DAMAGED GOODS

The Great Play "Les Avaries" of Eugene Brieux

Novelized with the approval of the author

by Upton Sinclair

THE PRODUCTION OF EUGENE BRIEUX'S PLAY, "LES AVARIES, " OR, TO GIVE ITITS ENGLISH TITLE, "DAMAGED GOODS, " HAS INITIATED A MOVEMENT IN THISCOUNTRY WHICH MUST BE REGARDED AS EPOCH-MAKING. --New York Times

+++Page 4 is a virtually unreadable letter in handwritten script from M. Brieux. +++

PREFACE

My endeavor has been to tell a simple story, preserving as closely aspossible the spirit and feeling of the original. I have tried, as itwere, to take the play to pieces, and build a novel out of the samematerial. I have not felt at liberty to embellish M. Brieux's ideas, andI have used his dialogue word for word wherever possible. Unless I havemis-read the author, his sole purpose in writing LES AVARIES was toplace a number of most important facts before the minds of the public, and to drive them home by means of intense emotion. If I have been ableto assist him, this bit of literary carpentering will be worth while. Ihave to thank M. Brieux for his kind permission to make the attempt, andfor the cordial spirit which he has manifested. 

Upton Sinclair

PRESS COMMENTS ON THE PLAY

DAMAGED GOODS was first presented in America at a Friday matinee onMarch 14th, 1913, in the Fulton Theater, New York, before members ofthe Sociological Fund. Immediately it was acclaimed by public press andpulpit as the greatest contribution ever made by the Stage to the causeof humanity. Mr. Richard Bennett, the producer, who had the courage topresent the play, with the aid of his co-workers, in the face of mostsavage criticism from the ignorant, was overwhelmed with requests for arepetition of the performance. 

Before deciding whether of not to present DAMAGED GOODS before thegeneral public, it was arranged that the highest officials in the UnitedStates should pass judgment upon the manner in which the play teachesits vital lesson. A special guest performance for members of theCabinet, members of both houses of Congress, members of the UnitedStates Supreme Court, representatives of the Diplomatic corps and othersprominent in national life was given in Washington, D. C. 

Although the performance was given on a Sunday afternoon (April 6, 1913), the National Theater was crowded to the very doors with the mostdistinguished audience ever assembled in America, including exclusivelythe foremost men and women of the Capital. The most noted clergymen ofWashington were among the spectators. 

The result of this remarkable performance was a tremendous endorsementof the play and of the manner in which Mr. Bennett and his co-workerswere presenting it. 

This reception resulted in the continuance of the New York performancesuntil mid-summer and is responsible for the decision on the part of Mr. Bennett to offer the play in every city in America where citizens feelthat the ultimate welfare of the community is dependent upon a higherstandard of morality and clearer understanding of the laws of health. 

The WASHINGTON POST, commenting on the Washington performance, said:

The play was presented with all the impressiveness of a sermon; with allthe vigor and dynamic force of a great drama; with all the earnestnessand power of a vital truth. 

In many respects the presentation of this dramatization of a greatsocial evil assumed the aspects of a religious service. Dr. Donald C. Macleod, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, mounted the rostrumusually occupied by the leader of the orchestra, and announced that thenature of the performance, the sacredness of the play, and the characterof the audience gave to the play the significance of a tremendous sermonin behalf of mankind, and that as such it was eminently fitting thata divine blessing be invoked. Dr. Earle Wilfley, pastor of the VermontAvenue Christian Church, asked all persons in the audience to bowtheir heads in a prayer for the proper reception of the message to bepresented from the stage. Dr. MacLeod then read the Bernard Shaw prefaceto the play, and asked that there be no applause during the performance, a suggestion which was rigidly followed, thus adding greatly to theeffectiveness and the seriousness of the dramatic portrayal. 

The impression made upon the audience by the remarkable play isreflected in such comments as the following expressions voiced after theperformance:

RABBI SIMON, OF THE WASHINGTON HEBREW CONGREGATION--If I could preachfrom my pulpit a sermon one tenth as powerful, as convincing, asfar-reaching, and as helpful as this performance of DAMAGED GOODS mustbe, I would consider that I had achieved the triumph of my life. 

COMMISSIONER CUNO H. RUDOLPH--I was deeply impressed by what I saw, andI think that the drama should be repeated in every city, a matinee oneday for father and son and the next day for mother and daughter. 

REV. EARLE WILFLEY--I am confirmed in the opinion that we must take upour cudgels in a crusade against the modern problems brought to thefore by DAMAGED GOODS. The report that these diseases are increasing isenough to make us get busy on a campaign against them. 

SURGEON GENERAL BLUE--It was a most striking and telling lesson. Foryears we have been fighting these condition in the navy. It is high timethat civilians awakened to the dangers surrounding them and crusadedagainst them in a proper manner. 

MRS. ARCHIBALD HOPKINS--The play was a powerful presentation of a veryimportant question and was handled in a most admirable manner. Thedrama is a fine entering wedge for this crusade and is bound to doconsiderable good in conveying information of a very serious nature. 

MINISTER PEZET, OF PERU--There can be no doubt but that the performancewill have great uplifting power, and accomplish the good for which itwas created. Fortunately, we do not have the prudery in South Americathat you of the north possess, and have open minds to consider theseserious questions. 

JUSTICE DANIEL THEW WRIGHT--I feel quite sure that DAMAGED GOODS willhave considerable effect in educating the people of the nature of thedanger that surrounds them. 

SENATOR KERN, OF INDIANA--There can be no denial of the fact that it istime to look at the serious problems presented in the play with an openmind. 

Brieux has been hailed by Bernard Shaw as "incomparably the greatestwriter France has produced since Moliere, " and perhaps no writer everwielded his pen more earnestly in the service of the race. To quote froman article by Edwin E. Slosson in the INDEPENDENT:

Brieux is not one who believes that social evils are to be cured by lawsand yet more laws. He believes that most of the trouble is causedby ignorance and urges education, public enlightenment and frankerrecognition of existing conditions. All this may be needed, but still wemay well doubt its effectiveness as a remedy. The drunken Helot argumentis not a strong one, and those who lead a vicious life know more aboutits risks than any teacher or preacher could tell them. Brieux alsourges the requirement of health certificates for marriage, such as manyclergymen now insist upon and which doubtless will be made compulsorybefore long in many of our States. 

Brieux paints in black colors yet is no fanatic; in fact, he willbe criticised by many as being too tolerant of human weakness. Theconditions of society and the moral standards of France are so differentfrom those of America that his point of view and his proposals forreform will not meet with general acceptance, but it is encouraging tofind a dramatist who realizes the importance of being earnest and whouses his art in defense of virtue instead of its destruction. 

Other comments follow, showing the great interest manifested in the playand the belief in the highest seriousness of its purpose:

There is no uncleanness in facts. The uncleanness is in the glamour, inthe secret imagination. It is in hints, half-truths, and suggestions thethreat to life lies. 

This play puts the horrible truth in so living a way, with such clean, artistic force, that the mind is impressed as it could possibly beimpressed in no other manner. 

Best of all, it is the physician who dominates the action. There is nosentimentalizing. There is no weak and morbid handling of the theme. The doctor appears in his ideal function, as the modern high-priest oftruth. Around him writhe the victims of ignorance and the criminalsof conventional cruelty. Kind, stern, high-minded, clear-headed, yethuman-hearted, he towers over all, as the master. 

This is as it should be. The man to say the word to save the world ofignorant wretches, cursed by the clouds and darkness a mistaken modestyhas thrown around a life-and-death instinct, is the physician. 

The only question is this: Is this play decent? My answer is that it isthe decentest play that has been in New York for a year. It is so decentthat it is religious. --HEARST'S MAGAZINE. 

The play is, above all, a powerful plea for the tearing away of the veilof mystery that has so universally shrouded this subject of the penaltyof sexual immorality. It is a plea for light on this hidden danger, thatfathers and mothers, young men and young women, may know the terribleprice that must be paid, not only by the generation that violates thelaw, but by the generations to come. It is a serious question just howthe education of men and women, especially young men and young women, inthe vital matters of sex relationship should be carried on. One thing issure, however. The worst possible way is the one which has so often beenfollowed in the past--not to carry it on at all but to ignore it. --THEOUTLOOK. 

It (DAMAGED GOODS) is, of course, a masterpiece of "thesis drama, "--anargument, dogmatic, insistent, inescapable, cumulative, between scienceand common sense, on one side, and love, of various types, on the other. It is what Mr. Bernard Shaw has called a "drama of discussion"; ithas the splendid movement of the best Shaw plays, unrelieved--andundiluted--by Shavian paradox, wit, and irony. We imagine that manyaudiences at the Fulton Theater were astonished at the play's showingof sheer strength as acted drama. Possibly it might not interest thegeneral public; probably it would be inadvisable to present it to them. But no thinking person, with the most casual interest in current socialevils, could listen to the version of Richard Bennett, Wilton Lackaye, and their associates, without being gripped by the power of Brieux'smessage. --THE DIAL. 

It is a wonder that the world has been so long in getting hold of thisplay, which is one of France's most valuable contributions to the drama. Its history is interesting. Brieux wrote it over ten years ago. Antoineproduced it at his theater and Paris immediately censored it, but soonthought better of it and removed the ban. During the summer of 1910it was played in Brussels before crowded houses, for then the city wasthronged with visitors to the exposition. Finally New York got it lastspring and eugenic enthusiasts and doctors everywhere have welcomed it. --THE INDEPENDENT. 

A letter to Mr. Bennett from Dr. Hills, Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn. 

23 Monroe Street Bklyn. August 1, 1913. 

Mr. Richard Bennett, New York City, N. Y. My Dear Mr. Bennett:

During the past twenty-one years since I entered public life, I haveexperienced many exciting hours under the influence of reformer, oratorand actor, but, in this mood of retrospection, I do not know that Ihave ever passed through a more thrilling, terrible, and yet hopefulexperience than last evening, while I listened to your interpretation ofEugene Brieux' "DAMAGED GOODS. "

I have been following your work with ever deepening interest. It is nottoo much to say that you have changed the thinking of the people of ourcountry as to the social evil. At last, thank God, this conspiracy ofsilence is ended. No young man who sees "Damaged Goods" will ever be thesame again. If I wanted to build around an innocent boy buttresses offire and granite, and lend him triple armour against temptation and theassaults of evil, I would put him for one evening under your influence. That which the teacher, the preacher and the parent have failed toaccomplish it has been given to you to achieve. You have done a work forwhich your generation owes you an immeasurable debt of gratitude. 

I shall be delighted to have you use my Study of Social Diseases andHeredity in connection with your great reform. 

With all good wishes, I am, my dear Mr. Bennett, Faithfully yours, Newell Dwight Hillis

CHAPTER I

It was four o'clock in the morning when George Dupont closed the doorand came down the steps to the street. The first faint streaks of dawnwere in the sky, and he noticed this with annoyance, because he knewthat his hair was in disarray and his whole aspect disorderly; yet hedared not take a cab, because he feared to attract attention at home. When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced about him to make sure that noone had seen him leave the house, then started down the street, his eyesupon the sidewalk before him. 

George had the feeling of the morning after. There are few men in thisworld of abundant sin who will not know what the phrase means. The fumesof the night had evaporated; he was quite sober now, quite free fromexcitement. He saw what he had done, and it seemed to him somethingblack and disgusting. 

Never had a walk seemed longer than the few blocks which he had totraverse to reach his home. He must get there before the maid wasup, before the baker's boy called with the rolls; otherwise, whatexplanation could he give?--he who had always been such a moral man, whohad been pointed out by mothers as an example to their sons. 

George thought of his own mother, and what she would think if she couldknow about his night's adventure. He thought again and again, with apang of anguish, of Henriette. Could it be possible that a man who wasengaged, whose marriage contract had actually been signed, who was soonto possess the love of a beautiful and noble girl--that such a man couldhave been weak enough and base enough to let himself be trapped intosuch a low action?

He went back over the whole series of events, shuddering at them, tryingto realize how they had happened, trying to excuse himself for them. He had not intended such a culmination; he had never meant to do such athing in his life. He had not thought of any harm when he had acceptedthe invitation to the supper party with his old companions from the lawschool. Of course, he had known that several of these chums led "fast"lives--but, then, surely a fellow could go to a friend's rooms for alark without harm!

He remembered the girl who had sat by his side at the table. She hadcome with a friend who was a married woman, and so he had assumed thatshe was all right. George remembered how embarrassed he had been whenfirst he had noticed her glances at him. But then the wine had begunto go to his head--he was one of those unfortunate wretches who cannotdrink wine at all. He had offered to take the girl home in a cab, and onthe way he had lost his head. 

Oh! What a wretched thing it was. He could hardly believe that it was hewho had spoken those frenzied words; and yet he must have spoken them, because he remembered them. He remembered that it had taken a longtime to persuade her. He had had to promise her a ring like the one hermarried friend wore. Before they entered her home she had made him takeoff his shoes, so that the porter might not hear them. This had struckGeorge particularly, because, even flushed with excitement as he was, he had not forgotten the warnings his father had given him as to thedangers of contact with strange women. He had thought to himself, "Thisgirl must be safe. It is probably the first time she has ever done sucha thing. "

But now George could get but little consolation out of that idea. Hewas suffering intensely--the emotion described by the poet in the bitterwords about "Time's moving finger having writ. " His mind, seeking someexplanation, some justification, went back to the events before thatnight. With a sudden pang of yearning, he thought of Lizette. She was adecent girl, and had kept him decent, and he was lonely without her. Hehad been so afraid of being found out that he had given her up when hebecame engaged; but now for a while he felt that he would have to breakhis resolution, and pay his regular Sunday visit to the little flat inthe working-class portion of Paris. 

It was while George was fitting himself for the same career as hisfather--that of notary--that he had made the acquaintance of the youngworking girl. It may not be easy to believe, but Lizette had really beena decent girl. She had a family to take care of, and was in need. Therewas a grandmother in poor health, a father not much better, and threelittle brothers; so Lizette did not very long resist George Dupont, andhe felt quite virtuous in giving her sufficient money to take care ofthese unfortunate people. Among people of his class it was consideredproper to take such things if one paid for them. 

All the family of this working girl were grateful to him. They adoredhim, and they called him Uncle Raoul (for of course he had not been sofoolish as to give them his true name). 

Since George was paying for Lizette, he felt he had the right to controlher life. He gave her fair warning concerning his attitude. If shedeceived him he would leave her immediately. He told this to herrelatives also, and so he had them all watching her. She was nevertrusted out alone. Every Sunday George went to spend the day with hislittle "family, " so that his coming became almost a matter of tradition. He interested her in church affairs--mass and vespers were her regularoccasions for excursions. George rented two seats, and the grandmotherwent with her to the services. The simple people were proud to see theirname engraved upon the brass plate of the pew. 

The reason for all these precautions was George's terror of disease. He had been warned by his father as to the dangers which young menencounter in their amours. And these lessons had sunk deep into George'sheart; he had made up his mind that whatever his friends might do, he, for one, would protect himself. 

That did not mean, of course, that he intended to live a virtuous life;such was the custom among young men of his class, not had it probablyever occurred to his father that it was possible for a young man to dosuch a thing. The French have a phrase, "l'homme moyen sensuel"--theaverage sensual man. And George was such a man. He had no nobleidealisms, no particular reverence for women. The basis of his attitudewas a purely selfish one; he wanted to enjoy himself, and at the sametime to keep out of trouble. 

He did not find any happiness in the renunciation which he imposedupon himself; he had no religious ideas about it. On the contrary, he suffered keenly, and was bitter because he had no share in theamusements of his friends. He stuck to his work and forced himself tokeep regular hours, preparing for his law examinations. But all thetime he was longing for adventures. And, of course, this could not goon forever, for the motive of fear alone is not sufficient to subdue thesexual urge in a full-blooded young man. 

The affair with Lizette might have continued much longer had it not beenfor the fact that his father died. He died quite suddenly, while Georgewas away on a trip. The son came back to console his broken-heartedmother, and in the two week they spent in the country together themother broached a plan to him. The last wish of the dying man hadbeen that his son should be fixed in life. In the midst of his intensesuffering he had been able to think about the matter, and had named thegirl whom he wished George to marry. Naturally, George waited with someinterest to learn who this might be. He was surprised when his mothertold him that it was his cousin, Henriette Loches. 

He could not keep his emotion from revealing itself in his face. "Itdoesn't please you?" asked his mother, with a tone disappointment. 

"Why no, mother, " he answered. "It's not that. It just surprises me. "

"But why?" asked the mother. "Henriette is a lovely girl and a goodgirl. "

"Yes, I know, " said George; "but then she is my cousin, and--" Heblushed a little with embarrassment. "I had never thought of her in thatway. "

Madame Dupont laid her hand upon her son's. "Yes, George, " she saidtenderly. "I know. You are such a good boy. "

Now, of course, George did not feel that he was quite such a good boy;but his mother was a deeply religious woman, who had no idea of thetruth about the majority of men. She would never have got over the shockif he had told her about himself, and so he had to pretend to be justwhat she thought him. 

"Tell me, " she continued, after a pause, "have you never felt the leastbit in love?"

"Why no--I don't think so, " George stammered, becoming conscious of asudden rise of temperature in his cheeks. 

"Because, " said his mother, "it is really time that you were settled inlife. Your father said that we should have seen to it before, and now itis my duty to see to it. It is not good for you to live alone so long. "

"But, mother, I have YOU, " said George generously. 

"Some day the Lord may take me away, " was the reply. "I am gettingold. And, George, dear--" Here suddenly her voice began to tremble withfeeling--"I would like to see my baby grandchildren before I go. Youcannot imagine what it would mean to me. "

Madame Dupont saw how much this subject distressed her son, so she wenton to the more worldly aspects of the matter. Henriette's father waswell-to-do, and he would give her a good dowry. She was a charming andaccomplished girl. Everybody would consider him most fortunate if thematch could be arranged. Also, there was an elderly aunt to whom MadameDupont had spoken, and who was much taken with the idea. She owned agreat deal of property and would surely help the young couple. 

George did not see just how he could object to this proposition, even ifhe had wanted to. What reason could he give for such a course? He couldnot explain that he already had a family--with stepchildren, so tospeak, who adored him. And what could he say to his mother's obsession, to which she came back again and again--her longing to see hergrandchildren before she died? Madame Dupont waited only long enough forGeorge to stammer out a few protestations, and then in the next breathto take them back; after which she proceeded to go ahead with the match. The family lawyers conferred together, and the terms of the settlementwere worked out and agreed upon. It happened that immediately afterwardsGeorge learned of an opportunity to purchase the practice of a notary, who was ready to retire from business in two months' time. Henriette'sfather consented to advance a portion of her dowry for this purpose. 

Thus George was safely started upon the same career as his father, andthis was to him a source of satisfaction which he did not attempt todeny, either to himself of to any one else. George was a cautious youngman, who came of a frugal and saving stock. He had always been taughtthat it was his primary duty to make certain of a reasonable amount ofcomfort. From his earliest days, he had been taught to regard materialsuccess as the greatest goal in life, and he would never have dreamedof engaging himself to a girl without money. But when he had the goodfortune to meet one who possessed desirable personal qualities inaddition to money, he was not in the least barred from appreciatingthose qualities. They were, so to speak, the sauce which went with themeat, and it seemed to him that in this case the sauce was of the verybest. 

George--a big fellow of twenty-six, with large, round eyes and agood-natured countenance--was full blooded, well fed, with a heartylaugh which spoke of unimpaired contentment, a soul untroubled in itsdeeps. He seemed to himself the luckiest fellow in the whole roundworld; he could not think what he had done to deserve the good fortuneof possessing such a girl as Henriette. He was ordinarily of a somewhatsentimental turn--easily influenced by women and sensitive to theircharms. Moreover, his relationship with Lizette had softened him. He hadlearned to love the young working girl, and now Henriette, it seemed, was to reap the benefit of his experience with her. 

In fact, he found himself always with memories of Lizette in hisrelationships with the girl who was to be his wife. When the engagementwas announced, and he claimed his first kiss from his bride-to-be, ashe placed a ring upon her finger, he remembered the first time he hadkissed Lizette, and a double blush suffused his round countenance. Whenhe walked arm and arm with Henriette in the garden he remembered how hehad walked just so with the other girl, and he was interested to comparethe words of the two. He remembered what a good time had had when hehad taken Lizette and her little family for a picnic upon one of theexcursion steamers which run down the River Seine. Immediately hedecided that he would like to take Henriette on such a picnic, and hepersuaded an aunt of Henriette's to go with her as a chaperon. Georgetook his bride-to-be to the same little inn where he had lunch before. 

Thus he was always haunted by memories, some of which made him cheerfuland some of which made him mildly sad. He soon got used to the idea, anddid not find it awkward, except when he had to suppress the impulse totell Henriette something which Lizette had said, or some funny incidentwhich had happened in the home of the little family. Sometimes he foundhimself thinking that it was a shame to have to suppress these impulses. There must be something wrong, he thought, with a social system whichmade it necessary for him to hide a thing which was so obvious and sosensible. Here he was, a man twenty-six years of age; he could nothave afforded to marry earlier, nor could he, as he thought, have beenexpected to lead a continent life. And he had really loved Lizette; shewas really a good girl. Yet, if Henriette had got any idea of it, shewould have been horrified and indignant--she might even have broken offthe engagement. 

And then, too, there was Henriette's father, a personage of greatdignity and importance. M. Loches was a deputy of the French Parliament, from a district in the provinces. He was a man of upright life, and aman who made a great deal of that upright life--keeping it on a pedestalwhere everyone might observe it. It was impossible to imagine M. Lochesin an undignified or compromising situation--such as the younger manfound himself facing in the matter of Lizette. 

The more he thought about it the more nervous and anxious George became. Then it was decided it would be necessary for him to break withthe girl, and be "good" until the time of his marriage. Dear littlesoft-eyed Lizette--he did not dare to face her personally; he couldnever bear to say good-by, he felt. Instead, he went to the father, who as a man could be expected to understand the situation. George wasembarrassed and not a little nervous about it; for although he had nevermisrepresented his attitude to the family, one could never feel entirelyfree from the possibility of blackmail in such cases. However, Lizette'sfather behaved decently, and was duly grateful for the moderate sum ofmoney which George handed him in parting. He promised to break the newsgently to Lizette, and George went away with his mind made up that hewould never see her again. 

This resolution he kept, and he considered himself very virtuous indoing it. But the truth was that he had grown used to intimacy with awoman, and was restless without it. And that, he told himself, was whyhe yielded to the shameful temptation the night of that fatal supperparty. 

He paid for the misadventure liberally in remorse. He felt that he hadbeen a wretch, that he had disgraced himself forever, that he had provedhimself unworthy of the pure girl he was to marry. So keen was hisfeeling that it was several days before he could bring himself to seeHenriette again; and when he went, it was with a mind filled with abrand-new set of resolutions. It was the last time that he would everfall into error. He would be a new man from then on. He thanked Godthat there was no chance of his sin being known, that he might have anopportunity to prove his new determination. 

So intense were his feelings that he could not help betraying a part ofthem to Henriette. They sat in the garden one soft summer evening, withHenriette's mother occupied with her crocheting at a decorous distance. George, in reverent and humble mood, began to drop vague hints that hewas really unworthy of his bride-to-be. He said that he had not alwaysbeen as good as he should have been; he said that her purity andsweetness had awakened in him new ideals; so that he felt his old lifehad been full of blunders. Henriette, of course, had but the vaguest ofideas as to what the blunders of a tender and generous young man likeGeorge might be. So she only loved him the more for his humility, andwas flattered to have such a fine effect upon him, to awaken in him suchmoods of exaltation. When he told her that all men were bad, and thatno man was worthy of such a beautiful love, she was quite ravished, andwiped away tears from her eyes. 

It would have been a shame to spoil such a heavenly mood by telling thereal truth. Instead, George contented himself with telling of the newresolutions he had formed. After all, they were the things which reallymattered; for Henriette was going to live with his future, not with hispast. 

It seemed to George a most wonderful thing, this innocence of a younggirl, which enabled her to move through a world of wickedness withunpolluted mind. It was a touching thing; and also, as a prudent youngman could not help realizing, a most convenient thing. He realized theimportance of preserving it, and thought that if he ever had a daughter, he would protect her as rigidly as Henriette had been protected. Hemade haste to shy off from the subject of his "badness" and to turn theconversation with what seemed a clever jest. 

"If I am going to be so good, " he said, "don't forget that you will haveto be good also!"

"I will try, " said Henriette, who was still serious. 

"You will have to try hard, " he persisted. "You will find that you havea very jealous husband. "

"Will I?" said Henriette, beaming with happiness--for when a woman isvery much in love she doesn't in the least object to the man's beingjealous. 

"Yes, indeed, " smiled George. "I'll always be watching you. "

"Watching me?" echoed the girl with a surprised look. 

And immediately he felt ashamed of himself for his jest. There could beno need to watch Henriette, and it was bad taste even to joke about itat such a time. That was one of the ideas which he had brought with himfrom his world of evil. 

The truth was, however, that George would always be a suspicioushusband; nothing could ever change that fact, for there was something inhis own conscience which he could not get out, and which would make itimpossible for him to be at ease as a married man. It was the memory ofsomething which had happened earlier in his life before he met Lizette. There had been one earlier experience, with the wife of his dearestfriend. She had been much younger than her husband, and had betrayed aninterest in George, who had yielded to the temptation. For several yearsthe intrigue continued, and George considered it a good solution of ayoung man's problem. There had been no danger of contamination, for heknew that his friend was a man of pure and rigid morals, a jealousman who watched his wife, and did not permit her to contract those newrelations which are always dangerous. As for George, he helped in thisworthy work, keeping the woman in terror of some disease. He told herthat almost all men were infected, for he hoped by this means to keepher from deceiving him. 

I am aware that this may seem a dreadful story. As I do not want anyoneto think too ill of George Dupont, I ought, perhaps, to point out thatpeople feel differently about these matters in France. In judging theunfortunate young man, we must judge him by the customs of his owncountry, and not by ours. In France, they are accustomed to what iscalled the MARIAGE DE CONVENANCE. The young girl is not permitted to goabout and make her own friends and decide which one of them she prefersfor her husband; on the contrary, she is strictly guarded, her trainingoften is of a religious nature, and her marriage is a matter ofbusiness, to be considered and decided by her parents and those of theyoung man. Now, whatever we may think right, it is humanly certain thatwhere marriages are made in that way, the need of men and women forsympathy and for passionate interest will often lead to the forming ofirregular relationships after marriage. It is not possible to presentstatistics as to the number of such irregular relationships in Parisiansociety; but in the books which he read and in the plays which he saw, George found everything to encourage him to think that it was a romanticand delightful thing to keep up a secret intrigue with the wife of hisbest friend. 

It should also, perhaps, be pointed out that we are here telling thetruth, and the whole truth, about George Dupont; and that it is notcustomary to tell this about men, either in real life or in novels. There is a great deal of concealment in the world about matters of sex;and in such matters the truth-telling man is apt to suffer in reputationin comparison with the truth-concealing one. 

Nor had George really been altogether callous about the thing. It hadhappened that his best friend had died in his arms; and this had soaffected the guilty pair that they had felt their relationship was nolonger possible. She had withdrawn to nurse her grief alone, andGeorge had been so deeply affected that he had avoided affairs andentanglements with women until his meeting with Lizette. 

All this was now in the far distant past, but it had made a deeperimpression upon George than he perhaps realized, and it was now workingin his mind and marring his happiness. Here was a girl who loved himwith a noble and unselfish and whole-hearted love--and yet he wouldnever be able to trust her as she deserved, but would always havesuspicions lurking in the back of his mind. He would be unable to havehis friends intimate in his home, because of the memory of what he hadonce done to a friend. It was a subtle kind of punishment. But so itis that Nature often finds ways of punishing us, without our even beingaware of it. 

That was all for the future, however. At present, George was happy. Heput his black sin behind him, feeling that he had obtained absolutionby his confession to Henriette. Day by day, as he realized his goodfortune, his round face beamed with more and yet more joy. 

He went for a little trip to Henriette's home in the country. It wasa simple village, and they took walks in the country, and stopped torefresh themselves at a farmhouse occupied by one of M. Loches' tenants. Here was a rosy and buxom peasant woman, with a nursing child in herarms. She was destined a couple of years later to be the foster-motherof Henriette's little girl and to play an important part in her life. But the pair had no idea of that at present. They simply saw a proudand happy mother, and Henriette played with the baby, giving vent tochildish delight. Then suddenly she looked up and saw that George waswatching her, and as she read his thoughts a beautiful blush suffusedher cheeks. 

As for George, he turned away and went out under the blue sky in a kindof ecstasy. Life seemed very wonderful to him just then; he had foundits supreme happiness, which was love. He was really getting quite madabout Henriette, he told himself. He could hardly believe that the daywas coming when he would be able to clasp her in his arms. 

But in the blue sky of George's happiness there was one little cloud ofstorm. As often happens with storm-clouds, it was so small that at firsthe paid no attention to it at all. 

He noted upon his body one day a tiny ulcer. At first he treated it withsalve purchased from an apothecary. Then after a week or two, when thishad no effect, he began to feel uncomfortable. He remembered suddenly hehad heard about the symptoms of an unmentionable, dreadful disease, anda vague terror took possession of him. 

For days he tried to put it to one side. The idea was nonsense, it wasabsurd in connection with a woman so respectable! But the thought wouldnot be put away, and finally he went to a school friend, who was a manof the world, and got him to talk on the subject. Of course, George hadto be careful, so that his friend should not suspect that he had anyspecial purpose in mind. 

The friend was willing to talk. It was a vile disease, he said; but onewas foolish to bother about it, because it was so rare. There were otherdiseases which fellows got, which nearly every fellow had, and to whichnone of them paid any attention. But one seldom met anyone who had thered plague that George dreaded. 

"And yet, " he added, "according to the books, it isn't so uncommon. I suppose the truth is that people hide it. A chap naturally wouldn'ttell, when he knew it would damn him for life. "

George had a sick sensation inside of him. "Is it as bad as that?" heasked. 

"Of course, " said the other, "Should you want to have anything to dowith a person who had it? Should you be willing to room with him ortravel with him? You wouldn't even want to shake hands with him!"

"No, I suppose not, " said George, feebly. 

"I remember, " continued the other, "an old fellow who used to live outin the country near me. He was not so very old, either, but he lookedit. He had to be pushed around in a wheel-chair. People said he hadlocomotor ataxia, but that really meant syphilis. We boys used to pokeall kinds of fun at him because one windy day his hat and his wig wereblown off together, and we discovered that he was as bald as an egg. We used to make jokes about his automobile, as we called it. It had alittle handle in front, instead of a steering-wheel, and a man behind topush, instead of an engine. "

"How horrible!" remarked George with genuine feeling. 

"I remember the poor devil had a paralysis soon after, " continued thefriend, quite carelessly. "He could not steer any more, and also he losthis voice. When you met him he would look at you as it he thought he wastalking, but all he could say was 'Ga-ga-ga'. "

George went away from this conversation in a cold sweat. He told himselfover and over again that he was a fool, but still he could not get thehellish idea out of his mind. He found himself brooding over it all dayand lying awake at night, haunted by images of himself in a wheel-chair, and without any hair on his head. He realized that the sensible thingwould be for him to go to a doctor and make certain about his condition;but he could not bring himself to face the ordeal--he was ashamed toadmit to a doctor that he had laid himself open to such a taint. 

He began to lose the radiant expression from his round and rosy face. Hehad less appetite, and his moods of depression became so frequent thathe could not hide then even from Henriette. She asked him once or twiceif there were not something the matter with him, and he laughed--aforced and hurried laugh--and told her that he had sat up too late thenight before, worrying over the matter of his examinations. Oh, what acruel thing it was that a man who stood in the very gateway of sucha garden of delight should be tormented and made miserable by thisloathsome idea!

The disturbing symptom still continued, and so at last George purchaseda medical book, dealing with the subject of the disease. Then, indeed, he opened up a chamber of horrors; he made up his mind an abiding placeof ghastly images. In the book there were pictures of things so awfulthat he turned white, and trembled like a leaf, and had to close thevolume and hide it in the bottom of his trunk. But he could not banishthe pictures from his mind. Worst of all, he could not forget thedescription of the first symptom of the disease, which seemed tocorrespond exactly with his own. So at last he made up his mind he mustascertain definitely the truth about his condition. 

He began to think over plans for seeing a doctor. He had heard somewherea story about a young fellow who had fallen into the hands of a quack, and been ruined forever. So he decided that he would consult only thebest authority. 

He got the names of the best-known works on the subject from abookstore, and found that the author of one of these books waspracticing in Paris as a specialist. Two or three days elapsed before hewas able to get up the courage to call on this doctor. And oh, the shameand horror of sitting in his waiting-room with the other people, none ofwhom dared to look each other in the eyes! They must all be afflicted, George thought, and he glanced at them furtively, looking for thevarious symptoms of which he had read. Or were there, perhaps, some likehimself--merely victims of a foolish error, coming to have the hag ofdread pulled from off their backs?

And then suddenly, while he was speculating, there stood the doctor, signaling to him. His turn had come!

CHAPTER II

The doctor was a man about forty years of age, robust, with everyappearance of a strong character. In the buttonhole of the frock coathe wore was a red rosette, the decoration of some order. Confused andnervous as George was, he got a vague impression of the physician'srichly furnished office, with its bronzes, marbles and tapestries. 

The doctor signaled to the young man to be seated in the chair beforehis desk. George complied, and then, as he wiped away the perspirationfrom his forehead, stammered out a few words, explaining his errand. Ofcourse, he said, it could not be true, but it was a man's duty notto take any chances in such a matter. "I have not been a man of looselife, " he added; "I have not taken so many chances as other men. "

The doctor cut him short with the brief remark that one chance was allthat was necessary. Instead of discussing such questions, he would makean examination. "We do not say positively in these cases until we havemade a blood test. That is the one way to avoid the possibility ofmistake. "

A drop of blood was squeezed out of George's finger on to a little glassplate. The doctor retired to an adjoining room, and the victim satalone in the office, deriving no enjoyment from the works of art whichsurrounded him, but feeling like a prisoner who sits in the dock withhis life at stake while the jury deliberates. 

The doctor returned, calm and impassive, and seated himself in hisoffice-chair. 

"Well, doctor?" asked George. He was trembling with terror. 

"Well, " was the reply, "there is no doubt whatever. "

George wiped his forehead. He could not credit the words. "No doubtwhatever? In what sense?"

"In the bad sense, " said the other. 

He began to write a prescription, without seeming to notice how Georgeturned page with terror. "Come, " he said, after a silence, "you musthave known the truth pretty well. "

"No, no, sir!" exclaimed George. 

"Well, " said the other, "you have syphilis. "

George was utterly stunned. "My God!" he exclaimed. 

The doctor, having finished his prescription, looked up and observed hiscondition. "Don't trouble yourself, sir. Out of every seven men you meetupon the street, in society, or at the theater, there is at least onewho has been in your condition. One out of seven--fifteen per cent!"

George was staring before him. He spoke low, as if to himself. "I knowwhat I am going to do. "

"And I know also, " said the doctor, with a smile. "There is yourprescription. You are going to take it to the drugstore and have it putup. "

George took the prescription, mechanically, but whispered, "No, sir. "

"Yes, sir, you are going to do as everybody else does. "

"No, because my situation is not that of everybody else. I know what Iam going to do. "

Said the doctor: "Five times out of ten, in the chair where you aresitting, people talk like that, perfectly sincerely. Each one believeshimself more unhappy than all the others; but after thinking it over, and listening to me, they understand that this disease is a companionwith whom one can live. Just as in every household, one gets along atthe cost of mutual concessions, that's all. Come, sir, I tell you again, there is nothing about it that is not perfectly ordinary, perfectlynatural, perfectly common; it is an accident which can happen to anyone. It is a great mistake that people speak if this as the 'FrenchDisease, ' for there is none which is more universal. Under the pictureof this disease, addressing myself to those who follow the oldestprofession in the world, I would write the famous phrase: 'Here is yourmaster. It is, it was, or it must be. '"

George was putting the prescription into the outside pocket of hiscoat, stupidly, as if he did not know what he was doing. "But, sir, " heexclaimed, "I should have been spared!"

"Why?" inquired the other. "Because you are a man of position, becauseyou are rich? Look around you, sir. See these works of art in myroom. Do you imagine that such things have been presented to me bychimney-sweeps?"

"But, Doctor, " cried George, with a moan, "I have never been alibertine. There was never any one, you understand me, never any onecould have been more careful in his pleasures. If I were to tell youthat in all my life I have only had two mistresses, what would youanswer to that?"

"I would answer, that a single one would have been sufficient to bringyou to me. "

"No, sir!" cried George. "It could not have been either of those women. "He went on to tell the doctor about his first mistress, and then aboutLizette. Finally he told about Henriette, how much he adored her. Hecould really use such a word--he loved her most tenderly. She was sogood--and he had thought himself so lucky!

As he went on, he could hardly keep from going to pieces. "I hadeverything, " he exclaimed, "everything a man needed! All who knew meenvied me. And then I had to let those fellows drag me off to thatmiserable supper-party! And now here I am! My future is ruined, my wholeexistence poisoned! What is to become of me? Everybody will avoid me--Ishall be a pariah, a leper!"

He paused, and then in sudden wild grief exclaimed, "Come, now! Wouldit not be better that I should take myself out of the way? At least, Ishould not suffer any more. You see that there could not be any onemore unhappy than myself--not any one, I tell you, sir, not any one!"Completely overcome, he began to weep in his handkerchief. 

The doctor got up, and went to him. "You must be a man, " he said, "andnot cry like a child. "

"But sir, " cried the young man, with tears running down his cheeks, "if I had led a wild life, if I had passed my time in dissipation withchorus girls, then I could understand it. Then I would say that I haddeserved it. "

The doctor exclaimed with emphasis, "No, no! You would not say it. However, it is of no matter--go on. "

"I tell you that I would say it. I am honest, and I would say that Ihad deserved it. But no, I have worked, I have been a regular grind. Andnow, when I think of the shame that is in store for me, the disgustingthings, the frightful catastrophes to which I am condemned--"

"What is all this you are telling me?" asked the doctor, laughing. 

"Oh, I know, I know!" cried the other, and repeated what his friendhad told him about the man in a wheel-chair. "And they used to call mehandsome Raoul! That was my name--handsome Raoul!"

"Now, my dear sir, " said the doctor, cheerfully, "wipe your eyes onelast time, blow your nose, put your handkerchief into your pocket, andhear me dry-eyed. "

George obeyed mechanically. "But I give you fair warning, " he said, "youare wasting your time. "

"I tell you--" began the other. 

"I know exactly what you are going to tell me!" cried George. 

"Well, in that case, there is nothing more for you to do here--runalong. "

"Since I am here, " said the patient submissively, "I will hear you. "

"Very well, then. I tell you that if you have the will and theperseverance, none of the things you fear will happen to you. "

"Of course, it is your duty to tell me that. "

"I will tell you that there are one hundred thousand like you inParis, alert, and seemingly well. Come, take what you were justsaying--wheel-chairs. One doesn't see so many of them. "

"No, that's true, " said George. 

"And besides, " added the doctor, "a good many people who ride in themare not there for the cause you think. There is no more reason whyyou should be the victim of a catastrophe than any of the one hundredthousand. The disease is serious, nothing more. "

"You admit that it is a serious disease?" argued George. 

"Yes. "

"One of the most serious?"

"Yes, but you have the good fortune--"

"The GOOD fortune?"

"Relatively, if you please. You have the good fortune to be infectedwith one of the diseases over which we have the most certain control. "

"Yes, yes, " exclaimed George, "but the remedies are worse than thedisease. "

"You deceive yourself, " replied the other. 

"You are trying to make me believe that I can be cured?"

"You can be. "

"And that I am not condemned?"

"I swear it to you. "

"You are not deceiving yourself, you are not deceiving me? Why, I wastold--"

The doctor laughed, contemptuously. "You were told, you were told! I'llwager that you know the laws of the Chinese concerning party-walls. "

"Yes, naturally, " said George. "But I don't see what they have to dowith it. "

"Instead of teaching you such things, " was the reply, "it would havebeen a great deal better to have taught you about the nature and causeof diseases of this sort. Then you would have known how to avoid thecontagion. Such knowledge should be spread abroad, for it is themost important knowledge in the world. It should be found in everynewspaper. "

This remark gave George something of a shock, for his father had owneda little paper in the provinces, and he had a sudden vision of the waysubscribers would have fallen off, if he had printed even so much as thename of this vile disease. 

"And yet, " pursued the doctor, "you publish romances about adultery!"

"Yes, " said George, "that's what the readers want. "

"They don't want the truth about venereal diseases, " exclaimed theother. "If they knew the full truth, they would no longer think thatadultery was romantic and interesting. "

He went on to give his advice as to the means of avoiding such diseases. There was really but one rule. It was: To love but one woman, to takeher as a virgin, and to love her so much that she would never deceiveyou. "Take that from me, " added the doctor, "and teach it to your son, when you have one. "

George's attention was caught by this last sentence. 

"You mean that I shall be able to have children?" he cried. 

"Certainly, " was the reply. 

"Healthy children?"

"I repeat it to you; if you take care of yourself properly for a longtime, conscientiously, you have little to fear. "

"That's certain?"

"Ninety-nine times out of a hundred. "

George felt as if he had suddenly emerged from a dungeon. "Why, then, "he exclaimed, "I shall be able to marry!"

"You will be able to marry, " was the reply. 

"You are not deceiving me? You would not give me that hope, you wouldnot expose me? How soon will I be able to marry?"

"In three or four years, " said the doctor. 

"What!" cried George in consternation. "In three or four years? Notbefore?"

"Not before. "

"How is that? Am I going to be sick all that time? Why, you told me justnow--"

Said the doctor: "The disease will no longer be dangerous to you, yourself--but you will be dangerous to others. "

"But, " the young man cried, in despair, "I am to be married a month fromnow. "

"That is impossible. "

"But I cannot do any differently. The contract is ready! The banns havebeen published! I have given my word!"

"Well, you are a great one!" the doctor laughed. "Just now you werelooking for your revolver! Now you want to be married within the month. "

"But, Doctor, it is necessary!"

"But I forbid it. "

"As soon as I knew that the disease is not what I imagined, and that Icould be cured, naturally I didn't want to commit suicide. And as soonas I make up my mind not to commit suicide, I have to take up my regularlife. I have to keep my engagements; I have to get married. "

"No, " said the doctor. 

"Yes, yes!" persisted George, with blind obstinacy. "Why, Doctor, if Ididn't marry it would be a disaster. You are talking about somethingyou don't understand. I, for my part--it is not that I am anxious to bemarried. As I told you, I had almost a second family. Lizette's littlebrothers adored me. But it is my aunt, an old maid; and, also, my motheris crazy about the idea. If I were to back out now, she would die ofchagrin. My aunt would disinherit me, and she is the one who has thefamily fortune. Then, too, there is my father-in-law, a regular dragoonfor his principles--severe, violent. He never makes a joke of seriousthings, and I tell you it would cost me dear, terribly dear. And, besides, I have given my word. "

"You must take back your word. "

"You still insist?" exclaimed George, in despair. "But then, supposethat it were possible, how could I take back my signature which I put atthe bottom of the deed? I have pledged myself to pay in two months forthe attorney's practice I have purchased!"

"Sir, " said the doctor, "all these things--"

"You are going to tell me that I was lacking in prudence, that I shouldnever have disposed of my wife's dowry until after the honeymoon!"

"Sir, " said the doctor, again, "all these considerations are foreign tome. I am a physician, and nothing but a physician, and I can onlytell you this: If you marry before three or four years, you will be acriminal. "

George broke out with a wild exclamation. "No sir, you are not merely aphysician! You are also a confessor! You are not merely a scientist; andit is not enough for you that you observe me as you would some lifelessthing in your laboratory, and say, 'You have this; science says that;now go along with you. ' All my existence depends upon you. It isyour duty to listen to me, because when you know everything you willunderstand me, and you will find some way to cure me within a month. "

"But, " protested the doctor, "I wear myself out telling you that suchmeans do not exist. I shall not be certain of your cure, as much as anyone can be certain, in less than three or four years. "

George was almost beside himself. "I tell you you must find some means!Listen to me, sir--if I don't get married I don't get the dowry! Andwill you tell me how I can pay the notes I have signed?"

"Oh, " said the doctor, dryly, "if that is the question, it is verysimple--I will give you a plan to get out of the affair. You will goand get acquainted with some rich man; you will do everything you can togain his confidence; and when you have succeeded, you will plunder him. "

George shook his head. "I am not in any mood for joking. "

"I am not joking, " replied his adviser. "Rob that man, assassinate himeven--that would be no worse crime than you would commit in taking ayoung girl in good health in order to get a portion of her dowry, when at the same time you would have to expose her to the frightfulconsequences of the disease which you would give her. "

"Frightful consequences?" echoed George. 

"Consequences of which death would not be the most frightful. "

"But, sir, you were saying to me just now--"

"Just now I did not tell you everything. Even reduced, suppressed alittle by our remedies, the disease remains mysterious, menacing, andin its sum, sufficiently grave. So it would be an infamy to expose yourfiancee in order to avoid an inconvenience, however great that mightbe. "

But George was still not to be convinced. Was it certain that thismisfortune would befall Henriette, even with the best attention?

Said the other: "I do not wish to lie to you. No, it is not absolutelycertain, it is probable. And there is another truth which I wish totell you now: our remedies are not infallible. In a certain number ofcases--a very small number, scarcely five per cent--they have remainedwithout effect. You might be one of those exceptions, your wife might beone. What then?"

"I will employ a word you used just now, yourself. We should have toexpect the worst catastrophes. "

George sat in a state of complete despair. 

"Tell me what to do, then, " he said. 

"I can tell you only one thing: don't marry. You have a most seriousblemish. It is as if you owed a debt. Perhaps no one will ever come toclaim it; on the other hand, perhaps a pitiless creditor will come allat once, presenting a brutal demand for immediate payment. Come now--youare a business man. Marriage is a contract; to marry without sayinganything--that means to enter into a bargain by means of passivedissimulation. That's the term, is it not? It is dishonesty, and itought to come under the law. "

George, being a lawyer, could appreciate the argument, and could thinkof nothing to say to it. 

"What shall I do?" he asked. 

The other answered, "Go to your father-in-law and tell him frankly thetruth. "

"But, " cried the young man, wildly, "there will be no question then ofthree or four years' delay. He will refuse his consent altogether. "

"If that is the case, " said the doctor, "don't tell him anything. "

"But I have to give him a reason, or I don't know what he will do. Heis the sort of man to give himself to the worst violence, and again myfiancee would be lost to me. Listen, doctor. From everything I have saidto you, you may perhaps think I am a mercenary man. It is true that Iwant to get along in the world, that is only natural. But Henriette hassuch qualities; she is so much better than I, that I love her, really, as people love in novels. My greatest grief--it is not to give up thepractice I have bought--although, indeed, it would be a bitter blow tome; my greatest grief would be to lose Henriette. If you could only seeher, if you only knew her--then you would understand. I have her picturehere--"

The young fellow took out his card-case. And offered a photograph to thedoctor, who gently refused it. The other blushed with embarrassment. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, "I am ridiculous. That happens to me, sometimes. Only, put yourself in my place--I love her so!" His voicebroke. 

"My dear boy, " said the doctor, feelingly, "that is exactly why youought not to marry her. "

"But, " he cried, "if I back out without saying anything they will guessthe truth, and I shall be dishonored. "

"One is not dishonored because one is ill. "

"But with such a disease! People are so stupid. I myself, yesterday--Ishould have laughed at anyone who had got into such a plight; I shouldhave avoided him, I should have despised him!" And suddenly Georgebroke down again. "Oh!" he cried, "if I were the only one to suffer; butshe--she is in love with me. I swear it to you! She is so good; and shewill be so unhappy!"

The doctor answered, "She would be unhappier later on. "

"It will be a scandal!" George exclaimed. 

"You will avoid one far greater, " the other replied. 

Suddenly George set his lips with resolution. He rose from his seat. Hetook several twenty-franc pieces from his pocket and laid them quietlyupon the doctor's desk--paying the fee in cash, so that he would nothave to give his name and address. He took up his gloves, his cane andhis hat, and rose. 

"I will think it over, " he said. "I thank you, Doctor. I will come backnext week as you have told me. That is--probably I will. "

He was about to leave. 

The doctor rose, and he spoke in a voice of furious anger. "No, " hesaid, "I shan't see you next week, and you won't even think it over. Youcame here knowing what you had; you came to ask advice of me, with theintention of paying no heed to it, unless it conformed to your wishes. A superficial honesty has driven you to take that chance in order tosatisfy your conscience. You wanted to have somebody upon whom you couldput off, bye and bye, the consequences of an act whose culpability youunderstand! No, don't protest! Many of those who come here think and actas you think, and as you wish to act; but the marriage made againstmy will has generally been the source of such calamities that now I amalways afraid of not having been persuasive enough, and it even seems tome that I am a little to blame for these misfortunes. I should have beenable to prevent them; they would not have happened if those who are theauthors of them knew what I know and had seen what I have seen. Swear tome, sir, that you are going to break off that marriage!"

George was greatly embarrassed, and unwilling to reply. "I cannot swearto you at all, Doctor; I can only tell you again that I will think itover. "

"That WHAT over?"

"What you have told me. "

"What I have told you is true! You cannot bring any new objections; andI have answered those which you have presented to me; therefore, yourmind ought to be made up. "

Groping for a reply, George hesitated. He could not deny that he hadmade inquiry about these matters before he had come to the doctor. Buthe said that he was not al all certain that he had this disease. Thedoctor declared it, and perhaps it was true, but the most learnedphysicians were sometimes deceived. 

He remembered something he had read in one of the medical books. "Dr. Ricord maintains that after a certain period the disease is no longercontagious. He has proven his contentions by examples. Today you producenew examples to show that he is wrong! Now, I want to do what's right, but surely I have the right to think it over. And when I think itover, I realize that all the evils with which you threaten me are onlyprobable evils. In spite of your desire to terrify me, you have beenforced to admit that possibly my marriage would not have any troublesomeconsequence for my wife. "

The doctor found difficulty in restraining himself. But he said, "Go on. I will answer you afterwards. "

And George blundered ahead in his desperation. "Your remedies arepowerful, you tell me; and for the calamities of which you speak tobefall me, I would have to be among the rare exceptions--also mywife would have to be among the number of those rare exceptions. If amathematician were to apply the law of chance to these facts, the resultof his operation would show but slight chance of a catastrophe, ascompared with the absolute certainty of a series of misfortunes, sufferings, troubles, tears, and perhaps tragic accidents whichthe breaking of my engagement would cause. So I say that themathematician--who is, even more than you, a man of science, a man ofa more infallible science--the mathematician would conclude that wisdomwas not with you doctors, but with me. "

"You believe it, sir!" exclaimed the other. "But you deceive yourself. "And he continued, driving home his point with a finger which seemed toGeorge to pierce his very soul. "Twenty cases identical with your ownhave been patiently observed, from the beginning to the end. Nineteentimes the woman was infected by her husband; you hear me, sir, nineteentimes out of twenty! You believe that the disease is without danger, andyou take to yourself the right to expose your wife to what you call thechance of your being one of those exceptions, for whom our remediesare without effect. Very well; it is necessary that you should know thedisease which your wife, without being consulted, will run a chance ofcontracting. Take that book, sir; it is the work of my teacher. Read ityourself. Here, I have marked the passage. "

He held out the open book; but George could not lift a hand to take it. 

"You do not wish to read it?" the other continued. "Listen to me. "And in a voice trembling with passion, he read: "'I have watched thespectacle of an unfortunate young woman, turned into a veritable monsterby means of a syphilitic infection. Her face, or rather let me saywhat was left of her face, was nothing but a flat surface seamed withscars. '"

George covered his face, exclaiming, "Enough, sir! Have mercy!"

But the other cried, "No, no! I will go to the very end. I have aduty to perform, and I will not be stopped by the sensibility of yournerves. "

He went on reading: "'Of the upper lip not a trace was left; the ridgeof the upper gums appeared perfectly bare. '" But then at the young man'sprotests, his resolution failed him. "Come, " he said, "I will stop. I amsorry for you--you who accept for another person, for the woman you sayyou love, the chance of a disease which you cannot even endure to heardescribed. Now, from whom did that woman get syphilis? It is not I whoam speaking, it is the book. 'From a miserable scoundrel who was notafraid to enter into matrimony when he had a secondary eruption. ' Allthat was established later on--'and who, moreover, had thought it bestnot to let his wife be treated for fear of awakening her suspicions!'"

The doctor closed the book with a bang. "What that man has done, sir, iswhat you want to do. "

George was edging toward the door; he could no longer look the doctor inthe eye. "I should deserve all those epithets and still more brutal onesif I should marry, knowing that my marriage would cause such horrors. But that I do not believe. You and your teachers--you are specialists, and consequently you are driven to attribute everything to the diseaseyou make the subject of your studies. A tragic case, an exceptionalcase, holds a kind of fascination for you; you think it can never betalked about enough. "

"I have heard that argument before, " said the doctor, with an effort atpatience. 

"Let me go on, I beg you, " pleaded George. "You have told me that out ofevery seven men there is one syphilitic. You have told me that there areone hundred thousand in Paris, coming and going, alert, and apparentlywell. "

"It is true, " said the doctor, "that there are one hundred thousandwho are actually at this moment not visibly under the influence of thedisease. But many thousands have passed into our hospitals, victims ofthe most frightful ravages that our poor bodies can support. These--youdo not see them, and they do not count for you. But again, if itconcerned no one but yourself, you might be able to argue thus. What Ideclare to you, what I affirm with all the violence of my conviction, is that you have not the right to expose a human creature to suchchances--rare, as I know, but terrible, as I know still better. Whathave you to answer to that?"

"Nothing, " stammered George, brought to his knees at last. "You areright about that. I don't know what to think. "

"And in forbidding you marriage, " continued the doctor, "is it the sameas if I forbade it forever? Is it the same as if I told you that youcould never be cured? On the contrary, I hold out to you every hope; butI demand of you a delay of three or four years, because it will take methat time to find out if you are among the number of those unfortunateones whom I pity with all my heart, for whom the disease is withoutmercy; because during that time you will be dangerous to your wife andto your children. The children I have not yet mentioned to you. "

Here the doctor's voice trembled slightly. He spoke with movingeloquence. "Come, sir, you are an honest man; you are too young for suchthings not to move you; you are not insensible to duty. It is impossiblethat I shan't be able to find a way to your heart, that I shan't beable to make you obey me. My emotion in speaking to you proves that Iappreciate your suffering, that I suffer with you. It is in the name ofmy sincerity that I implore you. You have admitted it--that you have notthe right to expose your wife to such miseries. But it is not only yourwife that you strike; you may attack in her your own children. I excludeyou for a moment from my thought--you and her. It is in the name ofthese innocents that I implore you; it is the future, it is the racethat I defend. Listen to me, listen to me! Out of the twenty householdsof which I spoke, only fifteen had children; these fifteen hadtwenty-eight. Do you know how many out of these twenty-eight survived?Three, sir! Three out of twenty-eight! Syphilis is above everything amurderer of children. Herod reigns in France, and over all the earth, and begins each year his massacre of the innocents; and if it be notblasphemy against the sacredness of life, I say that the most happy arethose who have disappeared. Visit our children's hospitals! We know toowell the child of syphilitic parents; the type is classical; the doctorscan pick it out anywhere. Those little old creatures who have theappearance of having already lived, and who have kept the stigmata ofall out infirmities, of all our decay. They are the victims of fatherswho have married, being ignorant of what you know--things which I shouldlike to go and cry out in the public places. "

The doctor paused, and then in a solemn voice continued: "I have toldyou all, without exaggeration. Think it over. Consider the pros andcons; sum up the possible misfortunes and the certain miseries. Butdisregard yourself, and consider that there are in one side of thescales the misfortunes of others, and in the other your own. Take carethat you are just. "

George was at last overcome. "Very well, " he said, "I give way. Iwon't get married. I will invent some excuse; I will get a delay of sixmonths. More than that, I cannot do. "

The doctor exclaimed, "I need three years--I need four years!"

"No, Doctor!" persisted George. "You can cure me in less time thanthat. "

The other answered, "No! No! No!"

George caught him by the hand, imploringly. "Yes! Science in allpowerful!"

"Science is not God, " was the reply. "There are no longer any miracles. "

"If only you wanted to do it!" cried the young man, hysterically. "Youare a learned man; seek, invent, find something! Try some new plan withme; give me double the dose, ten times the does; make me suffer. I givemyself up to you; I will endure everything--I swear it! There ought tobe some way to cure me within six months. Listen to me! I tell you Ican't answer for myself with that delay. Come; it is in the name of mywife, in the name of my children, that I implore you. Do something forthem!"

The doctor had reached the limit of his patience. "Enough, sir!" hecried. "Enough!"

But nothing could stop the wretched man. "On my knees!" he cried. "Iput myself on my knees before you! Oh! If only you would do it! I wouldbless you; I would adore you, as one adores a god! All my gratitude, allmy life--half my fortune! For mercy's sake, Doctor, do something; inventsomething; make some discovery--have pity!"

The doctor answered gravely, "Do you wish me to do more for you than forthe others?"

George answered, unblushingly, 'answered, unblushingly, "Yes!" He wasbeside himself with terror and distress. 

The other's reply was delivered in a solemn tone. "Understand, sir, for every one of out patients we do all that we can, whether it be thegreatest personage, or the last comer to out hospital clinic. We have nosecrets in reserve for those who are more fortunate, or less fortunatethan the others, and who are in a hurry to be cured. "

George gazed at him for a moment in bewilderment and despair, and thensuddenly bowed his head. "Good-by, Doctor, " he answered. 

"Au revoir, sir, " the other corrected--with what proved to be propheticunderstanding. For George was destined to see him again--even though hehad made up his mind to the contrary!

CHAPTER III

George Dupont had the most important decision of his life to make; butthere was never very much doubt what his decision would be. One the onehand was the definite certainty that if he took the doctor's advice, hewould wreck his business prospects, and perhaps also lose the woman heloved. On the other hand were vague and uncertain possibilities which itwas difficult for him to make real to himself. It was all very well towait a while to be cured of the dread disease; but to wait three or fouryears--that was simply preposterous!

He decided to consult another physician. He would find one this time whowould not be so particular, who would be willing to take some troubleto cure him quickly. He began to notice the advertisements whichwere scattered over the pages of the newspapers he read. There wereapparently plenty of doctors in Paris who could cure him, who werewilling to guarantee to cure him. After much hesitation, he picked outone whose advertisement sounded the most convincing. 

The office was located in a cheap quarter. It was a dingy place, notencumbered with works of art, but with a few books covered with dust. The doctor himself was stout and greasy, and he rubbed his hands withanticipation at the sight of so prosperous-looking a patient. But he wasevidently a man of experience, for he knew exactly what was the matterwith George, almost without the formality of an examination. Yes, he could cure him, quickly, he said. There had recently been greatdiscoveries made--new methods which had not reached the bulk of theprofession. He laughed at the idea of three or four years. That wasthe way with those specialists! When one got forty francs for aconsultation, naturally, one was glad to drag out the case. There weretricks in the medical trade, as in all others. A doctor had to live;when he had a big name, he had to live expensively. 

The new physician wrote out two prescriptions, and patted George on theshoulder as he went away. There was no need for him to worry; he wouldsurely be well in three months. If he would put off his marriage for sixmonths, he would be doing everything within reason. And meantime, therewas no need for him to worry himself--things would come out all right. So George went away, feeling as if a mountain had been lifted from hisshoulders. 

He went to see Henriette that same evening, to get the mattersettled. "Henriette, " he said, "I have to tell you something veryimportant--something rather painful. I hope you won't let it disturb youtoo much. "

She was gazing at him in alarm. "What is it?"

"Why, " he said, blushing in spite of himself, and regretting that he hadbegun the matter so precipitately, "for some time I've not been feelingquite well. I've been having a slight cough. Have you noticed it?"

"Why no!" exclaimed Henriette, anxiously. 

"Well, today I went to see a doctor, and he says that there is apossibility--you understand it is nothing very serious--but it mightbe--I might possibly have lung trouble. "

"George!" cried the girl in horror. 

He put his hand upon hers. "Don't be frightened, " he said. "It will beall right, only I have to take care of myself. " How very dear of her, hethought--to be so much worried!

"George, you ought to go away to the country!" she cried. "You havebeen working too hard. I always told you that if you shut yourself up somuch--"

"I am going to take care of myself, " he said. "I realize that it isnecessary. I shall be all right--the doctor assured me there was nodoubt of it, so you are not to distress yourself. But meantime, here isthe trouble: I don't think it would be right for me to marry until I amperfectly well. "

Henriette gave an exclamation of dismay. 

"I am sure we should put it off, " he went on, "it would be only fair toyou. "

"But, George!" she protested. "Surely it can't be that serious!"

"We ought to wait, " he said. "You ought not to take the chance of beingmarried to a consumptive. "

The other protested in consternation. He did not look like aconsumptive; she did not believe that he WAS a consumptive. She waswilling to take her chances. She loved him, and she was not afraid. ButGeorge insisted--he was sure that he ought not to marry for six months. 

"Did the doctor advise that?" asked Henriette. 

"No, " he replied, "but I made up my mind after talking to him that Imust do the fair and honorable thing. I beg you to forgive me, and tobelieve that I know best. "

George stood firmly by this position, and so in the end she had to giveway. It did not seem quite modest in her to continue persisting. 

George volunteered to write a letter to her father; and he hoped thiswould settle the matter without further discussion. But in this he wasdisappointed. There had to be a long correspondence with long argumentsand protestations from Henriette's father and from his own mother. It seemed such a singular whim. Everybody persisted in diagnosing hissymptoms, in questioning him about what the doctor had said, who thedoctor was, how he had come to consult him--all of which, of course, wasvery embarrassing to George, who could not see why they had to make sucha fuss. He took to cultivating a consumptive look, as well as he couldimagine it; he took to coughing as he went about the house--and it wasall he could do to keep from laughing, as he saw the look of dismay onhis poor mother's face. After all, however, he told himself that hewas not deceiving her, for the disease he had was quite as serious astuberculosis. 

It was very painful and very trying. But there was nothing that could bedone about it; the marriage had been put off for six months, and in themeantime he and Henriette had to control their impatience and make thebest of their situation. Six months was a long time; but what if it hadbeen three or four years, as the other doctor had demanded? That wouldhave been a veritable sentence of death. 

George, as we have seen, was conscientious, and regular and careful inhis habits. He took the medicine which the new doctor prescribedfor him; and day by day he watched, and to his great relief saw thetroublesome symptoms gradually disappearing. He began to take heart, and to look forward to life with his former buoyancy. He had had a badscare, but now everything was going to be all right. 

Three or four months passed, and the doctor told him he was cured. Hereally was cured, so far as he could see. He was sorry, now, that hehad asked for so long a delay from Henriette; but the new date for thewedding had been announced, and it would be awkward to change it again. George told himself that he was being "extra careful, " and he was repaidfor the inconvenience by the feeling of virtue derived from the delay. He was relieved that he did not have to cough any more, or to inventany more tales of his interviews with the imaginary lung-specialist. Sometimes he had guilty feelings because of all the lying he had had todo; but he told himself that it was for Henriette's sake. She loved himas much as he loved her. She would have suffered needless agonies hadshe known the truth; she would never have got over it--so it would havebeen a crime to tell her. 

He really loved her devotedly, thoroughly. From the beginning he hadthought as much of her mental sufferings as he had of any physical harmthat the dread disease might do to him. How could he possibly persuadehimself to give her up, when he knew that the separation would break herheart and ruin her whole life? No; obviously, in such a dilemma, it washis duty to use his own best judgment, and get himself cured as quicklyas possible. After that he would be true to her, he would take no morechances of a loathsome disease. 

The secret he was hiding made him feel humble--made him unusually gentlein his attitude towards the girl. He was a perfect lover, and shewas ravished with happiness. She thought that all his sufferings werebecause of his love for her, and the delay which he had imposed out ofhis excess of conscientiousness. So she loved him more and more, andnever was there a happier bride than Henriette Loches, when at last thegreat day arrived. 

They went to the Riveria for their honeymoon, and then returned to livein the home which had belonged to George's father. The investment inthe notary's practice had proven a good one, and so life held out everypromise for the young couple. They were divinely happy. 

After a while, the bride communicated to her husband the tidings thatshe was expecting a child. Then it seemed to George that the cup of hisearthly bliss was full. His ailment had slipped far into the backgroundof his thoughts, like an evil dream which he had forgotten. He put awaythe medicines in the bottom of his trunk and dismissed the whole matterfrom his mind. Henriette was well--a very picture of health, as everyone agreed. The doctor had never seen a more promising young mother, hedeclared, and Madame Dupont, the elder, bloomed with fresh life and joyas she attended her daughter-in-law. 

Henriette went for the summer to her father's place in the provinces, which she and George had visited before their marriage. They drove outone day to the farm where they had stopped. The farmer's wife had aweek-old baby, the sight of which made Henriette's heart leap withdelight. He was such a very healthy baby that George conceived the ideathat this would be the woman to nurse his own child, in case Henrietteherself should not be able to do it. 

They came back to the city, and there the baby was born. As George pacedthe floor, waiting for the news, the memory of his evil dreams came backto him. He remembered all the dreadful monstrosities of which he hadread--infants that were born of syphilitic parents. His heart stoodstill when the nurse came into the room to tell him the tidings. 

But it was all right; of course it was all right! He had been a fool, he told himself, as he stood in the darkened room and gazed at thewonderful little mite of life which was the fruit of his love. It was aperfect child, the doctor said--a little small, to be sure, but that wasa defect which would soon be remedied. George kneeled by the bedside andkissed the hand of his wife, and went out of the room feeling as if hehad escaped from a tomb. 

All went well, and after a couple of weeks Henriette was about the houseagain, laughing all day and singing with joy. But the baby did not gainquite as rapidly as the doctor had hoped, and it was decided that thecountry air would be better for her. So George and his mother paid avisit to the farm in the country, and arranged that the country womanshould put her own child to nurse elsewhere and should become thefoster-mother of little Gervaise. 

George paid a good price for the service, far more than would have beennecessary, for the simple country woman was delighted with the idea oftaking care of the grandchild of the deputy of her district. George camehome and told his wife about this and had a merry time as he picturedthe woman boasting about it to the travelers who stopped at her door. "Yes, ma'am, a great piece of luck I've got, ma'am. I've got thedaughter of the daughter of our deputy--at your service ma'am. My!But she is as fat as out little calf--and so clever! She understandseverything. A great piece of luck for me, ma'am. She's the daughterof the daughter of our deputy!" Henriette was vastly entertained, discovering in her husband a new talent, that of an actor. 

As for George's mother, she was hardly to be persuaded from staying inthe country with the child. She went twice a week, to make sure that allwent well. Henriette and she lived with the child's picture before them;they spent their time sewing on caps and underwear--all covered withlaces and frills and pink and blue ribbons. Every day, when Georgecame home from his work, he found some new article completed, and wasravished by the scent of some new kind of sachet powder. What a luckyman he was!

You would think he must have been the happiest man in the whole cityof Paris. But George, alas, had to pay the penalty for his early sins. There was, for instance, the deception he had practiced upon his friend, away back in the early days. Now he had friends of his own, and he couldnot keep these friends from visiting him; and so he was unquiet with thefear that some one of them might play upon him the same vile trick. Evenin the midst of his radiant happiness, when he knew that Henriette washanging upon his every word, trembling with delight when she heard hislatchkey in the door--still he could not drive away the horrible thoughtthat perhaps all this might be deception. 

There was his friend, Gustave, for example. He had been a friend ofHenriette's before her marriage; he had even been in love with her atone time. And now he came sometimes to the house--once or twice whenGeorge was away! What did that mean? George wondered. He brooded overit all day, but dared not drop any hint to Henriette. But he took tosetting little traps to catch her; for instance, he would call her up onthe telephone, disguising his voice. "Hello! Hello! Is that you, MadameDupont?" And when she answered, "It is I, sir, " all unsuspecting, hewould inquire, "Is George there?"

"No, sir, " she replied. "Who is this speaking?"

He answered, "It is I, Gustave. How are you this morning?" He wanted tosee what she would answer. Would she perhaps say, "Very well, Gustave. How are you?"--in a tone which would betray too great intimacy!

But Henriette was a sharp young person. The tone did not sound likeGustave's. She asked in bewilderment, "What?" and then again, "What?"

So, at last, George, afraid that his trick might be suspected, had toburst out laughing, and turn it into a joke. But when he came home andteased his wife about it, the laugh was not all on his side. Henriettehad guessed the real meaning of his joke! She did not really mind--shetook his jealousy as a sign of love, and was pleased with it. It isnot until a third party come upon the scene that jealousy begins to beannoying. 

So she had a merry time teasing George. "You are a great fellow!You have no idea how well I understand you--and after only a year ofmarriage!"

"You know me?" said the husband, curiously. (It is always so fascinatingwhen anybody thinks she know us better than we know ourselves!) "Tellme, what do you think about me?"

"You are restless, " said Henriette. "You are suspicious. You pass yourtime putting flies in your milk, and inventing wise schemes to get themout. "

"Oh, you think that, do you?" said George, pleased to be talked about. 

"I am not annoyed, " she answered. "You have always been that way--and Iknow that it's because at bottom you are timid and disposed to suffer. And then, too, perhaps you have reasons for not having confidence in awife's intimate friends--lady-killer that you are!"

George found this rather embarrassing; but he dared not show it, so helaughed gayly. "I don't know what you mean, " he said--"upon my word Idon't. But it is a trick I would not advise everybody to try. "

There were other embarrassing moments, caused by George's having thingsto conceal. There was, for instance, the matter of the six months' delayin the marriage--about which Henriette would never stop talking. Shebegrudged the time, because she had got the idea that little Gervaisewas six months younger than she otherwise would have been. "That showsyour timidity again, " she would say. "The idea of your having imaginedyourself a consumptive!"

Poor George had to defend himself. "I didn't tell you half the truth, because I was afraid of upsetting you. It seemed I had the beginning ofchronic bronchitis. I felt it quite keenly whenever I took a breath, adeep breath--look, like this. Yes--I felt--here and there, on each sideof the chest, a heaviness--a difficulty--"

"The idea of taking six months to cure you of a thing like that!"exclaimed Henriette. "And making our baby six months younger than sheought to be!"

"But, " laughed George, "that means that we shall have her so much thelonger! She will get married six months later!"

"Oh, dear me, " responded the other, "let us not talk about such things!I am already worried, thinking she will get married some day. "

"For my part, " said George, "I see myself mounting with her on my armthe staircase of the Madeleine. "

"Why the Madeleine?" exclaimed his wife. "Such a very magnificentchurch!"

"I don't know--I see her under her white veil, and myself all dressedup, and with an order. "

"With an order!" laughed Henriette. "What do you expect to do to win anorder?"

"I don't know that--but I see myself with it. Explain it as you will, Isee myself with an order. I see it all, exactly as if I were there--theSwiss guard with his white stockings and the halbard, and the littlemilliner's assistants and the scullion lined up staring. "

"It is far off--all that, " said Henriette. "I don't like to talk of it. I prefer her as a baby. I want her to grow up--but then I change mymind and think I don't. I know your mother doesn't. Do you know, I don'tbelieve she ever thinks about anything but her little Gervaise. "

"I believe you, " said the father. "The child can certainly boast ofhaving a grandmother who loves her. "

"Also, I adore your mother, " declared Henriette. "She makes me forget mymisfortune in not having my own mother. She is so good!"

"We are all like that in our family, " put in George. 

"Really, " laughed the wife. "Well, anyhow--the last time that we wentdown in the country with her--you had gone out, I don't know where youhad gone--"

"To see the sixteenth-century chest, " suggested the other. 

"Oh, yes, " laughed Henriette; "your famous chest!" (You must excuse thislittle family chatter of theirs--they were so much in love with eachother!)

"Don't let's talk about that, " objected George. "You were saying--?"

"You were not there. The nurse was out at mass, I think--"

"Or at the wine merchant's! Go on, go on. "

"Well, I was in the little room, and mother dear thought she was allalone with Gervaise. I was listening; she was talking to the baby--allsorts of nonsense, pretty little words--stupid, if you like, but tender. I wanted to laugh, and at the same time I wanted to weep. "

"Perhaps she called her 'my dear little Savior'?"

"Exactly! Did you hear her?"

"No--but that is what she used to call me when I was little. "

"It was that day she swore that the little one had recognized her, andlaughed!"

"Oh, yes!"

"And then another time, when I went into her room--mother's room--shedidn't hear me because the door was open, but I saw her. She was inecstasy before the little boots which the baby wore at baptism--youknow?"

"Yes, yes. "

"Listen, then. She had taken them and she was embracing them!"

"And what did you say then?"

"Nothing; I stole out very softly, and I sent across the threshold agreat kiss to the dear grandmother!"

Henriette sat for a moment in thought. "It didn't take her very long, "she remarked, "today when she got the letter from the nurse. I imagineshe caught the eight-fifty-nine train!"

"Any yet, " laughed George, "it was really nothing at all. "

"Oh no, " said his wife. "Yet after all, perhaps she was right--andperhaps I ought to have gone with her. "

"How charming you are, my poor Henriette! You believe everything you aretold. I, for my part, divined right away the truth. The nurse was simplyplaying a game on us; she wanted a raise. Will you bet? Come, I'll betyou something. What would you like to bet? You don't want to? Come, I'llbet you a lovely necklace--you know, with a big pearl. "

"No, " said Henriette, who had suddenly lost her mood of gayety. "Ishould be too much afraid of winning. "

"Stop!" laughed her husband. "Don't you believe I love her as much asyou love her--my little duck? Do you know how old she is? I mean herEXACT age?"

Henriette sat knitting her brows, trying to figure. 

"Ah!" he exploded. "You see you don't know! She is ninety-one days andeight hours! Ha, ha! Imagine when she will be able to walk all alone. Then we will take her back with us; we must wait at least six months. "Then, too late, poor George realized that he had spoken the fatal phraseagain. 

"If only you hadn't put off our marriage, she would be able to walknow, " said Henriette. 

He rose suddenly. "Come, " he said, "didn't you say you had to dress andpay some calls?"

Henriette laughed, but took the hint. 

"Run along, little wife, " he said. "I have a lot of work to do in themeantime. You won't be down-stairs before I shall have my nose buried inmy papers. Bye-bye. "

"Bye-bye, " said Henriette. But they paused to exchange a dozen or sokisses before she went away to dress. 

Then George lighted a cigarette and stretched himself out in the bigarmchair. He seemed restless; he seemed to be disturbed about something. Could it be that he had not been so much at ease as he had pretended tobe, since the letter had come from the baby's nurse? Madame Dupont hadgone by the earliest train that morning. She had promised to telegraphat once--but she had not done so, and now it was late afternoon. 

George got up and wandered about. He looked at himself in the glass fora moment; then he went back to the chair and pulled up another to puthis geet upon. He puffed away at his cigarette until he was calmer. Butthen suddenly he heard the rustle of a dress behind him, and glancedabout, and started up with an exclamation, "Mother!"

Madame Dupont stood in the doorway. She did not speak. Her veil wasthrown back and George noted instantly the look of agitation upon hercountenance. 

"What's the matter?" he cried. "We didn't get any telegram from you; wewere not expecting you till tomorrow. "

Still his mother did not speak. 

"Henriette was just going out, " he exclaimed nervously; "I had bettercall her. "

"No!" said his mother quickly. Her voice was low and trembling. "I didnot want Henriette to be here when I arrived. "

"But what's the matter?" cried George. 

Again there was a silence before the reply came. He read somethingterrible in the mother's manner, and he found himself tremblingviolently. 

"I have brought back the child and the nurse, " said Madame Dupont. 

"What! Is the little one sick?"

"Yes. "

"What's the matter with her?"

"Nothing dangerous--for the moment, at least. "

"We must send and get the doctor!" cried George. 

"I have just come from the doctor's, " was the reply. "He said it wasnecessary to take our child from the nurse and bring her up on thebottle. "

Again there was a pause. George could hardly bring himself to askthe next question. Try as he would, he could not keep his voice fromweakening. "Well, now, what is her trouble?"

The mother did not answer. She stood staring before her. At last shesaid, faintly, "I don't know. "

"You didn't ask?"

"I asked. But it was not to our own doctor that I went. "

"Ah!" whispered George. For nearly a minute neither one of them spoke. "Why?" he inquired at last. 

"Because--he--the nurse's doctor--had frightened me so--"

"Truly?"

"Yes. It is a disease--" again she stopped. 

George cried, in a voice of agony, "and then?"

"Then I asked him if the matter was so grave that I could not besatisfied with our ordinary doctor. "

"And what did he answer?"

"He said that if we had the means it would really be better to consult aspecialist. "

George looked at his mother again. He was able to do it, because shewas not looking at him. He clenched his hands and got himself together. "And--where did he send you?"

His mother fumbled in her hand bag and drew out a visiting card. "Here, "she said. 

And George looked at the card. It was all he could do to keep himselffrom tottering. It was the card of the doctor whom he had firstconsulted about his trouble! The specialist in venereal diseases!

CHAPTER IV

It was all George could do to control his voice. "You--you went to seehim?" he stammered. 

"Yes, " said his mother. "You know him?"

"No, no, " he answered. "Or--that is--I have met him, I think. I don'tknow. " And then to himself, "My God!"

There was a silence. "He is coming to talk to you, " said the mother, atlast. 

George was hardly able to speak. "Then he is very much disturbed?"

"No, but he wants to talk to you. "

"To me?"

"Yes. When the doctor saw the nurse, he said, 'Madame, it is impossiblefor me to continue to attend this child unless I have had this very daya conversation with the father. ' So I said 'Very well, ' and he said hewould come at once. "

George turned away, and put his hands to his forehead. "My poor littledaughter!" he whispered to himself. 

"Yes, " said the mother, her voice breaking, "she is, indeed, a poorlittle daughter!"

A silence fell; for what could words avail in such a situation? Hearingthe door open, Madame Dupont started, for her nerves were all a-quiverwith the strain she had been under. A servant came in and spoke to her, and she said to George, "It is the doctor. If you need me, I shall be inthe next room. "

Her son stood trembling, as if he were waiting the approach of anexecutioner. The other came into the room without seeing him and hestood for a minute, clasping and unclasping his hands, almost overcomewith emotion. Then he said, "Good-day, doctor. " As the man stared athim, surprised and puzzled, he added, "You don't recognize me?"

The doctor looked again, more closely. George was expecting him to breakout in rage; but instead his voice fell low. "You!" he exclaimed. "It isyou!"

At last, in a voice of discouragement than of anger, he went on, "Yougot married, and you have a child! After all that I told you! You are awretch!"

"Sir, " cried George, "let me explain to you!"

"Not a word!" exclaimed the other. "There can be no explanation for whatyou have done. "

A silence followed. The young man did not know what to say. Finally, stretching out his arms, he pleaded, "You will take care of my littledaughter all the same, will you not?"

The other turned away with disgust. "Imbecile!" he said. 

George did not hear the word. "I was able to wait only six months, " hemurmured. 

The doctor answered in a voice of cold self-repression, "That is enough, sir! All that does not concern me. I have done wrong even to let you seemy indignation. I should have left you to judge yourself. I have nothingto do here but with the present and with the future--with the infant andwith the nurse. "

"She isn't in danger?" cried George. 

"The nurse is in danger of being contaminated. "

But George had not been thinking about the nurse. "I mean my child, " hesaid. 

"Just at present the symptoms are not disturbing. "

George waited; after a while he began, "You were saying about the nurse. Will you consent that I call my mother? She knows better than I. "

"As you wish, " was the reply. 

The young man started to the door, but came back, in terrible distress. "I have one prayer to offer you sir; arrange it so that my wife--so thatno one will know. If my wife learned that it is I who am the cause--! Itis for her that I implore you! She--she isn't to blame. "

Said the doctor: "I will do everything in my power that she may be keptignorant of the true nature of the disease. "

"Oh, how I thank you!" murmured George. "How I thank you!"

"Do not thank me; it is for her, and not for you, that I will consent tolie. "

"And my mother?"

"Your mother knows the truth. "

"But--"

"I pray you, sir--we have enough to talk about, and very seriousmatters. "

So George went to the door and called his mother. She entered andgreeted the doctor, holding herself erect, and striving to keep thesigns of grief and terror from her face. She signed to the doctor totake a seat, and then seated herself by a little table near him. 

"Madame Dupont, " he began, "I have prescribed a course of treatment forthe child. I hope to be able to improve its condition, and to preventany new developments. But my duty and yours does not stop there; ifthere is still time, it is necessary to protect the health of thenurse. "

"Tell us what it is necessary to do, Doctor?" said she. 

"The woman must stop nursing the child. "

"You mean we have to change the nurse?"

"Madame, the child can no longer be brought up at the breast, either bythat nurse or by any other nurse. "

"But why, sir?"

"Because the child would give her disease to the woman who gave hermilk. "

"But, Doctor, if we put her on the bottle--our little one--she willdie!"

And suddenly George burst out into sobs. "Oh, my poor little daughter!My God, my God!"

Said the doctor, "If the feeding is well attended to, with sterilizedmilk--"

"That can do very well for healthy infants, " broke in Madame Dupont. "But at the age of three months one cannot take from the breast a babylike ours, frail and ill. More than any other such an infant has need ofa nurse--is that not true?"

"Yes, " the doctor admitted, "that is true. But--"

"In that case, between the life of the child, and the health of thenurse, you understand perfectly well that my choice is made. "

Between her words the doctor heard the sobbing of George, whose head wasburied in his arms. "Madame, " he said, "your love for that baby has justcaused you to utter something ferocious! It is not for you to choose. Itis not for you to choose. I forbid the nursing. The health of that womandoes not belong to you. "

"No, " cried the grandmother, wildly, "nor does the health of out childbelong to you! If there is a hope of saving it, that hope is in givingit more care than any other child; and you would wish that I put itupon a mode of nourishment which the doctors condemn, even for vigorousinfants! You expect that I will let myself be taken in like that? Ianswer you: she shall have the milk which she needs, my poor little one!If there was a single thing that one could do to save her--I should bea criminal to neglect it!" And Madame Dupont broke out, with furiousscorn, "The nurse! The nurse! We shall know how to do our duty--weshall take care of her, repay her. But our child before all! No sir, no! Everything that can be done to save our baby I shall do, let it costwhat it will. To do what you say--you don't realize it--it would be asif I should kill the child!" In the end the agonized woman burst intotears. "Oh, my poor little angel! My little savior!"

George had never ceased sobbing while his mother spoke; at these lastwords his sobs became loud cries. He struck the floor with his foot, hetore his hair, as if he were suffering from violent physical pain. "Oh, oh, oh!" he cried. "My little child! My little child!" And then, in ahorrified whisper to himself, "I am a wretch! A criminal!"

"Madame, " said the doctor, "you must calm yourself; you must both calmyourselves. You will not help out the situation by lamentations. Youmust learn to take it with calmness. "

Madame Dupont set her lips together, and with a painful effort recoveredher self-control. "You are right, sir, " she said, in a low voice. "I askyour pardon; but if you only knew what that child means to me! I lostone at that age. I am an old woman, I am a widow--I had hardly hoped tolive long enough to be a grandmother. But, as you say--we must be calm. "She turned to the young man, "Calm yourself, my son. It is a poor way toshow our love for the child, to abandon ourselves to tears. Let us talk, Doctor, and seriously--coldly. But I declare to you that nothing willever induce me to put the child on the bottle, when I know that it mightkill her. That is all I can say. "

The doctor replied: "This isn't the first time that I find myself inthe present situation. Madame, I declare to you that always--ALWAYS, you understand--persons who have rejected my advice have had reason torepent it cruelly. "

"The only thing of which I should repent--" began the other. 

"You simply do not know, " interrupted the doctor, "what such a nurse iscapable of. You cannot imagine what bitterness--legitimatebitterness, you understand--joined to the rapacity, the cupidity, themischief-making impulse--might inspire these people to do. For them theBOURGEOIS is always somewhat of an enemy; and when they find themselvesin position to avenge their inferiority, they are ferocious. "

"But what could the woman do?"

"What could she do? She could bring legal proceedings against you. "

"But she is much too stupid to have that idea. "

"Others will put it into her mind. "

"She is too poor to pay the preliminary expenses. "

"And do you propose then to profit by her ignorance and stupidity?Besides, she could obtain judicial assistance. "

"Why, surely, " exclaimed Madame Dupont, "such a thing was never heardof! Do you mean that?"

"I know a dozen prosecutions of that sort; and always when there hasbeen certainty, the parents have lost their case. "

"But surely, Doctor, you must be mistaken! Not in a case like ours--notwhen it is a question of saving the life of a poor little innocent!"

"Oftentimes exactly such facts have been presented. "

Here George broke in. "I can give you the dates of the decisions. " Herose from his chair, glad of an opportunity to be useful. "I havethe books, " he said, and took one from the case and brought it to thedoctor. 

"All of that is no use--" interposed the mother. 

But the doctor said to George, "You will be able to convince yourself. The parents have been forced once or twice to pay the nurse a regularincome, and at other times they have had to pay her an indemnity, ofwhich the figure has varied between three and eight thousand francs. "

Madame Dupont was ready with a reply to this. "Never fear, sir! If thereshould be a suit, we should have a good lawyer. We shall be able to payand choose the best--and he would demand, without doubt, which of thetwo, the nurse or the child, has given the disease to the other. "

The doctor was staring at her in horror. "Do you not perceive that wouldbe a monstrous thing to do?"

"Oh, I would not have to say it, " was the reply. "The lawyer would seeto it--is not that his profession? My point is this: by one means oranother he would make us win our case. "

"And the scandal that would result, " replied the other. "Have youthought of that?"

Here George, who had been looking over his law-books, broke in. "Doctor, permit me to give you a little information. In cases of this sort, thenames are never printed. "

"Yes, but they are spoken at the hearings. "

"That's true. "

"And are you certain that there will not be any newspaper to print thejudgment?"

"What won't they stoop to, " exclaimed Madame Dupont--"those filthyjournals!"

"Ah, " said the other, "and see what a scandal? What a shame it would beto you!"

"The doctor is right, mother, " exclaimed the young man. 

But Madame Dupont was not yet convinced. "We will prevent the woman fromtaking any steps; we will give her what she demands from us. "

"But then, " said the other, "you will give yourselves up to the risk ofblackmail. I know a family which has been thus held up for over twelveyears. "

"If you will permit me, Doctor, " said George, timidly, "she could bemade to sign a receipt. "

"For payment in full?" asked the doctor, scornfully. 

"Even so. "

"And then, " added his mother, "she would be more than delighted to goback to her country with a full purse. She would be able to buy a littlehouse and a bit of ground--in that country one doesn't need so much inorder to live. "

At this moment there was a tap upon the door, and the nurse entered. Shewas a country woman, robust, rosy-cheeked, fairly bursting with health. When she spoke one got the impression that her voice was more than shecould contain. It did not belong in a drawing-room, but under the opensky of her country home. "Sir, " she said, addressing the doctor, "thebaby is awake. "

"I will go and see her, " was the reply; and then to Madame Dupont, "Wewill take up this conversation later on. "

"Certainly, " said the mother. "Will you have need of the nurse?"

"No, Madame, " the doctor answered. 

"Nurse, " said the mother, "sit down and rest. Wait a minute, I wish tospeak to you. " As the doctor went out, she took her son to one side andwhispered to him, "I know the way to arrange everything. If we lether know what is the matter, and if she accepts, the doctor will havenothing more to say. Isn't that so?"

"Obviously, " replied the son. 

"I am going to promise that we will give her two thousand francs whenshe goes away, if she will consent to continue nursing the child. "

"Two thousand francs?" said the other. "Is that enough?"

"I will see, " was the reply. "If she hesitates, I will go further. Letme attend to it. "

George nodded his assent, and Madame Dupont returned to the nurse. "Youknow, " she said, "that our child is a little sick?"

The other looked at her in surprise. "Why no, ma'am!"

"Yes, " said the grandmother. 

"But, ma'am, I have taken the best of care of her; I have always kepther proper. "

"I am not saying anything to the contrary, " said Madame Dupont, "but thechild is sick, the doctors have said it. "

The nurse was not to be persuaded; she thought they were getting readyto scold her. "Humph, " she said, "that's a fine thing--the doctors! Ifthey couldn't always find something wrong you'd say they didn't knowtheir business. "

"But our doctor is a great doctor; and you have seen yourself that ourchild has some little pimples. "

"Ah, ma'am, " said the nurse, "that's the heat--it's nothing but the heatof the blood breaking out. You don't need to bother yourself; I tell youit's only the child's blood. It's not my fault; I swear to you that shehad not lacked anything, and that I have always kept her proper. "

"I am not reproaching you--"

"What is there to reproach me for? Oh, what bad luck! She's tiny--thelittle one--she's a bit feeble; but Lord save us, she's a city child!And she's getting along all right, I tell you. "

"No, " persisted Madame Dupont, "I tell you--she has got a cold in herhead, and she has an eruption at the back of the throat. "

"Well, " cried the nurse, angrily, "if she has, it's because the doctorscratched her with that spoon he put into her mouth wrong end first! Acold in the head? Yes, that's true; but if she has caught cold, I can'tsay when, I don't know anything about it--nothing, nothing at all. Ihave always kept her well covered; she's always had as much as threecovers on her. The truth is, it was when you came, the time before last;you were all the time insisting upon opening the windows in the house!"

"But once more I tell you, " cried Madame Dupont, "we are not putting anyblame on you. "

"Yes, " cried the woman, more vehemently. "I know what that kind of talkmeans. It's no use--when you're a poor country woman. "

"What are you imagining now?" demanded the other. 

"Oh, that's all right. It's no use when you're a poor country woman. "

"I repeat to you once more, " cried Madame Dupont, with difficultycontrolling her impatience, "we have nothing whatever to blame you for. "

But the nurse began to weep. "If I had known that anything like this wascoming to me--"

"We have nothing to blame you for, " declared the other. "We only wish towarn you that you might possibly catch the disease of the child. "

The woman pouted. "A cold in the head!" she exclaimed. "Well, if I catchit, it won't be the first time. I know how to blow my nose. "

"But you might also get the pimples. "

At this the nurse burst into laughter so loud that the bric-a-bracrattled. "Oh, oh, oh! Dear lady, let me tell you, we ain't city folks, we ain't; we don't have such soft skins. What sort of talk is that?Pimples--what difference would that make to poor folks like us? We don'thave a white complexion like the ladies of Paris. We are out all day inthe fields, in the sun and the rain, instead of rubbing cold creamon our muzzles! No offense, ma'am--but I say if you're looking for anexcuse to get rid of me, you must get a better one than that. "

"Excuse!" exclaimed the other. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Oh, I know!" said the nurse, nodding her head. 

"But speak!"

"It's no use, when you're only a poor country woman. "

"I don't understand you! I swear to you that I don't understand you!"

"Well, " sneered the other, "I understand. "

"But then--explain yourself. "

"No, I don't want to say it. "

"But you must; I wish it. "

"Well--"

"Go ahead. "

"I'm only a poor country woman, but I am no more stupid than the others, for all that. I know perfectly well what your tricks mean. Mr. Georgehere has been grumbling because you promised me thirty francs more amonth, if I came to Paris. " And then, turning upon the other, she wenton--"But, sir, isn't it only natural? Don't I have to put my own childaway somewheres else? And then, can my husband live on his appetite?We're nothing but poor country people, we are. "

"You are making a mistake, nurse, " broke in George. "It is nothing atall of that sort; mother is quite right. I am so far from wantingto reproach you, that, on the contrary, I think she had not promisedenough, and I want to make you, for my part, another promise. When yougo away, when baby is old enough to be weaned, by way of thanking you, we wish to give you--"

Madame Dupont broke in, hurriedly, "We wish to give you, --over and aboveyour wages, you understand--we wish to give you five hundred francs, andperhaps a thousand, if the little one is altogether in good health. Youunderstand?"

The nurse stared at her, stupefied. "You will give me five hundredfrancs--for myself?" She sought to comprehend the words. "But that wasnot agreed, you don't have to do that at all. "

"No, " admitted Madame Dupont. 

"But then, " whispered the nurse, half to herself, "that's not natural. "

"Yes, " the other hurried on, "it is because the baby will have need ofextra care. You will have to take more trouble; you will have to giveit medicines; your task will be a little more delicate, a little moredifficult. "

"Oh, yes; then it's so that I will be sure to take care of her? Iunderstand. "

"Then it's agreed?" exclaimed Madame Dupont, with relief. 

"Yes ma'am, " said the nurse. 

"And you won't come later on to make reproaches to us? We understand oneanother clearly? We have warned you that the child is sick and that youcould catch the disease. Because of that, because of the special need ofcare which she has, we promise you five hundred francs at the end of thenursing. That's all right, is it?

"But, my lady, " cried the nurse, all her cupidity awakened, "you spokejust now of a thousand francs. "

"Very well, then, a thousand francs. "

George passed behind the nurse and got his mother by the arm, drawingher to one side. "It would be a mistake, " he whispered, "if we did notmake her sign an agreement to all that. "

His mother turned to the nurse. "In order that there may be nomisunderstanding about the sum--you see how it is, I had forgottenalready that I had spoken of a thousand francs--we will draw up a littlepaper, and you, on your part, will write one for us. "

"Very good, ma'am, " said the nurse, delighted with the idea of soimportant a transaction. "Why, it's just as you do when you rent ahouse!"

"Here comes the doctor, " said the other. "Come, nurse, it is agreed?"

"Yes, ma'am, " was the answer. But all the same, as she went out shehesitated and looked sharply first at the doctor, and then at Georgeand his mother. She suspected that something was wrong, and she meant tofind out if she could. 

The doctor seated himself in George's office chair, as if to writea prescription. "The child's condition remains the same, " he said;"nothing disturbing. "

"Doctor, " said Madame Dupont, gravely, "from now on, you will be ableto devote your attention to the baby and the nurse without any scruple. During your absence we have arranged matters nicely. The nurse has beeninformed about the situation, and she does not mind. She has agreed toaccept an indemnity, and the amount has been stated. "

But the doctor did not take these tidings as the other had hoped hemight. He replied: "The malady which the nurse will almost inevitablycontract in feeding the child is too grave in its consequences. Suchconsequences might go as far as complete helplessness, even as far asdeath. So I say that the indemnity, whatever it might be, would not paythe damage. "

"But, " exclaimed the other, "she accepts it! She is mistress of herself, and she has the right--"

"I am not at all certain that she has the right to sell her own health. And I am certain that she has not the right to sell the health of herhusband and her children. If she becomes infected, it is nearly certainthat she will communicate the disease to them; the health and the lifeof the children she might have later on would be greatly compromised. Such things she cannot possibly sell. Come, madame, you must see that abargain of this sort isn't possible. If the evil has not been done, youmust do everything to avoid it. "

"Sir, " protested the mother, wildly, "you do not defend our interests!"

"Madame, " was the reply, "I defend those who are weakest. "

"If we had called in our own physician, who knows us, " she protested, "he would have taken sides with us. "

The doctor rose, with a severe look on his face. "I doubt it, " he said, "but there is still time to call him. "

George broke in with a cry of distress. "Sir, I implore you!"

And the mother in turn cried. "Don't abandon us, sir! You ought to makeallowances! If you knew what that child is to me! I tell you it seems tome as if I had waited for her coming in order to die. Have pity upon us!Have pity upon her! You speak of the weakest--it is not she who is theweakest? You have seen her, you have seen that poor little baby, soemaciated! You have seen what a heap of suffering she is already; andcannot that inspire in you any sympathy? I pray you, sir--I pray you!"

"I pity her, " said the doctor, "I would like to save her--and I will doeverything for her. But do not ask me to sacrifice to a feeble infant, with an uncertain and probably unhappy life, the health of a sound androbust woman. It is useless for us to continue such a discussion asthat. "

Whereupon Madame Dupont leaped up in sudden frenzy. "Very Well!" sheexclaimed. "I will not follow your counsels, I will not listen to you!"

Said the doctor in a solemn voice: "There is already some one here whoregrets that he did not listen to me. "

"Yes, " moaned George, "to my misfortune, to the misfortune of all ofus. "

But Madame Dupont was quite beside herself. "Very well!" she cried. "Ifit is a fault, if it is a crime, if I shall have to suffer remorse forit in this life, and all the punishments in the life to come--I acceptit all for myself alone! Myself alone, I take that responsibility! It isfrightfully heavy, but I accept it. I am profoundly a Christian sir; Ibelieve in eternal damnation; but to save my little child I consent tolose my soul forever. Yes, my mind is made up--I will do everything tosave that life! Let God judge me; and if he condemns me, so much theworse for me!"

The doctor answered: "That responsibility is one which I cannot letyou take, for it will be necessary that I should accept my part, and Irefuse it. "

"What will you do?"

"I shall warn the nurse. I shall inform her exactly, completely--something which you have not done, I feel sure. "

"What?" cried Madame Dupont, wildly. "You, a doctor, called into afamily which gives you its entire confidence, which hands over to youits most terrible secrets, its most horrible miseries--you would betraythem?"

"It is not a betrayal, " replied the man, sternly. "It is something whichthe law commands; and even if the law were silent, I would not permit afamily of worthy people to go astray so far as to commit a crime. EitherI give up the case, or you have the nursing of the child stopped. "

"You threaten! You threaten!" cried the woman, almost frantic. "Youabuse the power which your knowledge gives you! You know that it is youwhose attention we need by that little cradle; you know that we believein you, and you threaten to abandon us! Your abandonment means the deathof the child, perhaps! And if I listen to you, if we stop the nursing ofthe child--that also means her death!"

She flung up her hands like a mad creature. "And yet there is no othermeans! Ah, my God! Why do you not let it be possible for me to sacrificemyself? I would wish nothing more than to be able to do it--if onlyyou might take my old body, my old flesh, my old bones--if only I mightserve for something! How quickly would I consent that it should infectme--this atrocious malady! How I would offer myself to it--with whatjoys, with what delights--however disgusting, however frightful itmight be, however much to be dreaded! Yes, I would take it without fear, without regret, if my poor old empty breasts might still give to thechild the milk which would preserve its life!"

She stopped; and George sprang suddenly from his seat, and fled to herand flung himself down upon his knees before her, mingling his sobs andtears with hers. 

The doctor rose and moved about the room, unable any longer to controlhis distress. "Oh, the poor people!" he murmured to himself. "The poor, poor people!"

The storm passed, and Madame Dupont, who was a woman of strongcharacter, got herself together. Facing the doctor again, she said, "Come, sir, tell us what we have to do. "

"You must stop the nursing, and keep the woman here as a dry nurse, inorder that she may not go away to carry the disease elsewhere. Do notexaggerate to yourself the danger which will result to the child. I am, in truth, extremely moved by your suffering, and I will do everything--Iswear it to you--that your baby may recover as quickly as possible itsperfect health. I hope to succeed, and that soon. And now I must leaveyou until tomorrow. "

"Thank you, Doctor, thank you, " said Madame Dupont, faintly. 

The young man rose and accompanied the doctor to the door. He could notbring himself to speak, but stood hanging his head until the other wasgone. Then he came to his mother. He sought to embrace her, but sherepelled him--without violence, but firmly. 

Her son stepped back and put his hands over his face. "Forgive me!" hesaid, in a broken voice. "Are we not unhappy enough, without hating eachother?"

His mother answered: "God has punished you for your debauch by strikingat your child. "

But, grief-stricken as the young man was, he could not believe that. "Impossible!" he said. "There is not even a man sufficiently wicked orunjust to commit the act which you attribute to your God!"

"Yes, " said his mother, sadly, "you believe in nothing. "

"I believe in no such God as that, " he answered. 

A silence followed. When it was broken, it was by the entrance of thenurse. She had opened the door of the room and had been standing therefor some moments, unheeded. Finally she stepped forward. "Madame, " shesaid, "I have thought it over; I would rather go back to my home atonce, and have only the five hundred francs. "

Madame Dupont stared at her in consternation. "What is that you aresaying? You want to return to your home?"

"Yes, ma'am, " was the answer. 

"But, " cried George, "only ten minutes ago you were not thinking of it. "

"What has happened since then?" demanded Madame Dupont. 

"I have thought it over. "

"Thought it over?"

"Well, I am getting lonesome for my little one and for my husband. "

"In the last ten minutes?" exclaimed George. 

"There must be something else, " his mother added. "Evidently there mustbe something else. "

"No!" insisted the nurse. 

"But I say yes!"

"Well, I'm afraid the air of Paris might not be good for me. "

"You had better wait and try it. "

"I would rather go back at once to my home. "

"Come, now, " cried Madame Dupont, "tell us why?"

"I have told you. I have thought it over. "

"Thought what over?"

"Well, I have thought. "

"Oh, " cried the mother, "what a stupid reply! 'I have thought it over! Ihave thought it over!' Thought WHAT over, I want to know!"

"Well, everything. "

"Don't you know how to tell us what?"

"I tell you, everything. "

"Why, " exclaimed Madame Dupont, "you are an imbecile!"

George stepped between his mother and the nurse. "Let me talk to her, "he said. 

The woman came back to her old formula: "I know that we're only poorcountry people. "

"Listen to me, nurse, " said the young man. "Only a little while ago youwere afraid that we would send you away. You were satisfied with thewages which my mother had fixed. In addition to those wages we hadpromised you a good sum when you returned to your home. Now you tellus that you want to go away. You see? All at once. There must be somereason; let us understand it. There must certainly be a reason. Hasanybody done anything to you?"

"No, sir, " said the woman, dropping her eyes. 

"Well, then?"

"I have thought it over. "

George burst out, "Don't go on repeating always the same thing--'I havethought it over!' That's not telling us anything. " Controlling himself, he added, gently, "Come, tell me why you want to go away?"

There was a silence. "Well?" he demanded. 

"I tell you, I have thought--"

George exclaimed in despair, "It's as if one were talking to a block ofwood!"

His mother took up the conversation again. "You must realize, you havenot the right to go away. "

The woman answered, "I WANT to go. "

"But I will not let you leave us. "

"No, " interrupted George angrily, "let her go; we cannot fasten herhere. "

"Very well, then, " cried the exasperated mother, "since you want to go, go! But I have certainly the right to say to you that you are as stupidas the animals on your farm!"

"I don't say that I am not, " answered the woman. 

"I will not pay you the month which has just begun, and you will payyour railroad fare for yourself. "

The other drew back with a look of anger. "Oho!" she cried. "We'll seeabout that!"

"Yes, we'll see about it!" cried George. "And you will get out of hereat once. Take yourself off--I will have no more to do with you. Goodevening. "

"No, George, " protested his mother, "don't lose control of yourself. "And then, with a great effort at calmness, "That cannot be serious, nurse! Answer me. "

"I would rather go off right away to my home, and only have my fivehundred francs. "

"WHAT?" cried George, in consternation. 

"What's that you are telling me?" exclaimed Madame Dupont. 

"Five hundred francs?" repeated her son. 

"What five hundred francs?" echoed the mother. 

"The five hundred francs you promised me, " said the nurse. 

"We have promised you five hundred francs? WE?"

"Yes. "

"When the child should be weaned, and if we should be satisfied withyou! That was our promise. "

"No. You said you would give them to me when I was leaving. Now I amleaving, and I want them. "

Madame Dupont drew herself up, haughtily. "In the first place, " shesaid, "kindly oblige me by speaking to me in another tone; do youunderstand?"

The woman answered, "You have nothing to do but give me my money, and Iwill say nothing more. "

George went almost beside himself with rage at this. "Oh, it's likethat?" he shouted. "Very well; I'll show you!" And he sprang to the doorand opened it. 

But the nurse never budged. "Give me my five hundred francs!" she said. 

George seized her by the arm and shoved her toward the door. "You clearout of here, do you understand me? And as quickly as you can!"

The woman shook her arm loose, and sneered into his face. "Come now, you--you can talk to me a little more politely, eh?"

"Will you go?" shouted George, completely beside himself. "Will you go, or must I go out and look for a policeman?"

"A policeman!" demanded the woman. "For what?"

"To put you outside! You are behaving yourself like a thief. "

"A thief? I? What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are demanding money which doesn't belong to you. "

"More than that, " broke in Madame Dupont, "you are destroying that poorlittle baby! You are a wicked woman!"

"I will put you out myself!" shouted George, and seized her by the armagain. 

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" retorted the nurse. "Then you really wantme to tell you why I am going away?"

"Yes, tell me!" cried he. 

His mother added, "Yes, yes!"

She would have spoken differently had she chanced to look behind her andseen Henriette, who at that moment appeared in the doorway. She had beenabout to go out, when her attention had been caught by the loud voices. She stood now, amazed, clasping her hands together, while the nurse, shaking her fist first at Madame Dupont and then at her son, criedloudly, "Very well! I'm going away because I don't want to catch afilthy disease here!"

"HUSH!" cried Madame Dupont, and sprang toward her, her hands clenchedas if she would choke her. 

"Be silent!" cried George, wild with terror. 

But the woman rushed on without dropping her voice, "Oh, you need notbe troubling yourselves for fear anyone should overhear! All the worldknows it! Your other servants were listening with me at your door! Theyheard every word your doctor said!"

"Shut up!" screamed George. 

Her mother seized the woman fiercely by the arm. "Hold your tongue!" shehissed. 

But again the other shook herself loose. She was powerful, and now herrage was not to be controlled. She waved her hands in the air, shouting, "Let me be, let me be! I know all about your brat--that you will neverbe able to raise it--that it's rotten because it's father has a filthydisease he got from a woman of the street!"

She got no farther. She was interrupted by a frenzied shriek fromHenriette. The three turned, horrified, just in time to see her fallforward upon the floor, convulsed. 

"My God!" cried George. He sprang toward her, and tried to lift her, butshe shrank from him, repelling him with a gesture of disgust, of hatred, of the most profound terror. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, like amaniac. "Don't touch me!"

CHAPTER V

It was in vain that Madame Dupont sought to control her daughter-in-law. Henriette was beside herself, frantic, she could not be brought tolisten to any one. She rushed into the other room, and when the olderwoman followed her, shrieked out to be left alone. Afterwards, she fledto her own room and barred herself in, and George and his mother waiteddistractedly for hours until she should give some sign. 

Would she kill herself, perhaps? Madame Dupont hovered on guard aboutthe door of the nursery for fear that the mother in her fit of insanitymight attempt some harm to her child. 

The nurse had slunk away abashed when she saw the consequences ofher outburst. By the time she had got her belongings packed, she hadrecovered her assurance. She wanted her five hundred; also she wantedher wages and her railroad fare home. She wanted them at once, and shewould not leave until she got them. George and his mother, in the midstof all their anguish of mind, had to go through a disgusting scene withthis coarse and angry woman. 

They had no such sum of money in the house, and the nurse refused toaccept a check. She knew nothing about a check. It was so much paper, and might be some trick that they were playing on her. She keptrepeating her old formula, "I am nothing but a poor country woman. " Norwould she be contented with the promise that she would receive the moneythe next day. She seemed to be afraid that if she left the house shewould be surrendering her claim. So at last the distracted George tosally forth and obtain the cash from some tradesmen in the neighborhood. 

The woman took her departure. They made her sign a receipt in full forall claims and they strove to persuade themselves that this made themsafe; but in their hearts they had no real conviction of safety. Whatwas the woman's signature, or her pledged word, against the cupidity ofher husband and relatives. Always she would have the dreadful secretto hold over them, and so they would live under the shadow of possibleblackmail. 

Later in the day Henriette sent for her mother-in-law. She was white, her eyes were swollen with weeping, and she spoke in a voice choked withsobs. She wished to return at once to her father's home, and to takelittle Gervaise with her. Madame Dupont cried out in horror at thisproposition, and argued and pleaded and wept--but all to no purpose. Thegirl was immovable. She would not stay under her husband's roof, and shewould take her child with her. It was her right, and no one could refuseher. 

The infant had been crying for hours, but that made no difference. Henriette insisted that a cab should be called at once. 

So she went back to the home of Monsieur Loches and told him the hideousstory. Never before in her life had she discussed such subjects withany one, but now in her agitation she told her father all. As George haddeclared to the doctor, Monsieur Loches was a person of violent temper;at this revelation, at the sight of his daughter's agony, he was almostbeside himself. His face turned purple, the veins stood out on hisforehead; a trembling seized him. He declared that he would killGeorge--there was nothing else to do. Such a scoundrel should not bepermitted to live. 

The effort which Henriette had to make to restrain him had a calmingeffect upon herself. Bitter and indignant as she was, she did not wantGeorge to be killed. She clung to her father, beseeching him to promiseher that he would not do such a thing; and all that day and evening shewatched him, unwilling to let him out of her sight. 

There was a matter which claimed her immediate attention, and whichhelped to withdraw them from the contemplation of their own sufferings. The infant must be fed and cared for--the unhappy victim of otherpeople's sins, whose life was now imperiled. A dry nurse must be foundat once, a nurse competent to take every precaution and give thechild every chance. This nurse must be informed of the nature of thetrouble--another matter which required a great deal of anxious thought. 

That evening came Madame Dupont, tormented by anxiety about the child'swelfare, and beseeching permission to help take care of it. It wasimpossible to refuse such a request. Henriette could not endure tosee her, but the poor grandmother would come and sit for hours in thenursery, watching the child and the nurse, in silent agony. 

This continued for days, while poor George wandered about at home, suffering such torment of mind as can hardly be imagined. Truly, inthese days he paid for his sins; he paid a thousand-fold in agonized andimpotent regret. He looked back upon the course of his life, and tracedone by one the acts which had led him and those he loved into thisnightmare of torment. He would have been willing to give his life if hecould have undone those acts. But avenging nature offered him no sucheasy deliverance as that. We shudder as we read the grim words of theJehovah of the ancient Hebrews; and yet not all the learning of moderntimes has availed to deliver us from the cruel decree, that the sins ofthe fathers shall be visited upon the children. 

George wrote notes to his wife, imploring her forgiveness. He pouredout all his agony and shame to her, begging her to see him just once, togive him a chance to plead his defense. It was not much of a defense, tobe sure; it was only that he had done no worse than the others did--onlythat he was a wretched victim of ignorance. But he loved her, he hadproven that he loved her, and he pleaded that for the sake of theirchild she would forgive him. 

When all this availed nothing, he went to see the doctor, whose advicehe had so shamefully neglected. He besought this man to intercede forhim--which the doctor, of course, refused to do. It was an extra-medicalmatter, he said, and George was absurd to expect him to meddle in it. 

But, as a matter of fact, the doctor had already been interceding--hehad gone farther in pleading George's cause than he was willing to haveGeorge know. For Monsieur Loches had paid him a visit--his purpose beingto ask the doctor to continue attendance upon the infant, and alsoto give Henriette a certificate which she could use in her suit for adivorce from her husband. 

So inevitably there had been a discussion of the whole question betweenthe two men. The doctor had granted the first request, but refused thesecond. In the first place, he said, there was a rule of professionalsecrecy which would prevent him. And when the father-in-law requestedto know if the rule of professional secrecy compelled him to protecta criminal against honest people, the doctor answered that even ifhis ethics permitted it, he would still refuse the request. "I wouldreproach myself forever, " he said, "if I had aided you to obtain such adivorce. "

"Then, " cried the old man, vehemently, "because you profess such andsuch theories, because the exercise of your profession makes you theconstant witness of such miseries--therefore it is necessary that mydaughter should continue to bear that man's name all her life!"

The doctor answered, gently, "Sir, I understand and respect your grief. But believe me, you are not in a state of mind to decide about thesematters now. "

"You are mistaken, " declared the other, controlling himself with aneffort. "I have been thinking about nothing else for days. I havediscussed it with my daughter, and she agrees with me. Surely, sir, youcannot desire that my daughter should continue to live with a man whohas struck her so brutal, so cowardly, a blow. "

"If I refuse your request, " the doctor answered, "it is in the interestof your daughter. " Then, seeing the other's excitement returning, hecontinued, "In your state of mind, Monsieur Loches, I know that you willprobably be abusing me before five minutes has passed. But that will nottrouble me. I have seen many cases. And since I have made the mistakeof letting myself be trapped into this discussion, I must explain to youthe reason for my attitude. You ask of me a certificate so that you mayprove in court that your son-in-law is afflicted with syphilis. "

"Precisely, " said the other. 

"And have you not reflected upon this--that at the same time you will bepublicly attesting that your daughter has been exposed to the contagion?With such an admission, an admission officially registered in the publicrecords, do you believe that she will find it easy to re-marry lateron?"

"She will never re-marry, " said the father. 

"She says that today, but can you affirm that she will say the samething five years from now, ten years from now? I tell you you willnot obtain that divorce, because I will most certainly refuse you thenecessary certificate. "

"Then, " cried the other, "I will find other means of establishingproofs. I will have the child examined by another doctor!"

The other answered. "Then you do not find that that poor little one hasbeen already sufficiently handicapped at the outset of its life? Yourgranddaughter has a physical defect. Do you wish to add to that acertificate of hereditary syphilis, which will follow her all her life?"

Monsieur Loches sprang from his chair. "You mean that if the victimsseek to defend themselves, they will be struck the harder! You mean thatthe law gives me no weapon against a man who, knowing his condition, takes a young girl, sound, trusting, innocent, and befouls her with theresult of his debauches--makes her the mother of a poor little creature, whose future is such that those who love her the most do not knowwhether they ought to pray for her life, or for her immediatedeliverance? Sir, " he continued, in his orator's voice, "that man hasinflicted upon the woman he has married a supreme insult. He has madeher the victim of the most odious assault. He has degraded her--he hasbrought her, so to speak, into contact with the woman of the streets. Hehas created between her and that common woman I know not what mysteriousrelationship. It is the poisoned blood of the prostitute which poisonsmy daughter and her child; that abject creature, she lives, she lives inus! She belongs to our family--he has given her a seat at our hearth! Hehas soiled the imagination and the thoughts of my poor child, as hehas soiled her body. He has united forever in her soul the idea oflove which she has placed so high, with I know not what horrors of thehospitals. He has tainted her in her dignity and her modesty, in herlove as well as in her baby. He has struck her down with physical andmoral decay, he has overwhelmed her with vileness. And yet the law issuch, the customs of society are such, that the woman cannot separateherself from that man save by the aid of legal proceedings whose scandalwill fall upon herself and upon her child!"

Monsieur Loches had been pacing up and down the room as he spoke, andnow he clenched his fists in sudden fury. 

"Very well! I will not address myself to the law. Since I learned thetruth I have been asking myself if it was not my duty to find thatmonster and to put a bullet into his head, as one does to a mad dog. Idon't know what weakness, what cowardice, has held me back, and decidedme to appeal to the law. Since the law will not protect me, I will seekjustice for myself. Perhaps his death will be a good warning for theothers!"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that this was no affairof his and that he would not try to interfere. But he remarked, quietly:"You will be tried for your life. "

"I shall be acquitted!" cried the other. 

"Yes, but after a public revelation of all your miseries. You will makethe scandal greater, the miseries greater--that is all. And how do youknow but that on the morrow of your acquittal, you will find yourselfconfronting another court, a higher and more severe one? How do youknow but that your daughter, seized at last by pity for the man you havekilled, will not demand to know by what right you have acted so, by whatright you have made an orphan of her child? How can you know but thather child also may some day demand an accounting of you?"

Monsieur Loches let his hands fall, and stood, a picture of crusheddespair. "Tell me then, " he said, in a faint voice, "what ought I todo?"

"Forgive!"

For a while the doctor sat looking at him. "Sir, " he said, at last, "tell me one thing. You are inflexible; you feel you have the right tobe inflexible. But are you really so certain that it was not your duty, once upon a time, to save your daughter from the possibility of suchmisfortune?"

"What?" cried the other. "My duty? What do you mean?"

"I mean this, sir. When that marriage was being discussed, you certainlytook precautions to inform yourself about the financial condition ofyour future son-in-law. You demanded that he should prove to you thathis stocks and bonds were actual value, listed on the exchange. Also, you obtained some information about his character. In fact, you forgotonly one point, the most important of all--that was, to inquire if hewas in good health. You never did that. "

The father-in-law's voice had become faint. "No, " he said. 

"But why not?"

"Because that is not the custom. "

"Very well, but that ought to be the custom. Surely the father of afamily, before he gives his daughter to a man, should take as muchprecaution as a business concern which accepts an employee. "

"You are right, " was the reply, "there should be a law. " The man spokeas a deputy, having authority in these matters. 

But the doctor cried, "No, no, sir! Do not make a new law. We havetoo many already. There is no need of it. It would suffice that peopleshould know a little better what syphilis is. The custom would establishitself very quickly for a suitor to add to all the other documentswhich he presents, a certificate of a doctor, as proof that he couldbe received into a family without bringing a pestilence with him. Thatwould be very simple. Once let the custom be established, then thesuitor would go to the doctor for a certificate of health, just as hegoes to the priest for a certificate that he has confessed; and by thatmeans you would prevent a great deal of suffering in the world. Or letme put it another way, sir. Nowadays, before you conclude a marriage, you get the lawyers of the two families together. It would be of atleast equal importance to get their two doctors together. You see, sir, your inquiry concerning your son-in-law was far from complete. So yourdaughter may fairly ask you, why you, being a man, being a father whoought to know these things, did not take as much care of her health asyou took of her fortune. So it is, sir, that I say to you, forgive!"

But Monsieur Loches said again, "Never!"

And again the doctor sat and watched him for a minute. "Come, sir, " hebegan, finally, "since it is necessary to employ the last argument, Iwill do so. To be so severe and so pitiless--are you yourself withoutsin?"

The other answered, "I have never had a shameful disease. "

"I do not ask you that, " interrupted the doctor. "I ask you if you havenever exposed yourself to the chance of having it. " And then, readingthe other's face, he went on, in a tone of quiet certainty. "Yes, youhave exposed yourself. Then, sir, it was not virtue that you had; itwas good fortune. That is one of the things which exasperate me themost--that term 'shameful disease' which you have just used. Like allother diseases, that is one of our misfortunes, and it is never shamefulto be unfortunate--even if one has deserved it. " The doctor paused, and then with some excitement he went on: "Come, sir, come, we mustunderstand each other. Among men the most exacting, among those who withtheir middle-class prudery dare not pronounce the name of syphilis, or who make the most terrifying faces, the most disgusted, when theyconsent to speak of it--who regard the syphilitic as sinners--I shouldwish to know how many there are who have never exposed themselves to asimilar misadventure. They and they alone have the right to speak. Howmany are there? Among a thousand men, are there four? Very well, then. Excepting those four, between all the rest and the syphilitic there isnothing but the difference of chance. "

There came into the doctor's voice at this moment a note of intensefeeling; for these were matters of which evidence came to him every day. "I tell you, sir, that such people are deserving of sympathy, becausethey are suffering. If they have committed a fault, they have at leastthe plea that they are expiating it. No, sir, let me hear no more ofthat hypocrisy. Recall your own youth, sir. That which afflicts yourson-in-law, you have deserved it just as much as he--more than he, perhaps. Therefore, have pity on him; have for him the toleration whichthe unpunished criminal ought to have for the criminal less fortunatethan himself upon whom the penalty has fallen. Is that not so?"

Monsieur Loches had been listening to this discourse with the feeling ofa thief before the bar. There was nothing that he could answer. "Sir, "he stammered, "as you present this thing to me--"

"But am I not right?" insisted the doctor. 

"Perhaps you are, " the other admitted. "But--I cannot say all that to mydaughter, to persuade her to go back to her husband. "

"You can give her other arguments, " was the answer. 

"What arguments, in God's name?"

"There is no lack of them. You will say to her that a separation wouldbe a misfortune for all; that her husband is the only one in the worldwho would be devoted enough to help her save her child. You will say toher that out of the ruins of her first happiness she can build herselfanother structure, far stronger. And, sir, you will add to that whateveryour good heart may suggest--and we will arrange so that the next childof the pair shall be sound and vigorous. "

Monsieur Loches received this announcement with the same surprise thatGeorge himself had manifested. "Is that possible?" he asked. 

The doctor cried: "Yes, yes, yes--a thousand times yes! There is aphrase which I repeat on every occasion, and which I would wish to postupon the walls. It is that syphilis is an imperious mistress, who onlydemands that one should recognize her power. She is terrible forthose who think her insignificant, and gentle with those who know howdangerous she is. You know that kind of mistress--who is only vexed whenshe is neglected. You may tell this to your daughter--you will restoreher to the arms of her husband, from whom she has no longer anythingto fear, and I will guarantee that you will be a happy grandfather twoyears from now. "

Monsieur Loches at last showed that he was weakened in his resolution. 

"Doctor, " he said, "I do not know that I can ever go so far asforgiveness, but I promise you that I will do no irreparable act, andthat I will not oppose a reconciliation if after the lapse of sometime--I cannot venture to say how long--my poor child should make up hermind to a reconciliation. "

"Very good, " said the other. "But let me add this: If you have anotherdaughter, take care to avoid the fault which you committed when youmarried off the first. "

"But, " said the old man, "I did not know. "

"Ah, surely!" cried the other. "You did not know! You are a father, andyou did not know! You are a deputy, you have assumed the responsibilityand the honor of making our laws--and you did not know! You are ignorantabout syphilis, just as you probably are ignorant about alcoholism andtuberculosis. "

"No, " exclaimed the other, quickly. 

"Very well, " said the doctor, "I will leave you out, if you wish. I amtalking of the others, the five hundred, and I don't know how manymore, who are there in the Chamber of Deputies, and who call themselvesrepresentatives of the people. They are not able to find a single hourto discuss these three cruel gods, to which egotism and indifferencemake every day such frightful human sacrifices. They have not sufficientleisure to combat this ferocious trinity, which destroys every daythousands of lives. Alcoholism! It would be necessary to forbid themanufacture of poisons, and to restrict the number of licenses; but asone has fear of the great distillers, who are rich and powerful, and ofthe little dealers, who are the masters of universal suffrage, oneputs one's conscience to sleep by lamenting the immorality ofthe working-class, and publishing little pamphlets and sermons. Imbeciles!... Tuberculosis! Everybody knows the true remedy, which wouldbe the paying of sufficient wages, and the tearing down of the filthytenements into which the laborers are packed--those who are the mostuseful and the most unfortunate among our population! But needless tosay, no one wants that remedy, so we go round begging the workingmen notto spit on the sidewalks. Wonderful! But syphilis--why do you not occupyyourself with that? Why, since you have ministers whose duty it is toattend to all sorts of things, do you not have a minister to attend tothe public health?"

"My dear Doctor, " responded Monsieur Loches, "you fall into the Frenchhabit of considering the government as the cause of all evils. Show usthe way, you learned gentlemen! Since that is a matter about which youare informed, and we are ignorant, begin by telling us what measures youbelieve to be necessary. "

"Ah, ah!" exclaimed the other. "That's fine, indeed! It was abouteighteen years ago that a project of that nature, worked out by theAcademy of Medicine, and approved by it UNANIMOUSLY, was sent to theproper minister. We have not yet heard his reply. "

"You really believe, " inquired Monsieur Loches, in some bewilderment, "you believe that there are some measures--"

"Sir, " broke in the doctor, "before we get though, you are going tosuggest some measures yourself. Let me tell you what happened today. When I received your card I did not know that you were the father-in-lawof George Dupont. I say that you were a deputy, and I thought that youwanted to get some information about these matters. There was a womanpatient waiting to see me, and I kept her in my waiting-room--saying tomyself, This is just the sort of person that our deputies ought to talkto. "

The doctor paused for a moment, then continued: "Be reassured, I willtake care of your nerves. This patient has no trouble that is apparentto the eye. She is simply an illustration of the argument I have beenadvancing--that our worst enemy is ignorance. Ignorance--you understandme? Since I have got you here, sir, I am going to hold you until I havemanaged to cure a little of your ignorance! For I tell you, sir, it isa thing which drives me to distraction--we MUST do something about theseconditions! Take this case, for example. Here is a woman who is veryseriously infected. I told her--well, wait; you shall see for yourself. "

The doctor went to the door and summoned into the room a woman whomMonsieur Loches had noticed waiting there. She was verging on old age, small, frail, and ill-nourished in appearance, poorly dressed, and yetwith a suggestion of refinement about her. She stood near the door, twisting her hands together nervously, and shrinking from the gaze ofthe strange gentleman. The doctor began in an angry voice. "Did I nottell you to come and see me once every eight days? Is that not true?"

The woman answered, in a faint voice, "Yes, sir. "

"Well, " he exclaimed, "and how long has it been since you were here?"

"Three months, sir. "

"Three months! And you believe that I can take care of you under suchconditions? I give you up! Do you understand? You discourage me, youdiscourage me. " There was a pause. Then, seeing the woman's suffering, he began, in a gentler tone, "Come now, what is the reason that youhave not come? Didn't you know that you have a serious disease--mostserious?"

"Oh, yes, sir, " replied the woman, "I know that very well--since myhusband died of it. "

The doctor's voice bore once again its note of pity. "Your husband diedof it?"

"Yes, sir. "

"He took no care of himself?"

"No, sir. "

"And was not that a warning to you?"

"Doctor, " the woman replied, "I would ask nothing better than to come asoften as you told me, but the cost is too great. "

"How--what cost? You were coming to my free clinic. "

"Yes, sir, " replied the woman, "but that's during working hours, andthen it is a long way from home. There are so many sick people, and Ihave to wait my turn, It is in the morning--sometimes I lose a wholeday--and then my employer is annoyed, and he threatens to turn me off. It is things like that that keep people from coming, until they dare notput it off any longer. Then, too, sir--" the woman stopped, hesitating. 

"Well, " demanded the doctor. 

"Oh, nothing, sir, " she stammered. "You have been too good to mealready. "

"Go on, " commanded the other. "Tell me. "

"Well, " murmured the woman, "I know I ought not to put on airs, but yousee I have not always been so poor. Before my husband's misfortune, we were well fixed. So you see, I have a little pride. I have alwaysmanaged to take care of myself. I am not a woman of the streets, and tostand around like that, with everybody else, to be obliged to tellall one's miseries out loud before the world! I am wrong, I know itperfectly well; I argue with myself--but all the same, it's hard, sir; Iassure you, it is truly hard. "

"Poor woman!" said the doctor; and for a while there was a silence. Thenhe asked: "It was your husband who brought you the disease?"

"Yes, sir, " was the reply. "Everything which happened to us came fromhim. We were living in the country when he got the disease. He went halfcrazy. He no longer knew how to manage his affairs. He gave orders hereand there for considerable sums. We were not able to find the money. "

"Why did he not undergo treatment?"

"He didn't know then. We were sold out, and we came to Paris. But wehadn't a penny. He decided to go to the hospital for treatment. "

"And then?"

"Why, they looked him over, but they refused him any medicine. "

"How was that?"

"Because we had been in Paris only three months. If one hasn't been aresident six months, one has no right to free medicine. "

"Is that true?" broke in Monsieur Loches quickly. 

"Yes, " said the doctor, "that's the rule. "

"So you see, " said the woman, "it was not our fault. "

"You never had children?" inquired the doctor. 

"I was never able to bring one to birth, " was the answer. "My husbandwas taken just at the beginning of our marriage--it was while hewas serving in the army. You know, sir--there are women about thegarrisons--" She stopped, and there was a long silence. 

"Come, " said the doctor, "that's all right. I will arrange it with you. You can come here to my office, and you can come on Sunday mornings. "And as the poor creature started to express her gratitude, he slipped acoin into her hand. "Come, come; take it, " he said gruffly. "You are notgoing to play proud with me. No, no, I have no time to listen to you. Hush!" And he pushed her out of the door. 

Then he turned to the deputy. "You heard her story, sir, " he said. "Herhusband was serving his time in the army; it was you law-makers whocompelled him to do that. And there are women about the garrisons--youheard how her voice trembled as she said that? Take my advice, sir, andlook up the statistics as to the prevalence of this disease among oursoldiers. Come to some of my clinics, and let me introduce you to othersocial types. You don't care very much about soldiers, perhaps--theybelong to the lower classes, and you think of them as rough men. But letme show you what is going on among our college students--among the menour daughters are some day to marry. Let me show you the women who preyupon them! Perhaps, who knows--I can show you the very woman who was thecause of all the misery in your own family!"

And as Monsieur Loches rose from his chair, the doctor came to him andtook him by the hand. "Promise me, sir, " he said, earnestly, "that youwill come back and let me teach you more about these matters. It is achance that I must not let go--the first time in my life that I ever gothold of a real live deputy! Come and make a study of this subject, andlet us try to work out some sensible plan, and get seriously to work toremedy these frightful evils!"

CHAPTER VI

George lived with his mother after Henriette had left his home. He waswretchedly unhappy and lonely. He could find no interest in any of thethings which had pleased him before. He was ashamed to meet any of hisfriends, because he imagined that everyone must have heard the dreadfulstory--or because he was not equal to making up explanations for hismournful state. He no longer cared much about his work. What was theuse of making a reputation or earning large fees when one had nothing tospend them for?

All his thoughts were fixed upon the wife and child he had lost. He wasreminded of Henriette in a thousand ways, and each way brought him aseparate pang of grief. He had never realized how much he had come todepend upon her in every little thing--until now, when her companionshipwas withdrawn from him, and everything seemed to be a blank. He wouldcome home at night, and opposite to him at the dinner-table would be hismother, silent and spectral. How different from the days when Henriettewas there, radiant and merry, eager to be told everything that hadhappened to him through the day!

There was also his worry about little Gervaise. He might no longer hearhow she was doing, for he could not get up courage to ask his motherthe news. Thus poor George was paying for his sins. He could make nocomplaints against the price, however high--only sometimes hewondered whether he would be able to pay it. There were times of suchdiscouragement that he thought of different ways of killing himself. 

A curious adventure befell him during this period. He was walking oneday in the park, when he saw approaching a girl whose face struck him asfamiliar. At first he could not recollect where he had seen her. It wasonly when she was nearly opposite him that he realized--it was the girlwho had been the cause of all his misery!

He tried to look away, but he was too late. Her eyes had caught his, andshe nodded and then stopped, exclaiming, "Why, how do you do?"

George had to face her. "How do you do?" he responded, weakly. 

She held out her hand and he had to take it, but there was not muchwelcome in his clasp. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" she asked. Then, as he hesitated, she laughed good-naturedly, "What's the matter?You don't seem glad to see me. "

The girl--Therese was her name--had a little package under her arm, asif she had been shopping. She was not well dressed, as when George hadmet her before, and doubtless she thought that was the reason for hislack of cordiality. This made him rather ashamed, and so, only halfrealizing what he was doing, he began to stroll along with her. 

"Why did you never come to see me again?" she asked. 

George hesitated. "I--I--" he stammered--"I've been married since then. "

She laughed. "Oh! So that's it!" And then, as they came to a bench undersome trees, "Won't you sit down a while?" There was allurement in herglance, but it made George shudder. It was incredible to him that hehad ever been attracted by this crude girl. The spell was now brokencompletely. 

She quickly saw that something was wrong. "You don't seem verycheerful, " she said. "What's the matter?"

And the man, staring at her, suddenly blurted out, "Don't you know whatyou did to me?"

"What I did to you?" Therese repeated wonderingly. 

"You must know!" he insisted. 

And then she tried to meet his gaze and could not. "Why--" shestammered. 

There was silence between them. When George spoke again his voice waslow and trembling. "You ruined my whole life, " he said--"not only mine, but my family's. How could you do it?"

She strove to laugh it off. "A cheerful topic for an afternoon stroll!"

For a long while George did not answer. Then, almost in a whisper, herepeated, "How could you do it?"

"Some one did it to me first, " was the response. "A man!"

"Yes, " said George, "but he didn't know. "

"How can you tell whether he knew or not?"

"You knew?" he inquired, wonderingly. 

Therese hesitated. "Yes, I knew, " she said at last, defiantly. "I haveknown for years. "

"And I'm not the only man. "

She laughed. "I guess not!"

There followed a long pause. At last he resumed, "I don't want to blameyou; there's nothing to be gained by that; it's done, and can'tbe undone. But sometimes I wonder about it. I should like tounderstand--why did you do it?"

"Why? That's easy enough. I did it because I have to live. "

"You live that way?" he exclaimed. 

"Why of course. What did you think?"

"I thought you were a--a--" He hesitated. 

"You thought I was respectable, " laughed Therese. "Well, that's just alittle game I was playing on you. "

"But I didn't give you any money!" he argued. 

"Not that time, " she said, "but I thought you would come back. "

He sat gazing at her. "And you earn your living that way still?" heasked. "When you know what's the matter with you! When you know--"

"What can I do? I have to live, don't I?"

"But don't you even take care of yourself? Surely there must be someway, some place--"

"The reformatory, perhaps, " she sneered. "No, thanks! I'll go therewhen the police catch me, not before. I know some girls that have triedthat. "

"But aren't you afraid?" cried the man. "And the things that will happento you! Have you ever talked to a doctor--or read a book?"

"I know, " she said. "I've seen it all. If it comes to me, I'll go overthe side of one of the bridges some dark night. "

George sat lost in thought. A strange adventure it seemed to him--tomeet this girl under such different circumstances! It was as if he werewatching a play from behind the scenes instead of in front. If only hehad had this new view in time--how different would have been his life!And how terrible it was to think of the others who didn't know--theaudience who were still sitting out in front, watching the spectacle, interested in it!

His thoughts came back to Therese. He was curious about her and the lifeshe lived. "Tell me a little about it, " he said. "How you came to bedoing this. " And he added, "Don't think I want to preach; I'd reallylike to understand. "

"Oh, it's a common story, " she said--"nothing especially romantic. I came to Paris when I was a girl. My parents had died, and I had nofriends, and I didn't know what to do. I got a place as a nursemaid. I was seventeen years old then, and I didn't know anything. I believedwhat I was told, and I believed my employer. His wife was ill in ahospital, and he said he wanted to marry me when she died. Well, I likedhim, and I was sorry for him--and then the first thing I knew I had ababy. And then the wife came back, and I was turned off. I had been afool, of course. If I had been in her place should have done just whatshe did. "

The girl was speaking in a cold, matter-of-fact voice, as of thingsabout which she was no longer able to suffer. "So, there I was--on thestreet, " she went on. "You have always had money, a comfortable home, education, friends to help you--all that. You can't imagine how it isto be in the world without any of these things. I lived on my savings aslong as I could; then I had to leave my baby in a foundling's home, andI went out to do my five hours on the boulevards. You know the game, Ihave no doubt. "

Yes, George knew the game. Somehow or other he no longer felt bittertowards this poor creature. She was part of the system of which he wasa victim also. There was nothing to be gained by hating each other. Just as the doctor said, what was needed was enlightenment. "Listen, " hesaid, "why don't you try to get cured?"

"I haven't got the price, " was the answer. 

"Well, " he said, hesitatingly, "I know a doctor--one of the really goodmen. He has a free clinic, and I've no doubt he would take you in if Iasked him to. "

"YOU ask him?" echoed the other, looking at George in surprise. 

The young man felt somewhat uncomfortable. He was not used to playingthe role of the good Samaritan. "I--I need not tell him about us, " hestammered. "I could just say that I met you. I have had such a wretchedtime myself, I feel sorry for anybody that's in the same plight. Ishould like to help you if I could. "

The girl sat staring before her, lost in thought. "I have treated youbadly, I guess, " she said. "I'm sorry. I'm ashamed of myself. "

George took a pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote the doctor'saddress. "Here it is, " he said, in a business-like way, because he feltthat otherwise he could become sentimental. He was half tempted to tellthe woman what had happened to him, and all about Henriette and thesick child; but he realized that that would not do. So he rose and shookhands with her and left. 

The next time he saw the doctor he told him about this girl. He decidedto tell him the truth--having already made so many mistakes tryingto conceal things. The doctor agreed to treat the woman, making thecondition that George promise not to see her again. 

The young man was rather shocked at this. "Doctor, " he exclaimed, "Iassure you you are mistaken. The thing you have in mind would be utterlyimpossible. "

"I know, " said the other, "you think so. But I think, young man, thatI know more about life than you do. When a man and a woman have oncecommitted such a sin, it is easy for them to slip back. The less timethey spend talking about their misfortunes, and being generous andforbearing to each other, the better for them both. "

"But, Doctor, " cried George. "I love Henriette! I could not possiblylove anyone else. It would be horrible to me!"

"Yes, " said the doctor. "But you are not living with Henriette. You arewandering round, not knowing what to do with yourself next. "

There was no need for anybody to tell George that. "What do you think?"he asked abruptly. "Is there any hope for me?"

"I think there is, " said the other, who, in spite of his resolution, hadbecome a sort of ambassador for the unhappy husband. He had to go tothe Loches house to attend the child, and so he could not help seeingHenriette, and talking to her about the child's health and her ownfuture. He considered that George had had his lesson, and urged upon theyoung wife that he would be wiser in future, and safe to trust. 

George had indeed learned much. He got new lessons every time he went tocall at the physician's office--he could read them in the faces of thepeople he saw there. One day when he was alone in the waiting-room, thedoctor came out of his inner office, talking to an elderly gentleman, whom George recognized as the father of one of his classmates atcollege. The father was a little shopkeeper, and the young manremembered how pathetically proud he had been of his son. Could it be, thought George, that this old man was a victim of syphilis?

But it was the son, and not the father, who was the subject of theconsultation. The old man was speaking in a deeply moved voice, and hestood so that George could not help hearing what he said. "Perhaps youcan't understand, " he said, "just what it means to us--the hopes we hadof that boy! Such a fine fellow he was, and a good fellow, too, sir! Wewere so proud of him; we had bled our veins to keep him in college--andnow just see!"

"Don't despair, sir, " said the doctor, "we'll try to cure him. " And headded with that same note of sorrow in his voice which George had heard, "Why did you wait so long before you brought the boy to me?"

"How was I to know what he had?" cried the other. "He didn't dare tellme, sir--he was afraid of my scolding him. And in the meantime thedisease was running its course. When he realized that he had it, he wentsecretly to one of the quacks, who robbed him, and didn't cure him. Youknow how it is, sir. "

"Yes, I know, " said the doctor. 

"Such things ought not to be permitted, " cried the old man. "What isour government about that it allows such things to go on? Take theconditions there at the college where my poor boy was ruined. At thevery gates of the building these women are waiting for the lads! Oughtthey to be permitted to debauch young boys only fifteen years old?Haven't we got police enough to prevent a thing like that? Tell me, sir!"

"One would think so, " said the doctor, patiently. 

"But is it that the police don't want to?"

"No doubt they have the same excuse as all the rest--they don't know. Take courage, sir; we have cured worse cases than your son's. And someday, perhaps, we shall be able to change these conditions. "

So he went on with the man, leaving George with something to thinkabout. How much he could have told them about what had happened to thatyoung fellow when only fifteen years old! It had not been altogether thefault of the women who were lurking outside of the college gates; it wasa fact that the boy's classmates had teased him and ridiculed him, hadliterally made his life a torment, until he had yielded to temptation. 

It was the old, old story of ignorant and unguided schoolboys all overthe world! They thought that to be chaste was to be weak and foolish;that a fellow was not a man unless he led a life of debauchery like therest. And what did they know about these dreadful diseases? They had themost horrible superstitions--ideas of cures so loathsome that they couldnot be set down in print; ideas as ignorant and destructive as thoseof savages in the heart of Africa. And you might hear them laughingand jesting about one another's condition. They might be afflicted withdiseases which would have the most terrible after-effects upon theirwhole lives and upon their families--diseases which cause tens ofthousands of surgical operations upon women, and a large percentage ofblindness and idiocy in children--and you might hear them confidentlyexpress the opinion that these diseases were no worse than a bad cold!

And all this mass of misery and ignorance covered over and clampeddown by a taboo of silence, imposed by the horrible superstition ofsex-prudery! George went out from the doctor's office trembling withexcitement over this situation. Oh, why had not some one warned him intime? Why didn't the doctors and the teachers lift up their voices andtell young men about these frightful dangers? He wanted to go out inthe highways and preach it himself--except that he dared not, because hecould not explain to the world his own sudden interest in this forbiddentopic. 

These was only one person he dared to talk to: that was his mother--towhom he ought to have talked many, many years before. He was moved tomention to her the interview he had overheard in the doctor's office. Ina sudden burst of grief he told her of his struggles and temptations; hepleaded with her to go to Henriette once more--to tell her these things, and try to make her realize that he alone was not to blame for them, that they were a condition which prevailed everywhere, that the onlydifference between her husband and other men was that he had had themisfortune to be caught. 

There was pressure being applied to Henriette from several sides. Afterall, what could she do? She was comfortable in her father's home, so faras the physical side of things went; but she knew that all her friendswere gossiping and speculating about her separation from her husband, and sooner or later she would have to make up her mind, either toseparate permanently from George or to return to him. There was not muchhappiness for her in the thought of getting a divorce from a man whomdeep in her heart she loved. She would be practically a widow the restof her life, and the home in which poor little Gervaise would be broughtup would not be a cheerful one. 

George was ready to offer any terms, if only she would come back to hishome. They might live separate lives for as long as Henriette wished. They would have no more children until the doctor declared it was quitesafe; and in the meantime he would be humble and patient, and would tryhis best to atone for the wrong that he had done her. 

To these arguments Madame Dupont added others of her own. She told thegirl some things which through bitter experience she had learned aboutthe nature and habits of men; things that should be told to every girlbefore marriage, but which almost all of them are left to find outafterwards, with terrible suffering and disillusionment. WhateverGeorge's sins may have been, he was a man who had been chastened bysuffering, and would know how to value a woman's love for the rest ofhis life. Not all men knew that--not even those who had been fortunatein escaping from the so-called "shameful disease. "

Henriette was also hearing arguments from her father, who by this timehad had time to think things over, and had come to the conclusionthat the doctor was right. He had noted his son-in-law's patience andpenitence, and had also made sure that in spite of everything Henriettestill loved him. The baby apparently was doing well; and the Frenchman, with his strong sense of family ties, felt it a serious matter toseparate a child permanently from its father. So in the end he castthe weight of his influence in favor of a reconciliation, and Henriettereturned to her husband, upon terms which the doctor laid down. 

The doctor played in these negotiations the part which he had not beenallowed to play in the marriage. For the deputy was now thoroughly awaketo the importance of the duty he owed his daughter. In fact, he hadbecome somewhat of a "crank" upon the whole subject. He had attendedseveral of the doctor's clinics, and had read books and pamphlets on thesubject of syphilis, and was now determined that there should be somepractical steps towards reform. 

At the outset, he had taken the attitude of the average legislator, thatthe thing to do was to strengthen the laws against prostitution, and toenforce them more strictly. He echoed the cry of the old man whom Georgehad heard in the doctor's office: "Are there not enough police?"

"We must go to the source, " he declared. "We must proceed against thesemiserable women--veritable poisoners that they are!"

He really thought this was going to the source! But the doctor was quickto answer his arguments. "Poisoners?" he said. "You forget that theyhave first been poisoned. Every one of these women who communicates thedisease has first received it from some man. "

Monsieur Loches advanced to his second idea, to punish the men. But thedoctor had little interest in this idea either. He had seen it tried somany times--such a law could never be enforced. What must come first waseducation, and by this means a modification of morals. People must ceaseto treat syphilis as a mysterious evil, of which not even the name couldbe pronounced. 

"But, " objected the other, "one cannot lay it bare to children in oureducational institutions!"

"Why not?" asked the doctor. 

"Because, sir, there are curiosities which it would be imprudent toawaken. "

The doctor became much excited whenever he heard this argument. "Youbelieve that you are preventing these curiosities from awakening?"he demanded. "I appeal to those--both men and women--who have passedthrough colleges and boarding schools! Such curiosities cannot besmothered, and they satisfy themselves as best they can, basely, vilely. I tell you, sir, there is nothing immoral about the act whichperpetuates life by means of love. But we organize around it, so far asconcerns our children, a gigantic and rigorous conspiracy of silence. The worthy citizen takes his daughter and his son to popular musicalcomedies, where they listen to things which would make a monkey blush;but it is forbidden to discuss seriously before the young that actof love which people seem to think they should only know of throughblasphemies and profanations! Either that act is a thing of whichpeople can speak without blushing--or else, sir, it is a matter forthe innuendoes of the cabaret and the witticisms of the messroom!Pornography is admitted, but science is not! I tell you, sir, that isthe thing which must be changed! We must elevate the soul of the youngman by taking these facts out of the realm of mystery and of slang. Wemust awaken in him a pride in that creative power with which each one ofus is endowed. We must make him understand that he is a sort of templein which is prepared the future of the race, and we must teach him thathe must transmit, intact, the heritage entrusted to him--the preciousheritage which has been built out of the tears and miseries andsufferings of an interminable line of ancestors!"

So the doctor argued. He brought forth case after case to prove that theprostitute was what she was, not because of innate vileness, but becauseof economic conditions. It happened that the deputy came to one of theclinics where he met Therese. The doctor brought her into his consultingroom, after telling her that the imposing-looking gentleman was a friendof the director of the opera, and might be able to recommend her fora position on the stage to which she aspired. "Tell him all aboutyourself, " he said, "how you live, and what you do, and what you wouldlike to do. You will get him interested in you. "

So the poor girl retold the story of her life. She spoke in amatter-of-fact voice, and when she came to tell how she had been obligedto leave her baby in the foundling asylum, she was surprised thatMonsieur Loches showed horror. "What could I do?" she demanded. "Howcould I have taken care of it?"

"Didn't you ever miss it?" he asked. 

"Of course I missed it. But what difference did that make? It would havedied of hunger with me. "

"Still, " he said, "it was your child--"

"It was the father's child, too, wasn't it? Much attention he paid toit! If I had been sure of getting money enough, I would have put it outto nurse. But with the twenty-five or thirty francs a month I could haveearned as a servant, could I have paid for a baby? That's the situationa girl faces--so long as I wanted to remain honest, it was impossiblefor me to keep my child. You answer, perhaps, 'You didn't stay honestanyway. ' That's true. But then--when you are hungry, and a nice youngfellow offers you dinner, you'd have to be made of wood to refuse him. Of course, if I had had a trade--but I didn't have any. So I went on thestreet--You know how it is. "

"Tell us about it, " said the doctor. "This gentleman is from thecountry. "

"Is that so?" said the girl. "I never supposed there was anyone whodidn't know about such things. Well, I took the part of a littleworking-girl. A very simple dress--things I had made especially forthat--a little bundle in a black napkin carried in my hand--so I walkedalong where the shops are. It's tiresome, because to do it right, youhave to patter along fast. Then I stop before a shop, and nine times outof ten, there you are! A funny thing is that the men--you'd imaginethey had agreed on the words to approach you with. They have only twophrases; they never vary them. It's either, 'You are going fast, littleone. ' Or it's, 'Aren't you afraid all alone?' One thing or the other. One knows pretty well what they mean. Isn't it so?" The girl paused, then went on. "Again, I would get myself up as a young widow. There, too, one has to walk fast: I don't know why that should be so, but itis. After a minute or two of conversation, they generally find out thatI am not a young widow, but that doesn't make any difference--they go onjust the same. "

"Who are the men?" asked the deputy. "Clerks? Traveling salesmen?"

"Not much, " she responded. "I keep a lookout for gentlemen--likeyourself. "

"They SAY they are gentlemen, " he suggested. 

"Sometimes I can see it, " was the response. "Sometimes they wear orders. It's funny--if they have on a ribbon when you first notice them, theyfollow you, and presto--the ribbon is gone! I always laugh over that. I've watched them in the glass of the shop windows. They try to lookunconcerned, but as they walk along they snap out the ribbon with theirthumb--as one shells little peas, you know. "

She paused; then, as no one joined in her laugh, she continued, "Well, at last the police got after me, That's a story that I've never beenable to understand. Those filthy men gave me a nasty disease, and then Iwas to be shut in prison for it! That was a little too much, it seems tome. "

"Well, " said the doctor, grimly, "you revenged yourself on them--fromwhat you have told me. "

The other laughed. "Oh, yes, " she said. "I had my innings. " She turnedto Monsieur Loches. "You want me to tell you that? Well, just on thevery day I learned that the police were after me, I was coming homefurious, naturally. It was on the Boulevard St. Denis, if you know theplace--and whom do you think I met? My old master--the one who got meinto trouble, you know. There it was, God's own will! I said to myself, 'Now, my good fellow, here's the time where you pay me what you owe me, and with interest, too!' I put on a little smile--oh, it didn't takevery long, you may be sure!"

The woman paused; her face darkened, and she went on, in a voicetrembling with agitation: "When I had left him, I was seized with arage. A sort of madness got into my blood. I took on all the men whooffered themselves, for whatever they offered me, for nothing, if theydidn't offer me anything. I took as many as I could, the youngest onesand the handsomest ones. Just so! I only gave them back what they hadgiven to me. And since that time I haven't really cared about anyone anymore. I just turned it all into a joke. " She paused, and then lookingat the deputy, and reading in his face the horror with which he wasregarding her, "Oh, I am not the only one!" she exclaimed. "Thereare lots of other women who do the same. To be sure, it is not forvengeance--it is because they must have something to eat. For even ifyou have syphilis, you have to eat, don't you? Eh?"

She had turned to the doctor, but he did not answer. There was a longsilence; and then thinking that his friend, the deputy, had heard enoughfor one session, the doctor rose. He dismissed the woman, the cause ofall George Dupont's misfortunes, and turning to Monsieur Loches, said:"It was on purpose that I brought that wretched prostitute beforeyou. In her the whole story is summed up--not merely the story of yourson-in-law, but that of all the victims of the red plague. That womanherself is a victim, and she is a symbol of the evil which we havecreated and which falls upon our own heads again. I could add nothing toher story, I only ask you, Monsieur Loches--when next you are proposingnew laws in the Chamber of Deputies, not to forget the horrors whichthat poor woman has exposed to you!"