THE IMMORTAL;

OR, ONE OF THE "FORTY. " (L'IMMORTEL. )

By Alphonse Daudet, Translated From The French By A. W. Verrall And Margaret D. G. Verrall

Rand, McNally & Company, Publishers - 1889

IMMORTAL; OR, THE "FORTY. " (L'IMMORTEL)

CHAPTER I. 

In the 1880 edition of Men of the Day, under the heading _Astier-Réhu_, may be read the following notice:--

Astier, commonly called Astier-Réhu (Pierre Alexandre Léonard), Memberof the Académie Française, was born in 1816 at Sauvagnat (Puy-de-Dôme). His parents belonged to the class of small farmers. He displayed fromhis earliest years a remarkable aptitude for the study of history. Hiseducation, begun at Riom and continued at Louis-le-Grand, where hewas afterwards to re-appear as professor, was more sound than is nowfashionable, and secured his admission to the Ecole Normale Supérieure, from which he went to the Chair of History at the Lycée of Mende. Itwas here that he wrote the Essay on Marcus Aurelius, crowned bythe Académie Française. Called to Paris the following year by M. DeSalvandy, the young and brilliant professor showed his sense of thediscerning favour extended to him by publishing, in rapid succession, The Great Ministers of Louis XIV. (crowned by the Académie Française), Bonaparte and the Concordat (crowned by the Académie Française), andthe admirable Introduction to the History of the House of Orleans, amagnificent prologue to the work which was to occupy twenty years of hislife. This time the Académie, having no more crowns to offer him, gavehim a seat among its members. He could scarcely be called a strangerthere, having married Mlle. Rèhu, daughter of the lamented Paulin Réhu, the celebrated architect, member of the Académie des Inscriptions etBelles-Lettres, and granddaughter of the highly respected Jean Réhu, the father of the Académie Française, the elegant translator of Ovid andauthor of the Letters to Urania, whose hale old age is the miracle ofthe Institute. By his friend and colleague M. Thiers Léonard Astier-Réhuwas called to the post of Keeper of the Archives of Foreign Affairs. It is well known that, with a noble disregard of his interests, heresigned, some years later (1878), rather than that the impartial pen ofhistory should stoop to the demands of our present rulers. But deprivedof his beloved archives, the author has turned his leisure to goodaccount. In two years he has given us the last three volumes of hishistory, and announces shortly New Lights on Galileo, based upondocuments extremely curious and absolutely unpublished. All the works ofAstier-Réhu may be had of Petit-Séquard, Bookseller to the Académie. 

As the publisher of this book of reference entrusts to each personconcerned the task of telling his own story, no doubt can possibly bethrown upon the authenticity of these biographical notes. But why mustit be asserted that Léonard Astier-Réhu resigned his post as Keeper ofthe Archives? Every one knows that he was dismissed, sent away with nomore ceremony than a hackney-cabman, because of an imprudent phrase letslip by the historian of the House of Orleans, vol. V. P. 327: 'Then, asto-day, France, overwhelmed by the flood of demagogy, etc. ' Who can seethe end of a metaphor? His salary of five hundred pounds a year, hisrooms in the Quai d'Orsay (with coals and gas) and, besides, thatwonderful treasure of historic documents, which had supplied the sapof his books, all this had been carried away from him by this unlucky'flood, ' all by his own flood! The poor man could not get over it. Evenafter the lapse of two years, regret for the ease and the honours of hisoffice gnawed at his heart, and gnawed with a sharper tooth oncertain dates, certain days of the month or the week, and above all on'Teyssèdre's Wednesdays. ' Teyssèdre was the man who polished the floors. He came to the Astiers' regularly every Wednesday. On the afternoonof that day Madame Astier was at home to her friends in her husband'sstudy, this being the only presentable apartment of their third floor inthe Rue de Beaune, the remains of a grand house, terribly inconvenientin spite of its magnificent ceiling. The disturbance caused to theillustrious historian by this 'Wednesday, ' recurring every week andinterrupting his industrious and methodical labours, may easily beconceived. He had come to hate the rubber of floor, a man from hisown country, with a face as yellow, close, and hard as his own cakeof beeswax. He hated Teyssèdre, who, proud of coming from Riom, while'Meuchieu Achtier came only from Chauvagnat, ' had no scruple in pushingabout the heavy table covered with pamphlets, notes, and reports, andhunted the illustrious victim from room to room till he was driven toseek refuge in a kind of pigeon-hole over the study, where, though nota big man, he must sit for want of room to get up. This lumber-closet, which was furnished with an old damask chair, an aged card-table and astand of drawers, looked out on the courtyard through the upper circleof the great window belonging to the room below. Through this opening, much resembling the low glass door of an orangery, the travailinghistorian might be seen from head to foot, miserably doubled up likeCardinal La Balue in his cage. It was here that he was sitting onemorning with his eyes upon an ancient scrawl, having been alreadyexpelled from the lower room by the bang-bang-bang of Teyssèdre, when heheard the sound of the front door bell. 

'Is that you, Fage?' asked the Academician in his deep and resonantbass. 

'No, _Meuchieu Achtier_. It is the young gentleman. '

On Wednesday mornings the polisher opened the door, because Corentinewas dressing her mistress. 

'How's _The Master?_' cried Paul Astier, hurrying by to his mother'sroom. The Academician did not answer. His son's habit of usingironically a title generally bestowed upon him as a compliment wasalways offensive to him. 

'M. Fage is to be shown up as soon as he comes, ' he said, not addressinghimself directly to the polisher. 

'Yes, _Meuchieu Achtier_. ' And the bang-bang-bang began again. 

'Good morning, mamma. '

'Why, it's Paul! Come in. Mind the folds, Corentine. '

Madame Astier was putting on a skirt before the looking-glass. She wastall, slender, and still good-looking in spite of her worn features andher too delicate skin. She did not move, but held out to him a cheekwith a velvet surface of powder. He touched it with his fair pointedbeard. The son was as little demonstrative as the mother. 

'Will M. Paul stay to breakfast?' asked Corentine. She was a stoutcountrywoman of an oily complexion, pitted with smallpox. She wassitting on the carpet like a shepherdess in the fields, and was aboutto repair, at the hem of the skirt, her mistress's old black dress. Her tone and her attitude showed the objectionable familiarity of theunder-paid maid-of-all-work. 

No, Paul would not stay to breakfast. He was expected elsewhere. He hadhis buggy below; he had only come to say a word to his mother. 

'Your new English cart? Let me look, ' said Madame Astier. She went tothe open window, and parted the Venetian blinds, on which the bright Maysunlight lay in stripes, just far enough to see the neat little vehicle, shining with new leather and polished pinewood, and the servant inspotless livery standing at the horse's head. 

'Oh, ma'am, how beautiful!' murmured Coren-tine, who was also at thewindow. 'How nice M. Paul must look in it!'

The mother's face shone. But windows were opening opposite, and peoplewere stopping before the equipage, which was creating quite a sensationat this end of the Rue de Beaune. Madame Astier sent away the servant, seated herself on the edge of a folding-chair, and finished mending herskirt for herself, while she waited for what her son had to say to her, not without a suspicion what it would be, though her attention seemedto be absorbed in her sewing. Paul Astier was equally silent. He leanedback in an arm-chair and played with an ivory fan, an old thing whichhe had known for his mother's ever since he was born. Seen thus, thelikeness between them was striking; the same Creole skin, pink over adelicate duskiness, the same supple figure, the same impenetrablegrey eye, and in both faces a slight defect hardly to be noticed;the finely-cut nose was a little out of line, giving an expression ofslyness, of something not to be trusted. While each watched andwaited for the other, the pause was filled by the distant brushing ofTeyssèdre. 

'Rather good, that, ' said Paul. 

His mother looked up. 'What is rather good?'

He raised the fan and pointed, like an artist, at the bare arms and theline of the falling shoulders under the fine cambric bodice. She beganto laugh. 

'Yes, but look here. ' She pointed to her long neck, where the finewrinkles marked her age. 'But after all, '... You have the good looks, sowhat does it matter? Such was her thought, but she did not express it. A brilliant talker, perfectly trained in the fibs and commonplaces ofsociety, a perfect adept in expression and suggestion, she was leftwithout words for the only real feeling which she had ever experienced. And indeed she really was not one of those women who cannot make uptheir minds to grow old. Long before the hour of curfew--though indeedthere had perhaps never been much fire in her to put out--all hercoquetry, all her feminine eagerness to captivate and charm, allher aspirations towards fame or fashion or social success had beentransferred to the account of her son, this tall, good-looking youngfellow in the correct attire of the modern artist, with his slight beardand close-cut hair, who showed in mien and bearing that soldierly gracewhich our young men of the day get from their service as volunteers. 

'Is your first floor let?' asked the mother at last. 

'Let! let! Not a sign of it! All the bills and advertisements no go!"I don't know what is the matter with them; but they don't come, " asVédrine said at his private exhibition. '

He laughed quietly, at an inward vision of Védrine among his enamels andhis sculptures, calm, proud, and self-assured, wondering without angerat the non-appearance of the public. But Madame Astier did not laugh. That splendid first floor empty for the last two years! In the RueFortuny! A magnificent situation--a house in the style of Louis XII. --ahouse built by her son! Why, what did people want? The same people, doubtless, who did not go to Védrine. Biting off the thread with whichshe had been sewing, she said:

'And it is worth taking, too!'

'Quite; but it would want money to keep it up. '

The people at the Crédit Foncier would not be satisfied. And thecontractors were upon him--four hundred pounds for carpenter's work dueat the end of the month, and he hadn't a penny of it. 

The mother, who was putting on the bodice of her dress before thelooking-glass, grew pale and saw that she did so. It was the shiver thatyou feel in a duel, when your adversary raises his pistol to take aim. 

'You have had the money for the restorations at Mousseaux?'

'Mousseaux! Long ago. '

'And the Rosen tomb?'

'Can't get on. Védrine still at his statue. '

'Yes, and why must you have Védrine? Your father warned you againsthim. '

'Oh, I know. They can't bear him at the Institute. '

He rose and walked about the room. 

'You know me, come. I am a practical man. If I took him and not someone else to do my statue, you may suppose that I had a reason. ' Thensuddenly, turning to his mother:

'You could not let me have four hundred pounds, I suppose?' She had beenwaiting for this ever since he came in; he never came to see her foranything else. 

'Four hundred pounds? How can you think----' She said no more; but thepained expression of her mouth and eyes said clearly enough:

'You know that I have given you everything--that I am dressed inclothes fit for the rag-bag--that I have not bought a bonnet for threeyears--that Corentine washes my linen in the kitchen because I shouldblush to give such rubbish to the laundress; and you know also that myworst misery is to refuse what you ask. Then why do you ask?' And thismute address of his mother's was so eloquent that Paul Astier answeredit aloud:

'Of course I was not thinking of your having it yourself. By Jove, ifyou had, it would be the better for me. But, ' he continued, in his cool, off hand way, 'there is _The Master_ up there. Could you get it fromhim? You might. You know how to get hold of him. '

'That is over. There is an end of that. '

'Well, but, you know, he works; his books sell; you spend nothing. '

He looked round in the subdued light at the reduced state of the oldfurniture, the worn curtains, the threadbare carpet, nothing of laterdate than their marriage thirty years ago. Where was it then that allthe money went?

'I say, ' he began again, 'I wonder whether my venerable sire is in thehabit of taking his fling?'

It was an idea so monstrous, so inconceivable, that of LéonardAstier-Réhu 'taking his fling, ' that his wife could not help smiling inspite of herself. No, on that point she thought there was no need foruneasiness. 'Only, you know, he has turned suspicious and mysterious, and "buries his hoard. " We have gone too far with him. '

They spoke low, like conspirators, with their eyes upon the carpet. 

'And grandpapa, ' said Paul, but not in a tone of confidence, 'could youtry him?'

'Grandpapa? You must be mad!'

Yet he knew well enough what old Réhu was. A touchy, selfish man allbut a hundred years old, who would have seen them all die rather thandeprive himself of a pinch of snuff or a single one of the pins thatwere always stuck on the lapels of his coat. Ah, poor child! He must behard up indeed before he could think of his grandfather. 

'Well, you would not like me to try ---- ----. ' She paused. 

'To try where?'

'In the Rue de Courcelles. I might get something in advance for thetomb. '

'There? Good Heavens! You had better not!'

He spoke to her imperiously, with pale lips and a disagreeableexpression in his eye; then recovering his self-contained and fleetingtone, he said:

'Don't trouble any more about it. It is only a crisis to be got through. I have had plenty before now. '

She held out to him his hat, which he was looking for. As he could getnothing from her, he would be off. To keep him a few minutes longer, she began talking of an important business which she had in hand--amarriage, which she had been asked to arrange. 

At the word _marriage_ he started and looked at her askance: 'Who wasit?' She had promised to say nothing at present. But she could notrefuse him. It was the Prince d'Athis. 

'Who is the lady?' he asked. 

It was her turn now to show him the side view of her crooked nose. 

'You do not know the lady. She is a foreigner with a fortune. If Isucceed I might help you. I have made my terms in black and white. '

He smiled, completely reassured. 

'And how does the Duchess take it?'

'She knows nothing of it, of course. '

'Her _Sammy_, ' Her dear prince! And after fifteen years!'

Madame Astier's gesture expressed the utter carelessness of one womanfor the feelings of another. 

'What else could she expect at her age?' said she. 

'Why, what is her age?'

'She was born in 1827. We are in 1880. You can do the sum. Just a yearolder than myself. '

'The Duchess!' cried Paul, stupefied. 

His mother laughed as she said, 'Why, yes, you rude boy! What are yousurprised at? I am sure you thought her twenty years younger. It's afact, it seems, that the most experienced of you know nothing aboutwomen. Well, you see, the poor prince could not have her hanging on tohim all his life. Besides, one of these days the old Duke will die, andthen where would he be? Fancy him tied to that old woman!'

'Well, ' said Paul, 'so much for your dear friend!' She fired at this. Her dear friend! The Duchess! A pretty friend! A woman who, withtwenty-five thousand a year--intimate as she was with her, and wellaware of their difficulties--had never so much as thought of helpingthem! What was the present of an occasional dress? Or the permissionto choose a bonnet at her milliner's? Presents for use! There was nopleasure in them. 

'Like grandpapa Réhu's on New Year's day, ' put in Paul assenting. 'Anatlas, or a globe!'

'Oh, Antonia is, I really think, more stingy still. When we were atMousseaux, in the middle of the fruit season, if _Sammy_ was not there, do you remember the dry plums they gave us for dessert? There is plentyin the orchard and the kitchen garden, but everything is sent to marketat Blois or Vendôme. It runs in her blood, you know. Her father, theMarshal, was famous for it at the Court of Louis Philippe; and it wassomething to be thought stingy at the Court of Louis Philippe! Thesegreat Corsican families are all alike; nothing but meanness andpretension! They will eat chestnuts, such as the pigs would not touch, off plate with their arms on it. And as for the Duchess--why, she makesher steward account to her in person! They take the meat up to her everymorning; and every evening (this is from a person who knows), whenshe has gone to her grand bed with the lace, at that tender moment shebalances her books!'

Madame Astier was nearly breathless. Her small voice grew sharp andshrill, like the cry of a sea-bird from the masthead. Meanwhile Paul, amused at first, had begun to listen impatiently, with his thoughtselsewhere. 'I am off, ' said he abruptly. 'I have a breakfast with somebusiness people--very important. '

'An order?'

'No, not architect's business this time. '

She wanted him to satisfy her curiosity, but he went on, 'Not now;another time; it's not settled. ' And finally, as he gave his mother alittle kiss, he whispered in her ear, 'All the same, do not forget myfour hundred. '

But for this grown-up son, who was a secret cause of division, theAstier-Réhu would have had a happy household, as the world, and inparticular the Academic world, measures household happiness. Afterthirty years their mutual sentiments remained the same, kept beneath thesnow at the temperature of what gardeners call a 'cold-bed. ' When, about'50, Professor Astier, after brilliant successes at the Institute, suedfor the hand of Mademoiselle Adelaide Réhu, who at that time livedwith her grandfather at the Palais Mazarin, it was not the delicate andslender beauty of his betrothed, it was not the bloom of her 'Aurora'face, which were the real attractions for him. Neither was it herfortune. For the parents of Mademoiselle Adelaide, who died suddenlyof cholera, had left her but little; and the grandfather, a Creole fromMartinique, an old beau of the time of the Directory, a gambler, afree liver, great in practical jokes and in duels, declared loudly andrepeatedly that he should not add a penny to her slender portion. 

No, that which enticed the scion of Sauvagnat, who was far moreambitious than greedy, was the Académie. The two great courtyards whichhe had to cross to bring his daily offering of flowers, and the longsolemn corridors into which at intervals there descended a dustystaircase, were for him rather the path of glory than of love. ThePaulin Réhu of the Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, the Jean Réhu ofthe 'Letters to Urania, ' the Institute complete with its lions and itscupola--this was the Mecca of his pilgrimage, and all this it was thathe took to wife on his wedding day. 

For this not transient beauty he felt a passion proof against thetooth of time, a passion which took such hold of him that his permanentattitude towards his wife was that of those mortal husbands on whom, inthe mythological age, the gods occasionally bestowed their daughters. Nor did he quit this respect when at the fourth ballot he had himselfbecome a deity. As for Madame Astier, who had only accepted marriage asa means of escape from a hard and selfish grandfather in his anecdotage, it had not taken her long to find out how poor was the laborious peasantbrain, how narrow the intelligence, concealed by the solemn manners ofthe Academic laureate and manufacturer of octavos, and by his voice withits ophicleide notes adapted to the sublimities of the lecture room. Andyet when, by force of intrigue, bargaining, and begging, she had seatedhim at last in the Académie, she felt herself possessed by a certainveneration, forgetting that it was herself who had clothed him in thatcoat with the green palm leaves, in which his nothingness ceased to bevisible. 

In the dull concord of their partnership, where was neither joy, norintimacy, nor communion of any kind, there was but one single note ofnatural human feeling, their child; and this note disturbed the harmony. In the first place the father was entirely disappointed of all that hewished for his son, that he should be distinguished by the University, entered for the general examinations, and finally pass through the EcoleNormale to a professorship. Alas! at school Paul took prizes for nothingbut gymnastics and fencing, and distinguished himself chiefly by awilful and obstinate perversity, which covered a practical turn of mindand a precocious understanding of the world. Careful of his dress andhis appearance, he never went for a walk without the hope, of which hemade no secret to his schoolfellows, of 'picking up a rich wife. ' Two orthree times the father had been ready to punish this determined idlenessafter the rough method of Auvergne, but the mother was by to excuse andto protect. In vain Astier-Réhu scolded and snapped his jaw, a prominentfeature which, in the days when he was a professor, had gained him thenickname of _Crocodilus_. In the last resort, he would threaten to packhis trunk and go back to his vineyard at Sauvagnat. 

'Ah, Léonard, Léonard!' Madame Astier would say with gentle mockery;and nothing further came of it. Once, however, he really came near tostrapping his trunk in good earnest, when, after a three years' courseof architecture at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paul refused to competefor the Prix de Rome. The father could scarcely speak for indignation. 'Wretched boy! It is the Prix de Rome! You cannot know; you do notunderstand. The Prix de Rome! Get that, and it means the Institute!'Little the young man cared. What he wanted was wealth, and wealththe Institute does not bestow, as might be seen in his father, hisgrandfather, and old Réhu, his great-grandfather! To start in life, toget a business, a large business, an immediate income--this was what hewanted for his part, and not to wear a green coat with palms on it. 

Léonard Astier was speechless. To hear such blasphemies uttered by hisson and approved by his wife, a daughter of the house of Réhu! This timehis trunk was really brought down from the box room; his old trunk, suchas professors use in the provinces, with as much ironwork in the wayof nails and hinges as might have sufficed for a church door, and highenough and deep enough to have held the enormous manuscript of 'MarcusAurelius' together with all the dreams of glory and all the ambitioushopes of an historian on the high road to the Académie. It was in vainfor Madame Astier to pinch her lips and say, 'Oh, Léonard, Léonard!'Nothing would stop him till his trunk was packed. Two days it stood inthe way in the middle of his study. Then it travelled to the ante-room;and there reposed, turned once and for ever into a wood-box. 

And at first, it must be said, Paul Astier did splendidly. Helped by hismother and her connection in good society, and further assisted by hisown cleverness and personal charm, he soon got work which brought himinto notice. The Duchess Padovani, wife of a former ambassador andminister, trusted him with the restoration of her much admired countryhouse at Mousseaux-on-the-Loire, an ancient royal residence, longneglected, which he succeeded in restoring with a skill and ingenuityreally amazing in an undistinguished scholar of the Beaux-Arts. Mousseaux got him the order for the new mansion of the Ambassador of thePorte; and finally the Princess of Rosen commissioned him to design themausoleum of Prince Herbert of Rosen, who had come to a tragic endin the expedition of Christian of Illyria. The young man now thoughthimself sure of success. Astier the elder was induced by his wife to putdown three thousand pounds out of his savings for the purchase of a sitein the Rue Fortuny. Then Paul built himself a mansion--or rather, a wingto a mansion, which was itself arranged as a block of elegant 'roomsto let. ' He was a practical young fellow, and if he wanted a mansion, without which no artist is _chic_, he meant it to bring him an income. 

Unfortunately houses to let are not always so easy to let, and the youngarchitect's way of life, with two horses in his stable (one for harness, one for the saddle), his club, his visiting, his slow reimbursements, made it impossible for him to wait. Moreover, the elder Astier suddenlydeclared that he was not going to give any more; and all that themother could attempt or say for her darling son failed to shakethis irrevocable decision. Her will, which had hitherto swayed theestablishment, was now resisted. Thenceforward there was a continualstruggle. The mother used her ingenuity to make little dishonest profitson the household expenses, that she might never have to say 'no' to herson's requests. Léonard suspected her and, to protect himself, checkedthe accounts. In these humiliating conflicts the wife, who was thebetter bred, was the first to tire; and nothing less than the desperatesituation of her beloved Paul would have induced her to make a freshattempt. 

She went slowly into the dining room. It was a long, melancholy room, ill lighted by tall, narrow windows, having in fact been used as a_table d'hôte_ for ecclesiastics until the Astiers took it. There shefound her husband already at table, looking preoccupied and almostgrumpy. In the ordinary way '_the Master_' came to his meals with asmiling serenity as regular as his appetite, and with teeth which, soundas a foxhound's, were not to be discouraged by stale bread or leatherymeat, or by the miscellaneous disagreeables which are the everydayflavouring of life. 

'Ah, it's Teyssèdre's day, ' thought Madame Astier, as she took her seat, her best dress rustling as she did so. She was a little surprised at notreceiving the compliment with which her husband never failed to welcomeher 'Wednesday' costume, shabby as it was. Reckoning that this badtemper would go off with the first mouthfuls, she waited beforebeginning her attack. But, though _the Master_ went on eating, his illhumour visibly increased. Everything was wrong; the wine tasted of thecork; the balls of boiled beef were burnt. 

'And all because your M. Fage kept you waiting this morning, ' criedCorentine angrily from the adjoining kitchen. She showed her shinypitted face for a moment at the hatch in the wall through which, in thedays of the _table d'hôte_, they used to pass the dishes. She shutit with a bang; upon which Astier muttered, 'Really that girl'simpudence----' He was in truth much annoyed that the name of Fage hadbeen mentioned before his wife. And sure enough at any other momentMadame Astier would not have failed to say, 'Oh, Fage the bookbinderhere again!' and there would have followed a domestic scene; on allwhich Corentine reckoned when she threw in her artful speech. To-day, however, it was all-important that the master should not be irritated, but prepared by skilful stages for the intended petition. He was talkedto, for instance, about the health of Loisillon, the perpetualsecretary of the Académie, who, it seemed, was getting worse and worse. Loisillon's post and his rooms in the Institute were to come to LéonardAstier as a compensation for the office which he had lost; and though hewas really attached to his dying colleague, still the prospect of a goodsalary, an airy and comfortable residence, and other advantages had itsattractions. He was perhaps ashamed to think of the death in this light, but in the privacy of his household he did so without blinking. Butto-day even that did not bring a smile. 'Poor M. Loisillon!' said MadameAstier's thin voice; 'he begins to be uncertain about his words. Lavaux was telling us yesterday at the Duchess's, he can only say "acu-curiosity, a cu-curiosity, " and, ' she added, compressing her lips anddrawing up her long neck, 'he is on the Dictionary Committee. '

Astier-Réhu did not move an eyebrow. 

'It is not a bad story, ' said he, clapping his jaw with a magisterialair. 'But, as I have said somewhere in my history, in France theprovisional is the only thing that lasts. Loisillon has been dying anytime this ten years. He'll see every one of us buried yet--every one ofus, ' he repeated angrily, pulling at his dry bread. It was clear thatTeyssèdre had put him into a very bad temper indeed. 

Madame Astier went to another subject, the special meeting of all thefive Académies, which was to take place within a few days, and to behonoured by the presence of the Grand Duke Leopold of Finland. It sohappened that Astier-Réhu, being director for the coming quarter, was topreside at the meeting and to deliver the opening speech, in which hisHighness was to receive a compliment. Skilfully questioned about thisspeech, which he was already planning, Léonard described it in outline. It was to be a crushing attack upon the modern school of literature--asound thrashing administered in public to these pretenders, thesedunces. And at this his eyes, big with his heavy meal, lighted up hissquare face, and the blood rose under his thick bushy eyebrows. Theywere still coal-black, and contrasted strangely with the white circle ofhis beard. 

'By the way, ' said he suddenly, 'what about my uniform coat? Has it beenseen to? The last time I wore it, at Montribot's funeral----'

But do not women think of everything? Madame Astier had seen to the coatthat very morning. The silk of the palm leaves was getting shabby; thelining was all to pieces. It was very old. Oh, dear, when did he wearit first? Why, it was as long ago--as long ago--as when he was admitted!The twelfth of October, eighteen-sixty-six! He had better order a newone for the Meeting. The five Académies, a Royal Highness, and allParis! Such an audience was worth a new coat. Léonard protested, notenergetically, on the ground of expense. With a new coat he would wanta new waistcoat; knee-breeches were not worn now, but a new waistcoatwould be indispensable. 

'My dear, you really must!' She continued to press him. If they didnot take care they would make themselves ridiculous with their economy. There were too many shabby old things about them. The furniture of herroom, for instance! It made her feel ashamed when a friend came in, andfor a sum comparatively trifling. 

'Ouais! quelque sot, ' muttered Astier-Réhu, who liked to quote hisclassics. The furrow in his forehead deepened, and under it, as underthe bar of a shutter, his countenance, which had been open for a minute, shut up. Many a time had he supplied the means to pay a milliner's bill, or a dressmaker's, or to re-paper the walls, and after all no accounthad been settled and no purchase made. All the money had gone to thatCharybdis in the Rue Fortuny. He had had enough of it, and was not goingto be caught again. He rounded his back, fixed his eyes upon the hugeslice of Auvergne cheese which filled his plate, and said no more. 

Madame Astier was familiar with this dogged silence. This attitude ofpassive resistance, dead as a ball of cotton, was always put on whenmoney was mentioned. But this time she was resolved to make him answer. 'Ah, ' she said, 'I see you rolling up, Master Hedgehog. I know themeaning of that. "Nothing to be got! nothing to be got! No, no, no!"Eh?' The back grew rounder and rounder. 'But you can find money for M. Fage. ' Astier started, sat up, and looked uneasily at his wife. Moneyfor M. Fage? What did she mean?' Why, of course, ' she went on, delightedto have forced the barrier of his silence, 'of course it takes money todo all that binding. And what's the good of it, I should like to know, for all those old scraps?'

He felt relieved; evidently she knew nothing; it was only a chance shot. 

But the term 'old scraps' went to his heart: unique autograph documents, signed letters of Richelieu, Colbert, Newton, Galileo, Pascal, marvelsbought for an old song, and worth a fortune. 'Yes, madam, a fortune. ' Hegrew excited, and began to quote figures, the offers that had beenmade him. Bos, the famous Bos of the Rue de l'Abbaye (and he knew hisbusiness if any one did), Bos had offered him eight hundred poundsmerely for three specimens from his collection--three letters fromCharles the Fifth to François Rabelais. Old scraps indeed!

Madame Astier listened in utter amazement. She was well aware that forthe last two or three years he had been collecting old manuscripts. He used sometimes to speak to her of his finds, and she listened in awandering absent-minded way, as a woman does listen to a man's voicewhen she has heard it for thirty years. But this was beyond herconception. Eight hundred pounds for three letters! And why did he nottake it?'

He burst out like an explosion of dynamite. 

'Sell my Charles the Fifths! Never! I would see you all without breadand begging from door to door before I would touch them--understandthat!' He struck the table. His face was very pale, and his lips thrustout This fierce maniac was an Astier-Réhu whom his wife did not know. Inthe sudden glow of a passion human beings do thus take aspects unknownto those who know them best The next minute the Academician was quitecalm, again, and was explaining, not without embarrassment, that thesedocuments were indispensable to him as an author, especially now thathe could not command the Records of the Foreign Office. To sell thesematerials would be to give up writing. On the contrary, he hoped to makeadditions to them. Then, with a touch of bitterness and affection, whichbetrayed the whole depth of the father's disappointment, he said, 'Aftermy time, my fine gentleman of a son may sell them if he chooses; andsince all he wants is to be rich, I will answer for it that he will be. '

'Yes; but meanwhile----'

This 'meanwhile' was said in a little flute-like voice so cruellynatural and quiet that Léonard, unable to control his jealousy of thisson who left him no place in his wife's heart, retorted with a solemnsnap of the jaw, 'Meanwhile, madam, others can do as I do. I have nomansion, I keep no horses and no English cart. The tramway does formy going and coming, and I am content to live on a third floor over an_entresol_, where I am exposed to Teyssèdre. I work night and day, Ipile up volume after volume, two and three octavos in a year. I am ontwo committees of the Académie; I never miss a meeting; I never missa funeral; and even in the summer I never accept an invitation to thecountry, lest I should miss a single tally. I hope my son, when he issixty-five, may be as indefatigable. '

It was long since he had spoken of Paul, and never had he spoken soseverely. The mother was struck by his tone, and in her look, as sheglanced sidelong, almost wickedly, at her husband, there was a shade ofrespect, which had not been there before. 

'There is a ring, ' said Léonard eagerly, rising as he spoke, andflinging his table napkin upon the back of his chair. 'That must be myman. '

'It's some one for you, ma'am; they are beginning early to-day, ' saidCorentine, as, with her kitchen-maid's fingers wiped hastily on herapron, she laid a card on the edge of the table. Madame Astier lookedat it. 'The Vicomte de Freydet. ' A gleam came into her eyes. But herdelight was not perceptible in the calm tone in which she said, 'So M. De Freydet is in Paris?'

'Yes, about his book. '

'Bless me! His book! I have not even cut it. What is it about?'

She hurried over the last mouth fuls, and washed the tips of her whitefingers in her glass while her husband in an absent-minded way gaveher some idea of the new volume. 'God in Nature, ' a philosophic poem, entered for the Boisseau prize. 

'Oh, I do hope he will get it. He must, he must. They are so nice, heand his sister, and he is so good to the poor paralysed creature. Do youthink he will?'

Astier would not commit himself. He could not promise, but he wouldcertainly recommend Freydet, who seemed to him to be really improving. 'If he asks you for my personal opinion, it is this: there is still alittle too much for my taste, but much less than in his other books. Youmay tell him that his old master is pleased. '

Too much of what? Less of what? It must be supposed that Madame Astierknew, for she sought no explanation, but left the table and passed, quite happy, into her drawing room--as the study must be considered forthe day. Astier, more and more absorbed in thought, lingered for someminutes, breaking up with his knife what remained in his plate of theAuvergne cheese; then, being disturbed in his meditations by Corentine, who, without heeding him, was rapidly clearing the table, he rosestiffly and went up, by a little staircase like a cat-ladder, to hisattic, where he took up his magnifying glass and resumed the examinationof the old manuscript upon which he had been busy since the morning. 

CHAPTER II. 

SITTING straight, with the reins well held up in the most correctfashion, Paul Astier drove his two-wheeled cart at a stiff pace to thescene of his mysterious breakfast 'with some business people. ' 'Tclk!tclk!' Past the Pont Royal, past the quays, past the Place de laConcorde. The road was so smooth, the day so fine, that as terraces, trees, and fountains went by, it would have needed but a littleimagination on his part to believe himself carried away on the wings ofFortune. But the young man was no visionary, and as he bowled alonghe examined the new leather and straps, and put questions about thehay-merchant to his groom, a young fellow perched at his side looking ascool and as sharp as a stable terrier. The hay-merchant, it seemed, wasas bad as the rest of them, and grumbled about supplying the fodder. 

'Oh, does he?' said Paul absently; his mind had already passed toanother subject. His mother's revelations ran in his head. Fifty-threeyears old! The beautiful Duchess Antonia, whose neck and shoulders werethe despair of Paris! Utterly incredible! 'Tclk! tclk!' He picturedher at Mousseaux last summer, rising earlier than any of her guests, wandering with her dogs in the park while the dew was still on theground, with loosened hair and blooming lips; she did not look made up, not a bit. Fifty-three years old? Impossible!

'Tclk, tclk! Hi! Hi!' That's a nasty corner between the Rond Pont andthe Avenue d'Antin. --All the same, it was a low trick they were playingher, to find a wife for the Prince. For let his mother say what shewould, the Duchess and her drawing-room had been a fine thing for themall. Perhaps his father might never have been in the Académie butfor her; he himself owed her all his commissions. Then there was thesuccession to Loisillon's place and the prospect of the fine rooms underthe cupola--well, there was nothing like a woman for flinging you over. Not that men were any better; the Prince d'Athis, for instance. To thinkwhat the Duchess had done for him! When they met he was a ruined andpenniless rip; now what was he? High in the diplomatic service, memberof the Académie des Sciences Morales et Politiques, on account of a booknot a word of which he had written himself, 'The Mission of Woman inthe World'. And while the Duchess was busily at work to fit him with anEmbassy, he was only waiting to be gazetted before taking Frenchleave and playing off this dirty trick on her, after fifteen years ofuninterrupted happiness. 'The mission of woman in the world!' Well, thePrince understood what the mission of woman was. The next thing was tobetter the lesson. 'Tclk! tclk! Gate, please. '

Paul's soliloquy was over, and his cart drew up before a mansion in theRue de Courcelles. The double gates were rolled, back slowly and heavilyas if accomplishing a task to which they had long been unused. 

In this house lived the Princess Colette de Rosen, who had shut herselfup in the complete seclusion of mourning since the sad occurrencewhich had made her a widow at twenty-six. The daily papers recorded thedetails of the young widow's sensational despair: how the fair hair wascut off close and thrown into the coffin; how her room was decorated asfor a lying in state; how she took her meals alone with two places laid, while on the table in the anteroom lay as usual the Prince's walkingstick, hat, and gloves, as though he were at home and just goingout. But one detail had not been mentioned, and that was the devotedaffection and truly maternal care which Madame Astier showed for the'poor little woman' in these distressing circumstances. 

Their friendship had begun some years ago, when a prize for anhistorical work had been adjudged to the Prince de Rosen by theAcadémie, 'on the report of Astier-Réhu. ' Differences of age and socialposition had however kept them apart until the Princess's mourningremoved the barrier. When the widow's door was solemnly closed againstsociety, Madame Astier alone escaped the interdict. Madame Astier wasthe only person allowed to cross the threshold of the mansion, or ratherthe convent, inhabited by the poor weeping Carmelite with her shavenhead and robe of black; Madame Astier was the only person admittedto hear the mass sung twice a week at St. Philip's for the repose ofHerbert's soul; and it was she who heard the letters which Colette wroteevery evening to her absent husband, relating her life and the wayshe spent her days. All mourning, however rigid, involves attention tomaterial details which are degrading to grief but demanded by society. Liveries must be ordered, trappings provided for horses and carriages, and the heartbroken mourner must face the hypocritical sympathy ofthe tradesman. All these duties were discharged by Madame Astier withnever-failing patience. She undertook the heavy task of managing thehousehold, which the tear-laden eyes of its fair mistress could nolonger supervise, and so spared the young widow all that could disturbher despair, or disarrange her hours for praying, weeping, writing 'tohim, ' and carrying armfuls of exotic flowers to the cemetery of PèreLachaise, where Paul Astier was superintending the erection of agigantic mausoleum in commemorative stone brought at the express wish ofthe Princess from the scene of the tragedy. 

Unfortunately the quarrying of this stone and its conveyance fromIllyria, the difficulties of carving granite, and the endless plans andvarying fancies of the widow, to whom nothing seemed sufficiently hugeand magnificent to suit her dead hero, had brought about many hitchesand delays. So it happened that in May 1880, two years and more afterthe catastrophe and the commencement of the work, the monument was stillunfinished. Two years is a long time to maintain the constant paroxysmsof an ostentatious grief, each sufficient to discharge the whole. Themourning was still observed as rigidly as ever, the house was stillclosed and silent as a cave. But in the place of the living statueweeping and praying in the furthest recesses of the crypt was now apretty young woman whose hair was growing again, instinct with life inevery curl and wave of its soft luxuriance. The reappearance of thisfair hair gave a touch of lightness, almost of brightness, to thewidow's mourning, which seemed now no more than a caprice of fashion. Inthe movements and tones of the Princess was perceptible the stirring ofspring; she had the air of relief and repose noticeable in young widowsin the second period of their mourning. It is a delightful position. Forthe first time after the restraints of girlhood and the restraints ofmarriage, a woman enjoys the sweets of liberty and undisputed possessionof herself; she is freed from contact with the coarser nature of man, and above all from the fear of maternity, the haunting terror of theyoung wife of the present day. In the case of the Princess Colette thenatural development of uncontrollable grief into perfect peacefulnesswas emphasised by the paraphernalia of inconsolable widowhood with whichshe was still surrounded. It was not hypocrisy; but how could she giveorders, without raising a smile on the servants' faces, to remove thehat always waiting in the ante-room, the walking stick conspicuouslyhandy, the place at table always laid for the absent husband; howcould she say, 'The Prince will not dine to-night'? But the mysticcorrespondence 'with Herbert in heaven' had begun to fall off, growingless frequent every day, till it ended in a calmly written journalwhich caused considerable, though unexpressed, amusement to Colette'sdiscerning friend. 

The fact was that Madame Astier had a plan. The idea had sprung up inher practical little mind one Tuesday night at the Théâtre Français, when the Prince d'Athis had said to her confidentially in a low voice:'Oh, my dear Adelaide, what a chain to drag! I am bored to death. ' Sheat once planned to marry him to the Princess. It was a new game to play, crossing the old game, but not less subtle and fascinating. She hadnot now to hold forth upon the eternal nature of vows, or to hunt upin Joubert or other worthy philosophers such mottoes as the following, which the Princess had written out at the beginning of her wedding book:'A woman can be wife and widow with honour but once. ' She no longer wentinto raptures over the manly beauty of the young hero, whose portrait, full length and half length, profile and three quarters, in marble andon canvas, met you in every part of the house. 

It was her system now to bring him gradually and dexterously down. 'Doyou not think, dear, ' she would say, 'that these portraits of the Princemake his jaw too heavy? Of course I know the lower part of his facewas rather pronounced, a little too massive. ' And so she administereda series of little poisonous stabs, with an indescribable skill andgentleness, drawing back when she went too far, and watching forColette's smile at some criticism a little sharper than the rest. Working in this way she at last brought Colette to admit that Herberthad always had a touch of the boor; his manners were scarcely up tohis rank; he had not, for instance, the distinguished air of the Princed'Athis, 'whom we met a few Sundays ago on the steps of St. Philip's. Ifyou should fancy him, dear, he is looking for a wife. ' This last remarkwas thrown out as a jest; but presently Madame Astier recurred to it andput it more definitely. Well, why should the Princess not marry him?It would be most suitable; the Prince had a good name, a diplomaticposition of some importance; the marriage would involve no alterationof the Princess's coronet or title--a practical convenience not tobe overlooked. 'And, indeed, if I am to tell you the truth, dear, thePrince entertains towards you an affection which'... &c. &c. 

The word 'affection' at first hurt the Princess's feelings, but she soongrew used to hear it. They met the Prince d'Athis at church, then ingreat privacy at Madame Astier's in the Rue de Beaune, and Colette soonadmitted that he was the only man who might have induced her toabandon her widowhood. But then poor dear Herbert had loved her sodevotedly--she had been his all. 

'Really, ' said Madame Astier with the quiet smile of a person who knows. Then followed allusions, hints, and all the devices by which one womanpoisons the mind of another. 

'Why, my dear, there is no such thing in the world. A man of goodbreeding--a gentleman--will take care, for the sake of peace, not togive his wife pain or distress. But----'

'Then you mean that Herbert----'

'Was no better than the rest of them. ' The Princess, with an indignantprotest, burst into tears; painless, passionless tears, such as ease awoman, and leave her as fresh as a lawn after a shower. But still shedid not give way, to the great annoyance of Madame Astier, who had noconception of the real cause of her obduracy. 

The truth was that frequent meetings to criticise the scheme of themausoleum, much touching of hands and mingling of locks over the plansand sketches of cells and sepulchral figures, had created between Pauland Colette a fellow feeling which had gradually grown more and moretender, until one day Paul Astier detected in Colette's eyes as shelooked at him an expression that almost confessed her liking. There rosebefore him as a possibility the miraculous vision of Colette de Rosenbringing him her million as a marriage gift. That might be in a shorttime, after a preliminary trial of patience, a regularly conductedbeleaguering of the fortress. In the first place it was most importantto-betray no hint to 'mamma, ' who, though very cunning and subtle, waslikely to fail through excess of zeal, especially when the interests ofher Paul were at stake. She would spoil all the chances in her eagernessto hasten the successful issue. So Paul concealed his plans from MadameAstier, in entire ignorance that she was running a countermine in thesame line as his. He acted on his own account with great deliberation. The Princess was attracted by his youth and fashion, his brightness andhis witty irony, from which he carefully took the venom. He knew thatwomen, like children and the mob, and all impulsive and untutoredbeings, hate a tone of sarcasm, which puts them out, and which theyperceive by instinct to be hostile to the dreams of enthusiasm andromance. 

On this spring morning it was with feelings of more confidence thanusual that young Astier reached the house. This was the first time thathe had been asked to breakfast at the Rosen mansion; the reason allegedwas a visit which they were to make together to the cemetery, in orderto inspect the works on the spot. With an unexpressed understanding theyhad fixed on a Wednesday, the day when Madame Astier was 'at home, ' soas not to have her as a third in the party. With this thought in hismind the young man, self-controlled as he was, let fall as he crossedthe threshold a careless glance which took in the large courtyard andmagnificent offices almost as if he were entering on the possession ofthem. His spirits fell as he passed through the ante-room, where thefootmen and lacqueys in deep mourning were dozing on their seats. Theyseemed to be keeping a funeral vigil round the hat of the defunct, amagnificent grey hat, which proclaimed the arrival of spring as wellas the determination with which his memory was kept up by the Princess. Paul was much annoyed by it; it was like meeting a rival. He didnot realise the difficulty which prevented Colette from escaping theself-forged fetters of her custom. He was wondering angrily whether shewould expect him to breakfast in company with _him_, when the footmanwho relieved him of his walking stick and hat informed him that thePrincess would receive him in the small drawing-room. He was shown atonce into the rotunda with its glass roof, a bower of exotic plants, andwas completely reassured by the sight of a little table with placeslaid for two, the arrangement of which Madame de Rosen was herselfsuperintending. 

'A fancy of mine, ' she said, pointing to the table, 'when I saw how fineit was. It will be almost like the country. '

She had spent the night considering how she could avoid sitting downwith this handsome young man in the presence of _his_ knife and fork, and, not knowing what to say to the servants, had devised the plan ofabandoning the situation and ordering breakfast, as a sudden whim, 'inthe conservatory. '

Altogether the 'business' breakfast promised well. The _Romany blanc_lay to keep cool in the rocky basin of the fountain, amidst ferns andwater plants, and the sun shone on the pieces of spar and on the brightsmooth green of the outspread leaves. The two young people sat oppositeone another, their knees almost touching: he quite self-possessed, hislight eyes cold and fiery; she all pink and white, her new growth ofhair, like a delicate wavy plumage, showing without any artificialarrangement the shape of her little head. And while they talked onindifferent topics, both concealing their real thoughts, young Astierexulted each time that the silent servants opened the door of thedeserted dining-room, when he saw in the distance the napkin of thedeparted, left for the first time cheerless and alone. 

CHAPTER III. 

 From the Vicomte de Freydet

 To Mademoiselle Germaine de Freydet, Clos Jallanges, near Mousseaux, Loir et Cher. 

My dear Sister, --I am going to give you a precise account of the way Ispend my time in Paris. I shall write every evening, and send you thebudget twice a week, as long as I stay here. 

Well, I arrived this morning, Monday, and took up my quarters as usualin my quiet little hotel in the Rue Servandoni, where the only soundsof the great city which reach me are the bells of Saint Sulpice, andthe continual noise from a neighbouring forge, a sound of the rhythmicalbeating of iron, which I love because it reminds me of our village. Irushed off at once to my publisher. 'Well, when do we come out?'

'Your book? Why, it came out a week ago. '

Come out, indeed, and gone in too--gone into the depths of that grimestablishment of Manivet's, which never ceases to pant and to reek withthe labour of giving birth to a new volume. This Monday, as it happened, they were just sending out a great novel by Herscher, called _Satyra_. The copies struck off--how many hundreds of thousands of them I don'tknow--were lying in stacks and heaps right up to the very top of theestablishment. You can fancy the preoccupation of the staff, and thelost bewildered look of worthy Manivet himself, when I mentioned my poorlittle volume of verse, and talked of my chances for the Boisseau prize. I asked for a few copies to leave with the members of the committeeof award, and made my escape through _streets_--literally streets--of_Satyra_, piled up to the ceiling. When I got into my cab, I looked atmy volume and turned over the pages. I was quite pleased with the solemneffect of the title, 'God in Nature. ' The capitals are perhaps a triflethin, when you come to look at them, not quite as black and impressiveto the eye as they might be. But it does not matter. Your pretty name, 'Germaine, ' in the dedication will bring us luck. I left a couple ofcopies at the Astiers' in the Rue de Beaune. You know they no longeroccupy their rooms at the Foreign Office. But Madame Astier has stillher 'Wednesdays. ' So of course I wait till Wednesday to hear what my oldmaster thinks of the book; and off I went to the Institute. 

There again I found them as busy as a steam factory. Really the industryof this big city is marvellous, especially to people like us, who spendall the year in the peace of the open country. Found Picheral--youremember Picheral, the polite gentleman in the secretary's office, who got you such a good place three years ago, when I received myprize--well, I found Picheral and his clerks in the midst of a wildhubbub of voices, shouting out names and addresses from one desk toanother, and surrounded on all sides by tickets of every kind, blue, yellow, and green, for the platform, for the outer circle, for theorchestra, Entrance A, Entrance B, &c. They were in the middle ofsending out the invitations for the great annual meeting, which is to behonoured this year by the presence of a Royal Highness on his travels, the Grand Duke Leopold. 'Very sorry, my lord'--Picheral always says 'mylord, ' having learnt it, no doubt, from Chateaubriand--' but I must askyou to wait. ' 'Certainly, M. Picheral, certainly. '

Picheral is an amusing old gentleman, very courtly. He reminds meof Bonicar and our lessons in deportment in the covered gallery atgrandmamma's house at Jallanges. He is as touchy, too, when crossed, asthe old dancing master used to be. I wish you had heard him talk to theComte de Bretigny, the ex-minister, one of the grandees of the Académie, who came in, while I was waiting, to rectify a mistake about the numberof his tallies. I must tell you that the tally attesting attendance isworth five shillings, the old crown-piece. There are forty Academicians, which makes two hundred shillings per meeting, to be divided among thosepresent; so, you see, the fewer they are, the more money each gets. Payment is made once a month in crown-pieces, kept in stout paper bags, each with its little reckoning pinned on to it, like a washing bill. Bretigny had not his complete number of tallies; and it was the mostamusing sight to see this man of enormous wealth, director of Heavenknows how many companies, come there in his carriage to claim his tenshillings. He only got five, which sum, after a long dispute, Picheraltossed to him with as little respect as to a porter. But the 'deity'pocketed them with inexpressible joy; there is nothing like money won bythe sweat of your brow. For, my dear Germaine, you must not imaginethat there is any idling in the Académie. Every year there are freshbequests, new prizes instituted; that means more books to read, morereports to engross, to say nothing of the dictionary and the orations. 'Leave your book at their houses, but do not go in, ' said Picheral, whenhe heard I was competing for the prize. 'The extra work, which peopleare always putting on the members, makes them anything but gracious to acandidate. '

I certainly have not forgotten the way Ripault-Babin and Laniboirereceived me, when I called on them about my last candidature. Of course, when the candidate is a pretty woman, it is another story. Laniboirebecomes jocose, and Ripault-Babin, still gallant in spite of his eightyyears, offers the fair canvasser a lozenge, and says in his quaveringvoice, 'Touch it with your lips, and I will finish it. ' So they toldme in the secretary's office, where the deities are discussed with apleasing frankness. 'You are in for the Boisseau prize. Let me see; youhave for awarders two Dukes, three Mouldies, and two Players. ' Such, inthe office, is the familiar classification of the Académie Française!'Duke' is the name applied to all members of the nobility andepiscopacy; Mouldies' includes the professors and the learned mengenerally; while a 'Player' denotes a lawyer, dramatic author, journalist, or novelist. 

After ascertaining the addresses of my Dukes, Mouldies, and Players, Igave one of my 'author's copies' to the friendly M. Picheral, and, for form's sake, left another for poor M. Loisillon, the PermanentSecretary, who is said to be all but dead. Then I set to work todistribute the remaining copies all over Paris. The weather wasglorious. As I passed through the Bois de Boulogne on my way back fromthe house of Ripault-Babin (which reminded me of the lozenges), theplace was sweet with may and violets. I almost fancied myself at homeagain on one of those first days of early spring when the air is freshand the sun hot; and I was inclined to give up everything and come backto you at Jallanges. Dined on the boulevard alone and gloomy, and thenspent the rest of my evening at the Comédie Française, where they wereplaying Desminières' '_Le Dernier Frontin_. ' Desminières is one of theawarders of the Boisseau prize, so I shall tell no one but you how hisverses bored me. The heat and gas gave me a headache. The actorsplayed as if Louis XIV. Had been listening; and while they spoutedalexandrines, suggestive of the unrolling of a mummy's bands, I wasstill haunted by the scent of the hawthorn at Jallanges, and repeatedto myself the pretty lines of Du Bellay, a fellow-countryman, or aneighbour at least:

 More than your marbles hard I love the tender slate, Than Tiber more the Loire, and France than Rome, Mine own dear hills than Palatinus' state, More than the salt sea breeze the fragrantair of home. 

_Tuesday_. --Walked about the town all the morning, stopping in frontof the booksellers' shops to look for my book in the windows. _Satyra, Satyra, Satyra! Satyra_ and nothing else to be seen everywhere, with apaper slip round it, 'Just out. ' Here and there, but very seldom, therewould be a poor miserable _God in Nature_ tucked away out of sight. Whenno one was looking I put it on the top of the heap, well in view; butpeople did not stop. One man did, though, in the Boulevard des Italiens, a negro, a very intelligent-looking fellow. He turned over the pages forfive minutes, and then went away without buying the book. I should haveliked to present it to him. 

Breakfasted in the corner of an English eating-house, and read thepapers. Not a word about me, not even an advertisement. Manivet is socareless, very likely he has not so much as sent the orders, though hedeclared he had. Besides, there are so many new books. Paris is delugedwith them. But for all that it is depressing to think that verses, which ran like fire through one's fingers, which seemed, in the feverishdelight of writing them, beautiful enough to fill the world withbrightness, are more lost now that they are gone into circulation, thanwhen they were but a confused murmuring in the brain of their author. It reminds one of a ball-dress. When it is tried on in the sympatheticfamily circle, it is expected to outshine and eclipse every dress inthe room; but under the blaze of the gas it is lost in the crowd. Well, Herscher is a lucky fellow. He is read and understood. I met ladiescarrying snugly under their arms the little yellow volume just issued. Alas, for us poor poets! It is all very well for us to rank ourselvesabove and beyond the crowd. It is for the crowd, after all, that wewrite. When Robinson Crusoe was on his desert island, cut off fromall the world and without so much as the hope of seeing a sail on thehorizon, would he have written verses, even if he had been a poeticgenius? Thought about this a great deal as I tramped through the ChampsElysées, lost, like my book, in an unregarding stream. 

I was coming back to my hotel, pretty glum, as you may imagine, when onthe Quai d'Orsay, just in front of the grass-grown ruin of the Courdes Comptes, I knocked against a big fellow, strolling along in a brownstudy. 'Hullo, Freydet!' said he. 'Hullo, Védrine!' said I. You'llremember my friend Védrine who, when he was working at Mousseaux, camewith his sweet young wife to spend an afternoon at Clos-Jallanges. Heis not a bit altered, except that he is a trifle grey at the temples. He held by the hand the fine boy with the beaming eyes, whom you used toadmire. His head was erect, his movements slow and eloquent, his wholecarriage that of a superior being. A little way behind was MadameVédrine pushing a perambulator, in which was a laughing little girl, born since their visit to Touraine. 

'That makes three for her, counting me, ' said Védrine, with a wave ofhis hand towards his wife; and the look of Madame when her eye rests onher husband really does express the tender satisfaction of motherhood;she is like a Flemish Madonna contemplating her Divine Child. Talked along time, leaning against the parapet of the quay; it did me good tobe with these honest folk. That is a man, anyhow, who cares nothingwhatever for success, and the public, and the prizes! With hisconnections (he is cousin to Loisillon and to the Baron d'Huchenard), ifhe chose--if he just put a little water into his strong wine--he mighthave orders, and get the Biennial Prize, and be in the Institute in notime. But nothing tempts him, not even fame. 'Fame, ' he said, 'I havehad a taste of it. I know what it is. When a man's smoking, he sometimesgets his cigar by the wrong end. Well, that's fame: just a cigar withthe hot end and ash in your mouth. '

'But, Védrine, ' said I, 'if you work neither for fame nor for money----yes, yes; I know you despise it; but, that being so, I say, why do youtake so much trouble?'

'For myself and my personal satisfaction. It's the desire for creationand self-expression. '

Clearly here is a man who would have gone on with his work in the desertisland. He is a true artist, ever in quest of a new type, and in theintervals of his labour endeavours by change of material and change ofconditions to satisfy his craving for a fresh revelation. He has madepottery, enamels, mosaics, the fine mosaics so much admired in theguard-room at Mousscaux. When the thing is done, the difficultyovercome, he goes on to something else. At the present moment his greatidea is to try painting; and the moment he has finished his warrior, agreat bronze figure for the Rosen tomb, he intends, as he says, 'to puthimself to oil. ' His wife always gives her approval, and rides behindhim on each of his hobbies. The right wife for an artist taciturn, admiring, saving the grown-up boy from all that might spoil his dreamor catch his feet as he goes star-gazing along. She is the sort of womandear Germaine, to make a man want to be married. If I knew another such, I should certainly bring her to Clos-Jallanges, and I am sure you wouldlove her. But do not be alarmed. There are not many of them; and weshall go on to the end, living just by our two selves, as we do now. 

Before we parted we fixed another meeting for Thursday, not at theirhouse at Neuilly, but at the studio on the Quai d'Orsay, where thewhole family spend the day together. This studio would seem to be thestrangest place. It is in a corner of the old Cour des Comptes. He hasgot permission to do his work there, in the midst of wild vegetation andmouldering heaps of stone. As I went away I turned to watch them walkingalong the quay, father, mother, and children, all enveloped in thecalm light of the setting sun, which made a halo round them like a HolyFamily. Strung together a few lines on the subject in the evening at myhotel; but I am put out by having neighbours, and do not like to spout. I want my large study at Jallanges, with its three windows looking outoh the river and the sloping vineyards. 

And now we come to _Wednesday_, the great day and the great event!I will tell you the story in full. I confess that I had been lookingforward to my call on the Astiers with much trepidation, which increasedto-day as I went up the broad moist steps of the staircase in the Rue deBeaune. What was I going to hear said about my book? Would my old masterhave had time to glance at it? His opinion means for me so very much. Heinspires me still with the same awe as when I was in his class, and inhis presence I shall always feel myself a schoolboy. His unerring andimpartial judgment must be that of the awarders of the prize. So you mayguess the tortures of impatience which I underwent in the master's largestudy, which he gives up to his wife for her reception. 

It's sadly different from the room at the Foreign Office. The tableat which he writes is pushed away into a recess behind a great screencovered in old tapestry, which also hides part of the bookshelves. Opposite, in the place of honour, is a portrait of Madame Astier inher young days, wonderfully like her son, and also like old Réhu, whoseacquaintance I have just had the honour of making. The portrait has asomewhat depressing air of elegance, cold and polished, like the largeuncarpeted room itself, with its sombre curtains and its outlook ona still more sombre courtyard. But in comes Madame Astier, and herfriendly greeting brightens all the surroundings. What is there in theair of Paris which preserves the beauty of a woman's face beyond thenatural term, like a pastel under its glass? The delicate blonde withher keen eyes looked to me three years younger than when I saw her last. She began by asking after you, and how you were, dearest, showing greatinterest in our domestic life. Then suddenly she said: 'But your book, let us talk about your book. How splendid! You kept me reading allnight. ' And she showered upon me well-chosen words of praise, quoted twoor three lines with great appropriateness, and assured me that my oldmaster was delighted; he had begged her to tell me so, in case he shouldnot be able to tear himself from his documents. 

Red as you know I always am, I must have turned as scarlet as aftera hunt dinner. But my joy soon passed away when I heard what the poorwoman was led on into confiding to me about their embarrassments. Theyhave lost money; then came Astier's dismissal; now the master worksnight and day at his historical books, which take so long to constructand cost so much to produce, and then are not bought by the public. Thenthey have to help old Réhu, the grandfather, who has nothing but hisfees for attendance at the Académie; and at his age, ninety-eight, you may imagine the care and indulgence necessary. Paul is a good son, hardworking, and on the road to success, but of course the initialexpenses of his profession are tremendous. So Madame Astier concealstheir narrow means from him as well as from her husband. Poor dear man!I heard his heavy even step overhead while his wife was stammering out, with trembling lips and hesitating, reluctant words, a request that if Icould----

Ah, the adorable woman! I could have kissed the hem of her dress!

Now, my dear sister, you will understand the telegram you must havereceived a little while ago, and who the £400 were for that I askedfor by return of post. I suppose you sent to Gobineau at once. The onlyreason I did not telegraph direct to him is that, as we 'go shares' ineverything, our freaks of liberality ought, like the rest, to be commonto both. But it is terrible, is it not, to think of the misery concealedunder these brilliant and showy Parisian exteriors?

Five minutes after she had made these distressing disclosures peoplearrived and the room was full; Madame Astier was conversing with acomplete self-possession and an appearance of happiness in voice andmanner which made my flesh creep. Madame Loisillon was there, the wifeof the Permanent Secretary. She would be much better employed in lookingafter her invalid than in boring society with the charms of theirdelightful suite, the most comfortable in the Institute, 'with threerooms more than it had in Villemain's time. ' She must have told us thisten times, in the pompous voice of an auctioneer, and in the hearing ofa friend living uncomfortably in rooms lately used for a _table d'hôte!_

No fear of such bad taste in Madame Ancelin, a name often to be seenin the Society papers. A good fat round lady, with regular features andhigh complexion, piping out epigrams, which she picks up and carriesround: a friendly creature, it must be allowed. She too had sat up allnight reading me. I begin to think it is the regular phrase. Shebegged me to come to her house whenever I liked. It is one of the threerecognised meeting-places of the Académie. Picheral would say thatMadame Ancelin, mad on the theatre, welcomes more especially the'Players, ' Madame Astier the 'Mouldies, ' while the Duchess Padovanimonopolises the 'Dukes, ' the aristocracy of the Institute. But reallythese three haunts of fame and intrigue communicate one with another, for on Wednesday in the Rue de Beaune I saw a whole procession ofdeities of every description. There was Danjou the writer ofplays, Rousse, Boissier, Dumas, de Brétigny, Baron Huchenard of theInscriptions et Belles-Lettres, and the Prince d'Athis of the SciencesMorales et Politiques. There is a fourth circle in process of formation, collected round Madame Eviza, a Jewess with full cheeks and long narroweyes, who flirts with the whole Institute and sports its colours; shehas green embroideries on the waistcoat of her spring costume, anda little bonnet trimmed with wings _à la_ Mercury. She carries herflirtations a little too far. I heard her say to Danjou, whom she wasasking to come and see her, 'The attractions of Madame Ancelin's houseare for the palate, those of mine for the heart. '

'I require both lodging and board, ' was the cold reply of Danjou. Danjou, I believe, covers the heart of a cynic under his hardimpenetrable mask and his black stiff thatch, like a shepherd ofLatium. Madame Eviza is a fine talker, and is mistress of considerableinformation; I heard her quoting to the old Baron Huchenard wholesentences from his 'Cave Man, ' and discussing Shelley with a boyishmagazine writer, neat and solemn, with a pointed chin resting on the topof a high collar. 

When I was young it was the fashion to begin with verse-writing, whatever was to follow, whether prose, business, or the bar. Nowadayspeople begin with literary criticism, generally a study on Shelley. Madame Astier introduced me to this young gentleman, whose views carryweight in the literary world; but my moustaches and the colour of myskin, as brown as that of a sapper-and-miner, probably failed to pleasehim. We spoke only a few words, while I watched the performance of thecandidates and their wives or relatives, who had come to show themselvesand to see how the ground lay. Ripault-Babin is very old, and Loisilloncannot last much longer; and around these seats, which must soon bevacant, rages a war of angry looks and poisoned words. 

Dalzon the novelist, your favourite, was there; he has a kindly, open, intellectual face, as you would expect from his books. But you wouldhave been sorry to see him cringing and sniggering before a nobody likeBrétigny, who has never done anything, but occupies in the Academicthe seat reserved for the man of the world, as in the country we keepa place for the poor man in our Twelfth Night festivities. And not onlydid he court Brétigny, but every Academician who came in. There he was, listening to old Rehu's stories, laughing at Danjou's smallest jokeswith the 'counterfeited glee' with which at Louis-le-Grand we rewardedwhat Védrine used to call 'usher's wit. ' All this to bring his twelvevotes of last year up to the required majority. 

Old Jean Réhu looked in at his granddaughter's for a few minutes, wonderfully fresh and erect, well buttoned up in a long frock coat. Hehas a little shrivelled face, looking as if it had been in the fire, anda short cottony beard, like moss on an old stone. His eyes are brightand his memory marvellous, but he is deaf, and this depresses himand drives him into long soliloquies about his interesting personalrecollections, To-day he told us about the household of the EmpressJoséphine at Malmaison; his 'compatriote, ' he calls her, both beingCreoles from Martinique. He described her, in her muslins and cashmereshawls, smelling of musk so strongly as to take one's breath away, and surrounded with flowers from the colonies. Even in war time theseflowers, by the gallantry of the enemy, were allowed to pass the linesof their fleet. He also talked of David's studio, as it was under theConsulate, and did us the painter, rating and scolding his pupils withhis mouth all awry and the remains of his dinner in his cheek. Aftereach extract from the long roll of his experience, the patriarch shakeshis head solemnly, gazes into space, and says in his firm tones, 'That'sa thing that I have seen. ' It is his signature, as it were, put at thebottom of the picture to prove it genuine. I ought to say that, with theexception of Dalzon, who pretended to be drinking in his words, I wasthe only person in the room who attended to the old man's tales. Theyseemed to me much more worth hearing than the stories of a certainLavaux, a journalist, or librarian, or something--a dreadful retailerof gossip, whatever else he may be. The moment he came in there was ageneral cry, 'Ah, here's Lavaux!' and a circle was formed round him atonce, all laughing and enjoying themselves. Even the frowning 'deities'revel in his anecdotes. He has a smooth-shaven, quasi-clerical face andgoggle eyes. He prefaces all his tales and witticisms with such remarksas 'I was saying to De Broglie, ' or 'Dumas told me the other day, ' or 'Ihave it from the Duchess herself, ' backing himself up with the biggestnames and drawing his instances from all quarters. He is a pet of theladies, whom he posts up in all the intrigues of the Académie and theForeign Office, the world of letters and the world of fashion. Heis very intimate with Danjou, and a constant companion of the Princed'Athis, with whom he came in. Dalion and the young critic of Shelleyhe patronises; and indeed he exercises a power and authority quiteinexplicable to me. 

In the medley of stories which he produced from his inexhaustiblechops--most of them were riddles to a simple rustic like myself--oneonly struck me as amusing. It was the mishap which occurred to a youngCount Adriani, of the Papal Guard. He was going through Paris, inattendance upon a reverend personage, to take a cardinal's hat and capto some one or other, and the story is that he left the insignia at thehouse of some fair lady whom he met with as he left the train, and ofwhom he knew neither the name nor the address, being, poor young man!a stranger in Paris. So he had to write off to the Papal Court for newspecimens of the ecclesiastical headgear to replace the first, which thelady must find entirely superfluous. The best part of the story is thatthe little Count Adriani is the Nuncio's own nephew, and that at theDuchess's last party--she is called 'the Duchess' in Academic circlesjust as she is at Mousseaux--he told his adventure quite naively in hisbroken French. Lavaux imitates it wonderfully. 

In the midst of the laughter and the exclamations, 'Charming! Ah, whata man Lavaux is!' etc. , I asked Madame Ancelin, who was sitting near me, who Lavaux was, and what he did. The good lady was amazed. 'Lavaux? Youdon't know him? He is the Duchess's zebra. ' Thereupon she departed inpursuit of Danjou, and left me much the wiser! Really Parisian societyis a most extraordinary thing; its vocabulary alters every season. Zebra--a zebra--what can it possibly mean? But I began to see that I wasstaying much too long, and that my old master was not going to appear;it was time I went. I made my way through the chairs to say good-bye tomy hostess, and as I passed saw Mademoiselle Moser whimpering beforeBrétigny's white waistcoat. Poor Moser became a candidate ten years ago, and now has lost all hopes. So he goes nowhere himself, but sends hisdaughter, a lady of a certain age, not at all pretty, who plays the partof Antigone, climbs up to the top floors, makes herself generalmessenger and drudge to the Academicians and their wives, correctsproofs, nurses the rheumatic, and spends her forlorn maidenhood inrunning after the Academic chair which her father will never get. Dressed quietly in black, with an unbecoming bonnet, she stood in thedoorway; and near her was Dalzon, very much excited, between two membersof the Académie who looked judicial. He was protesting violently andwith a choking voice. 'It's not true, it's a shame, I never wrote it!'Here was a mystery; and Madame Astier, who might have enlightened me, was herself engaged in close confabulation with Lavaux and the Princed'Athis. You must have seen the Prince d'Athis driving about Mousseauxwith the Duchess. 'Sammy, ' as he is called, is a long, thin, bald man, with stooping shoulders, a crinkled face as white as wax, and a blackbeard reaching half down his chest, as if his hair, falling from hishead, had lodged upon his chin. He never speaks, and when he looks atyou seems shocked at your daring to breathe the same air as he. He ishigh in the service, has a close, mysterious, English air which remindsyou that he is Lord Palmerston's great-nephew, and is in high repute atthe Institute and on the Quai d'Orsay. He is said to be the only Frenchdiplomatist whom Bismarck never dared to look in the face. It issupposed that he will very shortly have one of the great Embassies. Thenwhat will become of the Duchess? To leave Paris and follow him would bea serious thing for a leader of society. And then abroad the world mightrefuse to accept their equivocal relations, which here are looked uponalmost as marriage, in consideration of the propriety of their conductand their respect for appearances, and considering also the sad state ofthe Duke, half paralysed and twenty-years older than his wife, who isalso his niece. 

The Prince, was no doubt discussing these grave matters with Lavaux andMadame Astier when I drew near. A man just arrived in any society, nomatter where, soon finds how much he is 'out of it, ' He understandsneither the phrases current nor the thoughts, and is a nuisance. I wasjust leaving when that kind Madame Astier called me back, saying, 'Willyou not go up and see him? He will be so glad. ' So I went up a narrowstaircase in the wall to see my old master. I heard his loud voice fromthe end of the passage, 'Is that you, Fage?'

'No, sir, ' said I. 

'Why, it's Freydet! Take care; keep your head down. '

It was in fact impossible to stand upright under the sloping roof. Whata different place from the Foreign Office, where I last saw him, in alofty gallery lined with portfolios. 

'A kennel, is it not?' said the worthy man with a smile; 'but if youknew what treasures I have here, '--and he waved his hand towards a largeset of pigeonholes containing at least 10, 000 important MS. Documents, collected by him during the last few years. 'There is history inthose drawers, ' he went on, growing more animated and playing with hismagnifying glass; 'history new and authentic, let them say whatthey will. ' But in spite of his words he seemed to me gloomy anduncomfortable. He has been treated very badly. First came that crueldismissal; and now, as he has continued to publish historical worksbased on new documents, people say that he has plundered from theBourbon papers. This calumny was started in the Institute, and is tracedto Baron Huchenard, who calls his collection of MSS. 'the first inFrance, ' and hates to be outdone by that of Astier. He tries to revengehimself by treacherous criticisms, launched, like an assegai, from thebush. 'Even my letters of Charles V. , ' said Astier, 'even those theywant now to prove false. And on what ground if you please? For a meretrifling error, "Maître Rabelais" instead of "Frère Rabelais. " As ifan emperor's pen never made a slip! It's dishonest, that's what it is!'And, seeing that I shared his indignation, my good old master graspedme by both hands and said, 'But there! enough of these slanders. MadameAstier told you, I suppose, about your book? There is still a little toomuch for my taste; but I am pleased with it on the whole. ' What there is'too much' of in my poetry is what he calls 'the weed' of the fancy. At school he was always at it, plucking it out, and rooting it up. Now, dear Germaine, attend. I give you the last part of our conversation, word for word. 

_I. _ Do you think, sir, that I have any chance of the Boisseau prize?

_M. A. _ After such a book as that, my dear boy, it is not a prize youdeserve, but a seat. Loisillon is hard hit; Ripault cannot last muchlonger. Don't move; leave it to me; henceforward I look upon you as acandidate. 

I don't know what I said in reply. I was so confused that I feel stillas if I were dreaming. Me, me, in the Académie Française! Take good careof yourself, dearest, and get your naughty legs well again; for youmust come to Paris on the great occasion, and see your brother, with hissword at his side and his green coat embroidered with palms, take hisplace among all the greatest men of France! Why, it makes me dizzy now!So I send you a kiss, and am off to bed. 

 Your affectionate brother, ABEL DE FREYDET. 

You may imagine that among all these doings I have quite forgotten theseeds, matting, shrubs, and all the rest of my purchases. But I will seeabout them soon, as I shall stay here some time. Astier-Réhu advised meto say nothing, but to go about in Academic society. To show myself andbe seen is the great point. 

CHAPTER IV. 

'Don't trust them, my dear Freydet. I know that trick; it's therecruiting trick. The fact is, these people feel that their day ispast, and that under their cupola they are beginning to get mouldy. TheAcadémie is a taste that is going out, an ambition no longer in fashion. Its success is only apparent. And indeed for the last few years thedistinguished company has given up waiting at home for custom, and comesdown into the street to tout. Everywhere, in society, in the studios, atthe publishers', in the greenroom, in every literary or artistic centre, you will find the Recruiting-Academician, smiling on young buddingtalent. "The Académie has its eye on you, my young friend. " If a man hasgot some reputation, and has just written his third or fourth book, likeyou, then the invitation takes a more direct form. "Don't forget us, mydear fellow; now's your time. " Or perhaps, brusquely, with a friendlyscolding, "Well, so you don't mean to be one of us. " When it's a manin society who is to be caught a translator of Ariosto or a writer ofamateur plays, there is a gentler and more insinuating way of playingoff the trick. And if our fashionable writer protests that he is nota gun of sufficient calibre, the Recruiting-Academidan brings out theregular phrase, that "the Académie is a club. " Lord bless us, how usefulthat phrase has been! "The Académie is a club, and its admission is notonly for the work, but the worker. " Meantime the Recruiting-Academicianis welcomed everywhere, made much of, asked to dinner and otherentertainments. He becomes a parasite, fawned upon by those whose hopeshe arouses--and is careful to maintain. '

But at this point kind-hearted Freydet protested indignantly. Neverwould his old master lend himself to such base uses. Védrine shruggedhis shoulders: 'Why, the worst of the lot is the recruiter who issincere and disinterested. He believes in the Académie; his whole lifeis centred in the Académie; and when he says to you, "If you only knewthe joy of it, " with a smack of the tongue like a man eating a ripepeach, he is saying what he really means, and so his bait is the morealluring and dangerous. But when once the hook has been swallowed andstruck, then the Academician takes no more notice of the victim, butleaves him to struggle and dangle at the end of the line. You are anangler; well, when you have taken a fine perch or a big pike, and youdrag it along behind your boat, what do you call that?'

'Drowning your fish. '

'Just so. Well, look at Moser! Does he not look like a drowned fish?He has been carried along in tow for these ten years. And there's DeSalèle, and Guérineau, and I don't know how many others, who have evengiven up struggling. '

'But still people do get into the Académie sooner or later. '

'Not those once taken in tow. And suppose a man does succeed, where'sthe good? What does it bring you? Money? Not as much as your hay-crop. Fame? Yes, a hole-and-corner fame within a space no bigger than yourhat. It would be something if it gave talent, but those who have talentlose it when once they get inside and are chilled by the air of theplace. The Académie is a club, you know; so there is a tone that must beadopted, and things which must be left unsaid, or watered down. There'san end to originality, an end to bold neck-or-nothing strokes. Theliveliest spirits never move for fear of tearing their green coats. Itis like putting children into their Sunday clothes and saying"Amuse yourselves, my dears, but don't get dirty. " And they do amusethemselves, I can tell you. Of course, they have the adulation of theAcademical taverns, and their fair hostesses. But what a bore it is!I speak from experience, for I have let myself be dragged thereoccasionally. I can say with old Réhu, "That's a thing I have seen. "Silly pretentious women have favoured me with ill-digested scraps frommagazine articles, coming out of their little beaks like the writtenremarks of characters in a comic paper. I have heard fat, good naturedMadame Ancelin, a woman as stupid as anything, cackle with admiration atthe epigrams of Danjou, regular stage manufacture, about as natural asthe curling of his wig. '

Here was a shock for Freydet: Danjou, the shepherd of Latium, had a wig!

'A half-wig, what they call a _breton_. At Madame Astier's, ' he wenton, 'I have gone through lectures on ethnology enough to kill ahippopotamus; and at the table of the Duchess, the severe and haughtyDuchess, I have seen that old monkey Laniboire, seated in the place ofhonour, do and say things for which, if he had not been a "deity, " hewould have been turned out of the house, with a good-bye in her Grace'scharacteristic style. And the joke is, that it was she who got him intothe Académie. She has seen that very Laniboire at her feet, begginghumbly, piteously, importunately, to get himself elected, "Elect him, "she said to my cousin Loisillon, "elect him, do; and then I shall be ridof him. " And now she looks up to him as a god; he is always next herat table; and her contempt has changed into an abject admiration. It islike a savage, falling down and quaking before the idol he has carved. I know what Academic society is, with all its foolish, ludicrous, meanlittle intrigues. You want to get into it! What for, I should like toknow? You have the happiest life in the world. Even I, who am not setupon anything, was near envying you, when I saw you with your sisterat Clos-Jallanges: a perfect house on a hill-side, airy rooms, chimney-corners big enough to get into, oakwoods, cornfields, vineyards, river; the life of a country gentleman, as it is painted in the novelsof Tolstoi; fishing and shooting, a pleasant library, a neighbourhoodnot too dull, the peasants reasonably honest; and to prevent youfrom growing callous in the midst of such unbroken satisfaction, yourcompanion, suffering and smiling, full of life and keenness, poor thing, in her arm-chair, delighted to listen, when you came in from a ride andread her a good sonnet, genuine poetry, fresh from nature, which youhad pencilled on your saddle, or lying flat in the grass, as we arenow--only without this horrible din of waggons and trumpets. '

Védrine stopped perforce. Some heavy drays, loaded with iron, andshaking ground and houses as they went by, a piercing alarum from theneighbouring barracks, the harsh screech of a steam-tug's whistle, anorgan, and the bells of Sainte-Clotilde, all united at the moment, asfrom time to time the noises of a great town will do, in a thundering_tutti_; and the outrageous babel, close to the ear, contrastedstrangely with the natural field of grass and weed, overshadowed by talltrees, in which the two old classmates were enjoying their smoke andtheir familiar chat. 

[Illustration: At the corner of the Quai d'Orsay 082]

It was at the corner of the Quai d'Orsay and the Rue de Bellechasse, onthe ruined terrace of the old Cour des Comptes, now occupied by sweetwild plants, like a clearing in the forest at the coming of spring. Clumps of lilac past the flowering and dense thickets of plane and maplegrew all along the balustrades, which were loaded with ivy and clematis:and within this verdant screen the pigeons lighted, the bees wandered, and under a beam of yellow light might be seen the calm and handsomeprofile of Madame Védrine, nursing her youngest, while the eldest threwstones at the numerous cats, grey, black, yellow, and tabby, which mightbe called the tigers of this Parisian jungle. 

'And as we are talking of your poetry, you will wish me to speak mymind, won't you, old boy? Well, I have only just looked into your lastbook, but it has not that smell of bluebells and thyme that I found inthe others. Your "God in Nature" has rather a flavour of the Academicbay; and I am much afraid you have made a sacrifice of your "woodnoteswild, " you know, and thrown them, by way of pass-money, into the mouthof _Crocodilus_. '

This nickname 'Crocodilus, ' turning up at the bottom of Védrine'sschoolboy recollections, amused them for a moment. They pictured oncemore Astier-Réhu at his desk, with streaming brow, his cap well on theback of his head, and a yard of red ribbon relieved against the black ofhis gown, emphasising with the solemn movements of his wide sleeves thewell-worn joke from Racine or Molière, or his own rounded periods in thestyle of Vic't-d'Azir, whose seat in the Académie he eventually filled. Then Freydet, vexed with himself for laughing at his old master, beganto praise his work as an historian. What a mass of original documents hehad brought out of their dust!

'There's nothing in that, ' retorted Védrine with unqualified contempt. In his view, the most interesting documents in hands of a fool had nomore meaning than has the great book of humanity itself, when consultedby a stupid novelist. The gold all turns into dead leaves. 'Lookhere, ' he went on with rising animation, 'a man is not to be called anhistorian because he has expanded unpublished material into great octavovolumes, which are shelved unread among the books of information, andshould be labelled, "For external application only. Shake thebottle. " It is only French frivolity that attaches a serious valueto compilations like those. The English and Germans despise us. "Ineptissimus vir Astier-Réhu, " says Mommsen somewhere or other in anote. '

'Yes, and it was you, you heartless fellow, who made the poor man readout the note before the whole class. '

'And a terrible jaw he gave me. It was nearly as bad as when one day Igot so tired of hearing him tell us that the will was a lever, a leverwith which you might lift anything anywhere, that I answered him from myplace in his own voice: "Could you fly with it, sir--could you fly withit?"'

Freydet, laughing, abandoned his defence of the historian, and began toplead for Astier-Réhu as a teacher. But Védrine went off again. 

'A teacher! What is he? A poor creature who has spent his life in"weeding" hundreds of brains, or, in plain terms, destroying whateverin them was original and natural, all the living germs which it is thefirst duty of an educator to nourish and protect. To think how thelot of us were hoed, and stubbed, and grubbed! One or two did not takekindly to the process, but the old fellow went at it with his toolsand his nails, till he made us all as neat and as flat as a schoolroombench. And see the results of his workmanship! A few rebels, likeHerscher, who, from hatred of the conventional, go for exaggeration andugliness, or like myself, who, thanks to that old ass, love roughnessand contortion so much, that my sculpture, they say, is "like a bag ofwalnuts. " And the rest of them levelled, scraped, and empty!'

'And pray, what of me?' said Freydet, with an affected despair. 

'Oh, as for you, Nature has preserved you so far; but look out foryourself if you let Crocodilus clip you again. And to think that we havepublic schools to provide us with this sort of pedagogue, and that wereward him with endowments, and honours, and a place (save the mark) inthe National Institute!'

Stretched at his ease in the long grass, with his head on his arm andwaving a fern, which he used as a sun-screen, Védrine calmly utteredthese strong remarks, without the slightest play of feature in his broadface, pale and puffy like that of an Indian idol. Only the tiny laughingeyes broke the general expression of dreamy indolence. 

His companion was shocked at such treatment of what he was accustomed torespect 'But, ' he said, 'if you are such an enemy of the father, how doyou manage to be such a friend of the son?'

'I am no more one than the other. I look upon Paul Astier, with hisimperturbable _sang-froid_ and his pretty-miss complexion, as a problem. I should like to live long enough to see what becomes of him. '

'Ah, Monsieur de Freydet, ' said Madame Védrine, joining in theconversation from the place where she sat, 'if you only knew what atool he makes of my husband! All the restorations at Mousseaux, the newgallery towards the river, the concert-room, the chapel, all were doneby Védrine. And the Rosen tomb too. He will only be paid for the statue;but the whole thing is really his--conception, arrangement, everything. '

'There, there, that will do, ' said the artist quietly. 'As forMousseaux, the young fellow would certainly have been hard put to it torediscover a fragment of the design under the layers of rubbish that thearchitects have been depositing there for the last thirty years. But theneighbourhood was charming, the Duchess amiable and not at all tiresome, and there was friend Freydet, whom I had found out at Clos-Jallanges. Besides, the truth is I have too many ideas, and am just tormented withthem. To relieve me of a few is to do me a real service. My brain islike a railway junction, where the engines are getting up steam on allthe lines at once. The young man saw that. He has not many ideas. So hepurloins mine, and brings them before the public, quite certain that Ishall not protest But he does not take me in. Don't I know when heis going to filch! He preserves his little indifferent air, with noexpression in his eyes, until suddenly there comes a little nervoustwitch at the corner of his mouth. Done! Nabbed! I have no doubt hethinks to himself, "Good Lord, what a simpleton Védrine is!" He has notthe least notion that I watch him and enjoy his little game. Now, ' saidthe sculptor as he got up, 'I will show you my Knight, and then we willgo over the ruin. It is worth looking at, you will find. '

Passing from the terrace into the building, they mounted a semicircleof steps and went through a square room, formerly the apartment of theSecretary to the Conseil d'Etat. It had no floor and no ceiling, allthe upper storeys had fallen through and showed the blue sky betweenthe huge iron girders, now twisted by the fire, which had divided thefloors. In a corner, against a wall to which were attached long ironpipes overgrown with creepers, lay in three pieces a model of the Rosentomb, buried in nettles and rubbish. 

'You see, ' said Védrine, 'or rather you can't see. ' And he began todescribe the monument. The little Princess's conception of a tomb wasnot easy to come up to. Several things had been tried--reminiscences ofEgyptian, Assyrian, and Ninevite monuments--before deciding on Védrine'splan, which would raise an outcry among architects, but was certainlyimpressive. A soldier's tomb: an open tent with the canvas looped back, disclosing within, before an altar, the wide low sarcophagus, modelledon a camp bedstead, on which lay the good Knight Crusader, fallen forKing and Creed; beside him his broken sword, and at his feet a greatgreyhound. 

The difficulty of the work and the hardness of the Dalmatian granite, which the Princess insisted on having, had obliged Védrine to takemallet and chisel himself and to work like an artisan under thetarpaulin at the cemetery. Now, at last, after much time and trouble, the canopy was up, 'and that young rascal, Astier, will get some creditfrom it, ' added the sculptor with a smile in which was no touch ofbitterness. Then he lifted up an old carpet hanging over a hole in thewall, which had once been a door, and led Freydet into the huge ruinedhall which served him for a studio, roofed with planks and decoratedwith mats and hangings. 

It looked with all its litter like a barn, or rather a yard undercover, for in a sun-lit corner climbed a fine fig-tree with its twiningbranches and elegant leaves, while close by was the bulk of a brokenstove, garlanded with ivy and honeysuckle, so as to resemble an oldwell. Here he had been working for two years, summer and winter, inspite, of the fogs of the neighbouring river and the bitter cold winds, without a single sneeze (his own expression), having the healthfulstrength of the great artists of the Renaissance, as well as their largemould of countenance and fertile imagination. Now he was as weary ofsculpture and architecture as if he had been writing a tragedy. Themoment his statue was delivered and paid for, wouldn't he be off, nursery and all, for a journey up the Nile in a dahabeeah, and paint andpaint from morning to night! While he spoke he moved away a stool and abench, and led his friend up to a huge block in the rough. 'There's mywarrior. Frankly now, what do you think of him?'

[Illustration: There's my warrior 092]

Freydet was somewhat startled and amazed at the colossal dimensions ofthe sleeping hero. The scale was magnified in proportion to theheight of the canopy, and the roughness of the plaster exaggerated theanatomical emphasis characteristic of Védrine. Rather than smoothaway the force, he gives his work an unfinished earthy surface, as ofsomething still in the rock. But as the spectator gazed and began tograsp, the huge form became distinct with that impressive and attractivepower which is the essence of fine art. 

'Splendid!' he exclaimed, with the tone of sincerity. The other winkedhis merry little eyes, and said:

'Not at first sight, eh? My style does not take till you are accustomedto it; and I do not feel sure of the Princess, when she comes to look atthis ugly fellow. '

Paul Astier was to bring her in a few days, as soon as it had beenrubbed down and smoothed and was ready to go to the foundry; and thesculptor looked forward to the visit with some uncertainty, knowing thetaste of great ladies, as it is displayed in the stereotyped chatter, which at the Salon on five-shilling days runs up and down thepicture-rooms, and breaks out round the sculpture. Oh, what hypocrisy itis! The only genuine thing about them is the spring costume, which theyhave provided to figure on this particular occasion. 

'And altogether, old fellow, ' continued Védrine, as he drew his friendout of the studio, 'of all the affectations of Paris, of all thehypocrisies of society, the most shameless, the most amusing, is thepretended taste for art. It's enough to make you die of laughing;everyone performing a mummery, which imposes on nobody. And music, thesame! You should just see them at the Pop!'

They went down a long arcaded passage, full of the same odd vegetation, sown there by all the winds of heaven, breaking out in green from thehard-beaten ground, and peeping among the paintings on the shrivelledand smoke-blackened walls, Presently they came to the principal court, formerly gravelled, but now a field, in which were mingled wild grasses, plantain, pimpernel, groundsel, and myriads of tiny stems and heads. In the middle, fenced off with boards, was a bed of artichokes, strawberries, and pumpkins, looking like the garden of some squatter atthe edge of a virgin forest; and, to complete the illusion, beside itwas a little building of brick. 

'It's the bookbinder's garden, and that is his shop, ' said Védrine, pointing to a board over the half-open door, displaying in letters afoot long the inscription, ALBIN FAGE, Bookbinding in all its branches. 

Fage had been bookbinder to the Cour des Comptes and the Conseil d'Etat, and having obtained leave to keep his lodge, which had escaped the fire, was now, with the exception of the caretaker, the sole tenant of thebuilding. 'Let us go in for a minute, ' said Védrine; 'you will find hima remarkable specimen. ' He went nearer and called, 'Fage! Fage!' butthe humble workshop was empty. In front of the window was the binder'stable, on which, among a heap of parings, lay his shears. Under apress were some green ledgers capped with copper. Strange to remark, everything in the room--the sewing-press, the tressel-table, theempty chair in front of it, the shelves piled with books, and even theshaving-mirror hung upon the latch--was on a diminutive scale, adaptedto the height and reach of a child of twelve years old. It might havebeen taken for the house of a dwarf, or of a bookbinder of Lilliput. 

'He is a humpback, ' whispered Védrine to Frey-det, 'and a lady'sman into the bargain, all scent and pomade. ' A horrible smell likea hairdresser's shop, otto of roses and macassar, mingled with thestifling fumes, of glue. Védrine called once more in the direction ofthe back of the shop where the bedroom was; then they left, Freydetchuckling at the idea of a humpbacked Lovelace. 

'Perhaps he's at a tryst, ' he said. 

'You are pleased to laugh; but, my dear fellow, the humpback is on thebest of terms with all the beauties of Paris, if one may believe thetestimony of his bedroom walls, which are covered with photographsbearing the owners' names, and headed "To Albin, " "To my dear littleFage. " There is never any lady to be seen here, but he sometimes comesand tells me about his fine octavo, or his pretty little duodecimo, ashe calls his conquests, according to their height and size. '

'And he is ugly, you say?'

'A perfect monster. '

'And no money?'

'A poor little bookbinder and worker in cardboard, living on his work andhis bit of a garden, but very intelligent and learned, with a marvellousmemory. We shall probably find him wandering about in some corner ofthe building. He is a great dreamer is little Fage, like allsentimentalists. --This way, but look where you step; there are someawkward places. '

They were going up a huge staircase, of which the lower steps stillremained, as did the balustrade, rusty, split, and in places twisted. Then suddenly they turned off by a fragile wooden bridge, resting onthe supports of the staircase, between high walls on which were dimlyvisible the remains of huge frescoes, cracked, decayed, and blackenedwith soot, the hind legs of a horse, a woman's torso undraped, withinscriptions almost illegible on panels that had lost their gilding, 'Meditation, ' 'Silence, ' 'Trade uniting the nations of the world. '

On the first floor a long gallery with a vaulted roof, as in theamphitheatre at Aries or Nîmes, stretched away between smoke-stainedwalls, covered with huge fissures, remains of plaster and iron work, andtangled vegetation. At the entrance to this passage was inscribed on thewall, 'Corridor des Huissiers. ' On the next floor they found much thesame thing, only that here, the roof having given way, the gallery wasnothing but a long terrace of brambles climbing up to the undestroyedarcades and falling down in disordered waving festoons to the level ofthe courtyard. From this second floor could be seen the roofs of theneighbouring houses, the whitewashed walls of the barracks in the Ruede Poitiers, and the tall plane trees of the Padovani mansion, with therooks' nests, abandoned till the winter, swinging in their top branches. Below was the deserted court in full sunlight, with the little gardenand tiny house of the bookbinder. 

'Just look, old boy, there's a good lot of it here, ' said Védrine to hisfriend, pointing to the wild exuberant vegetation of every species whichran riot over the whole building. 'If Crocodilus saw all these weeds, what a rage he would be in!' Suddenly he started, and said, 'Well, Inever!'

At this moment, near the bookbinder's house below, came into sightAstier-Réhu, recognisable by his long frock-coat of a metallic green andhis large wide 'topper. ' Most people in the neighbourhood knew this hat, which, set on the back of a grey curly head, distinguished, like a halo, the hierarch of erudition. It was Crocodilus himself!

He was talking earnestly to a man of very small stature, whose bare headshone with hair-oil, and whose tight-fitting, light-coloured coat showedin all its elegance the deformity of his back. Their words were notaudible, but Astier seemed much excited. He brandished his stick andbent himself forward over the face of the little creature, who for hispart was perfectly calm, and stood, as if his mind was made up, with histwo large hands behind him folded under his hump. 

'The cripple does work for the Institute, does he?' said Freydet, whoremembered now that his master had uttered the name of Fage. Védrinedid not answer. He was watching the action of the two men, whoseconversation at this moment suddenly stopped, the humpback going intohis house with a gesture which seemed to say, 'As you please, ' whileAstier with angry strides made for the gate of the building towards theRue de Lille, then paused, turned back to the shop, went in, and closedthe door behind him. 

'It's odd, ' muttered the sculptor. 'Why did Fage never tell me? What amysterious little fellow it is! But I dare say they have the same tastefor the "octavo" and the "duodecimo"!'

'For shame, Védrine!'

The visit done, Freydet went slowly up the Quai d'Orsay, thinking abouthis book and his aspirations towards the Académie, which had received asevere shock from the home truths he had been hearing. How like the manis to the boy! How soon the character is in its essence complete! Afteran interval of twenty-five years, beneath the wrinkles and greyhairs and other changes, with which life disguises the outer man, the schoolfellows found each other just what they were when they sattogether in class: one wilful, high-spirited, rebellious; the otherobedient and submissive, with a tendency to indolence, which had beenfostered by his quiet country life. After all Védrine was perhaps right. Even if he was sure of succeeding, was the thing worth the trouble? Hewas particularly anxious about his invalid sister, who, while he wentabout canvassing, must be left all alone at Clos-Jallanges. A few days'absence had already made her feel nervous and low, and the morning'spost had brought a miserable letter. 

He was by this time passing before the dragoon barracks; and hisattention was caught by the appearance of the paupers, waiting on theother side of the street for the distribution of the remains of thesoup. They had come long before for fear of missing their turn, and wereseated on the benches or standing in a line against the parapet of thequay. Foul and grimy, with the hair and beard of human dogs, and dressedin the filthiest rags, they waited like a herd, neither moving norspeaking to each other, but peering into the great barrack-yard to catchthe arrival of the porringers and the adjutant's signal to come up. Itwas horrible to see in the brilliant sunlight the silent row ofsavage eyes and hungry faces, fixed with the same animal look upon thewide-open gate. 

'What are you doing there, my dear boy?' said a voice, and Astier-Réhu, in high spirits, took his pupil's arm. The poet pointed to the patheticgroup on the opposite pavement. 'Ah, yes, ' said the historian, 'Ah, yes. ' He had in truth no eyes for anything outside books, nor any directand personal perception of the facts of life. Indeed, from the way inwhich he took Freydet off, saying as he did so, 'You may as well go withme as far as the Institute, ' it was clear that he did not approve thehabit of mooning in the streets when you ought to be better employed. Leaning gently on his favourite's arm, he began to tell him of hisrapturous delight at having chanced upon a most astonishing discovery, aletter about the Académie from the Empress Catherine to Diderot, just intime for his forthcoming address to the Grand-Duke. He meant to read theletter at the meeting and perhaps to present his Highness, in the nameof the Society, with the original in the handwriting of his ancestress. Baron Huchenard would burst with envy. 

'And, by the way, about my Charles the Fifths, you know! It's absolutelyfalse. Here is something to confute the old backbiter, ' and he clappedwith his thick short hand a heavy leather pocket-book. He was so happythat he tried to arouse an answering happiness in Freydet by leading theconversation to the topic of yesterday--his candidature for the firstplace in the Académie that should be vacant. It would be delightful whenthe master and the scholar sat together under the dome! 'And you willfind how pleasant it is, and how comfortable. It cannot be imagined tillyou are there. ' The moment of entrance, he seemed to say, put an endto the miseries of life. At that threshold they might beat in vain. Yousoared into a region of peace and light, above envy, above criticism, blessed for ever! All was won, and nothing left to desire. Ah, theAcadémie! Those who spoke ill of it spoke in ignorance, or in jealousy, because they could not get in. The apes, the dunces!

His strong voice rose till it made everyone turn as he went along thequay. Some recognised him and mentioned his name. The booksellers andthe vendors of engravings and curiosities, standing at their stalls, andaccustomed to see him go by at his regular hours, stepped back and bowedrespectfully. 

'Freydet, look at that, ' said his master, pointing to the PalaisMazarin, to which they had now come. 'There it is! There's the Instituteas I saw it on the Didot books when I was a lad. I said to myself then, "I will get into that;" and I have got in. Now, my boy, it is your turnto use your will. Good luck to you. ' He stepped briskly in at the gateto the left of the main building, and went on into a series of largepaved courts, silent and majestic, his figure throwing a lengtheningshadow upon the ground. 

He disappeared; but Freydet was gazing still, struck motionless. Andon his kindly round brown face and in his soft, full-orbed eyes was thesame expression as had been on the visages of the human dogs who waitedbefore the barracks for their soup. Henceforward, whenever he looked atthe Institute, that expression would always come over his face. 

CHAPTER V. 

[Illustration: A select reception, at the Padovani mansion 102]

It was the evening of a great dinner, to be followed by a selectreception, at the Padovani mansion. The Grand-Duke Leopold wasentertaining at the table of his 'respected friend, ' as he called theDuchess, some members selected from the various departments of theInstitute, and so making his return to the five Académies for theircourteous reception of him and for the complimentary harangue of thePresident. Diplomatic society was, as usual, well represented at thehouse of a lady whose husband had been Ambassador; but the Institute hadthe chief place, and the arrangement of the guests showed the objectof the dinner. The Grand-Duke, seated opposite the hostess, had MadameAstier on his right, and on his left the Countess Foder, wife of theFirst Secretary of the Finnish Embassy, acting as Ambassador. On theright of the Duchess sat Léonard Astier, and on her left MonsignorAdriani, the Papal Nuncio. Then came successively Baron Huchenard, representing the Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres; Mourad Bey, theAmbassador of the Porte; Delpech the chemist, Member of the Académie desSciences; the Belgian Minister; Landry the musician, of the Beaux-Arts;Danjou the dramatist, one of Picherals 'Players'; and, lastly, thePrince d'Athis, whose twofold claims to distinction as diplomatist andMember of the Académie des Sciences Morales et Politiques combined thecharacteristics of the two sets in the circle. At the ends of the tablewere the General acting as Aide-de-camp to His Highness, the youngCount Adriani, nephew of the Nuncio, and Lavaux, whose presence wasindispensable at every social gathering. 

The feminine element was lacking in charm. The Countess Foder, red-haired, small, and lively, enveloped in lace to the tip of herlittle pointed nose, looked like a squirrel with a cold in its head. Baroness Huchenard, a lady of no particular age and with a moustache, produced the effect of a very fat old gentleman in a low dress. MadameAstier, in a velvet dress partly open at the neck, a present from theDuchess, had sacrificed on the altar of friendship the pleasure shewould have had in displaying her arms and shoulders, the remains of herbeauty; and thanks to this delicate attention the Duchess Padovanilooked as if she were the only woman at dinner. The Duchess is elegantlydressed, tall and fair, with a tiny head and fine eyes of a golden hazelcolour--eyes whose shifting haughty glance, from under long dark browsalmost meeting, shows their power of expressing kindness, affection, or anger. Her nose is short, her mouth emotional and sensitive, and hercomplexion has the brilliancy of a young woman's, owing to her customof sleeping in the afternoon when she is going out in the evening orreceiving friends at her own house. A long residence abroad at Vienna, St. Petersburg, and Constantinople, where as the wife of the FrenchAmbassador it had been her duty to set the fashion to French society, has left in her manners a certain air of superior information, which theladies of Paris find it hard to forgive. She talks graciously to themas though they were foreigners, and explains things to them which theyunderstand as well as she. In her house in the Rue de Poitiers theDuchess still acts as though representing Paris among the Kurds. It isthe sole defect of this noble and splendid lady. 

Though there were, so to speak, no women, no bright dresses showing armsand shoulders and breaking the monotony of black coats with a blaze ofjewels and flowers, still the table was not without colour. There wasthe violet cassock of the Nuncio with his broad silk sash, the purple_Chechia_ of Mourad Bey, and the red tunic of the Papal Guard with itsgold collar, blue embroideries, and gold braid on the breast, decoratedalso with the huge brilliant cross of the Legion of Honour, which theyoung Italian had received that very morning, the President thinkingit proper to reward the successful delivery of the Cardinal's hat. Scattered about, too, were ribbons green, blue, and red, and the silverygleam and sparkling stars of decorations and orders. 

Ten o'clock. The dinner is almost over, but not one of the flowerselaborately arranged round plates and dishes has been disturbed, there have been no raised voices or animated gestures. Yet the fare isexcellent at the Padovani mansion, one of the few houses in Paris wherethey still have wine. The dinner betrays the presence in the house ofan epicure, and the epicure is not the Duchess, who, like all leadersof French fashion, thinks the dinner good if she has on a becoming dressand the table is carefully and tastefully decorated. No; the epicureis the lady's humble servant, the Prince d'Athis, a man of cultivatedpalate and fastidious appetite, spoilt by club cooking and not tobe satisfied by silver plate or the sight of fine liveries andirreproachable white calves. It is for his sake that the fair Antoniaadmits among her occupations the care of the _menu_, it is for him thatshe provides highly seasoned dishes and fiery wines of Burgundy, whichit must be admitted have not on this particular occasion dispelled thecoldness of the guests. 

At dessert there is the same deadness, stiffness, and restraint thatmarked the first course; hardly has a tinge of colour touchedthe ladies' cheeks or noses. It is a dinner of wax dolls, official, -magnificent, with the magnificence which comes chiefly ofample room, lofty ceilings, and seats placed so far apart as to precludeall friendly touching of chairs. A gloomy chilly underground feelingseparates the guests, in spite of the soft breath of the June nightfloating in from the gardens through the half-open shutters and gentlyswelling the silk blinds. The conversation is distant and constrained, the lips scarcely move and have an unmeaning smile. Not a remark isreal, not one makes its way to the mind of the hearer; they are asperfectly artificial as the sweetmeats among which they are dropped. Thespeeches, like the faces, are masked, and it is lucky they are, forif at this moment the mask were to be taken off, and the true thoughtsdisclosed, how dismayed the noble company would be!

The Grand-Duke, who has a broad pale face framed by extra-black trimround whiskers, just such a royal personage as you see in an illustratedpaper, is questioning Baron Huchenard with much interest about hisrecent book, and thinking to himself: 'Oh dear, how this learnedgentleman does bore me with his primitive dwellings! How much betteroff I should be at _Roxelane_, where sweet little Déa is dancing inthe ballet! The author of _Roxelane_ is here, I understand, but he is amiddle-aged man, very ugly and very dull. And to think of the ankles oflittle Déa!'

The Nuncio, who has an intellectual face of the Roman type, large nose, thin lips, black eyes and sallow complexion, has leant on one side tolisten to the history of the habitations of Man. He is looking at hisnails, which shine like shells, and is thinking: 'At the Embassy thismorning I ate a delicious _misto fritto_ and I haven't got rid of it. Gioachimo has pulled my sash too tight; I wish I could get away from thetable. '

The Turkish Ambassador, thick-lipped, yellow, and coarse, with his fezover his eyes and a poke in his neck, is filling the glass of BaronessHuchenard and saying, 'How disgusting in these Westerns to bring theirwomen into society, when they are as dilapidated as this! I had ratherbe impaled right off than exhibit that fat creature as my wife. ' TheBaroness is thanking His Excellency with a mincing smile, which coversthe thought 'This Turk is a revolting beast. '

Nor are Madame Astier's spoken thoughts any more in harmony with herinternal reflections: 'I only hope Paul will not have forgotten to gofor grandpapa. It will be an effective scene when the old man comes in, supported on the arm of his great-grandson. Perhaps we may get an orderout of His Highness. ' Then, as she looks affectionately at the Duchess, she thinks: 'She is looking very handsome this evening. Some good newsno doubt about the promised Embassy. Make the best of your time, mydear; in a month Sammy will be married. '

Madame Astier is not mistaken. The Grand-Duke on arriving announced tohis 'respected friend' the President's promise to appoint D'Athis withinthe next few days. The Duchess is filled with à repressed delight, whichshines through as it were, and gives her a marvellous brilliance. Tothis height she has raised the man of her choice! And already she ismaking plans for removing her own establishment to St. Petersburg, toa mansion not too far from the Embassy; while the Prince, with his palesunk cheeks and rapt look--the look whose penetration Bismarck couldnever sustain--checks upon his contemptuous lips the smile at oncemysterious and dogmatic, compounded of diplomacy and learning, andthinks to himself: 'Now Colette must make up her mind. She could comeout there, we could be married quietly at the Chapelle des Pages, andall would be done and past recall before the Duchess heard of it. '

And thus many a reflection ludicrously inappropriate to the occasionpasses from guest to guest under the same safe wrapper. Here you havethe pleased beatitude of Léonard Astier, who has this very morningreceived the order of Stanislas (second class), as a return forpresenting to His Highness a copy of his speech with the autographletter of Catherine pinned to the first page and very ingeniously workedinto the complimentary address. This letter was the great thing at themeeting, had been mentioned in the papers two days running, and heard ofall over Europe, giving to the name of Astier, to his collection, and tohis work, that astounding and disproportionate echo with which the Pressnow multiplies any passing event. Now Baron Huchenard might do his bestto bite, might mumble as he pleased in his insinuating tones, 'I askyou, my dear colleague, to observe. ' But no one would listen. And the'first collector in France' was perfectly aware of it. See what a savagelook he casts at his dear colleague in the pauses of his scientificharangue! What venom is in every deeply graven hollow of his porous, pumice-stone face!

Handsome Danjou is also furious, but for other reasons than the Baron. The Duchess has not asked his wife. The exclusion is painful to hisfeelings as a husband, a part of a man no less sensitive than theoriginal _ego_; and in spite of his wish to shine before the Grand-Duke, the witticisms as good as new, which he was prepared with, will not gooff. Another who does not feel comfortable is Delpech the chemist, whomHis Highness, when he was presented, congratulated on his interpretationof the cuneiform character, confounding him with his colleague of theAcadémie des Inscriptions. It should be said that, with the exceptionof Danjou, whose comedies are popular abroad, the Grand-Duke has neverheard of any of the Academic celebrities introduced to him at thisdinner. Lavaux this very morning, in concert with the Aide-de-camp, arranged a set of cards bearing each the name of a guest with the titlesof his principal works. The fact that His Highness did not get moreconfused among the list than he did proves much presence of mind andan Imperial memory. But the evening is not over, and other stars oflearning are about to appear. Already may be heard the muffled rollingof wheels and the slamming of carriages putting down at the door. ThePrince will have more chances yet. 

Meanwhile, in a weak, slow voice, seeking for words and losing half ofthem in his nose, His Highness is discussing with Astier-Réhu a pointof history suggested by the letter of Catherine II. The ewers have longcompleted the round, no one is eating or drinking any more, no oneis even breathing, for fear of interrupting the conversation; allthe company are in a hypnotic trance, and--a remarkable effect oflévitation--are literally hanging upon the Imperial lips. Suddenlythe august nose is silent, and Léonard Astier, who has made a show ofresistance in order to improve the effect of his opponent's victory, throws up his arms like broken foils and says with an air of surrender, 'Ah, Your Highness has mated me!' The charm is broken, the companyfeel the ground under them again, everyone rises in a slight flutter ofapplause, the doors are thrown open, the Duchess takes the arm of theGrand-Duke, Mourad Bey that of the Baroness, and while, with a sound ofsweeping-dresses and chairs pushed Lack, the assembly files out, Firmin, the _maître d'hôtel_, solemn and dignified, is privately doing a sum. 'In any other house this dinner would have been worth to me fortypounds: with her, I'll warrant, it won't be a dozen;' to which he addsaloud, as if he would spit his anger upon Her Grace's train, 'Grr! youhag!'

'With Your Highness's permission--my grandfather, M. Jean Réhu, theoldest member in the whole Institute. '

The high notes of Madame Astier's voice ring in the great drawing-room, not nearly filled, though the guests invited to the reception havealready arrived. 

She speaks very loud to make grandpapa understand to whom he is beingintroduced and answer accordingly. Old Réhu looks grand, drawing up histall figure and still carrying high his little Creole face darkened andcracked with age. Paul, graceful and pleasing, supports him on one side, his granddaughter on the other; Astier-Réhu is behind. The family makesa sentimental group in the style of Greuze. It would look well on oneof the pale-coloured tapestries with which the room is decorated, tapestries--a strange thing to think of--scarcely older than Réhuhimself. The Grand-Duke, much affected, tries to say something happy, but the author of the Letters to Urania is not upon his cards. He getsout of it by a few vague complimentary phrases, in answer to which oldRéhu, supposing that he is being asked as usual about his age, says, 'Ninety-eight years in a fortnight, Sir. ' His next attempt does not fitmuch better with His Highness's gracious congratulations. 'Not since1803, Sir; the town must be much changed. ' During the progress of thissingular dialogue, Paul is whispering to his mother, 'You may see himhome if you like; I won't have anything more to do with him; he's inan awful temper. In the carriage he was kicking me all the time in thelegs, to work off his fidgets, he said. ' The young man himself had anunpleasant ring in his voice this evening, and in his charming facesomething set and hard, which his mother knew well, and noticedimmediately on coming into the room. What is the matter? She watchedhim, trying to read the meaning in his light eyes, which, however, harder and keener than usual, revealed nothing. 

But the chill, the ceremonious chill, prevailed here no less than atthe dinner-table. The guests kept apart in groups, the few ladies in acircle upon low chairs, the gentlemen standing or walking about with apretence of serious conversation, but obviously engaged in attractingHis Highness's attention. It was for His Highness that Landry themusician stood pensive by the chimney-piece, gazing upward with hisinspired brow and his apostolic beard; for him that on the other sideDelpech the chemist stood meditative with his chin upon his hand, poringintently with gathered brows as if watching the precipitation of acompound. 

Laniboire the philosopher, famous for his likeness to Pascal, waswandering round, perpetually passing before the sofa, where, unableto escape from Jean Réhu, sat the Prince. The hostess had forgotten topresent him, and his fine nose looked longer than usual and seemed tobe making a desperate appeal: 'Cannot you see that this is the nose ofPascal?'

At the same sofa Madame Eviza was shooting between her scarcely partedeyelids a look which asked His Highness to name his own price if hewould but be seen at her reception next Monday. Ah! change the sceneas you will, it is always the same performance--pretension, meanness, readiness to bow down, the courtier's appetite for self-humiliationand self-abasement. We need not decline the visits of majesty; we areprovided with all the properties required for the occasion. 

'General. '

'Your Highness. '

'I shall never be in time for the ballet. '

'But why are we staying, Sir?'

'I don't know; there's to be a surprise when the Nuncio is gone. '

While these few words passed in an undertone between the pair, theyneither looked at each other nor changed a muscle of their ceremonialcountenances. The Aide-de-camp had copied from his master the nasalintonation, the absence of gesture, the fixed attitude on the edge ofthe seat with the bowed arm against the side. He was rigid as on paradeor in the Imperial box at the Théâtre Michel. Old Réhu stood beforethem, he would not sit down; he was still talking, still exhibiting thedusty stores of his memory, the people he had known, the many fashionsin which he had dressed. The more distant the time, the clearer hisrecollection. 'That is a thing I have seen, ' says he, as he pauses atthe end of a story, with his eyes fixed, as it were, upon the flyingpast, and then off upon a fresh subject. He had been with Talma atBrunoy, he had been in the drawing-room of Josephine, full of musicalboxes and artificial humming-birds covered with jewels, which sang andclapped their wings. 

Out of doors on the terrace, in the warm darkness of the garden, washeard low conversation and stifled laughter, coming from the placewhere the cigars were visible as a ring of red dots. Lavaux was amusinghimself by getting the young Guardsman to tell Danjou and Paul Astierthe story of the Cardinal's hat. 'And the lady, Count--the lady atthe station. ' 'Cristo, qu'elle était bella!' said the Italian in alow voice, and added correctively, 'sim-patica, surtout, simpatica. 'Charming and responsive--this was his general idea of the ladies ofParis. He only wished he need not go back. The French wine had loosedhis tongue, and he began describing his life in the Guards, theadvantages of the profession, the hope which they all had on enteringit that they might find a rich wife--that at one of His Holiness'saudiences they would dazzle some wealthy English Catholic or a fanaticalSpaniard from South America come to bring her offering to the Vatican. 'L'ouniforme est zouli, comprenez; et pouis les en-fortounes delSaint Père, cela nous donne à nous autres ses soldats oun prestigioroumanesque, cava-leresque, qualque sose qui plaît aux dameszénérale-menté. ' It must be allowed that with his youthful manly face, his gold braid shining softly in the moonlight, and his white leatherbreeches, he did recall the heroes of Artosto or Tasso. 

'Well, my dear Pepino, ' said fat Lavaux, in his mocking and disagreeabletone, 'if you want a good match, here it is at your elbow. '

'How so? Where?'

Paul Astier started and became attentive. The mention of a good matchalways made him fear that some one was stealing his. 

'The Duchess, of course. Old Padovani can't stand another stroke. '

'But the Prince d'Athis?'

'He'll never marry her. '

Lavaux was a good authority, being the friend of the Prince, and of theDuchess, too, for that matter; though, seeing that the establishmentmust shortly split, he stood on the side which he thought the safest'Go in boldly, my dear Count; there's money, lots of it, and a fineconnection, and a lady still well enough. '

'Cristo, qu'elle est bella!' said the Italian, with a sigh. 

'E simpatica, ' said Danjou, with a sneer. At which the Guardsman aftera moment's amazement, delighted to find an Academician with so muchperception, exclaimed: 'Si, simpatica, précisamenté!'

'And then, ' continued Lavaux, 'if you are fond of dyes, and enamel, andpadding, you'll get it. I believe she's a marvel of construction, thebest customer that Charrière has. '

He spoke out loud and quite freely, right in front of the dining-room. The garden door was slightly open, and through the crack the lightfell upon the broad red impudent face of the parasite, and the warm airfloated laden with the rich smell of the dinner which he had eaten andwas repaying in mean dirty slanders. There's for your _truffes farcies_;there's for your _gelinottes_, and your '_chateaux_' at fifteenshillings a glass! Danjou and he have got together on purpose to playthis popular game of running-down; and a great deal they know and agreat deal they tell. Lavaux serves the ball and Danjou returns. And thesimple Guardsman, not knowing how much to believe, tries to laugh, witha horrid fear lest the Duchess should catch them, and is much relievedwhen he hears his uncle calling him from the other end of the terrace. The Papal Embassy shuts up early, and since his little misfortune he hasbeen kept strictly to hours. 

'Good night, gentlemen. '

'Good luck to you, young man. '

The Nuncio is gone; now for the surprise. At a signal from the Duchess, the author of _Roxelane_ took his place at the piano and swept his beardover the keys as he struck two penetrating chords. Immediately at thefar end of the rooms the curtains were drawn from the door, and down thevista of brilliant apartments, tripping along on the tips of her littlegilt slippers, came a charming brunette in the close bodice and puffedskirts of the ballet, conducted at arm's-length by a gloomy personwith hair in rolls and a cadaverous countenance divided by a dead blackmoustache. It is Déa! Déa, the folly of the hour, the fashionable toy, accompanied by her instructor, Valère, the ballet-master at the opera. _Roxelane_ was taken first this evening; and the girl, warm from hertriumphant performance, had come to give her dance again for thebenefit of the Duchess's Imperial guest. A more delightful surprise hisrespected friend could not have devised. What more exquisite than tohave all to yourself, close to yourself, and within an inch of yourface, the pretty whirl of muslin and the panting of the fresh youngbreath, and to hear the sinews of the little creature strain like thesheets of a sail! His Highness was not alone in this opinion. The momentthe dance began the men drew together, selfishly making a close ring ofblack coats and leaving the few ladies present to see what they couldfrom outside. Even the Grand-Duke is hustled and shoved in the press:for as the dance quickens the circle narrows, till there is scarcelyroom for the movement. Men of letters and of politics, breathinghard, thrust their heads forward, while their decorations swing likecow-bells, and grinning from ear to ear show their watery lips andtoothless jaws with grotesque animal cachinnations. Even the Princed'Athis stoops with less contempt for humanity, as he gazes upon thismarvel of youth and fairy grace, who with the tips of her toes takes offthe masks of convention; and the Turk, Mourad Bey, who has sat thewhole evening without a word in the depths of an armchair, is nowgesticulating in the front row with open nostrils and staring eyes. 

[Illustration: Seem as easy as the hovering of a dragon-fly 120]

In the midst of the wild shouts of applause the girl springs and leapswith so harmonious a concealment of the muscular working of her frame, that her dance might seem as easy as the hovering of a dragon-fly, butfor the few drops on her firm rounded neck and the smile, forced, tense, and almost painful, at the corner of her mouth, which betray theexhausting effort of the exquisite little creature, Paul Astier, who didnot care for dancing, had stayed on the terrace to smoke. The applauseand the thin sounds of the piano, audible in the distance, made anaccompaniment to his reflections, which took shape little by little, even as his outward eyes, growing accustomed to the dark, made outby degrees in the garden the trunks of the trees and their quiveringleaves, and far away at the end the delicate tracery of an old-fashionedtrellis against the wall. It was so hard to succeed; one must hold onso long to reach the desired point, always close at hand and alwaysreceding. Why was it that Colette seemed every moment on the point offalling into his arms, and yet when he went back he had to beginagain from the beginning? It looked as if in his absence some one foramusement pulled down his work. Who was it? It was that dead fellow, confound him! He ought to be at her side from morning to night; but howcould he, with the perpetual necessity of running after money?

There came a light step, a soft sound of velvet. It was his motherlooking for him. Why did he not come into the drawing-room with all therest? She leaned over the balustrade beside him and wanted to know whathe was thinking about. 

'Oh, nothing, nothing. ' But further pressed he came out with it. Well, the fact was--the fact was--that he had had enough of starving. Dun, dun, dun. One hole stopped and another opened. He would not stand anymore of it, so there!

From the drawing-room came loud exclamations and wild laughter, togetherwith the expressionless voice of Valère, directing the dancer in theimitation of an old-fashioned ballet figure. 

'How much do you want?' whispered the mother trembling. She had neverseen him like this before. 

'No, it's no use; it's more than you could possibly manage. '

'How much?' she asked again. 

'Eight hundred. ' And the agent must have it tomorrow by five o'clock, or else he would take possession. There would be a sale and all sortsof horrors. Sooner than that--and here he ground his cigar betweenhis teeth as he said the last words--'better make a hole in myfrontispiece. '

The mother had heard enough. 'Hush! hush!' she said. 'By five o'clockto-morrow? Hush!' And she flung herself upon him, and she pressed herhands in agony upon his lips, as if she would arrest there the appallingsentence of death. 

CHAPTER VI. 

That night she could not sleep. Eight hundred pounds! eight hundredpounds! The words went to and fro in her head. Where were they to befound? To whom could she apply? There was so little time. Names andfaces flashed before her, passing for a moment where the pale gleam ofthe night-light fell on the ceiling, only to disappear and be replacedby other names and other faces, which vanished as quickly in theirturn. Freydet? She had just made use of him. Sammy? Had nothing till hemarried. Besides, did anybody do such a thing as to borrow or lend eighthundred pounds? No one but a poet from the country. In Parisian societymoney never appears on the scene; it is assumed that you have it and areabove these details, like the people in genteel comedy. A breach of thisconvention would banish the transgressor from respectable company. 

And while Madame Astier pursued her feverish thoughts she saw beside herthe round back of her husband rising and falling peacefully. It was oneof the depressing incidents of their joint life that they had lain thusside by side for thirty years, having nothing in common but the bed. Butnever had the isolation of her surly bedfellow so strongly aroused herindignation. What was the use of waking him, of talking to him about theboy and his desperate threat? She knew perfectly well that he wouldnot believe her, nor so much as move the big back which protected hisrepose. She was inclined for a minute to fall upon him, to pummel him, and scratch him, and rouse him out of his selfish slumbers by shoutingin his ear: 'Léonard, your papers are on fire!' And as the thought ofthe papers flashed madly across her mind she almost leaped out of bed. She had got her eight hundred! The drawers upstairs! How was it shehad not thought of them before? There she lay, till day dawned and thenight-light went out with a sputter, content and motionless, arrangingwhat she should do, with the look of a thief in her open eyes. 

Before the usual hour she was dressed, and all the morning prowled aboutthe rooms, watching her husband. He talked of going out, but changed hismind, and went on with his sorting till breakfast. Between his studyand the attic he went to and fro with armfuls of pamphlets, humming acareless tune. He had not feeling enough to perceive the constrainedagitation which surcharged the air with nervous electricity and playedamong the furniture in the cupboards, and upon the handles of thedoors. He worked on undisturbed. At table he was talkative, toldidiotic stories, which she knew by heart, interminable as the processof crumbling with his knife his favourite cheese. Piece after piece ofcheese he took, and still one anecdote followed another. And when thetime came for going to the Institute, where the Dictionary Committeewas to sit before the regular meeting, how long he took to start! and inspite of her eagerness to get him off quick, what an age he spent overevery little thing!

The moment he turned the corner of the street, without waiting to shutthe window, she darted to the serving-hatch, crying, 'Corentine, call acab, quick!' He was gone at last, and she flew up the little staircaseto the attic. 

Crouching down to keep clear of the low ceiling she began to try a bunchof keys in the lock which fastened the bar of the drawers. She could notfit it. She could not wait. She would have forced away, without scruple, a side of the frame, but her fingers gave way and her nails broke. Shewanted something to prise with. She opened the drawer of the card-table:and there lay three yellow scrawls. They were the very things shewas looking for--the letters of Charles V. ! Such miracles do happensometimes!

She bent down to the low-arched window to make sure, and read: 'FrançoisRabelais, maître en toutes sciences et bonnes lettres. ' Enough! Shestarted up, hitting her head hard as she did so, and was not aware of ittill she was in the cab and on her way to the shop of the famous Bos inthe Rue de l'Abbaye. 

She got down at the corner of the street. It is a short quiet street, overshadowed by St. Germain des Près and by the old red brick buildingsof the School of Surgery. A few of the surgeons' carriages, professionalbroughams with splendid liveries, were in waiting. Scarcely anyone wasabout. Pigeons were feeding on the pavement, and flew away as she cameto the shop opposite the school. It offers both books and curiosities, and exhibits an archaic inscription, highly appropriate to such a nookof Old Paris: 'Bos: Antiquary and Palaeographer. '

The shop-front displayed something of all sorts: old manuscripts, ancient ledgers with mould spots on the edges, missals with damagedgilding, book-clasps and book-covers. To the upper panes were fastenedassignats, old placards, plans of Paris, ballads, military franks withspots of blood, autographs of all ages, some verses by Madame Lafargue, two letters from Chateaubriand to 'Pertuzé, Boot-maker, names ofcelebrities ancient and modern at the foot of an invitation to dinner, or perhaps a request for money, a complaint of poverty, a love letter, &c, enough to cure anyone of writing for ever. All the autographs werepriced; and as Madame Astier paused for a moment before the window shemight see next to a letter of Rachel, price 12L. , a letter from LéonardAstier-Réhu to Petit Séquard, his publisher, price 2s. But this wasnot what she came for: she was trying to discover, behind the screenof green silk, the face of her intended customer, the master of theestablishment. She was seized with a sudden fear: suppose he was not athome after all!

The thought of Paul waiting gave her determination, and she went intothe dark, close, dusty room. She was taken at once into a little closetbehind, and began to explain her business to M. Bos, who, with his largered face and disordered hair, looked like a speaker at a public meeting. A temporary difficulty--her husband did not like to come himself--andso---- But before she could finish her lie, M. Bos, with a 'Pray, madame, pray, ' had produced a cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais, and wasaccompanying her with the utmost politeness to her cab. 

'A very genteel person, ' he said to himself, much pleased with hisacquisition, while she, as she took the cheque out of the glove intowhich it had been slipped, and looked again at the satisfactory figure, was thinking What a delightful man!' She had no remorse, not even theslight recoil which comes from the mere fact that the thing is done. Awoman has not these feelings. She wears natural blinkers, which preventher from, seeing anything but the thing which she desires at the moment, and keep her from the reflections which at the critical moment embarrassa man. She thought at intervals, of course, of her husband's angerwhen he discovered the theft, but she saw it, as it were, dim in thedistance. Nay, it was rather a satisfaction to add this to all she hadgone through since yesterday, and say to herself, 'I can bear it for mychild!'

For beneath her outward calm, her external envelope as a woman ofAcademic fashion, lay a certain thing that exists in all women, fashionable or not, and that thing is passion. It is the pedal whichworks the feminine instrument, not always discovered by the husband orthe lover, but always by the son. In the dull story with no love in it, which makes up the life of many a woman, the son is the hero and theprincipal character. To her beloved Paul, especially since he hadreached manhood, Madame Astier owed the only genuine emotions of herlife, the delightful anguish of the waiting, the chill in the palecheeks and the heat in the hollow of the hand, the supernaturalintuitions which, before the carriage is at the door, give theinfallible warning that 'he comes, '--things which she had never knowneven in the early years of her married life or in the days when peoplecalled her imprudent, and her husband used to say with simplicity, 'It'sodd; I never smoke, and my wife's veils smell of tobacco. '

When she reached her son's, and the first pull of the bell was notanswered, her anxiety rose to distraction. The little mansion showed nosign of life from the ground to the ornamental roof-ridge, and, in spiteof its much-admired style, had to her eyes a sinister appearance, as also had the adjoining lodging-house, not less architecturallyadmirable, but showing bills all along the high mullioned windows of itstwo upper storeys, 'To let; To let; To let. ' At the second pull, whichproduced a tremendous ring, Stenne, the impudent little man-servant, looking very spruce in his close-fitting sky-blue livery, appeared atlast at the door, rather confused and hesitating: 'Oh yes, M. Paul wasin, but--but--'

The unhappy mother, haunted ever since yesterday by the same horribleidea, pictured her son lying in his blood, crossed at a bound thepassage and three steps, and burst breathless into the study. Paul wasstanding at work before his desk in the bay window. One pane of thestained glass was open, to throw light upon the half-finished sketch andthe box of colours, while the rest of the perfumed apartment was steepedin a soft subdued glow. Absorbed in his work he seemed not to have heardthe carriage stop, the bell ring twice, and a lady's dress flit alongthe passage. He had: but it was not his mother's shabby black dress thathe expected, it was not for her that he posed at his desk, nor for herthat he had provided the delicate bouquets of fine irises and tulips, orthe sweetmeats and elegant decanters upon the light table. 

The way in which as he looked round he said, 'Oh, it's you, ' would havebeen significant to anyone but his mother. She did not notice it, lostin the delight of seeing him there, perfectly well, perfectly dressed. She said not a word, but tearing her glove open she triumphantly handedhim the cheque. He did not ask her where she got it, or what she hadgiven for it, but put his arms round her, taking care not to crumple thepaper. 'Dear old Mum'; that was all he said, but it was enough forher, though her child was not as overjoyed as she expected, but ratherembarrassed. 'Where are you going next?' he said thoughtfully, with thecheque in his hand. 

'Where next?' she repeated, looking at him with disappointment. Why, shehad only just come, and made certain of spending a few minutes with him;but she could go if she was in the way. 'Why, I think I shall go to thePrincess's. But I am in no hurry; she wearies me with her everlastinglamentation for Herbert. You think she has done with it, and then ittakes a fresh start. '

Paul was on the point of saying something, which he did not say. 

'Well, ' he said, 'Mammy, will you do something for me? I am expectingsomebody. Go and cash this for me, and let the agent have the money inreturn for my drafts. You don't mind?'

She did not indeed. If she went about his business she would seem to bewith him still. While he was signing his name, the mother looked roundthe room. There were charming carpets and curtains, and nothing to markthe profession of the occupant except an X ruler in old walnut, and somecasts from well-known friezes hung here and there. As she thought of herrecent agony and looked at the elaborate bouquets and the refreshmentslaid by the sofa, it occurred to her that these were unusualpreparations for a suicide. She smiled without any resentment. Thenaughty wretch! She only pointed with her parasol at the bonbons in thebox and said:

'Those are to make a hole in your--your--what do you call it?'

He began to laugh too. 

'Oh, there's a great change since yesterday. 

The business, you know, the big thing I talked to you about, is reallycoming off this time, I think. '

'Really? So is mine. '

'Eh? Ah yes, Sammy's marriage. '

Their pretty cunning eyes, both of the same hard grey, but, the mother'sa little faded, exchanged one scrutinising glance. 

'You'll see, we shall be rolling in riches, ' he said after a moment. 'Now you must be going, ' and he hurried her gently to the door. 

That morning Paul had had a note from the Princess to say that sheshould call for him at his own house to go to the usual place. The usualplace was the cemetery. Lately there had been what Madame Astier called'a fresh start' of Herbert. Twice a week the widow went to the cemeterywith flowers, or tapers, or articles for the chapel, and urged theprogress of the work; her conjugal feelings had broken out again. Thefact was, that after a long and painful hesitation between her vanityand her love, the temptation of keeping her title and the fascinationsof the delightful Paul--a hesitation the more painful that she confidedit to no one, except in her journal every evening to 'poor Herbert'--theappointment of Sammy had finally decided her, and she thought it proper, before taking a new husband, to complete the sepulture of the first andhave done with the mausoleum and the dangerous intimacy of its seductivedesigner. 

Paul, without understanding the flutterings of the foolish little soul, was amused by them, and thought them excellent symptoms, indicating theapproach of the crisis. But the thing dragged, and he was in a hurry; itwas time to hasten the conclusion and profit by Colette's visit, whichhad been long proposed but long deferred, the Princess, though curiousto see the young man's lodgings, being apparently afraid to meet himin a place much more private than her own house or her carriage, where there were always the servants to see. Not that he had ever beenover-bold; he only seemed to surround her with his presence. But she wasafraid of herself, her opinion coinciding with that of the young man, who, being an experienced general in such matters, had classed herat once as one of the 'open towns. ' It was his name for the sort offashionable women who, in spite of a high and apparently unassailableposition, in spite of a great apparatus of defences in every direction, are in reality to be carried by a bold attack. He did not intend nowto make the regular assault, but only a smart approach or so of warmflirtation, sufficient to set a mark upon his prey without hurting herdignity, and to signify the final expropriation of the deceased. Themarriage and the million would follow in due time. Such was the happydream which Madame Astier had interrupted. He was pursuing it still, at the same desk and in the same contemplative attitude, when the wholehouse resounded with another ring at the bell, followed however only byconversation at the front door. 'What is it?' said Paul impatiently, ashe came out. 

The voice of a footman, whose tall black figure was conspicuous in thedoorway against a background of splashing rain, answered from the steps, with respectful insolence, that my lady was waiting for him in thecarriage. Paul, though choking with rage, managed to get out the words, 'I am coming, ' But what horrid curses he muttered under his breath! Thedead fellow again! Sure enough, it was the remembrance of him that hadkept her away. But after a few seconds the hope of avenging himselfbefore long in a highly amusing way enabled him so far to recovercountenance, that when he joined the Princess he was as cool as ever, and showed nothing of his anger but a little extra paleness in thecheek. 

It was warm in the brougham, the windows having been put up because ofthe shower. Huge bouquets of violets and wreaths as heavy as pies loadedthe cushions round Madame de Rosen and filled her lap. 

'Are the flowers unpleasant? Shall I put the window down?' said she, with the cajoling manner which a woman puts on when she has played you atrick and wants not to have a quarrel over it. Paul's gesture expresseda dignified indifference. It was nothing to him whether the window wasput down or put up. The Princess, whose deep veil, still worn onsuch occasions as the present, concealed a blooming face, felt moreuncomfortable than if he had reproached her openly. Poor young man! Shewas treating him so cruelly--so much more cruelly than he knew! She laidher hand gently upon his, and said, 'You are not angry with me?'

He? Not at all. Why should he be angry with her?

'For not coming in. I did say I would, but at the last moment I--I didnot think I should hurt you so much. '

'You hurt me very much indeed. '

When a gentleman of severely correct deportment is betrayed into aword or two of emotion, oh, what an impression they make upon a woman'sheart! They upset her almost as much as the tears of an officer inuniform. 

'No, no, ' she said, 'please, please do not distress yourself any moreabout me. Please say that you are not angry now. '

As she spoke she leaned quite close to him, letting her flowers slipdown. She felt quite safe with two broad black backs and two blackcockades visible on the box under a large umbrella. 

'Look, ' she went on; 'I promise you to come once--at leastonce--before----' but here she stopped in dismay. Carried away by herfeelings, she was on the point of telling him that they were soon topart, and that she was going to St. Petersburg. Recovering herself in amoment, she declared emphatically that she would call unannounced someafternoon when she was not going to visit the mausoleum. 

'But you go there every afternoon, ' he said, with clenched teeth andsuch a queer accent of suppressed indignation that a smile playedbeneath the widow's veil, and to make a diversion she put down thewindow. The shower was over. The brougham had turned into a poorquarter, where the street in its squalid gaiety seemed to feel that theworst of the year was past, as the sun, almost hot enough for summer, lighted up the wretched shops, the barrows at the gutter's edge, the tawdry placards, and the rags that fluttered in the windows. ThePrincess looked out upon it with indifference. Such trivialities arenon-existent for people accustomed to see them from the cushions oftheir carriage at an elevation of two feet from the road. The comfortof the springs and the protection of the glass have a peculiar influenceupon the eyes, which take no interest in things below their level. 

Madame de Rosen was thinking, 'How he loves me! And how nice he is!' Theother suitor was of course more dignified, but it would have been muchpleasanter with this one. Oh, dear! The happiest life is but a serviceincomplete, and never a perfect set!

By this time they were nearing the cemetery. On both sides of the roadwere stonemasons' yards, in which the hard white of slabs, images, andcrosses mingled with the gold of _immortelles_ and the black or whitebeads of wreaths and memorials. 

'And what about Védrine's statue? Which way do we decide?' he askedabruptly, in the tone of a man who means to confine himself to business. 

'Well, really--' she began. 'But, oh dear, oh dear, I shall hurt yourfeelings again?'

'My feelings! how so?'

The day before, they had been to make a last inspection of the knight, before he was sent to the foundry. At a previous visit the Princess hadreceived a disagreeable impression, not so much from Védrine's work, which she scarcely looked at, as from the strange studio with treesgrowing in it, with lizards and wood-lice running about the walls, andall around it roofless ruins, suggesting recollections of the incendiarymob. But from the second visit the poor little woman had come backliterally ill. 'My dear, it is the horror of horrors!' Such was her realopinion, as given the same evening to Madame Astier. But she did notdare to say so to Paul, knowing that he was a friend of the sculptor, and also because the name of Védrine is one of the two or three whichthe fashionable world has chosen to honour in spite of its natural andimplanted tastes, and regards with an irrational admiration by way ofpretending to artistic originality. That the coarse rude figure shouldnot be put on dear Herbert's tomb she was determined, but she was at aloss for a presentable reason. 

'Really, Monsieur Paul, between ourselves--of course it is a splendidwork--a fine _Védrine_--but you must allow that it is a little _triste!_

'Well, but for a tomb----' suggested Paul. 

'And then, if you will not mind, there is this. ' With much hesitationshe came to the point. Really, you know, a man upon a camp bedstead withnothing on! Really she did not think it fit. It might be taken for aportrait!' And just think of poor Herbert, the correctest of men! Whatwould it look like?'

'There is a good deal in that, ' said Paul gravely, and he threw hisfriend Védrine overboard with as little concern as a litter of kittens. 'After all, if you do not like the figure, we can put another, or noneat all. It would have a more striking effect. The tent empty; the bedready, and no one to lie on it!'

The Princess, whose chief satisfaction was that the shirtless ruffianwould not be seen there, exclaimed, 'Oh, how glad I am! how nice of you!I don't mind telling you now, that I cried over it all night!'

As usual, when they stopped at the entrance gate, the footman took thewreaths and followed some way behind, while Colette and Paul climbedin the heat a path made soft by the recent showers. She leaned upon hisarm, and from time to time 'hoped that she did not tire him. ' He shookhis head with a sad smile. There were few people in the cemetery. Agardener and a keeper recognised the familiar figure of the Princesswith a respectful bow. But when they had left the avenue and passed theupper terraces, it was all solitude and shade. Besides the birds in thetrees they heard only the grinding of the saw and the metallic clink ofthe chisel, sounds perpetual in Père-la-Chaise, as in some city alwaysin building and never finished. 

Two or three times Madame de Rosen had seen her companion glance withdispleasure at the tall lacquey in his long black overcoat and cockade, whose funereal figure now as ever formed part of the love-scene. Eageron this occasion to please him, she stopped, saying, 'Wait a minute, 'took the flowers herself, dismissed the servant, and they went on allalone along the winding walk. But in spite of this kindness, Paul's browdid not relax; and, as he had hung upon his free arm three or fourrings of violets, _immortelles_, and lilac, he felt more angry withthe deceased than ever. 'You shall pay me for this, ' was his savagereflection. She, on the contrary, felt singularly happy, in that vividconsciousness of life and health which comes upon us in places of death. Perhaps it was the warmth of the day, the perfume of the flowers, mixingtheir fragrance with the stronger scent of the yews and the box treesand the moist earth steaming in the sun, and with another yet, an acrid, faint, and penetrating scent, which she knew well, but which, to-day, instead of revolting her senses, as usual, seemed rather to intoxicatethem. 

Suddenly a shiver passed over her. The hand which lay on the young man'sarm was suddenly grasped in his, grasped with force and held tight, held as it were in an embrace, and the little hand dared not take itselfaway. The fingers of his hand were trying to get between the delicatefingers of hers and take possession of it altogether. Hers resisted, trying to clench itself in the glove by way of refusal. All the timethey went on walking, arm in arm, neither speaking nor looking, but muchmoved, resistance, according to the natural law, exciting the relativedesire. At last came the surrender; the little hand opened, and theirfingers joined in a clasp which parted their gloves, for one exquisitemoment of full avowal and complete possession. The next minute thewoman's pride awoke. She wanted to speak, to show that she was mistressof herself, that she had no part in what was done, nor knowledge of itat all. Finding nothing to say, she read aloud the epitaph on a tomblying flat among the weeds, 'Augusta, 1847, ' and he continued, underhis breath, 'A love-story, no doubt. ' Overhead the thrushes andfinches uttered their strident notes, not unlike the sounds of thestone-cutting, which were heard uninterruptedly in the distance. 

They were now entering the Twentieth Division, the part of the cemeterywhich may be called its 'old town, ' where the paths are narrower, thetrees higher, the tombs closer together, a confused mass of ironwork, pillars, Greek temples, pyramids, angels, genii, busts, wings openand wings folded. The tombs were various as the lives now hiddenbeneath--commonplace, odd, original, simple, forced, pretentious, modest. In some the floor-stones were freshly cleaned and loaded withflowers, memorials, and miniature gardens of a Chinese elegance inlittleness. In others the mossy slabs were mouldering or parting, andwere covered with brambles and high weeds. But all bore well-knownnames, names distinctly Parisian, names of lawyers, judges, merchantsof eminence, ranged here in rows as in the haunts of business andtrade. There were even double names, standing for family partnershipsin capital and connection, substantial signatures, known no more to thedirectory or the bank ledger, but united for ever upon the tomb. AndMadame de Rosen remarked them with the same tone of surprise, almostof pleasure, with which she would have bowed to a carriage in the Park, 'Ah! the So-and-So's! Mario? was that the singer?' and so forth, all byway of seeming not to know that their hands were clasped. 

But presently the door of a tomb near them creaked, and there appeareda large lady in black, with a round fresh face. She carried a littlewatering-pot, and was putting to rights the flower-beds, oratory, andtomb generally, as calmly as if she had been in a summer-house. Shenodded to them across the Enclosure with a kindly smile of unselfishgood will, which seemed to say, 'Use your time, happy lovers; life isshort, and nothing good but love. ' A feeling of embarrassment unloosedtheir hands. The spell was broken, and the Princess, with a sort ofshame, led the way across the tombs, taking the quickest and shortestline to reach the mausoleum of the Prince. 

It stood on the highest ground in 'Division 20, ' upon a large level oflawn and flowers, inclosed by a low rich rail of wrought iron in thestyle of the Scaliger tombs at Verona. Its general appearance wasdesignedly rough, and fairly realised the conception of an antiquetent with its coarse folds, the red of the Dalmatian granite giving thecolour of the bark in which the canvas had been steeped. At the top ofthree broad steps of granite was the entrance, flanked with pedestalsand high funereal tripods of bronze blackened with a sort of lacquer. Above were the Rosen arms upon a large scutcheon, also of bronze, theshield of the good knight who slept within the tent. 

Entering the inclosure, they laid the wreaths here and there, on thepedestals and on the slanted projections, representing huge tent-pegs, at the edge of the base. The Princess went to the far end of theinterior, where in the darkness before the altar shone the silverfringes of two kneeling-desks, and the old gold of a Gothic cross andmassive candlesticks, and there fell upon her knees--a good place topray in, among the cool slabs, the panels of black marble glitteringwith the name and full titles of the dead, and the inscriptions fromEcclesiastes or the Song of Songs. But the Princess could find only afew indistinct words, confused with profane thoughts, which made herashamed. She rose and busied herself with the flower-stands, retiringgradually far enough to judge the effect of the sarcophagus or bed. Thecushion of black bronze, with silver monogram, was already in its place, and she thought the hard couch with nothing upon it had a fine andsimple effect. But she wanted the opinion of Paul, who could be heardpacing the gravel as he waited without. Mentally approving his delicacy, she was on the point of calling him in, when the interior grew dark, and on the trefoil lights of the lantern was heard the patter of anothershower. Twice she called him, but he did not move from the pedestal, where he sat exposed to the rain, and without speaking declined herinvitation. 

'Come in, ' she said, 'come in. '

Still he stayed, saying rapidly and low, 'I do not want to come. Youlove him so. '

'Come, ' she still said, 'come/ and taking his hand drew him to theentrance. Step by step the splashing of the rain made them draw backas far as the sarcophagus, and there, half sitting, half standing, theyremained side by side, contemplating beneath the low clouds the 'oldtown' of the dead, which sloped away at their feet with its crowdingthrong of pinnacles and grey figures and humbler stones, rising likeDruid architecture from the bright green. No birds were audible, nosound of tools, nothing but the water running away on all sides, andfrom the canvas cover of a half-finished monument the monotonous voicesof two artisans discussing their worries. The rain without made it allthe warmer within, and with the strong aroma of the flowers mingledstill that other inseparable scent The Princess had raised her veil, feeling the same oppression and dryness of the mouth that she had felton the way up. Speechless and motionless, the pair seemed so much apart of the tomb, that a little brown, bird came hopping in to shakeits feathers and pick a worm between the slabs. 'It's a nightingale, 'murmured Paul in the sweet overpowering stillness. She tried to say, 'Dothey sing still in this month?' But he had taken her in his arms, he hadset her between his knees at the edge of the granite couch, and puttingher head back, pressed upon her half-open lips a long, long kiss, passionately returned. 

[Illustration: Pressed upon her half-open lips a long, long kiss 146]

'Because love is more strong than death, ' said the inscription from theCanticle, written above them upon the marble wall. 

When the Princess reached her house, where Madame Astier was awaitingher return, she had a long cry in the arms of her friend, a refugeunhappily not more trustworthy than those of her friend's son. It wasa burst of lamentation and broken words. 'Oh, my dear, oh, my dear, howmiserable I am! If you knew, ' she said, 'if you only knew!' She feltwith despair the hopeless difficulty of the situation, her hand solemnlypromised to the Prince d'Athis, and her affections just plighted to theenchanter of the tombs, whom she cursed from the depths of her soul. And, most distressing of all, she could not confide her weakness to heraffectionate friend, being sure that, the moment she opened her lips, the mother would side with her son against 'Sammy, ' with love againstprudence, and perhaps even compel her to the intolerable degradation ofmarrying a commoner. 

'There then, there then, ' said Madame Astier, unaffected by the torrentof grief. 'You are come from the cemetery, I suppose, where you havebeen working up your feelings again. But you know, dear, there mustbe an end to _Artemisia!_' She understood the woman's weak vanity, andinsisted on the absurdity of this interminable mourning, ridiculous inthe eyes of the world, and at all events injurious to her beauty Andafter all, it was not a question of a second love-match! What wasproposed was no more than an alliance between two names and titlesequally noble. Herbert himself, if he saw her from heaven, must becontent. 

'He did understand things, certainly, poor dear, ' sighed Colette deRosen, whose maiden name was Sauvadon. She was set on becoming 'Madamel'Ambassadrice, ' and still more on remaining 'Madame la Princesse. '

'Look, dear, will you have a piece of good advice? You just run away. Sammy will start in a week. Do not wait for him. Take Lavaux. He knowsSt. Petersburg, and will settle you there meanwhile. And there will bethis advantage, that you will escape a painful scene with the Duchess. ACorsican, you know, is capable of anything. '

'Ye-es, perhaps I had better go, ' said Madame de Rosen, to whom thechief merit of the plan was that she would avoid any fresh attack, andput distance between her and the folly of the afternoon. 

'Is it the tomb?' asked Madame Astier, seeing her hesitate. 'Is thatit? Why, Paul will finish it very well without you. Come, pet, no moretears. You may water your beauty, but you must not over-water it. ' Asshe went away in the fading light to wait for her omnibus, the good ladysaid to herself, 'Oh dear, D'Athis will never know what his marriage iscosting me!' And here her feeling of weariness, her longing for a goodrest after so many trials, reminded her suddenly that the most trying ofall was to come, the discovery and confession at home. She had notyet had time to think about it, and now she was going fast towardsit, nearer and nearer with every turn of the heavy wheels. The veryanticipation made her shudder: it was not fear; but the frantic outcriesof Astier-Réhu, his big rough voice, the answer that must be given, andthen the inevitable reappearance of his trunk--oh, what a weariness itwould be! Could it not be put off till to-morrow? She was tempted notto confess at once, but to turn suspicion upon some one else, uponTeyssèdre for instance, till the next morning. She would at least get aquiet night. 

'Ah, here is Madame! Something has happened/ cried Corentine, as she ranto the door in a fluster, excitement making more conspicuous than usualthe marks of her smallpox. Madame Astier made straight for her own room;but the door of the study opened, and a peremptory 'Adelaide!' compelledher to go in. The rays of the lamp-globe showed her that the face of herhusband had a strange expression. He took her by the two hands and drewher into the light. Then in a quivering voice he said, 'Loi-sillon isdead, ' and he kissed her on both cheeks. 

Not found out! No, not yet. He had not even gone up to his papers; buthad been pacing his study for two hours, eager to see her and tell herthis great news, these three words which meant a change in their wholelife, 'Loisillon is dead!'

CHAPTER VII. 

 Mlle. Germaine de Freydet, Clos Jallanges. 

My DEAREST SISTER, --Your letters distress me much. I know you are lonelyand ill, and feel my absence; but what am I to do? Remember my master'sadvice to show myself and be seen. It is not, as you may suppose, atClos Jallanges, in my tweed suit and leggings, that I could get on withmy candidature. I cannot but see that the time is near. Loisillonis sinking visibly, dying by inches; and I am using the time to makefriendships among the Academicians, which may mean votes hereafter. Astier has already introduced me to several of them. I often go tofetch him after the meetings. It is charming to see them come out of theInstitute, almost all laden with years as with honours, and walk awayarm-in-arm in groups of three or four, bright and happy, talking loudand filling the pavement, their eyes still wet after the hearty laughsthey have had within. 'Paille-ron is very smart, ' says one; 'But Danjougave it him back, ' says another. As for me, I fasten on to the arm ofAstier-Réhu and, ranked with the deities, seem almost a deity myself. One by one at this or that bridge the groups break up. 'See you nextThursday, ' is the last word. And I go back to the Rue de Beaune with mymaster, who gives me encouragement and advice, and in the confidence ofsuccess says, with his frank laugh, 'Look at me, Freydet; I am twentyyears younger after a meeting!'

I really believe the dome does keep them fresh. Where is thereanother old man as lusty as Jean Réhu, whose ninety-eighth birthday wecelebrated yesterday evening by a dinner at Voisin's? Lavaux suggestedit, and if it cost me 40L. , it gave me the opportunity of counting mymen. We were twenty-five at table, all Academicians, except Picheral, Lavaux, and myself. I have the votes of seventeen or eighteen; the restare uncertain, but well disposed. Dinner very well served, and verychatty. 

By the way, I have asked Lavaux to come to Clos Jallanges for hisholiday. He is librarian of the Bibliothèque Mazarine. He shall havethe large room in the wing, looking out on the pheasants. I don'tthink highly of his character, but I must have him; he is the Duchess's'zebra'! Did I tell you that a zebra in ladies' language is a bachelorfriend, unoccupied, discreet, and quick, kept always at hand for errandsand missions too delicate to be trusted to a servant? In theintervals of his diplomacy a young zebra may sometimes get particulargratifications, but as a rule the animal is tame and wants little, content with small promotion, a place at the bottom of the table, andthe honour of showing his paces before the lady and her friends. Lavaux, I fancy, has made his place profitable in other ways. He is so cleverand, in spite of his easy manner, so much dreaded. He knows, as he says, 'the servants' hall' of two establishments, literature and politics, andhe shows me the holes and traps of which the road to the Institute isfull. Astier, my master, does not know them to this day. In his grandsimplicity he has climbed straight up, unaware of danger, with his eyesupon the dome, confident in his strength and his labour. A hundred timeshe would have broken his neck, if his wife, the cleverest of cleverwomen, had not guided him unperceived. 

It was Lavaux who dissuaded me from publishing between this and the nextvacancy my 'Thoughts of a Rustic. ' 'No, no, ' said he to me, 'you havedone enough. You might well even let it be understood that you willnot write any more. Your work is over, and you are a mere gentleman atlarge. The Académie loves that. ' I put that with the valuable hint fromPicheral: 'Do not take them your books. '

The fewer your works, I see, the better your claim. Picheral has muchinfluence; he too must come to us this summer. Put him on the secondfloor, in what was the box-room, or somewhere. Poor Germaine, it is agreat bother for you, and ill as you are! But where's the help? It isbad enough not to have a house in town for the winter and give parties, like Dalzon, Moser, and all my competitors. Do, do take care of yourselfand get well. 

To go back to my dinner party. There was naturally much talk of theAcadémie, its elections and duties, its merits and demerits in publicestimation. The 'deities' hold that those who run down the institutionare all, without exception, poor creatures who cannot get in. For thestrong apparent instances to the contrary, there was a reason in eachcase. I ventured to mention the great name of Balzac, a man from ourcountry. But the playwright Desminières, who used to manage the amateurtheatricals at Compiègne, burst out with 'Balzac! But did you know him?Do you know, sir, the sort of man he was? An utter Bohemian! A man, sir, who never had a guinea in his pocket! I had it from his friend FrédéricLemaître. Never one guinea! And you would have had the Académie----'Here old Jean Réhu, having his trumpet to his ear, got the notion thatwe were talking of 'tallies, ' and told us the fine story of his friendSuard coming to the Académie on January 21, 1793, the day the king wasexecuted, and availing himself of the absence of his colleagues to sweepoff the whole fees for the meeting. 

He tells a story well, does the old gentleman, and but for his deafnesswould be a brilliant talker. When I gave his health, with a fewcomplimentary verses on his marvellous youth, the old fellow in agracious reply called me his dear colleague. My master Astier correctedhim--'future colleague. ' Laughter and applause. 'Future colleague' wasthe title which they all gave me as they said goodbye, shaking my handwith a significant pressure, and adding, 'We shall meet before long, ' or'See you soon, ' in reference to my expected call. It is not a pleasantprocess, paying these calls, but everyone goes through it. Astier-Réhutold me, as we came away from the dinner, that when he was elected oldDufaure let him come ten times without seeing him. Well, he would notgive up, and the eleventh time the door was thrown open. Nothing likepersistence. 

In truth, if Ripault-Babin or Loisillon died (they are both in danger, but even now I have most hopes of Ripault-Babin), my only seriouscompetitor would be Dalzon. He has talent and wealth, stands well withthe 'dukes, ' and his cellar is capital; the only thing against him is ayouthful peccadillo lately discovered, 'Without the Veil, ' a poem of 600lines printed 'at Eropolis, ' anonymously, and utterly outrageous. Theysay that he has bought up and suppressed the whole, but there are stillsome copies in circulation with signature and dedication. Poor Dalzoncontradicts the story and makes a desperate fight. The Académie reservesjudgment pending the inquiry. That is why my respected master said to megravely one evening without giving reasons, 'I shall not vote againfor M. Dalzon. ' The Académie is a club, that is the important thing toremember. You cannot go in without proper dress and clean hands. For allthat I have too much gallantry and too much respect for my opponent tomake use of such concealed weapons; and Fage, the bookbinder in theCour des Comptes, the strange little humpback whom I sometimes meetin Védrine's studio--Fage, I say, who has much acquaintance with thecuriosities of bibliography, got a good snub when he offered me one ofthe signed copies of 'Without the Veil. ' 'Then it will go to M. Moser, 'was his calm reply. 

Talking of Védrine, I am in an awkward position. In the warmth of ourfirst few meetings I made him promise to bring his family to stay withus in the country. But how can we have him along with people like Astierand Lavaux, who detest him? He is so uncivilised, such an oddity! Justimagine! He is by descent Marquis de Védrine, but even at school hesuppressed the title and the 'de, ' additions coveted by most people inthis democratic age, when everything else may be got. And what is hisreason? Because, do you see, he wants to be liked for his own sake! Thelatest of him is that the Princess de Rosen will not take the knight, which he has done for the Prince's tomb. It was mentioned every minutein the family, where money is not plenty. 'When we have sold the knight, I am to have a clockwork horse, ' said the boy. The poor mother toocounted upon the knight for refurnishing her empty presses, and toVédrine himself the price of the master-piece meant just three months'holiday in a Nile-boat. Well! the knight not sold, or to be paid forheaven knows when, after a lawsuit and a valuation, if you fancy theyare thrown out by that, you are much mistaken. When I got to the Courdes Comptes the day after the disappointment, I found friend Védrineplanted before an easel, absorbed in pleasure, sketching upon a largecanvas the curious wild vegetation on the burnt building. Behind himwere his wife and son in ecstasy, and Madame Védrine, with the littlegirl in her arms, said to me in a serious undertone, 'We are so happy;Monsieur Védrine has at last got to oils. ' Is it not laughable? Is itnot touching?

This piecemeal letter, dear, will show you in what a bustle and feverI live since I have been working at my candidature. I go here and gothere, to 'at homes, ' to dinner parties, to evening parties. I am evensupposed to be 'zebra' to good Madame Ancelin, because I am constant ather drawing-room on Fridays, and on Tuesday evenings in her box at theFrançais. A very countrified 'zebra, ' I am sure, in spite of the changesI have had made to give myself a graver and more fashionable appearance. You must look for a surprise when I come back. Last Monday there wasa select party at the Duchess Padovani's, where I had the honour to bepresented to the Grand-Duke Leopold. His Highness complimented me onmy last book, and all my books, which he knows as well as I do. It ismarvellous what foreigners do know. But it is at the Astiers' that Iam most comfortable. It is such a primitive, simple, united family. Oneday, after breakfast, there arrived a new Academic coat for the master, and we tried it on together. I say 'we, ' for he wanted to see how thepalm leaves looked upon me. I put on the coat, hat, and sword, a realsword, my dear, which comes out, and has a groove in the middle for theblood to run away, and I assure you I was struck with my appearance; butthis I tell you only to show the intimacy of this invaluable friendship. 

When I come back to my peaceful, if narrow, quarters, if it is too lateto write to you, I always do a little counting. On the full list of theAcadémie I tick those of whom I am sure, and those who stand by Dalzon. Then I do various sums in subtraction and addition. It is an excellentamusement, as you will see when I show you. As I was telling you, Dalzon has the 'dukes, ' but the writer of the 'House of Orleans, ' who isreceived at Chantilly, is to introduce me there before long. If I geton there--and with this object I am diligently studying a certainengagement at Rocroy; so you see your brother is becoming deep--well, ifI get on, the author of 'Without the Veil, printed at Eropolis, ' loseshis strongest support. As for my opinions, I do not disavow them. I ama Republican, but not extreme, and more particularly I am a Candidate!Immediately after this little expedition I quite expect to come backto my darling Germaine, who will, I do hope, bear up and think of thehappiness of the triumph! We will do it, dear! We will get into the'goose's garden, ' as it is called by that Bohemian Védrine; but we shallneed endurance. 

 Your loving brother, Abel de Freydet. 

I have opened my letter again to say that the morning papers announcethe death of Loisillon. The stroke of fate is always affecting, evenwhen fully expected. What a sad event! What a loss to French literature!And unhappily, dear, it will keep me here still longer. Please pay thelabourers. More news soon. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

DESTINY had willed that Loisillon, fortunate always, should be fortunatein dying at the right moment. A week later, when houses were closed, society broken up, the Chamber and the Institute not sitting, hisfuneral train would have been composed of Academicians attentive totheir tallies, followed only by deputies from the numerous societies ofwhich he was Secretary or President. But business-like to the last andafter, he went off to the moment, just before the Grand Prix, choosinga week entirely blank, when, as there was no crime, or duel, orinteresting lawsuit, or political event, the sensational obsequies ofthe Permanent Secretary would be the only pastime of the town. 

The funeral mass was to be at twelve o'clock, and long before that houran immense crowd was gathering round St. Germain des Prés. The trafficwas stopped, and no carriages but those of persons invited were allowedto pass within the rails, strictly kept by a line of policemen postedat intervals. Who Loisillon was, what he had done in his seventy years'sojourn among mankind, what was the meaning of the capital letterembroidered in silver on the funeral drapery, was known to but few inthe crowd. The one thing which struck them was the arrangement of theprotecting line, and the large space left to the dead, distance, room, and emptiness being the constant symbols of respect and grandeur. Ithad been understood that there would be a chance of seeing actresses andpersons of notoriety, and the cockneys at a distance were putting namesto the faces they recognised among the groups conversing in front of thechurch. 

[Illustration: There, under the black-draped porch 164]

There, under the black-draped porch, was the place for hearing the truefuneral oration on Loisillon, quite other than that which was to bedelivered presently at Mont Parnasse, and the true article on the manand his work, very different from the notices ready for to-morrow'snewspapers. His work was a 'Journey in Val d'Andorre, ' and two reportspublished at the National Press, relating to the time when he wasSuperintendent at the Beaux-Arts. The man was a sort of shrewd attorney, creeping and cringing, with a permanent bow and an apologetic attitude, which seemed to ask your pardon for his decorations, your pardon forhis insignia, your pardon for his place in the Académie--where hisexperience as a man of business was useful in fusing together a numberof different elements, with none of which he could well have beenclassed--your pardon for the amazing success which had raised so highsuch a worthless winged grub. It was remembered that at an officialdinner he had said of himself complacently, as he bustled round thetable with a napkin on his arm, 'What an excellent servant I should havemade!' And it might have been written on his tomb. 

And while they moralised upon the nothingness of his life, his corpse, the remains of nothing, was receiving the honours of death. Carriageafter carriage drew up at the church; liveries brown and liveries bluecame and disappeared; long-frocked footmen bowed to the pavement witha pompous banging of doors and steps; the groups of journalistsrespectfully made way, now for the Duchess Padovani, stately and proud, now for Madame Ancelin, blooming in her crape, now for Madame Eviza, whose Jewish eyes shone through her veil with blaze enough to attracta constable--all the ladies of the Académie, assembled in fullcongregation to practise their worship, not so much by a service tothe memory of Loisillon, as by contemplation of their living idols, the'deities' made and fashioned by the cunning of their little hands, thework upon which, as women, they had employed the superabundance of theirenergy, artfulness, ambition, and pride. Some actresses had come too, on the pretext that the deceased had been the president of some sortof Actors' Orphanage, but moved in reality by the frantic determination'not to be out of it, ' which belongs to their class. Their expressionsof woe were such that they might have been taken for near relations. Acarriage suddenly drawing up set down a distracted group of black veils, whose sorrow was distressing to witness. The widow, at last? No, it isMarguerite Oger, the great sensational actress, whose appearance excitesall round the square a prolonged stir and much pushing about. Fromthe porch a journalist ran forward to meet her, and taking her handsbesought her to bear up. 'Yes, ' she said, 'I ought to be calm; I will, 'Whereupon, drying her tears and forcing them back with her handkerchief, she entered, or it should rather be said 'went on, ' into the darkness ofthe nave, with its background of glimmering tapers, fell down beforea desk on the ladies' side in a prostration of self-abandonment, andrising with a sorrowful air said to another actress at her side, 'Howmuch did they take at the Vaudeville last night?' '168L. 18s. , ' answeredher friend, with the same accent of grief. 

Lost in the crowd at the edge of the square, Abel de Freydet heard thepeople round him say, 'It's Marguerite. How well she did it!' But beinga small man, he was trying in vain to make his way, when a hand was laidupon his shoulder. 'What, still in Paris? It must be a trial for yourpoor sister, ' said Védrine, as he carried him along. Working his waywith his strong elbows through the stream of people who only came up tohis shoulder, and saying occasionally, 'Excuse me, gentlemen--members ofthe family, ' he brought to the front with him his country friend, who, though delighted at the meeting, felt some embarrassment, as thesculptor talked after his fashion, freely and audibly. 'Bless me, whatluck Loisillon has! Why there weren't more people for Béranger. This isthe sort of thing to keep a young man's pecker up. ' Here Freydet, seeingthe hearse approaching, took off his hat. 'Good gracious, what have youdone to your head? Turn round. Why you look like Louis Philippe!' Thepoet's moustache was turned down, his hair brushed forward, and hispleasant face showed its complexion of ruddy brown between whiskerstouched with grey. He drew up his short figure with a stiff dignity, whereat Védrine laughing said, 'Ah, I see. Made up for the grandees atChantilly? So you are still bent upon the Académie! Why, just look atthe exhibition yonder. '

In the sunlight and on the broad enclosure the official attendantsimmediately behind the hearse made a shocking show. Chance might seemto have chosen them for a wager among the most ridiculous seniors in theInstitute, and they looked especially-ugly in the uniform designedby David, the coat embroidered with green, the hat, the Courtsword, beating against legs for which the designer was certainly notresponsible. First came Gazan; his hat was tilted awry by the bumps ofhis skull, and the vegetable green of the coat threw into relief theearthy colour and scaly texture of his elephantine visage. At his sidewas the grim tall Laniboire with purple apoplectic veins and a crookedmouth. His uniform was covered by an overcoat whose insufficient lengthleft visible the end of his sword and the tails of the frock, and gavehim an appearance certainly much less dignified than that of the marshalwith his black rod, who walked before. Those that followed, such asAstier-Réhu and Desminières, were all embarrassed and uncomfortable, all acknowledged by their apologetic and self-conscious bearingthe absurdity of their disguise, which, though it might pass in thechastened light of their historic dome, seemed amid the real life of thestreet not less laughable than a show of monkeys. 'I declare one wouldlike to throw some nuts to see if they would go after them on allfours, ' said Freydet's undesirable companion. But Freydet did not catchthe impertinent remark. He slipped away, mixed with the procession, andentered the church between two files of soldiers with arms reversed. Hewas in his heart profoundly glad that Loisillon was dead. He had neverseen or known him; he could not love him for his work's sake, as he haddone no work; and the only thing for which he could thank him was thathe had left his chair empty at such a convenient moment. But he wasimpressed notwithstanding. The funeral pomp to which custom makes theold Parisian indifferent, the long line of knapsacks, the muskets thatfell on the flags with a single blow (at the command of a boyish littlemartinet, with a stock under-his chin, who was probably performing onthis occasion his first military duty), and, above all, the funeralmusic and the muffled drums, filled him with respectful emotion: andas always happened when he felt keenly, rimes began to rise. He hadactually got a good beginning, presenting a grand picture of the stormand electric agitation and mental eclipse produced in the atmosphereof a nation when one of its great men disappears. But he broke off histhoughts to make room for Danjou, who, having arrived very late, pushedon amid the looks and whispers of the ladies, gazing about him coldlyand haughtily and passing his hand over his head as he habitually does, doubtless to ascertain the safety of his back hair. 

'He did not recognise me, ' thought Freydet, hurt by the crushing glancewith which the Academician relegated to the ranks the nobody who hadventured to greet him; 'it's my whiskers, I suppose. ' The interruptionturned the thoughts of the candidate from his verses, and he began toconsider his plan of operations, his calls, his official announcementto the Permanent Secretary. But what was he thinking of? The PermanentSecretary was dead! Would Astier-Réhu be appointed before the vacation?And when would the election be? He proceeded to consider all the'details, down to his coat. Should he go to Astier's tailor now? And didthe tailor supply also the hat and sword?

_Pie Jesu, Domine_, sang a voice behind the altar, the swelling notes ofan opera singer, asking repose for Loisillon, whom it might be thoughtthe Divine Mercy had destined to special torment, for all through thechurch, loud and soft, in every variety of voice, solo and in unison, came the supplication for 'repose, repose. ' Ah, let him sleep quietlyafter his many years of turmoil and intrigue! The solemn stirring chantwas answered in the nave by women's sobbing, above which rose the tragicconvulsive gasp of Marguerite Oger, the gasp so impressive in thefourth act of 'Musidora. ' All this lamentation touched the kind-heartedcandidate and linked itself in his feelings to other lamentations andother sorrows. He thought of relatives who had died, and of his sisterwho had been a mother to him, and who was now given up by all thedoctors, and knew it, and spoke of it in every letter. Ah! would shelive even to see the day of his success? Tears blinded him, and he wasobliged to wipe his eyes. 

'Don't come it too strong, it won't seem genuine, ' said the sneeringvoice of fat Lavaux, grinning close at his ear. He turned roundangrily; but here the young officer gave at stentorian pitch the command'Carry--arms!' and the bayonets rattled on the muskets while the muffledtones of the organ rolled out the 'Dead March. ' The procession beganto form for leaving the church, headed as before by Gazan, Laniboire, Desminières, and Freydet's old master, Astier-Réhu. They all lookedsuperb now, the parrot green of their laced coats being subdued bythe dim religious light of the lofty building as they walked down thecentral aisle, two and two, slowly, as if loth to reach the great squareof daylight seen through the open doors. Behind came the whole Society, headed by its senior member, the wonderful old Jean Réhu, looking tallerthan ever in a long coat, and holding up the little brown head, carved, one might fancy, out of a cocoa-nut, with an air of contemptuousindifference telling that 'this was a thing he had seen' any number oftimes before. Indeed in the course of the sixty years during which hehad been in receipt of the tallies of the Académie, he must have heardmany such funeral chants, and sprinkled much holy water on illustriousbiers. 

But if Jean Réhu was a 'deity, ' whose miraculous immortality justifiedthe name, it could only be applied in mockery to the band of patriarchswho followed him. Decrepit, bent double, gnarled as old apple trees, with feet of lead, limp legs, and blinking owlish eyes, they stumbledalong, either supported on an arm or feeling their way with outstretchedhands; and their names whispered by the crowd recalled works longdead and forgotten. Beside such ghosts as these, 'on furlough from thecemetery, ' as was remarked by a smart young soldier in the guard ofhonour, the rest of the Academicians seemed young. They posed andstrutted before the delighted eyes of the ladies, whose bright gleamsreached them through the black veils, the ranks of the crowd, and thecloaks and knapsacks of the bewildered soldiers. On this occasion againFreydet, bowing to two or three 'future colleagues, ' encountered cold orcontemptuous smiles, like those which a man sees when he dreams that hisdearest friends have forgotten him. But he had not time to be depressed, being caught and turned about by the double stream which moved up thechurch and towards the door. 

'Well, my lord, you will have to be stirring now, ' was the advice offriendly Picheral, whispered in the midst of the hubbub and the scrapingof chairs. It sent the candidate's blood tingling through his veins. Butjust as he passed before the bier Danjou muttered, without looking athim, as he handed him the holy-water brush, 'Whatever you do, be quiet, and let things slide. ' His knees shook beneath him. Bestir yourself! Bequiet! Which advice was he to take? Which was the best? Doubtless hismaster, Astier, would tell him, and he tried to reach him outside thechurch. It was no easy task in the confusion of the court, where theywere forming the procession, and lifting the coffin under its heap ofcountless wreaths. Never was a scene more lively than this coming outfrom the funeral into the brilliant daylight; everywhere people werebowing and talking gossip quite unconnected with the ceremony, while thebright expression on every face showed the reaction after a long hour'ssitting still and listening to melancholy music. Plans were made, meetings arranged; the hurrying stream of life, stopped for a briefwhile, impatiently resumed its course, and poor Loisillon was left farbehind in the past to which he belonged. 

'At the Français to-night, don't forget; it's the last Tuesday, 'simpered Madame Ancelin, while Paul said to Lavaux, 'Are you going tosee it through?'

'No; I'm taking Madame Eviza home. '

'Then come to Keyser's at six. We shall want freshening after thespeeches. '

The mourning coaches were drawing up one after the other, while theprivate carriages set off at a trot. People were leaning out of all thewindows in the square, and over towards the Boulevard Saint-Germainmen standing on the stationary tramcars showed tier after tier of headsrising in dark relief against the blue sky. Freydet, dazzled by the sun, tilted his hat over his eyes and looked at the crowd, which reached asfar as he could see. He felt proud, transferring to the Académie theposthumous glory which certainly could not be ascribed to the authorof the 'Journey in Val d'Andorre, ' though at the same time he wasdistressed at noticing that his dear 'future colleagues' obviously kepthim at a distance, became meditative when he drew near, or turned away, making little groups to keep out the intruder. And these were the verymen who only two days ago at Voisin's had said to him, 'When areyou going to join us?' But the heaviest blow was the desertion ofAstier-Réhu. 

'What a calamity, sir!' said Freydet, coming up to him and putting ona doleful expression for the purpose of saying something sympathetic. Astier-Réhu, standing by the hearse, made no answer, but went on turningover the leaves of the oration he would shortly have to deliver. 'What acalamity!' repeated Freydet. 

'My dear Freydet, you are indecent, ' said his master, roughly, in a loudvoice. And with one harsh snap of the jaw he betook himself again to hisreading. 

Indecent! What did he mean? The poor man looked himself over, but couldfind no explanation of the reproach. What was the matter? What had hedone?

For some minutes he was quite dazed. Vaguely he saw the hearse startunder its shaking pyramid of flowers, with green coats at the fourcorners, more green coats behind, then all the Society, and immediatelyfollowing, but at a respectful distance, another group, in which hefound himself involved and carried along he knew not how. Young men, oldmen, all terribly gloomy and depressed, all marked on the brow with thesame deep furrow, set there by one fixed idea, all expressing with theireyes the same hatred and distrust of their neighbours. When he hadgot over his discomfiture, and was able to identify these persons, he recognised the faded, hopeless face of old Moser, the candidateeverlasting; the honest expression of Dalzon, the author of 'thatbook, ' who had failed at the last election; and de Salêles!--andGuérineau!--Why, they were the 'fish in tow'! They were the men aboutwhom the Académie 'does not trouble itself, ' whom it leaves, hangingon to a strong hook, to be drawn along in the wake of the ship of fame. There they all were--all of them, poor drowned fish!--some dead andunder the water; others still struggling, turning up sad and greedy eyesfull of an eager craving, never to be appeased. And while he vowed tohimself to avoid a similar fate, Abel de Freydet followed the bait anddragged at the line, too firmly struck already to get himself free. 

Far away, along the line cleared for the procession, muffled drumsalternated with the blast of trumpets, bringing crowds of bystanders onthe pavement and heads to every window. Then the music again took up thelong-drawn strains of the Hero's March. In the presence of so impressivea tribute as this national funeral, this proud protest on the partof humanity, crushed and overcome by death but decking defeat inmagnificence, it was hard to realise that all this pomp was forLoisillon, Permanent Secretary of the Académie Française--for nothing, servant to nothing. 

CHAPTER IX. 

EVERY day between four and six, earlier or later according to the timeof year, Paul Astier came to take his _douche_ at Keyser's hydropathicestablishment at the top of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré Twenty minutes'fencing, boxing, or single-stick followed by a bath and a cold _douche_;then a little halt at the flower-shop, as he came out, to have acarnation stitched in his buttonhole; then a constitutional as faras the Arc de l'Etoile, Stenne and the phaeton following close to thefootway. Finally came a turn in the Bois, where Paul, thanks to hisobservance of fashionable hygiene, displayed a feminine delicacy ofcolouring and a complexion rivalling any lady's. By this visit toKeyser's he also saved himself the trouble of reading the papers. Gossipwent on between one dressing-room and another, or on the lounges ofthe fencing-room, where the visitors sat in fencing dress or flanneldressing-gowns, or even outside the doctor's door while awaiting the_douche_. From clubs, drawing-rooms, the Chamber, the Bourse, orthe Palais de Justice came in the news of the day, and there it wasproclaimed freely in loud tones, to the accompaniment of the clashingof swords and sticks, shouts for the waiter, resounding slaps on barebacks, creaking of wheel-chairs for rheumatic patients, heavy plungesre-echoing under the reverberating roof of the swimming-bath, whileabove the various sounds of splashing and spurting water rose the voiceof worthy Dr. Keyser, standing on his platform, and the ever-recurringburden, 'Turn round. '

On this occasion Paul Astier was 'turning round' under the refreshingshower with great enjoyment; he was getting rid of the dust and fatigueof his wearisome afternoon, as well as of the lugubrious sonorities ofAstier-Réhu's Academic regret 'His hour sounded upon the bell'... 'thehand of Loisillon was cold'... 'he had drained the cup of happiness'... &c, &c. Oh Master! Master! oh, respected papa! It took a good dealof water, showers, streams, floods of it, to wash off all that grimyrubbish. 

[Illustration: Passed a tall figure bent double 182]

As he went away with the water running off him, he passed a tallfigure bent double, coming up from the swimming bath, which gave him ashivering nod from under a huge gutta-percha cap covering the head andhalf the face. The man's lean pallor and stiff stooping walk made Paultake him for one of the poor invalids who attend the establishmentregularly, and whose apparition, silent as night-birds in thefencing-room where they come to be weighed, contrasts so strangelywith the healthy laughter and superabundant vigour of the rest of thecompany. But the contemptuous curve of the large nose and the wearylines round the mouth vaguely recalled some face he knew in society. In his dressing-room he asked the man who was shampooing him, 'Who wasthat, Raymond, who bowed to me just now?'

'Why, that's the Prince d'Athis, sir, ' replied Raymond, with aplebeian's satisfaction in uttering the word 'prince. ' 'He has beentaking _douches_ for some time past, and generally comes in the morning. But he is later to-day, on account of a burial, so he told Joseph. '

The door of Paul's dressing-room was partly open during this dialogue, and in the room on the opposite side of the passage was visible La vaux. As he pulled on and buckled his long clerical hose, he said, 'I say, Paul, did you see Sammy coming to freshen himself up a bit?'

'Freshen himself up?' said Paul. 'What for?'

'He's going to be married in a fortnight, you know. '

'Oh! And when does he go to his Embassy?'

'Why, now, at once. The Princess has started. They are to be married outthere. '

Paul had a horrid presentiment. 'The Princess?' he asked. 'Whom is hegoing to marry?'

'Where have you been? It's been the talk of Paris for the last two days!Colette, of course; Colette the inconsolable. I should like to see whatthe Duchess looks like. At the Loisillon affair she carried herselfwell, but never lifted her veil or spoke a word. It's a tough bit toswallow, eh? When you think that only yesterday I was helping her tochoose materials for the room he was to have at St. Petersburg!'

The ill-natured unctuous voice of the fashionable scandalmonger went onwith the story as he finished buckling his garters, accompanied bythe sound of a _douche_ two boxes off, and the Prince's voice saying, 'Harder, Joseph, harder, don't be afraid. ' Freshening himself up, washe?

Paul had crossed the passage as soon as Lavaux began to talk, that hemight hear better. He was seized with a wild desire to kick in the doorof the Prince's room, spring on him, and have an explanation face toface with the scoundrel who was stealing the fortune almost in hisgrasp. Suddenly he perceived that he had nothing on, reflected that hiswrath was ill-timed, and went back to his room, where he calmed down alittle as he realised that the first thing to do was to have a talk withhis mother and find out exactly how matters stood. 

That afternoon, for once, he had no flower in his buttonhole, and while, as the stream of carriages went past, the ladies looked languidly forthe charming young man in the usual row, he was driving rapidly to theRue de Beaune. There he was greeted by Corentine with bare arms and adirty apron. She had taken the opportunity of her mistress's absence tohave a great clean-up. 

'Do you know where my mother is dining?'

No, her mistress had not told her. But the master was upstairs, rummaging in his papers. The little staircase leading to the paper-roomcreaked under Léonard Astier's heavy tread. 

'Is that you, Paul?' he asked. 

The dim light of the passage and his own agitation prevented the youngman from noticing his father's extraordinary appearance and the dazedsound of his voice when he answered. 

'How's the Master?' said the son--'So mamma's not in?'

'No, she is dining with Madame Ancelin and going on to the Français; Iam to join them in the evening. '

After this the father and son had nothing further to say to each other. They met like two strangers, like two men of hostile races. On thisoccasion, indeed, Paul in his impatience was half inclined to askLeonard whether he knew anything about the marriage; but he thought thenext minute, 'No, he is too stupid; mother would never say a word tohim. ' His father, who was also strongly tempted to put a question, called him back with an air of embarrassment. 

'Paul, ' he said, 'I have lost--I can't find----'

'Can't find what?' asked the son. 

Astier-Réhu hesitated a moment; but after looking closely at the prettyface, whose expression, on account of the bend in the nose, was neverperfectly straightforward, he added in a gloomy, surly tone--

'No, nothing; it does not matter. I won't keep you. '

There was nothing for it but to meet his mother at the theatre in MadameAncelin's box. That meant two or three hours to be got through first. Paul dismissed his carriage and ordered Stenne to bring him his dressthings at his club. Then he started for a stroll through the city ina faint twilight, while the clipped shrubs of the Tuileries Gardensassumed brighter colours as the sky grew dark around them. It was themystic hour so precious to people pursuing dreams or making plans. The carriages grow fewer, the shadowy figures hurry by and touch thestroller lightly. There is no interruption to the flow of a man'sthoughts. So the ambitious young fellow, who had quite recovered hispresence of mind, carried on his reflections clearly. His thoughts werelike those of Napoleon at the last hour of the battle of Waterloo: aftera long day of success defeat had come with night. What was the reason?What mistake had he made? He replaced the pieces on the chessboard, andlooked for the explanation of failure, but in vain. It had perhaps beenrash of him to let two days pass without seeing her. But it was the mostelementary rule that after such a scene as that in the cemetery a womanshould be left to herself to recover. How was he to foresee this suddenflight? Suddenly a hope flashed upon him. He knew that the Princesschanged her plan as often as a bird its perch. Perhaps she might notyet have gone; perhaps he should find her in the midst of preparations, unhappy, undecided, asking Herbert's portrait for advice, and shouldwin her back by one embrace. He understood and could follow now all thecapricious turns of the romance which had been going on in her littlehead. 

He took a cab to the Rue de Courcelles. Nobody there. The Princess hadgone abroad, they told him, that very morning. A terrible fit of despaircame over him, and he went home instead of to the club, so as not tohave to talk and answer questions. His spirits sank even lower at thesight of his great mediaeval erection and its front, in the style ofthe _Tour de la Faim_, all covered with bills; it suggested the pilesof overdue accounts. As he felt his way in, he was greeted by a smellof fried onions filling the whole place; for his spruce little valeton nights when his master dined at the club would cook himself a tastydish. A gleam of daylight still lingered in the studio, and Paulflung himself down on a sofa. There, as he was trying to think by whatill-luck his artfullest, cleverest designs had been upset, he fellasleep for a couple of hours and woke up another man. Just asmemory gains in sharpness during the sleep of the body, so had hisdetermination and talent for intrigue gone on acting during his shortrest. He had found a new plan, and moreover a calm fixity of resolution, such as among the modern youth of France is very much more rarely metwith than courage under arms. 

He dressed rapidly and took a couple of eggs and a cup of tea; andwhen, with a faint odour of the warm curling-iron about his beard andmoustaches, he entered the Théâtre Français and gave Madame Ancelin'sname at the box-office, the keenest observer would have failed to detectany absorbing preoccupation in the perfect gentleman of fashion, andwould never have guessed the contents of this pretty drawing-roomarticle, black-and-white lacquered, and well locked. 

Madame Ancelin's worship of official literature had two temples, theAcadémie Française and the Comédie Française. But the first of theseplaces being open to the pious believer only at uncertain periods, she made the most of the second, and attended its services with greatregularity. She never missed a 'first night, ' whether important orunimportant, nor any of the Subscribers' Tuesdays. And as she readno books but those stamped with the hall-mark of the Académie, so theactors at the Comédie were the only players to whom she listened withenthusiasm, with excited ejaculations and rapturous amazement. Herexclamations began at the box-office, at the sight of the two greatmarble fonts, which the good lady's fancy had set up before the statuesof Rachel and Talma in the entrance to the 'House of Molière. '

'Don't they look after it well? Just look at the door-keepers! What atheatre it is!'

The jerky movements of her short arms and the puffing of her fat littlebody diffused through the passage a sense of noisy gleefulness whichmade people say in every box, 'Here's Madame Ancelin!' On Tuesdaysespecially, the fashionable indifference of the house contrasted oddlywith the seat where, in supreme content, leaning half out of the box, sat and cooed this good plump pink-eyed pigeon, piping away audibly, 'Look at Coquelin! Look at De-launay! What perennial youth! What anadmirable theatre!' She never allowed her friends to talk of anythingelse, and in the _entr'actes_ greeted her visitors with exclamations ofrapture over the genius of the Academic playwright and the grace of theActress-Associate. 

At Paul Astier's entrance the curtain was up; and knowing that theritual of Madame Ancelin required absolute silence at such a time, hewaited quietly in the little room, separated by a step from the front ofthe box, where Madame Ancelin was seated in bliss between Madame Astierand Madame Eviza, while behind were Danjou and De Freydet looking likeprisoners. The click, which the box-door made and must make in shutting, was followed by a 'Hush!' calculated to appal the intruder who wasdisturbing the service. Madame Astier half turned round, and felt ashiver at the sight of her son. What was the matter? What had Paul tosay to her of such pressing importance as to bring him to that haunt ofboredom--Paul, who never let himself be bored without a reason? Moneyagain, no doubt, horrid money! Well, fortunately she would soon haveplenty; Sammy's marriage would make them all rich. Much as she longed togo up to Paul and reassure him with the good news, which perhaps he hadnot heard, she was obliged to stay in her seat, look on at the play, andjoin as chorus in her hostess's exclamations, 'Look at Coquelin! Look atDe-launay! Oh! Oh!' It was a hard trial to her to have to wait So it wasto Paul, who could see nothing but the glaring heat of the footlights, and in the looking-glass at the side the reflection of part of thehouse, stalls, dress-circle, boxes, rows of faces, pretty dresses, bonnets, all as it were drowned in a blue haze, and presenting thecolourless ghostly appearance of things dimly seen under water. Duringthe _entr'acte_ came the usual infliction of indiscriminate praise. 

'Monsieur Paul! Di' y' see Reichemberg's dress? Di' y' see the pink-beadapron? and the ribbon ruching? Di' y' see? This is the only place wherethey know how to dress, that it is!'

Visitors began to come, and the mother was able to get hold of her sonand carry him off to the sofa. There, in the midst of wraps and thebustle of people going out, they spoke in low voices with their headsclose together. 

'Answer me quickly and clearly, ' began Paul 'Is Sammy going to bemarried?'

'Yes, the Duchess heard yesterday. But she has come here to-night allthe same. Corsican pride!'

'And whom has he caught? Can you tell me now?'

'Why, Colette, of course! You must have had a suspicion. '

'Not the least, ' said Paul. 'And what shall you get for it?'

She murmured triumphantly, 'Eight thousand pounds!'

[Illustration: Well, by your schemes I have lost a million 192]

'Well, by your schemes I have lost a million!--a million, and a wife!'He grasped her by the wrists in his anger, and hissed into her face, 'You selfish marplot!'

The news took away her breath and her senses. It was Paul then, Paul, from whom proceeded the force which acted, as she had occasionallyperceived, against her influence; it was Paul whom the little fool wasthinking of when she said, sobbing in her arms, 'If you only knew!' Andnow, just at the end of the mines which with so much cunning and skilfulpatience they had each been driving towards the treasure, one laststroke of the axe had brought them face to face, empty-handed! They satsilent, looking at each other, with corresponding crooks in their nosesand the same fierce gleam in both pairs of grey eyes, while allaround them were the stir of people coming and going and the buzz ofconversation. Rigid indeed is the discipline of society, seeing that itcould repress in these two creatures all the cries and groans, all thedesire to roar and slay, which filled and shook their hearts. MadameAstier was the first to express her thoughts aloud:

'If only the Princess were not gone!'

And she writhed her lips with rage at the thought that the suddendeparture had been her own suggestion. 

'We will get her back, ' said Paul. 

'How?'

Without answering her question, he asked, 'Is Sammy here to-night?'

'Oh, I don't think so, as _she_ is---- Where are you going? what do youmean to do?'

'Keep quiet, won't you? Don't interfere. You are too unlucky for me. '

He left with a crowd of visitors who were driven away by the end of the_entr'acte_, and she went back to her seat on Madame Ancelin's left. Her hostess worshipped with the same ecstasy as before, and it was oneperpetual giving of thanks. 

'Oh, look at Coquelin! What humour he has! My dear, do look at him!'

'My dear' was indeed not attending; her eyes wandered, and on her lipswas the painful smile of a dancer hissed off the boards. With the excusethat the footlights dazzled her, she was turning every moment towardsthe audience to look for her son. Perhaps there would be a duel withthe Prince, if he was there. And all her fault--all through her stupidbungling. 

'Ah, there's Delaunay! Di' y' see him? Di' y' see?'

No, she had seen nothing but the Duchess's box, where some one had justcome in, with a youthful elegant figure, like her Paul. But it was thelittle Count Adriani, who had heard of the rupture like the rest ofParis and was already tracking the game. Through the rest of theplay the mother ate her heart out in misery, turning over innumerableconfused plans for the future, mixed in her thoughts with past eventsand scenes which ought to have forewarned her. Stupid, how stupid ofher! How had she failed to guess?

At last came the departure, but oh how long it took! She had to stopevery moment, to bow or smile to her friends, to say good-bye. 'What areyou going to do this summer? Do come and see us at Deauville. ' All downthe narrow passage crammed with people, where ladies finish putting ontheir wraps with a pretty movement to make sure of their ear-rings, alldown the white marble staircase to the men-servants waiting at the foot, the mother, as she talks, still watches, listens, tries to catch in thehum of the great fashionable swarm dispersing for some months a word orhint of a scene that evening in a box. Here comes the Duchess, haughtyand erect in her long white and gold mantle, taking the arm of the youngofficer of the Papal Guard. She knows the shabby trick her friendhas played her, and as the two women pass they exchange a coldexpressionless glance more to be dreaded than the most violent expletiveof a fishwoman. They know now what to think of each other; they knowthat in the poisoned warfare, which is to succeed their sisterlyintimacy, every blow will tell, will be directed to the right spot bypractised hands. But they discharge the task imposed by society, andboth wear the same mask of indifference, so that the masterful hateof the one can meet and strike against the spiteful hate of the otherwithout producing a spark. 

Downstairs, in the press of valets and young clubmen, Léonard Astier waswaiting, as he had promised, for his wife. 'Ah, there is the great man!'exclaimed Madame Ancelin; and with a final dip of her fingers intothe holy water she scattered it around her broadcast, over the greatAstier-Réhu, the great Danjou, and Coquelin, you know! and Delaunay, youknow! Oh! Oh! Oh!--Astier did not reply, but followed with his wife onhis arm and his collar turned up against the draught. It was raining. Madame Ancelin offered to take them home; but it was only with theconventional politeness of a 'carriage' lady afraid of tiring her horsesand still more afraid of her coachman's temper (she has invariably thebest coachman in Paris). Besides, 'the great man' had a cab; and withoutwaiting for the lady's benediction--'Ah, well, we know you two like tobe alone. Ah! what a happy household!'--he dragged off Madame Astieralong the wet and dirty colonnade. 

When, at the end of a ball or evening party, a fashionable couple driveoff in their carriage, the question always suggests itself, 'Now whatwill they say?' Not much usually, for the man generally comes away fromthis kind of festivity weary and knocked up, while the lady continuesthe party in the darkness of the carriage by inward comparisons of herdress and her looks with those she has just seen, and makes plansfor the arrangement of her drawing-room or a new costume. Stillthe restraint of feature required by society is so excessive, andfashionable hypocrisy has reached such a height, that it would beinteresting to be present at the moment when the conventional attitudeis relaxed, to hear the real natural tone of voice, and to realise theactual relations of the beings thus suddenly released from trammels andsent rolling home in the light of their brougham lamps through the emptystreets of Paris. In the case of the Astiers the return home was verycharacteristic. The moment they were alone the wife laid aside thedeference and pretended interest exhibited towards the Master insociety, and spoke her mind, compensating herself in so doing for theattention with which she had listened for the hundredth time to oldstories which bored her to death. The husband, kindly by disposition andaccustomed to think well of himself and everyone else, invariably camehome in a state of bliss, and was horrified at the malicious comments ofhis wife on their hosts and the guests they had met. Madame Astier wouldutter calmly the most shocking accusations, exaggerating gossip inthe light unconscious way which is characteristic of Parisian society. Rather than stimulate her he would hold his tongue and turn round inhis corner to take a little doze. But on this evening Léonard sat downstraight, regardless of the sharp 'Do mind my dress!' which showed thatsomebody's skirts were being crumpled. What did he care about her dress?'I've been robbed!' he said, in such a tone that the windows rattled. 

Oh dear, the autographs! She had not been thinking of them, least ofall just now, when tormented by very different anxieties, and there wasnothing feigned in her surprise. 

Robbed--yes, robbed of his 'Charles-the-Fifths, ' the three best thingsin his collection! But the assurance which made his attack so violentdied out of his voice, and his suspicion hesitated, at the sight ofAdelaide's surprise. Meanwhile she recovered her self-possession. 'But whom do you suspect?' Corentine, she thought, was trustworthy. Teyssèdre? It was hardly likely that an ignorant----

Teyssèdre! He exclaimed at it, the thing seemed so obvious. Helped byhis hatred for the man of polish, he soon began to see how the crime hadcome about, and traced it step by step from a chance allusion at dinnerto the value of his documents, heard by Corentine and repeated in allinnocence. Ah, the scoundrel! Why, he had the skull of a criminal!Foolish to struggle against the intimations of instinct! There mustbe something out of the common, when a floor-polisher could arouse sostrange an antipathy in a member of the Institute! Ah, well, the doltwas done for now! He should catch it! 'My three Charleses! Only fancy!'He wanted to inform the police at once, before going home. Hiswife tried to prevent him. 'Are you out of your mind? Go to thepolice-station after midnight?' But he insisted, and thrust his greatnumskull out into the rain to give orders to the driver. She was obligedto pull him back with an effort, and feeling too much exhausted to carryon the lie, to let him say his say and bring him round gradually, shecame out with the whole truth. 

'It's not Teyssèdre--it's I! There!' At one breath she poured out thestory of her visit to Bos, the money she had got, the 800L. , and thenecessity for it. The silence which ensued was so long that at first shethought he had had a fit of apoplexy. It was not that; but like a childthat falls or hits itself, poor Crocodilus had opened his mouth so wideto let out his anger, and taken so deep a breath, that he could notutter a sound. At last came a roar that filled the Carrousel, wheretheir cab was at that minute splashing through the pools. 

'Robbed, robbed! Robbed by my wife for the sake of her son!' In hisinsane fury he jumbled together indiscriminately the abusive patois ofhis native hillside, '_Ah la garso! Ah li bongri!_' with the classicalexclamations of Harpagon bewailing his casket, _Justice, justice duciel!_' and other select extracts often recited to his pupils. It wasas light as day in the bright rays of the tall electric lamps standinground the great square, over which, as the theatres were emptying, omnibuses and carriages were now passing in all directions. 

'Do be quiet, ' said Madame Astier; 'everyone knows you. '

'Except you, Madame!'

She thought he was going to beat her, and in the strained condition ofher nerves it might perhaps have been a relief. But under the terrorof a scandal he suddenly quieted down, swearing finally by his mother'sashes that as soon as he got home he would pack up his trunk andgo straight off to Sauvagnat, leaving his wife to depart with herscoundrelly prodigal and live on their spoils. 

Once more the deep old box with its big nails was brought hastily fromthe anteroom into the study. A few billets of wood were still left in itfrom the winter's supply, but the 'deity' did not change his purpose forthat. For an hour the house resounded with the rolling of logs and thebanging of cupboard doors, as he flung among the sawdust and bits ofdry bark linen, clothes, boots, and even the green coat and embroideredwaistcoat of the Academic full dress, carefully put away in napkins. Hiswrath was relieved by this operation, and diminished as he filled histrunk, till his last resentful grumblings died away when it occurred tohim that, fixed as he was to his place, to uproot himself was utterlyimpossible. Meanwhile Madame Astier, sitting on the edge of an armchairin her dressing-gown, with a lace wrap round her head, watched hisproceedings and murmured between yawn and yawn with placid irony, 'Really, Léonard, really!'

CHAPTER X. 

'My notion is that people, like things, have a right and a wrong way up, and there's always a place to get hold of, if you want to have a goodcontrol and grasp of them. I know where the place is, and that's mypower! Driver, to the Tête Noire. ' At Paul Astier's order the opencarriage, in which the three tall hats belonging to Freydet, Védrine, and himself rose in funereal outline against the brightness of theafternoon landscape, drew up on the right-hand side of the bridge atSt. Cloud, in front of the inn he had named. Every jolt of the hiredconveyance over the paving of the square brought into sight an ominouslong case of green baize projecting beyond the lowered hood of thecarriage. Paul had chosen, as seconds for this meeting with D'Athis, first the Vicomte de Freydet, on account of his title and his 'de, ' andwith him the Count Adriani. But the Papal Embassy was afraid of addinganother scandal to the recent affair of the Cardinal's hat, and he hadbeen obliged to find a substitute for Pepino in the sculptor, who wouldperhaps allow himself at the last minute to be described in the officialstatement as 'Marquis. ' The matter, however, was not supposed to beserious, only a quarrel at the club over the card-table, where thePrince had taken a hand for a last game before leaving Paris. The affaircould not be hushed up; it was specially impossible to cave in to afighting man like Paul Astier, who had a great reputation in fencingrooms, and whose records were framed and hung in the shooting-gallery inthe Avenue d'Antin. 

While the carriage waited by the terrace of the _restaurant_ and thewaiters unobtrusively bestowed on it knowing glances, down a steeplittle path came rolling a short, fat man, with the white spats, whitetie, silk hat, and captivating air of the doctor of a fashionablewatering-place. He made signals from the distance with his sunshade, there's Gomes, ' said Paul. Doctor Gomes, formerly on the residentstaff of one of the Paris hospitals, had been ruined by play and an oldattachment. Now he was 'Uncle Gomes, ' and had an irregular practice;not a bad fellow, but one who would stick at nothing, and had made aspecialty of affairs like the present. Fee, two guineas and breakfast. Just now he was spending his holiday with Cloclo at Ville d'Avray, andcame puffing to the meeting place, carrying a little bag which heldhis instrument case, medicines, bandages, splints--enough to set up anambulance. 

'Is it to be scratch or wound?' he asked, as he took his seat in thecarriage opposite Paul. 

'Scratch, of course, doctor, scratch, with swords of the Institute. TheAcadémie Française against the Sciences Morales et Politiques. '

Gomès smiled as he steadied his bag between his knees. 

'I did not know, so I brought the big apparatus. '

'Well, you must display it; it will impress the enemy, ' suggestedVédrine, in his quiet way. 

The doctor winked, a little put out by the two seconds, whose faces wereunknown to the boulevards, and to whom Paul Astier, who treated him likea servant, did not even introduce him. 

As the carriage started, the window of a room on the first floor opened, and a pair came and looked at them curiously. The girl was Marie Donval, of the Gymnase, whom the doctor recognised and named in a loud voice. The other was a deformed little creature, whose head was barely visibleabove the window-sill. Freydet, with much indignation, and Védrine, withsome amusement, recognised Fage. 

'Are you surprised, M. De Freydet?' said Paul. And hereupon he launchedinto a savage attack upon woman. Woman! A disordered child, with all achild's perversity and wickedness, all its instinctive desire to cheat, to lie, to tease, all its cowardice. She was greedy, she was vain, shewas inquisitive. Oh yes, she could serve you a hash of somebody else, but she had not an idea of her own; and in argument, why, she was asfull of holes, twists, and slippery places as the pavement on a frostynight after a thaw. How was conversation possible with a woman? Why, there was nothing in her, neither kindness nor pity nor intellect--notleven common sense. For a fashionable bonnet or one of Spricht's gownsshe was capable of stealing, of any trick however dirty; for at bottomthe only thing she cares for is dress. To know the strength of thispassion a man must have gone, as Paul had, with the most elegantladies of fashion to the rooms of the great man-milliner. They werehand-and-glove with the forewomen, asked them to breakfast at theircountry houses, knelt to old Spricht as if he were the Pope himself. TheMarquise de Roca-Nera took her young daughters to him, and all but askedhim to bless them!

'Just so, ' said the doctor, with the automatic jerk of a hireling whoseneck has been put out of joint by perpetual acquiescence. Then followedan awkward pause, the conversation being, as it were, thrown out of gearby this sudden and unexpectedly violent effusion from a young fellowusually very civil and self-possessed. The sun was oppressive, and wasreflected off the dry stone walls on each side of the steep road, upwhich the horses were toiling painfully, while the pebbles creaked underthe wheels. 

'To show the kindness and pity of woman, I can vouch for the following. 'It was Védrine who spoke, his head thrown back and swaying as it restedon the hood of the carriage, his eyes half shut as he looked at someinward vision. 'It was not at the great milliner's. It was at theHôtel-Dieu, in Bouchereau's department. A rough, white-washed cell, aniron bedstead with all the clothes thrown off, and on it, stark naked, covered with sweat and foam, contorted and twisted like a clown withsudden springs and with yells that re-echoed through the fore-court ofNotre Dame, a madman in the last agony. Beside the bed two women, one oneither side, the Sister, and one of Bouchereau's little lady-students, both quite young, yet with no disgust and no fear, both leaning over thepoonwretch whom no one dared go near, wiping from his brow and mouth thesweat of his agony and the suffocating foam. The Sister was praying allthe time; the other was not. But in the inspired look in the eyes ofboth, in the gentleness of the brave little hands which wiped away themadman's foam right from under his teeth, in the heroic and maternalbeauty of their unwearied movements, you felt that they were both verywomen. There is woman! It was enough to make a man fall on his knees andsob. '

'Thank you, Védrine, ' said Freydet under his breath; he had been chokingwith the recollection of the dear one at Clos Jallanges. The doctorbegan his jerk and his 'just so, ' but was cut short by the dry, incisivetones of Paul Astier. 

'Oh yes, sick nurses, I'll allow. Sickly themselves, nothing gives themsuch pleasure as nursing, dressing, bathing their patients, handlinghot towels and basins; and then there's the power they exercise over thesuffering and the weak. ' His voice hissed and rose to the pitch of hismother's, while from his cold eye darted a little gleam of wickednesswhich made his companions wonder 'what is up, ' and suggested to thedoctor the sage reflection, 'All very well to talk about a scratch, andswords of the Institute, but I should not care to be in the Prince'sskin. '

'Now I'll paint you a pendant to our friend's chromo, ' sneered Paul. 'Asa specimen of feminine delicacy and faithfulness, take a littlewidow, who even in the burial vault of the departed, and on his verytombstone----'

'_The Ephesian Matron!_' broke in Védrine, 'you want to tell us that!'The discussion grew animated and ran on, still to an accompanimentof the jolting wheels, upon the never-failing topics of masculinediscussion, woman and love. 

'Gentlemen, look, ' said the doctor, who from his place on the front seatsaw two carriages coming up the hill at a quick trot. In the first, anopen victoria, were the Prince's seconds. Gomes stood up, and as he satdown again named them in a low and respectful tone, 'the Marquis d'Urbinand General de Bonneuil of the Jockey Club--very good form--and mybrother-surgeon, Aubouis. ' This Doctor Aubouis was another low-casteof the same stamp as Gomes; but as he had a ribbon his fee wasfive guineas. Behind was a little brougham in which, along with theinseparable Lavaux, was concealed D'Athis, desperately bored with thewhole business. During five minutes the three vehicles went up the hillone behind another like a wedding or funeral procession, and nothingwas heard but the sound of the wheels and the panting or snorting of thehorses as they rattled their bits. 

'Pass them, ' said a haughty nasal voice. 

'By all means, ' said Paul, 'they are going to see to our quarters. 'The wheels grazed on the narrow road, the seconds bowed, the doctorsexchanged professional smiles. Then the brougham went by, showing behindthe window glass, pulled up in spite of the heat, a morose motionlessprofile, as pale as a corpse. 'He won't be paler than that an hourhence, when they take him home with a hole in his side, ' thought Paul, and he pictured the exact thrust, feint No. 2, followed by a directlunge straight in between the third and fourth ribs. 

At the top of the hill the air was cooler, and laden with the scent oflime-flowers, acacias, and roses warm in the sun. Behind the low parkrailings sloped great lawns over which moved the mottled shadows of thetrees. Presently was heard the bell of a garden gate. 

'Here we are, ' said the doctor, who knew the place. It was where theMarquis d'Urbin's stud used to be, but for the last two years it hadbeen for sale. All the horses were gone, except a few colts gambollingabout in fields separated by high barriers. 

The duel was to take place at the further end of the estate, on a wideterrace in front of a white brick stable. It was reached by slopingpaths all overgrown with moss and grass, along which both parties walkedtogether, mingling, but not speaking, proper as could be; except thatVédrine, unable to support these fashionable formalities, scandalisedFreydet, who carried his high collar with much gravity, by exclaiming, 'Here's a lily of the valley, ' or pulling off a bough, and presently, struck with the contrast between the splendid passivity of nature andthe futile activity of man, ejaculated, as he gazed on the great woodsthat climbed the opposite hill-side, and the distance composed ofclustered roofs, shining water and blue haze, 'How beautiful, howpeaceful!' With an involuntary movement he pointed to the horizon, forthe benefit of some one whose patent leather boots came squeaking behindhim. But oh, what an outpouring of contempt, not only upon the improperVédrine, but upon the landscape and the sky! The Prince d'Athis wasunsurpassed in contempt. He expressed it with his eye, the celebratedeye whose flash had always overcome Bismarck; he expressed it with hisgreat hooked nose, and with the turned down corners of his mouth; heexpressed it without reason, without inquiry, study, or thought, and hisrise in diplomacy, his successes in love and in society, were all thework of this supposed contempt!

In reality 'Sammy 'was an empty-headed bauble, a puppet picked by aclever woman's compassion out of the refuse and oyster shells of thesupper-tavern, raised by her higher and higher, prompted by her what tosay and, more important still, what not to say, lessoned and guided byher, till the day when, finding himself at the top of the ladder, hekicked away the stool which he no longer wanted. Society thought him avery clever fellow, but Védrine did not share the general opinion; andthe comparison of Talleyrand to a 'silk stocking full of mud' came intohis mind as he watched this highly respectable and proper personagestalk majestically past him. Evidently the Duchess had her wits abouther when she disguised his emptiness by making him both diplomatist andacademician, and cloaking him for the official carnival with the doublethickness of both the two thread-bare, though venerable, dominos, towhich society continues to bow. But how she could have loved such ahollow, stony-hearted piece of crockery, Védrine did not understand. Wasit his title? But her family was as good as his. Was it the Englishcut of his clothes, the frock coat closely fitted to his broken-downshoulders, and the mud-coloured trousers that made so crude a bit ofcolour among the trees? One might almost think that the young villain, Paul, was right in his contemptuous remarks on woman's taste for what islow, for deformity in morals or physique!

The Prince had reached the three-foot fence which divided the pathfrom the meadow, and either because he mistrusted his slender legs, or because he thought a vigorous movement improper for a man of hisposition, he hesitated, particularly bothered by the sense that 'thathuge artist fellow' was just at his back. At last he made up his mindto step out of his way to a gap in the wooden fence. Védrine winked hislittle eyes. 'Go round, my good sir, ' was his thought, 'go round; makethe road as long as you will, it must bring you in the end to the frontof the white building yonder. And when you get there, you may possiblyhave to pay a heavy reckoning for all your scoundrelly tricks. There isalways a reckoning to pay in the end. ' Having relieved his mind by thissoliloquy, he jumped clean over the fence without so much as puttinga hand on it (a proceeding extremely improper), and joined the knot ofseconds busily engaged in casting lots for places and swords. In spiteof the dandified solemnity of their aspect, they looked, as they allbent to see whether the toss fell head or tail, or ran to pick up thecoins, like big school-boys in the playground, wrinkled and grey. Duringa discussion on a doubtful pitch, Védrine heard his name called byAstier, who, with perfect self-possession, was taking off his coat andemptying his pockets behind the little building. 'What's that stuff theGeneral is talking? Wants to have his walking-stick within reach of ourswords, to prevent accidents? I won't have that sort of thing, do youhear? This is not a lower school fight. We are both old hands, fifthform. ' In spite of his light words, his teeth were clenched and his eyegleamed fiercely. 'It's serious then?' asked Védrine, looking at himhard. 

'Couldn't be more so. '

'Ah! Somehow I thought as much, ' and the sculptor returned to convey themessage to the General, commander of a cavalry division, looking all legfrom his heels to his pointed ears, which in brilliancy of colour viedwith Freydet's. At Védrine's intimation these ears flushed suddenlyscarlet, as if the blood boiled in them. 'Right, Sir! 'Course, Sir!'His words cut the air like the lash of a whip. Sammy was being helped byDoctor Aubouis to turn up his shirt sleeves. Did he hear? or was it theaspect of the lithe, cat-like, vigorous young fellow as he came forwardwith neck and arms bare and round as a woman's, and with that pitilesslook. Be the reason what it may, D'Athis, who had come to the ground asa social duty without a shade of anxiety, as befitted a gentleman whowas not inexperienced and knew the value of two good seconds, suddenlychanged countenance, turned earthy pale, while his beard scarcelyconcealed the twitch of his jaw in the horrible contortion of fear. But he kept his self-control, and put himself on the defensive bravelyenough. 

'Now, gentlemen. '

Yes, there is always a reckoning to pay. He realised that keenly ashe faced that pitiless sword-point, which sought him, felt him at adistance, seemed to spare him now only to make more sure of hittingpresently. They meant to kill him; that was certain. And as he parriedthe blows with his long, thin arm stretched out, amid the clashing ofthe hilts he felt, for the first time, a pang of remorse for his meandesertion of the noble lady who had lifted him out of the gutter andgiven him once more a decent place in the world; he felt too that hermerited wrath was in some way connected with this present encompassingperil, which seemed to shake the air all about him, to send round andround in a glancing, vanishing vision the expanse of sky overhead, thealarmed faces of the seconds and doctors, and the remoter figures oftwo stable boys wildly beating off with their caps the gambolling horsesthat wanted to come and look on. Suddenly came exclamations, sharp andperemptory: 'Enough! Stop, stop!' What has happened? The peril is gone, the sky stands still, everything has resumed its natural colour andplace. But at his feet over the torn and trampled ground spreads awidening pool of blood, which darkens the yellow soil, and in it liesPaul Astier helpless, with a wound right through his bare neck, stucklike a pig. In the still pause of horror which followed the disasterwas heard the shrill, unceasing noise of insects in the distant meadow, while the horses, no longer watched, gathered together a little way offand stretched out inquisitive noses towards the motionless body of thevanquished. 

Yet he was a skilful swordsman. His fingers had a firm grasp of the hiltand could make the whistling blade flash, hover, and descend where hepleased, while his adversary encountered him with a wavering cowardlyspit. How had it come about? The seconds will say, and the eveningpapers repeat, and to-morrow all Paris will take up the cue, that PaulAstier slipped as he made his thrust and ran on his opponent's point. Afull and accurate account will no doubt be given: but in life it usuallyhappens that decision of language varies inversely with certaintyof knowledge. Even from the spectators, even from the combatantsthemselves, a certain mist and confusion will always veil the crucialmoment, when, against all reasonable calculation, the final stroke wasgiven by intervening fate, wrapped in that obscure cloud which by epicrule closes round the end of a contest. 

Carried into a small coachman's room adjoining the stable, Paul, onopening his eyes after a long swoon, saw first from the iron bedstead onwhich he lay a lithographic print of the Prince Imperial pinned to thewall over the drawers, which were covered with surgical instruments. Asconsciousness returned to him through the medium of external objects, the poor melancholy face with its faded eyes, discoloured by the damp ofthe walls, suggested a sad omen of ill-fated youth. But besides ambitionand cunning, Paul had his full share of courage; and raising withdifficulty his head and its cumbrous wrapping of bandages, he asked ina voice broken and weak, though fleeting still, 'Wound or scratch, doctor?' Gomes, who was rolling up his medicated wool, waved to him tokeep quiet, as he answered, 'Scratch, you lucky dog; but a near shave. Aubouis and I thought the carotid was cut. ' A faint colour came into theyoung man's cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. It is so satisfactory not todie! Instantly his ambition revived, and he wanted to know how long heshould take to get well again. 'From three weeks to a month. ' Such wasthe doctor's judgment, announced in an indifferent tone with an amusingshade of contempt. He was really very much annoyed and mortified thathis patient had got the worst of it. Paul with his eyes on the wall wasmaking calculations. D'Athis would be gone and Colette married beforehe was even out of bed. Well, that business had failed; he must look outfor something else. 

The door was opened, and a great flood of light poured into themiserable room. How delightful was life and the warm sunshine! Védrine, coming in with Freydet, went up to the bed and held out his handjoyously, saying 'You did give us a fright!' He was really fond of hisyoung rascal, and cherished him as a work of art. 'Ah, that you did!'said Freydet, wiping his brow with an air of great relief. His eyes hadseen all his hopes of election to the Académie lying on the ground inthat pool of blood. How could Astier, the father, ever have come out asthe champion of a man connected with such a fatal event? Not but thatFreydet had a warm heart, but the absorbing thought of his candidaturebrought his mind, like a compass needle, always round to the same point;howsoever shaken and turned about, it came back still to the AcademicPole. And as the wounded man smiled at his friends, feeling a littlefoolish at finding himself, for all his cleverness, lying there at fulllength, Freydet dilated with admiration on the 'proper' behaviour of theseconds, whom they had just assisted in framing the report, of DoctorAubouis, who had offered to stay with his professional friend, of thePrince, who had gone off in the victoria and left for Paul his well-hungcarriage, which having only one horse could be brought right up to thedoor of the little building. Every one had behaved most properly. 

'How he bores one with his proprieties!' said Védrine, seeing the facePaul had not been able to help making. 

'It really is very odd, ' murmured the young fellow in a vague andwandering voice. So it would be he, and not the other fellow, whosepale, bloodstained face would be seen by the doctors side through thewindow of the brougham as it went slowly home. Well, he had made a messof it! Suddenly he sat up, in spite of the doctor's protest, rummagedin his card-case for a card, and scribbled on it with pencil in a shakyhand, 'Fate is as faithless as man. I wanted to avenge you, but couldnot. Forgive me. ' He signed his name, read it over, reflected, read itagain, then fastened up the envelope, which they had found in a dustydrawer, a nasty scented envelope from some rural stores, and directed itto the Duchess Padovani. He gave it to Freydet, begging him to deliverit himself as soon as possible. 

'It shall be there within an hour, my dear Paul. '

He made with his hand a sign of thanks and dismissal, then stretchedhimself out, shut his eyes, and lay quiet and still till the departure, listening to the sound which came from the sunny meadow around--a vastshrill hum of insects, which imitated the pulsation of approachingfever. Beneath the closed lids his thoughts pursued the windings of thissecond and quite novel plot, conceived by a sudden inspiration on 'theplace of defeat. 

Was it a sudden inspiration? There perhaps the ambitious young man waswrong; for the spring of our actions is often unseen, lost and hiddenamid the internal disturbance of the crisis, even as the agitator whostarts a crowd himself disappears in it. A human being resembles acrowd; both are manifold, complicated things, full of confused andirregular impulses, but there is an agitator in the background; and themovements of a man, like those of a mob, passionate and spontaneous asthey may appear, have always been preconcerted. Since the evening whenon the terrace of the Hôtel Padovani Lavaux had suggested the Duchess tothe young Guardsman, the thought had occurred to Paul that, if Madamede Rosen failed him, he might fall back on the fair Antonia. It hadrecurred two nights ago at the Français, when he saw Adriani in theDuchess's box; but it took no definite shape, because all his energywas then turned in another direction, and he still believed in thepossibility of success. Now that the game was completely lost, his firstidea on returning to life was 'the Duchess. ' Thus, although he scarcelyknew it, the resolution reached so abruptly was but the coming to lightof what grew slowly underground. 'I wanted to avenge you, but couldnot. ' Warm-hearted, impulsive, and revengeful as he knew her to be, 'Mari' Anto, ' as her Corsicans called her, would certainly be at hisbedside the next morning. It would be his business to see that she didnot go away. 

Védrine and Freydet went back together in the landau, without waitingfor Sammy's brougham, which had to come slowly for the sake of thewounded man. The sight of the swords lying in their baize cover on theempty seat opposite suggested reflection. 'They don't rattle so muchas they did going, the brutes, ' said Védrine, kicking them as he spoke. 'Ah, you see they are his!' said Freydet, giving words to his thoughts. Then, resuming the air of gravity and propriety appropriate to a second, he added, 'We had everything in our favour, the ground, the weapons, anda first rate fencer. As he says, it is very odd. '

Presently there was a pause in the dialogue, while their attention wasfixed by the gorgeous colour of the river, spread in sheets of greenand purple under the setting sun. Crossing the bridge the horses trottedfast up the street of Boulogne. 'Yes, ' Védrine went on, as if therehad been no long interruption of silence; 'yes, after all, in spite ofapparent successes, the fellow is unlucky at bottom. I have now seen himmore than once fighting with circumstances in one of those crises whichare touchstones to a man's fate, and bring out of him all the luck hehas. Well, let him plot as cunningly as he will, foresee everything, mixhis tints with the utmost skill, something gives way at the last moment, and without completely ruining him prevents him from attaining hisobject. Why? Very likely, just because his nose is crooked. I assureyou, that sort of crookedness is nearly always the sign of a twist inthe intellect, an obliquity in the character. The helm's not straight, you see!'

They laughed at the suggestion; and Védrine, pursuing the subject ofgood and bad luck, told an odd story of a thing which had happenedalmost under his eyes when he was staying with the Padovani in Corsica. It was on the coast at Barbicaglia, just opposite the lighthouse on theSanguinaires. In this lighthouse lived an old keeper, a tried servant, just on the eve of retirement. One night when he was on duty the oldfellow fell asleep and dozed for five minutes at the most, stopping withhis outstretched leg the movement of the revolving light, which ought tochange colour once a minute. That very night, just at that moment, theinspector-general, who was making his annual round in a Government boat, happened to be opposite the Sanguinaires. He was amazed to see astationary light, had the boat stopped, investigated and reported thematter, and the next morning the official boat brought a new keeper tothe island and notice of instant dismissal to the poor old man. 'Itseems to me, ' said Védrine, 'a curiosity in ill-luck that, in thechances of darkness, time, and space, the inspector's survey should havecoincided with the old man's nap. ' Their carriage was just reaching thePlace de la Concorde, and Védrine pointed with one of his slow calmmovements to a great piece of sky overhead where the dark green colourwas pierced here and there by newly-appearing stars, visible in thewaning light of the glorious day. 

A few minutes later the landau turned into the Rue de Poitiers, a shortstreet, already in shadow, and stopped in front of the high iron gatesbearing the Padovani shield. All the shutters of the house were closed, and there was a great chattering of birds in the garden. The Duchesshad gone for the summer to Mousseaux. Freydet stood hesitating, with thehuge envelope in his hand. He had expected to see the fair Antonia andgive a graphic account of the duel, perhaps even to slip in a referenceto his approaching candidature. Now he could not make up his mindwhether he should leave the letter, or deliver it himself a few dayshence, when he went back to Clos Jallanges. Eventually he decidedto leave it, and as he stepped back into the carriage he said, 'Poorfellow! He impressed upon me that the letter was urgent. '

'Quite so, ' said Védrine, as the landau carried them along the quays, now beginning to glimmer with rows of yellow lights, to the meetingplace arranged with D'Athis's seconds; 'quite so. I don't know what theletter is about, but for him to take the trouble to write it at such amoment, it must be something very smart, something extremely ingeniousand clever. Only there you are! Very urgent--and the Duchess has left. '

And pushing the end of his nose on one side between two fingers, he saidwith the utmost gravity, 'That's what it is, you see. '

CHAPTER XI. 

The sword-thrust which had so nearly cost Paul Astier his life madepeace for the time between his parents. In the emotion produced by sucha shock to his natural feelings, the father forgave all; and as forthree weeks Madame Astier remained with her patient, coming home only onflying visits to fetch linen or change her dress, there was no risk ofthe covert allusions and indirect reproaches, which will revive, evenafter forgiveness and reconciliation, the disagreement of husband andwife. And when Paul got well and went, at the urgent invitation of theDuchess, to Mousseaux, the return of this truly academic household, ifnot to warm affection, at least to the equable temperature of the 'coldbed, ' was finally secured by its establishment in the Institute, inthe official lodgings vacated by Loisillon, whose widow, having beenappointed manager of the school of Ecouen, removed so quickly, that thenew secretary began to move in within a very few days of his election. 

It was not a long process to settle in rooms which they had surveyedfor years with the minute exactness of envy and hope, till they knew thevery utmost that could be made of every corner. The pieces of furniturefrom the Rue de Beaune fell into the new arrangement so smartly, that itlooked as if they were merely returning after a sojourn in the country, and finding their fixed habitat and natural place of adhesion by themarks of their own forms upon the floors or panels. The redecoration waslimited to cleaning the room in which Loisillon died, and papering whathad been the reception-room of Villemain and was now taken by Astierfor his study, because there was a good light from the quiet court anda lofty bright little room, immediately adjoining, for his MSS. , whichwere transferred there in three journeys of a cab, with the help of Fagethe bookbinder. 

[Illustration: With the help of Fage the bookbinder 226]

Every morning, with a fresh delight, he enjoyed the convenience of a'library' scarcely inferior to the Foreign Office, which he could enterwithout stooping or climbing a ladder. Of his kennel in the Rue deBeaune he could not now think without anger and disgust. It is thenature of man to regard places in which he has felt pain with anobstinate and unforgiving dislike. We can reconcile ourselves to livingcreatures, which are capable of alteration and differences of aspect, but not to the stony unchange-ableness of things. Amid the pleasures ofgetting in, Astier-Réhu could forget his indignation at the offence ofhis wife, and even his grievances against Teyssèdre, who received ordersto come every Wednesday morning as before. But at the mere remembranceof the slope-roofed den, into which he was lately banished for oneday in each week, the historian ground his teeth, and the jaw of'Crocodilus' reappeared. 

Teyssèdre, incredible as it may be, was very little excited or impressedby the honour of polishing the monumental floors of the Palais Mazarin, and still shoved about the table, papers, and numberless refaits of thePermanent Secretary with the calm superiority of a citizen of Riom overa common fellow from 'Chauvagnat. ' Astier-Réhu, secretly uncomfortableunder this crushing contempt, sometimes tried to make the savagefeel the dignity of the place upon which his wax-cake was operating. 'Teyssèdre, ' said he to him, one morning, 'this was the reception-roomof the great Villemain. Pray treat it accordingly;' but he instantlyoffered satisfaction to the Arvernian's pride by saying weakly toCorentine, 'Give the good man a glass of wine. ' The astonished Corentinebrought it, and the polisher, leaning on his stick, emptied it at adraught, his pupils dilating with pleasure. Then he wiped his mouth withhis sleeve and, setting down the glass with the mark of his greedy lipsupon it, said, 'Look you, _Meuchieu Astier_, a glass of good wine is theonly real good in life. ' There was such a ring of truth in his voice, such a sparkle of contentment in his eyes, that the Permanent Secretary, going back into his library, shut the door a little sharply. 

[Illustration: Good wine is the only real good in life. 236]

It was scarcely worth while to have scrambled from his low beginningto his present glory as head of literature, historian of the 'House ofOrleans, ' and keystone of the Académie Française, if a glass of goodwine could give to a boor a happiness worth it all. But the next minute, hearing the polisher say with a sneer to Corentine that 'mooch 'e caredfor the 'ception-room of the great Villemain, ' Léonard Astier shruggedhis shoulders, and at the thought of such ignorance his half-felt envygave way to a deep and benign compassion. 

Meanwhile Madame Astier, who had been brought up in the building, andrecognised with remembrances of her childhood every stone in the courtand every step in the dusty and venerable Staircase B, felt as if shehad at last got back to her home. She had, moreover, a sense far keenerthan her husband's of the material advantages of the place. Nothing topay for rent, for lighting, for fires, a great saving upon the partiesof the winter season, to say nothing of the increase of income and theinfluential connection, so particularly valuable in procuring ordersfor her beloved Paul. Madame Loisillon in her time, when sounding thepraises of her apartments at the Institute, never failed to add withemphasis, 'I have entertained there even Sovereigns. ' 'Yes, in the_little_ room, ' good Adelaide would answer tartly, drawing up her longneck. It was the fact that not unfrequently, after the prolonged fatigueof a Special Session, some great lady, a Royal Highness on her travels, or a leader influential in politics, would go upstairs to pay a littleparticular visit to the wife of the Permanent Secretary. To this sort ofhospitality Madame Loisillon was indebted for her present appointmentas school-manager, and Madame Astier would certainly not be less cleverthan her predecessor in utilising the convenience. The only drawback toher triumph was her quarrel with the Duchess, which made it impossiblefor her to follow Paul to Mousseaux. But an invitation, opportunelyarriving at this moment, enabled her to get as near to him as the houseat Clos Jallanges; and she had hopes of recovering in time the favourof the fair Antonia, towards whom, when she saw her so kind to Paul shebegan again to feel quite affectionate. 

Léonard could not leave Paris, having to work off the arrears ofbusiness left by Loisillon. He let his wife go however, and promised tocome down to their friends for a few hours now and then, though in truthhe was resolved not to separate himself from his beloved Institute. Itwas so comfortable and quiet! He had to attend two meetings in the week, just on the other side of the court--summer meetings, where a friendlyparty of five or six 'tallymen' dozed at ease under the warm glass. The rest of the week he was entirely free, and the old man employed itindustriously in correcting the proofs of his 'Galileo, ' which, finishedat last, was to come out at the opening of the season, as well as asecond edition of 'The House of Orleans, ' improved to twice its value bythe addition of new and unpublished documents. As the world grows old, history, which being but a collective memory of the race is liable toall the lapses, losses, and weaknesses of memory in the individual, finds it ever more necessary to be fortified with authentic texts, andif it would escape the errors of senility, must refresh itself at theoriginal springs. With what pride, therefore, with what enjoymentdid Astier-Réhu, during those hot August days, revise the fresh andtrustworthy information displayed in his beloved pages, as a preparationfor returning them to his publisher, with the heading on which, for thefirst time, appeared beneath his name the words 'Secretaire perpétuelde l'Académie Française. ' His eyes were not yet accustomed to thetitle, which dazzled him on each occasion, like the sun upon the whitecourtyard beneath his windows. It was the vast Second Court of theInstitute, private and majestic, silent, but for sparrows or swallowspassing rarely overhead, and consecrated by a bronze bust of Minervawith ten _termini_ in a row against the back wall, over which rose thehuge chimney of the adjoining Mint. 

Towards four o'clock, when the helmeted shadow of the bust was beginningto lengthen, the stiff mechanical step of old Jean Réhu woould be heardupon the flags. He lived over the Astiers, and went out regularly everyday for a long walk, watched from a respectful distance by a servant, whose arm he persistently refused. Within the barrier of his increasingdeafness his faculties, under the great heat of this summer, had begunto _give_ way, and especially his memory, no longer effectually guidedby the reminding pins upon the lappets of his coat. He mixed hisstories, and lost himself, like old Livingstone in the marshes ofCentral Africa, among his recollections, where he scrambled andfloundered till some one assisted him. Such a humiliation irritatedhis spleen, and he now therefore seldom spoke to anyone, but talked tohimself as he went along, marking with a sudden stop and a shake of thehead the end of an anecdote and the inevitable phrase, 'That's a thingthat I have seen. ' But he still carried himself upright, and was asfond of a hoax as in the days of the Directory. It was his amusement toimpose abstinence from wine, abstinence from meat, and every ridiculousvariety of regimen upon cits enamoured of life, crowds of whom wrote tohim daily, asking by what diet he had so miraculously extended his. He would prescribe sometimes vegetables, milk, or cider, sometimesshell-fish exclusively, and meanwhile ate and drank without restriction, taking after each meal a siesta, and every evening a good turn up anddown the floor, audible to Leonard Astier in the room below. 

Two months, August and September, had now elapsed since the PermanentSecretary came in--two clear months of fruitful, delightful peace; sucha pause in the climb of ambition as perhaps in all his life he hadnever enjoyed before. Madame Astier, still at Clos Jallanges, talked ofreturning soon; the sky of Paris showed the grey of the first fogs;the Academicians began to come home; the meetings were becoming lesssociable; and Astier, during his working hours in the reception-room ofthe great Villemain, found it no longer necessary to screen himself withblinds from the blazing reflection of the court. He was at his table oneafternoon, writing to the worthy De Freydet a letter of good news abouthis candidature, when the old cracked door-bell was violently rung. Corentine had just gone out, so he went to the door, where, to hisastonishment, he was confronted by Baron Huchenard and Bos the dealerin manuscripts. Bos dashed into the study wildly waving his arms, whilebreathless ejaculations flew out of his red tangle of beard and hair:'Forged! The documents are forged! I can prove it! I can prove it!'

Astier-Réhu, not understanding at first, looked at the Baron, who lookedat the ceiling. But when he had picked up the meaning of the dealer'soutcry--that the three autograph letters of Charles V. , sold by MadameAstier to Bos and by him transferred to Huchenard, were asserted notto be genuine--he said with a disdainful smile, that he would readilyrepurchase them, as he regarded them with a confidence not to beaffected by any means whatsoever. 

'Allow me, Mr. Secretary, allow me. I would ask you, ' said BaronHuchenard, slowly unbuttoning his macintosh as he spoke, and drawingthe three documents out of a large envelope, 'to observe this. ' Theparchments were so changed as scarcely to seem the same; their smokybrown was bleached to a perfect whiteness; and upon each, clear andlegible in the middle of the page, below the signature of Charles V. , was this mark, BB. 

 Angoulême 1836. 

'It was Delpech, the Professor of Chemistry, our learned colleague ofthe Académie des Sciences, who--' but of the Baron's explanation nothingbut a confused murmur reached poor Léonard. There was no colour in hisface, nor a drop of blood left at the tips of the big heavy fingers, inwhose hold the three autographs shook. 

'The 800L. Shall be at your house this evening, M. Bos, ' he managed tosay at last with what moisture was left in his mouth. 

Bos protested and appealed. The Baron had given him 900L. 

'900L. , then, ' said Astier-Réhu, making a great effort to show them out. But in the dimly-lighted hall he kept back his colleague, and begged himhumbly, as a Member of the Académie des Inscriptions, and for the honourof the whole Institute, to say nothing of this unlucky affair. 

'Certainly, my dear sir, certainly, on one condition. '

'Name it, name it. '

'You will shortly receive notice that I am a candidate for Loisillon'schair. ' The Secretary's answer was a firm clasp of hand in hand, whichpledged the assistance of himself and his friends. 

Once alone, the unhappy man sank down before the table with its load ofproofs, on which lay outspread the three forged letters to Rabelais. Hegazed at them blankly, and mechanically read: '_Maître Rabelais, vousqu'avez l'esprit fin et subtil!_' The characters seemed to go round andround in a mixture of ink, dissolved into broad blots of sulphate ofiron, which to his imagination went on spreading, till they reached hiswhole collection of originals, ten or twelve thousand, all unhappilygot from the same quarter. Since these three were forged, what of his'Galileo'?--what of his 'House of Orleans'?--the letter of Catherine II. Which he had presented to the Grand Duke?--the letter of Rotrou, whichhe had solemnly bestowed upon the Académie? What? What? A spasm ofenergy brought him to his legs. Fage! He must at once see Fage!

His dealings with the bookbinder had begun some years before, when thelittle man had come one day to the Library of the Foreign Office torequest the opinion of its learned and illustrious Keeper respecting aletter from Marie de Médicis to Pope Urban VIII. In favour of Galileo. It happened that Petit-Séquard had just announced as forthcoming, amonga series of short light volumes on history, entitled 'Holiday Studies, 'a 'Galileo' by Astier-Réhu of the Académie Française. When therefore thelibrarian's trained judgment had assured him that the MS. Was genuine, and he was told that Fage possessed also the letter of the Pope inreply, a letter of thanks from Galileo to the Queen, and others, heconceived instantaneously the idea of writing, instead of the 'slighttrifle, ' a great historical work. But his probity suggesting at the samemoment a doubt as to the source of these documents, he looked the dwarfsteadily in the face, and after examining, as he would have examined anoriginal, the long pallid visage and the reddened, blinking eye-lids, said, with an inquisitorial snap of the jaw, 'Are these manuscripts yourown, M. Fage?'

'Oh no, sir, ' said Fage. He was merely acting on behalf of a thirdperson, an old maiden lady of good birth, who was obliged to partgradually with a very fine collection, which had belonged to the familyever since Louis XVI. Nor had he been willing to act, till he had takenthe opinion of a scholar of the highest learning and character. Now, relying upon so competent a judgment, he should go to rich collectors, such as Baron Huchenard, for instance--but Astier-Réhu stopped him, saying, 'Do not trouble yourself. Bring me all you have relating toGalileo. I can dispose of it. ' People were coming in and taking theirplaces at the little tables, the sort of people who prowl and hunt inlibraries, colourless and taciturn as diggers from the mines, with anair as if they had themselves been dug up out of somewhere close anddamp. 'Come to my private room, upstairs, not here, ' whispered thelibrarian in the big ear of the humpback as he moved away, displayinghis gloves, oiled hair, and middle parting with the self-sufficiencyoften observable in his species. 

The collection of Mademoiselle du Mesnil-Case, a name disclosed by AlbinFage only under solemn promise of secrecy, proved to be an inexhaustibletreasure of papers relating to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which threw all sorts of interesting lights upon the past, andsometimes, by a word or a date, overturned completely the establishedopinions about facts or persons. Whatever the price, Léonard Astier tookand kept every one of the documents, which almost always fitted in withhis commenced or projected works. Without a shadow of doubt he acceptedthe little man's account of the masses of originals that were stillaccumulating dust in the attic of an ancient mansion at Ménilmontant. If, after some venomous criticism from 'the first collector' in France, his trust was slightly disturbed the suspicion could not but vanish whenthe book-binder, seated at his table or watering his vegetables in thequiet grass-grown yard, met it with perfect composure, and offered inparticular a quite natural explanation of certain marks of erasure andrestoration, visible on some of the pages, as due to the submergenceof the collection in sea-water, when it was sent to England during theemigration. After this fresh assurance Astier-Réhu would go back to thegate with a lively step, carrying off each time a purchase for whichhe had given, according to its historical value, a cheque for twenty, forty, or even as much as eighty pounds. 

These extravagances, unsuspected as yet by those around him, wereprompted, whatever he might say to quiet his conscience, not so much bythe motives of the historian as by those of the collector. This, even ina place so ill-adapted for seeing and hearing as the attic in the Rue deBeaune, where the bargains were usually struck, would have been patentto any observer. The tone of pretended indifference, the 'Let me see'muttered with dry lips, the quivering of the covetous fingers, markedthe progress from passion to mania, the growth of the hard and selfishcyst, which was feeding its monstrous size upon the ruin of the wholeorganism. Astier was becoming the intractable Harpagon of the stage, pitiless to others as to himself, bewailing his poverty and riding inthe omnibus, while in two years nearly 6500L. Of his savings droppedsecretly into the pocket of the humpback. To account to Madame Astier, Corentine, and Teyssèdre for the frequent visits of the little man, hereceived from the Academician pamphlets to bind, which he took awayand brought back ostentatiously. They corresponded by a sort of privatecode. Fage would write on a post-card, 'I have some new tooling toshow you, sixteenth century, in good condition and rare. ' Astier wouldtemporise: 'Not wanted, thanks. Perhaps later. ' Then would come 'Mydear Sir, Do not think of it. I will try elsewhere, ' and to this theAcademician invariably answered 'Early to-morrow morning. Bring thetooling. ' Here was the torment of the collector's pleasure. He must buyand buy, or else let pass to Bos, Huchenard, or some other rival thetreasures of Ménilmontant. Sometimes the thought of the time when moneymust fail would put him into a grim rage, and infuriated by the calm, self-satisfied countenance of the dwarf, he would exclaim 'More than6400L. In two years! And still you say, the lady is in want of money!How on earth does she get rid of it? 'At such moments he longed for thedeath of the old maid, the annihilation of the bookbinder, even a war, revolution, or general catastrophe, which might swallow up both thetreasure and the relentless speculators who worked it. 

And now the catastrophe was indeed near, not the catastrophe desired, for destiny never finds to her hand precisely the thing we asked for, but a turn of things so sudden and appalling as to threaten his work, his honour, fortune, and fame, all that he was and all that he had. Ashe strode away towards the Cour des Comptes, deadly pale and talkingto himself, the booksellers and print-dealers along the quay scarcelyrecognised the Astier-Réhu who, instead of looking right into the shopfor a bow, now passed them without recognition. To him neither personnor thing was visible. In imagination he was grasping the humpback bythe throat, shaking him by his pin-bespangled scarf, and thrusting underhis nose the autographs dishonoured by the chemistry of Delpech, withthe question, 'Now then, what is your answer to that?'

When he reached the Rue de Lille, he dashed through the door of roughplanks in the fence which surrounds the ruins, went up the steps, andrang the bell once and again. He was struck by the gloomy look of thebuilding, now that no flowers or greenery covered the nakedness of thegaping, crumbling masonry and the confusion of the twisted iron-work andleafless creepers. The sound of pattens came slowly across the chillycourt, and the caretaker appeared, a solid woman, who, broom in hand andwithout opening the gate, said, 'You want the bookbinder; but he isn'there now. ' Not here! Yes, Fage had gone, and left no address. In fact, she was just cleaning up the cottage for the man who was to have theappointment to the Cour des Comptes, which Fage had resigned. 

Astier-Réhu, for appearance' sake, stammered out a word or two, buthis voice was lost in the harsh and mournful cries of a great flightof black birds, which made the arches echo as they descended upon thecourt. 'Why, here are the Duchess's rooks!' said the woman, with arespectful wave of the hand towards the bare plane-trees of the HôtelPadovani, visible over the roof opposite. 'They are come before theDuchess this year, and that means an early winter!'

He went away, with horror in his heart. 

CHAPTER XII. 

The day following that on which the Duchess Padovani, to show herselfsmiling under the blow which had fallen upon her, had appeared atthe theatre, she went, as she usually did at that time of year, toMousseaux. She made no change in her plans. She had sent out herinvitations for the season, and did not cancel them. But before thearrival of the first instalment of visitors, during the few days'solitude usually spent in superintending in detail the arrangements forentertaining her guests, she passed the whole time from morning to nightin the park at Mousseaux, whose slopes stretched far and wide on thebanks of the Loire. She would go madly along, like a wounded and huntedanimal, stop for a moment from exhaustion, and then at a throb of painstart off again. 'Coward! coward! wretch!' She hurled invectives at thePrince as though he had been by her side, and still she walked with thesame fevered tread the labyrinth of green paths which ran down in longshady windings to the river. Here, forgetting her rank and her position, flinging off her mask and able to be natural at last, she would givevent to her despair, a despair perhaps something less than her wrath, for the voice of pride spoke louder within her than any other, and thefew tears which escaped her lids did not flow, but leaped and sparkledlike flames. Revenge, revenge! She longed for a revenge of blood, andsometimes pictured one of her foresters, Bertoli or Salviato, going offabroad to put a bullet into him on his wedding-day. Then she changedher mind. No, she would deal the blow herself, and feel the joy of the_vendetta_ in her own grasp. She envied the women of lower class whowait behind a doorway for the traitor, and fling in his face a bottlefull of vitriol with a storm of hideous curses. Why did she not knowsome of the horrible names that relieve the heart, some foul insult toshriek at the mean treacherous companion who rose before her mind withthe hesitating look and false constrained smile he wore at their lastmeeting? But even in her savage Corsican patois the great lady knewno 'nasty words, ' and when she had cried 'Coward! coward! wretch!' herbeautiful mouth could only writhe in helpless rage. 

In the evening after her solitary dinner in the vast hall, whosepanelling of old leather was gilt by the setting sun, her wild pacingto and fro began again. Now it was on the gallery overhanging the river, quaintly restored by Paul Astier, with open arcades like lace-work andtwo pretty corbel-turrets. Below on the Loire, outspread like a lake, there still lingered a delicate silvery light from the departing day, while the hazy evening air exaggerated the distances between the willowbeds and islands out towards Chaumont. But poor Mari' Anto did not lookat the view when, worn out with retracing the steps of her grief, sheleant both elbows on the balustrade and gazed into the dimness. Her lifeappeared before her, waste and desolate, at an age when it is difficultto make a fresh start. A faint sound of voices rose from Mousseaux, agroup of two or three small houses on the embankment; the chain of aboat creaked as the night breeze rose. How easy it would be! Griefhad bowed down her head so low, that if she were but to lean forwarda little farther.... But then what would the world say? A woman of herrank and age could not kill herself like any little grisette! The thirdday Paul's note arrived, and with it the newspapers' detailed report ofthe duel. It gave her the same delight as a warm pressure of the hand. So some one still cared for her, and had wanted to avenge her at therisk of his life! Not that Paul's feeling was love, she supposed, butonly a grateful affection, the reminiscence of kindnesses done by herto him and his family, perhaps an imperative desire to atone for hismother's treachery. Generous, brave fellow! If she had been in Paris, she would have gone to him at once, but as her guests were just due, shecould only write and send him her own doctor. 

Every hour came fresh arrivals from Blois and from Onzain, Mousseauxlying half way between the two stations. The landau, the victoria, andtwo great breaks set down at the steps in the great court, amid theincessant ringing of the bell, many illustrious members of the Duchess'sset, academicians and diplomatists, the Count and Countess Foder, the Comte de Brétigny and his son the Vicomte, who was a Secretary ofLegation, M. And Madame Desminières, Laniboire the philosopher, who hadcome to the castle to draw up his report on the award of the _Prix devertu_, the young critic of Shelley, who was 'run' by the Padovani set, and Danjou, handsome Danjou, all by himself, though his wife had beenasked. Life at Mousseaux was exactly what it had been the year before. The day passed in calls, or work in the separate rooms, meals, generalconversation, afternoon naps; then, when the great heat was passed, camelong drives through the woods, or sails on the river in the little fleetof boats anchored at the bottom of the park. Parties would be made topicnic on an island, and some of the guests would repair to the fishpreserves, which were always well stocked with lively fish, as thekeeper took care to replenish them from his nets before each expedition. Then every one came back to the ceremonious dinner, after which thegentlemen, when they had smoked in the billiard room or on thegallery, joined the ladies in a splendid apartment, which had been thecouncil-chamber of Catherine de Médicis. 

All round the huge room were depicted in tapestry the loves of Didoand her despair at the departure of the Trojan ships. The irony of thisstrange coincidence was not remarked by any one, so little do peoplein society regard their surroundings, less for want of observation thanbecause they are always and fully occupied with their personal behaviourand the effect they are to produce. But there was a striking contrastbetween the tragic despair of the abandoned queen, gazing with armsuplifted and streaming eyes as the little black speck disappeared, and the smiling serenity of the Duchess, as she presided in thedrawing-room, maintaining her supremacy over the other ladies, whosedress and whose reading were guided by her taste, or joining in thediscussions between Laniboire and the young critic, and in the disputeswaged over the candidates for Loisillon's seat by Desminières andDanjou. Indeed, if the Prince d'Athis, the faithless Sammy, whose namewas in every one's thoughts, though on no one's lips, could have seenher, he would have been mortified to find how small was the gap left ina woman's life by his-absence, and how busy was the turmoil throughoutthe royal castle of Mousseaux, where in all the long front there werebut three windows shut up, those belonging to what were called 'thePrince's rooms. '

'She takes it well, ' said Danjou the first evening. And neither littleCountess Foder, from whose massy lace protruded a very sharp inquisitivelittle nose, nor sentimental Madame Desminières, who had looked forwardto lamentations and confidences, could get over such amazing courage. In truth they were as much amazed at her as if going to a long-expectedplay they had found the house 'closed for the day'; while the men tookAriadne's equanimity as an encouragement to would-be successors. Thereal change in the Duchess's life lay in the attitude observed towardsher by all or nearly all the men; they were less reserved, moresedulous, more eager to please her, and fluttered round her chair withan obvious desire, not merely to merit her patronage, but to attract herregard. 

Never indeed had Maria Antonia been more beautiful. When she entered thedining-room the tempered brilliancy of her complexion and her shouldersin their light summer robe made a bright place at the table, even whenthe Marquise de Roca Nera had come over from her neighbouring countryseat on the other side of the Loire. The Marquise was younger, but noone would have thought so to look at them. Laniboire, the philosopher, was strongly attracted to the Duchess. He was a widower, well on inyears, with heavy features and apoplectic complexion, but he didhis best to captivate his hostess by the display of a manly andsportsmanlike activity which led him into occasional mishaps. Oneday, in a boat, as he tried to make a great display of biceps over hisrowing, he fell into the river; another time, as he was prancing onhorseback at the side of the carriage, his mount squeezed his leg sohard against the wheel that he had to keep his room and be bandagedfor several days. But the finest spectacle was to see him in thedrawing-room, 'dancing, ' as Danjou said, 'before the Ark. ' He stretchedand bent his unwieldy person in all directions. He would challenge toa philosophic duel the young critic, a confirmed pessimist ofthree-and-twenty, and overwhelm him with his own imperturbable optimism. Laniboire the philosopher had one particular reason for this goodopinion of the world; his wife had died of diphtheria caught fromnursing their children; both his children had died with their mother;and each time that he repeated his dithyramb in praise of existence, the philosopher concluded his statement with a sort of practicaldemonstration, a bow to the Duchess, which seemed to say, 'How can a manthink ill of life in the presence of such beauty as yours?'

The young critic paid his court in a less conspicuous and sufficientlycunning fashion. He was an immense admirer of the Prince d'Athis, andbeing at the age when admiration shows itself by imitation, he no soonermade his entry into society than he copied Sammy's attitudes, his walk, even the carriage of his head, his bent back, and vague mysterious smileof contemptuous reserve. Now he increased the resemblance by detailsof dress, which he had observed and collected with the sharpness of achild, from the way of pinning his tie just at the opening of the collarto the fawn-coloured check of his English trousers. Unfortunately he hadtoo much hair and not a scrap of beard, so that his efforts were quitethrown away, and revived no uncomfortable memories in the Duchess, whowas as indifferent to his English checks as she was to the languishingglances of Brétigny _fils_, or the significant pressure of Brétigny_père_, as he gave her his arm to dinner. But all this helped tosurround her with that atmosphere of gallantry to which she had longbeen accustomed by D'Athis, who played the humble servant to theverge of servility, and to save her woman's pride from the conscioushumiliation of abandonment. 

Amidst all these aspirants Danjou kept somewhat aloof, amusing theDuchess with his green-room stories and making her laugh, a way ofself-recommendation in certain cases not unsuccessful. But the time camewhen he thought matters sufficiently advanced: and one morning when shewas starting for her rapid solitary walk with her dogs through the park, in the hope of leaving her wrath behind in the thickets with the wakingbirds, or of cooling and tempering it among the dewy lawns and drippingbranches--suddenly, at a turn in the path, appeared Danjou, ready forthe attack. Dressed from head to foot in white flannels, his trouserstucked into his boots, with a picturesque cap and a well-trimmed beard, he was trying to find a _dénouement_ for a three-act drama, to beready for the Français that winter. The name was 'Appearances, ' and thesubject a satire on society. Everything was written but the final scene. 

[Illustration: He began to talk of his love 254]

'Well, let us try what we can do together, ' said the Duchess brightly, as she cracked the long lash of the short-handled whip with silverwhistle, which she used to call in her dogs. But the moment they turnedto walk together, he began to talk of his love, and how sad it wouldbe for her to live alone; and ended by offering himself, after his ownfashion, straight out and with no circumlocutions. The Duchess, witha quick movement of pride, threw up her head, grasping her whip handletightly, as if to strike the insolent fellow who dared to talk to her ashe might to a super at the opera. But the insult was also a compliment, and there was pleasure as well as anger in her blush. Danjou steadilyurged his point, and tried to dazzle her with his polished wit, pretending to treat the matter less as a love affair than as anintellectual partnership. A man like himself and a woman like her mightcommand the world. 

'Many thanks, my dear Danjou; such specious reasoning is not new to me. I am suffering from it still. ' Then with a haughty wave of her hand, which allowed no reply, she pointed out the shady path which thedramatist was to follow, and said, 'Look for your _dénouement_; I amgoing in. ' He stood where he was, completely disconcerted, and gazed ather beautiful carriage as she walked away. 

'Not even as zebra?' he said, in a tone of appeal. 

She looked round, her black brows meeting. 'Ah, yes, you are right; thepost is vacant, ' Her thoughts went to Lavaux, the base underling forwhom she had done so much, and without a smile she answered in a wearyvoice, 'Zebra, if you like. '

Then she vanished behind a little group of fine yellow roses a littleoverblown, whose leaves would be scattered at the first fresh breeze. 

It was something to boast of that the proud Mari' Anto' had heard himthrough. Probably no other man, not even her Prince, had ever spoken toher thus. Full of the inspiration of hope, and stimulated by the finespeeches he had just thrown off, the dramatist soon hit upon his finalscene. He was going back to write it out before breakfast, when hestopped short in surprise at seeing through the branches 'the Prince's'windows open to the sunlight Who was coming? What favourite guest was tobe honoured with those convenient and luxurious rooms, looking over theriver and the park? He made inquiries, and was reassured. It washer Grace's architect; he was coming to the castle after an illness. Considering the intimacy between the lady and the Astiers, nothing wasmore natural than that Paul should be entertained like a son of thehouse in a mansion which he had more or less created. Still, whenthe new arrival took his seat at breakfast, his chastened delicacy offeature, his paleness--the paler by a white silk kerchief--his duel, hiswound, and the general flavour of romance surrounding him seemed to makeso keen an impression on the ladies, and called forth such affectionateinterest and care on the part of the Duchess herself, that handsomeDanjou, being one of those all-engrossing persons to whom any otherman's success seems a personal loss, if not downright robbery, felta jealous pang. With his eyes on his plate he took advantage of hisposition by the hostess to murmur some depreciatory remarks upon thepretty young fellow, unfortunately so much disfigured by his mother'snose. He made merry over his duel, his wound, and his reputation in thefencing-room, the kind of bubble which bursts at the first prick of areal sword. He added, not knowing how near he was to the truth, 'Thequarrel at cards was of course a mere pretext; there was a woman at thebottom of it. '

'Of the duel? Do you think so?' His nod said 'I am sure of it. ' Muchadmiring his own cleverness, he turned to the company, and dazzled themwith his epigrams and anecdotes. He never went into society withoutproviding himself with a store of these pocket squibs. Paul was no matchfor him here, and the ladies' interest soon reverted to the brillianttalker, especially when he announced that, having got his _dénouement_and finished his play, he would read it in the drawing-room while it wastoo hot to go out. A universal exclamation of delight from the ladieswelcomed this invaluable relief to the day's monotony. What a preciousprivilege for them, proud as they were already of dating their lettersfrom Mousseaux, to be able to send to all their dear friends, who werenot there, accounts of an unpublished play by Danjou, read by Danjouhimself, and then next winter to be in a position to say when therehearsals were going on, 'Oh, Danjou's play! I know it; he read it tous at the castle. '

As the company rose, full of excitement at this good news, the Duchesswent towards Paul, and taking his arm with her graceful air of commandsaid, 'Come for a turn on the gallery; it is stifling here. ' The airwas heavy even at the height of the gallery, for there rose fromthe steaming river a mist of heat, which overspread and blurred theirregular green outlines of its banks and of its low floating islands. She led the young man away from the smokers right to the end of thefurthest bay, and then clasping his hand said, 'So it was for me; it wasall for me. '

'Yes, Duchess, for you. '

And he pursed his lips as he added, 'And presently we shall have anothertry. '

'You must not say that, you naughty boy. '

She stopped, as an inquisitive footstep came towards them. Danjou!'

'Yes, Duchess. '

'My fan... On the dining-room table... Would you be so kind?... ' Whenhe was some way off, she said, 'I will not have it, Paul. In the firstplace, the creature is not worth fighting. Ah, if we were alone--if Icould tell you!' The fierceness of her tone and the clenching of herhands betrayed a rage that amazed Paul Astier. After a month he hadhoped to find her calmer than this. It was a disappointment, and itchecked the explosion, 'I love you--I have always loved you, ' which wasto have been forced from him at the first confidential interview. Hewas only telling the story of the duel, in which she was very muchinterested, when the Academician brought her fan. 'Well fetched, zebra!'she said by way of thanks. With a little pout he answered in the samestrain but a lowered voice, 'A zebra on promotion, you know!'

'What, wanting to be raised already!' She tapped him with her fan as shespoke, and anxious to put him in a good temper for his reading, lethim escort her back to the drawing-room, where his manuscript was lyingready on a dainty card-table in the full light of a high window partlyopen, showing the flower-garden and the groups of great trees. 

[Illustration: Danjou read like a genuine 'Player' 264]

'_Appearances. A Drama in Three Acts. Dramatis Personæ_.... '

The ladies, getting as close round as they could, drew themselvestogether with the charming little shiver which is their way ofanticipating enjoyment. Danjou read like a genuine 'Player' ofPicheral's classification, making lengthy pauses while he moistenedhis lips with his glass of water, and wiped them with a fine cambrichandkerchief. As he finished each of the long broad pages, scribbled allover with his tiny handwriting, he let-it fall carelessly at his feeton the carpet Each time Madame de Foder, who hunts the 'lions' of allnations, stooped noiselessly, picked up the fallen sheet, and placed itreverently upon an armchair beside her, exactly square with the sheetsbefore, contriving, in this subtle and delicate way, to take a certainpart in the great man's work. It was as if Liszt or Rubinstein had beenat the piano and she had been turning over the music. All went well tillthe end of Act I. , an interesting and promising introduction, receivedwith a _furore_ of delighted exclamations, rapturous laughter, andenthusiastic applause. After a long pause, in which was audible fromthe far distance of the park the hum of the insects buzzing about thetree-tops, the reader wiped his moustache, and resumed:

_Act II The scene represents_... But here his voice began to break, andgrew huskier with every speech. He had just seen an empty chair amongthe ladies in the first row; it was Antonia's chair; and his glancesstrayed over his eye-glass searching the whole huge room. It was fullof green plants and screens, behind which the auditors had ensconcedthemselves to hear--or to sleep--undisturbed. At last, in one of thenumerous and regular intervals provided by his glass of water, he caughta whisper, then a glimpse of a light dress, then, at the far end, ona sofa, he saw the Duchess with Paul beside her, continuing theconversation interrupted on the gallery. To one like Danjou, spoiledwith every kind of success, the affront was deadly. But he nervedhimself to finish the Act, throwing his pages down on the floor with aviolence which made them fly, and sent little Madame de Foder crawlingafter them on all fours. At the end of the Act, as the whispering stillwent on, he left off, pretending that he was suddenly taken hoarse andmust defer the rest till the next day. The Duchess, absorbed in theduel, of which she could not hear enough, supposed the play concluded, and cried from the distance, clapping her little hands, 'Bravo, Danjou, the _dénouement_ is delicious. '

That evening the great man had, or said he had, a bilious attack, andvery early next morning he left Mousseaux without seeing any one again. Perhaps it was only the vexation of an author; perhaps he truly believedthat young Astier was going to succeed the Prince. However that may be, a week after he had gone Paul had not got beyond an occasional whisperedword. The lady showed him the utmost kindness, treated him with the careof a mother, asked after his health, whether he did not find the towerlooking south too hot, whether the shaking of the carriage tired him, whether it was not too late for him to stay on the river. But the momenthe tried to mention the word 'love, ' she was off without seeming tounderstand. Still he found her a very different creature from theproud Antonia of other years. Then, haughty and calm, she would showimpertinence his place by a mere frown. It was the serenity of amajestic river flowing between its embankments. But now the embankmentwas giving way; there seemed to be a crack somewhere, through which wasbreaking the real nature of the woman. She had fits of rebellionagainst custom and social convention, which hitherto she had respectedscrupulously, sudden desires to go somewhere else, and to tire herselfin some long excursion. She planned festivities, fireworks, greatcoursing expeditions for the autumn, in which she would take the lead, though it was years since she had been on horseback. Paul watchedcarefully the vagaries of her excitement, and kept his sharp hawk's-eyeupon everything; he had quite made up his mind not to dangle for twoyears, as he had round Colette de Rosen. 

One night the party had broken up early, after a tiring day of drivingin the neighbourhood. Paul had gone up to his room, and having thrownoff his coat was sitting in his slippers smoking a cigar and writingto his mother a carefully studied epistle. Mamma was staying at ClosJallanges, and wearing her eyes out with looking across the windingriver into the extreme distance for a glimpse of the four towers ofMousseaux: and he had to convince her that there was no chance of areconciliation at present between her and her friend, and that they hadbetter not meet. (No, no! His good mother was much too fond of fishingon her own hook to be a desirable associate!) He had to remind her ofthe bill due at the end of the month, and her promise to send the moneyto good little Stenne, who had been left in the Rue Fortuny as solegarrison of the mediaeval mansion. If Sammy's money had not yet come in, she might borrow of the Freydets, who would not refuse to advance it fora few days. That very morning the Paris papers in their foreign newshad announced the marriage of the French Ambassador at St. Petersburg, mentioned the presence of the Grand Duke, described the bride's dresses, and given the name of the Polish Bishop who had bestowed his blessing onthe happy pair. Mamma might imagine how the breakfast party at Mousseauxwas affected by this news, known to every one, and read by the hostessin the eyes of her guests and in their persistent conversation on othertopics. 

The poor Duchess, who had hardly spoken during the meal, felt, whenit was over, that she must rouse herself, and in spite of the heat hadcarried off all her visitors in three carriages to the Château de laPoissonnière, where the poet Ronsard was born. Ten miles' drive in thesun on a road all cracks and dust, for the pleasure of hearing thathideous old Lani-boire, hoisted on to an old stump as decayed ashimself, recite 'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose. ' On the way homethey had paid a visit to the Agricultural Orphanage and Training Schoolfounded by old Padovani. Mamma must know it all well; they had beenover the dormitory and laundry, and inspected the implements and thecopy-books; and the whole place was so hot and smelly; and Laniboiremade a speech to the Agricultural Orphans, cropped like convicts, inwhich he assured them that the world was good. To finish themselvesup they stopped again at the furnaces near Onzain, and spent an hourbetween the heat of the setting sun and the smoke and smell of coal fromthree huge belching brick chimneys, stumbling over the rails and dodgingthe trucks and shovels full of molten metal in gigantic masses, whichdropped fire like dissolving blocks of red ice, All the time the Duchesswent on unwearied, but looked at nothing, listened to nothing. Sheseemed to be having an animated discussion with old Brétigny, whose armshe had taken, and paid as little attention to the furnaces and forgesas to the poet Ronsard or the Agricultural Orphanage. 

Paul had reached this point in his letter, painting with terrible force, to console his mother for her absence, the dullness of life this year atMousseaux, when he heard a gentle knock at his door. He thought it wasthe young critic, or the Vicomte de Brétigny, or perhaps Laniboire, whohad been very unquiet of late. All these had often prolonged the eveningin his room, which was the largest and most convenient, and had a daintysmoking-room attached to it. He was very much surprised on opening hisdoor to see by the light of the painted windows that the long corridorof the first floor was absolutely silent and deserted, right away to theguard-room, where a ray of moonlight showed the outline of the carvingon the massive door. He was going back to his seat, when there cameanother knock. It came from the smoking-room, which communicated by alittle door under the hangings with a narrow passage in the thicknessof the wall leading to the rooms of the Duchess. The arrangement, datingmuch earlier than the restorations, was not known to him: and, as heremembered certain conversations during the last few days, when themen were alone, and especially some of the stories of old Laniboire, hisfirst thought was 'Whew! I hope she did not hear us. ' He drew the boltand the Duchess passed him without a word, and laying down on the tablewhere he had been writing a bundle of yellowish papers, with which herdelicate fingers played nervously, she said in a serious voice:

'I want you to give me your advice; you are my friend, and I have no oneelse to confide in. '

No one but him--poor woman! And she did not take warning from thecunning watchful predatory glance, which shifted from the letter, imprudently left open on the table where she might have read it, toherself as she stood there with her arms bare and heavy hair coiledround and round her head. He was thinking, 'What does she want? Whathas she come for?' She, absorbed in the requickened wrath which hadbeen rising and choking her since the morning, panted out in low brokensentences, 'Just before you came, he sent Lavaux--he did! he sentLavaux--to ask for his letters!--I gave his impudent cheeks such areception that he won't come again. --His letters, indeed!--these arewhat he wanted. '

She held out the roll, her brief, as it might be called, against thepartner of her affections, showing what she had paid to raise the manout of the gutter. 

'Take them, look at them! They are really quite interesting! 'He turnedover the odd collection, smelling now of the boudoir, but bettersuited to Bos's shop-front; there were mortgageable debts to dealers incuriosities, private jewellers, laundresses, yacht-builders, agentsfor imitation-champagne from Touraine, receipts from stewards andclub-waiters, in short, every device of usury by which a man aboutParis comes to bankruptcy. Mari' Anto muttered under her breath, 'Therestoration of this gentleman cost more than Mousseaux, you see!... Ihave had all these things in a drawer for years, because I never destroyanything; but I solemnly declare that. I never thought of using them. Now I have changed my mind. He is rich. I want my money and interest. If he does not pay, I will take proceedings. Don't you think I amjustified?'

'Entirely justified, ' said Paul, stroking the point of his fair beard, 'only--was not the Prince d'Athis incapable of contracting when hesigned these bills?'

'Yes, yes, I know... Brétigny told me about that... For as he could getnothing through Lavaux, he wrote to Brétigny to ask him to arbitrate. A fellow Academician, you know!' She laughed a laugh of impartial scornfor the official dignities of the Ambassador and the ex-Minister. Thenshe burst out indignantly, 'It is true that I need not have paid, but Ichose he should be clean. I don't want any arbitration. I paid and willbe paid back, or else I go into court, where the name and title of ourrepresentative at St. Petersburg will be dragged through the dirt. If Ican only degrade the wretch, I shall have won the suit I care about. '

'I can't understand, ' said Paul as he put down the packet so as to hidethe awkward letter to Mamma, 'I can't understand how such proofs shouldhave been left in your hands by a man as clever----'

'As D'Athis?'

The shrug of her shoulders sufficiently completed the interjection. Butthe madness of a woman's anger may always lead to something, so he drewher on. 'Yet he was one of our best diplomatists. '

'It was I who put him up to it. He knows nothing of the business butwhat I taught him. '

She hid her face, as for shame, in her hands, checking her sobs andgasping with fury. 'To think, to think, twelve years of my life to a manlike that! And now he leaves me; he casts me off! Cast off by him! Castoff by him!'

It is some hours later, and she is still there. The young man isupon his knees and is whispering tenderly: 'When you know that I loveyou--when you know that I loved you always. Think, think!' The strikingof a clock is heard in the far distance and wakening sounds go by in thegrowing light. She flies in dismay from the room, not caring so much asto take with her the brief of her intended revenge. 

Revenge herself now? On whom? and what for? There was an end of herhatred now, for had she not her love? From this day she was anotherwoman, such an one as when she is seen with her lover or her husband, supporting her unhasty steps upon the tender cradle of his arm, makesthe common people say, 'Well, _she_ has got what she wants. ' There arenot so many of them as people think, particularly in society. Not thatthe mistress of a great house could be thinking exclusively of her ownhappiness; there were guests going away and other guests arriving andsettling in, a second instalment, more numerous and less intimate, the whole in fact of the Academic set. There were the Duke deCourson-Launay, the Prince and Princess de Fitz-Roy, the De Circourts, the Huchenards, Saint-Avol the diplomatist, Moser and his daughter, Mr. And Mrs. Henry of the American embassy. It was a hard task to provideentertainment and occupation for all these people and to fuse suchdifferent elements. No one understood the business better than she, butjust now it was a burden and a weariness to her. She would have liked tokeep quiet and meditate on her happiness, to think of nothing else: andshe could devise no other amusements for her guests than the invariable. Visit to the fish preserves, to Ronsard's castle, and to the Orphanage. Her own pleasure was complete when her hand touched Paul's, as accidentbrought them together in the same boat or the same carriage. 

In the course of one such pompous expedition on the river, the littlefleet from Mousseaux, sailing on a shimmering mirror of silken awningsand ducal pennons, had gone somewhat further than usual. Paul Astier wasin the boat in front of his lady's. He was sitting in the stern besideLaniboire, and was receiving the Academician's confidences. Having beeninvited to stay at Mousseaux till his report was finished, the old foolfancied that he was making good progress towards the coveted succession;and as always happens in such cases, he chose Paul as the confidant ofhis hopes. After telling him what he had said and what she had answered, and one thing and another, he was just saying, 'Now, young man, whatwould you do, if you were me?' when a clear voice of low pitch rang overthe water from the boat behind them. 

'Monsieur Astier!'

'Yes, Duchess. '

'See yonder, among the reeds. It looks like Védrine. '

Védrine it was, painting away, with his wife and children at his side, on an old flat-bottomed boat moored to a willow branch alongside of agreen islet, where the wagtails were chirping themselves hoarse. Theboats drew quickly up beside him, any novelty being a break to theeverlasting tedium of fashionable society: and while the Duchess greetedwith her sweetest smile Madame Védrine, who had once been her guest atMousseaux, the ladies looked with interest at the artist's strange homeand the beautiful children, born of its light and its love, as they layin the shelter of their green refuge on the clear, placid stream, whichreflected the picture of their happiness. After the first greetings, Védrine, palette in hand, gave Paul an account of the doings at ClosJallanges, which was visible through the mists of the river, half-wayup the hill side--a long low white house with an Italian roof. 'My dearfellow, they have all gone crazy there! The vacancy has turned theirheads. They spend their days ticking votes--your mother, Picheral, andthe poor invalid in her wheelchair. She too has caught the Academicfever, and talks of moving to Paris, entertaining and giving parties tohelp her brother on. ' So Védrine, to escape the general madness, campedout all day and worked in the open air--children and all; and pointingto his old boat he said, with a simple unresentful laugh, 'My dahabeeah, you see; my trip to the Nile. '

All at once the little boy, who in the midst of so many people, so manypretty ladies and pretty dresses, had eyes for no one but old Laniboire, addressed him in a clear voice, 'Please, are you the gentleman of theAcadémie who is going to be a hundred?' The philosopher, occupied inshowing off his boating for the benefit of the fair Antonia, was allbut knocked off his seat: and when the peals of laughter had somewhatsubsided, Védrine explained that the child was strangely interested inJean Réhu, whom he did not know and had never seen, merely because hewas nearly a hundred years old. Every day the handsome little boy askedabout the old man and inquired how he was. Child as he was, he admiredsuch length of days with something of a personal regard. If others hadlived to a hundred, why not he?

But a sudden freshening of the breeze filled the sails of the littlecraft, and fluttered all the tiny pennons; a mass of clouds was movingup from over Blois, and towards Mousseaux a film of rain dimmed thehorizon, while the four lights on the top of the towers sparkled againstthe black sky. 

There was a moment of hurry and confusion. Then the vessels went awaybetween the banks of yellow sand, one behind the other in the narrowchannels; while Védrine, pleased by the brightness of the coloursbeneath the stormy sky and by the striking figures of the boatmen, standing in the bows and leaning hard on their long poles, turned tohis wife, who was kneeling in the punt packing in the children, thecolour-box, and the palette, and said, 'Look over there, mamma. Isometimes say of a friend, that we are in the same boat. Well, there youmay see what I mean. As those boats fly in line through the wind, withthe darkness-coming down, so are we men and workers, generation aftergeneration. It's no use being shy of the fellows in your own boat; youknow them, you rub up against them, you are friends without wishing itor even knowing it, all sailing on the same tack. But how the fellowsin front do loiter and get in the way! There's nothing in common betweentheir boat and ours. We are too far off, we cannot catch what they say. We never trouble about them except to call out "Go ahead; get on, do!"Meanwhile youth in the boat behind is pushing _us_; they would not mindrunning us down; and we shout to them angrily, "Easy there! Where'sthe hurry?" Well, as for me, ' and he drew himself to his full height, towering above the line of coast and river, 'I belong, of course, to myown beat and I am fond of it. But the boat just ahead and the one comingup interest me not less. I would hail them, signal to them, speak tothem all. All of us alike, those before and those behind, are threatenedby the same dangers, and every boat finds the current strong, the skytreacherous, and the evening quick to close in... Now, my dears, we mustmake haste; here comes the rain!'

CHAPTER XIII. 

'Pray for the repose of the soul of the most noble Lord, the DukeCharles Henri François Padovani, Prince d'Olmitz, formerly Memberof the Senate, Ambassador and Minister, Grand Cross of the Legion ofHonour, who departed this life September 20, 1880, at his estate ofBarbicaglia, where his remains have been interred. A mass for thedeceased will be celebrated on Sunday next in the private chapel, whereyou are invited to attend. '

This quaint summons was being proclaimed on both banks of the Loire, between Mousseaux and Onzain, by mourners hired from Vafflard's, wearingtall hats with crape mufflers that reached the ground, and ringing theirheavy bells as they walked. Paul Astier, hearing the words as he camedownstairs to the midday breakfast, felt his heart beat high with joyand pride. Four days ago the news of the Duke's death had startledMousseaux as the report of a gun startles a covey of partridges, and hadunexpectedly dispersed and scattered the second instalment of guests tovarious seaside and holiday resorts. The Duchess had had to set offat once for Corsica, leaving at the castle only a few very intimatefriends. The melancholy sound of the voices and moving bells, carriedto Paul's ear by a breeze from the river through the open panes ofthe staircase window, the antiquated and princely form of the funeralinvitation, could not but invest the domain of Mousseaux with animpressive air of grandeur, which added to the height of its four towersand its immemorial trees. And as all this was to be his (for the Duchesson leaving had begged him to stay at the castle, as there were importantdecisions to be taken on her return), the proclamation of death soundedin his ears like the announcement of his approaching installation. 'Prayfor the repose of the soul, ' said the voices. At last he really hadfortune within his grasp, and this time it should not be taken from him. 'Member of the Senate, Ambassador and Minister, ' said the voices again. 

'Those bells are depressing, are they not, Monsieur Paul?' saidMdlle. Moser who was sitting at breakfast between her father and theAcademician Laniboire. The Duchess had kept these guests at Mousseaux, partly to amuse Paul's solitude and partly to give a little morerest and fresh air to the poor 'Antigone, ' kept in bondage by theinterminable candidature of her father. There was certainly no fear thatthe Duchess would find a rival in this woman, who had eyes like a beatenhound, hair without colour, and no other thought but her humiliatingpetition for the unattainable place in the Académie. But on thisparticular morning she had taken more pains than usual with herappearance, and wore a bright dress open at the neck. The poor neck wasvery thin and lean, but--there was no higher game. So Laniboire, in highspirits, was teasing her with a gay freedom. No, he did not think thedeath-bells at all depressing, nor the repetition of 'Pray for therepose, ' as it died away in the distance. No, life seemed to him bycontrast more enjoyable than usual, the _Vouvray_ sparkled more brightlyin the decanters, and his good stories had a telling echo in thehuge half-empty dining-room. The sodden subservient face of Moser thecandidate wore a fawning smile, though he wished his daughter away. Butthe philosopher was a man of great influence in the Académie. 

After coffee had been served on the terrace, Laniboire, with his facecoloured like a Redskin, called out, 'Now let's go and work, Mdlle. Moser; I feel quite in the humour. I believe I shall finish my reportto-day. ' The gentle little lady, who sometimes acted as his secretary, rose with some regret. On a delicious day like this, hazy with the firstmists of autumn, a good walk, or perhaps a continuation on the galleryof her talk with the charming and well-mannered M. Paul, would havepleased her better than writing at old M. Laniboire's dictationcommendations of devoted hospital-nurses or exemplary attendants. Buther father urged her to go, as the great man wanted her. She obeyed andwent upstairs behind Laniboire, followed by old Moser, who was going tohave his afternoon nap. 

Laniboire may have had Pascal's nose, but he had not his manners. WhenPaul came back from cooling his ambitious hopes by a long walk in thewoods, he found the break waiting at the foot of the steps in the greatcourt. The two fine horses were pawing the ground, and Mdlle. Moser wasinside, surrounded by boxes and bags, while Moser, looking bewildered, stood on the doorstep, feeling in his pockets and bestowing coins ontwo or three sneering footmen. Paul went up to the carriage, 'So you areleaving us, Mademoiselle. ' She gave him a thin clammy hand, on which shehad forgotten to put a glove, and without saying a word, or removing thehandkerchief with which she was wiping her eyes under her veil, she benther head in sign of good-bye. He learnt little more from old Moser, whostammered out in a low voice, as he stood vexed and gloomy, with onefoot on the step of the carriage 'It's her doing: she _will_ go. Hewas rude to her she says, but I can't believe it. ' Then with a profoundsigh, and knitting the wrinkle in his brow, the deep, red, scar-likewrinkle of the Academic candidate, he added, 'It's a very bad thing formy election. '

Laniboire stayed all the afternoon in his room, and at dinner, as hetook his seat opposite Paul, he said, 'Do you know why our friends theMosers went off so suddenly?'

'No, sir, do you?'

'It's very strange, very strange. '

He assumed an air of great composure for the benefit of the servants, but it was obvious that he was disturbed, worried, and in desperate fearof a scandal. Gradually he regained his serenity and satisfaction, notbeing able to think ill of life at dinner, and ended by admitting to hisyoung friend that he had perhaps been a little too attentive. 'But it isher father's fault; he pesters me; and even an awarder of good-conductprizes has his feelings, eh?' He lifted his glass of liqueur with atriumphant flourish, cut short by Paul's remark, 'What will the Duchesssay? Of course Mdlle. Moser must have written to her to explain why sheleft. '

Laniboire turned pale. 'Really, do you think she did?'

Paul pressed the point, in the hopes of ridding himself of such a farfrom gay gallant. If the lady had not written, there was the chancethat a servant might say something. Then, wrinkling his deceitful littlenose, he said, 'If I were you, my dear sir----'

'Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! I may get a scolding, but it won't really do meany harm. '

But in spite of his assumed confidence, the day before the Duchessreturned, upon the pretext that the election to the Académie was comingon, and that the damp evenings were bad for his rheumatism, he wentoff, taking in his portmanteau his completed report on the prizes forgood-conduct. 

The Duchess arrived for Sunday's mass, celebrated with greatmagnificence in the Renaissance chapel, where Védrine's versatility hadrestored both the fine stained glass and the wonderful carving of thereredos. A huge crowd from the villages of the neighbourhood filled thechapel to overflowing, and gathered in the great court. Everywhere wereawkward fellows in hideous black coats, and long blue blouses shiningfrom the iron, everywhere white caps and kerchiefs stiff with starchround sunburnt necks. All these people were brought together not by thereligious ceremony, nor by the honours paid to the old Duke, who wasunknown in the district, but by the open-air feast which was to followthe mass. The long tables and benches were arranged on both sides of thelong lordly avenue; and here, after the service, between two and threethousand peasants had no difficulty in finding room. At first therewas some constraint; the guests, overawed by the troop of servants inmourning and the rangers with crape on their caps, spoke in whispersunder the shadow of the majestic elms. But as they warmed with the wineand the victuals, the funeral feast grew more lively, and ended in avast merrymaking. 

To escape this unpleasant carnival, the Duchess and Paul went for adrive, sweeping rapidly in an open carriage draped with black along theroads and fields, abandoned to the desertion of Sunday. The mourningcockades of the tall footmen and the long veil of the widow oppositereminded the young man of other similar drives. He thought to himself, 'My destiny seems to lie in the way of dead husbands. ' He felt a touchof regret at the thought of Colette de Rosen's little curly head, contrasting so brightly with the black mass of her surroundings. TheDuchess however, tired as she was by her journey, and looking stouterthan usual in her improvised mourning, had a magnificence of mannerentirely wanting in Colette, and besides, her dead husband did notembarrass her, for she was much too frank to feign a grief whichordinary women think necessary under such circumstances, even when thedeceased has been cordially detested and completely abandoned. The roadrang under the horses' hoofs, as it unrolled before them, climbing ordescending gentle slopes, bordered now by little oak plantations, nowby huge plains which, in the neighbourhood of the isolated mills, wereswept by circling flights of crows. A pale sunlight gleamed through raregaps in a sky soft, rainy, and low: and to protect them from the wind asthey drove, the same wrap enveloped them both, so that their knees wereclosely pressed together under the furs. The Duchess was talking of hernative Corsica, and of a wonderful _vocero_ which had been improvised atthe funeral by her maid. 

'Matéa?'

'Yes, Matéa. She's quite a poet, fancy'--and the Duchess quoted someof the lines of the _voceratrice_, in the spirited Corsican dialect, admirably suited to her contralto voice. But to the 'important decision'she did not refer. 

But it was the important decision that interested Paul Astier, andnot the verses of the lady's-maid. No doubt it would be discussed thatevening. To pass the time, he told her, in a low tone, how he had gotrid of Laniboire. 'Poor little Moser, ' said the Duchess, 'her fatherreally must be elected this time. ' After that they spoke but a word nowand then. They only drew together, lulled, as it were, by the gentlemovement of the carriage, while the daylight left the darkening fields, and let them see over towards the furnaces sudden flashes of flame andflickering gleams like lightning against the sky. Unfortunately thedrive home was spoilt by the drunken cries and songs of the crowdsreturning from the feast. The peasants got among the wheels of thecarriage like cattle, and from the ditches on either side of the road, into which they rolled, came snores and grunts, their peculiar fashionof praying for the repose of the soul of the most noble Lord Duke. 

They walked, as usual, on the gallery, and the Duchess, leaning againstPaul's shoulder to look out at the darkness between the massive pillarswhich cut the dim line of the horizon, murmured, 'This is happiness!Together, and alone!' Still not a word on the subject which Paul waswaiting for. He tried to bring her to it, and with his lips in her hairasked what she was going to do in the winter. Should she go back toParis? Oh, no! certainly not. She was sick of Paris and its falsesociety, its disguises and its treachery! She was still undecided, however, whether to shut herself up at Mousseaux, or to set out on along journey to Syria and Palestine. What did he think? Why, this mustbe the important decision they were to consider! It had been a merepretext to keep him there! She had been afraid that if he went backto Paris, and away from her, some one else would carry him off! Paul, thinking that he had been taken in, bit his lips as he said to himself, 'Oh, if that's your game, my lady, we'll see!' Tired by her journeyand a long day in the open air, the Duchess bid him good-night and wentwearily up to her room. 

The next day they hardly met. The Duchess was busy settling accountswith her steward and her tenants, much to the admiration of MaîtreGobineau, the notary, who observed to Paul as they sat at breakfast, with slyness marked in every wrinkle of his shrivelled old face, 'Ah, it's not easy to get on the blind side of the Duchess!'

'Little he knows, ' was the thought of the Duchess's young pursuer as heplayed with his light brown beard. But when he heard the hard cold toneswhich his lady's tender contralto could assume in a business discussion, he felt that he would have to play his cards carefully. 

After breakfast there arrived some trunks from Paris with Spricht'sforewoman and two fitters. And at last, about four o'clock, the Duchessappeared in a marvellous costume, which made her look quite young andslim, and proposed a walk in the park. They went along briskly, side byside, keeping to the bye-paths to avoid the noise of the heavy rakes. Three times a day the gardeners struggled against the accumulation ofthe falling leaves. But in vain; in an hour the walks were again coveredby the same Oriental carpet, richly coloured with purple, green, andbronze; and their feet rustled in it as they walked under the soft levelrays of the sun. The Duchess spoke of the husband who had brought somuch sorrow into her youth; she was anxious to make Paul feel that hermourning was entirely conventional and did not affect her feelings. Paulunderstood her object, and smiled coldly, determined to carry out hisplan. 

At the lower end of the park they sat down, near a little buildinghidden behind maples and privet, where the fishing nets and oars of theboats were kept. From their seat they looked across the sloping lawnsand the plantations and shrubberies showing patches of gold. The castle, seen in the background, with its long array of closed windows anddeserted terraces, lifting its towers and turrets proudly to the sky, seemed withdrawn, as it were, into the past, and grander than ever. 

'I am sorry to leave all that, ' said Paul, with a sigh. She looked athim in amazement with storm in her knitted brows. Go away? Did he meanto go away? Why?

'No help. Such is life. '

'Are we to part? And what is to become of me?--and the journey we wereto make together?'

'I could not interrupt you----' he said. But how could a poor artistlike him afford himself a journey to Palestine? It was an impossibledream, like Védrine's dahabeeah ending in a punt on the Loire. 

She shrugged her aristocratic shoulders, and said, 'Why, Paul, whatnonsense! You know that all I have is yours. '

'Mine? By what right?'

It was out! But she did not see yet what he was driving at. Fearing thathe had gone too far, he added, 'I mean, what right, in the prejudicedview of society, shall I have to travel with you?'

'Well then, we will stay at Mousseaux. '

He made her a little mocking bow as he said, 'Your architect hasfinished his work on the castle. '

'Oh, we will find him something to do, if I have to set fire to itto-night!'

She laughed her open-hearted tender laugh, leant against him, and takinghis hands pressed them against her cheeks--fond trifling this, not theword which he was waiting for, and trying to make her say. Then heburst out, 'If you love me, Antonia, let me go. I must make a living formyself and mine. Society would not forgive my living on the bounty of awoman who is not and never will be my wife. '

She understood, and closed her eyes as if on the brink of an abyss. Inthe long silence that followed was heard all over the park the fallingof the leaves in the breeze, some still heavy with sap, dropping inbunches from bough to bough, others stealing down with a scarcelyaudible sound, like the rustling of a dress. Round the little hut, underthe maples, it was more like the pattering footsteps of some voicelesscrowd which moved around. She rose with a shiver. 'It is cold; let us goin. ' She had made her sacrifice. It would kill her, very probably, butthe world should not see the degradation of the Duchess Padovani intoMadame Paul Astier, who had married her architect. 

Paul spent the evening in making the obvious arrangements for hisdeparture. He gave orders about his luggage, bestowed princelygratuities upon the servants, and inquired about the time of the trains, chatting away without constraint, but quite unsuccessful in breakingthrough the gloomy silence of the fair Antonia, who read with absorbedattention a magazine, of which she did not turn the pages. But when hetook his leave of her and thanked her for her prolonged and gracioushospitality, in the light of the huge lace lamp-shade he saw on herhaughty face a look of anguish, and in her eyes, magnificent as those ofa dying lion, a beseeching supplication. 

When he reached his room the young man looked to see that the doorto the smoking-room was bolted; then he put out his light and waited, sitting quite still on the divan close to the communication. If she didnot come, he had made a mistake and must begin again. But there was aslight noise in the private passage, the sound of a gown, then after amomentary surprise at not being able to come straight in, a touch withthe tip of a finger, scarcely a knock. He did not move, and paid noattention to a little significant coughing. Then he heard her go away, with an agitated, uneven step. 

'Now, ' thought he, 'she is mine. I can do what I like with her. ' And hewent quietly to bed. 

'If I were called the Prince d'Athis, would you not have married me whenyour mourning was over? Yet D'Athis did not love you, and Paul Astierdoes. Proud of his love, he would gladly have proclaimed it abroadinstead of hiding it as a thing to be ashamed of. Ah, Mari' Anto! I haveawaked from a beautiful dream! Farewell for ever. '

She read his letter with her eyes hardly open, swollen with the tearsshe had been shedding all night. 'Is Monsieur Astier gone?' The maid whowas leaning out of the window to fasten back the shutters that momentcaught sight of the carriage that was taking away M. Paul, right at theend of the avenue, too far off to be called back. The Duchess sprang outof bed and flew to the clock. 'Nine o'clock. ' The express did not reachOnzain till ten. 'Quick, a messenger--Bertoli, and the best of thehorses!' By taking the short cut through the woods he could reachthe station before the carriage. Whilst her orders were being hastilycarried out she wrote a note, standing, without waiting to dress. 'Comeback; all shall be as you wish. ' No, that was too cold. That would notbring him back. She tore up the note, wrote another, 'What you will, so long as I am yours, ' and signed it with her title. Then, wild at thethought that perhaps even that would not bring him, she cried, 'I'll gomyself! My habit, quick!' And she called out of the window to Bertoli, whose horse was by this time waiting impatiently at the foot of thesteps, and gave orders to saddle 'Mademoiselle Oger' for herself. 

She had not ridden for five years. Her figure had grown stouter, thestitches of the habit gave way, some of the hooks were missing. 'Nevermind, Matéa, never mind. ' She went down the staircase with the trainover her arm, between the footmen who stood with blank looks ofastonishment, and set off full speed down the avenue, through the gate, into the road, into the wood, and down the cool green paths and longavenues, where the wild creatures fluttered and leapt away as shegalloped madly by. She must and will have him. He is her death andlife. She has tasted love; and what else does the world contain? Leaningforward, she listens for the sound of the train and watches in everydistant view for the steam skirting the horizon. If only she is in time!Poor thing! She might let her horse walk, and yet she would overtakethat handsome runaway He is her evil genius, and he is not to beescaped. 

[Illustration: down the cool gree paths and long avenues 298]

CHAPTER XIV. 

 From the Vicomte de Freydet

 To Mademoiselle Germaine de Freydet Villa Beauséjour, Paris-Passy. 

_Café d'Orsay: 11 A. M. At breakfast. _ EVERY two hours, and oftener ifI can, I shall send you off an interim despatch like this, as much torelieve your anxiety, dearest, as for the pleasure of being with youthroughout this great day, which I hope will end with the news ofvictory, in spite of defections at the last moment. Picheral told mejust now of a saying of Laniboire's, 'When a man enters the Académie hewears a sword, but he does not draw it. ' an allusion, of course, to theAstier duel. It was not I who fought, but the creature cares more forhis jest than for his promise. Cannot count on Danjou, either. Afterhaving said so often to me, 'You must join us, ' this morning in thesecretary's office he came up to me and whispered, 'You should let usmiss you, ' perhaps the best epigram on his list. Never mind, I'm wellahead. My rivals are not formidable Fancy Baron Huchenard, the author of'Cave Man, ' in the Académie Française! Why, Paris would rise! As for M. Dalzon, I can't think how he has the face. I have got a copy of his toonotorious book. I do not like to use it, but he had better be careful. 

_2 P. M. _

At the Institute, in my good master's rooms, where I shall await theresult of the voting. Perhaps it is pure imagination, but I fancy thatmy arrival, though they expected me, has put them out here a little. Our friends were finishing breakfast. There was a bustle and bangingof doors, and Corentine, instead of showing me into the drawing-room, hustled me into the library, where my old master joined me with anembarrassed air, and in a low voice advised me to keep extremely quiet. He was quite depressed. I asked if he had any bad news. He said first, 'No, no, my dear boy, ' and then, grasping my hand, 'Come, cheer up. ' Forsome time past the poor man has been much altered. He is evidently readyto overflow with vexation and sorrow that he will not express. Probablysome deep private trouble, quite unconnected with my candidature; but Iam so nervous. 

More than an hour to wait. I am amusing myself by looking across thecourt through the great bay window of the meeting-room at the long rowsof busts. The Academicians! Is it an omen?

_2. 45 P. M. _

I have just seen all my judges go by, thirty-seven of them, if I countedright. The full number of the Académie, since Epinchard is at Nice, Ripault-Babin in bed, and Loisillon in the grave. It was glorious tosee all the distinguished men come into the court; the younger walkingslowly with serious looks and head bent as if under the weight of aresponsibility too heavy for them, the old men carrying themselveswell and stepping out briskly. A few gouty and rheumatic, likeCourson-Launay, drove up to the foot of the steps and leant on the armof a colleague. They stood about before going up, talking in littleknots, and I watched the movements of their backs and shoulders andthe play of their open hands. What would I not give to hear the lastdiscussion of my prospects! I opened the window gently, but just thena carriage covered with luggage came clattering into the court, and outgot a traveller wrapped in furs and wearing an otter-skin cap. It wasEpinchard; just think, dear, Epinchard arriving from Nice on purpose tovote for me. Good fellow! Then my old master went by, his broad-brimmedhat down over his _eyes_; he was turning over the copy of 'Without theVeil, ' which I gave him, to be used if necessary. Well, self-defence isalways legitimate. 

Now there's nothing to see but two carriages waiting and the bust ofMinerva keeping guard. Goddess, protect me! They must be beginning thecalling of names, and the interrogatory. Each Academician has to stateto the President that his vote is not promised. It's a mere formality, as you may suppose, and they all reply by a smile of denial or a littleshake of the head like a Chinese mandarin. 

A most amazing thing has just happened! I had given my letter toCorentine and was getting a breath of fresh air at the window andtrying to read the secret of my fate in the gloomy front of the buildingopposite, when at the next window to mine I caught sight ofHuchenard, airing himself too, quite close to me. Huchenard, myrival--Astier-Réhu's worst enemy, installed in his study! We were, bothequally amazed, bowed, and withdrew at the same moment. But there he is, I can hear him, I feel that he is on the other side of the partition. Nodoubt, like me, he is waiting to hear the decision of the Académie, only he has all the space of 'Villemain's reception-room, ' while I amsuffocating in this hole crammed full of papers! Now I understand theconfusion caused by my arrival. But what is it all about? What is goingon? My dear Germaine, my head is going! Which of us is the fool?

Lost! And by treachery, by some mean Academic intrigue which I do notyet understand!

 FIRST COUNTING. 

 Baron Huchenard.......... 17 votes. 

 Dalzon................... 15 "

 Vicomte de Freydet....... 5 "

 Moser...................... 1 vote. 

 SECOND COUNTING. 

 Baron Huchenard.......... 19 votes. 

 Dalzon................... 15 "

 Vicomte de Freydet....... 3 "

 Moser.................... 1 vote. 

 THIRD COUNTING. 

 Baron Huchenard.......... 33 votes. 

 Dalzon................... 4 "

 Vicomte de Freydet....... 0 "(!!)

 Moser................... . 1 vote. 

It is clear that between the second and third taking of votes the copyof 'Without the Veil' must have been sent round in the interest of BaronHuchenard. An explanation I must and will have. I won't leave the placetill I get it. 

_4 P. M. _

Dearest sister, you may guess my feelings when, after I had heard inthe next room M. And Madame Astier, old Réhu, and a stream of visitorscongratulating the author of 'Cave Man, ' the door of the library openedand my old master came in, reaching out his hands and saying, 'Mydear boy, forgive me'--between heat and emotion he was nearlyspeechless--'forgive me, that man had a hold over me. I had to do it, Ihad to do it. I thought I could avert the disaster which threatens me, but destiny is not to be escaped, no, not even by a base act--' He heldout his arms and I embraced him without the least anger, without indeedquite understanding the mystery of this bitter grief. 

After all, my own loss is easily retrieved. I have first-rate news ofRipault-Babin. He can hardly live through the week. One more campaign, dear, one more. Unfortunately the Hôtel Padovani will be closed allthe winter, owing to the Duchess's deep mourning. So for our scene ofoperations we shall have the 'at home' days of Madame Astier, MadameAncelin, and Madame Eviza, of whose fashion there is no question sincethe visit of the Grand Duke. But the first thing, dear Germaine, will beto move. Passy is too far off; the Académie will not go there. You willsay I am dragging you about again, but it is so important. Just look atHuchenard. He had no claim whatever but his parties. I dine with my dearmaster; don't wait for me. 

 Your affectionate brother, Abel de Freydet. 

Moser's solitary vote in each counting was given by Laniboire, the manwho reports for the good conduct prizes. They tell a queer story aboutit There are strange things under the dome!

CHAPTER XV. 

'It's a scandal. '

'There must be a reply. The Académie cannot be silent under the attack. '

'What are you thinking of? On the contrary, the dignity of the Académiedemands----'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, the real feeling of the Académie is----'

In their private assembly room, in front of the great chimney-pieceand the full-length portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, the 'deities'were engaged in a discussion preliminary to the meeting. The coldsmoke-stained light of a Parisian winter's day, falling through thegreat lantern overhead, gave effect to the chill solemnity of the marblebusts ranged in row along the walls; and the huge fire in the chimney, nearly as red as the Cardinal's robe, was not enough to warm the littlecouncil-chamber or court-house, furnished with green leather seats, longhorse-shoe table in front of the desk, and chain-bedecked usher, keepingthe entrance near the place of Picheral, the Secretary. 

Generally the best part of the meeting is the quarter of an hour's graceallowed to late-comers. The Academicians gather in groups with theirbacks to the fire and their coat tails turned up, chatting familiarly inundertones. But on this afternoon the conversation was general and hadrisen to the utmost violence of public debate, each new comer joining infrom the far end of the room, while he signed the attendance list. Some even before entering, while they were still depositing their greatcoats, comforters, and overshoes in the empty room of the Académiedes Sciences, opened the door to join in the cries of 'Shame!' and'Scandalous!'

The cause of all the commotion was this. There had appeared in a morningpaper a reprint of a highly disrespectful report made to the Académie ofFlorence upon Astier-Réhu's 'Galileo' and the manifestly apocryphaland absurd (sic) historical documents which were published with it. Thereport had been sent with the greatest privacy to the President ofthe Académie Française, and for some days there had been considerableexcitement at the Institute, where Astier-Réhu's decision was eagerlyawaited. He had said nothing but, 'I know, I know; I am taking thenecessary steps. ' And now suddenly here was this report which theybelieved to be known only to themselves, hurled at them like abomb-shell from the outer sheet of one of the most widely circulatedof the Parisian newspapers, and accompanied by remarks insulting to thePermanent Secretary and to the whole Society. 

Furious was the indignant outcry against the impudence of the journalistand the folly of Astier-Réhu, which had brought this upon them. TheAcadémie has not been accustomed to such attacks, since it has prudentlyopened its doors to 'gentlemen of the Press. ' The fiery Laniboire, familiar with every kind of 'sport. ' talked of cutting off thegentleman's ears, and it took two or three colleagues to restrain hisardour. 

'Come, Laniboire; we wear the sword, but we do not draw it Why, it'syour own epigram, confound you, though adopted by the Institute. '

'Gentlemen, you remember that Pliny the Elder, in the thirteenth book ofhis "Natural History"'--here arrived Gazan, who came in puffing with hiselephantine trot--'is one of the first writers who mentions counterfeitautographs; amongst others, a false letter of Priam's on papyrus'--

'Monsieur Gazan has not signed the list, ' cried Picheral's sharpfalsetto. 

'Oh, I beg your pardon. ' And the fat man went off to sign, stilldiscoursing about papyrus and King Priam, though unheard for the hubbubof angry voices, in which the only word that could be distinguished was'Académie. ' They all talked about the Académie as if it were an actuallive person, whose real view each man believed himself alone to know andto express. Suddenly the exclamations ceased, as Astier-Réhu entered, signed his name, and quietly deposited at his place as PermanentSecretary the ensign of his office, carried under his arm. Then movingtowards his colleagues he said:

'Gentlemen, I have bad news for you. I sent to the Library to be testedthe twelve or fifteen thousand documents which made what I called mycollection. Well, gentlemen, all are forgeries. The Académie of Florencestated the truth. I am the victim of a stupendous hoax. '

As he wiped from his brow the great drops of sweat wrung out by thestrain of his confession, some one asked in an insolent tone:

'Well, and _so_, Mr. Secretary'--

'So, M. Danjou, I had no other choice but to bring an action--whichis what I have done. There was a general protest, all declaring that alawsuit was out of the question and would bring ridicule upon the wholeSociety, to which he answered that he was exceedingly sorry to disobligehis colleagues, but his mind was made up. 'Besides, the man is in prisonand the proceedings have commenced. '

Never had the private assembly-room heard a roar like that which greetedthis statement. Laniboire distinguished himself as usual among the mostexcited by shouting that the Académie ought to get rid of so dangerousa member. In the first heat of their anger some of the assembly began todiscuss the question aloud. Could it be done? Could the Académie say toa member who had brought the whole body into an undignified position, 'Go! I reverse my judgment. Deity as you are, I relegate you to the rankof a mere mortal'? Suddenly, either having caught a few words ofthe discussion, or by one of those strange intuitions which seemoccasionally to come as an inspiration to the most hopelessly deaf, oldRéhu, who had been keeping to himself, away from the fire for fear ofa fit, remarked in his loud unmodulated voice, 'During the Restoration, for reasons merely political, we turned out eleven members at once. ' Thepatriarch gave the usual little attesting movement of the head, callingto witness his contemporaries of the period, white busts with vacanteyes standing in rows on pedestals round the room. 

'Eleven! whew!' muttered Danjou amid a great silence. And Laniboire, cynical as before, said 'All societies are cowardly; it's the naturallaw of self-preservation. ' Here Epinchard, who had been busy near thedoor with Picheral the Secretary, rejoined the rest, and observed in aweak voice, between two fits of coughing, that the Permanent Secretarywas not the only person to blame in the matter, as would appear from theminutes of the proceedings of July 8, 1879, which should now be read. Picheral from his place, in his thin brisk voice, began at a great pace:_On July 8, 1879, Léonard-Pierre-Alexandre Astier-Réhu presented to theAcadémie Française a letter from Rotrou to Cardinal Richelieu respectingthe statutes of the Society. The Académie, after an examination of thisunpublished and interesting document, passed a vote of thanks to thedonor, and decided to enter the letter of Rotrou upon the minutes. Theletter is appended_ (at this point the Secretary slackened his deliveryand put a malicious stress upon each word) _with all the errors of theoriginal text, which, being such as occur in ordinary correspondence, confirm the authenticity of the document_. All stood motionless in thefaded light that came through the glass, avoiding each other's eyes andlistening in utter amazement. 

'Shall I read the letter too?' asked Picheral with a smile. He was muchamused. 

'Yes, read the letter too, ' said Epinchard. But after a phrase or twothere were cries of 'Enough, enough, that will do!' They were ashamedof such a letter of Rotrou. It was a crying forgery, a mere schoolboy'simitation, the sentences misshapen, and half the words not known at thesupposed date. How could they have been so blind?

'You see, gentlemen, that we could scarcely throw the whole burden uponour unfortunate colleague, ' said Epinchard; and turning to the PermanentSecretary begged him to abandon proceedings which could bring nothingbut discredit upon the whole Society and the great Cardinal himself. 

But neither the fervour of the appeal nor the magnificence of theorator's attitude, as he pointed to the insignia of the Sacred Founder, could prevail over the stubborn resolution of Astier-Réhu. Standing firmand upright before the little table in the middle of the room, whichwas used as a desk for the reading of communications, with his fistsclenched, as if he feared that his decision might be wrung out of hishands, he repeated that 'Nothing, I assure you, nothing' would alter hisdetermination. He struck the hard wood angrily with his big knuckles, ashe said, 'Ah, gentlemen, I have waited, for reasons like these, too longalready! I tell you, my "Galileo" is a bone in my throat! I am not richenough to buy it up, and I see it in the shop windows, advertising me asthe accomplice of a forger. ' What was his object! Why, to tear out therotten pages with his own hand and burn them before all the world!A trial would give him the opportunity. 'You talk of ridicule? TheAcadémie is above the fear of it; and as for me, a butt and a beggar asI must be, I shall have the proud satisfaction of having protectedmy personal honour and the dignity of history. I ask no more. ' HonestCrocodilus! In the beat of his rhetoric was a sound of pure probity, which rang strangely where all around was padded with compromise andconcealment. Suddenly the usher announced, 'Four o'clock, gentlemen. 'Four o'clock! and they had not finished the arrangements forRipault-Babin's funeral. 

'Ah, we must remember Ripault-Babin!' observed Danjou in a mockingvoice. 'He has died at the right moment!' said Laniboire with mournfulemphasis. But the point of his epigram was lost, for the usher wascrying, 'Take your places'; and the President was ringing his bell Onhis right was Desminières the Chancellor, and on his left the PermanentSecretary, reading quietly with recovered self-possession the reportof the Funeral Committee, to an accompaniment of eager whispers and thepattering of sleet on the glass. 

'How late you went on to-day!' remarked Coren-tine, as she opened thedoor to her master. Corentine was certainly to be reckoned with thosewho had no great opinion of the Institute. 'M. Paul is in your studywith Madame. You must go through the library; the drawing-room is fullof people waiting to see you. '

The library, where nothing was left but the frame of the pigeon-holes, looked as if there had been a fire or a burglary. It depressed him, andhe generally avoided it But to-day he went through it proudly, supportedby the remembrance of his resolve, and of how he had declared it atthe meeting. After an effort, which had cost him so much courage anddetermination, he felt a sweet sense of relief in the thought that hisson was waiting for him. He had not seen him since just after the duel, when he had been overcome by the sight of his gallant boy, laid at fulllength and whiter than the sheet. He was thinking with delight how hewould go up to him with open arms, and embrace him, and hold him tight, a long while, and say nothing--nothing! But as soon as he came into theroom and saw the mother and son close together, whispering, withtheir eyes on the carpet, and their everlasting air of conspiracy, theaffectionate impulse was gone. 

'Here you are at last!' cried Madame Astier, who was dressed to go out. And in a tone of mock solemnity, as if introducing the two, she said, 'My dear--the Count Paul Astier. '

'At your service, Master, ' said Paul, as he bowed. 

Astier-Réhu knitted his thick brows as he looked at them. '_Count_ PaulAstier?' said he. 

The young fellow, as charming as ever, in spite of the tanning ofsix months spent in the open air, said he had just indulged in theextravagance of a Roman title, not so much for his own sake as in honourof the lady who was about to take his name. 

'So you are going to be married, ' said his father, whose suspicionsincreased. 'And who is the lady?'

'The Duchess Padovani. '

'You must have lost your senses! Why she is five-and-twenty years olderthan you, and besides--and besides--' He hesitated, trying to find arespectful phrase, but at last blurted right out, 'You can't marry awoman who to every one's knowledge has belonged to another for years. '

'A fact, however, which has never prevented our dining with herregularly, and accepting from her all kinds of favours, ' hissed MadameAstier, rearing her little head as to strike. Without bestowing on her aword or a look, as holding her no judge in a question of honour, the manwent up to his son, and said in earnest tones, the muscles of his bigcheeks twitching with emotion, 'Don't do it, Paul. For the sake of thename you bear, don't do it, my boy, I beg you. ' He grasped his son'sshoulder and shook him, voice and hand quivering together. But theyoung fellow moved away, not liking such demonstrations, and objectedgenerally that 'he didn't see it; it was not his view. ' The fatherfelt the impassable distance between himself and his son, saw theimpenetrable face and the look askance, and instinctively lifted up hisvoice in appeal to his rights as head of the family. A smile which hecaught passing between Paul and his mother, a fresh proof of their jointshare in this discreditable business, completed his exasperation. Heshouted and raved, threatening to make a public protest, to write to thepapers, to brand them both, mother and son, 'in his history. ' Thislast was his most appalling threat. When he had said of some historicalcharacter, 'I have branded him in my history, ' he thought no punishmentcould be more severe. Madame Astier, almost as familiar with thethreat of branding as with the dragging of his trunk about the passage, contented herself with saying as she buttoned her gloves: 'You knowevery word can be heard in the next room. ' In spite of the curtains overthe door, the murmur of conversation was audible from the drawing-room. 

Then, repressing and swallowing his wrath, 'Listen to me, Paul, ' saidLéonard Astier, shaking his forefinger in the young man's face, 'if everthis thing you are talking of comes to pass, do not expect to look uponme again. I will not be present on your wedding day; I will not have younear me, not even at my death-bed; You are no longer a son of mine;and you go with my curse upon you. ' Moving away instinctively from thefinger which almost touched him, Paul replied with great calmness, 'Oh, you know, my dear father, that sort of thing is never done now-a-days!Even on the stage they have given up blessing and cursing. '

'But not punishing, you scoundrel!' growled the old man, lifting hishand. There was an angry cry of 'Léonard!' from the mother, as with theprompt parry of a boxer Paul turned the blow aside, quietly as if hehad been in Keyser's gymnasium, and without letting go the wrist he hadtwisted under, said beneath his breath, 'No, no; I won't have that. '

The tough old hillsman struggled violently, but, vigorous as he stillwas, he had found his master. At this terrible moment, while father andson stood face to face, breathing hate at one another, and exchangingmurderous glances, the door of the drawing-room opened a little andshowed the good-natured doll-like smile of a fat lady bedecked withfeathers and flowers. 'Excuse me, dear master, I want just to say aword--why, Adelaide is here, and M. Paul too. Charming! delightful!Quite a family group!' Madame Ancelin was right. A family group it was, a picture of the modern family, spoilt by the crack which runsthrough European society from top to bottom, endangering its essentialprinciples of authority and subordination, and nowhere more remarkablethan here, under the stately dome of the Institute, where thetraditional domestic virtues are judged and rewarded. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

[Illustration: People were still coming in 316]

It was stifling in the Eighth Chamber, where the Fage case was justcoming on after interminable preliminaries and great efforts on thepart of influential persons to stop the proceedings. Never had thiscourt-room, whose walls of a mouldy blue and diamond pattern in fadedgilding reeked with the effluvium of rags and misery, never had thiscourt seen squeezed on its dirty seats and packed in its passages such apress and such a crowd of fashionable and distinguished persons, so manyflower-trimmed bonnets and spring costumes by the masters of millineryart, to throw into relief the dead black of the gowns and caps. Peoplewere still coming in through the entrance lobby, where the double doorswere perpetually swinging as the tide flowed on, a wavy sea of throngingfaces upturned beneath the whitish light of the landing. Everyone wasthere, all the well-known, well-worn, depressingly familiar personagesthat figure at every Parisian festivity, fashionable funeral, or famous'first night. ' There was Marguerite Oger well to the fore, and thelittle Countess Foder, and beautiful Mrs. Henry of the American Embassy. There were the ladies belonging to the Academic confraternity, MadameAncein in mauve on the arm of Raverand, the leader of the bar; MadameEviza, a bush of little roses surrounded by a busy humming swarm ofwould-be barristers. Behind the President's bench was Danjou, standingwith folded arms, and showing above the audience and the judges the hardangles of his regular stage-weathered countenance, everywhere to be seenduring the last forty years as the type of social commonplace in allits manifold manifestations. With the exception of Astier-Réhu and BaronHuchenard, who were summoned as witnesses, he was the only Academicianbold enough to face the irreverent remarks that might be expected in thespeech of Fage's counsel, Margery, the dreaded wit, who convulses thewhole assembly and the bench with the mere sound of his nasal 'Well. 'Some fun was to be expected; the whole atmosphere of the place announcedit, the erratic tilt of the barristers' caps, the gleam in the eyes andcurl in the corners of the mouths of people giving one another littleanticipatory smiles. There were endless anecdotes current about theachievements in gallantry of the little humpback who had just beenbrought to the prisoner's box and, lifting his long well-greased head, cast into the court over the bar the conquering glance of a manifestladies' man. Stories were told of compromising letters, of an accountdrawn up by the prisoner mentioning right out the names of two or threewell-known ladies of fashion, the regular names dragged again and againinto every unsavoury case. There was a copy of the production goingthe rounds of the seats reserved for the press, a simple conceitedautobiography containing none of the revelations imputed to it by publicrumour. Fage had beguiled the tedium of confinement by writing for thecourt the story of his life. He was born, he said, near Vassy (HauteMarne), as straight as anybody--so they all say--but a fall from a horseat fifteen had bent and inflected his spine. His taste for gallantry haddeveloped somewhat late in life when he was working at a bookseller's inthe Passage des Panoramas. As his deformity interfered with his success, he tried to find some way of getting plenty of money. The story ofhis love affairs alternating with that of his forgeries and the meansemployed, with descriptions of ink and of parchment, resulted in suchheadings to his chapters as 'My first victim--For a red ribbon--Thegingerbread fair--I make the acquaintance of Astier-Réhu--The mysteriousink--I defy the chemists of the Institute. ' This brief epitome is enoughto show the combination, the humpback's self-satisfaction _plus_ thearrogance of the self-taught artisan. The general result of readingthe production was utter amazement that the Permanent Secretary ofthe Académie Française and the official representatives of scienceand literature could have been taken in for two or three years by anignorant dwarf with a brain crammed full of the refuse of libraries andthe ill-digested parings of books. This constituted the extraordinaryjoke of the whole business, and was the explanation of the crowdedcourt. People came to see the Académie pilloried in the person ofAstier-Réhu, who sat among the witnesses, the mark of every eye. Therehe sat without moving, absorbed in his thoughts, not turning his head, and hardly answering the fulsome compliments of Freydet who was standingbehind, with black gloves and a deep crape hat-band, having quiterecently lost his sister. He had been summoned for the defence, and theAcademic candidate was afraid that the fact might damage him in the eyesof his old master. He was apologising and explaining how he had comeacross the wretched Fage in Védrine's studio, and that was the reasonof this unexpected call. But his whispers were lost in the noise of thecourt and the monotonous hum from the bench, as cases were called on anddisposed of, the invariable 'This day week, this day week' descendinglike the stroke of the guillotine and cutting short the barrister'sprotest, and the entreaties of poor red-faced fellows mopping theirbrows before the seat of justice. 'But, Monsieur le Président... ' 'Thisday week. ' Sometimes from the back of the court would come a cry and adespairing movement of a pair of arms, 'I am here, M. Le Président, butI can't get through, there's such a crowd... ' 'This day week. ' When aman has beheld such clearances as these, and seen the symbolic scalesoperate with such dexterity, he gets a vivid impression of Frenchjustice; it is not unlike the sensation of hearing the funeral serviceraced through in a hurry by a strange priest over a pauper's grave. 

The voice of the President called for the Fage case. Complete silencefollowed in the court, and even on the staircase landing where peoplehad climbed on to benches to see. Then after a short consultation on thebench the witnesses filed out through a dense crowd of gowns on theirway to the little room reserved for them, a dreary empty place, badlylighted by glass windows that had once been red, and looking out on anarrow alley. Astier-Réhu, who was to be called first, did not go in, but walked up and down in the gloomy passage between the witness-roomand the court. Freydet wished to stay with him, but he said in acolourless voice, 'No, no, let me alone, I want to be alone. ' Sothe candidate joined the other witnesses who were standing in littleknots--Baron Huchenard, Bos the palaeographer, Delpech the chemist, ofthe Académie des Sciences, some experts in handwriting, and two or threepretty girls, the originals of some of the photographs that adorned thewalls of Fage's room, delighted at the notoriety that the proceedingswould bring them, laughing loudly and displaying startling little springhats strangely different from the linen cap and woollen mittens of thecaretaker at the Cour des Comptes. Védrine also had been summoned, andFreydet came and sat by him on the wide ledge of the open window. Thetwo friends, whirled apart in the opposing currents that divide men'slives in Paris, had not met since the summer before until the recentfuneral of poor Germaine de Freydet Védrine pressed his friend's handand asked how he was, how he felt after so terrible a blow. Freydetshrugged his shoulders, 'It's hard, very hard, but after all I'm usedto it. ' Then, as Védrine stared in wonder at his selfish stoicism, headded, 'Just think, that's twice in one year that I have been fooled. 'The blow, the only blow, that he remembered, was his failure to getRipault-Babin's seat, which he had lately missed, as he had missedLoisillon's before. Presently he understood, sighed deeply, and said, 'Ah, yes, poor Germaine!' She had taken so much trouble all the winterabout his unlucky candidature. Two dinners a week! Up to twelve or oneo'clock she would be wheeling her chair all over the drawing-room. Shehad sacrificed her remaining strength to it, and was even more excitedand keen than her brother. And at the last, the very last, when she waspast speaking, her poor twisted fingers went on counting upon the hem ofthe sheet 'Yes, Védrine, she died, ticking and calculating my chancesof Ripault-Babin's seat. Oh, if only for her sake, I will get into theirAcadémie, in defiance of them all, and in honour of her dear memory!'He stopped short, then in an altered and lower voice went on: 'Really Idon't know why I talk like that. The truth is that, since they put theidea into my head, I can think of nothing else. My sister is dead andI have hardly given her a tear. I had to pay my calls and "beg for theAcadémie, " as that fellow says. The thing takes the very life out of me. It's perfectly maddening. '

In the savage plainness of these words and the excited ring of theangry voice, the sculptor could scarcely recognise his gentle courteousfriend, to whom mere living used to be a joy. The absent expression inhis eye, the anxious wrinkle on his brow, and the heat of the hand whichgrasped Védrine's, all betrayed his subjection to one absorbing passion, one fixed idea. But the meeting with Védrine seemed to have relieved hisnerves, and he asked affectionately, 'Well, what are you doing, andhow are you getting on? How is your wife? And the children?' His friendanswered with his quiet smile. All were doing well, thank God. Thelittle girl was just going to be weaned. The boy continued to fulfil hisfunction of looking lovely, and was waiting impatiently for old Réhu'scentenary. As for himself, he was hard at work. He had two pictures inthe Salon this year, not badly hung, and not badly sold. On the otherhand a creditor, not less unwise than hard, had taken possession of theKnight, and he had passed from stage to stage, first lying much inthe way in a fine suite of rooms on the ground floor in the Rue St. Pétersbourg, then packed off to a stable at Batignolles, and nowshivering under a cowkeeper's shed at Levallois, where from time to timethe sculptor and his family went to pay him a visit. 

'So much for glory!' added Védrine with a laugh, as the voice of theusher called for the witness Astier-Réhu. The head of the PermanentSecretary showed for a moment, outlined against the dusty light ofthe court-room, upright and steady; but his back he had forgotten tocontrol, and the shiver of his broad shoulders betrayed intense feeling. 'Poor man, ' muttered the sculptor, 'he's got heavy trials to go through. This autograph business, and his son's marriage. '

'Is Paul Astier married?'

'Yes, three days ago, to the Duchess Padovani. It was a sort ofmorganatic marriage, with no guests but the young man's mamma and thefour witnesses. I was one of them, as you may suppose, for a freak offate seems to associate me with all the acts and deeds of the Astierfamily. '

And Védrine described the sorrowful surprise with which in the Mayor'sroom he had seen the Duchess Padovani appear, deathly pale, as haughtyas ever, but withered and heart-broken, with a mass of grey hair, thepoor beautiful hair that she no longer took the trouble to dye. By herside was Paul Astier, the Count, smiling, cold, and charming as before. They all looked at one another, and nobody had a word to say exceptthe official who, after a good stare at the two old ladies, felt itincumbent upon him to remark with a gracious bow:

'We are only waiting for the bride. '

'The bride is here, ' replied the Duchess, stepping forward with headerect and a bitter smile which spoilt and twisted her beautiful mouth. 

From the Mayor's office, where the deputy on duty had the good taste tospare them an oration, they adjourned to the Catholic Institute in theRue de Vaugirard, an aristocratic church, all over gilding and flowersand a blaze of candles, but not a soul there, nobody but the weddingparty on a single row of chairs, to hear the Papal Nuncio, MonsignorAdriani, mumble an interminable homily out of an illuminated book. Afine thing it was, to hear the worldly prelate with large nose, thinlips, and hollow shoulders under his violet cape, talking of the'honourable traditions of the husband and the charms of the wife, ' witha sombre, cynical side-glance at the velvet cushions of the unhappycouple. Then came the departure; cold good-byes were exchanged under thearches of the little cloister, and a sigh of relief with 'Well, that'sover, ' escaped the Duchess, said in the despairing, disenchanted accentof a woman who has measured the abyss, and leaps in with her eyes openonly to keep her word. 

'Ah, well, ' Védrine went on, 'I have seen gloomy and lamentable sightsenough in the course of my lite, but never anything so heart-breaking asPaul Astier's wedding. '

'He's a fine rascal, though, is our young friend, ' said Freydet, betweenhis closed teeth. 

'Yes, a precious product of the "struggle for existence. "'

The sculptor repeated the phrase with emphasis. A 'struggler forexistence' was his name for the novel tribe of young savages who citethe necessity of 'nature's war' as an hypocritical excuse for every kindof meanness. Freydet went on:

'Well, anyhow, he's rich now, which is what he wanted. His nose has notled him astray this time. '

'Wait and see. The Duchess is not easy to get on with, and he lookeddevilish wicked at the Mayor's. If the old lady bores him too much, we may still see him some day at the Assize Court, son and grandson ofdivinities as he is. '

'The witness Védrine!' called the usher at the top of his voice. 

At the same moment a huge roar of laughter ran over the thronging crowdand came through the door as it swung open. 'They don't seem bored inthere, ' said the municipal officer posted in the passage. The witnesses'room, which had been gradually emptying during the chat of the twoschoolfellows, now contained only Freydet and the caretaker, who, scaredat having to appear in court, was twisting the strings of her cap likea lunatic. The worthy candidate, on the contrary, thought he hadan unparalleled opportunity of burning incense at the shrine of theAcadémie Française and its Permanent Secretary. Left alone, when thegood woman's turn came, he paced up and down the room, planted himselfin front of the window, and let off well-rounded periods accompanied bymagnificent gestures of his black gloves. But he was misunderstood inthe house opposite; and a fat hand at the end of a bare arm pulled asidea pink curtain and waved to him. Freydet, flushing crimson with shame, moved quickly away from the window, and took refuge in the passage. 

'The Public Prosecutor is speaking now, ' said the doorkeeper in awhisper, as a voice in a tone of assumed indignation rang through theheated air of the court--'You played, ' it said, 'on the innocent passionof an old man. '

'But how about me?' said Freydet, thinking aloud. 

'I expect you have been forgotten. '

Freydet was at first puzzled, but presently disgusted at the strangefate which prevented his coming forward in public as the champion of theAcadémie, and so getting himself talked about and seeing his namefor once in the papers. Just then a shout of laughter greeted theenumeration of the forgeries in the Mesnil-Case collection; letters fromkings, popes, empresses, Turenne, Buffon, Montaigne, La Boëtie, ClémenceIsaure, and the mere mention of the absurd list showed the extraordinarysimplicity of the historian who had been befooled by the little dwarf. But at the thought that this disrespectful laugh was a scoff at hismaster and protector, Freydet felt an indignation not altogether freefrom selfishness. He felt that he was himself hit by the recoil, and hiscandidature damaged again. He broke away, mingling in the stir of thegeneral exodus amid a confusion of footmen running to and fro in thebeautiful waning light of a fine June day, while the parasols, pink, white, mauve, or green opened like so many large flowers. Littleexplosions of laughter were still coming from the various groups, asif they had been seeing an amusing piece at the theatre. The littlehumpback had got it hot--five years' imprisonment and costs. But howcomic Margery had been! Marguerite Oger was exclaiming in fits, 'Oh mydears, my dears!' and Danjou, escorting Madame Eviza to her carriage, said aloud in his cynical way, 'It's a slap in the face for theAcadémie, well planted--but it was cleverly done. '

Léonard Astier, who was walking alone, heard Danjou's remark as wellas others, in spite of the warnings passed from mouth to mouth, 'Takecare--there he is. ' It signified to him the beginning of his fall inestimation, consequent on the general knowledge of his folly and theamusement of Paris. 

'Take my arm, my dear master!' said Freydet, who had been carried to himby the strong impulse of affection. 

'Ah, my dear friend, how much good you do me!' said the old man in adull, broken voice. 

They walked on in silence for some time. The trees on the quay cast atracery of shade upon the stones below; the sounds of the street and theriver echoed in the joyous air. It was one of those days on which humanwretchedness seems to have been reprieved. 

'Where are we going?' asked Freydet. 

'Anywhere--except home, ' answered the elder man, who felt a child'sterror at the thought of the scene his wife would inflict on him atdinner. 

They dined together at the Point-du-Jour after walking a long time bythe river. When poor Astier returned home very late the friendly wordsof his old pupil and the sweetness of the air had succeeded in restoringhis peace of mind. He had got over his five hours in the stocks on thebench of the Eighth Chamber--five hours to endure with bound hands theinsulting laughter of the crowd and the vitriol squirt of the counsel. 'Laugh, apes, laugh! Posterity will judge!' was the thought with whichhe consoled himself as he crossed the large courts of the Institute, wrapped in slumber, with unlighted windows and great dark foursquareholes right and left where the staircases came down. He felt his wayupstairs and reached his study noiselessly like a thief. Since Paul'smarriage and his quarrel with his son he was in the habit of flinginghimself down every night on a bed made up in the study, to escape theinterminable midnight discussions in which the wife always comes offvictorious, thanks to the never-failing support of her 'nerves', andthe husband ends by giving way and promising everything for the sake ofpeace and permission to sleep. 

Sleep! Never had he so much felt the need of it as now, at the end ofhis long day of emotion and fatigue, and the darkness of his study as heentered seemed the beginning of rest--when in the angle of the window hedimly distinguished a human figure. 

'Well, I hope you are satisfied. ' It was his wife! She was on the lookout for him, waiting, and her angry voice stopped him short in the darkto listen. 'You have won your cause; you insisted on making yourselfa mockery, and you have done it--daubed and drenched yourself withridicule, till you won't be able to show yourself again! Much reason youhad to cry out that your son was disgracing you, to insult and to curseyour son! Poor boy, it is well he has changed his name, now that yourshas become so identified with ignorance and gullibility that no one willbe able to utter it without a smile. And all this, if you please, for the sake of your historical work! Why, you foolish man, who knowsanything about your historical work? Who can possibly care whether yourdocuments are genuine or forged? You know that nobody reads you. '

She went on and on, pouring out a thin stream of voice in her shrillesttone; and he felt as if he were back again in the pillory, listening tothe official abuse as he had done all day, without interrupting, withouteven a threatening gesture, swallowing the insults as he had in court, and feeling that the authority was above attack and the judge one not tobe answered. But how cruel was this invisible mouth which bit him, andwounded him all over, and slowly mangled in its teeth his pride as a manand a writer!

His books, indeed! Did he suppose that they had got him into theAcadémie? Why, it was to his wife alone that he owed his green coat! Shehad spent her life in plotting and manoeuvring to break open one doorafter another; sacrificed all her youth to such intrigues, and suchintriguers, as made her sick with disgust. 'Why, my dear, I had to! TheAcadémie is attained by talent, of which you have none, or a greatname, or a high position. You had none of these things. So I came to therescue. ' And that there might be no mistake about it, that he might notattribute what she said only to the exasperation of a woman woundedand humiliated in her wifely pride and her blind maternal devotion, sherecalled the details of his election, and reminded him of his famousremark about Madame Astier's veils that smelt of tobacco, thoughhe never smoked, 'a remark, my dear, that has done more to make younotorious than your books. '

He gave a low deep groan, the stifled cry of a man who stays with bothhands the life escaping from a mortal rent The sharp little voice wenton unaltered. 'Ah well, pack your trunk, do, once for all! Let the worldhear no more of you. Fortunately your son is rich and will give youyour daily bread. For you need not be told that now you will find nopublisher or magazine to take your rubbish, and it will be due to Paul'ssupposed infamy that you escape starvation. '

'This is more than I can bear, ' muttered the poor man as he fled away, away from the lashing fury. And as he felt his way along the walls, andpassed through the passage, down the stairs, across the echoing court, he muttered almost in tears, 'More than I can bear, more than I canbear. '

Whither is he going? Straight before him, as if in a dream. He crossesthe square and is half over the bridge, before the fresh air reviveshim. He sits down on a bench, takes off his hat and pulls up his coatsleeves to still the beating of his pulses; and the regular lapping ofthe water makes him calmer. He comes to himself again, but consciousnessbrings only memory and pain. What a woman! what a monster! And to thinkthat he has lived five-and-thirty years with her and not known her! Ashudder of disgust runs over him at the recollection of all the horrorshe has just heard. She has spared nothing and left within him nothingalive, not even the pride which still kept him erect, his faith in hiswork and his belief in the Académie. At the thought of the Académie heinstinctively turned round. Beyond the deserted bridge, beyond the wideravenue which leads to the foot of the building, the pile of the PalaisMazarin, massed together in the darkness, up-reared its portico and itsdome, as on the cover of the Didot books, so often gazed upon in hisyoung days and in the ambitious aspirations of his whole life. Thatdome, that block of stone, had been the delusive object of his hopes, and the cause of all his misery. 

It was there he sought his wife, feeling neither love nor delight, butfor the hope of the Institute. And he has had the coveted seat, and heknows the price!

Just then there was a sound of steps and laughter on the bridge; it camenearer. Some students with their mistresses were coming back to theirrooms. Afraid of being recognised, he rose and leant over the parapet;and while the party passed close to him without seeing him, he reflectedwith bitterness that he had never amused himself, never allowed himselfsuch a fine night's holiday of song beneath the starlight. His ambitionhad always been fixed unbendingly on the approach to yonder dome, thedome, as it were, of a temple, whose beliefs and whose ritual he hadrespected in anticipation. 

And what had yonder dome given him in return? Nothing, absolutelynothing. Even on the day of his admission, when the speeches were overand the double-edged compliments at an end, he had felt the sensation ofemptiness and deluded hope. He had said to himself as he drove hometo change his green coat, 'Have I really got in? Why, it can't be likethis. ' Since then, by dint of constant lying to himself and echoing, with his colleagues, that it was delightful, delicious, he had ended bybelieving so. But now the veil had fallen away, and he saw the truth;and he would have liked to proclaim with a thousand tongues to the youthof France, 'The Académie is a snare and a delusion. Go your way anddo your work. Sacrifice nothing to the Académie, for it has nothingto offer you, neither gift, nor glory, nor the best thing of all, self-contentment. It is neither a retreat nor a refuge; it is a hollowidol, a religion that offers no consolations. The great troubles oflife come upon you there as elsewhere; under that dome men have killedthemselves, men have gone mad there! Those who in their agony haveturned to the Académie, and weary of loving, or weary of cursing, havestretched forth their arms to her, have clasped but a shadow. '

The old schoolmaster was speaking aloud, bareheaded, grasping theparapet with both hands as in old days he used to hold the edge of hisdesk at lessons. The river rolled on below, tinged with hues of night, between its rows of winking lamps. An uncanny thing is the speechlesslife of light, moving, and looking, and never saying what it means. Onthe quay the song of a drunken man died quavering away in the distance, 'When Cupid... In the morn... Awakes. ' The accent showed that themerry singer was an Auvergnat making his way back to his coal-barge. Itreminded him of Teyssèdre, the polisher, and his glass of good wine. Hesaw him wiping his mouth on his shirt-sleeve. 'It's the only real goodin life. ' Even a humble natural joy like that he had never known; hemust needs envy even Teyssèdre. Absolutely alone, with no refuge, nobreast on which to weep, he realised that 'that woman' was right, and'the trunk had better be packed for good and all, Léonard. '

In the morning some policemen found on a bench on the Pont des Artsa wide-brimmed hat, one of those hats which preserve something of theexpression of their owner. Inside was a large gold watch and a visitingcard--'Léonard Astier-Réhu, Permanent Secretary of the AcadémieFrançaise. ' Right across the line of print had been written in pencilthe words, 'I die here of my own will. ' Of his own will indeed it was!Even better than the little phrase in the large, firm handwriting didthe expression of his features--the set teeth, the projection ofthe lower jaw--declare his fixed determination to die, when after amorning's search the dredgers found the body caught in the wide meshesof an iron net surrounding some baths for women, quite close to thebridge. 

[Illustration: The dredgers found the body 342]

It was taken first to the emergency-station, where Picheral came toidentify it, a strange sight himself, as he fluttered along the widebank, with bare bald head and in a frock coat. It was not the first timethat a Permanent Secretary had been taken out of the Seine; the samething had occurred in the time of Picheral's father, under very similarcircumstances. And Picheral the son did not seem much affected, onlyannoyed that he could not wait till the evening to carry Astier-Réhuhome. But it was necessary to take advantage of the absence of MadameAstier (who was breakfasting with her son) so as to spare her too greata shock. 

The clock of the Palais Mazarin was striking one, when with the heavytramp of the bearers the stretcher from the station was brought underthe archway, marking its road with ominous splashes of water. At thefoot of Staircase B there was a halt to take breath. Over the dazzlingcourt was a great sharp-lined square of blue sky. The covering of thestretcher had been raised, and the features of Léonard Astier-Réhu werevisible for the last time to his colleagues on the Dictionary Committee, who had just broken up their meeting in sign of mourning. They stoodround, with their hats off, not a little shocked. Other people alsostopped to see what it was, workmen, clerks, and apprentices, for theInstitute serves as a passage from the Rue Mazarin to the quay. Amongthem was kind-hearted Freydet, who, as he wiped his eyes, thought in hisheart, and was ashamed to think it, that here was another vacancy. OldJean Réhu was just coming downstairs for his daily constitutional. 

He had heard nothing, seemed surprised to see the crowd beneath him ashe stood on one of the lower steps, and came nearer to look, in spiteof the scared gestures of those who tried to keep him back. Did heunderstand? Did he recognise the corpse? His face remained calm, so didhis eyes, as expressionless as those of the bust of Minerva under herhelmet of bronze. And after a long look, as they turned the stripedcanvas down over the poor dead face, he went on, upright and proud, withhis tall shadow stalking beside him, a 'deity' deathless indeed, while ahalf-mad senile shake of the head seemed to say: 'That's another of thethings I have seen. '