used in her bath, andthat trifle alone had aroused his passion far more than when the servanttold him Madame Steno was engaged, and he wondered whether she wasnot alone with Maitland. Those impassioned, but suppressed, feelingstrembled in the accent of the very simple phrase with which he greetedher. At certain moments, words are nothing; it is the tone in which theyare uttered. And to the Countess that of the young man was terrible. "I am disturbing you?" he asked, bowing and barely touching with thetips of his fingers the hand she had extended to him on entering. "Excuse me, I thought you alone. Will you be pleased to name anothertime for the conversation which I take the liberty of demanding?" "No, no, " she replied, not permitting him to finish his sentence. "I waswith Peppino Ardea, who will await me, " said she, gently. "Moreover, you know I am in all things for the immediate. When one has something tosay, it should be said, one, two, three?. .. First, there is not much tosay, and then it is better said. .. . There is nothing that will soonerrender difficult easy explanations and embroil the best of friends thandelay and maintaining silence. " "I am very happy to find you in such a mind, " replied Boleslas, witha sarcasm which distorted his handsome face into a smile of atrocioushatred. The good-nature displayed by her cut him to the heart, and hecontinued, already less self-possessed: "It is indeed an explanationwhich I think I have the right to ask of you, and which I have come toclaim. " "To claim, my dear?" said the Countess, looking him fixedly in the facewithout lowering her proud eyes, in which those imperative words hadkindled a flame. If she had been admirable the preceding evening in facing as she haddone the return of her discarded lover, on coming direct from thetete-a-tete with her new one, perhaps, at that moment, she was doublyso, when she did not have her group of intimate friends to support her. She was not sure that the madman who confronted her was not armed, andshe believed him perfectly capable of killing her, while she could notdefend herself. But a part had to be played sooner or later, and sheplayed it without flinching. She had not spoken an untruth in sayingto Peppino Ardea: "I know only one way: to see one's aim and to marchdirectly to it. " She wanted a definitive rupture with Boleslas. Whyshould she hesitate as to the means? She was silent, seeking for words. He continued: "Will you permit me to go back three months, although that is, it seems, a long space of time for a woman's memory? I do not know whether yourecall our last meeting? Pardon, I meant to say the last but one, sincewe met last night. Do you concede that the manner in which we partedthen did not presage the manner in which we met?" "I concede it, " said the Countess, with a gleam of angry pride in hereyes, "although I do not very much like your style of expression. It isthe second time you have addressed me as an accuser, and if you assumethat attitude it will be useless to continue. " "Catherine!". .. . That cry of the young man, whose anger was increasing, decided her whom he thus addressed to precipitate the issue of aconversation in which each reply was to be a fresh burst of rancor. "Well?" she inquired, crossing her arms in a manner so imperious thathe paused in his menace, and she continued: "Listen, Boleslas, we havetalked ten minutes without saying anything, because neither of us hasthe courage to put the question such as we know and feel it to be. Instead of writing to me, as you did, letters which rendered repliesimpossible to me; instead of returning to Rome and hiding yourselflike a malefactor; instead of coming to my home last night with thatthreatening face; instead of approaching me this morning with thesolemnity of a judge, why did you not question me simply, frankly, asone who knows that I have loved him very, very much?. .. Having beenlovers, is that a reason for detesting each other when we cease thoserelations?" "'When we cease those relations!'" replied Gorka. "So you no longerlove me? Ah, I knew it; I guessed it after the first week of that fatalabsence! But to think that you should tell it to me some day like that, in that calm voice which is a horrible blasphemy for our entirepast. No, I do not believe it. I do not yet believe it. Ah, it is tooinfamous. " "Why?" interrupted the Countess, raising her head with still morehaughtiness. .. . "There is only one thing infamous in love, and that isa falsehood. Ah, I know it. You men are not accustomed to meeting truewomen, who have the respect, the religion of their sentiment. I havethat respect; I practise that religion. I repeat that I loved you agreat deal, Boleslas. I did not hide it from you formerly. I was asloyal to you as truth itself. I have the consciousness of being sostill, in offering you, as I do, a firm friendship, the friendshipof man for man, who only asks to prove to you the sincerity of hisdevotion. " "I, a friendship with you, I--I--I?" exclaimed Boleslas. "Have I hadenough patience in listening to you as I have listened? I heard you lieto me and scented the lie in the same breath. Why do you not ask me aswell to form a friendship for him with whom you have replaced me? Ah, so you think I am blind, and you fancy I did not see that Maitlandnear you, and that I did not know at the first glance what part he wasplaying in your life? You did not think I might have good reasons forreturning as I did? You did not know that one does not dally with onewhom one loves as I love you?. .. It is not true. .. . You have not beenloyal to me, since you took this man for a lover while you were still mymistress. You had not the right, no, no, no, you had not the right!. .. And what a man!. .. If it had been Ardea, Dorsenne, no matter whom, that I might not blush for you. .. . But that brute, that idiot, who hasnothing in his favor, neither good looks, birth, elegance, mind nortalent, for he has none--he has nothing but his neck and shoulders of abull. .. . It is as if you had deceived me with a lackey. .. . No. .. .. It istoo terrible. .. . Ah, Catherine, swear to me that it is not true. Tell methat you no longer love me, I will submit, I will go away, I will acceptall, provided that you swear to me you do not love that man--swear, swear!". .. He added, grasping her hands with such violence that sheuttered a slight exclamation, and, disengaging herself, said to him: "Cease; you pain me. You are mad, Gorka; that can be your soleexcuse. .. . I have nothing to swear to you. What I feel, what I think, what I do no longer concerns you after what I have told you. .. . Believewhat it pleases you to believe. .. . But, " and the irritation of anenamored woman, wounded in the man she adores, possessed her, "you shallnot speak twice of one of my friends as you have just spoken. Youhave deeply offended me, and I will not pardon you. In place ofthe friendship I offered you so honestly, we will have no furtherconnections excepting those of society. That is what you desired. .. . Trynot to render them impossible to yourself. Be correct at least in form. Remember you have a wife, I have a daughter, and that we owe it tothem to spare them the knowledge of this unhappy rupture. .. . God is mywitness, I wished to have it otherwise. " "My wife! Your daughter!" cried Boleslas with bitterness. "This isindeed the hour to remember them and to put them between you and my justvengeance! They never troubled you formerly, the two poor creatures, when you began to win my love?. .. It was convenient for you thatthey should be friends! And I lent myself to it!. .. I acceptedsuch baseness--that to-day you might take shelter behind the twoinnocents!. .. No, it shall not be. .. . You shall not escape me thus. Since it is the only point on which I can strike you, I will strikeyou there. I hold you by that means, do you hear, and I will keep you. Either you dismiss that man, or I will no longer respect anything. Mywife shall know all! Her! So much the better! For some time I have beenstifled by my lies. .. . Your daughter, too, shall know all. She shalljudge you now as she would judge you one day. " As he spoke he advanced to her with a manner so cruel that she recoiled. A few more moments and the man would have carried out his threat. Hewas about to strike her, to break objects around him, to call fortha terrible scandal. She had the presence of mind of an audacity morecourageous still. An electric bell was near at hand. She pressed it, while Gorka said to her, with a scornful laugh, "That was the onlyaffront left you to offer me--to summon your servants to defend you. " "You are mistaken, " she replied. "I am not afraid. I repeat you are mad, and I simply wish to prove it to you by recalling you to the realityof your situation. .. . Bid Mademoiselle Alba come down, " said she to thefootman whom her ring had summoned. That phrase was the drop of coldwater which suddenly broke the furious jet of vapor. She had found theonly means of putting an end to the terrible scene. For, notwithstandinghis menace, she knew that Maud's husband always recoiled before theyoung girl, the friend of his wife, of whose delicacy and sensibility hewas aware. Gorka was capable of the most dangerous and most cruel deeds, in anexcess of passion augmented by vanity. He had in him a chivalrous element which would paralyze his frenzybefore Alba. As for the immorality of that combination of defencewhich involved her daughter in her rupture with a vindictive lover, theCountess did not think of that. She often said: "She is my comrade, sheis my friend. ". .. . And she thought so. To lean upon her in that criticalmoment was only natural to her. In the tempest of indignation whichshook Gorka, the sudden appeal to innocent Alba appeared to him the lastdegree of cynicism. During the short space of time which elapsed betweenthe departure of the footman and the arrival of the young girl, he onlyuttered these words, repeating them as he paced the floor, while hisformer mistress defied him with her bold gaze: "I scorn you, I scorn you; ah, how I scorn you!" Then, when he heard thedoor open: "We will resume our conversation, Madame. " "When you wish, " replied Countess Steno, and to her daughter, whoentered, she said: "You know the carriage is to come at ten minutes toeleven, and it is now the quarter. Are you ready?" "You can see, " replied the young girl, displaying her pearl-gray gloves, which she was just buttoning, while on her head a large hat of blacktulle made a dark and transparent aureole around her fair head. Herdelicate bust was displayed to advantage in the corsage Maitland hadchosen for her portrait, a sort of cuirass of a dark-blue material, finished at the neck and wrists with bands of velvet of a darker shade. The fine lines of cuffs and a collar gave to that pure face a grace ofyouth younger than her age. She had evidently come at her mother's call, with the haste and thesmile of that age. Then, to see Gorka's expression and the feverishbrilliance of the Countess's eyes had given her what she called, in anodd but very appropriate way, the sensation of "a needle in the heart, "of a sharp, fine point, which entered her breast to the left. She hadslept a sleep so profound, after the soiree of the day before, on whichshe had thought she perceived in her mother's attitude between thePolish count and the American painter a proof of certain innocence. She admired her mother so much, she thought her so intelligent, sobeautiful, so good, that to doubt her was a thought not to be borne!There were times when she doubted her. A terrible conversation about theCountess, overheard in a ballroom, a conversation between two men, whodid not know Alba to be behind them, had formed the principal part ofthe doubt, which, by turns, had increased and diminished, which hadabandoned and tortured her, according to the signs, as little decisiveas Madame Steno's tranquillity of the preceding day or her confusionthat morning. It was only an impression, very rapid, instantaneous, theprick of a needle, which merely leaves after it a drop of blood, and yetshe had a smile with which to say to Boleslas: "How did Maud rest? How is she this morning? And my little friend Luc?" "They are very well, " replied Gorka. The last stage of his fury, suddenly arrested by the presence of the young girl, was manifested, but only to the Countess, by the simple phrase to which his eyes and hisvoice lent an extreme bitterness: "I found them as I left them. .. . Ah!They love me dearly. .. . I leave you to Peppino, Countess, " addedhe, walking toward the door. "Mademoiselle, I will bear your love toMaud. ". .. . He had regained all the courtesy which a long line of savage'grands seigneurs', but 'grands seigneurs' nevertheless, had instilledin him. If his bow to Madame Steno was very ceremonious, he put aspecial grace in the low bow with which he took leave of the Contessina. It was merely a trifle, but the Countess was keen enough to perceive it. She was touched by it, she whom despair, fury, and threats had foundso impassive. For an instant she was vaguely humiliated by the successwhich she had gained over the man whom she would, voluntarily, fiveminutes before, have had cast out of doors by her servants. She wassilent, oblivious even of her daughter's presence, until the latterrecalled her to herself by saying: "Shall I put on my veil and fetch my parasol?" "You can join me in the office, whither I am going to talk with Ardea, "replied her mother; adding, "I shall perhaps have some news to tell youin the carriage which will give you pleasure!". .. . She had againher bright smile, and she did not mistrust while she resumed herconversation with Peppino that poor Alba, on reentering her chamber, wiped from her pale cheeks two large tears, and that she opened, tore-read it, the infamous anonymous letter received the day before. Sheknew by heart all the perfidious phrases. Must it not have been that themind which had composed them was blinded by vengeance to such a degreethat it had no scruples about laying before the innocent child adenunciation which ran thus: "A true friend of Mademoiselle Steno warns her that she is compromised, more than a marriageable young girl should be, in playing, with regard to M. Maitland the role she has already played with regard to M. Goyka. There are conditions of blindness so voluntary that they become complicity. " Those words, enigmatical to any one else, but to the Contessina horriblyclear, had been, like the letters of which Boleslas had told Dorsenne, cut from a journal and pasted on a sheet of paper. How had Alba trembledon reading that note for the first time, with an emotion increasedby the horror of feeling hovering over her and her mother a hatredso relentless! Later in the day how much had the words exchanged withDorsenne comforted her, and how reassured had she been by the Countess'simperturbability on the entrance of Boleslas Gorka! Fragile peace, whichhad vanished when she saw her mother and the husband of her best friendface to face, with traces in their eyes, in their gestures, upon theircountenances, of an angry scene! The thought "Why were they thus!What had they said?" again occurred to her to sadden her. Suddenly shecrushed in her hand with violence the anonymous letter, which gave aconcrete form to her sorrow and her suspicion, and, lighting a taper, she held it to the paper, which the flames soon reduced to ashes. Sheran her fingers through the debris until there was very little left, andthen, opening the window, she cast it to the winds. She looked at her glove after doing this--her glove, a few momentsbefore, of so delicate a gray, now stained by the smoky dust. It wassymbolical of the stain which the letter, even when destroyed, had leftupon her mind. The gloves, too, inspired her with horror. She hastilydrew them off, and, when she descended to rejoin Madame Steno, it wasnot any more possible to perceive on those hands, freshly gloved, thetraces of that tragical childishness, than it was possible to discern, beneath the large veil which she had tied over her hat, the traces oftears. She found the mother for whom she was suffering so much, wearing, too, a large sun-hat, but a white one with a white veil, beneath whichcould be seen her fair hair, her sparkling blue eyes and pink-and-whitecomplexion; her form was enveloped in a gown of a material and cut moreyouthful than her daughter's, while, radiant with delight, she said toPeppino Ardea: "Well, I congratulate you on having made up your mind. The step shall betaken to-day, and you will be grateful to me all your life!" "Yet, " replied the young man, "I understand myself. I shall regret mydecision all the afternoon. It is true, " he added, philosophically, "that I should regret it just as much if I had not made it. " "You have guessed that we were talking of Fanny's marriage, " said MadameSteno to her daughter several minutes later, when they were seated sideby side, like two sisters, in the victoria which was bearing them towardMaitland's studio. "Then, " asked the Contessina, "you think it will be arranged?" "It is arranged, " gayly replied Madame Steno. "I am commissioned to makethe proposition. .. . How happy all three will be!. .. Hafner has aimed atit this long time! I remember how, in 1880, after his suit, he came tosee me in Venice--you and Fanny played on the balcony of the palace--hequestioned me about the Quirinal, the Vatican and society. .. . Then heconcluded, pointing to his daughter, 'I shall make a Roman princess ofthe little one!" The 'dogaresse' was so delighted at the thought of the success of hernegotiations, so delighted, too, to go, as she was going, to Maitland'sstudio, behind her two English cobs, which trotted so briskly, that shedid not see on the sidewalk Boleslas Gorka, who watched her pass. Alba was so troubled by that fresh proof of her mother's lack ofconscience that she did not notice Maud's husband either. Baron Hafner'sand Prince d'Ardea's manner toward Fanny had inspired her the day beforewith a dolorous analogy between the atmosphere of falsehood in whichthat poor girl lived and the atmosphere in which she at times thoughtshe herself lived. That analogy again possessed her, and she again feltthe "needle in the heart" as she recalled what she had heard before fromthe Countess of the intrigue by which Baron Justus Hafner had, indeed, ensnared his future son-in-law. She was overcome by infinite sadness, and she lapsed into one of her usual silent moods, while the Countessrelated to her Peppino's indecision. What cared she for Boleslas's angerat that moment? What could he do to her? Gorka was fully aware of herutter carelessness of the scene which had taken place between them, assoon as he saw the victoria pass. For some time he remained standing, watching the large white and black hats disappear down the Rue du VingtSeptembre. This thought took possession of him at once. Madame Steno and herdaughter were going to Maitland's atelier. .. . He had no sooner conceivedthat bitter suspicion than he felt the necessity of proving it at once. He entered a passing cab, just as Ardea, having left the Villa, Stenoafter him, sauntered up, saying: "Where are you going? May I go with you that we may have a few moments'conversation?" "Impossible, " replied Gorka. "I have a very urgent appointment, but inan hour I shall perhaps have occasion to ask a service of you. Whereshall I find you?" "At home, " said Peppino, "lunching. " "Very well, " replied Boleslas, and, raising himself, he whispered in thecabman's ear, in a voice too low for his friend to hear what he said:"Ten francs for you if in five minutes you drive me to the corner of theRue Napoleon III and the Place de la Victor-Emmanuel. " The man gathered up his reins, and, by some sleight-of-hand, the jadedhorse which drew the botte was suddenly transformed into a fine Romansteed, the botte itself into a light carriage as swift as the Tuscancarrozzelle, and the whole disappeared in a cross street, while Peppinosaid to himself: "There is a fine fellow who would do so much better to remain with hisfriend Ardea than to go whither he is going. This affair will end in aduel. If I had not to liquidate that folly, " and he pointed out withthe end of his cane a placard relative to the sale of his own palace, "I would amuse myself by taking Caterina from both of them. But thoselittle amusements must wait until after my marriage. " As we have seen, the cunning Prince had not been mistaken as to thecourse taken by the cab Gorka had hailed. It was indeed into theneighborhood of the atelier occupied by Maitland that the discardedlover hastened, but not to the atelier. The madman wished to prove tohimself that the exhibition of his despair had availed him nothing, andthat, scarcely rid of him, Madame Steno had repaired to the other. Whatwould it avail him to know it and what would the evidence prove? Hadthe Countess concealed those sittings--those convenient sittings--asthe jealous lover had told Dorsenne? The very thought of them caused theblood to flow in his veins much more feverishly than did the thoughts ofthe other meetings. For those he could still doubt, notwithstandingthe anonymous letters, notwithstanding the tete-a-tete on the terrace, notwithstanding the insolent "Linco, " whom she had addressed thus beforehim, while of the long intimacies of the studio he was certain. Theymaddened him, and, at the same time, by that strange contradiction whichis characteristic of all jealousy, he hungered and thirsted to provethem. He alighted from his cab at the corner he had named to his cabman, and from which point he could watch the Rue Leopardi, in which was hisrival's house. It was a large structure in the Moorish style, built bythe celebrated Spanish artist, Juan Santigosa, who had been obliged tosell all five years before--house, studio, horses, completed paintings, sketches begun--in order to pay immense losses at gaming. FlorentChapron had at the time bought the sort of counterfeit Alhambra, aportion of which he rented to his brother-in-law. During the few momentsthat he stood at the corner, Boleslas Gorka recalled having visited thathouse the previous year, while taking, in the company of Madame Steno, Alba, Maud, and Hafner, one of those walks of which fashionable womenare so fond in Rome as well as in Paris. An irrational instinct hadrendered the painter and his paintings antipathetic to him at theirfirst meeting. Had he had sufficient cause? Suddenly, on leaning forwardin such a manner as to see without being seen, he perceived a victoriawhich entered the Rue Leopardi, and in that victoria the black hat ofMademoiselle Steno and the light one of her mother. In two minutes morethe elegant carriage drew up at the Moorish structure, which gleamedamong the other buildings in that street, for the most part unfinished, with a sort of insolent, sumptuousness. The two ladies alighted and disappeared through the door, which closedupon them, while the coachman started up his horses at the pace ofanimals which are returning to their stable. He checked them that theymight not become overheated, and the fine cobs trembled impatiently intheir harnesses. Evidently the Countess and Alba were in the studio fora long sitting. What had Boleslas learned that he did not already know?Was he not ridiculous, standing upon the sidewalk of the square in thecentre of which rose the ruin of an antique reservoir, called, for areason more than doubtful, the trophy of Marius. With one glance theyoung man took in this scene--the empty victoria turning in the oppositedirection, the large square, the ruin, the row of high houses, his cab. He appeared to himself so absurd for being there to spy out that ofwhich he was only too sure, that he burst into a nervous laugh andreentered his cab, giving his own address to the cabman: PalazzettoDoria, Place de Venise. The cab that time started off leisurely, forthe man comprehended that the mad desire to arrive hastily no longerpossessed his fare. By a sudden metamorphosis, the swift Roman steedbecame a common nag, and the vehicle a heavy machine which rumbled alongthe streets. Boleslas yielded to depression, the inevitable reactionof an excess of violence such as he had just experienced. His composurecould not last. The studio, in which was Madame Steno, began to take aclear form in the jealous lover's mind in proportion as he drove fartherfrom it. In his thoughts he saw his former mistress walking about in theframework of tapestry, armor, studies begun, as he had frequently seenher walking in his smoking-room, with the smile upon her lips of anamorous woman, touching the objects among which her lover lives. Hesaw impassive Alba, who served as chaperon in the new intrigue of hermother's with the same naivete she had formerly employed in shieldingtheir liaison. He saw Maitland with his indifferent glance of the daybefore, the glance of a preferred lover, so sure of his triumph that hedid not even feel jealous of the former lover. The absolute tranquillity of one who replaces us in an unfaithfulmistress's affections augments our fury still more if we have themisfortune to be placed in a position similar to Gorka's. In a momenthis rival's evocation became to him impossible to bear. He was very nearhis own home, for he was just at that admirable square encumbered withthe debris of basilica, the Forum of Trajan, which the statue of St. Peter at the summit of the column overlooks. Around the base of thesculptured marble, legends attest the triumph of the humble Galileanfisherman who landed at the port of the Tiber 1800 years ago, unknown, persecuted, a beggar. What a symbol and what counsel to say with theapostle: "Whither shall we go, Lord? Thou alone hast the words ofeternal life!" But Gorka was neither a Montfanon nor a Dorsenne to hear within hisheart or his mind the echo of such precepts. He was a man of passion andof action, who only saw his passion and his actions in the positionin which fortune threw him. A fresh access of fury recalled to himMaitland's attitude of the preceding day. This time he would no longercontrol himself. He violently pulled the surprised coachman's sleeve, and called out to him the address of the Rue Leopardi in so imperativea tone that the horse began again to trot as he had done before, and thecab to go quickly through the labyrinth of streets. A wave of tragicaldesire rolled into the young man's heart. No, he would not bear thataffront. He was too bitterly wounded in the most sensitive chords of hisbeing, in his love as well as his pride. Both struggled within him, andanother instinct as well, urging him to the mad step he was about totake. The ancient blood of the Palatines, with regard to which Dorsennealways jested, boiled in his veins. If the Poles have furnished manyheroes for dramas and modern romances, they have remained, through theirfaults, so dearly atoned for, the race the most chivalrously, the mostmadly brave in Europe. When men of so intemperate and so complex anexcitability are touched to a certain depth, they think of a duel asnaturally as the descendants of a line of suicides think of killingthemselves. Joyous Ardea, with his Italian keenness, had seen at a glance the end towhich Gorka's nature would lead him. The betrayed lover required a duelto enable him to bear the treason. He might wound, he might, perhaps, kill his rival, and his passion would be satisfied, or else he wouldrisk being killed himself, and the courage he would display bravingdeath would suffice to raise him in his own estimation. A mad thoughtpossessed him and caused him to hasten toward the Rue Leopardi, toprovoke his rival suddenly and before Madame Steno! Ah, what pleasure itwould give him to see her tremble, for she surely would tremble whenshe saw him enter the studio! But he would be correct, as she had soinsolently asked him to be. He would go, so to speak, to see Alba'sportrait. He would dissemble, then he would be better able to finda pretext for an argument. It is so easy to find one in the simplestconversation, and from an argument a quarrel is soon born. He wouldspeak in such a manner that Maitland would have to answer him. The restwould follow. But would Alba Steno be present? Ha, so much the better!He would be so much more at ease, if the altercation arose before her, to deceive his own wife as to the veritable reason of the duel. Ah, he would have his dispute at any price, and from the moment that theseconds had exchanged visits the American's fate would be decided. Heknew how to render it impossible for the fellow to remain longerin Rome. The young man was greatly wrought up by the romance of theprovocation and the duel. "How it refreshes the blood to be avenged upon two fools, " said heto himself, descending from his cab and inquiring at the door of theMoorish house. "Monsieur Maitland?" he asked the footman, who at one blow dissipatedhis excitement by replying with this simple phrase, the only one ofwhich he had not thought in his frenzy: "Monsieur is not at home. " "He will be at home to me, " replied Boleslas. "I have an appointmentwith Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, who are awaiting me. " "Monsieur's orders are strict, " replied the servant. Accustomed, as are all servants entrusted with the defence of anartist's work, to a certain rigor of orders, he yet hesitated, in theface of the untruth which Gorka had invented on the spur of the moment, and he was about to yield to his importunity when some one appeared onthe staircase of the hall. That some one was none other than FlorentChapron. Chance decreed that the latter should send for a carriage inwhich to go to lunch, and that the carriage should be late. At the soundof wheels stopping at the door, he looked out of one of the windowsof his apartment, which faced the street. He saw Gorka alight. Such avisit, at such an hour, with the persons who were in the atelier, seemedto him so dangerous that he ran downstairs immediately. He took uphis hat and his cane, to justify his presence in the hall by the verynatural excuse that he was going out. He reached the middle of thestaircase just in time to stop the servant, who had decided to "go andsee, " and, bowing to Boleslas with more formality than usual: "My brother-in-law is not there, Monsieur, " said he; and he added, turning to the footman, in order to dispose of him in case analtercation should arise between the importunate visitor and himself, "Nero, fetch me a handkerchief from my room. I have forgotten mine. " "That order could not be meant for me, Monsieur, " insisted Boleslas. "Monsieur Maitland has made an appointment with me, with Madame Steno, in order to show us Alba's portrait. " "It is no order, " replied Florent. "I repeat to you that mybrother-in-law has gone out. The studio is closed, and it is impossiblefor me to undertake to open it to show you the picture, since I have notthe key. As for Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, they have not been herefor several days; the sittings have been interrupted. " "What is still more extraordinary, Monsieur, " replied the other, "isthat I saw them with my own eyes, five minutes ago, enter this house andI, too, saw their carriage drive away. ". .. . He felt his anger increaseand direct itself altogether against the watch-dog so suddenly raisedupon the threshold of his rival's house. Florent, on his part, had begun to lose patience. He had within him theviolent irritability of the negro blood, which he did not acknowledge, but which slightly tinted his complexion. The manner of Madame Steno'sformer lover seemed to him so outrageous that he replied very dryly, ashe opened the door, in order to oblige the caller to leave: "You are mistaken, --Monsieur, that is all. " "You are aware, Monsieur, " replied Boleslas, "of the fact that you justaddressed me in a tone which is not the one which I have a right toexpect from you. .. . When one charges one's self with a certain business, it is at least necessary to introduce a little form. " "And I, Monsieur, " replied Chapron, "would be very much obliged to youif, when you address me, you would not do so in enigmas. I do not knowwhat you mean by 'a certain business, ' but I know that it is unbefittinga gentleman to act as you have acted at the door of a house which is notyours and for reasons that I can not comprehend. " "You will comprehend them very soon, Monsieur, " said Boleslas, besidehimself, "and you have not constituted yourself your brother's slavewithout motives. " He had no sooner uttered that sentence than Florent, incapable anylonger of controlling himself, raised his cane with a menacing gesture, which the Polish Count arrested just in time, by seizing it in his righthand. It was the work of a second, and the two men were again face toface, both pale with anger, ready to collar one another rudely, whenthe sound of a door closing above their heads recalled to them theirdignity. The servant descended the stairs. It was Chapron who firstregained his self-possession, and he said to Boleslas, in a voice toolow to be heard by any one but him: "No scandal, Monsieur, eh? I shall have the honor of sending two of myfriends to you. " "It is I, Monsieur, " replied Gorka, "who will send you two. You shallanswer to me for your manner, I assure you. " "Ha! Whatsoever you like, " said the other. "I accept all your conditionsin advance. .. . But one thing I ask of you, " he added, "that no names bementioned. There would be too many persons involved. Let it appearthat we had an argument on the street, that we disagreed, and that Ithreatened you. " "So be it, " said Boleslas, after a pause. "You have my word. There is aman, " said he to himself five minutes later, when again rolling throughthe streets in his cab, after giving the cabman the address of thePalais Castagna. "Yes, there is a man. .. . He was very insolent just now, and I lacked composure. I am too nervous. I should be sorry to injurethe boy. But, patience, the other will lose nothing by waiting. " CHAPTER VI. THE INCONSISTENCY OF AN OLD CHOUAN While the madman, Boleslas, hastened to Ardea to ask his cooperation inthe most unreasonable of encounters, with a species of savage delight, Florent Chapron was possessed by only one thought: at any price toprevent his brother-in-law from suspecting his quarrel with MadameSteno's former lover and the duel which was to be the result. Hispassionate friendship for Lincoln was so strong that it prevented thenervousness which usually precedes a first duel, above all when he whoappears upon the ground has all his life neglected practising withthe sword or pistol. To a fencer, and to one accustomed to the use offirearms, a duel means a number of details which remove the thought ofdanger. The man conceives the possibilities of the struggle, of a deedto be bravely accomplished. That is sufficient to inspire him witha composure which absolute ignorance can not inspire, unless it issupported by one of those deep attachments often so strong within us. Such was the case with Florent. Dorsenne's instinct, which could so easily read the heart, was notmistaken there; the painter had in his wife's brother a friend ofself-sacrificing devotion. He could exact anything of the Mameluke, or, rather, of that slave, for it was the blood of the slaves, of hisancestors, which manifested itself in Chapron by so total an absorptionof his personality. The atavism of servitude has these two effectswhich are apparently contradictory: it produces fathomless capacitiesof sacrifice or of perfidy. Both of these qualities were embodied inthe brother and in the sister. As happens, sometimes, the twocharacteristics of their race were divided between them; one hadinherited all the virtue of self-sacrifice, the other all the puissanceof hypocrisy. But the drama called forth by Madame Steno's infidelity, and finally byGorka's rashness, would only expose to light the moral conditions whichDorsenne had foreseen without comprehending. He was completely ignorantof the circumstances under which Florent had developed, of those underwhich Maitland and he had met, of how Maitland had decided to marryLydia; finally an exceptional and lengthy history which it is necessaryto sketch here at least, in order to render clear the singular relationsof those three beings. As we have seen, the allusion coarsely made by Boleslas to negro bloodmarked the moment when Florent lost all self-control, to the point evenof raising his cane to his insolent interlocutor. That blemish, hiddenwith the most jealous care, represented to the young man what it hadrepresented to his father, the vital point of self-love, secret andconstant humiliation. It was very faint, the trace of negro blood whichflowed in their veins, so faint that it was necessary to be told ofit, but it was sufficient to render a stay in America so much the moreintolerable to both, as they had inherited all the pride of their name, a name which the Emperor mentioned at St. Helena as that of one of hisbravest officers. Florent's grandfather was no other, indeed, than theColonel Chapron who, as Napoleon desired information, swam the Dnieperon horseback, followed a Cossack on the opposite shore, hunted him likea stag, laid him across his saddle and took him back to the Frenchcamp. When the Empire fell, that hero, who had compromised himself inan irreparable manner in the army of the Loire, left his country and, accompanied by a handful of his old comrades, went to found in thesouthern part of the United States, in Alabama, a sort of agriculturalcolony, to which they gave the name--which it still preserves--ofArcola, a naive and melancholy tribute to the fabulous epoch which, however, had been dear to them. Who would have recognized the brilliant colonel, who penetrated by theside of Montbrun the heart of the Grande Redoute, in the planter offorty-five, busy with his cotton and his sugar-cane, who made a fortunein a short time by dint of energy and good sense? His success, told ofin France, was the indirect cause of another emigration to Texas, led byGeneral Lallemand, and which terminated so disastrously. Colonel Chapronhad not, as can be believed, acquired in roaming through Europe veryscrupulous notions an the relations of the two sexes. Having made themother of his child a pretty and sweet-tempered mulattress whom he meton a short trip to New Orleans, and whom he brought back to Arcola, hebecame deeply attached to the charming creature and to his son, so muchthe more so as, with a simple difference of complexion and of hair, the child was the image of him. Indeed, the old warrior, who had norelatives in his native land, on dying, left his entire fortune to thatson, whom he had christened Napoleon. While he lived, not one of hisneighbors dared to treat the young man differently from the way in whichhis father treated him. But it was not the same when the prestige of the Emperor's soldier wasnot there to protect the boy against that aversion to race which ismorally a prejudice, but socially interprets an instinct of preservationof infallible surety. The United States has grown only on thatcondition. [Those familiar with the works of Bourget will recognize here again his well known antipathy for the United States of America. Mark Twain in the late 1800's felt obliged to rebut some of Bourget's prejudice: "What Paul Bourget Thinks of Us. " D. W. ] The mixture of blood would there have dissolved the admirableAnglo-Saxon energy which the struggle against a nature at once very richand very mutinous has exalted to such surprising splendor. It is notnecessary to ask those who are the victims of such an instinct tocomprehend the legal injustice. They only feel its ferocity. NapoleonChapron, rejected in several offers of marriage, thwarted in his plans, humiliated under twenty trifling circumstances by the Colonel's formercompanions, became a species of misanthrope. He lived, sustained bya twofold desire, on the one hand to increase his fortune, and onthe other to wed a white woman. It was not until 1857, at the age ofthirty-five, that he realized the second of his two projects. In thecourse of a trip to Europe, he became interested on the steamer in ayoung English governess, who was returning from Canada, summoned homeby family troubles. He met her again in London. He helped her with suchdelicacy in her distress, that he won her heart, and she consented tobecome his wife. From that union were born, one year apart, Florent andLydia. Lydia had cost her mother her life, at the moment when the War ofSecession jeoparded the fortune of Chapron, who, fortunately for him, had, in his desire to enrich himself quickly, invested his money alittle on all sides. He was only partly ruined, but that semi-ruinprevented him from returning to Europe, as he had intended. Hewas compelled to remain in Alabama to repair that disaster, and hesucceeded, for at his death, in 1880, his children inherited more thanfour hundred thousand dollars each. The incomparable father's devotionhad not limited itself to the building up of a large fortune. He hadthe courage to deprive himself of the presence of the two beings whom headored, to spare them the humiliation of an American school, and hesent them after their twelfth year to England, the boy to the Jesuitsof Beaumont, the girl to the convent of the Sacred Heart, at Roehampton. After four years there, he sent them to Paris, Florent to Vaugirard, Lydia to the Rue de Varenne, and just at the time that he had realizedthe amount he considered requisite, when he was preparing to return tolive near them in a country without prejudices, a stroke of apoplexytook him off suddenly. The double wear of toil and care had told uponone of those organisms which the mixture of the black and white racesoften produces, athletic in appearance, but of a very keen sensibility, in which the vital resistance is not in proportion to the muscularvigor. Whatever care the man, so deeply grieved by the blemish upon his birth, had taken to preserve his children from a similar experience, he had notbeen able to do so, and soon after his son entered Beaumont his trialsbegan. The few boys with whom Florent was thrown in contact, in thehotels or in his walks, during his sojourn in America, had already madehim feel that humiliation from which his father had suffered so much. The youth of twelve, silent and absurdly sensitive, who made hisappearance on the lawn of the peaceful English college on an autumnmorning, brought with him a self-love already bleeding, to whom it wasa delightful surprise to find himself among comrades of his age who didnot even seem to suspect that any difference separated them from him. Itrequired the perception of a Yankee to discern, beneath the nails of thehandsome boy with the dark complexion, the tiny drops of negro blood, sofar removed. Between an octoroon and a creole a European can never tellthe difference. Florent had been represented as what he really was, thegrandson of one of the Emperor's best officers. His father had takenparticular pains to designate him as French, and his companions onlysaw in him a pupil like themselves, coming from Alabama--that is to say, from a country almost as chimerical as Japan or China. All who in early youth have known the torture of apprehension will beable to judge of the poor child's agony when, after four months of alife amid the warmth of sympathy, one of the Jesuit fathers who directedthe college announced to him, thinking it would afford him pleasure, theexpected arrival of an American, of young Lincoln Maitland. This was toFlorent so violent a shock that he had a fever for forty-eight hours. In after years he could remember what thoughts possessed him on the daywhen he descended from his room to the common refectory, sure that assoon as he was brought face to face with the new pupil he would haveto sustain the disdainful glance suffered so frequently in the UnitedStates. There was no doubt in his mind that, his origin once discovered, the atmosphere of kindness in which he moved with so much surprise wouldsoon be changed to hostility. He could again see himself crossing theyard; could hear himself called by Father Roberts--the master who hadtold him of the expected new arrival--and his surprise when LincolnMaitland had given him the hearty handshake of one demi-compatriotwho meets another. He was to learn later that that reception was quitenatural, coming from the son of an Englishman, educated altogether byhis mother, and taken from New York to Europe before his fifth year, there to live in a circle as little American as possible. Chapron didnot reason in that manner. He had an infinitely tender heart. Gratitudeentered it--gratitude as impassioned as had been his fear. One weeklater Lincoln Maitland and he were friends, and friends so intimate thatthey never parted. The affection, which was merely to the indifferent nature of Maitlanda simple college episode, became to Florent the most serious, mostcomplete sentiment of his life. Those fraternities of election, theloveliest and most delicate of the heart of man, usually dawn thus inyouth. It is the ideal age of passionate friendship, that periodbetween ten and sixteen, when the spirit is so pure, so fresh, still sovirtuous, so fertile in generous projects for the future. One dreamsof a companionship almost mystical with the friend from whom one has nosecret, whose character one sees in such a noble light, on whose esteemone depends as upon the surest recompense, whom one innocently desiresto resemble. Indeed, they are, between the innocent lads who work sideby side on a problem of geometry or a lesson in history, veritablepoems of tenderness at which the man will smile later, finding so fardifferent from him in all his tastes, him whom he desired to have fora brother. It happens, however, in certain natures of a sensibilityparticularly precocious and faithful at the same time, that theawakening of effective life is so strong, so encroaching, that theimpassioned friendship persists, first through the other awakening, thatof sensuality, so fatal to all the senses of delicacy, then through thefirst tumult of social experience, not less fatal to our ideal of youth. That was the case with Florent Chapron, whether his character, at oncesomewhat wild and yet submissive, rendered him more qualified for thatrenunciation of his personality than friendship demands, whether, farfrom his father and his sister and not having any mother, his lovingheart had need of attaching itself to some one who could fill the placeof his relatives, or whether Maitland exercised over him a specialprestige by his opposite qualities. Fragile and somewhat delicate, washe seduced by the strength and dexterity which his friend exhibited inall his exercises? Timid and naturally taciturn, was he governed bythe assurance of that athlete with the loud laugh, with the invincibleenergy? Did the surprising tendency toward art which the other oneshowed conquer him, as well as sympathy for the misfortunes which wereconfided to him and which touched him more than they touched him whoexperienced them? Gordon Maitland, Lincoln's father, of an excellent family of New York, had been killed at the battle of Chancellorsville, during the samewar which had ruined Florent's father in part. Mrs. Maitland, the poordaughter of a small rector of a Presbyterian church at Newport, and whohad only married her husband for his money, had but one idea, when oncea widow--to go abroad. Whither? To Europe, vague and fascinating spot, where she fancied she would be distinguished by her intelligence and herbeauty. She was pretty, vain and silly, and that voyage in pursuit of apart to play in the Old World caused her to pass two years first in onehotel and then in another, after which she married the second son ofa poor Irish peer, with the new chimera of entering that Olympus ofBritish aristocracy of which she had dreamed so much. She became aCatholic, and her son with her, to obtain the result which cost herdear, for not only was the lord who had given her his name brutal, adrunkard and cruel, but he added to all those faults that of beingone of the greatest gamblers in the entire United Kingdom. He kepthis stepson away from home, beat his wife, and died toward 1880, afterdissipating the poor creature's fortune and almost all of Lincoln's. Atthat time the latter, whom his stepfather had naturally left to developin his own way, and who, since leaving Beaumont, had studied paintingat Venice, Rome and Paris, was in the latter city and one of the firstpupils in Bonnat's studio. Seeing his mother ruined, without resourcesat forty-four years of age, persuaded himself of his glorious future, hehad one of those magnificent impulses such as one has in youth and whichprove much less the generosity than the pride of life. Of the fifteenthousand francs of income remaining to him, he gave up to his mothertwelve thousand five hundred. It is expedient to add that in less thana year afterward he married the sister of his college friend and fourhundred thousand dollars. He had seen poverty and he was afraid of it. His action with regard to his mother seemed to justify in his own eyesthe purely interested character of the combination which freed his brushforever. There are, moreover, such artistic consciences. Maitland wouldnot have pardoned himself a concession of art. He considered rascals thepainters who begged success by compromise in their style, and he thoughtit quite natural to take the money of Mademoiselle Chapron, whom hedid not love, and for whom, now that he had grown to manhood and knewseveral of her compatriots, he likewise felt the prejudice of race. "The glory of the colonel of the Empire and friendship for that goodFlorent, " as he said, "covered all. " Poor and good Florent! That marriage was to him the romance of his youthrealized. He had desired it since the first week that Maitland had givenhim the cordial handshake which had bound them. To live in the shadow ofhis friend, become at once his brother-in-law and his ideal--he did notdream of any other solution of his own destiny. The faults of Maitland, developed by age, fortune, and success--we recall the triumph of his'Femme en violet et en jeune' in the Salon of 1884--found Florent asblind as at the epoch when they played cricket together in the fields atBeaumont. Dorsenne very justly diagnosed there one of those hypnotismsof admiration such as artists, great or small, often inspire aroundthem. But the author, who always generalized too quickly, had notcomprehended that the admirer with Florent was grafted on a friendworthy to be painted by La Fontaine or by Balzac, the two poets offriendship, the one in his sublime and tragic Cousin Pons, the otherin that short but fine fable, in which is this verse, one of the mosttender in the French language: Vous metes, en dormant, un peu triste apparu. Florent did not love Lincoln because he admired him; he admired himbecause he loved him. He was not wrong in considering the painter as oneof the most gifted who had appeared for thirty years. But Lincolnwould have had neither the bold elegance of his drawing, nor the vividstrength of coloring, nor the ingenious finesse of imagination if theother had lent himself with less ardor to the service of the work andto the glory of the artist. When Lincoln wanted to travel he found hisbrother-in-law the most diligent of couriers. When he had need of amodel he had only to say a word for Florent to set about finding one. Did Lincoln exhibit at Paris or London, Florent took charge of theentire proceeding--seeing the journalists and picture dealers, composingletters of thanks for the articles, in a handwriting so like that of thepainter that the latter had only to sign it. Lincoln desired to returnto Rome. Florent had discovered the house on the Rue Leopardi, and hesettled it even before Maitland, then in Egypt, had finished a largestudy begun at the moment of the departure of the other. Florent had, by virtue of the affection felt for his brother-in-law, come to comprehend the paintings as well as the painter himself. Thesewords will be clear to those who have been around artists and who knowwhat a distance separates them from the most enlightened amateur. The amateur can judge and feel. The artist only, who has wielded theimplements, knows, before a painting, how it is done, what stroke of thebrush has been given, and why; in short, the trituration of the matterby the workman. Florent had watched Maitland work so much, he hadrendered him so many effective little services in the studio, that eachof his brother-in-law's canvases became animated to him, even to theslightest details. When he saw them on the wall of the gallery they toldhim of an intimacy which was at once his greatest joy and his greatestpride. In short, the absorption of his personality in that of his formercomrade was so complete that it had led to this anomaly, that Dorsennehimself, notwithstanding his indulgence for psychological singularities, had not been able to prevent himself from finding almost monstrous:Florent was Lincoln's brother-in-law, and he seemed to find it perfectlynatural that the latter should have adventures outside, if the emotionof those adventures could be useful to his talent! Perhaps this long and yet incomplete analysis will permit us the betterto comprehend what emotions agitated the young man as he reascended thestaircase of his house--of their house, Lincoln's and his--after hisunexpected dispute with Boleslas Gorka. It will attenuate, at leastwith respect to him, the severity of simple minds. All passion, whendeveloped in the heart, has the effect of etiolating around it the vigorof other instincts. Chapron was too fanatical a friend to be a veryequitable brother. It seemed to him very simple and very legitimatethat his sister should be at the service of the genius of Lincoln, as hehimself was. Moreover, if, since the marriage with her brother's friend, his sister had been stirred by the tempest of a moral tragedy, Florentdid not suspect it. When had he studied Lydia, the silent, reservedLydia, of whom he had once for all formed an opinion, as is the almostinvariable custom of relative with relative? Those who have seen us whenyoung are like those who see us daily. The images which they trace of usalways reproduce what we were at a certain moment--scarcely ever whatwe are. Florent considered his sister very good, because he had formerlyfound her so; very gentle, because she had never resisted him; notintelligent, because she did not seem sufficiently interested inthe painter's work; as for the suffering and secret rebellion ofthe oppressed creature, crushed between his blind partiality and theselfishness of a scornful husband, he did not even suspect them, muchless the terrible resolution of which that apparent resignation wascapable. If he had trembled when Madame Steno began to interest herself inLincoln, it was solely for the work of the latter, so much the moreas for a year he had perceived not a decline but a disturbance in thepainting of that artist, too voluntary not to be unequal. Then Florenthad seen, on the other hand, the nerve of Maitland reawakened in thewarmth of that little intrigue. The portrait of Alba promised to be a magnificent study, worthy of beingplaced beside the famous 'Femme en violet et en jaune, ' which thoseenvious of Lincoln always remembered. Moreover, the painter had finishedwith unparalleled ardor two large compositions partly abandoned. In theface of that proof of a fever of production more and more active, howwould not Florent have blessed Madame Steno, instead of cursing her, somuch the more that it sufficed him to close his eyes and to know thathis conscience was in repose when opposite his sister? He knew all, however. The proof of it was in his shudder when Dorsenne announced tohim the clandestine arrival in Rome of Madame Steno's other lover, andone proof still more certain, the impulse which had precipitated himupon Boleslas, who was parleying with the servant, and now it was he whohad accepted the duel which an exasperated rival had certainly come topropose to his dear Lincoln, and he thought only of the latter. "He must know nothing until afterward. He would take the affair uponhimself, and I have a chance to kill him, that Gorka--to wound him, at least. In any case, I will arrange it so that a second duel will berendered difficult to that lunatic. .. . But, first of all, let us makesure that we have not spoken too loudly and that they have not heardupstairs the ill-bred fellow's loud voice. " It was in such terms that he qualified his adversary of the morrow. Forvery little more he would have judged Gorka unpardonable not to thankLincoln, who had done him the honor to supplant him in the Countess'sfavor! In the meantime, let us cast a glance at the atelier! When the friend, devoted to complicity, but also to heroism, entered the vast room, hecould see at the first glance that he had been mistaken and that nosound of voices had reached that peaceful retreat. The atelier of the American painter was furnished with a harmonioussumptuousness which real artists know how to gather around them. Thelarge strip of sky seen through the windows looked down upon a cornerveritably Roman--of the Rome of to-day, which attests an uninterruptedeffort toward forming a new city by the side of the old one. One couldsee an angle of the old garden and the fragment of an antique building, with a church steeple beyond. It was on a background of azure, ofverdure and of ruins, in a horizon larger and more distant, but composedof the same elements, that was to arise the face of the young girl, designed after the manner, so sharp and so modelled, of the 'Pier dellaFrancesca', with whom Maitland had been preoccupied for six months. All great composers, of an originality more composite than genitive, have these infatuations. Maitland was at his easel, dressed with that correct elegance whichis the almost certain mark of Anglo-Saxon artists. With his littlevarnished shoes, his fine black socks, spotted with red, his coat ofquilted silk, his light cravat and the purity of his linen, he had theair of a gentleman who applied himself to an amateur effort, and not ofthe patient and laborious worker he really was. But his canvases and hisstudies, hung on all sides, among tapestries, arms and trinkets, bespoke patient labor. It was the history of an energy bent upon theacquisition of a personality constantly fleeting. Maitland manifestedin a supreme degree the trait common to almost all his compatriots, eventhose who came in early youth to Europe, that intense desire not tolack civilization, which is explained by the fact that the American is abeing entirely new, endowed with an activity incomparable, and deprivedof traditional saturation. He is not born cultivated, matured, alreadyfashioned virtually, if one may say so, like a child of the Old World. He can create himself at his will. With superior gifts, but giftsentirely physical, Maitland was a self-made man of art, as his grandfather had been a self-made man of money, as his father had been aself-made man of war. He had in his eye and in his hand two marvellousimplements for painting, and in his perseverence in developing a stillmore marvellous one. He lacked constantly the something necessary andlocal which gives to certain very inferior painters the inexpressiblesuperiority of a savor of soil. It could not be said that he was notinventive and new, yet one experienced on seeing no matter which one ofhis paintings that he was a creature of culture and of acquisition. Thescattered studies in the atelier first of all displayed the influence ofhis first master, of solid and simple Bonnat. Then he had been temptedby the English pre-Raphaelites, and a fine copy of the famous 'Song ofLove', by Burne-Jones, attested that reaction on the side of an art moresubtle, more impressed by that poetry which professional painters treatscornfully as literary. But Lincoln was too vigorous for the languors ofsuch an ideal, and he quickly turned to other teachings. Spain conqueredhim, and Velasquez, the colorist of so peculiar a fancy that, after avisit to the Museum of the Prado, one carries away the idea that one hasjust seen the only painting worthy of the name. The spirit of the great Spaniard, that despotic stroke of the brushwhich seems to draw the color in the groundwork of the picture, to makeit stand out in almost solid lights, his absolute absence of abstractintentions and his newness which affects entirely to ignore the past, all in that formula of art, suited Maitland's temperament. To him, too, he owed his masterpiece, the 'Femme en violet et en jaune', but therestless seeker did not adhere to that style. Italy and the Florentinesnext influenced him, just those the most opposed to Velasquez; thePollajuoli, Andrea del Castagna, Paolo Uccello and Pier delta Francesca. Never would one have believed that the same hand which had wielded withso free a brush the color of the 'Femme en violet. .. ' could be thatwhich sketched the contour of the portrait of Alba with so severe, sorigid a drawing. At the moment Florent entered the studio that work so completelyabsorbed the attention of the painter that he did not hear the door openany more than did Madame Steno, who was smoking cigarettes, recliningindolently and blissfully upon the divan, her half-closed eyes fixedupon the man she loved. Lincoln only divined another presence by achange in Alba's face. God! How pale she was, seated in the immobilityof her pose in a large, heraldic armchair, with a back of carved wood, her hands grasping the arms, her mouth so bitter, her eyes so deep intheir fixed glance!. .. Did she divine that which she could not, however, know, that her fate was approaching with the visitor who entered, andwho, having left the studio fifteen minutes before, had to justify hisreturn by an excuse. "It is I, " said he. "I forgot to ask you, Lincoln, if you wish to buyArdea's three drawings at the price they offer. " "Why did you not tell me of it yesterday, my little Linco?" interruptedthe Countess. "I saw Peppino again this morning. .. . I would have fromhim his lowest figure. " "That would only be lacking, " replied Maitland, laughing his largelaugh. "He does not acknowledge those drawings, dear dogaresse. .. . Theyare a part of the series of trinkets he carefully subtracted from hiscreditor's inventory and put in different places. There are some atseven or eight antiquaries', and we may expect that for the next tenyears all the cockneys of my country will be allured by this phrase, 'This is from the Palais Castagna. I have it by a little arrangement. '" His eyes sparkled as he imitated one of the most celebrated bric-a-bracdealers in Rome, with the incomparable art of imitation whichdistinguishes all the old habitues of Parisian studios. "At present these three drawings are at an antiquary's of Babuino, andvery authentic. " "Except when they are represented as Vincis, " said Florent, "whenLeonardo was left-handed, and their hatchings are made from left toright. " "And you think Ardea would not agree with me in it?" resumed theCountess. "Not even with you, " said the painter. "He had the assurance last night, when I mentioned them before him, to ask me the address in order to goto see them. " "How did you learn their production?" questioned Madame Steno. "Ask him, " said Maitland, pointing to Chapron with the end of his brush. "When there is a question of enriching his old Maitland's collection, hebecomes more of a merchant than the merchants themselves. They tell himall. .. . Vinci or no Vinci, it is the pure Lombard style. Buy them. Iwant them. " "I will go, then, " replied Florent. "Countess. .. . Contessina. " He bowed to Madame Steno and her daughter. The mother bestowed upon himher pleasantest smile. She was not one of those mistresses to whomtheir lovers' intimate friends are always enemies. On the contrary, sheenveloped them in the abundant and blissful sympathy which love awoke inher. Besides, she was too cunning not to feel that Florent approved ofher love. But, on the other hand, the intense aversion which Alba atthat moment felt toward her mother's suspected intrigues was expressedby the formality with which she inclined her head in response to thefarewell of the young man, who was too happy to have found that thedispute had not been heard. "From now until to-morrow, " thought he, on redescending the staircase, "there will be no one to warn Lincoln. .. . The purchase of the drawingswas an invention to demonstrate my tranquillity. .. . Now I must find twodiscreet seconds. " Florent was a very deliberate man, and a man who had at his commandperfect evenness of temperament whenever it was not a question of hisenthusiastic attachment to his brother-in-law. He had the power ofobservation habitual to persons whose sensitive amour propre hasfrequently been wounded. He therefore deferred until later his difficultchoice and went to luncheon, as if nothing had happened, at therestaurant where he was expected. Certainly the proprietor did notmistrust, in replying to the questions of his guest relative to the mostrecent portraits of Lenbach, that the young man, so calm, so smiling, had on hand a duel which might cost him his life. It was only on leavingthe restaurant that Florent, after mentally reviewing ten of his olderacquaintances, resolved to make a first attempt upon Dorsenne. Herecalled the mysterious intelligence given him by the novelist, whosesympathy for Maitland had been publicly manifested by an eloquentarticle. Moreover, he believed him to be madly in love with Alba Steno. That was one probability more in favor of his discretion. Dorsenne would surely maintain silence with regard to a meeting inconnection with which, if it were known, the cause of the contest wouldsurely be mentioned. It was only too clear that Gorka and Chapron had noreal reason to quarrel and fight a duel. But at ten-thirty, that is tosay, three hours after the unreasonable altercation in the vestibule, Florent rang at the door of Julien's apartments. The latter was at home, busy upon the last correction of the proofs of 'Poussiere d'Idees'. Hisvisitor's confidence upset him to such a degree that his hands trembledas he arranged his scattered papers. He remembered the presence ofBoleslas on that same couch, at the same time of the day, forty-eighthours before. How the drama would progress if that madman went away inthat mood! He knew only too well that Maitland's brother-in-law had nottold him all. "It is absurd, " he cried, "it is madness, it is folly!. .. You are notgoing to fight about an argument such as you have related to me? Youtalked at the corner of the street, you exchanged a few angry words, andthen, suddenly, seconds, a duel. .. . Ah, it is absurd. " "You forget that I offered him a violent insult in raising my cane tohim, " interrupted Florent, "and since he demands satisfaction I mustgive it to him. " "Do you believe, " said the writer, "that the public will be contentedwith those reasons? Do you think they will not look for the secretmotives of the duel? Do I know the story of a woman?. .. You see, I askno questions. I rely upon what you confide in me. But the world is theworld, and you will not escape its remarks. " "It is precisely for that reason that I ask absolute discretion of you, "replied Florent, "and for that reason that I have come to ask you toserve me as a second. .. . There is no one in whom I trust as implicitlyas I do in you. .. . It is the only excuse for my step. " "I thank you, " said Dorsenne. He hesitated a moment. Then the image ofAlba, which had haunted him since the previous day, suddenly presenteditself to his mind. He recalled the sombre anguish he had surprised inthe young girl's eyes, then her comforted glance when her mother smiledat once upon Gorka and Maitland. He recalled the anonymous letter andthe mysterious hatred which impended over Madame Steno. If the quarrelbetween Boleslas and Florent became known, there was no doubt that itwould be said generally that Florent was fighting for his brother-in-lawon account of the Countess. No doubt, too, that the report would reachthe poor Contessina. It was sufficient to cause the writer to reply:"Very well! I accept. I will serve you. Do not thank me. We are losingvaluable time. You will require another second. Of whom have youthought?" "Of no one, " returned Florent. "I confess I have counted on you to aidme. " "Let us make a list, " said Julien. "It is the best way, and then crossoff the names. " Dorsenne wrote down a number of their acquaintances, and they indeedcrossed them off, according to his expression, so effectually that aftera minute examination they had rejected all of them. They were then asmuch perplexed as ever, when suddenly Dorsenne's eyes brightened, heuttered a slight exclamation, and said brusquely: "What an idea! But it is an idea!. .. Do you know the Marquis deMontfanon?" he asked Florent. "He with one arm?" replied the latter. "I saw him once with reference toa monument I put up at Saint Louis des Francais. " "He told me of it, " said Dorsenne. "For one of your relatives, was itnot?" "Oh, a distant cousin, " replied Florent; "one Captain Chapron, killed in'forty-nine in the trenches before Rome. " "Now, to our business, " cried Dorsenne, rubbing his hands. "It isMontfanon who must be your second. First of all, he is an experiencedduellist, while I have never been on the ground. That is very important. You know the celebrated saying: 'It is neither swords nor pistols whichkill; it is the seconds. '. .. . And then if the matter has to be arranged, he will have more prestige than your servant. " "It is impossible, " said Florent; "Marquis de Montfanon. .. . He willnever consent. I do not exist for him. " "That is my affair, " cried Dorsenne. "Let me take the necessary steps inmy own name, and then if he agrees you can make it in yours. .. . Only wehave no time to lose. Do not leave your house until six o'clock. By thattime I shall know upon what to depend. " If, at first, the novelist had felt great confidence in the issue ofhis strange attempt with reference to his old friend, that confidencechanged to absolute apprehension when he found himself, half an hourlater, at the house which Marquis Claude Francois occupied in one of theoldest parts of Rome, from which location he could obtain an admirableview of the Forum. How many times had Julien come, in the past sixmonths, to that Marquis who dived constantly in the sentiment of thepast, to gaze upon the tragical and grand panorama of the historicalscene! At the voice of the recluse, the broken columns rose, the ruinedtemples were rebuilt, the triumphal view was cleared from its mist. He talked, and the formidable epopee of the Roman legend was evoked, interpreted by the fervent Christian in that mystical and providentialsense, which all, indeed, proclaims in that spot, where the Mamertineprison relates the trial of St. Peter, where the portico of the templeof Faustine serves as a pediment to the Church of St. Laurent, where Ste. -Marie-Liberatrice rises upon the site of the Temple ofVesta--'Sancta Maria, libera nos a poenis inferni'--Montfanon alwaysadded when he spoke of it, and he pointed out the Arch of Titus, whichtells of the fulfilment of the prophecies of Our Lord against Jerusalem, while, opposite, the groves reveal the out lines of a nunnery upon theruins of the dwellings of the Caesars. And, at the extreme end, theColiseum recalls to mind the ninety thousand spectators come to see themartyrs suffer. Such were the sights where lived the former pontifical zouave, and, onringing the bell of the third etage, Julien said to himself: "I am asimpleton to come to propose to such a man what I have to propose. Yetit is not to be a second in an ordinary duel, but simply to prevent anadventure which might cost the lives of two men in the first place, then the honor of Madame Steno, and, lastly, the peace of mind of threeinnocent persons, Madame Gorka, Madame Maitland and my little friendAlba. .. . He alone has sufficient authority to arrange all. It will be anact of charity, like any other. .. . I hope he is at home, " he concluded, hearing the footstep of the servant, who recognized the visitor and whoanticipated all questions. "The Marquis went out this morning before eight o'clock. He will notreturn until dinner-time. " "Do you know where he has gone?" "To hear mass in a catacomb, and to be present at a procession, " repliedthe footman, who took Dorsenne's card, adding: "The Trappists of SaintCalixtus certainly know where the Marquis is. .. . He lunched with them. " "We shall see, " said the young man to himself, somewhat disappointed. His carriage rolled in the direction of Porte St. Sebastien, near whichwas the catacomb and the humble dwelling contiguous to it--the lastmorsel of the Papal domains kept by the poor monks. "Montfanon will havetaken communion this morning, " thought he, "and at the very word duelhe will listen to nothing more. However, the matter must be arranged; itmust be. .. . What would I not give to know the truth of the scene betweenGorka and Florent? By what strange and diabolical ricochet didthe Palatine hit upon the latter when his business was with thebrother-in-law?. .. Will he be angry that I am his adversary's second?. .. Bah!. .. After our conversation of the other day our friendship isended. .. . Good, I am already at the little church of 'Domine, quovadis. '--["Lord, whither art thou going?"]--I might say to myself:'Juliane, quo vadis?' 'To perform an act a little better than themajority of my actions, ' I might reply. " That impressionable soul which vibrated at the slightest contact wastouched by the souvenir of one of the innumerable pious legends whichnineteen centuries of Catholicism have suspended at all the corners ofRome and its surrounding districts. He recalled the touching story ofSt. Peter flying from persecution and meeting our Lord: "Lord, whitherart thou going?" asked the apostle. "To be crucified a second time, "replied the Saviour, and Peter was ashamed of his weakness and returnedto martyrdom. Montfanon himself had related that episode to thenovelist, who again began to reflect upon the Marquis's character andthe best means of approaching him. He forgot to glance at the vastsolitude of the Roman suburbs before him, and so deep was his reveriethat he almost passed unheeded the object of his search. Anotherdisappointment awaited him at the first point in his voyage ofexploration. The monk who came at his ring to open the door of the inclosurecontiguous to St. Calixtus, informed him that he of whom he was insearch had left half an hour before. "You will find him at the Basilica of Saint Neree and Saint Achilles, "added the Trappist; "it is the fete of those two saints, and at fiveo'clock there will be a procession in their catacombs. .. . It is afifteen minutes' ride from here, near the tower Marancia, on the ViaArdeatina. " "Shall I miss him a third time?" thought Dorsenne, alighting from thecarriage finally, and proceeding on foot to the opening which leads tothe subterranean Necropolis dedicated to the two saints who were theeunuchs of Domitilla, the niece of Emperor Vespasian. A few ruins anda dilapidated house alone mark the spot where once stood the piousPrincess's magnificent villa. The gate was open, and, meeting no one whocould direct him, the young man took several steps in the subterraneanpassage. He perceived that the long gallery was lighted. He enteredthere, saying to himself that the row of tapers, lighted every tenpaces, assuredly marked the line which the procession would follow, andwhich led to the central basilica. Although his anxiety as to the issueof his undertaking was extreme, he could not help being impressed by thegrandeur of the sight presented by the catacomb thus illuminated. Theuneven niches reserved for the dead, asleep in the peace of the Lord forso many centuries, made recesses in the corridors and gave them a solemnand tragical aspect. Inscriptions were to be seen there, traced on thestone, and all spoke of the great hope which those first Christians hadcherished, the same which believers of our day cherish. Julien knew enough of symbols to understand the significance of theimages between which the persecuted of the primitive church had laidtheir fathers. They are so touching and so simple! The anchor representssafety in the storm; the gentle dove and the ewe, symbols of the soul, which flies away and seeks its shepherd; the phoenix, whose wingsannounce the resurrection. Then there were the bread and the wine, thebranches of the olive and the palm. The silent cemetery was filled witha faint aroma of incense, noticed by Dorsenne on entering. High mass, celebrated in the morning, left the sacred perfume diffused among thosebones, once the forms of human beings who kneeled there amid the sameholy aroma. The contrast was strong between that spot, where everythingspoke of things eternal, and the drama of passion, worldly and culpable, the progress of which agitated even Dorsenne. At that moment he appearedto himself in the light of a profaner, although he was obeying generousand humane instincts. He experienced a sense of relief when, at a bendin one of the corridors which he had selected from among many others, hefound himself face to face with a priest, who held in his hand abasket filled with the petals of flowers, destined, no doubt, for theprocession. Dorsenne inquired of him the way to the Basilica in Italian, while the reply was given in perfect French. "Perhaps you know the Marquis de Montfanon, father?" asked the novelist. "I am one of the chaplains of Saint Louis, " said the priest, with asmile, adding: "You will find him in the Basilica. " "Now, the moment has come, " thought Dorsenne, "I must be subtle. .. . After all, it is charity I am about to ask him to do. .. . Here I am. Irecognize the staircase and the opening above. " A corner of the sky, indeed, was to be seen, and a ray of light enteredwhich permitted the writer to distinguish him whom he was seeking amongthe few persons assembled in the ruined chapel, the most venerableof all those which encircle Rome with a hidden girdle of sanctuaries. Montfanon, too recognizable, alas! by the empty sleeve of his blackredingote, was seated on a chair, not very far from the altar, on whichburned enormous tapers. Priests and monks were arranging baskets filledwith petals, like those of the chaplain, whom Dorsenne had just met. A group of three curious visitors commented in whispers upon thepaintings, scarcely visible on the discolored stucco of the ceiling. Montfanon was entirely absorbed in the book which he held in his onehand. The large features of his face, ennobled and almost transfiguredby the ardor of devotion, gave him the admirable expression of an oldChristian soldier. 'Bonus miles Christi'--a good soldier of Christ--hadbeen inscribed upon the tomb of the chief under whom he had been woundedat Patay. One would have taken him for a guardian layman of the tombsof the martyrs, capable of confessing his faith like them, even to thedeath. And when Julien determined to approach and to touch him lightlyon the shoulder, he saw that, in the nobleman's clear, blue eyes, ordinarily so gay, and sometimes so choleric, sparkled unshed tears. Hisvoice, too, naturally sharp, was softened by the emotion of the thoughtwhich his reading, the place, the time, the occupation of his day hadawakened within him. "Ah, you here?" said he to his young friend, without any astonishment. "You have come for the procession. That is well. You will hear sung thelovely lines: 'Hi sunt quos fatue mundus abhorruit. " He pronounced ou asu, 'a l'Italienne'; for his liturgic training had been received in Rome. "The season is favorable for the ceremonies. The tourists have gone. There will only be people here who pray and who feel, like you. .. . Andto feel is half of prayer. The other half is to believe. You will becomeone of us. I have always predicted it. There is no peace but here. " "I would gladly have come only for the procession, " replied Dorsenne, "but my visit has another motive, dear friend, " said he, in a stilllower tone. "I have been seeking for you for more than an hour, thatyou might aid me in rendering a great service to several people, inpreventing a very great misfortune, perhaps. " "I can help you to prevent a very great misfortune?" repeated Montfanon. "Yes, " replied Dorsenne, "but this is not the place in which to explainto you the details of the long and terrible adventure. .. . At what houris the ceremony? I will wait for you, and tell it to you on leavinghere. " "It does not begin until five o'clock-five-thirty, " said Montfanon, looking at his watch, "and it is now fifteen minutes past four. Let usleave the catacomb, if you wish, and you can repeat your story to me upabove. A very great misfortune? Well, " he added, pressing the hand ofthe young man whom, personally, he liked as much as he detested hisviews, "rest assured, my dear child, we will prevent it!" There was in the manner in which he uttered those words the tranquillityof a mind which knows not uneasiness, that of a believer who feels sureof always accomplishing all that he wishes to do. It would not have beenMontfanon, that is to say, a species of visionary, who loved to arguewith Dorsenne, because he knew that in spite of all he was understood, if he had not continued, as they walked along the lighted corridor, while remounting toward daylight: "If it is all the same to you, sir apologist of the modern world, Ishould like to pause here and ask you frankly: Do you not feel yourselfmore contemporary with all the dead who slumber within these walls thanwith a radical elector or a free-mason deputy? Do you not feel that ifthese martyrs had not come to pray beneath these vaults eighteen hundredyears ago, the best part of your soul would not exist? Where will youfind a poetry more touching than that of these symbols and of theseepitaphs? That admirable De Rossi showed me one at Saint Calixtus lastyear. My tears flow as I recall it. 'Pete pro Phoebe et pro virginioejus'. Pray for Phoebus and for--How do you translate the word'virginius', the husband who has known only one wife, the virgin husbandof a virgin spouse? Your youth will pass, Dorsenne. You will one dayfeel what I feel, the happiness which is wanting on account of bygoneerrors, and you will comprehend that it is only to be found in Christianmarriage, whose entire sublimity is summed up in thus prayer: 'Provirginio ejus'. .. . You will be like me then, and you will find in thisbook, " he held up 'l'Eucologe', which he clasped in his hand, "somethingthrough which to offer up to God your remorse and your regrets. Do youknow the hymn of the Holy Sacrament, 'Adoro te, devote'? No. Yet you arecapable of feeling what is contained in these lines. Listen. It is thisidea: That on the cross one sees only the man, not the God; that in thehost one does not even see the man, and that yet one believes in thereal presence. In cruce latebat sola Deitas. At hic latet simul et humanitas. Ambo tamen credens atque confitens. .. . "And now this last verse: Peto quod petivit latro poenitens! [I ask that which the penitent thief asked. ] "What a cry! Ah, but it is beautiful! It is beautiful! What words tosay in dying! And what did the poor thief ask, that Dixmas of whom thechurch has made a saint for that one appeal: 'Remember me, Lord, in Thykingdom!' But we have arrived. Stoop, that you may not spoil your hat. Now, what do you want with me? You know the motto of the Montfanons:'Excelsior et firmior'--Always higher and always firmer. .. . One cannever do too many good deeds. If it be possible, 'present', as we saidto the rollcall. " A singular mixture of fervor and of good-nature, of enthusiasticeloquence and of political or religious fanaticism, was Montfanon. Butthe good-nature rapidly vanished from his face, at once so haughty andso simple, in proportion as Dorsenne's story proceeded. The writer, indeed, did not make the error of at once formulating his proposition. He felt that he could not argue with the pontifical zouave of bygonedays. Either the latter would look upon it as monstrous and absurd, or he would see in it a charitable duty to be accomplished, and then, whatever annoyance the matter might occasion him, he would accept it, as he would bestow alms. It was that chord of generosity which Julien, diplomatic for once in his life, essayed to touch by his confidence. Gaining authority by their conversation of a few days before, he relatedall he could of Gorka's visit, concealing the fact of that word of honorso falsely given, which still oppressed him with a mortal weight. Hetold how he had soothed the madman, how he conducted him to the station, then he described the meeting of the two rivals twenty-four hours later. He dwelt upon Alba's manner that evening and the infamy of the anonymousletters written to Madame Steno's discarded lover and to her daughter. And after he had reported the mysterious quarrel which had suddenlyarisen between Gorka and Chapron: "I, therefore, promised to be his second, " he concluded, "because Ibelieve it my absolute duty to do all I can to prevent the duel fromtaking place. Only think of it. If it should take place, and if one ofthem is killed or wounded, how can the affair be kept secret in thisgossiping city of Rome? And what remarks it will call forth! It isevident that these two boys have quarrelled only on account ofthe relations between Madame Steno and Maitland. By what strangecoincidence? Of that I know nothing. "But there will not be a doubt in public opinion. And can you not seeadditional anonymous letters written to Alba, Madame Gorka, MadameMaitland?. .. The men I do not care for. .. . Two out of three merit allthat comes to them. But those innocent creatures--is it not frightful?" "Frightful, indeed, " replied Montfanon; "it is that which renders thoseadulterous adventures so hideous. There are many people who are affectedby it besides the guilty ones. .. . You see that, you who thoughtthat society so pleasant, so refined, so interesting, the day beforeyesterday? But it does no good to recriminate. I understand. You havecome to ask me to advise you in your role of second. My follies of youthwill enable me to direct you. .. . Correctness in the slightest detail andno nerves, when one has to arrange a duel. Oh! You will have trouble. Gorka is mad. I know the Poles. They have great faults, but they arebrave. Lord, but they are brave! And little Chapron, I know him, too; hehas one of those stubborn natures, which would allow their breasts to bepierced without saying 'Ouf!' And 'amour propre'. He has good soldier'sblood in his veins, that child, notwithstanding the mixture. And withthat mixture, do you not see what a hero the first of the three Dumas, the mulatto general, has been?. .. Yes. You have there a hard job, mygood Dorsenne. .. . You will need another second to assist you, who willhave the same views as you and--pardon me--more experience, perhaps. " "Marquis, " replied Julien, whose voice trembled with anxiety, "there isonly one person in Rome who would be respected enough, venerated byall, so that his intervention in that delicate and dangerous matter bedecisive, one person who could suggest excuses to Chapron, or obtainthem from the other. .. . In short, there is only one person who has theauthority of a hero before whom they will remain silent when he speaksof honor, and that person is you. " "I, " exclaimed Montfanon, "I, you wish me to be--" "One of Chapron's seconds, " interrupted Dorsenne. "Yes. It is true. Icome on his part and for that. Do not tell me what I already know, thatyour position will not allow of such a step. It is because it is what itis, that I thought of coming to you. Do not tell me that your religiousprinciples are opposed to duels. It is that there may be no duel that Iconjure you to accept. .. . It is essential that it does not take place. Iswear to you, that the peace of too many innocent persons is concerned. " And he continued, calling into service at that moment all theintelligence and all the eloquence of which he was capable. He couldfollow on the face of the former duellist, who had become the mostardent of Catholics and the most monomaniacal of old bachelors, twentydiverse expressions. At length Montfanon laid his hand with veritablesolemnity on his interlocutor's arm and said to him: "Listen, Dorsenne, do not tell me any more. .. . I consent to what you askof me, but on two conditions. They are these: The first is that MonsieurChapron will trust absolutely to my judgment, whatsoever it may be; thesecond is that you will retire with me if these gentlemen persist intheir childishness. .. . I promise to aid you in fulfilling a missionof charity, and not anything else; I repeat, not anything else. Beforebringing Monsieur Chapron to me you will repeat to him what I have said, word for word. " "Word for word, " replied the other, adding: "He is at home awaiting theresult of my undertaking. " "Then, " said the Marquis, "I will return to Rome with you at once. Hehas probably already received Gorka's seconds, and if they really wishto arrange a duel the rule is not to put it off. .. . I shall not see myprocession, but to prevent misfortune is to do a good deed, and it isone way of praying to God. " "Let me press your hand, my noble friend, " said Dorsenne; "never have Ibetter understood what a truly brave man is. " When the writer alighted, three-quarters of an hour later, at the houseon the Rue Leopardi, after having seen Montfanon home, he felt sustainedby such moral support that was almost joyous. He found Florent in hisspecies of salon-smoking-room, arranging his papers with methodicalcomposure. "He accepts, " were the first words the young men uttered, almostsimultaneously, while Dorsenne repeated Montfanon's words. "I depend absolutely on you two, " replied the other. "I have no thirstfor Monsieur de Gorka's blood. .. . But that gentleman must not accuse thegrandson of Colonel Chapron of cowardice. .. . For that I rely upon therelative of General Dorsenne and on the old soldier of Charette. " As he spoke, Florent handed a letter to Julien, who asked: "From whom isthis?" "This, " said Florent, "is a letter addressed to you, on this very tablehalf an hour ago by Baron Hafner. .. . There is some news. I have receivedmy adversary's seconds. The Baron is one, Ardea the other. " "Baron Hafner!" exclaimed Dorsenne. "What a singular choice!" He paused, and he and Florent exchanged glances. They understood one anotherwithout speaking. Boleslas could not have found a surer means ofinforming Madame Steno as to the plan he intended to employ in hisvengeance. On the other hand, the known devotion of the Baron for theCountess gave one chance more for a pacific solution, at the sametime that the fanaticism of Montfanon would be confronted with Fanny'sfather, an episode of comedy suddenly cast across Gorka's drama ofjealousy. Julien resumed with a smile: "You must watch Montfanon's face when weinform him of those two witnesses. He is a man of the fifteenth century, you know, a Montluc, a Duc d'Alba, a Philippe II. I do not know whichhe detests the most, the Freemasons, the Free-thinkers, the Protestants, the Jews, or the Germans. And as this obscure and tortuous Hafner is alittle of everything, he has vowed hatred against him!. .. Leaving thatout of the question, he suspects him of being a secret agent in theservice of the Triple Alliance! But let us see the letter. " He opened and glanced through it. "This craftiness serves for something, it is equivalent almost to kindness. He, too, has felt that it isnecessary to end our affair, were it only to avoid scandal. He appointsa meeting at his house between six and seven o'clock with me and yoursecond. Come, time is flying. You must come to the Marquis to make yourrequest officially. Begin this way. Obtain his promise before mentioningHafner's name. I know him. He will not retract his word. But it isjust. " The two friends found Montfanon awaiting them in his office, a largeroom filled with books, from which could be obtained a fine view of thepanorama of the Forum, more majestic still on that afternoon when theshadows of the columns and arches grew longer on the sidewalk. The roomwith its brick floor had no other comfort than a carpet under the largedesk littered with papers--no doubt fragments of the famous work on therelations of the French nobility and the Church. A crucifix stood uponthe desk. On the wall were two engravings, that of Monseigneur Pie, theholy Bishop of Poitiers, and that of General de Sonis, on foot, with hiswooden leg, and a painting representing St. Francois, the patron ofthe house. Those were the only artistic decorations of the modesthabitation. The nobleman often said: "I have freed myself from thetyranny of objects. " But with that marvellous background of grandioseruins and that sky, the simple spot was an incomparable retreat inwhich to end in meditation and renouncement a life already shaken by thetempests of the senses and of the world. The hermit of that Thebaide rose to greet his two visitors, and pointingout to Chapron an open volume on his table, he said to him: "I was thinking of you. It is Chateauvillars's book on duelling. Itcontains a code which is not very complete. I recommend it to you, however, if ever you have to fulfil a mission like ours, " and he pointedto Dorsenne and himself, with a gesture which constituted the mostamicable of acceptations. "It seems you had too hasty a hand. .. . Ha!ha! Do not defend yourself. Such as you see me, at twenty-one I threw aplate in the face of a gentleman who bantered Comte de Chambord beforea number of Jacobins at a table d'hote in the provinces. See, " continuedhe, raising his white moustache and disclosing a scar, "this is thesouvenir. The fellow was once a dragoon; he proposed the sabre. Iaccepted, and this is what I got, while he lost two fingers. .. . Thatwill not happen to us this time at least. .. . Dorsenne has told you ourconditions. " "And I replied that I was sure I could not intrust my honor to betterhands, " replied Florent. "Cease!" replied Montfanon, with a gesture of satisfaction. "No morephrases. It is well. Moreover, I judged you, sir, from the day on whichyou spoke to me at Saint Louis. You honor your dead. That is why I shallbe happy, very happy, to be useful to you. " "Now tell me very clearly the recital you made to Dorsenne. " Then Florent related concisely that which had taken place between himand Gorka--that is to say, their argument and his passion, carefullyomitting the details in which the name of his brother-in-law would bemixed. "The deuce!" said Montfanon, familiarly, "the affair looks bad, verybad. .. . You see, a second is a confessor. You have had a discussion inthe street with Monsieur Gorka, but about what? You can not reply? Whatdid he say to you to provoke you to the point of wishing to strike him?That is the first key to the position. " "I can not reply, " said Florent. "Then, " resumed the Marquis, after a silence, "there only remains toassert that the gesture on your part was--how shall I say? Unmeditatedand unfinished. That is the second key to the position. .. . You have nospecial grudge against Monsieur Gorka?" "None. " "Nor he against you?" "None. " "The affair looks better, " said Montfanon, who was silent for a time, to resume, in the voice of a man who is talking to himself, "Count Gorkaconsiders himself offended? But is there any offence? It is that whichwe should discuss. .. . An assault or the threat of an assault wouldafford occasion for an arrangement. .. . But a gesture restrained, sinceit was not carried into effect. .. . Do not interrupt me, " he continued. "I am trying to understand it clearly. .. . We must arrive at a solution. We shall have to express our regret, leaving the field open to anotherreparation, if Gorka requires it. .. . And he will not require it. Theentire problem now rests on the choice of his seconds. .. . Whom will heselect?" "I have already received visits from them, " said Florent. "Half an hourago. One is Prince d'Ardea. " "He is a gentleman, " replied Montfanon. "I shall not be sorry to see himto tell him my feelings with regard to the public sale of his palace, to which he should never have allowed himself to be driven. .. . And theother?" "The other?" interrupted Dorsenne. "Prepare yourself for a blow. .. . Iswear to you I did not know his name when I went in search of you at thecatacomb. It is--in short--it is Baron Hafner. " "Baron Hafner!" exclaimed Montfanon. "Boleslas Gorka, the descendant ofthe Gorkas, of that grand Luc Gorka who was Palatine of Posen and Bishopof Cujavie, has chosen for his second Monsieur Justus Hafner, the thief, the scoundrel, who had the disgraceful suit!. .. No, Dorsenne, do nottell me that; it is not possible. " Then, with the air of a combatant:"We will challenge him; that is all, for his lack of honor. I take itupon myself, as well as to tell of his deeds to Boleslas. We will spendan enjoyable quarter of an hour there, I promise you. " "You will not do that, " said Dorsenne, quickly. "First, with regardto official honor, there is only one law, is there not? Hafner wasacquitted and his adversaries condemned. You told me so the otherday. .. . And then, you forget the conversation we just had. " "Pardon, " interrupted Florent, in his turn. "Monsieur de Montfanon, inpromising to assist me, has done me a great honor, which I shall neverforget. If there should result from it any annoyance to him I should bedeeply grieved, and I am ready to release him from his promise. " "No, " said the Marquis, after another silence. "I will not take itback. ". .. . He was so magnanimous when his two or three hobbies werenot involved that the slightest delicacy awoke an echo in him. He againextended his hand to Chapron and continued, but with an accent whichbetrayed suppressed irritation: "After all, it does not concern us ifMonsieur Gorka has chosen to be represented in an affair of honor by onewhom he should not even salute. .. . You will, then, give our two namesto those two gentlemen. .. . And Dorsenne and I will await them, as is therule. .. . It is their place to come, since they are the proxies of theperson insulted. " "They have already arranged a meeting for this evening, " repliedChapron. "What's arranged? With whom? For whom?" exclaimed Montfanon, a prey to afresh access of choler. "With you?. .. For us?. .. Ah, I do not like suchconduct where such grave matters are concerned. .. . The code is absoluteon that subject. .. . Their challenge once made, to which you, MonsieurChapron, have to reply by yes or no, these gentlemen should withdrawimmediately. .. . It is not your fault, it is Ardea's, who has allowedthat dabbler in spurious dividends to perform his part of intriguer. .. . But we will rectify all in the right way, which is the French. .. . Andwhere is the rendezvous?" "I will read to you the letter which the Baron left for me withFlorent, " said Dorsenne, who indeed read the very courteous note Hafnerhad written to him, in which he excused himself for choosing his ownhouse as a rendezvous for the four witnesses. "One can not ignore sopolite a note. " "There are too many dear sirs, and too many compliments, " saidMontfanon, brusquely. "Sit here, " he continued, relinquishing hisarmchair to Florent, "and inform the two men of our names and address, adding that we are at their service and ignoring the first inaccuracy ontheir part. Let them return!. .. And you, Dorsenne, since you are afraidof wounding that gentleman, I will not prevent you from going to hishouse--personally, do you hear--to warn him that Monsieur Chapron, herepresent, has chosen for his first second a disagreeable person, an oldduellist, anything you like, but who desires strict form, and, first ofall, a correct call made upon us by them, in order to settle officiallyupon a rendezvous. " "What did I tell you?" asked Dorsenne, when he with Florent descendedMontfanon's staircase. "He is a different man since you mentioned theBaron to him. The discussion between them will be a hot one. I hopehe will not spoil all by his folly. On my honor, if I had guessed whomGorka would choose I should not have suggested to you the old leaguer, as I call him. " "And I, if Monsieur de Montfanon should make me fight at five paces, "replied Chapron, with a laugh, "would be grateful to you for havingbrought me into relations with him. He is a whole-souled man, as was mypoor father, as is Maitland. I adore such people. " "Is there no means of having at once heart and head?" said Julien tohimself, on reaching the Palais Savorelli, where Hafner lived, andrecalling the Marquis's choler on the one hand, and on the other theegotism of Maitland, of which Florent's last words reminded him. Hisapprehension of the afternoon returned in a greater degree, for he knewMontfanon to be very sensitive on certain points, and it was one ofthose points which would be wounded to the quick by the forced relationswith Gorka's witnesses. "I do not trust Hafner, " thought he; "if thecunning fellow has accepted the mission utterly contrary to his tastes, his habits, almost to his age, it must be to connive with his futureson-in-law and to conciliate all. Perhaps even the marriage had beenalready settled? I hope not. The Marquis would be so furious he wouldrequire the duel to a letter. " The young man had guessed aright. Chance, which often brings oneevent upon another, decreed that Ardea, at the very moment that he wasdeliberating with Gorka as to the choice of another second, received anote from Madame Steno containing simply these words: "Your proposalhas been made, and the answer is yes. May I be the first to embrace you, Simpaticone?" An ingenious idea occurred to him; to have arranged by his futurefather-in-law the quarrel which he considered at once absurd, useless, and dangerous. The eagerness with which Gorka had accepted Hafner'sname, proved, as Dorsenne and Florent had divined, his desire that hisperfidious mistress should be informed of his doings. As for the Baron, he consented--oh, irony of coincidences!--by saying to Peppino Ardeawords almost identical with those which Montfanon had uttered toDorsenne: "We will draw up, in advance, an official plan of conciliation, and, ifthe matter can not be arranged, we will withdraw. " It was in such terms that the memorable conversation was concluded, a conversation truly worthy of the combinazione which poor Fanny'smarriage represented. There had been less question of the marriageitself than that of the services to be rendered to the infidelity of thewoman who presided over the sorry traffic! Is it necessary to add thatneither Ardea nor his future father-in-law had made the shadow of anallusion to the true side of the affair? Perhaps at any other time theexcessive prudence innate to the Baron and his care never to compromisehimself would have deterred him from the possible annoyances whichmight arise from an interference in the adventure of an exasperated anddiscarded lover. But his joy at the thought that his daughter was tobecome a Roman princess--and with what a name!--had really turned hisbrain. He had, however, the good sense to say to the stunned Ardea: "MadameSteno must know nothing of it, at least beforehand. She would notfail to inform Madame Gorka, and God knows of what the latter would becapable. " In reality, the two men were convinced that it was essential, directlyor indirectly, to beware of warning Maitland. They employed theremainder of the afternoon in paying their visit to Florent, then insending telegram after telegram to announce the betrothal, with whichcharming Fanny seemed more satisfied since Cardinal Guerillot hadconsented, at simply a word from her, to preside at her baptism. TheBaron, in the face of that consent, could not restrain his joy. He lovedhis daughter, strange man, somewhat in the manner in which a breederloves a favorite horse which has won the Grand Prix for him. WhenDorsenne arrived, bearing Chapron's note and Montfanon's message, he wasreceived with a cordiality and a complaisance which at once enlightenedhim upon the result of the matrimonial intrigue of which Alba had spokento him. "Anything that your friend wishes, my dear sir. .. . Is it not so, Peppino?" said the Baron, seating himself at his table. "Will youdictate the letter yourself, Dorsenne?. .. See, is this all right? Youwill understand with what sentiments we have accepted this mission whenyou learn that Fanny is betrothed to Prince Ardea, here present. Thenews dates from three o'clock. So you are the first to know it, is henot, Peppino?" He had drawn up not less than two hundred despatches. "Return whenever you like with the Marquis. .. . I simply ask, under thecircumstances, that the interview take place, if it be possible, betweensix and seven, or between nine and ten, in order not to interfere withour little family dinner. " "Let us say nine o'clock, " said Dorsenne. "Monsieur de Montfanon issomewhat formal. He would like to have your reply by letter. " "Prince Ardea to marry Mademoiselle Hafner!" That cry which the newsbrought by Julien wrested from Montfanon was so dolorous that the youngman did not think of laughing. He had thought it wiser to prepare hisirascible friend, lest the Baron might make some allusion to the grandevent during the course of the conversation, and that the other mightnot make some impulsive remark. "Did I not tell you that the girl's Catholicism was a farce? Did I nottell Monseigneur Guerillot? This was what she aimed at all those years, with such perfect hypocrisy? It was the Palais Castagna. And she willenter there as mistress!. .. She will bring there the dishonor of thatpirated gold on which there are stains of blood! Warn them, that they donot speak to me of it, or I will not answer for myself. .. . The secondof a Gorka, the father-in-law of an Ardea, he triumphs, the thief whoshould by rights be a convict!. .. But we shall see. Will not all theother Roman princes who have no blots upon their escutcheons, the Orsinis, the Colonnas, the Odeschalchis, the Borgheses, theRospigliosis, not combine to prevent this monstrosity? Nobility is likelove, those who buy those sacred things degrade them in paying for them, and those to whom they are given are no better than mire. .. . Princessd'Ardea! That creature! Ah, what a disgrace!. .. But we must rememberour engagement relative to that brave young Chapron. The boy pleases me;first, because very probably he is going to fight for some one else andout of a devotion which I can not very well understand! It is devotionall the same, and it is chivalry!. .. He desires to prevent thatmiserable Gorka from calling forth a scandal which would have warned hissister. .. . And then, as I told him, he respects the dead. .. . Let us. .. . I have my wits no longer about me, that intelligence has so greatlydisturbed me. .. . Princess d'Ardea!. .. Well, write that we will be atMonsieur Hafner's at nine o'clock. .. . I do not want any of those peopleat my house. .. . At yours it would not be proper; you are too young. AndI prefer going to the father-in-law's rather than to the son-inlaw's. The rascal has made a good bargain in buying what he has bought with hisstolen millions. But the other. .. . And his great-great-uncle might havebeen Jules Second, Pie Fifth, Hildebrand; he would have sold all justthe same!. .. He can not deceive himself! He has heard the suit againstthat man spoken of! He knows whence come those millions! He has heardtheir family, their lives spoken of! And he has not been inspired withtoo great a horror to accept the gold of that adventurer. Does henot know what a name is? Our name! It is ourselves, our honor, in themouths, in the thoughts, of others! How happy I am, Dorsenne, to havebeen fifty-two years of age last month. I shall be gone before havingseen what you will see, the agony of all the aristocrats and royalties. It was only in blood that they fell! But they do not fall. Alas! Theyfix themselves upon the ground, which is the saddest of all. Still, whatmatters it? The monarchy, the nobility, and the Church are everlasting. The people who disregard them will die, that is all. Come, write yourletter, which I will sign. Send it away, and you will dine with me. Wemust go into the den provided with an argument which will preventthis duel, and sustaining our part toward our client. There must be anarrangement which I would accept myself. I like him, I repeat. " The excitement which began to startle Dorsenne was only augmented duringdinner, so much the more so as, on discussing the conditions of thatarrangement he hoped to bring about, the recollection of his terribleyouth filled the thoughts and the discourse of the former duellist. Wasit, indeed, the same personage who recited the verses of a hymn in thecatacombs a few hours before? It only required the feudal in him to bereawakened to transform him. The fire in his eyes and the color in hisface betrayed that the duel in which he had thought best to engage, out of charity, intoxicated him on his own statement. It was the oldamateur, the epicure of the sword, very ungovernable, which stirredwithin that man of faith, in whom passion had burned and who had lovedall excitement, including that of danger, as to-day he loved his ideas, as he loved his flagi moderately. He no longer thought of the threewomen to be spared suspicion, nor of the good deed to be accomplished. He saw all his old friends and their talent for fighting, the thrusts ofthis one, the way another had of striking, the composure of a third, andthen this refrain interrupted constantly his warlike anecdotes: "Butwhy the deuce has Gorka chosen that Hafner for his second?. .. It isincomprehensible. ". .. . On entering the carriage which was to bear themto their interview, he heard Dorsenne say to the coachman: "PalaisSavorelli. " "That is the final blow, " said he, raising his arm and clenching hisfist. "The adventurer occupies the Pretender's house, the house of theStuarts. ". .. . He repeated: "The house of the Stuarts!" and then lapsedinto a silence which the writer felt to be laden with more storminessthan his last denunciation. He did not emerge from his meditationsuntil ushered into the salon of the ci-devant jeweller, now a grandseigneur--into one of the salons, rather, for there were five. ThereMontfanon began to examine everything around him, with an air of suchcontempt and pride that, notwithstanding his anxiety, Dorsenne could notresist laughing and teasing him by saying: "You will not pretend to say that there are no pretty things here? Thesetwo paintings by Moroni, for example?" "Nothing that is appropriate, " replied Montfanon. "Yes, they are twomagnificent portraits of ancestors, and this man has no ancestors!. .. There are some weapons in that cupboard, and he has never touched asword! And there is a piece of tapestry representing the miracles of theloaves, which is a piece of audacity! You may not believe me, Dorsenne, but it is making me ill to be here. .. . I am reminded of the human toil, of the human soul in all these objects, and to end here, paid for how?Owned by whom? Close your eyes and think of Schroeder and of the otherswhom you do not know. Look into the hovels where there is neitherfurniture, fire, nor bread. Then, open your eyes and look at this. " "And you, my dear friend, " replied the novelist, "I conjure you to thinkof our conversation in the catacombs, to think of the three ladies inwhose names I besought you to aid Florent. " "Thank you, " said Montfanon, passing his hand over his brow, "I promiseyou to be calm. " He had scarcely uttered those words when the door opened, disclosingto view another room, lighted also, and which, to judge by the soundof voices, contained several persons. No doubt Madame Steno and Alba, thought Julien; and the Baron entered, accompanied by Peppino Ardea. While going through the introductions, the writer was struck by thecontrast offered between his three companions. Hafner and Ardea inevening dress, with buttonhole bouquets, had the open and happy faces oftwo citizens who had clear consciences. The usually sallow complexionof the business man was tinged with excitement, his eyes, as a rule sohard, were gentler. As for the Prince, the same childish carelessnesslighted up his jovial face, while the hero of Patay, with his coarseboots, his immense form enveloped in a somewhat shabby redingote, exhibited a face so contracted that one would have thought him devouredby remorse. A dishonest intendant, forced to expose his accounts togenerous and confiding masters, could not have had a face more gloomyor more anxious. He had, moreover, put his one arm behind his back ina manner so formal that neither of the two men who entered offered himtheir hands. That appearance was without doubt little in keeping withwhat the father and the fiance of Fanny had expected; for there was, when the four men were seated, a pause which the Baron was the first tobreak. He began in his measured tones, in a voice which handles words asthe weight of a usurer weighs gold pieces to the milligramme: "Gentlemen, I believe I shall express our common sentiment in first ofall establishing a point which shall govern our meeting. .. . We are here, it is understood, to bring about the work of reconciliation between twomen, two gentlemen whom we know, whom we esteem--I might bettersay, whom we all love. ". .. . He turned, in pronouncing those words, successively to each of his three listeners, who all bowed, with theexception of the Marquis. Hafner examined the nobleman, with hisglance accustomed to read the depths of the mind in order to divinethe intentions. He saw that Chapron's first witness was a troublesomecustomer, and he continued: "That done, I beg to read to you this littlepaper. " He drew from his pocket a sheet of folded paper and placed uponthe end of his nose his famous gold 'lorgnon': "It is very trifling, oneof those directives, as Monsieur de Moltke says, which serve to guideoperations, a plan of action which we will modify after discussion. Inshort, it is a landmark that we may not launch into space. " "Pardon, sir, " interrupted Montfanon, whose brows contracted stillmore at the mention of the celebrated field-marshal, and, stopping by agesture the reader, who, in his surprise, dropped his lorgnon upon thetable on which his elbow rested. "I regret very much, " he continued, "tobe obliged to tell you that Monsieur Dorsenne and I"--here he turned toDorsenne, who made an equivocal gesture of vexation--"can not admit thepoint of view in which you place yourself. .. . You claim that we are hereto arrange a reconciliation. That is possible. .. . I concede that it isdesirable. .. . But I know nothing of it and, permit me to say, you donot know any more. I am here--we are here, Monsieur Dorsenne and I, to listen to the complaints which Count Gorka has commissioned youto formulate to Monsieur Florent Chapron's proxies. Formulate thosecomplaints, and we will discuss them. Formulate the reparation youclaim in the name of your client and we will discuss it. The papers willfollow, if they follow at all, and, once more, neither you nor we knowwhat will be the issue of this conversation, nor should we know it, before establishing the facts. " "There is some misunderstanding, sir, " said Ardea, whom Montfanon'swords had irritated somewhat. He could not, any more than Hafner, understand the very simple, but very singular, character of the Marquis, and he added: "I have been concerned in several 'rencontres'--fourtimes as second, and once as principal--and I have seen employed withoutdiscussion the proceeding which Baron Hafner has just proposed toyou, and which of itself is, perhaps, only a more expeditious means ofarriving at what you very properly call the establishment of facts. " "I was not aware of the number of your affairs, sir, " replied Montfanon, still more nervous since Hafner's future son-in-law joined in theconversation; "but since it has pleased you to tell us I will take theliberty of saying to you that I have fought seven times, and that I havebeen a second fourteen. .. . It is true that it was at an epoch when thehead of your house was your father, if I remember right, the deceasedPrince Urban, whom I had the honor of knowing when I served in thezouaves. He was a fine Roman nobleman, and did honor to his name. WhatI have told you is proof that I have some competence in the matter ofa duel. .. . Well, we have always held that seconds were constituted toarrange affairs that could be arranged, but also to settle affairs, as well as they can, that seem incapable of being arranged. Let us nowinquire into the matter; we are here for that, and for nothing else. " "Are these gentlemen of that opinion?" asked Hafner in a conciliatoryvoice, turning first to Dorsenne, then to Ardea: "I do not adhere to mymethod, " he continued, again folding his paper. He slipped it into hisvest-pocket and continued: "Let us establish the facts, as you say. Count Gorka, our friend, considers himself seriously, very seriously, offended by Monsieur Florent Chapron in the course of the discussion ina public street. Monsieur Chapron was carried away, as you know, sirs, almost to--what shall I say?--hastiness, which, however, was notfollowed by consequences, thanks to the presence of mind of MonsieurGorka. .. . But, accomplished or not, the act remains. Monsieur Gorka wasinsulted, and he requires satisfaction. .. . I do not believe there is anydoubt upon that point which is the cause of the affair, or, rather, thewhole affair. " "I again ask your pardon, sir, " said Montfanon, dryly, who no longertook pains to conceal his anger, "Monsieur Dorsenne and I can not acceptyour manner of putting the question. .. . You say that Monsieur Chapron'shastiness was not followed by consequences by reason of Monsieur Gorka'spresence of mind. We claim that there was only on the part of MonsieurChapron a scarcely indicated gesture, which he himself restrained. Inconsequence you attribute to Monsieur Gorka the quality of the insultedparty; you are over-hasty. He is merely the plaintiff, up to this time. It is very different. " "But by rights he is the insulted party, " interrupted Ardea. "Restrainedor not, it constitutes a threat of assault. I did not wish to claim tobe a duellist by telling you of my engagements. But this is the A B C ofthe 'codice cavalleresco', if the insult be followed by an assault, he who receives the blow is the offended party, and the threat of anassault is equivalent to an actual assault. The offended party has thechoice of a duel, weapons and conditions. Consult your authors and ours:Chateauvillars, Du Verger, Angelini and Gelli, all agree. " "I am sorry for their sakes, " said Montfanon, and he looked at thePrince with a contraction of the brows almost menacing, "but it is anopinion which does not hold good generally, nor in this particular case. The proof is that a duellist, as you have just said, " his voice trembledas he emphasized the insolence offered by the other, "a bravo, to usethe expression of your country, would only have to commit a justifiablemurder by first insulting him at whom he aims with rude words. Theinsulted person replies by a voluntary gesture, on the significationof which one may be mistaken, and you will admit that the bravo is theoffended party, and that he has the choice of weapons. " "But, Marquis, " resumed Hafner, with evident disgust, so greatly did thecavilling and the ill-will of the nobleman irritate him, "where are youwandering to? What do you mean by bringing up chicanery of this sort?" "Chicanery!" exclaimed Montfanon, half rising. "Montfanon!" besought Dorsenne, rising in his turn and forcing theterrible man to be seated. "I retract the word, " said the Baron, "if it has insulted you. Nothingwas farther from my thoughts. .. . I repeat that I apologize, Marquis. .. . But, come, tell us what you want for your client, that is verysimple. .. . And then we will do all we can to make your demands agreewith those of our client. .. . It is a trifling matter to be adjusted. " "No, sir, " said Montfanon, with insolent severity, "it is justice tobe rendered, which is very different. What we, Monsieur Dorsenne andI, desire, " he continued in a severe voice, "is this: Count Gorka hasgravely insulted Monsieur Chapron. Let me finish, " he added upon asimultaneous gesture on the part of Ardea and of Hafner. "Yes, sirs, Monsieur Chapron, known to us all for his perfect courtesy, must havebeen very gravely insulted, even to make the improper gesture of whichyou just spoke. But it was agreed upon between these two gentlemen, forreasons of delicacy which we had to accept--it was agreed, I say, thatthe nature of the insult offered by Monsieur Gorka to Monsieur Chapronshould not be divulged. .. . We have the right, however, and I may addthe duty devolves upon us, to measure the gravity of that insult by theexcess of anger aroused in Monsieur Chapron. .. . I conclude from it that, to be just, the plan of reconciliation, if we draw it up, should containreciprocal concessions. Count Gorka will retract his words and MonsieurChapron apologize for his hastiness. " "It is impossible, " exclaimed the Prince; "Gorka will never acceptthat. " "You, then, wish to have them fight the duel?" groaned Hafner. "And why not?" said Montfanon, exasperated. "It would be better than forthe one to nurse his insults and the other his blow. " "Well, sirs, " replied the Baron, rising after the silence which followedthat imprudent whim of a man beside himself, "we will confer again withour client. If you wish, we will resume this conversation tomorrow atten o'clock, say here or in any place convenient to you. .. . Youwill excuse me, Marquis. Dorsenne has no doubt told you under whatcircumstances--" "Yes, he has told me, " interrupted Montfanon, who again glanced at thePrince, and in a manner so mournful that the latter felt himself blushbeneath the strange glance, at which, however, it was impossible to feelangry. Dorsenne had only time to cut short all other explanations byreplying to Justus Hafner himself. "Would you like the meeting at my house? We shall have more chance toescape remarks. " "You have done well to change the place, " said Montfanon, five minuteslater, on entering the carriage with his young friend. They had descended the staircase without speaking, for the brave andunreasonable Marquis regretted his strangely provoking attitude of themoment before. "What would you have?" he added. "The profaned palace, the insolentluxury of that thief, the Prince who has sold his family, the Baronwhose part is so sinister. I could no longer contain myself! That Baron, above all, with his directives! Words to repeat when one is German, toa French soldier who fought in 1870, like those words of Monsieur deMoltke! His terms, too, applied to honor and that abominable politenessin which there is servility and insolence!. .. Still, I am not satisfiedwith myself. I am not at all satisfied. " There was in his voice so much good-nature, such evident remorse at nothaving controlled himself in so grave a situation, that Dorsenne pressedhis hand instead of reproaching him, as he said: "It will do to-morrow. .. . We will arrange all; it has only beenpostponed. " "You say that to console me, " said the Marquis, "but I know it wasvery badly managed. And it is my fault! Perhaps we shall have no otherservice to render our brave Chapron than to arrange a duel for him underthe most dangerous conditions. Ah, but I became inopportunelyangry!. .. But why the deuce did Gorka select such a second? It isincomprehensible!. .. Did you see what the cabalistic word gentlemanmeans to those rascals: Steal, cheat, assassinate, but have carriagesperfectly appointed, a magnificent mansion, well-served dinners, andfine clothes!. .. No, I have suffered too much! Ah, it is not right; andon what a day, too? God! That the old man might die!". .. . He added, in avoice so low that his companion did not hear his words. BOOK 3. CHAPTER VII. A LITTLE RELATIVE OF IAGO The remorse which Montfanon expressed so naively, once acknowledged tohimself, increased rapidly in the honest man's heart. He had reason tosay from the beginning that the affair looked bad. A quarrel, togetherwith assault, or an attempt at assault, would not be easily set right. It required a diplomatic miracle. The slightest lack of self-possessionon the part of the seconds is equivalent to a catastrophe. As happensin such circumstances, events are hurried, and the pessimisticanticipations of the irritable Marquis were verified almost as soon ashe uttered them. Dorsenne and he had barely left the Palais Savorelliwhen Gorka arrived. The energy with which he repulsed the proposition ofan arrangement which would admit of excuses on his part, served prudentHafner, and the not less prudent Ardea, as a signal for withdrawal. Itwas too evident to the two men that no reconciliation would result froma collision of such a madman with a personage so difficult as the mostauthorized of Florent's proxies had shown himself to be. They then askedGorka to relieve them from their duty. They had too plausible an excusein Fanny's betrothal for Boleslas to refuse to release them. Thatretirement was a second catastrophe. In his impatience to find otherseconds who would be firm, Gorka hastened to the Cercle de la Chasse. Chance willed that he should meet with two of his comrades--a MarquisCibo, Roman, and a Prince Pietrapertoso, Neapolitan, who were assuredlythe best he could have chosen to hasten the simplest affair to its worstconsequences. Those two young men of the best Italian families, both very intelligent, very loyal and very good, belonged to that particular class which is tobe met with in Vienna, Madrid, St. Petersburg, as in Milan and in Rome, of foreign club-men hypnotized by Paris. And what a Paris! That of showyand noisy fetes, that which passes the morning in practising the sportsin fashion, the afternoons in racing, in frequenting fencing-schools, the evening at the theatre and the night at the gaming-table! That Pariswhich emigrates by turns, according to the season, to Monte Carlo forthe 'Tir aux Pigeons', to Deauville for the race week, to Aix-les-Bainsfor the baccarat season; that Paris which has its own customs, itsown language, its own history, even its own cosmopolitanism, for itexercises over certain minds, throughout Europe, so despotic a rule thatCibo, for example, and his friend Pietrapertoso never opened a Frenchjournal that was not Parisian. They sought the short paragraphs in which were related, in detail, the doings of the demi-monde, the last supper given by some well-knownviveur, the details of some large party in such and such a fashionableclub, the result of a shooting match, or of a fencing match betweencelebrated fencers! There were between them subjects of conversation ofwhich they never wearied; to know if spirituelle Gladys Harvey was moreelegant than Leona d'Astri, if Machault made "counters" as rapid asthose of General Garnier, if little Lautrec would adhere or would notadhere to the game he was playing. Imprisoned in Rome by the scantinessof their means, and also by the wishes, the one of his uncle, the otherof his grandfather, whose heirs they were, their entire year was summedup in the months which they spent at Nice in the winter, and in the tripthey took to Paris at the time of the Grand Prix for six weeks. Jealousone of the other, with the most comical rivalry, of the least occurrenceat the 'Cercle des Champs-Elysees' or of the Rue Royale in the EternalCity, they affected, in the presence of their colleagues of la chasse, the impassive manner of augurs when the telegraph brought them thenews of some Parisian scandal. That inoffensive mania which had madeof stout, ruddy Cibo, and of thin, pale Pietrapertoso two delightfulstudies for Dorsenne during his Roman winter, made of them terribleproxies in the service of Gorka's vengeance. With what joy and what gravity they accepted that mission all those whohave studied swordsmen will understand after this simple sketch, andwith what promptness they presented themselves to confer at nine o'clockin the morning with their client's adversary! In short, at half-pasttwelve the duel was arranged in its slightest detail. The energyemployed by Montfanon had only ended in somewhat tempering theconditions--four balls to be exchanged at twenty-five paces at theword of command. The duel was fixed for the following morning, in theinclosure which Cibo owned, with an inn adjoining, not very far distantfrom the classical tomb of Cecilia Metella. To obtain that distance andthe use of new weapons it required the prestige with which the Marquissuddenly clothed himself in the eyes of Gorka's seconds by pronouncingthe name, still legendary in the provinces and to the foreigner, of Gramont-Caderousse--'Sic transit gloria mundi'! On leaving thatrendezvous the excellent man really had tears in his eyes. "It is my fault, " he moaned, "it is my fault. With that Hafner we shouldhave obtained such a fine official plan by mixing in a little of ours. He offered it to us himself. .. . Brave Chapron! It is I who have broughthim into this dilemma!. .. I owe it to him not to abandon him, but tofollow him to the end. .. . Here I shall be assisting at a duel, at myage!. .. Did you see how those young snobs lowered their voices when Imentioned my encounter with poor Caderousse?. .. Fifty-two years and amonth, and not to know yet how to conduct one's self! Let us go to theRue Leopardi. I wish to ask pardon of our client, and to give him someadvice. We will take him to one of my old friends who has a gardennear the Villa Pamphili, very secluded. We will spend the rest of theafternoon practising. .. . Ah! Accursed choler! Yes, it would have been sosimple to accept the other's plan yesterday. By the exchange of two orthree words, I am sure it could have been arranged. " "Console yourself, Marquis, " replied Florent, when the unhappy noblemanhad described to him the deplorable result of his negotiations. "I likethat better. Monsieur Gorka needs correction. I have only one regret, that of not having given it to him more thoroughly. .. . Since I shallhave to fight a duel, I would at least have had my money's worth!" "And you have never used a pistol?" asked Montfanon. "Bah! I have hunted a great deal and I believe I can shoot. " "That is like night and day, " interrupted the Marquis. "Hold yourselfin readiness. At three o'clock come for me and I will give you a lesson. And remember there is a merciful God for the brave!" Although Florent deserved praise for the cheerfulness of which his replywas proof, the first moments which he spent alone after the departure ofhis two witnesses were very painful. That which Chapron experienced during those few moments was simply verynatural anxiety, the enervation caused by looking at the clock, andsaying: "In twenty-four hours the hand will be on this point of the dial. Andshall I still be living?". .. . He was, however, manly, and knew how tocontrol himself. He struggled against the feeling of weakness, and, while awaiting the time to rejoin his friends, he resolved to writehis last wishes. For years his intention had been to leave his entirefortune to his brother-in-law. He, therefore, made a rough draft ofhis will in that sense, with a pen at first rather unsteady, then quitefirm. His will completed, he had courage enough to write two letters, addressed the one to that brother-in-law, the other to his sister. Whenhe had finished his work the hands of the clock pointed to ten minutesof three. "Still seventeen hours and a half to wait, " said he, "but I think I haveconquered my nerves. A short walk, too, will benefit me. " So he decided to go on foot to the rendezvous named by Montfanon. Hecarefully locked the three envelopes in the drawer of his desk. He saw, on passing, that Lincoln was not in his studio. He asked the footmanif Madame Maitland was at home. The reply received was that she wasdressing, and that she had ordered her carriage for three o'clock. "Good, " said he, "neither of them will have the slightest suspicion; Iam saved. " How astonished he would have been could he, while walking leisurelytoward his destination, have returned in thought to the smoking-room hehad just left! He would have seen a woman glide noiselessly through theopen door, with the precaution of a malefactor! He would have seen herexamine, without disarranging, all the papers on the table. Shefrowned on seeing Dorsenne's and the Marquis's cards. She took from theblotting-case some loose leaves and held them in front of the glass, trying to read there the imprint left upon them. He would have seenfinally the woman draw from her pocket a bunch of keys. She inserted oneof them in the lock of the drawer which Florent had so carefully turned, and took from that drawer the three unsealed envelopes he had placedwithin it. And the woman who thus read, with a face contracted byanguish, the papers discovered in such a manner, thanks to a rusethe abominable indelicacy of which gave proof of shameful habits ofespionage, was his own sister, the Lydia whom he believed so gentle andso simple, to whom he had penned an adieu so tender in case he shouldbe killed--the Lydia who would have terrified him had he seen her thus, with passion distorting the face which was considered insignificant!She herself, the audacious spy, trembled as if she would fall, hereyes dilated, her bosom heaved, her teeth chattered, so greatly was sheunnerved by what she had discovered, by the terrible consequences whichshe had brought about. Had she not written the anonymous letters to Gorka, denouncing to himthe intrigue between Maitland and Madame Steno? Was it not she who hadchosen, the better to poison those terrible letters, phrases the mostlikely to strike the betrayed lover in the most sensitive part ofhis 'amour propre'? Was it not she who had hastened the return of thejealous man with the certain hope of drawing thus a tragical vengeanceupon the hated heads of her husband and the Venetian? That vengeance, indeed, had broken. But upon whom? Upon the only person Lydia loved inthe world, upon the brother whom she saw endangered through her fault;and that thought was to her so overwhelming that she sank into thearmchair in which Florent had been seated fifteen minutes before, repeating, with an accent of despair: "He is going to fight a duel. Heis going to fight instead of the other!" All the moral history of that obscure and violent soul was summed up inthe cry in which passionate anxiety for her brother was coupled with afierce hatred of her husband. That hatred was the result of a youthand a childhood without the story of which a duplicity so criminal ina being so young would be unintelligible. That youth and that childhoodhad presaged what Lydia would one day be. But who was there to train thenature in which the heredity of an oppressed race manifested itself, as has been already remarked, by the two most detestablecharacteristics--hypocrisy and perfidy? Who, moreover, observes inchildren the truth, as much neglected in practise as it is commonin theory, that the defects of the tenth year become vices in thethirtieth? When quite a child Lydia invented falsehoods as naturallyas her brother spoke the truth. .. . Whosoever observed her would haveperceived that those lies were all told to paint herself in a favorablelight. The germ, too, of another defect was springing up within her--ajealousy instinctive, irrational, almost wicked. She could not see a newplaything in Florent's hands without sulking immediately. She couldnot bear to see her brother embrace her father without casting herselfbetween them, nor could she see him amuse himself with other comrades. Had Napoleon Chapron been interested in the study of character as deeplyas he was in his cotton and his sugarcane, he would have perceived, withaffright, the early traces of a sinful nature. But, on that point, likehis son, he was one of those trustful men who did not judge when theyloved. Moreover, Lydia and Florent, to his wounded sensibility of ademi-pariah, formed the only pleasant corner in his life--were the freshand youthful comforters of his widowerhood and of his misanthropy. Hecherished them with the idolatry which all great workers entertain fortheir children, which is one of the most dangerous forms of paternaltenderness; Lydia's incipient vices were to the planter delightfulfancies! Did she lie? The excellent man exclaimed: What an imaginationshe has! Was she jealous? He would sigh, pressing to his broad breastthe tiny form: How sensitive she is!. .. The result of that selfishblindness--for to love children thus is to love them for one's selfand not for them--was that the girl, at the time of her entrance atRoehampton, was spoiled in the essential traits of her character. Butshe was so pretty, she owed to the singular mixture of three racesan originality of grace so seductive that only the keen glance ofa governess of genius could have discerned, beneath that exquisiteexterior, the already marked lines of her character. Such governessesare rare, still more so at convents than elsewhere. There was none atRoehampton when Lydia entered that pious haven which was to prove fatalto her, for a reason precisely contrary to that which transformedfor Florent the lawns of peaceful Beaumont into a radiant paradise offriendship. Among the pupils with whom Lydia was to be educated were four younggirls from Philadelphia, older than the newcomer by two years, and who, also, had left America for the first time. They brought with them theunconquerable aversion to negro blood and that wonderful keennessin discovering it, even in the most infinitesimal degree, whichdistinguishes real Yankees. Little Lydia Chapron, having been enteredas French, they at first hesitated in the face of a suspicion speedilyconverted into a certainty and that certainty into an aversion, whichthey could not conceal. They would not have been children had theynot been unfeeling. They, therefore, began to offer poor Lydia pettyaffronts. Convents and colleges resemble other society. There, too, unjust contempt is like that "ferret of the woods, " which runs from handto hand and which always returns to its point of setting out. All thescornful are themselves scorned by some one--a merited punishment, whichdoes not correct our pride any more than the other punishmentswhich abound in life cure our other faults. Lydia's persecutors werethemselves the objects of outrages practised by their comrades born inEngland, on account of certain peculiarities in their language and forthe nasal quality of their voices. The drama was limited, as wecan imagine, to a series of insignificant episodes and of which thesuperintendents only surprised a demi-echo. Children nurse passions as strong as ours, but so much interruptedby playfulness that it is impossible to measure their exact strength. Lydia's 'amour propre' was wounded in an incurable manner by thatrevelation of her own peculiarity. Certain incidents of her Americanlife recurred to her, which she comprehended more clearly. She recalledthe portrait of her grandmother, the complexion, the hands, the hairof her father, and she experienced that shame of her birth and ofher family much more common with children than our optimism imagines. Parents of humble origin give their sons a liberal education, exposethem to the demoralization which it brings with it in their positions, and what social hatreds date from the moment when the boy of twelveblushes in secret at the condition of his relatives! With Lydia, so instinctively jealous and untruthful, those first wounds inducedfalsehood and jealousy. The slightest superiority even, noticed inone of her companions, became to her a cause for suffering, and sheundertook to compensate by personal triumphs the difference of blood, which, once discovered, wounds a vain nature. In order to assure herselfthose triumphs she tried to win all the persons who approached her, mistresses and comrades, and she began to practise that continued comedyof attitude and of sentiment to which the fatal desire to please, soquickly leads-that charming and dangerous tendency which borders muchless on goodness than falseness. At eighteen, submitted to a sort ofcontinual cabotinage, Lydia was, beneath the most attractive exterior, a being profoundly, though unconsciously, wicked, capable of very littleaffection--she loved no one truly but her brother--open to the invasionof the passions of hatred which are the natural products of proud andfalse minds. It was one of these passions, the most fatal of all, whichmarriage was to develop within her--envy. That hideous vice, one of those which govern the world, has been solittle studied by moralists, as all too dishonorable for the heartof man, no doubt, that this statement may appear improbable. MadameMaitland, for years, had been envious of her husband, but envious as oneof the rivals of an artist would be, envious as one pretty woman isof another, as one banker is of his opponent, as a politician of hisadversary, with the fierce, implacable envy which writhes with physicalpain in the face of success, which is transported with a sensual joy inthe face of disaster. It is a great mistake to limit the ravages of thatguilty passion to the domain of professional emulation. When it is deep, it does not alone attack the qualities of the person, but the personhimself, and it was thus that Lydia envied Lincoln. Perhaps the analysisof this sentiment, very subtle in its ugliness, will explain to somea few of the antipathies against which they have struck in theirrelatives. For it is not only between husband and wife that theseunavowed envies are met, it is between lover and mistress, friend andfriend, brother and brother, sometimes, alas, father and son, mother anddaughter! Lydia had married Lincoln Maitland partly out of obedience toher brother's wishes, partly from vanity, because the young man was anAmerican, and because it was a sort of victory over the prejudices ofrace, of which she thought constantly, but of which she never spoke. It required only three months of married life to perceive that Maitlandcould not forgive himself for that marriage. Although he affected toscorn his compatriots, and although at heart he did not share any of theviews of the country in which he had not set foot since his fifth year, he could not hear remarks made in New York upon that marriage without apang. He disliked Lydia for the humiliation, and she felt it. The birthof a child would no doubt have modified that feeling, and, if it wouldnot have removed it, would at least have softened the embittered heartof the young wife. But no child was born to them. They had not returnedfrom their wedding tour, upon which Florent accompanied them, beforetheir lives rolled along in that silence which forms the base of allthose households in which husband and wife, according to a simple andgrand expression of the people, do not live heart against heart. After the journey through Spain, which should have been one continuedenchantment, the wife became jealous of the evident preference whichFlorent showed for Maitland. For the first time she perceived the holdwhich that impassioned friendship had taken upon her brother's heart. He loved her, too, but with a secondary love. The comparison annoyed herdaily, hourly, and it did not fail to become a real wound. Returned toParis, where they spent almost three years, that wound was increased bythe sole fact that the puissant individuality of the painter speedilyrelegated to the shade the individuality of his wife, simply, almostmechanically, like a large tree which pushes a smaller one into thebackground. The composite society of artists, amateurs, and writers whovisited Lincoln came there only for him. The house they had rented wasrented only for him. The journeys they made were for him. In short, Lydia was borne away, like Florent, in the orbit of the most despoticforce in the world--that of a celebrated talent. An entire book would berequired to paint in their daily truth the continued humiliations whichbrought the young wife to detest that talent and that celebrity with asmuch ardor as Florent worshipped them. She remained, however, an honestwoman, in the sense in which the word is construed by the world, whichsums up woman's entire dishonor in errors of love. But within Lydia's breast grew a rooted aversion toward Lincoln. Shedetested him for the pure blood which made of that large, fair, androbust man so admirable a type of Anglo-Saxon beauty, by the side ofher, so thin, so insignificant indeed, in spite of the grace of herpretty, dark face. She detested him for his taste, for the originalelegance with which he understood how to adorn the places in which helived, while she maintained within her a barbarous lack of taste forthe least arrangement of materials and of colors. When she was forcedto acknowledge progress in the painter, bitter hatred entered her heart. When he lamented over his work, and when she saw him a prey to thedolorous anxiety of an artist who doubts himself, she experienced aprofound joy, marred only by the evident sadness into which Lincoln'sstruggles plunged Florent. Never had she met the eyes of Chapron fixedupon Maitland with that look of a faithful dog which rejoices in the joyof its master, or which suffers in his sadness, without enduring, likeAlba Steno, the sensation of a "needle in the heart. " The idolatrous worship of her brother for the painter caused her tosuffer still more as she comprehended, with the infallible perspicacityof antipathy, the immense dupery. She read the very depths of the soulsof the two old comrades of Beaumont. She knew that in that friendship, as is almost always the case, one alone gave all to receive in exchangeonly the most brutal recognition, that with which a huntsman or a mastergratifies a faithful dog! As for enlightening Florent with regard toLincoln's character, she had vainly tried to do so by those fine andperfidious insinuations in which women excel. She only recognized herimpotence, and myriads of hateful impressions were thus accumulated inher heart, to be summed up in one of those frenzies of taciturn rancorwhich bursts on the first opportunity with terrifying energy. Crimeitself has its laws of development. Between the pretty little girl whowept on seeing a new toy in her brother's hand and the Lydia Maitland, forcer of locks, author of anonymous letters, driven by the thirst forvengeance, even to villainy, no dramatic revolution of character hadtaken place. The logical succession of days had sufficed. The occasion to gratify that deep and mortal longing to touch Lincolnon some point truly sensitive, how often Lydia had sought it in vain, before Madame Steno obtained an ascendancy over the painter. She hadbeen reduced by it to those meannesses of feminine animosity to manage, as if accidentally, that her husband might read all the disagreeablearticles written about his paintings, innocently to praise before himthe rivals who had given him offense, to repeat to him with an airof embarrassment the slightest criticisms pronounced on one of hisexhibits--all the unpleasantnesses which had the result of irritatingFlorent, above all, for Maitland was one of those artists too wellsatisfied with the results of his own work for the opinion of othersto annoy him very much. On the other hand, before the passion for thedogaresse had possessed him, he had never loved. Many painters are thus, satisfying with magnificent models an impetuosity of temperament whichdoes not mount from the senses to the heart. Accustomed to regard thehuman form from a certain point, they find in beauty, which wouldappear to us simply animal, principles of plastic emotion which attimes suffice for their amorous requirements. They are only more deeplytouched by it, when to that rather coarse intoxication is joined, inthe woman who inspires them, the refined graces of mind, the delicacy ofelegance and the subtleties of sentiment. Such was Madame Steno, who at once inspired the painter with a passionas complete as a first love. It was really such. The Countess, who waspossessed of the penetration of voluptuousness, was not mistaken there. Lydia, who was possessed of the penetration of hatred, was not mistakeneither. She knew from the first day how matters stood in the beginning, because she was as observing as she was dissimulating; then, thanksto means less hypothetic, she had always had the habit of making thoseabominable inquiries which are natural, we venture to avow, to ninewomen out of ten! And how many men are women, too, on this point, assaid the fabulist. At school Lydia was one of those who ascended to thedormitory, or who reentered the study to rummage in the cupboards andopen trunks of her companions. When mature, never had a sealed letterpassed through her hands without her having ingeniously managed to readthrough the envelope, or at least to guess from the postmark, the seal, the handwriting of the address, who was the author of it. The instinctof curiosity was so strong that she could not refrain, at a telegraphoffice, from glancing over the shoulders of the persons before her, tolearn the contents of their despatches. She never had her hair dressedor made her toilette without minutely questioning her maid as to thegoings-on in the pantry and the antechamber. It was through a story ofthat kind that she learned the altercation between Florent and Gorka inthe vestibule, which proves, between parentheses, that these espionagesby the aid of servants are often efficacious. But they reveal a nativebaseness, which will not recoil before any piece of villainy. When Madame Maitland suspected the liaison of Madame Steno and herhusband, she no more hesitated to open the latter's secretary than shelater hesitated to open the desk of her brother. The correspondencewhich she read in that way was of a nature which exasperated herdesire for vengeance almost to frenzy. For not only did she acquire theevidence of a happiness shared by them which humiliated in her the womanbarren in all senses of the word, a stranger to voluptuousness as wellas to maternity, but she gathered from it numerous proofs that theCountess cherished, with regard to her, a scorn of race as absoluteas if Venice had been a city of the United States. .. . That part of theAdriatic abounds in prejudices of blood, as do all countries which serveas confluents for every nation. It is sufficient to convince one's selfof it, to have heard a Venetian treat of the Slavs as 'Cziavoni', andthe Levantines as 'Gregugni'. Madame Steno, in those letters she had written with all the familiarityand all the liberty of passion, never called Lydia anything but LaMorettina, and by a very strange illogicalness never was the name of thebrother of La Morettina mentioned without a formula of friendship. As the mistress treated Florent in that manner, it must be that sheapprehended no hostility on the part of her lover's brother-in-law. Lydia understood it only too well, as well as the fresh proof ofFlorent's sentiments for Lincoln. Once more he gave precedence to thefriend over the sister, and on what an occasion! The most secret woundsin her inmost being bled as she read. The success of Alba's portrait, which promised to be a masterpiece, ended by precipitating her into afierce and abominable action. She resolved to denounce Madame Steno'snew love to the betrayed lover, and she wrote the twelve letters, wiselycalculated and graduated, which had indeed determined Gorka's return. His return had even been delayed too long to suit the relative of Iago, who had decided to aim at Madame Steno through Alba by a still morecriminal denunciation. Lydia was in that state of exasperation in whichthe vilest weapons seem the best, and she included innocent Alba in herhatred for Maitland, on account of the portrait, a turn of sentimentwhich will show that it was envy by which that soul was poisoned aboveall. Ah, what bitter delight the simultaneous success of that doubleinfamy had procured for her! What savage joy, mingled with bitternessand ecstacy, had been hers the day before, on witnessing the nervousnessof poor Alba and the suppressed fury of Boleslas! In her mind she had seen Maitland provoked by the rival whom she knew tobe as adroit with the sword as with the pistol. She would not have beenthe great-grandchild of a slave of Louisiana, if she had not combinedwith the natural energy of her hatreds a considerable amount ofsuperstition. A fortune-teller had once foretold, from the lines in herpalm, that she would cause the violent death of some person. "It will behe, " she had thought, glancing at her husband with a horrible tremorof hope. .. . And now she had the proof, the indisputable proof, that herplot for vengeance was to terminate in the danger of another. Of whatother? The letter and will made by Florent disclosed to her the threat of afatal duel suspended over the head which was the dearest to her. So shehad driven to a tragical encounter the only being whom she loved. .. . Thedisappointment of the heart in which palpitated the wild energies of abestial atavism was so sudden, so acute, so dolorous, that she utteredan inarticulate cry, leaning upon her brother's desk, and, in the faceof those sheets of paper which had revealed so much, she repeated: "He is going to fight a duel! He!. .. And I am the cause!". .. . Then, returning the letters and the will to the drawer, she closed it androse, saying aloud: "No. It shall not be. I will prevent it, if I have to cast myselfbetween them. I do not wish it! I do not wish it!" It was easy to utter such words. But the execution of them was lesseasy. Lydia knew it, for she had no sooner uttered that vow than shewrung her hands in despair--those weak hands which Madame Steno comparedin one of her letters to the paws of a monkey, the fingers were sosupple and so long--and she uttered this despairing cry: "But how?". .. . Which so many criminals have uttered before the issue, unexpected andfatal to them, of their shrewdest calculations. The poet has sung it inthe words which relate the story of all our faults, great and small: "The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us. " It is necessary that the belief in the equity of an incomprehensiblejudge be well grounded in us, for the strongest minds are struck by asinister apprehension when they have to brave the chance of a misfortuneabsolutely merited. The remembrance of the soothsayer's predictionsuddenly occurred to Lydia. She uttered another cry, rubbing her handslike a somnambulist. She saw her brother's blood flowing. .. . No, the duel should not take place! But how to prevent it? How-how? sherepeated. Florent was not at home. She could, therefore, not implorehim. If he should return, would there still be time? Lincoln was not athome. Where was he? Perhaps at a rendezvous with Madame Steno. The image of that handsome idol of love clasped in the painter's arms, plunged in the abyss of intoxication which her ardent letters described, was presented to the mind of the jealous wife. What irony to perceivethus those two lovers, whom she had wished to strike, with the ecstacyof bliss in their eyes! Lydia would have liked to tear out their eyes, his as well as hers, and to trample them beneath her heel. A fresh floodof hatred filled her heart. God! how she hated them, and with whata powerless hatred! But her time would come; another need pressedsorely--to prevent the meeting of the following day, to save herbrother. To whom should she turn, however? To Dorsenne? To Montfanon?To Baron Hafner? To Peppino Ardea? She thought by turns of the fourpersonages whose almost simultaneous visits had caused her to believethat they were the seconds of the two champions. She rejected them, one after the other, comprehending that none of them possessed enoughauthority to arrange the affair. Her thoughts finally reverted toFlorent's adversary, to Boleslas Gorka, whose wife was her friend andwhom she had always found so courteous. What if she should ask him tospare her brother? It was not Florent against whom the discarded loverbore a grudge. Would he not be touched by her tears? Would he not tellher what had led to the quarrel and what she should ask of her brotherthat the quarrel might be conciliated? Could she not obtain from himthe promise to discharge his weapon in the air, if the duel was withpistols, or, if it was with swords, simply to disarm his enemy? Like nearly all persons unversed in the art, she believed in infalliblefencers, in marksmen who never missed their aim, and she had also ideasprofoundly, absolutely inexact on the relations of one man with anotherin the matter of an insult. But how can women admit that inflexiblerigor in certain cases, which forms the foundation of manly relations, when they themselves allow of a similar rigor neither in their argumentswith men, nor in their discussions among themselves? Accustomed alwaysto appeal from convention to instinct and from reason to sentiment, theyare, in the face of certain laws, be they those of justice or of honor, in a state of incomprehension worse than ignorance. A duel, for example, appears to them like an arbitrary drama, which the wish of one of thoseconcerned can change at his fancy. Ninety-nine women out of a hundredwould think like Lydia Maitland of hastening to the adversary of the manthey love, to demand, to beg for his life. Let us add, however, that themajority would not carry out that thought. They would confinethemselves to sewing in the vest of their beloved some blessed medal, in recommending him to the Providence, which, for them, is still thefavoritism of heaven. Lydia felt that if ever Florent should learn ofher step with regard to Gorka, he would be very indignant. But who wouldtell him? She was agitated by one of those fevers of fear and of remorsewhich are too acute not to act, cost what it might. Her carriage wasannounced, and she entered it, giving the address of the PalazzettoDoria. In what terms should she approach the man to whom she was aboutto pay that audacious and absurd visit? Ah, what mattered it? Thecircumstances would inspire her. Her desire to cut short the duel was sostrong that she did not doubt of success. She was greatly disappointed when the footman at the palace toldher that the Count had gone out, while at the same moment a voiceinterrupted him with a gay laugh. It was Countess Maud Gorka, who, returning from her walk with her little boy, recognized Lydia's coup, and who said to her: "What a lucky idea I had of returning a little sooner. I see you wereafraid of a storm, as you drove out in a closed carriage. Will you comeupstairs a moment?" And, perceiving that the young woman, whose hand shehad taken, was trembling: "What ails you? I should think you were ill!You do not feel well? My God, what ails her! She is ill, Luc, " sheadded, turning to her son; "run to my room and bring me the large bottleof English salts; Rose knows which one. Go, go quickly. " "It is nothing, " replied Lydia, who had indeed closed her eyes as if onthe point of swooning. "See, I am better already. I think I will returnhome; it will be wiser. " "I shall not leave you, " said Maud, seating herself, too, in thecarriage; and, as they handed her the bottle of salts, she made MadameMaitland inhale it, talking to her the while as to a sick child: "Poorlittle thing!" "How her cheeks burn! And you pay visits in this state. It is veryventuresome! Rue Leopardi, " she called to the coachman, "quickly. " The carriage rolled away, and Madame Gorka continued to press the tinyhands of Lydia, to whom she gave the tender name, so ironical under thecircumstances, of "Poor little one!" Maud was one of those women likewhom England produces many, for the honor of that healthy and robustBritish civilization, who are at once all energy and all goodness. Aslarge and stout as Lydia was slender, she would rather have borne her toher bed in her vigorous arms than to have abandoned her in the troubledstate in which she had surprised her. Not less practical and, as hercompatriots say, as matter-of-fact as she was charitable, she began toquestion her friend on the symptoms which had preceded that attack, whenwith astonishment she saw that altered face contract, tears gushing fromthe closed eyes, and the fragile form convulsed by sobs. Lydia hada nervous attack caused by anxiety, by the fresh disappointment ofBoleslas's absence from home, and no doubt, too, by the gentleness withwhich Maud addressed her, and tearing her handkerchief with her whiteteeth, she moaned: "No, I am not ill. But it is that thought which I can not bear. No, Ican not. Ah, it is maddening!" And turning toward her companion, she inher turn pressed her hands, saying: "But you know nothing! You suspectnothing! It is that which maddens me, when I see you tranquil, calm, happy, as if the minutes were not valuable, every one, to-day, to you aswell as to me. For if one is my brother, the other is your husband; andyou love him. You must love him, to have pardoned him for what you havepardoned him. " She had spoken in a sort of delirium, brought about by her extremenervous excitement, and she had uttered, she, usually so dissembling, her very deepest thought. She did not think she was giving Madame Gorkaany information by that allusion, so direct, to the liaison of Boleslaswith Madame Steno. She was persuaded, as was entire Rome, that Maud knewof her husband's infidelities, and that she tolerated them by one ofthose heroic sacrifices which maternity justifies. How many women haveimmolated thus their wifely pride to maintain the domestic relationwhich the father shall at least not desert officially! All Rome wasmistaken, and Lydia Maitland was to have an unexpected proof. Not asuspicion that such an intrigue could unite her husband with the motherof her best friend had ever entered the thoughts of Boleslas's wife. But to account for that, it is necessary to admit, as well, andto comprehend the depth of innocence of which, notwithstanding hertwenty-six years, the beautiful and healthy Englishwoman, with her eyesso clear, so frank, was possessed. She was one of those persons who command the respect of the boldest ofmen, and before whom the most dissolute women exercised care. She mighthave seen the freedom of Madame Steno without being disillusioned. Shehad only a liking for acquaintances and positive conversation. She wasvery intellectual, but without any desire to study character. Dorsenne said of her, with more justness than he thought: "MadameBoleslas Gorka is married to a man who has never been presented to her, "meaning by that, that first of all she had no idea of her husband'scharacter, and then of the treason of which she was the victim. However, the novelist was not altogether right. Boleslas's infidelity was of toolong standing for the woman passionately, religiously loyal, who was hiswife, not to have suffered by it. But there was an abyss between suchsufferings and the intuition of a determined fact such as that whichLydia had just mentioned, and such a suspicion was so far from Maud'sthoughts that her companion's words only aroused in her astonishmentat the mysterious danger of which Lydia's troubles was a proof moreeloquent still than her words. "Your brother? My husband?" she said. "I do not understand you. " "Naturally, " replied Lydia, "he has hidden all from you, as Florenthid all from me. Well! They are going to fight a duel, and to-morrowmorning. .. . Do not tremble, in your turn, " she continued, twining herarms around Maud Gorka. "We shall be two to prevent the terrible affair, and we shall prevent it. " "A duel? To-morrow morning?" repeated Maud, in affright. "Boleslasfights to-morrow with your brother? No, it is impossible. Who told youso? How do you know it?" "I read the proof of it with my eyes, " replied Lydia. "I read Florent'swill. I read the letter which he prepared for Maitland and for me incase of accident. .. . " "Should I be in the state in which you see me if it were not true?" "Oh, I believe you!" cried Maud, pressing her hands to her eyelids, asif to shut out a horrible sight. "But where can they be seen? Boleslashas been here scarcely any of the time for two days. What is therebetween them? What have they said to one another? One does not riskone's life for nothing when he has, like Boleslas, a wife and a son. Answer me, I conjure you. Tell me all. I desire to know all. What isthere at the bottom of this duel?" "What could there be but a woman?" interrupted Lydia, who put intothe two last words more savage scorn than if she had publicly spit inCaterina Steno's face. But that fresh access of anger fell before thesurprise caused her by Madame Gorka's reply. "What woman? I understand you still less than I did just now. " "When we are at home I will speak, ". .. . Replied Lydia, after havinglooked at Maud with a surprised glance, which was in itself the mostterrible reply. The two women were silent. It was Maud who now requiredthe sympathy of friendship, so greatly had the words uttered by Lydiastartled her. The companion whose arm rested upon hers in that carriage, and who had inspired her with such pity fifteen minutes before, nowrendered her fearful. She seemed to be seated by the side of anotherperson. In the creature whose thin nostrils were dilated with passion, whose mouth was distorted with bitterness, whose eyes sparkled withanger, she no longer recognized little Madame Maitland, so taciturn, soreserved that she was looked upon as insignificant. What had that voice, usually so musical, told her; that voice so suddenly become harsh, and which had already revealed to her the great danger suspended overBoleslas? To what woman had that voice alluded, and what meant thatsudden reticence? Lydia was fully aware of the grief into which she would plunge Maudwithout the slightest premeditation. For a moment she thought it almosta crime to say more to a woman thus deluded. But at the same time shesaw in the revelation two certain results. In undeceiving Madame Gorkashe made a mortal enemy for Madame Steno, and, on the other hand, neverwould the woman so deeply in love with her husband allow him to fightfor a former mistress. So, when they both entered the small salon ofthe Moorish mansion, Lydia's resolution was taken. She was determined toconceal nothing of what she knew from unhappy Maud, who asked her, witha beating heart, and in a voice choked by emotion: "Now, will you explain to me what you want to say?" "Question me, " replied the other; "I will answer you. I have gone toofar to draw back. " "You claimed that a woman was the cause of the duel between your brotherand my husband?" "I am sure of it, " replied Lydia. "What is that woman's name?" "Madame Steno. " "Madame Steno?" repeated Maud. "Catherine Steno is the cause of thatduel? How?" "Because she is my husband's mistress, " replied Lydia, brutally;"because she has been your husband's, because Gorka came here, madwith jealousy, to provoke Lincoln, and because he met my brother, whoprevented him from entering. .. . They quarrelled, I know not in whatmanner. But I know the cause of the duel. .. . Am I right, yes or no, intelling you they are to fight about that woman?" "My husband's mistress?" cried Maud. "You say Madame Steno has been myhusband's mistress? It is not true. You lie! You lie! You lie! I do notbelieve it. " "You do not believe me?" said Lydia, shrugging her shoulders. "As if Ihad the least interest in deceiving you; as if one would lie when thelife of the only being one loves in the world is in the balance! ForI have only my brother, and perhaps to-morrow I shall no longer havehim. .. . But you shall believe me. I desire that we both hate that woman, that we both be avenged upon her, as we both do not wish the duel totake place--the duel of which, I repeat, she is the cause, the solecause. .. . You do not believe me? Do you know what caused your husband toreturn? You did not expect him; confess! It was I--I, do you hear--whowrote him what Steno and Lincoln were doing; day after day I wrote abouttheir love, their meetings, their bliss. Ah, I was sure it would not bein vain, and he returned. Is that a proof?" "You did not do that?" cried Madame Gorka, recoiling with horror. "Itwas infamous. " "Yes, I did it, " replied Lydia, with savage pride, "and why not? It wasmy right when she took my husband from me. You have only to return andto look in the place where Gorka keeps his letters. You will certainlyfind those I wrote, and others, I assure you, from that woman. For shehas a mania for letter-writing. .. . Do you believe me now, or will yourepeat that I have lied?" "Never, " returned Maud, with sorrowful indignation upon her lovely, loyal face, "no, never will I descend to such baseness. " "Well, I will descend for you, " said Lydia. "What you do not dare todo, I will dare, and you will ask me to aid you in being avenged. Come, "and, seizing the hand of her stupefied companion, she drew her intoLincoln's studio, at that moment unoccupied. She approached one of thoseSpanish desks, called baygenos, and she touched two small panels, whichdisclosed, on opening, a secret drawer, in which were a packageof letters, which she seized. Maud Gorka watched her with the sameterrified horror with which she would have seen some one killed androbbed. That honorable soul revolted at the scene in which her merepresence made of her an accomplice. But at the same time she was a prey, as had been her husband several days before, to that maddening appetiteto know the truth, which becomes, in certain forms of doubt, a physicalneed, as imperious as hunger and thirst, and she listened to Florent'ssister, who continued: "Will it be a proof when you have seen the affair written in her ownhand? Yes, " she continued, with cruel irony, "she loves correspondence, our fortunate rival. Justice must be rendered her that she may make nomore avowals. She writes as she feels. It seems that the successor wasjealous of his predecessor. .. . See, is this a proof this time?". .. . And, after having glanced at the first letters as a person familiar withthem, she handed one of those papers to Maud, who had not the courage toavert her eyes. What she saw written upon that sheet drew from her a cryof anguish. She had, however, only read ten lines, which proved howmuch mistaken psychological Dorsenne was in thinking that Maitlandwas ignorant of the former relations between his mistress and Gorka. Countess Steno's grandeur, that which made a courageous woman almost aheroine in her passions, was an absolute sincerity and disgust for theusual pettiness of flirtations. She would have disdained to deny to anew lover the knowledge of her past, and the semiavowals, so common towomen, would have seemed to her a cowardice still worse. She had notessayed to hide from Maitland what connection she had broken off forhim, and it was upon one of those phrases, in which she spoke of itopenly, that Madame Gorka's eyes fell: "You will be pleased with me, " she wrote, "and I shall no longer see inyour dear blue eyes which I kiss, as I love them, that gleam of mistrustwhich troubles me. I have stopped the correspondence with Gorka. If yourequire it, I will even break with Maud, notwithstanding the reason youknow of and which will render it difficult for me. But how can you bejealous yet?. .. Is not my frankness with regard to that liaison thesurest guarantee that it is ended? Come, do not be jealous. Listen towhat I know so well, that I felt I loved, and that my life began onlyon the day when you took me in your arms. The woman you have awakened inme, no one has known--" "She writes well, does she not?" said Lydia, with a gleam of savagetriumph in her eyes. "Do you believe me, now?. .. Do you see that we havethe same interest to-day, a common affront to avenge? And we will avengeit. .. . Do you understand that you can not allow your husband to fight aduel with my brother? You owe that to me who have given you this weaponby which you hold him. .. . Threaten him with a divorce. Fortune is withyou. The law will give you your child. I repeat, you hold him firmly. You will prevent the duel, will you not?" "Ah! What do you think it matters to me now if they fight or not?" saidMaud. "From the moment he deceived me was I not widowed? Do not approachme, " she added, looking at Lydia with wild eyes, while a shudder ofrepulsion shook her entire frame. .. . "Do not speak to me. .. . I have asmuch horror of you as of him. .. . Let me go, let me leave here. .. . Evento feel myself in the same room with you fills me with horror. .. . Ah, what disgrace!" She retreated to the door, fixing upon her informant a gaze which theother sustained, notwithstanding the scorn in it, with the gloomy prideof defiance. She went out repeating: "Ah, what disgrace!" without Lydiahaving addressed her, so greatly had surprise at the unexpected resultof all her attempts paralyzed her. But the formidable creature lost notime in regret and repentance. She paused a few moments to think. Then, crushing in her nervous hand the letter she had shown Maud, at the riskof being discovered by her husband later, she said aloud: "Coward! Lord, what a coward she is! She loves. She will pardon. Willthere, then, be no one to aid me? No one to smite them in their insolenthappiness. " After meditating awhile, her face still more contracted, she placed the letter in the drawer, which she closed again, and halfan hour later she summoned a commissionaire, to whom she intrusted aletter, with the order to deliver it immediately, and that letter wasaddressed to the inspector of police of the district. She informed himof the intended duel, giving him the names of the two adversaries and ofthe four seconds. If she had not been afraid of her brother, she wouldeven that time have signed her name. "I should have gone to work that way at first, " said she to herself, when the door of the small salon closed behind the messenger to whomshe had given her order personally. "The police know how to preventthem from fighting, even if I do not succeed with Florent. .. . As forhim?". .. . And she looked at a portrait of Maitland upon the desk atwhich she had just been writing. "Were I to tell him what is takingplace. .. . No, I will ask nothing of him. .. . I hate him too much. ". .. . And she concluded with a fierce smile, which disclosed her teeth at thecorners of her mouth: "It is all the same. It is necessary that Maud Gorka work with meagainst her. There is some one whom she will not pardon, and thatis. .. . Madame Steno. " And, in spite of her uneasiness, the wicked womantrembled with delight at the thought of her work. CHAPTER VIII. ON THE GROUND When Maud Gorka left the house on the Rue Leopardi she walked on atfirst rapidly, blindly, without seeing, without hearing anything, likea wounded animal which runs through the thicket to escape danger, toescape its wounds, to escape itself. It was a little more than half-pastthree o'clock when the unhappy woman hastened from the studio, unable tobear near her the presence of Lydia Maitland, of that sinister workerof vengeance who had so cruelly revealed to her, with such indisputableproofs, the atrocious affair, the long, the infamous, the inexpiabletreason. It was almost six o'clock before Maud Gorka really regainedconsciousness. A very common occurrence aroused her from thesomnambulism of suffering in which she had wandered for two hours. Thestorm which had threatened since noon at length broke. Maud, who hadscarcely heeded the first large drops, was forced to seek shelter whenthe clouds suddenly burst, and she took refuge at the right extremityof the colonnade of St. Peter's. How had she gone that far? She did notknow herself precisely. She remembered vaguely that she had wanderedthrough a labyrinth of small streets, had crossed the Tiber--no doubt bythe Garibaldi bridge--had passed through a large garden--doubtless theJanicule, since she had walked along a portion of the ramparts. Shehad left the city by the Porte de Saint-Pancrace, to follow by that ofCavallegieri the sinuous line of the Urban walls. That corner of Rome, with a view of the pines of the Villa Pamfili onone side, and on the other the back part of the Vatican, serves as apromenade during the winter for the few cardinals who go in search ofthe afternoon sun, certain there of meeting only a few strangers. In themonth of May it is a desert, scorched by the sun, which glows uponthe brick, discolored by two centuries of that implacable heat whichcaresses the scales of the green and gray lizards about to crawl betweenthe bees of Pope Urbain VIII's escutcheon of the Barberini family. Madame Gorka's instinct had at least served her in leading her upon aroute on which she met no one. Now the sense of reality returned. Sherecognized the objects around her, and that framework, so familiar toher piety of fervent Catholicism, the enormous square, the obelisk ofSixte-Quint in the centre, the fountains, the circular portico crownedwith bishops and martyrs, the palace of the Vatican at the corner, andyonder the facade of the large papal cathedral, with the Saviour and theapostles erect upon the august pediment. On any other occasion in life the pious young woman would have seen inthe chance which led her thither, almost unconsciously, an influencefrom above, an invitation to enter the church, there to ask the strengthto suffer of the God who said: "Let him who wishes follow me, let himrenounce all, let him take up his cross and follow me!" But she waspassing through that first bitter paroxysm of grief in which it isimpossible to pray, so greatly does the revolt of nature cry out withinus. Later, we may recognize the hand of Providence in the trial imposedupon us. We see at first only the terrible injustice of fate, and wetremble in the deepest recesses of our souls with rebellion at the blowfrom which we bleed. That which rendered the rebellion more invincibleand more fierce in Maud, was the suddenness of the mortal blow. Daily some pure, honest woman, like her, acquires the proof of thetreason of a husband whom she has not ceased to love. Ordinarily, the indisputable proof is preceded by a long period of suspicion. Thefaithless one neglects his hearth. A change takes place in his dailyhabits. Various hints reveal to the outraged wife the trace of a rival, which woman's jealousy distinguishes with a scent as certain as that ofa dog which finds a stranger in the house. And, finally, although thereis in the transition from doubt to certainty a laceration of the heart, it is at least the laceration of a heart prepared. That preparation, that adaptation, so to speak, of her soul to the truth, Maud had beendeprived of. The care taken by Madame Steno to strengthen the friendshipbetween her and Alba had suppressed the slightest signs. Boleslas hadno need to change his domestic life in order to see his mistress athis convenience and in an intimacy entertained, provoked, by his wifeherself. The wife, too, had been totally, absolutely deceived. Shehad assisted in her husband's adultery with one of those illusions socomplete that it seemed improbable to the indifferent and to strangers. The awakening from such illusions is the most terrible. That man whomsociety considered a complaisant husband, that woman who seemed soindulgent a wife, suddenly find that they have committed a murder ora suicide, to the great astonishment of the world which, even then, hesitates to recognize in that access of folly the proof, the blow, moreformidable, more instantaneous in its ravages, than those of love-suddendisillusion. When the disaster is not interrupted by acts of violence, it causes an irreparable destruction of the youthfulness of the soul, itis the idea instilled in us forever that all can betray, since we havebeen betrayed in that manner. It is for years, for life, sometimes, thatpowerlessness to be affected, to hope, to believe, which caused MaudGorka to remain, on that afternoon, leaning against the pedestal of acolumn, watching the rain fall, instead of ascending to the Basilica, where the confessional offers pardon for all sins and the remedy for allsorrows. Alas! It was consolation simply to kneel there, and the poorwoman was only in the first stage of Calvary. She watched the rain fall, and she found a savage comfort in theformidable character of the storm, which seemed like a cataclysm ofnature, to such degree did the flash of the lightning and the roar ofthe thunder mingle with the echoes of the vast palace beneath the lashof the wind. Forms began to take shape in her mind, after the whirlwindof blind suffering in which she felt herself borne away after the firstglance cast upon that fatal letter. Each word rose before her eyes, sofeverish that she closed them with pain. The last two years of her life, those which had bound her to Countess Steno, returned to her thoughts, illuminated by a brilliance which drew from her constantly these words, uttered with a moan: How could he? She saw Venice and their sojourn inthe villa to which Boleslas had conducted her after the death of theirlittle girl, in order that there, in the restful atmosphere of thelagoon, she might overcome the keen paroxysm of pain. How very kind and delicate Madame Steno had been at that time; at leasthow kind she had seemed, and how delicate likewise, comprehending hergrief and sympathizing with it. .. . Their superficial relations hadgradually ripened into friendship. Then, no doubt, the treason hadbegun. The purloiner of love had introduced herself under cover of thepity in which Maud had believed. Seeing the Countess so generous, shehad treated as calumny the slander of the world relative to a personcapable of such touching kindness of heart. And it was at that momentthat the false woman took Boleslas from her! A thousand details recurredto her which at the time she had not understood; the sails of the twolovers in the gondola, which she had not even thought of suspecting; avisit which Boleslas had made to Piove and from which he only returnedthe following day, giving as a pretext a missed train; words utteredaside on the balcony of the Palais Steno at night, while she talked withAlba. Yes, it was at Venice that their adultery began, before her whohad divined nothing, her whose heart was filled with inconsolableregret for her lost darling! Ah, how could he? she moaned again, and thevisions multiplied. In her mind were then opened all the windows which Gorka's perfidityand the Countess's as well, had sealed with such care. She saw againthe months which followed their return to Rome, and that mode of lifeso convenient for both. How often had she walked out with Alba, thusfreeing the mother and the husband from the only surveillance annoyingto them. What did the lovers do during those hours? How many times onreturning to the Palazzetto Doria had she found Catherine Steno in thelibrary, seated on the divan beside Boleslas, and she had not mistrustedthat the woman had come, during her absence, to embrace that man, totalk to him of love, to give herself to him, without doubt, with thecharm of villainy and of danger! She remembered the episode of theirmeeting at Bayreuth the previous summer, when she went to England alonewith her son, and when her husband undertook to conduct Alba and theCountess from Rome to Bavaria. They had all met at Nuremberg. Theapartments of the hotel in which the meeting took place became againvery vivid in Maud's memory, with Madame Steno's bedroom adjoining thatof Boleslas's. The vision of their caresses, enjoyed in the liberty of the night, whileinnocent Alba slept near by, and when she rolled away in a carriage withlittle Luc, drew from her this cry once more: "Ah, how could he!". .. . And immediately that vision awoke in her the remembrance of herhusband's recent return. She saw him traversing Europe on the receiptof an anonymous letter, to reach that woman's side twenty-four hourssooner. What a proof of passion was the frenzy which had not allowed himany longer to bear doubt and absence!. .. Did he love the mistress whodid not even love him, since she had deceived him with Maitland? And hewas going to fight a duel on her account!. .. Jealousy, at thatmoment, wrung the wife's heart with a pang still stronger than that ofindignation. She, the strong Englishwoman, so large, so robust, almostmasculine in form, mentally compared herself with the supple Italianwith her form so round, with her gestures so graceful, her hands sodelicate, her feet so dainty; compared herself with the creature ofdesire, whose every movement implied a secret wave of passion, and sheceased her cry--"Ah, how could he?"--at once. She had a clear knowledgeof the power of her rival. It is indeed a supreme agony for an honorable woman, who loves, tofeel herself thus degraded by the mere thought of the intoxicationher husband has tasted in arms more beautiful, more caressing, moreentwining than hers. It was, too, a signal for the return of will to thetortured but proud soul. Disgust possessed her, so violent, so complete, for the atmosphere of falsehood and of sensuality in which Boleslas hadlived two years, that she drew herself up, becoming again strong andimplacable. Braving the storm, she turned in the direction of herhome, with this resolution as firmly rooted in her mind as if she haddeliberated for months and months. "I will not remain with that man another day. Tomorrow I will leave forEngland with my son. " How many, in a similar situation, have uttered such vows, to abjure themwhen they find themselves face to face with the man who has betrayedthem, and whom they love. Maud was not of that order. Certainly sheloved dearly the seductive Boleslas, wedded against her parents' willthe perfidious one for whom she had sacrificed all, living far from hernative land and her family for years, because it pleased him, breathing, living, only for him and for their boy. But there was within her--asher long, square chin, her short nose and the strength of her browrevealed--the force of inflexibility--which is met with in charactersof an absolute uprightness. Love, with her, could be stifled by disgust, or, rather, she considered it degrading to continue to love one whom shescorned, and, at that moment, it was supreme scorn which reigned in herheart. She had, in the highest degree, the great virtue which is foundwherever there is nobility, and of which the English have made the basisof their moral education--the religion, the fanaticism of loyalty. Shehad always grieved on discovering the wavering nature of Boleslas. Butif she had observed in him, with sorrow, any exaggerations of language, any artificial sentiment, a dangerous suppleness of mind, she hadpardoned him those defects with the magnanimity of love, attributingthem to a defective training. Gorka at a very early age had witnesseda stirring family drama--his mother and his father lived apart, whileneither the one nor the other had the exclusive guidance of the child. How could she find indulgence for the shameful hypocrisy of two years'standing, for the villainy of that treachery practised at the domestichearth, for the continued, voluntary disloyalty of every day, everyhour? Though Maud experienced, in the midst of her despair, the sort ofcalmness which proves a firm and just resolution, when she reentered thePalazzetto Doria--what a drama had been enacted in her heart sinceher going out!--and it was in a voice almost as calm as usual that sheasked: "Is the Count at home?" What did she experience when the servant, after answering her in theaffirmative, added: "Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, too, are awaitingMadame in the salon. " At the thought that the woman who had stolen fromher her husband was there, the betrayed wife felt her blood boil, to usea common but expressive phrase. It was very natural that Alba's mothershould call upon her, as was her custom. It was still more natural forher to come there that day. For very probably a report of the duelthe following day had reached her. Her presence, however, and at thatmoment, aroused in Maud a feeling of indignation so impassioned thather first impulse was to enter, to drive out Boleslas's mistress as onewould drive out a servant surprised thieving. Suddenly the thought ofAlba presented itself to her mind, of that sweet and pure Alba, of thatsoul as pure as her name, of her whose dearest friend she was. Since thedread revelation she had thought several times of the young girl. Buther deep sorrow having absorbed all the power of her soul, she had notbeen able to feel such friendship for the delicate and pretty child. At the thought of ejecting her rival, as she had the right to do, thatsentiment stirred within her. A strange pity flooded her soul, whichcaused her to pause in the centre of the large hall, ornamented withstatues and columns, which she was in the act of crossing. She calledthe servant just as he was about to put his hand on the knob of thedoor. The analogy between her situation and that of Alba struck hervery forcibly. She experienced the sensation which Alba had so oftenexperienced in connection with Fanny, sympathy with a sorrow so likeher own. She could not give her hand to Madame Steno after what she haddiscovered, nor could she speak to her otherwise than to order herfrom her house. And to utter before Alba one single phrase, to makeone single gesture which would arouse her suspicions, would be tooimplacable, too iniquitous a vengeance! She turned toward the door whichled to her own room, bidding the servant ask his master to come thither. She had devised a means of satisfying her just indignation withoutwounding her dear friend, who was not responsible for the fact that thetwo culprits had taken shelter behind her innocence. Having entered the small, pretty boudoir which led into her bedroom, sheseated herself at her desk, on which was a photograph of Madame Steno, in a group consisting of Boleslas, Alba, and herself. The photographsmiled with a smile of superb insolence, which suddenly reawakened inthe outraged woman her frenzy of rancor, interrupted or rather suspendedfor several moments by pity. She took the frame in her hands, she castit upon the ground, trampling the glass beneath her feet, then she beganto write, on the first blank sheet, one of those notes which passionalone dares to pen, which does not draw back at every word: "I know all. For two years you have been my husband's mistress. Do notdeny it. I have read the confession written by your own hand. I do notwish to see nor to speak to you again. Never again set foot in my house. On account of your daughter I have not driven you out to-day. A secondtime I shall not hesitate. " She was just about to sign Maud Gorka, when the sound of the dooropening and shutting caused her to turn. Boleslas was before her. Uponhis face was an ambiguous expression, which exasperated the unhappy wifestill more. Having returned more than an hour before, he had learnedthat Maud had accompanied to the Rue Leopardi Madame Maitland, who wasill, and he awaited her return with impatience, agitated by the thoughtthat Florent's sister was no doubt ill owing to the duel of the morrow, and in that case, Maud, too, would know all. There are conversationsand, above all, adieux which a man who is about to fight a duel alwayslikes to avoid. Although he forced a smile, he no longer doubted. Hiswife's evident agitation could not be explained by any other cause. Could he divine that she had learned not only of the duel, but, too, ofan intrigue that day ended and of which she had known nothing for twoyears? As she was silent, and as that silence embarrassed him, he tried, in order to keep him in countenance, to take her hand and kiss it, aswas his custom. She repelled him with a look which he had never seenupon her face and said to him, handing him the sheet of paper lyingbefore her: "Do you wish to read this note before I send it to Madame Steno, who isin the salon with her daughter?" Boleslas took the letter. He read the terrible lines, and he becamelivid. His agitation was so great that he returned the paper to his wifewithout replying, without attempting to prevent, as was his duty, theinsult offered to his former mistress, whom he still loved to the pointof risking his life for her. That man, so brave and so yielding at once, was overwhelmed by one of those surprises which put to flight all thepowers of the mind, and he watched Maud slip the note into an envelope, write the address and ring. He heard her say to the servant: "You will take this note to Countess Steno and you will excuse me to theladies. .. . I feel too indisposed to receive any one. If they insist, you will reply that I have forbidden you to admit any one. Youunderstand--any one. " The man took the note. He left the room and he had no doubt fulfilledhis errand while the husband and wife stood there, face to face, neitherof them breaking the formidable silence. They felt that the hour was asolemn one. Never, since the day on which Cardinal Manning had united theirdestinies in the chapel of Ardrahan Castle, had they been engaged ina crisis so tragical. Such moments lay bare the very depths of thecharacter. Courageous and noble, Maud did not think of weighing herwords. She did not try to feed her jealousy, nor to accentuate thecruelty of the cause of the insult which she had the right to launchat the man toward whom that very morning she had been so confiding, sotender. The baseness and the cruelty were to remain forever unknownto the woman who no longer hesitated as to the bold resolution shehad made. No. That which she expected of the man whom she had loved sodearly, of whom she had entertained so exalted an opinion, whom she hadjust seen fall so low, was a cry of truth, an avowal in which she wouldfind the throb of a last remnant of honor. If he were silent it was notbecause he was preparing a denial. The tenor of Maud's letter left nodoubt as to the nature of the proofs she had in her hand, which she hadthere no doubt. How? He did not ask himself that question, governed ashe was by a phenomenon in which was revealed to the full the singularcomplexity of his nature. The Slav's especial characteristic is aprodigious, instantaneous nervousness. It seems that those beings withthe uncertain hearts have a faculty of amplifying in themselves, to thepoint of absorbing the heart altogether, states of partial, passing, andyet sincere emotion. The intensity of their momentary excitement thusmakes of them sincere comedians, who speak to you as if they feltcertain sentiments of an exclusive order, to feel contradictory ones theday after, with the same ardor, with the same untruthfulness, unjustlysay the victims of those natures, so much the more deceitful as they aremore vibrating. He suffered, indeed, on discovering that Maud had been initiated intohis criminal intrigue, but he suffered more for her than for himself. Itwas sufficient for that suffering to occupy a few moments, a few hours. It reinvested the personality of the impassioned and weak husband wholoved his wife while betraying her. There was, indeed, a shade of it inhis adventure, but a very slight shade. And yet, he did not think he wastelling an untruth, when he finally broke the silence to say to her whomhe had so long deceived: "You have avenged yourself with much severity, Maud, but you had theright. .. . I do not know who has informed you of an error which was veryculpable, very wrong, very unfortunate, too. .. . I know that I have inRome enemies bent upon my ruin, and I am sure they have left me no meansof defending myself. I have deceived you, and I have suffered. " He paused after those words, uttered with a tremor of conviction whichwas not assumed. He had forgotten that ten minutes before he had enteredthe room with the firm determination to hide his duel and its cause fromthe woman for whose pardon he would at that moment have sacrificed hislife without hesitation. He continued, in a voice softened by affection:"Whatever they have told you, whatever you have read, I swear to you, you do not know all. " "I know enough, " interrupted Maud, "since I know that you have been thelover of that woman, of the mother of my intimate friend, at my side, under my very eyes. .. . If you had suffered by that deception, as yousay, you would not have waited to avow all to me until I held in myhands the undeniable proof of your infamy. .. . You have cast aside themask, or, rather, I have wrested it from you. .. . I desire no more. .. . Asfor the details of the shameful story, spare me them. It was not to hearthem that I reentered a house every corner of which reminds me that Ibelieved in you implicitly, and that you have betrayed me, not one day, but every day; that you betrayed me the day before yesterday, yesterday, this morning, an hour ago. .. . I repeat, that is sufficient. " "But it is not sufficient for me!" exclaimed Boleslas. "Yes, all youhave just said is true, and I deserve to have you tell it to me. Butthat which you could not read in those letters shown to you, that whichI have kept for two years in the depths of my heart, and which must nowbe told--is that, through all these fatal impulses, I have never ceasedto love you. .. . Ah, do not recoil from me, do not look at me thus. .. . Ifeel it once more in the agony I have suffered since you are speaking tome; there is something within me that has never ceased being yours. That woman has been my aberration. She has had my madness, my senses, my passion, all the evil instincts of my being. .. . You have remained myidol, my affection, my religion. .. . If I lied to you it was because Iknew that the day on which you would find out my fault I should see youbefore me, despairing and implacable as you now are, as I can not bearto have you be. Ah, judge me, condemn me, curse me; but know, but feel, that in spite of all I have loved you, I still love you. " Again he spoke with an enthusiasm which was not feigned. Though hehad deceived her, he recognized only too well the value of the loyalcreature before him, whom he feared he should lose. If he could not moveher at the moment when he was about to fight a duel, when could hemove her? So he approached her with the same gesture of suppliant andimpassioned adoration which he employed in the early days of theirmarriage, and before his treason, when he had told her of his love. Nodoubt that remembrance thrust itself upon Maud and disgusted her, for itwas with veritable horror that she again recoiled, replying: "Be silent! That lie is the worst of all. It pains me. I blush for you, in seeing that you have not even the courage to acknowledge your fault. God is my witness, I should have respected you more, had you said: 'Ihave ceased loving you. I have taken a mistress. It was convenient forme to lie to you. I have lied. I have sacrificed all to my passion, myhonor, my duties, my vows and you. '. .. . Ah, speak to me like that, thatI may have with you the sentiment of truth. .. . But that you dareto repeat to me words of tenderness after what you have done to me, inspires me with repulsion. It is too bitter. " "Yes, " said Boleslas, "you think thus. True and simple as you are, howcould you have learned to understand what a weak will is--a will whichwishes and which does not, which rises and which falls?. .. And yet, ifI had not loved you, what interest would I have in lying to you? Have Ianything to conceal now? Ah, if you knew in what a position I am, on theeve of what day, I beseech you to believe that at least the best part ofmy being has never ceased to be yours!" It was the strongest effort he could make to bring back the heart of hiswife so deeply wounded--the allusion to his duel. For since she had notmentioned it to him, it was no doubt because she was still ignorant ofit. He was once more startled by the reply she made, and which provedto him to what a degree indignation had paralyzed even her love. Heresumed: "Do you know it?" "I know that you fight a duel to-morrow, " said she, "and for yourmistress, I know, too. " "It is not true, " he exclaimed; "it is not for her. " "What?" asked Maud, energetically. "Was it not on her account that youwent to the Rue Leopardi to provoke your rival? For she is not even trueto you, and it is justice. Was it not on her account that you wishedto enter the house, in spite of that rival's brother-in-law, and that adispute arose between you, followed by this challenge? Was it not on heraccount, and to revenge yourself, that you returned from Poland, becauseyou had received anonymous letters which told you all? And to know allhas not disgusted you forever with that creature?. .. But if she haddeigned to lie to you, she would have you still at her feet, and youdare to tell me that you love me when you have not even cared to spareme the affront of learning all that villainy--all that baseness, allthat disgrace--through some one else?" "Who was it?" he asked. "Name that Judas to me, at least?" "Do not speak thus, " interrupted Maud, bitterly; "you have lost theright. .. . And then do not seek too far. .. . I have seen Madame Maitlandto-day. " "Madame Maitland?" repeated Boleslas. "Did Madame Maitland denounce meto you? Did Madame Maitland write those anonymous letters?" "She desired to be avenged, " replied Maud, adding: "She has the right, since your mistress robbed her of her husband. " "Well, I, too, will be avenged!" exclaimed the young man. "I will killthat husband for her, after I have killed her brother. I will kill themboth, one after the other. ". .. . His mobile countenance, which had justexpressed the most impassioned of supplications, now expressed onlyhatred and rage, and the same change took place in his immoderatesensibility. "Of what use is it to try to settle matters?" he continued. "I see only too well all is ended between us. Your pride and your rancorare stronger than your love. If it had been otherwise, you would havebegged me not to fight, and you would only have reproached me, as youhave the right to do, I do not deny. .. . But from the moment that youno longer love me, woe to him whom I find in my path! Woe to MadameMaitland and to those she loves!" "This time at least you are sincere, " replied Maud, with renewedbitterness. "Do you think I have not suffered sufficient humiliation?Would you like me to supplicate you not to fight for that creature?And do you not feel the supreme outrage which that encounter is to me?Moreover, " she continued with tragical solemnity, "I did not summon youto have with you a conversation as sad as it is useless, but to tell youmy resolution. .. . I hope that you will not oblige me to resort for itsexecution to the means which the law puts in my power?" "I don't deserve to be spoken to thus, " said Boleslas, haughtily. "I will remain here to-night, " resumed Maud, without heeding that reply, "for the last time. To-morrow evening I shall leave for England. " "You are free, " said he, with a bow. "And I shall take my son with me, " she added. "Our son!" he replied, with the composure of a man overcome by an accessof tenderness and who controls himself. "That? No. I forbid it. " "You forbid it?" said she. "Very well, we will appeal it. I knew thatyou would force me, " she continued, haughtily, in her turn, "to haverecourse to the law. .. . But I shall not recoil before anything. Inbetraying me as you have done, you have also betrayed our child. I willnot leave him to you. You are not worthy of him. " "Listen, Maud, " said Boleslas, sadly, after a pause, "remember that itis perhaps the last time we shall meet. .. . To-morrow, if I am killed, you shall do as you like. .. . If I live, I promise to consent to anyarrangement that will be just. .. . What I ask of you is--and I have theright, notwithstanding my faults--in the name of our early years ofwedded life, in the name of that son himself, to leave me in a differentway, to have a feeling, I don't say of pardon, but of pity. " "Did you have it for me, " she replied, "when you were following yourpassion by way of my heart? No!". .. . And she walked before him in orderto reach the door, fixing upon him eyes so haughty that he involuntarilylowered his. "You have no longer a wife and I have no longer ahusband. .. . I am no Madame Maitland; I do not avenge myself by means ofanonymous letters nor by denunciation. .. . But to pardon you?. .. Never, do you hear, never!" With those words she left the room, with those words into which she putall the indomitable energy of her character. .. . Boleslas did not essayto detain her. When, an hour after that horrible conversation, his valetcame to inform him that dinner was served, the wretched man was stillin the same place, his elbow on the mantelpiece and his forehead inhis hand. He knew Maud too well to hope that she would change herdetermination, and there was in him, in spite of his faults, his follyand his complications, too much of the real gentleman to employ meansof violence and to detain her forcibly, when he had erred so gravely. Soshe went thus. If, just before, he had exaggerated the expression of hisfeelings in saying, in thinking rather, that he had never ceased lovingher, it was true that amid all his errors he had maintained for her anaffection composed particularly of gratitude, remorse, esteem and, itmust be said, of selfishness. He loved for the devotion of which he was absolutely sure, and then, like many husbands who deceive an irreproachable wife, he was proud ofher, while unfaithful to her. She seemed to him at once the dignity andthe charity of his life. She had remained in his eyes the one to whom hecould always return, the assured friend of moments of trial, the havenafter the tempest, the moral peace when he was weary of the troubles ofpassion. What life would he lead when she was gone? For she would go!Her resolution was irrevocable. All dropped from his side at once. Themistress, to whom he had sacrificed the noblest and most loving heart, he had lost under circumstances as abject as their two years of passionhad been dishonorable. His wife was about to leave him, and would hesucceed in keeping his son? He had returned to be avenged, and he hadnot even succeeded in meeting his rival. That being so impressionablehad experienced, in the face of so many repeated blows, a disappointmentso absolute that he gladly looked forward to the prospect of exposinghimself to death on the following day, while at the same time abitter flood of rancor possessed him at the thought of all the personsconcerned in his adventure. He would have liked to crush Madame Stenoand Maitland, Lydia and Florent--Dorsenne, too--for having given him thefalse word of honor, which had strengthened still more his thirst forvengeance by calming it for a few hours. His confusion of thoughts was only greater when he was seated alonewith his son at dinner. That morning he had seen before him his wife'ssmiling face. The absence of her whom at that moment he valued above allelse was so sad to him that he ventured one last attempt, and afterthe meal he sent little Luc to see if his mother would receive him. Thechild returned with a reply in the negative. "Mamma is resting. .. . Shedoes not wish to be disturbed. " So the matter was irremissible. Shewould not see her husband until the morrow--if he lived. For vainly didBoleslas convince himself that afternoon that he had lost none of hisskill in practising before his admiring seconds; a duel is alwaysa lottery. He might be killed, and if the possibility of an eternalseparation had not moved the injured woman, what prayer would move her?He saw her in his thoughts--her who at that moment, with blinds drawn, all lights subdued, endured in the semi-darkness that suffering whichcurses but does not pardon. Ah, but that sight was painful to him! And, in order that she might at least know how he felt, he took their son inhis arms, and, pressing him to his breast, said: "If you see your motherbefore I do, you will tell her that we spent a very lonesome eveningwithout her, will you not?" "Why, what ails you?" exclaimed the child. "You have wet my cheeks withtears--you are sweeping!" "You will tell her that, too, promise me, " replied the father, "so thatshe will take good care of herself, seeing how we love her. " "But, " said the little boy, "she was not ill when we walked togetherafter breakfast. She was so gay. " "I think, too, it will be nothing serious, " replied Gorka. He wasobliged to dismiss his son and to go out. He felt so horribly sad thathe was physically afraid to remain alone in the house. But whithershould he go? Mechanically he repaired to the club, although it was tooearly to meet many of the members there. He came upon Pietrapertosa andCibo, who had dined there, and who, seated on one of the divans, wereconferring in whispers with the gravity of two ambassadors discussingthe Bulgarian or Egyptian question. "You have a very nervous air, " they said to Boleslas, "you who were insuch good form this afternoon. " "Yes, " said Cibo, "you should have dined with us as we asked you to. " "When one is to fight a duel, " continued Pietrapertosa, sententiously, "one should see neither one's wife nor one's mistress. Madame Gorkasuspects nothing, I hope?" "Absolutely nothing, " replied Boleslas; "you are right. I should havedone better not to have left you. But, here I am. We will exorcisedismal thoughts by playing cards and supping!" "By playing cards and supping!" exclaimed Pietrapertosa. "And your hand?Think of your hand. .. . You will tremble, and you will miss your man. " "Alright dinner, " said Cibo, "to bed at ten o'clock, up at six-thirty, and two eggs with a glass of old port is the recipe Machault gives. " "And which I shall not follow, " said Boleslas, adding: "I give you myword that if I had no other cause for care than this duel, you would notsee me in this condition. " He uttered that phrase in a tragical voice, the sincerity of which the two Italians felt. They looked at eachother without speaking. They were too shrewd and too well aware of thesimplest scandals of Rome not to have divined the veritable cause of theencounter between Florent and Boleslas. On the other hand, they knew thelatter too well not to mistrust somewhat his attitudes. However, therewas such simple emotion in his accent that they spontaneously pitiedhim, and, without another word, they no longer opposed the caprices oftheir strange client, whom they did not leave until two o'clock in themorning--and fortune favored them. For they found themselves at the endof a game, recklessly played, each the richer by two or three hundredlouis apiece. That meant a few days more in Paris on the next visit. They, too, truly regretted their friend's luck, saying, on separating: "I very much fear for him, " said Cibo. "Such luck at gaming, the nightbefore a duel--bad sign, very bad sign. " "So much the more so that some one was there, " replied Pietrapertosa, making with his fingers the sign which conjures the jettutura. Fornothing in the world would he have named the personages against whoseevil eye he provided in that manner. But Cibo understood him, and, drawing from his trousers pocket his watch, which he fastened al'anglaise by a safety chain to his belt, he pointed out among thecharms a golden horn: "I have not let it go this evening, " said he. "The worst is, that Gorkawill not sleep, and then, his hand!" Only the first of those two prognostics was to be verified. Returninghome at that late hour, Boleslas did not even retire. He employed theremainder of the night in writing a long letter to his wife, one to hisson, to be given to him on his eighteenth birthday, all in case of anaccident. Then he examined his papers and he came upon the package ofletters he had received from Madame Steno. Merely to reread a few ofthem, and to glance at the portraits of that faithless mistress again, heightened his anger to such a degree that he enclosed the whole in alarge envelope, which he addressed to Lincoln Maitland. He had no soonersealed it than he shrugged his shoulders, saying: "Of what use?" Heraised the piece of material which stopped up the chimney, and, placingthe envelope on the fire-dogs, he set it on fire. He shook with thetongs the remains of that which had been the most ardent, the mostcomplete passion of his life, and he relighted the flames under thepieces of paper still intact. The unreasonable employment of a nightwhich might be his last had scarcely paled his face. But his friends, who knew him well, started on seeing him with that impassively sinistercountenance when he alighted from his phaeton, at about eight o'clock, at the inn selected for the meeting. He had ordered the carriage the daybefore to allay his wife's suspicions by the pretense of taking one ofhis usual morning drives. In his mental confusion he had forgotten togive a counter order, and that accident caused him to escape the twopolicemen charged by the questorship to watch the Palazzetto Doria, onLydia Maitland's denunciation. The hired victoria, which those agentstook, soon lost track of the swift English horses, driven as a man ofhis character and of his mental condition could drive. The precaution of Chapron's sister was, therefore, baffled in thatdirection, and she succeeded no better with regard to her brother, who, to avoid all explanation with Lincoln, had gone, under the pretext of avisit to the country, to dine and sleep at the hotel. It was there thatMontfanon and Dorsenne met him to conduct him to the rendezvous in theclassical landau. Hardly had they reached the eminence of the circus ofMaxence, on the Appian Way, when they were passed by Boleslas's phaeton. "You can rest very easy, " said Montfanon to Florent. "How can one aimcorrectly when one tires one's arm in that way?" That had been the only allusion to the duel made between the three menduring the journey, which had taken about an hour. Florent talked as heusually did, asking all sorts of questions which attested his carefor minute information--the most of which might be utilized by hisbrother-in-law-and the Marquis had replied by evoking, with his habitualerudition, several of the souvenirs which peopled that vast country, strewn with tombs, aqueducts, ruined villas, with the line of the MontsAlbains enclosing them beyond. Dorsenne was silent. It was the first affair at which he had assisted, and his nervous anxiety was extreme. Tragical presentiments oppressed him, and at the same time heapprehended momentarily that, Montfanon's religious scruplesreawakening, he would not only have to seek another second, but wouldhave to defer a solution so near. However, the struggle which was takingplace in the heart of the "old leaguer" between the gentleman andthe Christian, was displayed during the drive only by an almostimperceptible gesture. As the carriage passed the entrance to thecatacomb of St. Calixtus, the former soldier of the Pope turned away hishead. Then he resumed the conversation with redoubled energy, to pausein his turn, however, when the landau took, a little beyond the Tomb ofCaecilia, a transverse road in the direction of the Ardeatine Way. Itwas there that 'l'Osteria del tempo perso' was built, upon the groundbelonging to Cibo, on which the duel was to take place. Before l'Osteria, whose signboard was surmounted by the arms of PopeInnocent VIII, three carriages were already waiting--Gorka's phaeton, a landau which had brought Cibo, Pietrapertosa and the doctor, anda simple botte, in which a porter had come. That unusual number ofvehicles seemed likely to attract the attention of riflemen out fora stroll, but Cibo answered for the discretion of the innkeeper, whoindeed cherished for his master the devotion of vassal to lord, stillcommon in Italy. The three newcomers had no need to make the slightestexplanation. Hardly had they alighted from the carriage, when the maidconducted them through the hall, where at that moment two huntsmen werebreakfasting, their guns between their knees, and who, like true Romans, scarcely deigned to glance at the strangers, who passed from the commonhall into a small court, from that court, through a shed, into a largefield enclosed by boards, with here and there a few pine-trees. That rather odd duelling-ground had formerly served Cibo as a paddock. He had essayed to increase his slender income by buying at a bargainsome jaded horses, which he intended fattening by means of rest andgood fodder, and then selling to cabmen, averaging a small profit. Thespeculation having miscarried, the place was neglected and unused, saveunder circumstances similar to those of this particular morning. "We have arrived last, " said Montfanon, looking at his watch; "we are, however, five minutes ahead of time. Remember, " he added in a low voice, turning to Florent, "to keep the body well in the background, " thesewords being followed by other directions. "Thanks, " replied Florent, who looked at the Marquis and Dorsenne witha glance which he ordinarily had only for Lincoln, "and you know that, whatever may come, I thank you for all from the depths of my heart. " The young man put so much grace in that adieu, his courage was sosimple, his sacrifice for his brother-in-law so magnanimous andnatural--in fact, for two days both seconds had so fully appreciated thecharm of that disposition, absolutely free from thoughts of self--thatthey pressed his hand with the emotion of true friends. They werethemselves, moreover, interested, and at once began the series ofpreparations without which the role of assistant would be physicallyinsupportable to persons endowed with a little sensibility. Inexperienced hands like those of Montfanon, Cibo and Pietrapertosa, suchpreliminaries are speedily arranged. The code is as exact as the stepof a ballet. Twenty minutes after the entrance of the last arrivals, thetwo adversaries were face to face. The signal was given. The two shotswere fired simultaneously, and Florent sank upon the grass which coveredthe enclosure. He had a bullet in his thigh. Dorsenne has often related since, as a singular trait of literary mania, that at the moment the wounded man fell he, himself, notwithstandingthe anxiety which possessed him, had watched Montfanon, to study him. Headds that never had he seen a face express such sorrowful piety as thatof the man who, scorning all human respect, made the sign of the cross. It was the devotee of the catacombs, who had left the altar of themartyrs to accomplish a work of charity, then carried away by anger sofar as to place himself under the necessity of participating in a duel, who was, no doubt, asking pardon of God. What remorse was stirringwithin the heart of the fervent, almost mystical Christian, so strangelymixed up in an adventure of that kind? He had at least this comfort, that after the first examination, and when they had borne Florent intoa room prepared hastily by the care of Cibo, the doctor declared himselfsatisfied. The ball could even be removed at once, and as neither thebone nor the muscles had been injured it was a matter of a few weeks atthe most. "All that now remains for us, " concluded Cibo, who had brought back thenews, "is to draw up our official report. " At that instant, and as the witnesses were preparing to reenter thehouse for the last formality, an incident occurred, very unexpected, which was to transform the encounter, up to that time so simple, intoone of those memorable duels which are talked over at clubs and inarmories. If Pietrapertosa and Cibo had ceased since morning to believein the jettatura of the "some one" whom neither had named, it must beacknowledged that they were very unjust, for the good fortune of havinggained something wherewith to swell their Parisian purses was surelynaught by the side of this--to have to discuss with the Cavals, theMachaults and other professionals the case, almost unprecedented, inwhich they were participants. Boleslas Gorka, who, when once his adversary had fallen, paced to andfro without seeming to care as to the gravity of the wound, suddenlyapproached the group formed by the four men, and in a tone of voicewhich did not predict the terrible aggression in which he was about toindulge, he said: "One moment, gentlemen. I desire to say a few words in your presence toMonsieur Dorsenne. " "I am at your service, Gorka, " replied Julien, who did not suspect thehostile intention of his old friend. He did not divine the form whichthat hostility was about to take, but he had always upon his mind hisword of honor falsely given, and he was prepared to answer for it. "It will not take much time, sir, " continued Boleslas, still with thesame insolently formal politeness, "you know we have an account tosettle. .. . But as I have some cause not to believe in the validity ofyour honor, I should like to remove all cause of evasion. " And beforeany one could interfere in the unheard-of proceedings he had raised hisglove and struck Dorsenne in the face. As Gorka spoke, the writer turnedpale. He had not the time to reply to the audacious insult offered himby a similar one, for the three witnesses of the scene cast themselvesbetween him and his aggressor. He, however, pushed them aside with aresolute air. "Remember, sirs, " said he, "that by preventing me from inflictingon Monsieur Gorka the punishment he deserves, you force me to obtainanother reparation. And I demand it immediately. .. . I will not leavethis place, " he continued, "without having obtained it. " "Nor I, without having given it to you, " replied Boleslas. "It is all Iask. " "No, Dorsenne, " cried Montfanon, who had been the first to seize theraised arm of the writer, "you shall not fight thus. First, you have noright. It requires at least twenty-four hours between the provocationand the encounter. .. . And you, sirs, must not agree to serve as secondsfor Monsieur Gorka, after he has failed in a manner so grave in all therules of the ground. .. . If you lend yourselves to it, it is barbarous, it is madness, whatsoever you like. It is no longer a duel. " "I repeat, Montfanon, " replied Dorsenne, "that I will not leave here andthat I will not allow Monsieur Gorka to leave until I have obtained thereparation to which I feel I have the right. " "And I repeat that I am at Monsieur Dorsenne's service, " repliedBoleslas. "Very well, sirs, " said Montfanon. "There only remains for us toleave you to arrange it one with the other as you wish, and for us towithdraw. .. . Is not that your opinion?" he continued, addressing Ciboand Pietrapertosa, who did not reply immediately. "Certainly, " finally said one; "the case is difficult. " "There are, however, precedents, " insinuated the other. "Yes, " resumed Cibo, "if it were only the two successive duels of Henryde Pene. " "Which furnish authority, " concluded Pietrapertosa. "Authority has nothing to do with it, " again exclaimed Montfanon. "Iknow, for my part, that I am not here to assist at a butchery, and thatI will not assist at it. .. . I am going, sirs, and I expect you will dothe same, for I do not suppose you would select coachmen to play thepart of seconds. .. . Adieu, Dorsenne. .. . You do not doubt my friendshipfor you. .. . I think I am giving you a veritable proof of it by notpermitting you to fight under such conditions. " When the old nobleman reentered the inn, he waited ten minutes, persuaded that his departure would determine that of Cibo and ofPietrapertosa, and that the new affair, following so strangely upon theother, would be deferred until the next day. He had not told an untruth. It was his strong friendship for Julien which had made him apprehenda duel organized in that way, under the influence of a righteousindignation. Gorka's unjustifiable violence would certainly not permita second encounter to be avoided. But as the insult had been outrageous, it was the more essential that the conditions should be fixed calmly andafter grave consideration. To divert his impatience, Montfanon badethe innkeeper point out to him whither they had carried Florent, andhe ascended to the tiny room, where the doctor was dressing the woundedman's leg. "You see, " said the latter, with a smile, "I shall have to limp a littlefor a month. .. . And Dorsenne?" "He is all right, I hope, " replied Montfanon, adding, with ill-humor:"Dorsenne is a fool; that is what Dorsenne is. And Gorka is a wildbeast; that is what Gorka is. " And he related the episode which hadjust taken place to the two men, who were so surprised that the doctor, bandage in hand, paused in his work. "And they wish to fight there atonce, like redskins. Why not scalp one another?. .. And that Cibo andthat Pietrapertosa would have consented to the duel if I had not opposedit! Fortunately they lack two seconds, and it is not easy to find inthis district two men who can sign an official report, for it is themode nowadays to have those paltry scraps of paper. One of my friendsand myself had two such witnesses at twenty francs apiece. But that wasin Paris in 'sixty-two. " And he entered upon the recital of the old-timeduel, to calm his anxiety, which burst forth again in these words: "Itseems they do not decide to separate so quickly. It is not, however, possible that they will fight. .. . Can we see them from here?" Heapproached the window, which indeed looked upon the enclosure. Thesight which met his eyes caused the excellent man to stammer. .. . "Themiserable men!. .. It is monstrous. .. . They are mad. .. . They have foundseconds. .. . Whom have they taken?. .. Those two huntsmen!. .. Ali, my God!My God!". .. . He could say no more. The doctor had hastened to the windowto see what was passing, regardless of the fact that Florent draggedhimself thither as well. Did they remain there a few seconds, fifteenminutes or longer? They could never tell, so greatly were theyterrified. As Montfanon had anticipated, the conditions of the duel were terrible. For Pietrapertosa, who seemed to direct the combat, after havingmeasured a space sufficiently long, of about fifty feet, was in the actof tracing in the centre two lines scarcely ten or twelve metres apart. "They have chosen the duel a 'marche interrompue', " groaned the veteranduellist, whose knowledge of the ground did not deceive him. Dorsenneand Gorka, once placed, face to face, commenced indeed to advance, nowraising, now lowering their weapons with the terrible slowness of twoadversaries resolved not to miss their mark. A shot was fired. It was by Boleslas. Dorsenne was unharmed. Severalsteps had still to be taken in order to reach the limit. He took them, and he paused to aim at his opponent with so evident an intention ofkilling him that they could distinctly hear Cibo cry: "Fire! For God's sake, fire!" Julien pressed the trigger, as if in obedience to that order, incorrect, but too natural to be even noticed. The weapon was discharged, and thethree spectators at the window of the bedroom uttered three simultaneousexclamations on seeing Gorka's arm fall and his hand drop the pistol. "It is nothing, " cried the doctor, "but a broken arm. " "The good Lord has been better to us than we deserve, " said the Marquis. "Now, at least, the madman will be quieted. .. . Brave Dorsenne!" criedFlorent, who thought of his brother-in-law and who added gayly, leaningon Montfanon and the doctor in order to reach the couch: "Finishquickly, doctor, they will need you below immediately. " BOOK 4. CHAPTER IX. LUCID ALBA The doctor had diagnosed the case correctly. Dorsenne's ball had struckGorka below the wrist. Two centimetres more to the right or to theleft, and undoubtedly Boleslas would have been killed. He escaped witha fracture of the forearm, which would confine him for a few days tohis room, and which would force him to submit for several weeks to theannoyance of a sling. When he was taken home and his personal physician, hastily summoned, made him a bandage and prescribed for the first fewdays bed and rest, he experienced a new access of rage, which exceededthe paroxysms of the day before and of that morning. All parts of hissoul, the noblest as well as the meanest, bled at once and caused him tosuffer with another agony than that occasioned by his wounded arm. Washe satisfied in the desire, almost morbid, to figure in the eyes ofthose who knew him as an extraordinary personage? He had hastened fromPoland through Europe as an avenger of his betrayed love, and he hadbegun by missing his rival. Instead of provoking him immediately inthe salon of Villa Steno, he had waited, and another had had time tosubstitute himself for the one he had wished to chastise. The other, whose death would at least have given a tragical issue to the adventure, Boleslas had scarcely touched. He had hoped in striking Dorsenne toexecute at least one traitor whom he considered as having trifled withthe most sacred of confidences. He had simply succeeded in giving thatfalse friend occasion to humiliate him bitterly, leaving out of thequestion that he had rendered it impossible to fight again for manydays. None of the persons who had wronged him would be punished forsome time, neither his coarse and cowardly rival, nor his perfidiousmistress, nor monstrous Lydia Maitland, whose infamy he had justdiscovered. They were all happy and triumphant, on that lovely, radiantMay day, while he tossed on a bed of pain, and it was proven too clearlyto him that very afternoon by his two seconds, the only visitors whomhe had not denied admission, and who came to see him about five o'clock. They came from the races of Tor di Quinto, which had taken place thatday. "All is well, " began Cibo, "I will guarantee that no one has talked. .. . I have told you before, I am sure of my innkeeper, and we have paid thewitnesses and the coachman. " "Were Madame Steno and her daughter at the races?" interrupted Boleslas. "Yes, " replied the Roman, whom the abruptness of the question surprisedtoo much for him to evade it with his habitual diplomacy. "With whom?" asked the wounded man. "Alone, that time, " replied Cibo, with an eagerness in which Boleslasdistinguished an intention to deceive him. "And Madame Maitland?" "She was there, too, with her husband, " said Pietrapertosa, heedless ofCibo's warning glances, "and all Rome besides, " adding: "Do you knowthe engagement of Ardea and little Hafner is public? They were all threethere, the betrothed and the father, and so happy! I vow, it was fine. Cardinal Guerillot baptized pretty Fanny. " "And Dorsenne?" again questioned the invalid. "He was there, " said Cibo. "You will be vexed when I tell you of thereply he dared to make us. We asked him how he had managed--nervousas he is--to aim at you as he aimed, without trembling. For he didnot tremble. And guess what he replied? That he thought of a recipe ofStendhal's--to recite from memory four Latin verses, before firing. 'Andmight one know what you chose?' I asked of him. Thereupon he repeated:'Tityre, tu patulae recubens!" "It is a case which recalls the word of Casal, " interruptedPietrapertosa, "when that snob of a Figon recommended to us at theclub his varnish manufactured from a recipe of a valet of the Prince ofWales. If the young man is not settled by us, I shall be sorry for him. " Although the two 'confreres' had repeated that mediocre pleasantry ahundred times, they laughed at the top of their sonorous voices andsucceeded in entirely unnerving the injured man. He gave as a pretexthis need of rest to dismiss the fine fellows, of whose sympathy he wasassured, whom he had just found loyal and devoted, but who caused himpain in conjuring up, in answer to his question, the images of all hisenemies. When one is suffering from a certain sort of pain, remarks likethose naively exchanged between the two Roman imitators of Casal areintolerable to the hearer. One desires to be alone to feed upon, atleast in peace, the bitter food, the exasperating and inefficaciousrancor against people and against fate, with which Gorka at that momentfelt his heart to be so full. The presence of his former mistress at theraces, and on that afternoon, wounded him more cruelly than the rest. He did not doubt that she knew through Maitland, himself, certainlyinformed by Chapron, of the two duels and of his injury. It was on heraccount that he had fought, and that very day she appeared in public, smiling, coquetting, as if two years of passion had not united theirlives, as if he were to her merely a social acquaintance, a guest at herdinners and her soirees. He knew her habits so well, and how eagerly, when she loved, she drank in the presence of him she loved. No doubt shehad an appointment on the race-course with Maitland, as she had formerlyhad with him, and the painter had gone thither when he should have caredfor his courageous, his noble brother-in-law, whom he had allowed tofight for him! What a worthy lover the selfish and brutal American wasof that vile creature! The image of the happy couple tortured Boleslaswith the bitterest jealousy intermingled with disgust, and, by contrast, he thought of his own wife, the proud and tender Maud whom he had lost. He pictured to himself other illnesses when he had seen that beautifulnurse by his bedside. He saw again the true glance with which that wife, so shamefully betrayed, looked at him, the movements of her loyal hands, which yielded to no one the care of waiting upon him. To-day she hadallowed him to go to a duel without seeing him. He had returned. She hadnot even inquired as to his wound. The doctor had dressed it withouther presence, and all that he knew of her was what he learned from theirchild. For he sent for Luc. He explained to him his broken arm, ashad been agreed upon with his friends, by a fall on the staircase, andlittle Luc replied: "When will you join us, then? Mamma says we leave for England thisevening or in the morning. All the trunks are almost ready. " That evening or to-morrow? So Maud was going to execute her threat. Shewas going away forever, and without an explanation. He could not evenplead his cause once more to the woman who certainly would not respondto another appeal, since she had found, in her outraged pride, thestrength to be severe, when he was in danger of death. In the faceof that evidence of the desertion of all connected with him, Boleslassuffered one of those accesses of discouragement, deep, absolute, irremediable, in which one longs to sleep forever. He asked himself:"Were I to try one more step?" and he replied: "She will not!" when hisvalet entered with word that the Countess desired to speak with him. His agitation was so extreme that, for a second, he fancied it was withregard to Madame Steno, and he was almost afraid to see his wife enter. Without any doubt, the emotions undergone during the past few days hadbeen very great. He had, however, experienced none more violent, evenbeneath the pistol raised by Dorsenne, than that of seeing advance tohis bed the embodiment of his remorse. Maud's face, in which ordinarilyglowed the beauty of a blood quickened by the English habits of freshair and daily exercise, showed undeniable traces of tears, of sadness, and of insomnia. The pallor of the cheeks, the dark circles beneath theeyes, the dryness of the lips and their bitter expression, the feverishglitter, above all, in the eyes, related more eloquently than words theterrible agony of which she was the victim. The past twenty-four hourshad acted upon her like certain long illnesses, in which it seems thatthe very essence of the organism is altered. She was another person. The rapid metamorphosis, so tragical and so striking, caused Boleslas toforget his own anguish. He experienced nothing but one great regret whenthe woman, so visibly bowed down by grief, was seated, and when he sawin her eyes the look of implacable coldness, even through the fever, before which he had recoiled the day before. But she was there, and herunhoped-for presence was to the young man, even under the circumstances, an infinite consolation. He, therefore, said, with an almost childishgrace, which he could assume when he desired to please: "You recognized the fact that it would be too cruel of you to go awaywithout seeing me again. I should not have dared to ask it of you, andyet it was the only pleasure I could have. .. . I thank you for havinggiven it to me. " "Do not thank me, " replied Maud, shaking her head, "it is not onyour account that I am here. It is from duty. .. . Let me speak, " shecontinued, stopping by a gesture her husband's reply, "you can answer meafterward. .. . Had it only been a question of you and of me, I repeat, Ishould not have seen you again. .. . But, as I told you yesterday, we havea son. " "Ah!" exclaimed Boleslas, sadly. "It is to make me still more wretchedthat you have come. .. . You should remember, however, that I am in nocondition to discuss with you so cruel a question. .. . I thought I hadalready said that I would not disregard your rights on condition thatyou did not disregard mine. " "It is not of my rights that I wish to speak, nor of yours, " interruptedMaud, "but of his, the only ones of importance. When I left youyesterday, I was suffering too severely to feel anything but my pain. Itwas then that, in my mental agony, I recalled words repeated to me by myfather: 'When one suffers, he should look his grief in the face, and itwill always teach him something. ' I was ashamed of my weakness, and Ilooked my grief in the face. It taught me, first, to accept it as ajust punishment for having married against the advice and wishes of myfather. " "Ah, do not abjure our past!" cried the young man; "the past which hasremained so dear to me through all. " "No, I do not abjure it, " replied Maud, "for it was on recurring toit--it was on returning to my early impressions--that I could find notan excuse, but an explanation of your conduct. I remembered what yourelated to me of the misfortunes of your childhood and of your youth, and how you had grown up between your father and your mother, passingsix months with one, six months with the other--not caring for, notbeing able to judge either of them--forced to hide from one yourfeelings for the other. I saw for the first time that your parents'separation had the effect of saddening your heart at that epoch. Itis that which perverted your character. .. . And I read in advance Luc'shistory in yours. .. . Listen, Boleslas! I speak to you as I would speakbefore God! My first feeling when that thought presented itself to mymind was not to resume life with you; such a life would be henceforthtoo bitter. No, it was to say to myself, I will have my son to myself. He shall feel my influence alone. I saw you set out this morning--setout to insult me once more, to sacrifice me once more! If you had beentruly repentant would you have offered me that last affront? And whenyou returned--when they informed me that you had a broken arm--I wishedto tell the little one myself that you were ill. .. . I saw how much heloved you, I discovered what a place you already occupied in his heart, and I comprehended that, even if the law gave him to me, as I know itwould, his childhood would be like yours, his youth like your youth. " "Then, " she went on, with an accent in which emotion struggled throughher pride, "I did not feel justified in destroying the respect so deep, the love so true, he bears you, and I have come to say to you: You havewronged me greatly. You have killed within me something that will nevercome to life again. I feel that for years I shall carry a weight on mymind and on my heart at the thought that you could have betrayed me asyou have. But I feel that for our boy this separation on which I hadresolved is too perilous. I feel that I shall find in the certaintyof avoiding a moral danger for him the strength to continue a commonexistence, and I will continue it. But human nature is human nature, andthat strength I can have only on one condition. " "And that is?" asked Boleslas. Maud's speech, for it was a speechcarefully reflected upon, every phrase of which had been weighed by thatscrupulous conscience, contrasted strongly in its lucid reasoning withthe state of nervous excitement in which he had lived for several days. He had been more pained by it than he would have been by passionatereproaches. At the same time he had been moved by the reference to hisson's love for him, and he felt that if he did not become reconciledwith Maud at that moment his future domestic life would be ended. Therewas a little of each sentiment in the few words he added to the anxietyof his question. "Although you have spoken to me very severely, andalthough you might have said the same thing in other terms, although, above all, it is very painful to me to have you condemn my entirecharacter on one single error, I love you, I love my son, and I agreein advance to your conditions. I esteem your character too much to doubtthat they will be reconcilable with my dignity. As for the duel of thismorning, " he added, "you know very well that it was too late to withdrawwithout dishonor. " "I should like your promise, first of all, " replied Madame Gorka, whodid not answer his last remark, "that during the time in which you areobliged to keep your room no one shall be admitted. .. . I could not bearthat creature in my house, nor any one who would speak to me or to youof her. " "I promise, " said the young man, who felt a flood of warmth enter hissoul at the first proof that the jealousy of the loving woman stillexisted beneath the indignation of the wife. And he added, with a smile, "That will not be a great sacrifice. And then?" "Then?. .. That the doctor will permit us to go to England. We will leaveorders for the management of things during our absence. We will go thiswinter wherever you like, but not to this house; never again to thiscity. " "That is a promise, too, " said Boleslas, "and that will be no greatsacrifice either; and then?" "And then, " said she in a low voice, as if ashamed of herself. "You mustnever write to her, you must never try to find out what has become ofher. " "I give you my word, " replied Boleslas, taking her hand, and adding:"And then?" "There is no then, " said she, withdrawing her hand, but gently. And shebegan to realize herself her promise of pardon, for she rearranged thepillows under the wounded man's head, while he resumed: "Yes, my noble Maud, there is a then. It is that I shall prove to youhow much truth there was in my words of yesterday, in my assurance thatI love you in spite of my faults. It is the mother who returns to metoday. But I want my wife, my dear wife, and I shall win her back. " She made no reply. She experienced, on hearing him pronounce those lastwords with a transfigured face, an emotion which did not vanish. She hadacquired, beneath the shock of her great sorrow, an intuition too deepof her husband's nature, and that facility, which formerly charmed herby rendering her anxious, now inspired her with horror. That man withthe mobile and complaisant conscience had already forgiven himself. It sufficed him to conceive the plan of a reparation of years, andto respect himself for it--as if that was really sufficient--for thedifficult task. At least during the eight days which lapsed between thatconversation and their departure he strictly observed the promise he hadgiven his wife. In vain did Cibo, Pietrapertosa, Hafner, Ardea try tosee him. When the train which bore them away steamed out he asked hiswife, with a pride that time justified by deeds: "Are you satisfied with me?" "I am satisfied that we have left Rome, " said she, evasively, and it wastrue in two senses of the word: First of all, because she did not delude herself with regard to thereturn of the moral energy of which Boleslas was so proud. She knew thathis variable will was at the mercy of the first sensation. Then, whatshe had not confessed to her husband, the sorrow of a broken friendshipwas joined in her to the sorrows of a betrayed wife. The suddendiscovery of the infamy of Alba's mother had not destroyed her strongaffection for the young girl, and during the entire week, busy withher preparations for a final departure, she had not ceased to wonderanxiously: "What will she think of my silence?. .. What has her mothertold her?. .. What has she divined?" She had loved the "poor little soul, " as she called the Contessina inher pretty English term. She had devoted to her the friendship peculiarto young women for young girls--a sentiment--very strong and yet verydelicate, which resembles, in its tenderness, the devotion of an eldersister for a younger. There is in it a little naive protection and alsoa little romantic and gracious melancholy. The elder friend is severeand critical. She tries to assuage, while envying them, the excessiveenthusiasms of the younger. She receives, she provokes her confidencewith the touching gravity of a counsellor. The younger friend is curiousand admiring. She shows herself in all the truth of that gracefulawakening of thoughts and emotions which precede her own period beforemarriage. And when there is, as was the case with Alba Steno, acertain discord of soul between that younger friend and her mother, the affection for the sister chosen becomes so deep that it can not bebroken without wounds on both sides. It was for that reason that, onleaving Rome, faithful and noble Maud experienced at once a sense ofrelief and of pain--of relief, because she was no longer exposed to thedanger of an explanation with Alba; of pain, because it was so bittera thought for her that she could never justify her heart to her friend, could never aid her in emerging from the difficulties of her life, could, finally, never love her openly as she had loved her secretly. She said to herself as she saw the city disappear in the night with itscurves and its lights: "If she thinks badly of me, may she divine nothing! Who will now preventher from yielding herself up to her sentiment for that dangerous andperfidious Dorsenne? Who will console her when she is sad? Who willdefend her against her mother? I was perhaps wrong in writing to thewoman, as I did, the letter, which might have been delivered to her inher daughter's presence. .. . Ah, poor little soul!. .. May God watch overher!" She turned, then, toward her son, whose hair she stroked, as if toexorcise, by the evidence of present duty, the nostalgia which possessedher at the thought of an affection sacrificed forever. Hers was a naturetoo active, too habituated to the British virtue of self-control tosubmit to the languor of vain emotions. The two persons of whom her friendship, now impotent, had thought, were, for various reasons, the two fatal instruments of the fate of the "poorlittle soul, " and the vague remorse which Maud herself felt with regardto the terrible note sent to Madame Steno in the presence of the younggirl, was only too true. When the servant had given that letter tothe Countess, saying that Madame Gorka excused herself on account ofindisposition, Alba Steno's first impulse had been to enter her friend'sroom. "I will go to embrace her and to see if she has need of anything, " shesaid. "Madame has forbidden any one to enter her room, " replied the footman, with embarrassment, and, at the same moment, Madame Steno, who had justopened the note, said, in a voice which struck the young girl by itschange: "Let us go; I do not feel well, either. " The woman, so haughty, so accustomed to bend all to her will, was indeedtrembling in a very pitiful manner beneath the insult of those phraseswhich drove her, Caterina Steno, away with such ignominy. She paled tothe roots of her fair hair, her face was distorted, and for the firstand last time Alba saw her form tremble. It was only for a fewmoments. At the foot of the staircase energy gained the mastery in thatcourageous character, created for the shock of strong emotions andfor instantaneous action. But rapid as had been that passage, it hadsufficed to disconcert the young girl. For not a moment did she doubtthat the note was the cause of that extraordinary metamorphosis in theCountess's aspect and attitude. The fact that Maud would not receiveher, her friend, in her room was not less strange. What was happening?What did the letter contain? What were they hiding from her? If she had, the day before, felt the "needle in the heart" only on divining a sceneof violent explanation between her mother and Boleslas Gorka, how wouldshe have been agonized to ascertain the state into which the few linesof Boleslas's wife had cast that mother! The anonymous denunciationrecurred to her, and with it all the suspicion she had in vain rejected. The mother was unaware that for months there was taking place in herdaughter a moral drama of which that scene formed a decisive episode, she was too shrewd not to understand that her emotion had been veryimprudent, and that she must explain it. Moreover, the rupture with Maudwas irreparable, and it was necessary that Alba should be included init. The mother, at once so guilty and so loving, so blind and soconsiderate, had no sooner foreseen the necessity than her decision wasmade, and a false explanation invented: "Guess what Maud has just written me?" said she, brusquely, to herdaughter, when they were seated side by side in their carriage. God, what balm the simple phrase introduced into Alba's heart! Her mother wasabout to show her the note! Her joy was short-lived! The note remainedwhere the Countess had slipped it, after having nervously folded it, inthe opening in her glove. And she continued: "She accuses me of beingthe cause of a duel between her husband and Florent Chapron, and shequarrels with me by letter, without seeing me, without speaking to me!" "Boleslas Gorka has fought a duel with Florent Chapron?" repeated theyoung girl. "Yes, " replied her mother. "I knew that through Hafner. I did not speakof it to you in order not to worry you with regard to Maud, and I haveonly awaited her so long to cheer her up in case I should have found heruneasy, and this is how she rewards me for my friendship! It seems thatGorka took offence at some remark of Chapron's about Poles, one of thoseinnocent remarks made daily on any nation--the Italians, the French, theEnglish, the Germans, the Jews--and which mean nothing. .. . I repeatedthe remark in jest to Gorka!. .. I leave you to judge. .. . Is it my faultif, instead of laughing at it, he insulted poor Florent, and if theabsurd encounter resulted from it? And Maud, who writes me that she willnever pardon me, that I am a false friend, that I did it expressly toexasperate her husband. .. . Ah, let her watch her husband, let her lockhim up, if he is mad! And I, who have received them as I have, I, whohave made their position for them in Rome, I, who had no other thoughtthan for her just now!. .. You hear, " she added, pressing her daughter'shand with a fervor which was at least sincere, if her words wereuntruthful, "I forbid you seeing her again or writing to her. If shedoes not offer me an apology for her insulting note, I no longer wish toknow her. One is foolish to be so kind!" For the first time, while listening to that speech, Alba was convincedthat her mother was deceiving her. Since suspicion had entered her heartwith regard to her mother, the object until then of such admiration andaffection, she had passed through many stages of mistrust. To talkwith the Countess was always to dissipate them. That was because MadameSteno, apart from her amorous immorality, was of a frank and truthfulnature. It was indeed a customary and known weakness of Florent's to repeatthose witticisms which abound in national epigrams, as mediocre as theyare iniquitous. Alba could recall at least twenty circumstances when theexcellent man had uttered such jests at which a sensitive person mighttake offence. She would not have thought it utterly impossible that aduel between Gorka and Chapron might have been provoked by an incidentof that order. But Chapron was the brother-in-law of Maitland, of thenew friend with whom Madame Steno had become infatuated during theabsence of the Polish Count, and what a brother-in-law! He of whomDorsenne said: "He would set Rome on fire to cook an egg for hissister's husband. " When Madame Steno announced that duel to herdaughter, an invincible and immediate deduction possessed the poorchild--Florent was fighting for his brother-in-law. And on accountof whom, if not of Madame Steno? The thought would not, however, havepossessed her a second in the face of the very plausible explanationmade by the Countess, if Alba had not had in her heart a certain proofthat her mother was not telling the truth. The young girl loved Maud asmuch as she was loved by her. She knew the sensibility of her faithfuland, delicate friend, as that friend knew hers. For Maud to write hermother a letter which produced an immediate rupture, there must havebeen some grave reason. Another material proof was soon joined to that moral proof. Granted thecharacter and the habits of the Countess, since she had not shown Maud'sletter to her daughter there and then, it was because the letter was notfit to be shown. But she heard on the following day only the descriptionof the duel, related by Maitland to Madame Steno, the savage aggressionof Gorka against Dorsenne, the composure of the latter and the issue, relatively harmless, of the two duels. "You see, " said her mother to her, "I was right in saying that Gorka ismad!. .. It seems he has had a fit of insanity since the duel, and thatthey prevent him from seeing any one. .. . Can you now comprehend how Maudcould blame me for what is hereditary in the Gorka family?" Such was indeed the story which the Venetian and her friends, Hafner, Ardea, and others, circulated throughout Rome in order to diminish thescandal. The accusation of madness is very common to women who havegoaded to excess man's passion, and who then wish to avoid all blame forthe deeds or words of that man. In this case, Boleslas's fury and histwo incomprehensible duels, fifteen minutes apart, justified the story. When it became known in the city that the Palazzetto Doria was strictlyclosed, that Maud Gorka received no one, and finally that she wastaking away her husband in the manner which resembled a flight, no doubtremained of the young man's wrecked reason. Two persons profited very handsomely by the gossiping, the origin ofwhich was a mystery. One was the innkeeper of the 'Tempo Perso', whosesimple 'bettola' became, during those few days, a veritable place ofpilgrimage, and who sold a quantity of wine and numbers of fresh eggs. The other was Dorsenne's publisher, of whom the Roman booksellersordered several hundred volumes. "If I had had that duel in Paris, " said the novelist to MademoiselleSteno, relating to her the unforeseen result, "I should perhaps have atlength known the intoxication of the thirtieth edition. " It was a few days after the departure of the Gorkas that he jested thus, at a large dinner of twenty-four covers, given at Villa Steno in honorof Peppino Ardea and Fanny Hafner. Reestablished in the Countess's favorsince his duel, he had again become a frequenter of her house, so muchthe more assiduous as the increasing melancholy of Alba interestedhim greatly. The enigma of the young girl's character redoubled thatinterest at each visit in such a degree that, notwithstanding the heat, already beginning, of the dangerous Roman summer, he constantlydeferred his return to Paris until the morrow. What had she guessed inconsequence of the encounter, the details of which she had asked ofhim with an emotion scarcely hidden in her eyes of a blue as clear, astransparent, as impenetrable at the same time, as the water of certainAlpine lakes at the foot of the glaciers. He thought he was doing rightin corroborating the story of Boleslas Gorka's madness, which he knewbetter than any one else to be false. But was it not the surest means ofexempting Madame Steno from connection with the affair? Why had he seenAlba's beautiful eyes veiled with a sadness inexplicable, as if he hadjust given her another blow? He did not know that since the day onwhich the word insanity had been uttered before her relative to Maud'shusband, the Contessina was the victim of a reasoning as simple asirrefutable. "If Boleslas be mad, as they say, " said Alba, "why does Maud, whom Iknow to be so just and who loves me so dearly, attribute to my motherthe responsibility of this duel, to the point of breaking with methus, and of leaving without a line of explanation?. .. No. .. . There issomething else. ". .. . The nature of the "something else" the young girlcomprehended, on recalling her mother's face during the perusal ofMaud's letter. During the ten days following that scene, she sawconstantly before her that face, and the fear imprinted upon thosefeatures ordinarily so calm, so haughty! Ah, poor little soul, indeed, who could not succeed in banishing this fixed idea "My mother is not agood woman. " Idea! So much the more terrible, as Alba had no longer the ignorance ofa young girl, if she had the innocence. Accustomed to the conversations, at times very bold, of the Countess's salon, enlightened by the readingof novels chanced upon, the words lover and mistress had for hera signification of physical intimacy such that it was an almostintolerable torture for her to associate them with the relations of hermother, first toward Gorka, then toward Maitland. That torture she hadundergone during the entire dinner, at the conclusion of which Dorsenneessayed to chat gayly with her. She sat beside the painter, and theman's very breath, his gestures, the sound of his voice, his manner ofeating and of drinking, the knowledge of his very proximity, had causedher such keen suffering that it was impossible for her to take anythingbut large glasses of iced water. Several times during that dinner, prolonged amid the sparkle of magnificent silver and Venetian crystal, amid the perfume of flowers and the gleam of jewels, she had seenMaitland's eyes fixed upon the Countess with an expression whichalmost caused her to cry out, so clearly did her instinct divine itsimpassioned sensuality, and once she thought she saw her mother respondto it. She felt with appalling clearness that which before she had uncertainlyexperienced, the immodest character of that mother's beauty. Withthe pearls in her fair hair, with neck and arms bare in a corsagethe delicate green tint of which showed to advantage the incomparablesplendor of her skin, with her dewy lips, with her voluptuous eyesshaded by their long lashes, the dogaresse looked in the centre of thattable like an empress and like a courtesan. She resembled the CaterinaCornaro, the gallant queen of the island of Cypress, painted by Titian, and whose name she worthily bore. For years Alba had been so proudof the ray of seduction cast forth by the Countess, so proud of thosestatuesque arms, of the superb carriage, of the face which defied thepassage of time, of the bloom of opulent life the glorious creaturedisplayed. During that dinner she was almost ashamed of it. She had been pained to see Madame Maitland seated a few paces fartheron, with brow and lips contracted as if by thoughts of bitterness. Shewondered: Does Lydia suspect them, too? But was it possible that hermother, whom she knew to be so generous, so magnanimous, so kind, couldhave that smile of sovereign tranquillity with such secrets in herheart? Was it possible that she could have betrayed Maud for months andmonths with the same light of joy in her eyes? "Come, " said Julien, stopping himself suddenly in the midst of a speech, in which he had related two or three literary anecdotes. "Instead oflistening to your friend Dorsenne, little Countess, you are followingseveral blue devils flying through the room. " "They would fly, in any case, " replied Alba, who, pointing to FannyHafner and Prince d'Ardea seated on a couch, continued: "Has what I toldyou a few weeks since been realized? You do not know all the irony ofit. You have not assisted, as I did the day before yesterday, at thepoor girl's baptism. " "It is true, " replied Julien, "you were godmother. I dreamed of LeoThirteenth as godfather, with a princess of the house of Bourbon asgodmother. Hafner's triumph would have been complete!" "He had to content himself with his ambassador and your servant, "replied Alba with a faint smile, which was speedily converted intoan expression of bitterness. "Are you satisfied with your pupil?" sheadded. "I am progressing. .. . I laugh--when I wish to weep. .. . But youyourself would not have laughed had you seen the fervor of charmingFanny. She was the picture of blissful faith. Do not scoff at her. " "And where did the ceremony take place?" asked Dorsenne, obeying thealmost suppliant injunction. "In the chapel of the Dames du Cenacle. " "I know the place, " replied the novelist, "one of the most beautifulcorners of Rome! It is in the old Palais Piancini, a large mansionalmost opposite the 'Calcographie Royale', where they sell thosefantastic etchings of the great Piranese, those dungeons and those ruinsof so intense a poesy! It is the Gaya of stone. There is a garden on theterrace. And to ascend to the chapel one follows a winding staircase, anincline without steps, and one meets nuns in violet gowns, with facesso delicate in the white framework of their bonnets. In short, an idealretreat for one of my heroines. My old friend Montfanon took me there. As we ascended to that tower, six weeks ago, we heard the shrill voicesof ten little girls, singing: 'Questo cuor tu la vedrai'. It was aprocession of catechists, going in the opposite direction, withtapers which flickered dimly in the remnant of daylight. .. . It wasexquisite. .. . But, now permit me to laugh at the thought of Montfanon'scholer when I relate to him this baptism. If I knew where to findthe old leaguer! But he has been hiding since our duel. He is in someretreat doing penance. As I have already told you, the world for himhas not stirred since Francois de Guise. He only admits the alms ofthe Protestants and the Jews. When Monseigneur Guerillot tells him ofFanny's religious aspirations, he raves immoderately. Were she tocast herself to the lions, like Saint Blandine, he would still cry out'sacrilege. '" "He did not see her the day before yesterday, " said Alba, "nor theexpression upon her face when she recited the Credo. I do not believe inmysticism, you know, and I have moments of doubt. There are times whenI can no longer believe in anything, life seems to me so wretchedand sad. .. . But I shall never forget that expression. She saw God!. .. Several women were present with very touching faces, and there weremany devotees. .. . The Cardinal is very venerable. .. . All were by Fanny'sside, like saints around the Madonna in the early paintings which youhave taught me to like, and when the baptism had been gone through, guess what she said to me: 'Come, let us pray for my dear father, andfor his conversion. ' Is not such blindness melancholy. " "The fact is, " said Dorsenne again, jocosely, "that in the father'sdictionary the word has another meaning: Conversion, femininesubstantive, means to him income. .. . But let us reason a little, Countess. Why do you think it sad that the daughter should see herfather's character in her own light?. .. You should, on the contrary, rejoice at it. .. . And why do you find it melancholy that this adorablesaint should be the daughter of a thief?. .. How I wish that you werereally my pupil, and that it would not be too absurd to give you here, in this corner of the hall, a lesson in intellectuality!. .. I would sayto you, when you see one of those anomalies which renders you indignant, think of the causes. It is so easy. Although Protestant, Fanny isof Jewish origin--that is to say, the descendant of a persecutedrace--which in consequence has developed by the side of the inherentdefects of a proscribed people the corresponding virtues, the devotion, the abnegation of the woman who feels that she is the grace of athreatened hearth, the sweet flower which perfumes the sombre prison. " "It is all beautiful and true, " replied Alba, very seriously. She hadhung upon Dorsenne's lips while he spoke, with the instinctive taste forideas of that order which proved her veritable origin. "But you donot mention the sorrow. This is what one can not do--look upon as atapestry, as a picture, as an object; the creature who has not asked tolive and who suffers. You, who have feeling, what is your theory whenyou weep?" "I can very clearly foresee the day on which Fanny will feel hermisfortune, " continued the young girl. "I do not know when she willbegin to judge her father, but that she already begins to judge Ardea, alas, I am only too sure. .. . Watch her at this moment, I pray you. " Dorsenne indeed looked at the couple. Fanny was listening to the Prince, but with a trace of suffering upon her beautiful face, so pure inoutline that the nobleness in it was ideal. He was laughing at some anecdote which he thought excellent, andwhich clashed with the sense of delicacy of the person to whom he wasaddressing himself. They were no longer the couple who, in the earlydays of their betrothal, had given to Julien the sentiment of a completeillusion on the part of the young girl for her future husband. "You are right, Contessina, " said he, "the decrystallization hascommenced. It is a little too soon. " "Yes, it is too soon, " replied Alba. "And yet it is too late. Would youbelieve that there are times when I ask myself if it would not be myduty to tell her the truth about her marriage, such as I know it, withthe story of the weak man, the forced sale, and of the bargaining ofArdea?" "You will not do it, " said Dorsenne. "Moreover, why? This one oranother, the man who marries her will only want her money, rest assured. It is necessary that the millions be paid for here below, it is one oftheir ransoms. .. . But I shall cause you to be scolded by your mother, for I am monopolizing you, and I have still two calls to pay thisevening. " "Well, postpone them, " said Alba. "I beseech you, do not go. " "I must, " replied Julien. "It is the last Wednesday of old DuchessPietrapertosa, and after her grandson's recent kindness--" "She is so ugly, " said Alba, "will you sacrifice me to her?" "Then there is my compatriot, who goes away tomorrow and of whom I musttake leave this evening, Madame de Sauve, with whom you met me at themuseum. .. . You will not say she is ugly, will you?" "No, " responded Alba, dreamily, "she is very pretty. ". .. . She hadanother prayer upon her lips, which she did not formulate. Then, witha beseeching glance: "Return, at least. Promise me that you will returnafter your two visits. They will be over in an hour and a half. It willnot be midnight. You know some do not ever come before one and sometimestwo o'clock. You will return?" "If possible, yes. But at any rate, we shall meet to-morrow, at thestudio, to see the portrait. " "Then, adieu, " said the young girl, in a low voice. CHAPTER X. COMMON MISERY The Contessina's disposition was too different from her mother's for themother to comprehend that heart, the more contracted in proportion as itwas touched, while emotion was synonymous with expansion in the opulentand impulsive Venetian. That evening she had not even observed Alba'sdreaminess, Dorsenne once gone, and it required that Hafner shouldcall her attention to it. To the scheming Baron, if the novelistwas attentive to the young girl it was certainly with the object ofcapturing a considerable dowry. Julien's income of twenty-five thousandfrancs meant independence. The two hundred and fifty thousand francswhich Alba would have at her mother's death was a very large fortune. So Hafner thought he would deserve the name of "old friend, " by takingMadame Steno aside and saying to her: "Do you not think Alba has been a little strange for several days!" "She has always been so, " replied the Countess. "Young people are likethat nowadays; there is no more youth. " "Do you not think, " continued the Baron, "that perhaps there is anothercause for that sadness--some interest in some one, for example?" "Alba?" exclaimed the mother. "For whom?" "For Dorsenne, " returned Hafner, lowering his voice; "he just left fiveminutes ago, and you see she is no longer interested in anything nor inany one. " "Ah, I should be very much pleased, " said Madame Steno, laughing. "He isa handsome fellow; he has talent, fortune. He is the grand-nephew of ahero, which is equivalent to nobility, in my opinion. But Alba hasno thought of it, I assure you. She would have told me; she tells meeverything. We are two friends, almost two comrades, and she knowsI shall leave her perfectly free to choose. .. . No, my old friend, Iunderstand my daughter. Neither Dorsenne nor any one else interests her, unfortunately. I sometimes fear she will go into a decline, like hercousin Andryana Navagero, whom she resembles. .. . But I must cheer herup. It will not take long. " "A Dorsenne for a son-in-law!" said Hafner to himself, as he watched theCountess walk toward Alba through the scattered groups of her guests, and he shook his head, turning his eyes with satisfaction upon hisfuture son-in-law. "That is what comes of not watching one's childrenclosely. One fancies one understands them until some folly opens one'seyes!. .. And, it is too late!. .. Well, I have warned her, and it is noaffair of mine!" In spite of Fanny's observed and increasing vexation Ardea amusedhimself by relating to her anecdotes, more or less true, of thegoings-on in the Vatican. He thus attempted to abate a Catholicenthusiasm at which he was already offended. His sense of the ridiculousand that of his social interest made him perceive how absurd it would beto go into clerical society after having taken for a wife a millionaireconverted the day before. To be just, it must be added that theCountess's dry champagne was not altogether irresponsible for thepersistency with which he teased his betrothed. It was not the firsttime he had indulged in the semi-intoxication which had been one of thesins of his youth, a sin less rare in the southern climates than themodesty of the North imagines. "You come opportunely, Contessina, " said he, when Mademoiselle Steno hadseated herself upon the couch beside them. "Your friend is scandalizedby a little story I have just told her. .. . The one of the noble guardwho used the telephone of the Vatican this winter to appoint rendezvouswith Guilia Rezzonico without awakening the jealousy of Ugolino. .. . Butit is nothing. I have almost quarrelled with Fanny for having revealedto her that the Holy Father repeated his benediction in Chapel Sixtine, with a singing master, like a prima donna. .. . " "I have already told you that I do not like those jests, " said Fanny, with visible irritation, which her patience, however, governed. "If youdesire to continue them, I will leave you to converse with Alba. " "Since you see that you annoy her, " said the latter to the Prince, "change the subject. " "Ah, Contessina, " replied Peppino, shaking his head, "you supporther already. What will it be later? Well, I apologize for my innocentepigrams on His Holiness in his dressing-gown. And, " he continued, laughing, "it is a pity, for I have still two or three entertainingstories, notably one about a coffer filled with gold pieces, which afaithful bequeathed to the Pope. And that poor, dear man was about tocount them when the coffer slipped from his hand, and there was theentire treasure on the floor, and the Pope and a cardinal on all fourswere scrambling for the napoleons, when a servant entered. .. . Tableau!. .. . I assure you that good Pius IX would be the first to laugh with usat all the Vatican jokes. He is not so much 'alla mano'. But he is aholy man just the same. Do not think I do not render him justice. Only, the holy man is a man, and a good old man. That is what you do not wishto see. " "Where are you going?" said Alba to Fanny, who had risen as she hadthreatened to do. "To talk with my father, to whom I have several words to say. " "I warned you to change the subject, " said Alba, when she and the Princewere alone. Ardea, somewhat abashed, shrugged his shoulders and laughed: "You will confess that the situation is quite piquant, littleCountess. .. . You will see she will forbid me to go to the Quirinal. .. . Only one thing will be lacking, and it is that Papa Hafner shoulddiscover religious scruples which would prevent him from greeting theKing. .. . But Fanny must be appeased!" "My God!" said Alba to herself, seeing the young man rise in his turn. "I believe he is intoxicated. What a pity!" As have almost all revolutions of that order, the work of Christianity, accomplished for years, in Fanny had for its principle an example. The death of a friend, the sublime death of a true believer, ended bydetermining her faith. She saw the dying woman receive the sacrament, and the ineffable joy of the benediction upon the face of the suffererof twenty lighted up by ecstasy. She heard her say, with a smile ofconviction: "I go to ask you of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. " How could she have resisted such a cry and such a sight? The very day after that death she asked of her father permission to bebaptized, which request drew from the Baron a reply too significant notto be repeated here: "Undoubtedly, " had replied the surprising man, who instead of a heart, had a Bourse list on which all was tariffed, even God, "undoubtedly Iam touched, very deeply touched, and very happy to see that religiousmatters preoccupy you to such a degree. To the people it is a necessarycurb, and to us it accords with a certain rank, a certain society, acertain deportment. I think that a person called like you to live inAustria and in Italy should be a Catholic. However, it is necessary toremember that you might marry some one of another faith. Do notobject. I am your father. I can foresee all. I know you will marry onlyaccording to the dictates of your heart. Wait then until it has spoken, to settle the question. .. . If you love a Catholic, you will then haveoccasion to pay a compliment to your betrothed by adopting his faith, of which he will be very sensible. .. . From now until then, I shall notprevent you from following ceremonies which please you. Those of theRoman liturgy are, assuredly, among the best; I myself attended SaintPeter's at the time of the pontifical government. .. . The taste, themagnificence, the music, all moved me. .. . But to take a definite, irreparable step, I repeat, you must wait. Your actual condition of aProtestant has the grand sentiment of being more neutral, less defined. " What words to listen to by a heart already touched by the attraction of'grace and by the nostalgia of eternal life! But the heart was that ofa young girl very pure and very tender. To judge her father was to herimpossible, and the Baron's firmness had convinced her that she mustobey his wishes and pray that he be enlightened. She therefore waited, hoping, sustained and directed meanwhile by Cardinal Guerillot, who later on was to baptize her and to obtain for her the favor ofapproaching the holy table for the first time at the Pope's mass. Thatprelate, one of the noblest figures of which the French bishopric hashad cause to be proud, since Monseigneur Pie, was one of those grandChristians for whom the hand of God is as visible in the direction ofhuman beings as it is invisible to doubtful souls. When Fanny, alreadydevoted to her charities, confided in him the serious troubles of hermind and the discord which had arisen between her and her father on theso essential point of her baptism, the Cardinal replied: "Have faith in God. He will give you a sign when your time has come. "And he uttered those words with an accent whose conviction had filledthe young girl with a certainty which had never left her. In spite of his seventy years, and of the experiences of the confession, in spite of the disenchanting struggle with the freemasonry of hisFrench diocese, which had caused his exile to Rome, the venerable manlooked at Fanny's marriage from a supernatural standpoint. Many priestsare thus capable of a naivete which, on careful analysis, is oftenin the right. But at the moment the antithesis between the authenticreality and that which they believe, constitutes an irony almost absurd. When he had baptized Fanny, the old Bishop of Clermont was possessed bya joy so deep that he said to her, to express to her the more delicatelythe tender respect of his friendship: "I can now say as did Saint Monica after the baptism of Saint Augustine:'Cur hic sim, nescio; jam consumpta spe hujus saeculi'. I do not knowwhy I remain here below. All my hope of the age is consummated. And likeher I can add--the only thing which made me desire to remain awhile wasto see you a Catholic before dying. The traveller, who has tarried, hasnow nothing to do but to go. He has gathered the last and the prettiestflower. ". .. . Noble and faithful apostle, who was indeed to go so shortly after, meriting what they said of him, that which the African bishop saidof his mother: "That religious soul was at length absolved from herbody. ". .. . He did not anticipate that he would pay dearly for thatrealization of his last wish! He did not foresee that she whom heingenuously termed his most beautiful flower was to become to him theprincipal cause of bitter sorrow. Poor, grand Cardinal! It was the finaltrial of his life, the supremely bitter drop in his chalice, to assistat the disenchantment which followed so closely upon the blissfulintoxication of his gentle neophyte's first initiation. To whom, ifnot to him, should she have gone to ask counsel, in all the tormentingdoubts which she at once began to have in her feelings with regard toher fiance? It was, therefore, that on the day following the evening on whichimprudent Ardea had jested so persistently upon a subject sacred to herthat she rang at the door of the apartment which Monseigneur Guerillotoccupied in the large mansion on Rue des Quatre-Fontaines. There wasno question of incriminating the spirit of those pleasantries, nor ofrelating her humiliating observations on the Prince's intoxication. No. She wished to ease her mind, on which rested a shade of sorrow. At thetime of her betrothal, she had fancied she loved Ardea, for the emotionof her religious life at length freed had inspired her with gratitudefor him who was, however, only the pretext of that exemption. Shetrembled to-day, not only at not loving him any more, but at hating him, and above all she felt herself a prey to that repugnance for the uselesscares of the world, to that lassitude of transitory hopes, to thatnostalgia of repose in God, undeniable signs of true vocations. At the thought that she might, if she survived her father and sheremained free, retire to the 'Dames du Cenacle, ' she felt at herapproaching marriage an inward repugnance, which augmented still morethe proof of her future husband's deplorable character. Had she theright to form such bonds with such feelings? Would it be honorableto break, without further developments, the betrothal which had beenbetween her and her father the condition of her baptism? She was alreadythere, after so few days! And her wound was deeper after the night onwhich the Prince had, uttered his careless jests. "It is permitted you to withdraw, " replied Monsieur Guerillot, "but youare not permitted to lack charity in your judgment. " There was within Fanny too much sincerity, her faith was too simple andtoo deep for her not to follow out that advice to the letter, and sheconformed to it in deeds as well as in intentions. For, before takinga walk in the afternoon with Alba, she took the greatest care to removeall traces which the little scene of the day before could have left inher friend's mind. Her efforts went very far. She would ask pardon ofher fiance. .. . Pardon! For what? For having been wounded by him, woundedto the depths of her sensibility? She felt that the charity of judgmentrecommended by the pious Cardinal was a difficult virtue. It exercisesa discipline of the entire heart, sometimes irreconcilable with theclearness of the intelligence. Alba looked at her friend with a glancefull of an astonishment, almost sorrowful, and she embraced her, saying: "Peppino is not worthy even to kiss the ground on which you tread, thatis my opinion, and if he does not spend his entire life in trying to beworthy of you, it will be a crime. " As for the Prince himself, the impulses which dictated to his fianceewords of apology when he was in the wrong, were not unintelligible tohim, as they would have been to Hafner. He thought that the latter hadlectured his daughter, and he congratulated himself on having cut shortat once that little comedy of exaggerated religious feeling. "Never mind that, " said he, with condescension, "it is I who have failedin form. For at heart you have always found me respectful of that whichmy fathers respected. But times have changed, and certain fanaticismsare no longer admissible. That is what I have wished to say to you insuch a manner that you could take no offence. " And he gallantly kissed Fanny's tiny hand, not divining that he hadredoubled the melancholy of that too-generous child. The discordcontinued to be excessive between the world of ideas in which she movedand that in which the ruined Prince existed. As the mystics say with somuch depth, they were not of the same heaven. Of all the chimeras which had lasted hours, God alone remained. Itsufficed the noble creature to say: "My father is so happy, I will notmar his joy. " "I will do my duty toward my husband. I will be so good a wife that Iwill transform him. He has religion. He has heart. It will be my role tomake of him a true Christian. And then I shall have my children andthe poor. " Such were the thoughts which filled the mind of the enviedbetrothed. For her the journals began to describe the dresses alreadyprepared, for her a staff of tailors, dressmakers, needlewomen andjewellers were working; she would have on her contract the samesignature as a princess of the blood, who would be a princess herselfand related to one of the most glorious aristocracies in the world. Suchwere the thoughts she would no doubt have through life, as she walkedin the garden of the Palais Castagna, that historical garden in whichis still to be seen a row of pear-trees, in the place where Sixte-Quint, near death, gathered some fruit. He tasted it, and he said to CardinalCastagna--playing on their two names, his being Peretti--"The pears arespoiled. The Romans have had enough. They will soon eat chestnuts. " Thatfamily anecdote enchanted Justus Hafner. It seemed to him full of themost delightful humor. He repeated it to his colleagues at the club, to his tradesmen, to it mattered not whom. He did not even mistrustDorsenne's irony. "I met Hafner this morning on the Corso, " said the latter to Alba at oneof the soirees at the end of the month, "and I had my third edition ofthe pleasantry on the pears and chestnuts. And then, as we took a fewsteps in the same direction, he pointed out to me the Palais Bonaparte, saying, 'We are also related to them. '. .. . Which means that agrand-nephew of the Emperor married a cousin of Peppino. .. . I swear hethinks he is related to Napoleon!. .. He is not even proud of it. TheBonapartes are nowhere when it is a question of nobility!. .. I await thetime when he will blush. " "And I the time when he will be punished as he deserves, " interruptedAlba Steno, in a mournful voice. "He is insolently triumphant. But no. . .. . He will succeed. .. . If it be true that his fortune is one immensetheft, think of those he has ruined. In what can they believe in theface of his infamous happiness?" "If they are philosophers, " replied Dorsenne, laughing still more gayly, "this spectacle will cause them to meditate on the words uttered by oneof my friends: 'One can not doubt the hand of God, for it created theworld. ' Do you remember a certain prayer-book of Montluc's?" "The one which your friend Montfanon bought to vex the poor littlething?" "Precisely. The old-leaguer has returned it to Ribalta; the latter toldme so yesterday; no doubt in a spirit of mortification. I say nodoubt for I have not seen the poor, dear man since the duel, which hisimpatience toward Ardea and Hafner rendered in evitable. He retired, Iknow not for how many days, to the convent of Mount Olivet, near Sienna, where he has a friend, one Abbe de Negro, of whom he always speaks asof a saint. I learned, through Rebalta, that he has returned, but isinvisible. I tried to force an entrance. In short, the volume isagain in the shop of the curiosity-seeker in the Rue Borgognona, ifMademoiselle Hafner still wants it!" "What good fortune!" exclaimed Fanny, with a sparkle of delight in hereyes. "I did not know what present to offer my dear Cardinal. Shall wemake the purchase at once?" "Montluc's prayer-book?" repeated old Ribalta, when the two young ladieshad alighted from the carriage before his small book-shop, more dusty, more littered than ever with pamphlets, in which he still was, with hisface more wrinkled, more wan and more proud, peering from beneath hisbroad-brimmed hat, which he did not raise. "How do you know it is here?Who has told you? Are there spies everywhere?" "It was Monsieur Dorsenne, one of Monsieur de Montfanon's friends, " saidFanny, in her gentle voice. "Sara sara, " replied the merchant with his habitual insolence, and, opening the drawer of the chest in which he kept the most incongruoustreasures, he drew from it the precious volume, which he held towardthem, without giving it up. Then he began a speech, which reproduced thedetails given by Montfanon himself. "Ah, it is very authentic. Thereis an indistinct but undeniable signature. I have compared it with thatwhich is preserved in the archives of Sienna. It is Montluc's writing, and there is his escutcheon with the turtles. .. . Here, too, are thehalf-moons of the Piccolomini. .. . This book has a history. .. . " "The Marshal gave it, after the famous siege, to one of the members ofthat illustrious family. And it was for one of the descendants that Iwas commissioned to buy it. .. . They will not give it up for less thantwo thousand francs. " "What a cheat!" said Alba to her companion, in English. "Dorsenne toldme that Monsieur de Monfanon bought it for four hundred. " "Are you sure?" asked Fanny, who, on receiving a reply in theaffirmative, addressed the bookseller, with the same gentleness, butwith reproach in her accent: "Two thousand francs, Monsieur Ribalta? Butit is not a just price, since you sold it to Monsieur de Montfanon forone-fifth of that sum. " "Then I am a liar and a thief, " roughly replied the old man; "a thiefand a liar, " he repeated. "Four hundred francs! You wish to have thisbook for four hundred francs? I wish Monsieur de Montfanon was here totell you how much I asked him for it. " The old bookseller smiled cruelly as he replaced the prayerbook in thedrawer, the key of which he turned, and turning toward the two younggirls, whose delicate beauty, heightened by their fine toilettes, contrasted so delightfully with the sordid surroundings, he envelopedthem with a glance so malicious that they shuddered and instinctivelydrew nearer one another. Then the bookseller resumed, in a voice hoarserand deeper than ever: "If you wish to spend four hundred francs I havea volume which is worth it, and which I propose to take to the PalaisSavorelli one of these days. .. . Ha, ha! It must be one of the verylast, for the Baron has bought them all. " In uttering, those enigmaticalwords, he opened the cup board which formed the lower part of the chest, and took from one of the shelves a book wrapped in a newspaper. He thenunfolded the journal, and, holding the volume in his enormous hand withhis dirty nails, he disclosed the title to the two young girls: 'Hafnerand His Band; Some Reflections on the Scandalous Acquittal. By aShareholder. ' It was a pamphlet, at that date forgotten, but whichcreated much excitement at one time in the financial circles ofParis, of London and of Berlin, having been printed at once in threelanguages--in French, in German and in English--on the day after thesuit of the 'Credit Austro Dalmate. ' The dealer's chestnut-coloredeyes twinkled with a truly ferocious joy as he held out the volume andrepeated: "It is worth four hundred francs. " "Do not read that book, Fanny, " said Alba quickly, after having read thetitle of the work, and again speaking in English; "it is one of thosebooks with which one should not even pollute one's thoughts. " "You may keep the book, sir, " she continued, "since you have madeyourself the accomplice of those who have written it, by speculating onthe fear you hoped it would inspire. Mademoiselle Hafner has known of itlong, and neither she nor her father will give a centime. " "Very well! So much the better, so much the better, " said Ribalta, wrapping up his volume again; "tell your father I will keep it at hisservice. " "Ah, the miserable man!" said Alba, when Fanny and she had left the shopand reentered the carriage. "To dare to show you that!" "You saw, " replied Fanny, "I was so surprised I could not utter a word. That the man should offer me that infamous work is very impertinent. My father?. .. You do not know his scrupulousness in business. It is thehonor of his profession. There is not a sovereign in Europe who has notgiven him a testimonial. " That impassioned protestation was so touching, the generous child'sillusion was so sincere, that Alba pressed her hand with a deepertenderness. When Alba found herself that evening with her friendDorsenne, who again dined at Madame Steno's, she took him aside torelate to him the tragical scene, and to ask him: "Have you seen thatpamphlet?" "To-day, " said the writer. "Montfanon, whom I have found at length, hasjust bought one of the two copies which Ribalta received lately. Theold leaguer believes everything, you know, when a Hafner is in thequestion. .. . I am more skeptical in the bad as well as in the good. Itwas only the account given by the trial which produced any impression onme, for that is truth. " "But he was acquitted. " "Yes, " replied Dorsenne, "though it is none the less true that he ruinedhundreds and hundreds of persons. " "Then, by the account given you of the case, it is clear to you that heis dishonest, " interrupted Alba. "As clear as that you are here, Contessina, " replied Dorsenne, "if tosteal means to plunder one's neighbors and to escape justice. But thatwould be nothing. The sinister corner in this affair is the suicide ofone Schroeder, a brave citizen of Vienna, who knew our Baron intimately, and who invested, on the advice of his excellent friend, his entirefortune, three hundred thousand florins, in the scheme. He lost them, and, in despair, killed himself, his wife, and their three children. " "My God!" cried Alba, clasping her hands. "And Fanny might have readthat letter in the book. " "Yes, " continued Julien, "and all the rest with proof in support ofit. But rest assured, she shall not have the volume. I will go to thatanarchist of a Ribalta to-morrow and I will buy the last copy, if Hafnerhas not already bought it. " Notwithstanding his constant affectation of irony, and, notwithstanding, his assumption of intellectual egotism, Julien was obliging. He neverhesitated to render any one a service. He had not told his little friendan untruth when he promised her to buy the dangerous work, and thefollowing morning he turned toward the Rue Borgognona, furnished withthe twenty louis demanded by the bookseller. Imagine his feelings whenthe latter said to him: "It is too late, Monsieur Dorsenne. The young lady was here last night. She pretended not to prefer one volume to the other. It was to bargain, no doubt. Ha, ha! But she had to pay the price. I would have asked thefather more. One owes some consideration to a young girl. " "Wretch!" exclaimed the novelist. "And you can jest after havingcommitted that Judas-like act! To inform a child of her father'smisdeeds, when she is ignorant of them!. .. Never, do you hear, neverany more will Monsieur de Montfanon and I set foot in your shop, norMonseigneur Guerillot, nor any of the persons of my acquaintance. Iwill tell the whole world of your infamy. I will write it, and it shallappear in all the journals of Rome. I will ruin you, I will force you toclose this dusty old shop. " During the entire day, Dorsenne vainly tried to shake off the weightof melancholy which that visit to the brigand of the Rue Borgognona hadleft upon his heart. On crossing, at nine o'clock, the threshold of the Villa Steno to givean account of his mission to the Contessina, he was singularly moved. There was no one there but the Maitlands, two tourists and two Englishdiplomatists, on their way to posts in the East. "I was awaiting you, " said Alba to her friend, as soon as she couldspeak with him in a corner of the salon. "I need your advice. Last nighta tragical incident took place at the Hafner's. " "Probably, " replied Dorsenne. "Fanny has bought Ribalta's book. " "She has bought the book!" said Alba, changing color and trembling. "Ah, the unhappy girl; the other thing was not sufficient!" "What other thing?" questioned Julien. "You remember, " said the young girl, "that I told you of that NoeAncona, the agent who served Hafner as a tool in selling up Ardea, andin thus forcing the marriage. Well, it seems this personage did notthink himself sufficiently well-paid for his complicity. He demanded ofthe Baron a large sum, with which to found some large swindling scheme, which the latter refused point-blank. The other threatened to relatetheir little dealing to Ardea, and he did so. " "And Peppino was angry?" asked Dorsenne, shaking his head. "That is notlike him. " "Indignant or not, " continued Alba, "last night he went to the PalaisSavorelli to make a terrible scene with his future father-in-law. " "And to obtain an increase of dowry, " said Julian. "He was not by any means tactful, then, " replied Alba, "for even in thepresence of Fanny, who entered in the midst of their conversation, hedid not pause. Perhaps he had drunk a little more than he could stand, which has of late become common with him. But, you see, the poor childwas initiated into the abominable bargain with regard to her future, toher happiness, and if she has read the book, too! It is too dreadful!" "What a violent scene!" exclaimed Dorsenne. "So the engagement has beenbroken off?" "Not officially. Fanny is ill in bed from the excitement. Ardea camethis morning to see my mother, who has also seen Hafner. She hasreconciled them by proving to them, which she thinks true, that theyhave a common interest in avoiding all scandal, and arranging matters. But it rests with the poor little one. Mamma wished me to go, thisafternoon, to beseech her to reconsider her resolution. For she has toldher father she never wishes to hear the Prince's voice again. I haverefused. Mamma insists. Am I not right?" "Who knows?" replied Julien. "What would be her life alone with herfather, now that her illusions with regard to him have been swept away?" The touching scene had indeed taken place, and less than twenty-fourhours after the novelist had thus expressed to himself the regret of notassisting at it. Only he was mistaken as to the tenor of the dialogue, in a manner which proved that the subtlety of intelligence will neverdivine the simplicity of the heart. The most dolorous of all moraltragedies knit and unknit the most often in silence. It was inthe afternoon, toward six o'clock, that a servant came to announceMademoiselle Hafner's visit to the Contessina, busy at that momentreading for the tenth time the 'Eglogue Mondaine, ' that delicate storyby Dorsenne. When Fanny entered the room, Alba could see what a trialher charming god-daughter of the past week had sustained, by thesurprising and rapid alteration in that expressive and noble visage. Shetook her hand at first without speaking to her, as if she was entirelyignorant of the cause of her friend's real indisposition. She then said: "How pleased I am to see you! Are you better?" "I have never been ill, " replied Fanny, who did not know how to tell anuntruth. "I have had pain, that is all. " Looking at Alba, as if to begher to ask no question, she added: "I have come to bid you adieu. " "You are going away?" asked the Contessina. "Yes, " said Fanny, "I amgoing to spend the summer at one of our estates in Styria. " And, ina low voice: "Has your mother told you that my engagement is broken?""Yes, " replied Alba, and both were again silent. After several momentsFanny was the first to ask: "And how shall you spend your summer?"--"Weshall go to Piove, as usual, " was Alba's answer. "Perhaps Dorsenne willbe there, and the Maitlands will surely be. " A third pause ensued. They gazed at one another, and, without uttering another word, theydistinctly read one another's hearts. The martyrdom they suffered was sosimilar, they both knew it to be so like, that they felt the samepity possess them at the same moment. Forced to condemn with the mostirrevocable condemnation, the one her father, the other, her mother, each felt attracted toward the friend, like her, unhappy, and, fallinginto one another's arms, they both sobbed. CHAPTER XI. THE LAKE DI PORTO Her friend's tears had relieved sad Alba's heart while she held thatfriend in her arms, quivering with sorrow and pity; but when she wasgone, and Madame Steno's daughter was alone, face to face with herthoughts, a greater distress seized her. The pity which her companion inmisery had shown for her--was it not one more proof that she was rightin mistrusting her mother? Alas! The miserable child did not know thatwhile she was plunged in despair, there was in Rome and in her immediatevicinity a creature bent upon realizing a mad vow. And that creature wasthe same who had not recoiled before the infamy of an anonymous letter, pretty and sinister Lydia Maitland--that delicate, that silent youngwoman with the large brown eyes, always smiling, always impenetrable inthe midst of that dull complexion which no emotion, it seemed, had evertinged. The failure of her first attempt had exasperated her hatredagainst her husband and against the Countess to the verge of fury, but aconcentrated fury, which was waiting for another occasion to strike, forweeks, patiently, obscurely. She had thought to wreak her vengeance bythe return of Gorka, and in what had it ended? In freeing Lincoln froma dangerous rival and in imperilling the life of the only being for whomshe cared! The sojourn at the country-seat of her husband's mistress exasperatedLydia's hidden anger. She suffered so that she cried aloud, like animprisoned animal beating against the bars, when she pictured to herselfthe happiness which the two lovers would enjoy in the intimacy of thevilla, with the beauties of the Venetian scenery surrounding them. Nodoubt the wife could provoke a scandal and obtain a divorce, thanks toproofs as indisputable as those with which she had overwhelmed Maud. It would be sufficient to carry to a lawyer the correspondence in theSpanish escritoire. But of what use? She would not be avenged on herhusband, to whom a divorce would be a matter of indifference now that heearned as much money as he required, and she would lose her brother. Invain Lydia told herself that, warned as Alba had been by her letter, herdoubt of Madame Steno's misconduct would no longer be impossible. Shewas convinced by innumerable trifling signs that the Contessina stilldoubted, and then she concluded: "It is there that the blow must be struck. But how?" Yes. How? There was at the service of hatred in that delicate woman, inappearance oblivious of worldliness, that masculine energy in decisionwhich is to be found in all families of truly military origin. The bloodof Colonel Chapron stirred within her and gave her the desire to act. Bydint of pondering upon those reasonings, Lydia ended by elaborating oneof those plans of a simplicity really infernal, in which she revealedwhat must be called the genius of evil, for there was so much clearnessin the conception and of villainy in the execution. She assured herselfthat it was unnecessary to seek any other stage than the studio forthe scene she meditated. She knew too well the fury of passion by whichMadame Steno was possessed to doubt that, as soon as she was alonewith Lincoln, she did not refuse him those kisses of which theircorrespondence spoke. The snare to be laid was very simple. It requiredthat Alba and Lydia should be in some post of observation while thelovers believed themselves alone, were it only for a moment. Theposition of the places furnished the formidable woman with the means ofobtaining the place of espionage in all security. Situated on the secondfloor, the studio occupied most of the depth of the house. The wall, which separated it from the side of the apartments, ended in a partitionformed of colored glass, through which it was impossible to see. Thatglass lighted a dark corridor adjoining the linen-room. Lydia employedseveral hours of several nights in cutting with a diamond a hole, thesize of a fifty centime-piece, in one of those unpolished squares. Her preparations had been completed several days when, notwithstandingher absence of scruple in the satiating of her hatred, she stillhesitated to employ that mode of vengeance, so much atrocious crueltywas there in causing a daughter to spy upon her mother. It was Albaherself who kindled the last spark of humanity with which thatdark conscience was lighted up, and that by the most innocent ofconversations. It was the very evening of the afternoon on which she hadexchanged that sad adieu with Fanny Hafner. She was more unnerved thanusual, and she was conversing with Dorsenne in that corner of the longhall. They did not heed the fact that Lydia drew near them, by a simplechange of seat which permitted her, while herself conversing with someguest, to lend an ear to the words uttered by the Contessina. It was Florent who was the subject of their conversation, and she saidto Dorsenne, who was praising him: "What would you have? It is true I almost feel repulsion toward him. He is to me like a being of another species. His friendship for hisbrother-in-law? Yes. It is very beautiful, very touching; but it doesnot touch me. It is a devotion which is not human. It is too instinctiveand too blind. Indeed, I know that I am wrong. There is that prejudiceof race which I can never entirely overcome. " Dorsenne touched her fingers at that moment, under the pretext of takingfrom her her fan, in reality to warn her, and he said, in a very lowvoice that time: "Let us go a little farther on. Lydia Maitland is too near. " He fancied he surprised a start on the part of Florent's sister, at whomhe accidentally glanced, while his too-sensible interlocutor no longerwatched her! But as the pretty, clear laugh of Lydia rang out at thesame moment, imprudent Alba replied: "Fortunately, she has heard nothing. And see how one can speak oftrouble without mistrusting it. .. . I have just been wicked, " shecontinued, "for it is not their fault, neither Florent's nor hers, ifthere is a little negro blood in their veins, so much the more so asit is connected by the blood of a hero, and they are both perfectlyeducated, and what is better, perfectly good, and then I know very wellthat if there is a grand thought in this age it is to have proclaimedthat truly all men are brothers. " She had spoken in a lower voice, but too late. Moreover, even ifFlorent's sister could have heard those words, they would not havesufficed to heal the wound which the first ones had made in the mostsensitive part of her 'amour propre'! "And I hesitated, " said she to herself, "I thought of sparing her!" The following morning, toward noon, she found herself at the atelier, seated beside Madame Steno, while Lincoln gave to the portrait the lasttouches, and while Alba posed in the large armchair, absent and pale asusual. Florent Chapron, after having assisted at part of the sitting, left the room, leaning upon the crutch, which he still used. Hiswithdrawal seemed so propitious to Lydia that she resolved immediatelynot to allow such an opportunity to escape, and as if fatalityinterfered to render her work of infamy more easy, Madame Steno aidedher by suddenly interrupting the work of the painter who, after hardworking without speaking for half an hour, paused to wipe his forehead, on which were large drops of perspiration, so great was his excitement. "Come, my little Linco, " said she, with the affectionate solicitudeof an old mistress, "you must rest. For two hours you have not ceasedpainting, and such minute details. .. . It tires me merely to watch you. " "I am not at all tired, " replied Maitland, who, however, laid down hispalette and brush, and rolling a cigarette, lighted it, continuing, witha proud smile: "We have only that one superiority, we Americans, but wehave it--it is a power to apply ourselves which the Old World no longerknows. .. . It is for that reason that there are professions in which wehave no rivals. " "But see!" replied Lydia, "you have taken Alba for a Bostonian or a NewYorker, and you have made her pose so long that she is pale. She musthave a change. Come with me, dear, I will show you the costume they havesent me from Paris, and which I shall wear this afternoon to the gardenparty at the English embassy. " She forced Alba Steno to rise from the armchair as she uttered thosewords, then she entwined her arms about her waist to draw her away andkissed her. Ah, if ever a caress merited being compared to the hideousflattery of Iscariot, it was that, and the young girl might have repliedwith the sublime words: "Friend, why hast thou betrayed me by a kiss?"Alas! She believed in it, in the sincerity of that proof of affection, and she returned her false friend's kiss with a gratitude which did notsoften that heart saturated with hatred, for five minutes had not passedere Lydia had put into execution her hideous project. Under the pretextof reaching the liner-room more quickly, she took a servant's staircase, which led to that lobby with the glass partition, in which was theopening through which to look into the atelier. "This is very strange, " said she, pausing suddenly. And, pointing out toher innocent companion the round spot, she said: "Probably some servantwho has wished to eavesdrop. --But what for? You, who are tall, lookand see how it has been done and what it looks on. If it is a hole cutpurposely, I shall discover the culprit and he shall go. " Alba obeyed the perfidious request absently, and applied her eye to theaperture. The author of the anonymous letters had chosen her moment onlytoo well. As soon as the door of the studio was closed, the Countessrose to approach Lincoln. She entwined around the young man's neck herarms, which gleamed through the transparent sleeves of her summer gown, and she kissed with greedy lips his eyes and mouth. Lydia, who hadretained one of the girl's hands in hers, felt that hand trembleconvulsively. A hunter who hears rustle the foliage of the thicketthrough which should pass the game he is awaiting, does not experiencea joy more complete. Her snare was successful. She said to her unhappyvictim: "What ails you? How you tremble!" And she essayed to push her away in order to put herself in herplace. Alba, whom the sight of her mother embracing Lincoln with thosepassionate kisses inspired at that moment with an inexplicable horror, had, however, enough presence of mind in the midst of her sufferingto understand the danger of that mother whom she had surprised thus, clasping in the arms of a guilty mistress--whom?--the husband of thevery woman speaking to her, who asked her why she trembled with fear, who would look through that same hole to see that same tableau!. .. In order to prevent what she believed would be to Lydia a terriblerevelation, the courageous child had one of those desperate thoughtssuch as immediate peril inspires. With her free hand she struck theglass so violently that it was shivered into atoms, cutting her fingersand her wrist. Lydia exclaimed, angrily: "Miserable girl, you did that purposely!" The fierce creature as she uttered these words, rushed toward the largehole now made in the panel--too late! She only saw Lincoln erect in the centre of the studio, looking towardthe broken window, while the Countess, standing a few paces from him, exclaimed: "My daughter! What has happened to my daughter? I recognized her voice. " "Do not alarm yourself, " replied Lydia, with atrocious sarcasm. "Albabroke the pane to give you a warning. " "But, is she hurt?" asked the mother. "Very slightly, " replied the implacable woman with the same accent ofirony, and she turned again toward the Contessina with a glance of suchrancor that, even in the state of confusion in which the latter wasplunged by that which she had surprised, that glance paralyzed her withfear. She felt the same shudder which had possessed her dear friendMaud, in that same studio, in the face of the sinister depths of thatdark soul, suddenly exposed. She had not time to precisely define herfeelings, for already her mother was beside her, pressing her in herarms--in those very arms which Alba had just seen twined around the neckof a lover--while that same mouth showered kisses upon him. Themoral shock was so great that the young girl fainted. She regainedconsciousness and almost at once. She saw her mother as mad with anxietyas she had just seen her trembling with joy and love. She again sawLydia Maitland's eyes fixed upon them both with an expression toosignificant now. And, as she had had the presence of mind to save thatguilty mother, she found in her tenderness the strength to smile ather, to lie to her, to blind her forever as to the truth of that hideousscene which had just been enacted in that lobby. "I was frightened at the sight of my own blood, " said she, "and Ibelieve it is only a small cut. .. . See! I can move my hand withoutpain. " When the doctor, hastily summoned, had confirmed that no particles ofglass had remained in the cuts, the Countess felt so reassured that hergayety returned. Never had she been in a mood more charming than in thecarriage which took them to the Villa Steno. To a person obliged by proof to condemn another without ceasing tolove her, there is no greater sorrow than to perceive the absoluteunconsciousness of that other person and her serenity in her fault. PoorAlba, felt overwhelmed by a sadness greater, more depressing still, andwhich became materially insupportable, when, toward half-past two, hermother bade her farewell, although the fete at the English embassy didnot begin until five o'clock. "I promised poor Hafner to go to see him to-day. I know he is bowed downwith grief. I would like to try to arrange all. .. . I will send back thecarriage if you wish to go out awhile. I have telephoned Lydia to expectme at four o'clock. .. . She will take me. " She had, on detailing the employment so natural of her afternoon, eyestoo brilliant, a smile too happy. She looked too youthful in her lighttoilette. Her feet trembled with too nervous an impatience. How couldAlba not have felt that she was telling her an untruth? The undeceivedchild had the intuition that the visit to Fanny's father was only apretext. It was not the first time that the Countess employed it tofree herself from inconvenient surveillance, the act of sending backthe carriage, which, in Rome as in Paris, is always the probable sign ofclandestine meetings with women of their rank. It was not the firsttime that Alba was possessed by suspicion on certain mysteriousdisappearances of her mother. That mother did not mistrust that poorAlba--her Alba, the child so tenderly loved in spite of all--wassuffering at that very moment and on her account the most terrible oftemptations. .. . When the carriage had disappeared the fixed gaze of theyoung girl was turned upon the pavement, and then she felt arise inher a sudden, instinctive, almost irresistible idea to end the moralsuffering by which she was devoured. It was so simple!. .. It wassufficient to end life. One movement which she could make, one singlemovement--she could lean over the balustrade, against which her armrested, in a certain manner--so, a little more forward, a littlemore--and that suffering would be terminated. Yes, it would be so verysimple. She saw herself lying upon the pavement, her limbs broken, herhead crushed, dead--dead--freed! She leaned forward and was about toleap, when her eyes fell upon a person who was walking below, the sightof whom suddenly aroused her from the folly, the strange charm of whichhad just laid hold so powerfully upon her. She drew back. She rubbed hereyes with her hands, and she, who was accustomed to mystical enthusiasm, said aloud: "My God! You send him to me! I am saved. " And she summoned the footmanto tell him that if M. Dorsenne asked for her, he should be shown intoMadame Steno's small salon. "I am not at home to any one else, " sheadded. It was indeed Julien, whom she had seen approach the house at the veryinstant when she was only separated from the abyss by that last tremorof animal repugnance, which is found even in suicide of the most ardentkind. Do not madmen themselves choose to die in one manner rather thanin another? She paused several moments in order to collect herself. "Yes, " said she at length, to herself, "it is the only solution. I willfind out if he loves me truly. And if he does not?" She again looked toward the window, in order to assure herself that, in case that conversation did not end as she desired, the tragical andsimple means remained at her service by which to free herself from thatinfamous life which she surely could not bear. Julien began the conversation in his tone of sentimental raillery, sospeedily to be transformed into one of drama! He knew very well, onarriving at Villa Steno, that he was to have his last tete-a-tete withhis pretty and interesting little friend. For he had at length decidedto go away, and, to be more sure of not failing, he had engaged hissleeping-berth for that night. He had jested so much with love that heentered upon that conversation with a jest; when, having tried to takeAlba's hand to press a kiss upon it, he saw that it was bandaged. "What has happened to you, little Countess? Have my laurels or those ofFlorent Chapron prevented you from sleeping, that you are here withthe classical wrist of a duellist?. .. Seriously, how have you hurtyourself?" "I leaned against a window, which broke and the pieces of glass cut myfingers somewhat, " replied the young girl with a faint smile, adding:"It is nothing. " "What an imprudent child you are!" said Dorsenne in his tone of friendlyscolding. "Do you know that you might have severed an artery and havecaused a very serious, perhaps a fatal, hemorrhage?" "That would not have been such a great misfortune, " replied Alba, shaking her pretty head with an expression so bitter about her mouththat the young man, too, ceased smiling. "Do not speak in that tone, " said he, "or I shall think you did itpurposely. " "Purposely?" repeated the young girl. "Purposely? Why should I have doneit purposely?" And she blushed and laughed in the same nervous way she had laughedfifteen minutes before, when she looked down into the street. Dorsennefelt that she was suffering, and his heart contracted. The troubleagainst which he had struggled for several days with all the energyof an independent artist, and which for some time systematized hiscelibacy, again oppressed him. He thought it time to put between "folly"and him the irreparability of his categorical resolution. So he repliedto his little friend with his habitual gentleness, but in a tone offirmness, which already announced his determination: "I have again vexed you, Contessina, and you are looking at me with theglance of our hours of dispute. You will later regret having been unkindto-day. " As he pronounced those enigmatical words, she saw that he had in hiseyes and in his smile something different and indefinable. It must havebeen that she loved him still more than she herself believed as for asecond she forgot both her pain and her resolution, and she asked him, quickly: "You have some trouble? You are suffering? What is it?" "Nothing, " replied Dorsenne. "But time is flying, the minutes are goingby, and not only the minutes. There is an old and charming. French ode, which you do not know and which begins: 'Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, Madame. Las, le temps? Non. Mais nous nous en allons. '" "Which means, little Countess, in simple prose, that this is no doubtthe last conversation we shall have together this season, and that itwould be cruel to mar for me this last visit. " "Do I understand you aright?" said Alba. She, too, knew too wellJulien's way of speaking not to know that that mannerism, half-mocking, half-sentimental, always served him to prepare phrases more grave, and against the emotion of which her fear of appearing a dupe rose inadvance. She crossed her arms upon her breast, and after a pause shecontinued, in a grave voice: "You are going away?" "Yes, " he replied, and from his coat-pocket he partly drew his ticket. "You see I have acted like the poltroons who cast themselves into thewater. My ticket is bought, and I shall no longer hold that littlediscourse which I have held for months, that, 'Sir executioner, onemoment. .. . Du Barry'. " "You are going away?" repeated the young girl, who did not seem to haveheeded the jest by which Julien had concealed his own confusion at theeffect of his so abruptly announced departure. "I shall not see you anymore!. .. And if I ask you not to go yet? You have spoken to me of ourfriendship. .. . If I pray you, if I beseech you, in the name of thatfriendship, not to deprive me of it at this instant, when I have noone, when I am so alone, so horribly alone, will you answer no? You haveoften told me that you were my friend, my true friend? If it be true, you will not go. I repeat, I am alone, and I am afraid. " "Come, little Countess, " replied Dorsenne, who began to be terrifiedby the young girl's sudden excitement, "it is not reasonable to agitateyourself thus, because yesterday you had a very sad conversation withFanny Hafner! First, it is altogether impossible for me to defer mydeparture. You force me to give you coarse, almost commercial reasons. But my book is about to appear, and I must be there for the launching ofthe sale, of which I have already told you. And then you are going away, too. You will have all the diversions of the country, of your Venetianfriends and charming Lydia Maitland!" "Do not mention that name, " interrupted Alba, whose face becamediscomposed at the allusion to the sojourn at Piove. "You do not knowhow you pain me, nor what that woman is, what a monster of crueltyand of perfidy! Ask me no more. I shall tell you nothing. But, " theContessina that time clasping her hands, her poor, thin hands, whichtrembled with the anguish of the words she dared to utter, "do you notcomprehend that if I speak to you as I do, it is because I have need ofyou in order to live?" Then in a low voice, choked by emotion: "Itis because I love you!" All the modesty natural to a child of twentymounted to her pale face in a flood of purple, when she had uttered thatavowal. "Yes, I love you!" she repeated, in an accent as deep, but morefirm. "It is not, however, so common a thing to find real devotion, abeing who only asks to serve you, to be useful to you, to live in yourshadow. And you will understand that to have the right of giving youmy life, to bear your name, to be your wife, to follow you, I felt veryvividly in your presence at the moment I was about to lose you. Youwill pardon my lack of modesty for the first, for the last time. I havesuffered too much. " She ceased. Never had the absolute purity of the charming creature, bornand bred in an atmosphere of corruption, and remaining in the same sointact, so noble, so frank, flashed out as at that moment. All thatvirgin and unhappy soul was in her eyes which implored Julien, on herlips which trembled at having spoken thus, on her brow around whichfloated, like an aureole, the fair hair stirred by the breeze whichentered the open window. She had found the means of daring thatprodigious step, the boldest a woman can permit herself, still more soa young girl, with so chaste a simplicity that at that moment Dorsennewould not have dared to touch even the hand of that child who confidedherself to him so madly, so loyally. Dorsenne was undoubtedly greatly interested in her, with a curiosity, without enthusiasm, and against which a reaction had already set in. That touching speech, in which trembled a distress so tender and eachword of which later on made him weep with regret, produced upon himat that moment an impression of fear rather than love or pity. When atlength he broke the cruel silence, the sound of his voice revealed tothe unhappy girl the uselessness of that supreme appeal addressed by herto life. She had only kept, to exorcise the demon of suicide, her hope inthe heart of that man, and that heart, toward which she turned in soimmoderate a transport, drew back instead of responding. "Calm yourself, I beseech you, " said he to her. "You can understand thatI am very much moved, very much surprised, at what I have heard! I didnot suspect it. My God! How troubled you are. And yet, " he continuedwith more firmness, "I should despise myself were I to lie to you. Youhave been so loyal toward me. .. . To marry you? Ah, it would be themost delightful dream of happiness if that dream were not prevented byhonesty. Poor child, " and his voice sounded almost bitter, "you do notknow me. You do not know what a writer of my order is, and that to uniteyour destiny to mine would be for you martyrdom more severe than yourmoral solitude of to-day. You see, I came to your home with so much joy, because I was free, because each time I could say to myself that I neednot return again. Such a confession is not romantic. But it is thus. Ifthat relation became a bond, an obligation, a fixed framework in whichto move, a circle of habits in which to imprison me, I should only haveone thought--flight. An engagement for my entire life? No, no, I couldnot bear it. There are souls of passage as well as birds of passage, andI am one. You will understand it tomorrow, now, and you will rememberthat I have spoken to you as a man of honor, who would be miserable ifhe thought he had augmented, involuntarily, the sorrows of your lifewhen his only desire was to assuage them. My God! What is to be done?"he cried, on seeing, as he spoke, tears gush from the young girl's eyes, which she did not wipe away. "Go away, " she replied, "leave me. I do not want you. I am grateful toyou for not having deceived me. " "But your presence is too cruel. I am ashamed of having spoken to you, now that I know you do not love me. I have been mad, do not punish me byremaining longer. After the conversation we have just had, my honor willnot permit us to talk longer. " "You are right, " said Julien, after another pause. He took his hat, which he had placed upon a table at the beginning of that visit, so rapidly and abruptly terminated by a confession of sentiments sostrange. He said: "Then, farewell. " She inclined her fair head without replying. The door was closed. Alba Steno was again alone. Half an hour later, when the footman entered to ask for orders relative to the carriage sentback by the Countess, he found her standing motionless at the windowfrom which she had watched Dorsenne depart. There she had once morebeen seized by the temptation of suicide. She had again felt with anirresistible force the magnetic attraction of death. Life appeared toher once more as something too vile, too useless, too insupportable tobe borne. The carriage was at her disposal. By way of the Portese gateand along the Tiber, with the Countess's horses, it would take an hourand a half to reach the Lake di Porto. She had, too, this pretext, toavoid the curiosity of the servants: one of the Roman noblewomen of heracquaintance, Princess Torlonia, owned an isolated villa on the borderof that lake. .. . She ascended hastily to don her hat. And withoutwriting a word of farewell to any one, without even casting a glance atthe objects among which she had lived and suffered, she descended thestaircase and gave the coachman the name of the villa, adding "Drivequickly; I am late now. " The Lake di Porto is only, as its name indicates, the port of theancient Tiber. The road which leads from Transtevere runs along theriver, which rolls through a plain strewn with ruins and indented withbarren hills, its brackish water discolored from the sand and mud of theApennines. Here groups of eucalyptus, there groups of pine parasols above someruined walls, were all the vegetation which met Alba Steno's eye. Butthe scene accorded so well with the moral devastation she bore withinher that the barrenness around her in her last walk was pleasant to her. The feeling that she was nearing eternal peace, final sleep in which sheshould suffer no more, augmented when she alighted from the carriage, and, having passed the garden of Villa Torlonia, she found herselffacing the small lake, so grandiose in its smallness by the wildness ofits surroundings, and motionless, surprised in even that supreme momentby the magic of that hidden sight, she paused amid the reeds with theirred tufts to look at that pond which was to become her tomb, and shemurmured: "How beautiful it is!" There was in the humid atmosphere which gradually penetrated her a charmof mortal rest, to which she abandoned herself dreamily, almost withphysical voluptuousness, drinking into her being the feverish fumes ofthat place--one of the most fatal at that season and at that hour of allthat dangerous coast--until she shuddered in her light summer gown. Her shoulders contracted, her teeth chattered, and that feeling ofdiscomfort was to her as a signal for action. She took another allee ofrose-bushes in flower to reach a point on the bank barren of vegetation, where was outlined the form of a boat. She soon detached it, and, managing the heavy oars with her delicate hands, she advanced toward themiddle of the lake. When she was in the spot which she thought the deepest and the mostsuitable for her design, she ceased rowing. Then, by a delicate care, which made her smile herself, so much did it betray instinctive andchildish order at such a solemn moment, she put her hat, her umbrellaand her gloves on one of the transversal boards of the boat. She hadmade effort to move the heavy oars, so that she was perspiring. A secondshudder seized her as she was arranging the trifling objects, so keen, so chilly, so that time that she paused. She lay there motionless, hereyes fixed upon the water, whose undulations lapped the boat. At thelast moment she felt reenter her heart, not love of life, but love forher mother. All the details of the events which would follow her suicidewere presented to her mind. She saw herself plunging into the deep water which would close overher head. Her suffering would be ended, but Madame Steno? She saw thecoachman growing uneasy over her absence, ringing at the door of VillaTorlonia, the servants in search. The loosened boat would relate enough. Would the Countess know that she had killed herself? Would she knowthe cause of that desperate end? The terrible face of Lydia Maitlandappeared to the young girl. She comprehended that the woman hated herenemy too much not to enlighten her with regard to the circumstanceswhich had preceded that suicide. The cry so simple and of a significanceso terrible: "You did it purposely!" returned to Alba's memory. She sawher mother learning that her daughter had seen all. She had loved her somuch, that mother, she loved her so dearly still! Then, as a third violent chill shook her from head to foot, Alba beganto think of another mode, and one as sure, of death without any one inthe world being able to suspect that it was voluntary. She recalledthe fact that she was in one of the most dreaded corners of the RomanCampagna; that she had known persons carried off in a few days by thepernicious fevers contracted in similar places, at that hour and inthat season, notably one of her friends, one of the Bonapartes livingin Rome, who came thither to hunt when overheated. If she were to try tocatch that same disease?. .. And she took up the oars. When she felther brow moist with the second effort, she opened her bodice and herchemise, she exposed her neck, her breast, her throat, and she lay downin the boat, allowing the damp air to envelop, to caress, to chill her, inviting the entrance into her blood of the fatal germs. How long didshe remain thus, half-unconscious, in the atmosphere more and more ladenwith miasma in proportion as the sun sank? A cry made her rise and againtake up the oars. It was the coachman, who, not seeing her return, haddescended from the box and was hailing the boat at all hazards. When shestepped upon the bank and when he saw her so pale, the man, who had beenin the Countess's service for years, could not help saying to her, withthe familiarity of an Italian servant: "You have taken cold, Mademoiselle, and this place is so dangerous. " "Indeed, " she replied, "I have had a chill. It will be nothing. Let usreturn quickly. Above all, do not say that I was in the boat. You willcause me to be scolded. " CHAPTER XII. EPILOGUE "And it was directly after that conversation that the poor child leftfor the lake, where she caught the pernicious fever?" asked Montfanon. "Directly, " replied Dorsenne, "and what troubles me the most is that Ican not doubt but that she went there purposely. I was so troubled byour conversation that I had not the strength to leave Rome the sameevening, as I told her I should. After much hesitation--you understandwhy, now that I have told you all--I returned to the Villa Steno at sixo'clock. To speak to her, but of what? Did I know? It was madness. Forher avowal only allowed of two replies, either that which I made her oran offer of marriage. Ah, I did not reason so much. I was afraid. .. . Ofwhat?. .. I do not know. I reached the villa, where I found the Countess, gay and radiant, as was her custom, and tete-a-tete with her American. 'Only think, there is my child, ' said she to me, 'who has refused to goto the English embassy, where she would enjoy herself, and who has goneout for a drive alone. .. . Will you await her?'" "At length she began to grow uneasy, and I, seeing that no one returned, took my leave, my heart oppressed by presentiments. .. . Alba's carriagestopped at the door just as I was going out. She was pale, of a greenishpallor, which caused me to say on approaching her: 'Whence have youcome?' as if I had the right. Her lips, already discolored, trembled asthey replied. When I learned where she had spent that hour of sunset, and near what lake, the most deadly in the neighborhood, I said to her:'What imprudence!' I shall all my life see the glance she gave me at themoment, as she replied: 'Say, rather, how wise, and pray that I may havetaken the fever and that I die of it. ' You know the rest, and how herwish has been realized. She indeed contracted the fever, and so severelythat she died in less than six days. I have no doubt, since her lastwords, that it was a suicide. " "And the mother, " asked Montfanon, "did she not comprehend finally?" "Absolutely nothing, " replied Dorsenne. "It is inconceivable, but it isthus. Ah! she is truly the worthy friend of that knave Hafner, whomhis daughter's broken engagement has not grieved, in spite of hisdiscomfiture. I forgot to tell you that he had just sold Palais Castagnato a joint-stock company to convert it into a hotel. I laugh, " hecontinued with singular acrimony, "in order not to weep, for I amarriving at the most heartrending part. Do you know where I saw poorAlba Steno's face for the last time? It was three days ago, the dayafter her death, at this hour. I called to inquire for the Countess!She was receiving! 'Do you wish to bid her adieu?' she asked me. 'GoodLincoln is just molding her face for me. ' And I entered the chamber ofdeath. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks were sunken, her pretty nose waspinched, and upon her brow and in the corners of her mouth was a mixtureof bitterness and of repose which I can not describe to you. I thought:'If you had liked, she would be alive, she would smile, she would loveyou!' The American was beside the bed, while Florent Chapron, alwaysfaithful, was preparing the oil to put upon the face of the corpse, andsinister Lydia Maitland was watching the scene with eyes which mademe shudder, reminding me of what I had divined at the time of my lastconversation with Alba. If she does not undertake to play the part of aNemesis and to tell all to the Countess, I am mistaken in faces! For themoment she was silent, and guess the only words the mother utteredwhen her lover, he on whose account her daughter had suffered so much, approached their common victim: 'Above all, do not injure her lovelylashes!' What horrible irony, was it not? Horrible!" The young man sank upon a bench as he uttered that cry of distress andof remorse, which Montfanon mechanically repeated, as if startled by thetragical confidence he had just received. Montfanon shook his gray head several times as if deliberating; thenforced Dorsenne to rise, chiding him thus: "Come, Julien, we can not remain here all the afternoon dreaming andsighing like young women! The child is dead. We can not restore her tolife, you in despairing, I in deploring. We should do better to look inthe face our responsibility in that sinister adventure, to repent of itand to expiate it. " "Our responsibility?" interrogated Julien. "I see mine, although I cantruly not see yours. " "Yours and mine, " replied Montfanon. "I am no sophist, and I am not inthe habit of shifting my conscience. Yes or no, " he insisted, with areturn of his usual excitement, "did I leave the catacombs to arrangethat unfortunate duel? Yes or no, did I yield to the paroxysm of cholerwhich possessed me on hearing of the engagement of Ardea and on findingthat I was in the presence of that equivocal Hafner? Yes or no, did thatduel help to enlighten Madame Gorka as to her husband's doings, and, inconsequence, Mademoiselle Steno as to her mother's? Did you not relateto me the progress of her anguish since that scandal, there justnow?. .. And if I have been startled, as I have been, by the news of thatsuicide, know it has been for this reason especially, because a voicehas said to me: 'A few of the tears of that dead girl are laid to youraccount. "' "But, my poor friend, " interrupted Dorsenne, "whence such reasoning?According to that, we could not live any more. There enters into ourlives, by indirect means, a collection of actions which in no wayconcerns us, and in admitting that we have a debt of responsibility topay, that debt commences and ends in that which we have wished directly, sincerely, clearly. " "It would be very convenient, " replied the Marquis, with still morevivacity, "but the proof that it is not true is that you yourselfare filled with remorse at not having saved the soul so weak of thatdefenseless child. Ah, I do not mince the truth to myself, and I shallnot do so to you. You remember the morning when you were so gay, andwhen you gave me the theory of your cosmopolitanism? It amused you, asa perfect dilettante, so you said, to assist in one of those dramas ofrace which bring into play the personages from all points of the earthand of history, and you then traced to me a programme very true, myfaith, and which events have almost brought about. Madame Steno hasindeed conducted herself toward her two lovers as a Venetian of the timeof Aretin; Chapron, with all the blind devotion of a descendant of anoppressed race; his sister with the villainous ferocity of a rebel whoat length shakes off the yoke, since you think she wrote those anonymousletters. Hafner and Ardea have laid bare two detestable souls, the oneof an infamous usurer, half German, half Dutch; the other of a degradednobleman, in whom is revived some ancient 'condottiere'. Gorka has beenbrave and mad, like entire Poland; his wife implacable and loyal, likeall of England. Maitland continues to be positive, insensible, andwilful in the midst of it all, as all America. And poor Alba ended asdid her father. I do not speak to you of Baron Hafner's daughter, " andhe raised his hat. Then, in an altered voice: "She is a saint, in whom I was deceived. But she has Jewish blood inher veins, blood which was that of the people of God. I should haveremembered it and the beautiful saying of the Middle Ages: 'The Jewishwomen shall be saved because they have wept for our Lord in secret. '. .. . You outlined for me in advance the scene of the drama in which we havebeen mixed up. .. . And do you remember what I said: 'Is there not amongthem a soul which you might aid in doing better?' You laughed in my faceat that moment. You would have treated me, had you been less polite, as a Philistine and a cabotin. You wished to be only a spectator, thegentleman in the balcony who wipes the glasses of his lorgnette in orderto lose none of the comedy. Well, you could not do so. That role is notpermitted a man. He must act, and he acts always, even when he thinkshe is looking on, even when he washes his hands as Pontius Pilate, thatdilettante, too, who uttered the words of your masters and of yourself. What is truth? Truth is that there is always and everywhere a duty tofulfil. Mine was to prevent that criminal encounter. Yours was not topay attention to that young girl if you did not love her, and ifyou loved her, to marry her and to take her from her abominablesurroundings. We have both failed, and at what a price!" "You are very severe, " said the young man; "but if you were right wouldnot Alba be dead? Of what use is it for me to know what I should havedone when it is too late?" "First, never to do so again, " said the Marquis; "then to judge yourselfand your life. " "There is truth in what you say, " replied Dorsenne, "but you aremistaken if you think that the most intellectual men of our age have notsuffered, too, from that abuse of thought. What is to be done? Ah, it isthe disease of a century too cultivated, and there is no cure. " "There is one, " interrupted Montfanon, "which you do not wish to see. .. . You will not deny that Balzac was the boldest of our modern writers. Isit necessary for me, an ignorant man, to recite to you the phrase whichgoverns his work: 'Thought, principle of evil and of good can only beprepared, subdued, directed by religion. ' See?" he continued, suddenlytaking his companion by the arm and forcing him to look into atransversal allee through the copse, "there he is, the doctor who holdsthe remedy for that malady of the soul as for all the others. Donot show yourself. They will have forgotten our presence. But, look, look!. .. . Ah, what a meeting!" The personage who appeared suddenly in that melancholy, deserted garden, and in a manner almost supernatural, so much did his presence form aliving commentary to the discourse of the impassioned nobleman, wasno other than the Holy Father himself, on the point of entering hiscarriage for his usual drive. Dorsenne, who only knew Leo XIII fromhis portraits, saw an old man, bent, bowed, whose white cassock gleamedbeneath the red mantle, and who leaned on one side upon a prelate ofhis court, on the other upon one of his officers. In drawing back, as Montfanon had advised, in order not to bring a reprimand uponthe keepers, he could study at his leisure the delicate face of theSovereign Pontiff, who paused at a bed of roses to converse familiarlywith a kneeling gardener. He saw the infinitely indulgent smile ofthat spirituelle mouth. He saw the light of those eyes which seemedto justify by their brightness the 'lumen in coelo' applied to thesuccessor of Pie IX by a celebrated prophecy. He saw the venerablehand, that white, transparent hand, which was raised to give the solemnbenediction with so much majesty, turn toward a fine yellow rose, andthe fingers bend the flower without plucking it, as if not to harm thefrail creation of God. The old Pope for a second inhaled its perfume andthen resumed his walk toward the carriage, vaguely to be seen betweenthe trunks of the green oaks. The black horses set off at a trot, andDorsenne, turning again toward Montfanon, perceived large tears uponthe lashes of the former zouave, who, forgetting the rest of theirconversation, said, with a sigh: "And that is the only pleasure allowedhim, who is, however, the successor of the first apostle, to inhale hisflowers and drive in a carriage as rapidly as his horses can go! Theyhave procured four paltry kilometers of road at the foot of the terracewhere we were half an hour since. And he goes on, he goes on, thusdeluding himself with regard to the vast space which is forbidden him. Ihave seen many tragical sights in my life. I have been to the war, and Ihave spent one entire night wounded on a battlefield covered with snow, among the dead, grazed by the wheels of the artillery of the conquerors, who defiled singing. Nothing has moved me like that drive of the oldman, who has never uttered a complaint and who has for himself only thatacre of land in which to move freely. But these are grand words whichthe holy man wrote one day at the foot of his portrait for a missionary. The words explain his life: 'Debitricem martyrii fidem'--Faith is boundto martyrdom. " "'Debitricem martyrii fidem', " repeated Dorsenne, "that is beautiful, indeed. And, " he added, in a low voice, "you just now abused very rudelythe dilettantes and the sceptic. But do you think there would be oneof them who would refuse martyrdom if he could have at the same timefaith?" Never had Montfanon heard the young man utter a similar phrase andin such an accent. The image returned to him, by way of contrast, ofDorsenne, alert and foppish, the dandy of literature, so gayly a scofferand a sophist, to whom antique and venerable Rome was only a city ofpleasure, a cosmopolis more paradoxical than Florence, Nice, Biarritz, St. Moritz, than such and such other cities of international winter andsummer. He felt that for the first time that soul was strained to itsdepths, the tragical death of poor Alba had become in the mind of thewriter the point of remorse around which revolved the moral life of thesuperior and incomplete being, exiled from simple humanity by the mostinvincible pride of mind. Montfanon comprehended that every additionalword would pain the wounded heart. He was afraid of having alreadylectured Dorsenne too severely. He took within his arm the arm of theyoung man, and he pressed it silently, putting into that manly caressall the warm and discreet pity of an elder brother. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: Conditions of blindness so voluntary that they become complicity Despotism natural to puissant personalities Egyptian tobacco, mixed with opium and saltpetre Follow their thoughts instead of heeding objects Has as much sense as the handle of a basket Have never known in the morning what I would do in the evening I no longer love you Imagine what it would be never to have been born Mediocre sensibility Melancholy problem of the birth and death of love Mobile and complaisant conscience had already forgiven himself No flies enter a closed mouth Not an excuse, but an explanation of your conduct One of those trustful men who did not judge when they loved Only one thing infamous in love, and that is a falsehood Pitiful checker-board of life Scarcely a shade of gentle condescension Sufficed him to conceive the plan of a reparation That suffering which curses but does not pardon That you can aid them in leading better lives? The forests have taught man liberty There is an intelligent man, who never questions his ideas There is always and everywhere a duty to fulfil Thinking it better not to lie on minor points Too prudent to risk or gain much Walked at the rapid pace characteristic of monomaniacs Words are nothing; it is the tone in which they are uttered