THE NABOB by Alphonse Daudet Translated By W. Blaydes INTRODUCTION Daudet once remarked that England was the last of foreign countries towelcome his novels, and that he was surprised at the fact, since forhim, as for the typical Englishman, the intimacy of home life had greatsignificance. However long he may have taken to win Anglo-Saxon hearts, there is no question that he finally won them more completely than anyother contemporary French novelist was able to do, and that when buta few years since the news came that death had released him from hissufferings, thousands of men and women, both in England and in America, felt that they had lost a real friend. Just at the present moment onedoes not hear or read a great deal about him, but a similar lull incriticism follows the deaths of most celebrities of whatever kind, andit can scarcely be doubted that Daudet is every day making new friends, while it is as sure as anything of the sort can be that it is death, notestrangement, that has lessened the number of his former admirers. "Admirers"? The word is much too cold. "Lovers" would serve better, butis perhaps too expansive to be used of a self-contained race. "Friends"is more appropriate because heartier, for hearty the relations betweenDaudet and his Anglo-Saxon readers certainly were. Whether it was thatsome of us saw in him that hitherto unguessed-at phenomenon, a FrenchDickens--not an imitator, indeed, but a kindred spirit--or that othersfound in him a refined, a volatilized "Mark Twain, " with a flavour ofCervantes, or that still others welcomed him as a writer of naturalisticfiction that did not revolt, or finally that most of us enjoyed himbecause whatever he wrote was as steeped in the radiance of his ownexquisitely charming personality as a picture of Corot's is in the lightof the sun itself--whatever may have been the reason, Alphonse Daudetcould count before he died thousands of genuine friends in England andAmerica who were loyal to him in spite of the declining power shown inhis latest books, in spite even of the strain which _Sapho_ laid upontheir Puritan consciences. It is likely that a majority of these friends were won by the two greatTartarin books and by the chief novels, _Fromont_, _Jack_, _The Nabob_, _Kings in Exile_, and _Numa_, aided by the artistic sketches and shortstories contained in _Letters from my Mill_ and _Monday Tales (Contesdu Lundi)_. The strong but overwrought _Evangelist_, _Sapho_--which ofcourse belongs with the chief novels from the Continental but not fromthe insular point of view--and the books of Daudet's decadence, _TheImmortal_, and the rest, cost him few friendships, but scarcely gainedhim many. His delightful essays in autobiography, whether in fiction, _Le Petit Chose (Little What's-his-Name)_, or in _Thirty Years of Paris_and _Souvenirs of a Man of Letters_, doubtless sealed more friendshipsthan they made; but they can be almost as safely recommended as the morenotable novels to readers who have yet to make Daudet's acquaintance. For the man and his career are as unaffectedly charming as his style, and more of a piece than his elaborate works of fiction. A sunnyProvencal childhood is clouded by family misfortunes; then comes a yearof wretched slavery as usher in a provincial school; then the inevitablejourney to Paris with a brain full of verses and dreams, and thebeginning of a life of Bohemian nonchalance, to which we Anglo-Saxonshave little that is comparable outside the career of Oliver Goldsmith. But poor Goldsmith had his pride wounded by the editorial tyranny of aMrs. Griffiths. Daudet, by a merely pretty poem about a youth andmaiden making love under a plum-tree, won the protection of the EmpressEugenie, and through her of the Duke de Morny, the prop of the SecondEmpire. His life now reads like a fairy-tale inserted by some jocularelf into that book of dolors entitled _The Lives of Men of Genius_. A _protege_ of a potentate not usually lavish of his favours, and avaletudinarian, he is allowed to flit to Algiers and Corsica, to enjoyhis beloved Provence in company with Mistral, to write for the theatres, and to continue to play the Bohemian. Then the death of Morny seems toturn the idyl into a tragedy, but only for a moment. Daudet's delicate, nervous beauty made his friend Zola think of an Arabian horse, butthe poet had also the spirit of such a high-bred steed. Years ofconscientious literary labour followed, cheered by marriage with a womanof genius capable of supplementing him in his weakest points, and thenthe war with Prussia and its attendant horrors gave him the larger anddeeper view of life and the intensified patriotism--in short, the finalstimulus he needed. From the date of his first great success--_Fromont, Jr. , and Risler, Sr. _--glory and wealth flowed in upon him, whileenvy scarcely touched him, so unspoiled was he and so continuously andeminently lovable. One seemed to see in his career a reflection of hisluminous nature, a revised myth of the golden touch, a new version ofthe fairy-tale of the fair mouth dropping pearls. Then, as though grownweary of the idyllic romance she was composing, Fortune donned thetragic robes of Nemesis. Years of pain followed, which could not abatethe spirits or disturb the geniality of the sufferer, but did somewhatabate the power and disturb the serenity of his work. Then came theinevitable end of all life dramas, whether comic or romantic or tragic, and friends who had known him stood round his grave and listened sadlyto the touching words in which Emile Zola expressed not merely his owngrief but that of many thousands throughout the civilized world. Herewas a life more winsome, more appealing, more complete than any creationof the genius of the man that lived it--a life which, whether we know itin detail or not, explains in part the fascination Daudet exerts upon usand the conviction we cherish that, whatever ravages time may make amonghis books, the memory of their writer will not fade from the hearts ofmen. Many Frenchmen have conquered the world's mind by the power orthe subtlety of their genius; few have won its heart through thecatholicity, the broad sympathy of their genius. Daudet is one of thesefew; indeed, he is almost if not quite the only European writer who hasof late achieved such a triumph, for Tolstoi has stern critics as wellas steadfast devotees, and has won most of his disciples as moralist andreformer. But we must turn from Daudet the man to Daudet the author of_The Nabob_ and other memorable novels. If this were a general essay and not an introduction, it would be properto say something of Daudet's early attempts as poet and dramatist. Hereit need only be remarked that it is almost a commonplace to insist thateven in his later novels he never entirely ceased to see the outer worldwith the eyes of a poet, to delight in colour and movement, to seizeevery opportunity to indulge in vivid description couched in a stylemore swift and brilliant than normal prose aspires to. This bentfor description, together with the tendency to episodic rather thansustained composition and the comparative weakness of his characterdrawing--features of his work shortly to be discussed--partly explainshis failure, save in one or two instances, to score a real triumphwith his plays, but does not explain his singular lack of sympathy withactors. Nor was he able to win great success with his first bookof importance, _Le Petit Chose_, delightful as that mixture ofautobiography and romance must prove to any sympathetic reader. He wasessentially a romanticist and a poet cast upon an age of naturalismand prose, and he needed years of training and such experience as thePrussian invasion gave him to adjust himself to his life-work. Suchadjustment was not needed for _Tartarin de Tarascon_, begun shortlyafter _Le Petit Chose_, because subtle humour of the kind lavished inthat inimitable creation and in its sequels, while implying observation, does not necessarily imply any marked departure from the romantic andpoetic points of view. The training Daudet required for his novels he got from the sketchesand short stories that occupied him during the late sixties and earlyseventies. Here again little in the way of comment need be given, andthat little can express the general verdict that the art displayedin these miniature productions is not far short of perfect. The twoprincipal collections, _Lettres de mon Moulin_ and _Contes du Lundi_, together with _Artists' Wives (Les Femmes d'Artistes)_ and parts atleast of _Robert Helmont_, would almost of themselves suffice to putDaudet high in the ranks of the writers who charm without leaving uponone's mind the slightest suspicion that they are weak. It is truethat Daudet's stories do not attain the tremendous impressiveness thatBalzac's occasionally do, as, for example, in _La Grande Breteche_, nor has his clear-cut art the almost disconcerting firmness, thesurgeon-like quality of Maupassant's; but the author of the ironical_Elixir of Father Gaucher_ and of the pathetic _Last Class_, to name noothers, could certainly claim with Musset that his glass was his own, and had no reason to concede its smallness. As we have seen, the production of _Fromont jeune et Risler aine_marked the beginning of Daudet's more than twenty years of successfulnovel-writing. His first elaborate study of Parisian life, while itindicated no advance of the art of fiction, deserved its popularitybecause, in spite of the many criticisms to which it was open, it was athoroughly readable and often a moving book. One character, Delobelle, the played-out actor who is still a hero to his pathetic wife anddaughter, was constructed on effective lines--was a personage worthy ofDickens. The vile heroine, Sidonie, was bad enough to excite disgustedinterest, but, as Mr. Henry James pointed out later, she was noteffective to the extent her creator doubtless hoped. She paled besideValerie Marneffe, though, to be sure, Daudet knew better than to attemptto depict any such queen of vice. Yet, after all, it is mainly thecompelling power of vile heroines that makes them tolerable, and neitherSidonie nor the web of intrigue she wove can fairly be said to becharacterized by extraordinary strength. But the public was and isinterested greatly by the novel, and Daudet deserved the fame and moneyit brought him. His next book, _Jack_, was not so popular. Still, itshowed artistic improvement, although, as in its predecessor, that biastowards the sentimental, which was to be Daudet's besetting weakness, was too plainly visible. Its author took to his heart a book which thegeneral reader found too long and perhaps overpathetic. Some of us, while recognising its faults, will share in part Daudet's predilectionfor it--not so much because of the strong and early study made of theartisan class, or of the mordantly satirical exposure of D'Argentonand his literary "dead-beats" (_rates_), or of any other of the specialfeatures of a story that is crowded with them, as because the ill-fatedhero, the product of genuine emotions on Daudet's part, excites cognateand equally genuine emotions in us. We cannot watch the throbbingengines of a great steamship without seeing Jack at work among them. Butthe fine, pathetic _Jack_ brings us to the finer, more pathetic _Nabob_. Whether _The Nabob_ is Daudet's greatest novel is a question that may bepostponed, but it may be safely asserted that there are good reasons whyit should have been chosen to represent Daudet in the present series. It has been immensely popular, and thus does not illustrate merely thetaste of an inner circle of its author's admirers. It is not so subtlea study of character as _Numa Roumestan_, nor is it a drama the scene ofwhich is set somewhat in a corner removed from the world's scrutiny andfull comprehension, as is more or less the case with _Kings in Exile_. It is comparatively unamenable to the moral, or, if one will, thepuritanical, objections so naturally brought against _Sapho_. Itobviously represents Daudet's powers better than any novel written afterhis health was permanently wrecked, and as obviously represents fictionmore adequately than either of the Tartarin masterpieces, which belongrather to the literature of humour. Besides, it is probably the mostbroadly effective of all Daudet's novels; it is fuller of strikingscenes; and as a picture of life in the picturesque Second Empire it isof unique importance. Perhaps to many readers this last reason will seem the best of all. However much we may moralize about its baseness and hollowness, whetherwith the Hugo of _Les Chatiments_ we scorn and vituperate its charlatanhead or pity him profoundly as we see him ill and helpless in Zola's_Debacle_, most of us, if we are candid, will confess that the SecondEmpire, especially the Paris of Morny and Hausmann, of cynicism andsplendour, of frivolity and chicane, of servile obsequiousness andhaughty pretension, the France and the Paris that drew to themselves theeyes of all Europe and particularly the eyes of the watchful Bismarck, have for us a fascination almost as great as they had for the gay andaudacious men and women who in them courted fortune and chased pleasurefrom the morrow of the _Coup d'Etat_ to the eve of Sedan. A nearlyequal fascination is exerted upon us by a book which is the best sort ofhistorical novel, since it is the product of its author's observation, not of his reading--a story that sets vividly before us the politicalcorruption, the financial recklessness, the social turmoil, the publicostentation, the private squalor, that led to the downfall of an empireand almost to that of a people. Daudet drew on his experiences, and on the notes he was alwaysaccumulating, more strenuously than he should have done. He assuresus that he laboured over _The Nabob_ for eight months, mainly in hisbed-room, sometimes working eighteen consecutive hours, often wakingfrom restless sleep with a sentence on his lips. Yet, such is the ironyof literary history, the novel is loosely enough put together to havebeen written, one might suppose, in bursts of inspiration or else moreor less methodically--almost with the intention, as Mr. James has noted, of including every striking phase of Parisian life. For it is a seriesof brilliant, effective episodes and scenes, not a closely knit drama. Jenkins's visit to Monpavon at his toilet, the _dejeuner_ at theNabob's, the inspection of the OEuvre de Bethleem--which would havedelighted Dickens--the collapse of the fetes of the Bey, the Nabob'sthrashing Moessard, the death of Mora, Felicia's attempt to escape thefuneral of the duke, the interview between the Nabob and Hemerlingue, the baiting in the Chamber, the suicide of that supreme man of tone, Monpavon, the Nabob's apoplectic seizure in the theatre--these and manyother scenes and episodes, together with descriptions and touches, standout in our memories more distinctly and impressively than the charactersdo--perhaps more so than does the central motive, the outrageousexploitation of the naive hero. For from the beginning of his career tothe end Daudet's eye, like that of a genuine but not supereminent poet, was chiefly attracted by colour, movement, effective pose--in otherwords, by the surfaces of things. One may almost say that he was more ofa landscape engineer than of an architect and builder, although one mustat once add that he could and did erect solid structures. But thereader at least helps greatly to lay the foundations, for, to drop themetaphor, Daudet relied largely on suggestion, contenting himself withthe belief that a capable imagination could fill up the gaps he leftin plot and character analysis. Thus, for example, he indicated andsuggested rather than detailed the way in which Hemerlingue finallytriumphed over the Nabob, Jansoulet. To use another figure, he drew thespider, the fly, and a few strands of the web. The Balzac whose bustlooked satirically down upon the two adventurers in Pere la Chaise wouldprobably have given us the whole web. This is not quite to say thatDaudet is plausible, Balzac inevitable; but rather that we strollwith the former master and follow submissively in the footsteps of thelatter. Yet a caveat is needed, for the intense interest we take in thecharacters of a novel like _The Nabob_ scarcely suggests strolling. For although Daudet, in spite of his abounding sympathy, which is onereason of his great attractiveness, cannot fairly be said to be a greatcharacter creator, he had sufficient flexibility and force of genius toset in action interesting personages. Part of the early success of _TheNabob_ was due to this fact, although the brilliant description of theSecond Empire and the introduction of exotic elements, the Tunisian andCorsican episodes and characters, counted, probably, for not a little. Readers insisted upon seeing in the book this person and that more orless thinly disguised. The Irish adventurer-physician, Jenkins, wassupposed to be modelled upon a popular Dr. Olliffe; the arsenic pillswere derived from another source, as was also the goat's-milk hospitalfor infants. Felicia Ruys was thought by some to be Sarah Bernhardt, and originals were easily provided for Monpavon and the other leadingfigures. But Daudet confessed to only two important originals, and ifone does not take an author's word in such matters one soon finds one'sself in a maze of conjectures and contradictions. The two characters drawn from life in a special sense--for Daudet, likemost other writers of fiction, had human life in general constantlybefore him--are Jansoulet and Mora, precisely the most effectivepersonages in the book, and scarcely surpassed in the whole range ofDaudet's fiction. The Nabob was Francois Bravay, who rose from povertyto wealth by devious transactions in the Orient, and came to grief inParis, much as Jansoulet did. He survived the Empire, and his relativesare said to have been incensed at the treatment given him in the novel, an attitude on their part which is explicable but scarcely justifiable, since Daudet's sympathy for his hero could not well have been greater, and since the adventurer had already attained a notoriety that was notlikely to be completely forgotten. Whether Daudet was as much at libertyto make free with the character of his benefactor Morny is anothermatter. He himself thought that he was, and he was a man of delicatesensitiveness. Probably he was right in claiming that the natural sonof Queen Hortense, the intrepid soldier, the author of the _Coupd'Etat_ that set his weaker half-brother on the throne, the dandy, thelibertine, the leader of fashion, the cynical statesman--in short, the"Richelieu-Brummel" who drew the eyes of all Europe upon himself, would not have been in the least disconcerted could he have known thatthirteen years after his death the public would be discussing him as theprototype of the Mora of his young _protege's_ masterpiece. In fact, it is easy to agree with those critics who think that Daudet's kindlynature caused him to soften many features of Morny's unlovely character. Mora does not, indeed, win our love or our esteem, but we confess him tohave been in every respect an exceptional man, and there is not a pagein which he appears that is not intensely interesting. He must be anunimpressionable reader who soon forgets the death-room scenes, thedestruction of the compromising letters, the spectacular funeral. Of the other characters there is little space to speak here. Nearly allhave their good points, as might be expected of the creator of his twofellow Provencals, Numa and Tartarin, the latter being probably theonly really cosmopolitan figure in recent literature; but some, like theHemerlingues, verge upon mere sketches; others, like Jansoulet's obesewife, upon caricatures. The old mother is excellently done, however, andMonpavon, especially in his suicide, is nothing short of a triumph ofart. It is the more or less romantic or sentimental personages that givethe critic most qualms. Daudet seems to have introduced them--De Gery, the Joyeuse family, and the rest--as a concession to popular taste, andon this score was probably justified. A fair case may also be madeout for the use of idyllic scenes as a foil to the tragical, forthe Shakespearian critics have no monopoly of the overworked plea, "justification by contrast. " Nor could a French analogue of Dickenseasily resist the temptation to give us a fatuous Passajon, anebullient Pere Joyeuse--who seems to have been partly modelled on areal person--an exemplary "Bonne Maman, " a struggling but eventuallytriumphant Andre Maranne. The home-lover Daudet also felt the necessityof showing that Paris could set the Joyeuse household, sunny in itspoverty, over against the stately elegance of the Mora palace, the wallsof which listened at one and the same moment to the music of a ball andthe death-rattle of its haughty owner. But when all is said, it remainsclear that _The Nabob_ is open to the charge that applies to all thegreater novels save _Sapho_--the charge that it exhibits a somewhatinharmonious mixture of sentimentalism and naturalism. Against thischarge, which perhaps applies most forcibly to that otherwise almostperfect work of art, _Numa Roumestan_, Daudet defended himself, but rather weakly. Nor does Mr. Henry James, who in the case of thelast-named novel comes to his help against Zola, much mend matters. Butthe fault, if fault it be, is venial, especially in a friend, though notstrictly a coworker, of Zola's. Naturally an elaborate novel like _The Nabob_ lends itself indefinitelyto minute comment, but we must be sparing of it. Still it is worth whileto call attention to the skill with which, from the opening page, theinterest of the reader is controlled; indeed, to the remarkable artdisplayed in the whole first chapter devoted to the morning rounds ofDr. Jenkins. The note of romantic extravagance is on the whole avoideduntil the Nabob brings out his check-book, when the money flies witha speed for which, one fancies, Daudet could have found littlejustification this side of Timon of Athens. In the description of the_Caisse Territoriale_ given by Passajon this note is relieved by adelicate irony, but seems still somewhat incongruous. One turns morewillingly to the description of Jansoulet's sitting down to play_ecarte_ with Mora, to the story of how he gorged himself with theduke's putative mushrooms, and to similar episodes and touches. In thematter of effective and ironically turned situations few novelscan compare with this; indeed, it almost seems as if Daudet made aninordinate use of them. Think of the poor Nabob reading the announcementof the cross bestowed on Jenkins, and of the absurd populace mistakinghim for the ungrateful Bey! As for great dramatic moments, there is atleast one that no reader can forget--the moment when Jansoulet, in themidst of the speech on which his fate depends, catches sight of his oldmother's face and forbears to clear himself of calumny at the expense ofhis wretched elder brother. The situation may not bear close analysis, but who wishes to analyze? Or who, indeed, wishes to indulge in furthercomment after the scene has risen to his mind? _The Nabob_ was followed by _Kings in Exile_; then came _Numa Roumestan_and _The Evangelist_; then, on the eve of Daudet's breakdown, _Sapho_;and the greatest of his humorous masterpieces, _Tartarin in the Alps_. It is not yet certain what rank is to be given to these books. Perhapsthe adventures of the mountain-climbing hero of the Midi, combinedwith his previous exploits as a slayer of lions--his experiences as acolonist in _Port-Tarascon_ need scarcely be considered--will prove, inthe lapse of years, to be the most solid foundation of that fame whicheven envious Time will hardly begrudge Daudet. As for _Kings in Exile_, it is difficult to see how even the art with which the tragedy of QueenFrederique's life is unfolded or the growing power of characterizationdisplayed in her, in the loyal Merault, in the facile, decadentChristian, can make up for the lack of broadly human appeal in thegeneral subject-matter of a book which was so sympathetically writtenas to appeal alike to Legitimists and to Republicans. Good as _Kingsin Exile_ is, it is not so effective a book as _The Nabob_, nor sucha unique and marvellous work of art as _Numa Roumestan_, due allowancebeing made for the intrusion of sentimentality into the latter. Daudetthought _Numa_ the "least incomplete" of his works; it is certainlyinclusive enough, since some critics are struck by the tragic relationssubsisting between the virtuous discreet Northern wife and the peccable, expansive Southern husband, while others see in the latter the hero ofa comedy of manners almost worthy of Moliere. If _Numa_ represents thehighest achievement of Daudet in dramatic fiction or else in the artof characterization, _The Evangelist_ proved that his genius was notat home in those fields. Instead of marking an ordered advance, thisoverwrought study of Protestant bigotry marked not so much a halt, or aretreat, as a violent swerving to one side. Yet in a way this swervinginto the devious orbit of the novel of intense purpose helped Daudet inhis progress towards naturalism, and imparted something of stability tohis methods of work. _Sapho_, which appeared next, was the first of hisnovels that left little to be desired in the way of artistic unity andcumulative power. If such a study of the _femme collante_, the mistresswho cannot be shaken off--or rather of the man whom she ruins, for itis Gaussin, not Sapho, that is the main subject of Daudet's acuteanalysis--was to be written at all, it had to be written with a resoluteart such as Daudet applied to it. It is not then surprising thatContinental critics rank _Sapho_ as its author's greatest production; itis more in order to wonder what Daudet might not have done in this lineof work had his health remained unimpaired. The later novels, in whichhe came near to joining forces with the naturalists and hence to losingsome of the vogue his eclecticism gave him, need not detain us. And now, in conclusion, how can we best characterize briefly thisfascinating, versatile genius, the most delightful humorist of his time, one of the most artistic story-tellers, one of the greatest novelists?It is impossible to classify him, for he was more than a humorist, henearly outgrew romance, he never accepted unreservedly the canons ofnaturalism. He obviously does not belong to the small class of thesupreme writers of fiction, for he has no consistent or at leastprofound philosophy of life. He is a true poet, yet for the main he hasexpressed himself not in verse, but in prose, and in a form of prosethat is being so extensively cultivated that its permanence is dailybrought more and more into question. What is Daudet, and what will hebe to posterity? Some admirers have already answered the first question, perhaps as satisfactorily as it can be answered, by saying, "Daudet issimply Daudet. " As for the second question, a whole school of critics isinclined to answer it and all similar queries with the curt statement, "That concerns posterity, not us. " If, however, less evasive answers areinsisted upon, let the following utterance, which might conceivably bemore indefinite and oracular, suffice: Alphonse Daudet is one ofthose rare writers who combine greatness with a charm so intimate andappealing that some of us would not, if we could, have their greatnessincreased. W. P. TRENT. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Alphonse Daudet was born at Nimes on the 13th of May, 1840. He was theyounger son of a rich and enthusiastically Royalist silk-manufacturerof that town, the novelist, Ernest Daudet (born 1837), being his elderbrother. In their childhood, the father, Vincent Daudet, sufferedreverses, and had to settle with his family, in reduced circumstances, at Lyons. Alphonse, in 1856, obtained a post as usher in a school atAlais, in the Gard, where he was extremely unhappy. All these painfulearly experiences are told very pathetically in "Le Petit Chose. " Onthe 1st of November, 1857, Alphonse fled from the horrors of his life atAlais, and joined his brother Ernest, who had just secured a post in theservice of the Duc de Morny in Paris. Alphonse determined to live byhis pen, and presently obtained introductions to the "Figaro. " His earlyvolumes of verse, "Les Amoureuses" of 1858 and "La Double Conversion"of 1861, attracted some favourable notice. In this latter year hisdifficulties ceased, for he had the good fortune to become one of thesecretaries of the Duc de Morny, a post which he held for four years, until the popularity of his writings rendered him independent. To thegenerosity of his patron, moreover, he owed the opportunity of visitingItaly and the East. His first novel, "Le Chaperon Rouge, " 1863, was notvery remarkable, and Daudet turned to the stage. His principal dramaticefforts of this period were "Le Dernier Idole, " 1862, and "L'OEilletBlanc, " 1865. Alphonse Daudet's earliest important work, however, was"Le Petit Chose, " 1868, a very pathetic autobiography of the firsteighteen years of his life, over which he cast a thin veil of romance. After the death of the Duc de Morny, Daudet retired to Provence, leasinga ruined mill at Fortvielle, in the valley of the Rhone; from thisromantic solitude, among the pines and green oaks, he sent forth thoseexquisite studies of Provencal life, the "Lettres de mon Moulin. " Afterthe war, Daudet reappeared in Paris, greatly strengthened and ripenedby his hermit-existence in the heart of Provence. He produced onemasterpiece after another. He had studied with laughter and joy themirthful side of southern exaggeration, and he created a figure in whichits peculiar qualities should be displayed, as it were, in excelsis. This study resulted, in 1872, in "The Prodigious Feats of Tartarin ofTarascon, " one of the most purely delightful works of humour in theFrench language. Alphonse Daudet now, armed with his cahiers, his littlegreen-backed books of notes, set out to be a great historian ofFrench manners in the second half of the nineteenth century. His firstimportant novel, "Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine, " 1874, enjoyed a notablesuccess; it was followed in 1876 by "Jack, " in 1878 by "Le Nabob, " in1879 by "Les Rois en Exil, " in 1881 by "Numa Roumestan, " in 1883 by"L'Evangeliste, " and in 1884 by "Sapho. " These are the seven greatromances of modern French life on which the reputation of AlphonseDaudet as a novelist is mainly built. They placed him, for the moment atall events, near the head of contemporary European literature. By thistime, however, a physical malady, which Charcot was the first to locatein the spinal cord, had begun to exhaust the novelist's powers. Thisdisease, which took the form of what was supposed to be neuralgia in1881, racked him with pain during the sixteen remaining years of hislife, and gradually destroyed his powers of locomotion. It sparedthe functions of the brain, but it cannot be denied that after 1884something of force and spontaneous charm was lacking in Daudet's books. He continued, however, the adventures of Tartarin, first with unabatedgusto in the Alps, then less happily as a colonist in the South Seas. Hewrote, in the form of a novel, a bitter satire on the French Academy, of which he was never a member; this was "L'Immortel" of 1888. He wroteromances, of little power, the best being "Rose et Ninette" of 1892, buthis imaginative work steadily declined in value. He published in 1887his reminiscences, "Trente Ans de Paris, " and later on his "Souvenirsd'un Homme de Lettres. " He suffered more and more from his complaint, from the insomnia it caused, and from the abuse of chloral. He wasable, however, to the last, to enjoy the summer at his country-house, atChamprosay, and even to travel in an invalid's chair; in 1896 he visitedfor the first time London and Oxford, and saw Mr. George Meredith. InParis he had long occupied rooms in the Rue de Bellechasse, where MadameAlphonse Daudet was accustomed to entertain a brilliant company. But in1897 it became impossible for him to mount five flights of stairs anylonger, and he moved to the first floor of No. 41 Rue de l'Universite. Here on the 16th of December, 1897, as he was chatting gaily at thedinner-table, he uttered a cry, fell back in his chair, and was dead. The personal appearance of Alphonse Daudet, in his prime, was verystriking; he had clearly cut features, large brilliant eyes, and anamazing exuberance of curled hair and forked beard. EDMUND GOSSE, LL. D. CONTENTS Introduction, William Peterfield Trent Life of Alphonse Daudet, Edmund Gosse THE NABOB: Dr. Jenkins's patients A luncheon in the Place Vendome Memoirs of an office porter--A mere glance at the Territorial Bank A debut in society The Joyeuse family Felicia Ruys Jansoulet at home The Bethlehem Society Bonne Maman Memoirs of an office porter--Servants The festivities in honour of the Bey A Corsican election A day of spleen The Exhibition Memoirs of an office porter--In the antechamber A public man The apparition The Jenkins pearls The funeral La Baronne Hemerlingue The sitting Dramas of Paris Memoirs of an office porter--The last leaves At Bordighera The first night of "Revolt" THE NABOB by Alphonse Daudet DOCTOR JENKIN'S PATIENTS Standing on the steps of his little town-house in the Rue de Lisbonne, freshly shaven, with sparkling eyes, and lips parted in easy enjoyment, his long hair slightly gray flowing over a huge coat collar, squareshouldered, strong as an oak, the famous Irish doctor, Robert Jenkins, Knight of the Medjidjieh and of the distinguished order of Charles IIIof Spain, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society. Jenkins in aword, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills with an arsenical base--thatis to say, the fashionable doctor of the year 1864, the busiest man inParis, was preparing to step into his carriage when a casement openedon the first floor looking over the inner court-yard of the house, and awoman's voice asked timidly: "Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?" Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly illumined thefine apostle-like head with its air of learning, and in the tender"good-morning" which his eyes threw up towards the warm, whitedressing-gown visible behind the raised curtains; how easy it was todivine one of those conjugal passions, tranquil and sure, which habitre-enforces and with supple and stable bonds binds closer. "No, Mrs. Jenkins. " He was fond of thus bestowing upon her publiclyher title as his lawful wife, as if he found in it an intimategratification, a sort of acquittal of conscience towards the woman whomade life so bright for him. "No, do not expect me this morning. I lunchin the Place Vendome. " "Ah! yes, the Nabob, " said the handsome Mrs. Jenkins with a very markednote of respect for this personage out of the _Thousand and One Nights_of whom all Paris had been talking for the last month; then, after alittle hesitation, very tenderly, in a quite low voice, from between theheavy tapestries, she whispered for the ears of the doctor only: "Be sure you do not forget what you promised me. " Apparently it was something very difficult to fulfil, for at thereminder of this promise the eyebrows of the apostle contracted intoa frown, his smile became petrified, his whole visage assumed anexpression of incredible hardness; but it was only for an instant. Atthe bedside of their patients the physiognomies of these fashionabledoctors become expert in lying. In his most tender, most cordial manner, he replied, disclosing a row of dazzling white teeth: "What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins. And now, go in quickly andshut your window. The fog is cold this morning. " Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow mist; and, filling the airoutside the glasses of the large brougham, it brightened with softgleams the unfolded newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder, in thepopulous quarters, confined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesmanand mechanic, that charming morning haze which lingers in the greatthoroughfares is not known. The bustle of awakening, the going andcoming of the market-carts, of the omnibuses, of the heavy trucksrattling their old iron, have early and quickly cut it up, unravelledand scattered it. Every passer-by carries away a little of it in athreadbare overcoat, a muffler which shows the woof, and coarse glovesrubbed one against the other. It soaks through the thin blouses, andthe mackintoshes thrown over the working skirts; it melts away at everybreath that is drawn, warm from sleeplessness or alcohol; it is engulfedin the depths of empty stomachs, dispersed in the shops as they areopened, and the dark courts, or even to the fireless attics. That isthe reason why there remains so little of it out of doors. But in thatspacious and grandiose region of Paris, which was inhabited by Jenkins'sclients, on those wide boulevards planted with trees, and those desertedquays, the fog hovered without a stain, like so many sheets, withwaverings and cotton wool-like flakes. The effect was of a placeinclosed, secret, almost sumptuous, as the sun after his slothfulrising began to diffuse softly crimsoned tints, which gave to the mistenshrouding the rows of houses to their summits the appearance of whitemuslin thrown over some scarlet material. One might have fancied it agreat curtain beneath which nothing could be heard save the cautiousclosing of some court-yard gate, the tin measuring-cans of the milkmen, the little bells of a herd of she-asses passing at a quick trot followedby the short and panting breath of their shepherd, and the dull rumbleof Jenkins's brougham commencing its daily round. First, to Mora House. This was a magnificent palace on the Quai d'Orsay, next door to the Spanish embassy, whose long terraces succeeded its own, having its principal entrance in the Rue de Lille, and a door upon theside next the river. Between two lofty walls overgrown with ivy, andunited by imposing vaulted arches, the brougham shot in, announced bytwo strokes of a sonorous bell which roused Jenkins from the reverieinto which the reading of his newspaper seemed to have plunged him. Then the noise of the wheels became deadened on the sand of a vastcourt-yard, and they drew up, after describing an elegant curve, beforethe steps of the mansion, which were surrounded by a large circularawning. In the obscurity of the fog, a dozen carriages could be seenranged in line, and along an avenue of acacias, quite withered atthat season and leafless in their bark, the profiles of English groomsleading out the saddle-horses of the duke for their exercise. Everythingrevealed a luxury thought-out, settled, grandiose, and assured. "It is quite useless for me to come early; others always arrive beforeme, " said Jenkins to himself as he saw the file in which his broughamtook its place; but, certain of not having to wait, with head carriedhigh, and an air of tranquil authority, he ascended that official flightof steps which is mounted every day by so many trembling ambitions, somany anxieties on hesitating feet. From the very antechamber, lofty and resonant like a church, which, although calorifers burned night and day, possessed two great wood-firesthat filled it with a radiant life, the luxury of this interior reachedyou by warm and heady puffs. It suggested at once a hot-house anda Turkish bath. A great deal of heat and yet brightness; whitewainscoting, white marbles, immense windows, nothing stifling or shutin, and yet a uniform atmosphere meet for the surrounding of somerare existence, refined and nervous. Jenkins always expanded in thisfactitious sun of wealth; he greeted with a "good-morning, my lads, "the powdered porter, with his wide golden scarf, the footmen inknee-breeches and livery of gold and blue, all standing to do himhonour; lightly drew his finger across the bars of the large cages ofmonkeys full of sharp cries and capers, and, whistling under his breath, stepped quickly up the staircase of shining marble laid with a carpetas thick as the turf of a lawn, which led to the apartments of the duke. Although six months had passed since his first visit to Mora House, the good doctor was not yet become insensible to the quite physicalimpression of gaiety, of frivolity, which he received from thisdwelling. Although you were in the abode of the first official of the Empire therewas nothing here suggestive of the work of government or its boxesof dusty old papers. The duke had only consented to accept his highdignitaries as Minister of State and President of the Council upon thecondition that he should not quit his private mansion; he only wentto his office for an hour or two daily, the time necessary to give theindispensable signatures, and held his receptions in his bed-chamber. At this moment, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, the hall wascrowded. You saw there grave, anxious faces, provincial prefects withshaven lips, and administrative whiskers, slightly less arrogant in thisantechamber than yonder in their prefectures, magistrates of austereair, sober in gesture, deputies important of manner, big-wigs of thefinancial world, rich and boorish manufacturers, among whom stood outhere and there the slender, ambitious figure of some substitute of aprefectorial councillor, in the garb of one seeking a favour, dress-coatand white tie; and all, standing, sitting in groups or solitary, soughtsilently to penetrate with their gaze that high door closed upon theirdestiny, by which they would issue forth directly triumphant or withcast-down head. Jenkins passed through the crowd rapidly, and every onefollowed with an envious eye this newcomer whom the doorkeeper, withhis official chain, correct and icy in his demeanour, seated at a tablebeside the door, greeted with a little smile at once respectful andfamiliar. "Who is with him?" asked the doctor, indicating the chamber of the duke. Hardly moving his lips, and not without a slightly ironical glance ofthe eye, the doorkeeper whispered a name which, if they had heard it, would have roused the indignation of all these high personages who hadbeen waiting for an hour past until the costumier of the opera shouldhave ended his audience. A sound of voices, a ray of light. Jenkins had just entered the duke'spresence; he never waited, he. Standing with his back to the fireplace, closely wrapped in adressing-jacket of blue fur, the soft reflections from which gave anair of refinement to an energetic and haughty head, the President of theCouncil was causing to be designed under his eyes a Pierrette costumefor the duchess to wear at her next ball, and was giving his directionswith the same gravity with which he would have dictated the draft of anew law. "Let the frill be very fine on the ruff, and put no frills on thesleeves. --Good-morning, Jenkins. I am with you directly. " Jenkins bowed, and took a few steps in the immense room, of which thewindows, opening on a garden that extended as far as the Seine, framedone of the finest views of Paris, the bridges, the Tuileries, theLouvre, in a network of black trees traced as it were in Indian ink uponthe floating background of fog. A large and very low bed, raised bya few steps above the floor, two or three little lacquer screens withvague and capricious gilding, indicating, like the double doors and thecarpets of thick wool, a fear of cold pushed even to excess, variousseats, lounges, warmers, scattered about rather indiscriminately, alllow, rounded, indolent, or voluptuous in shape, composed the furnitureof this celebrated chamber in which the gravest questions and the mostfrivolous were wont to be treated alike with the same seriousness. Onthe wall was a handsome portrait of the duchess; on the chimneypiece abust of the duke, the work of Felicia Ruys, which at the recent Salonhad received the honours of a first medal. "Well, Jenkins, how are we this morning?" said his excellency, approaching, while the costumier was picking up his fashion-plates, scattered over all the easy chairs. "And you, my dear duke? I thought you a little pale last evening at theVarietes. " "Come, come! I have never felt so well. Your pills have a mostmarvellous effect upon me. I am conscious of a vivacity, a freshness, when I remember how run down I was six months ago. " Jenkins, without saying anything, had laid his great head against thefur-coat of the minister of state, at the place where, in common men, the heart beats. He listened a moment while his excellency continued tospeak in the indolent, bored tone which was one of the characteristicsof his distinction. "And who was your companion, doctor, last night? That huge, bronzedTartar who was laughing so loudly in the front of your box. " "It was the Nabob, _Monsieur le Duc_. The famous Jansoulet, about whompeople are talking so much just now. " "I ought to have guessed it. The whole house was watching him. Theactresses played for him alone. You know him? What sort of man is he?" "I know him. That is to say, I attend him professionally. --Thank you, my dear duke, I have finished. All is right in that region. --Whenhe arrived in Paris a month ago, he had found the change of climatesomewhat trying. He sent for me, and since then has received me uponthe most friendly footing. What I know of him is that he possesses acolossal fortune, made in Tunis, in the service of the Bey, that he hasa loyal heart, a generous soul, in which the ideas of humanity--" "In Tunis?" interrupted the duke, who was by nature very littlesentimental and humanitarian. "In that case, why this name of Nabob?" "Bah! the Parisians do not look at things so closely. For them, everyrich foreigner is a nabob, no matter whence he comes. Furthermore, thisnabob has all the physical qualities for the part--a copper-colouredskin, eyes like burning coals, and, what is more, gigantic wealth, ofwhich he makes, I do not fear to say it, the most noble and the mostintelligent use. It is to him that I owe"--here the doctor assumed amodest air--"that I owe it that I have at last been able to found theBethlehem Society for the suckling of infants, which a morning paper, that I was looking over just now--the _Messenger_, I think--calls 'thegreat philanthropic idea of the century. '" The duke threw a listless glance over the sheet which Jenkins held outto him. He was not the man to be caught by the turn of an advertisement. "He must be very rich, this M. Jansoulet, " said he, coldly. "He financesCardailhac's theatre; Monpavon gets him to pay his debts; Bois l'Herystarts a stable for him; old Schwalbach a picture gallery. It meansmoney, all that. " Jenkins laughed. "What will you have, my dear duke, this poor Nabob, you are his greatoccupation. Arriving here with the firm resolution to become a Parisian, a man of the world, he has taken you for his model in everything, and Ido not conceal from you that he would very much like to study his modelfrom a nearer standpoint. " "I know, I know. Monpavon has already asked my permission to bringhim to see me. But I prefer to wait; I wish to see. With these greatfortunes that come from so far away one has to be careful. _Mon Dieu_! Ido not say that if I should meet him elsewhere than in my own house, atthe theatre, in a drawing-room----" "As it just happens, Mrs. Jenkins is proposing to give a small partynext month. If you would do us the honour----" "I shall be glad to come, my dear doctor, and if your Nabob shouldchance to be there I should make no objection to his being presented tome. " At this moment the usher on duty opened the door. "Monsieur the Minister of the Interior is in the blue salon. He has onlyone word to say to his excellency. Monsieur the Prefect of Police isstill waiting downstairs, in the gallery. " "Very well, " said the duke, "I am coming. But I should like first tofinish the matter of this costume. Let us see--friend, what's yourname--what are we deciding upon for these ruffs? Au revoir, doctor. There is nothing to be done, is there, except to continue the pills?" "Continue the pills, " said Jenkins, bowing; and he left the room beamingwith delight at the two pieces of good fortune which were befalling himat the same time--the honour of entertaining the duke and the pleasureof obliging his dear Nabob. In the antechamber, the crowd of petitionersthrough which he passed was still more numerous than at his entry;newcomers had joined those who had been patiently waiting from thefirst, others were mounting the staircase, with busy look and very pale, and in the courtyard the carriages continued to arrive, and to rangethemselves on ranks in a circle, gravely, solemnly, while the questionof the sleeve ruffs was being discussed upstairs with not lesssolemnity. "To the club, " said Jenkins to his coachman. The brougham bowled along the quays, recrossed the bridges, reached thePlace de la Concorde, which already no longer wore the same aspect as anhour earlier. The fog was lifting in the direction of the Garde-Meubleand the Greek temple of the Madeleine, allowing to be dimlydistinguished here and there the white plume of a jet of water, thearcade of a palace, the upper portion of a statue, the tree-clumps ofthe Tuileries, grouped in chilly fashion near the gates. The veil, notraised, but broken in places, disclosed fragments of horizon; and on theavenue which leads to the Arc de Triomphe could be seen brakes passingat full trot laden with coachmen and jobmasters, dragoons of theEmpress, fuglemen bedizened with lace and covered with furs, going twoby two in long files with a jangling of bits and spurs, and the snortingof fresh horses, the whole lighted by a sun still invisible, the lightissuing from the misty atmosphere, and here and there withdrawing intoit again as if offering a fleeting vision of the morning luxury of thatquarter of the town. Jenkins alighted at the corner of the Rue Royale. From top to bottom ofthe great gambling house the servants were passing to and fro, shakingthe carpets, airing the rooms where the fume of cigars still hung aboutand heaps of fine glowing ashes were crumbling away at the back of thehearths, while on the green tables, still vibrant with the night's play, there stood burning a few silver candlesticks whose flames rose straightin the wan light of day. The noise, the coming and going, ceased atthe third floor, where sundry members of the club had their apartments. Among them was the Marquis de Monpavon, whose abode Jenkins was now onhis way to visit. "What! It is you, doctor? The devil take it! What is the time then? I'mnot visible. " "Not even for the doctor?" "Oh, for nobody. Question of etiquette, _mon cher_. No matter, come inall the same. You'll warm your feet for a moment while Francis finishesdoing my hair. " Jenkins entered the bed-chamber, a banal place like all furnishedapartments, and moved towards the fire on which there were set toheat curling-tongs of all sizes, while in the contiguous laboratory, separated from the room by a curtain of Algerian tapestry, the Marquisde Monpavon gave himself up to the manipulations of his valet. Odours ofpatchouli, of cold-cream, of hartshorn, and of singed hair escaped fromthe part of the room which was shut off, and from time to time, whenFrancis came to fetch a curling-iron, Jenkins caught sight of a hugedressing-table laden with a thousand little instruments of ivory, andmother-of-pearl, with steel files, scissors, puffs, and brushes, withbottles, with little trays, with cosmetics, labelled and arrangedmethodically in groups and lines; and amid all this display, awkward andalready shaky, an old man's hand, shrunken and long, delicately trimmedand polished about the nails like that of a Japanese painter, whichfaltered about among this fine hardware and doll's china. While continuing the process of making up his face, the longest, themost complicated of his morning occupations, Monpavon chatted with thedoctor, told of his little ailments, and the good effect of the _pills_. They made him young again, he said. And at a distance, thus, withoutseeing him, one would have taken him for the Duc de Mora, to sucha degree had he usurped his manner of speech. There were the sameunfinished phrases, ended by "ps, ps, ps, " muttered between the teeth, expressions like "What's its name?" "Who was it?" constantly thrown intowhat he was saying, a kind of aristocratic stutter, fatigued, listless, wherein you might perceive a profound contempt for the vulgar art ofspeech. In the society of which the duke was the centre, every onesought to imitate that accent, those disdainful intonations with anaffectation of simplicity. Jenkins, finding the sitting rather long, had risen to take hisdeparture. "Adieu, I must be off. We shall see you at the Nabob's?" "Yes, I intend to be there for luncheon. Promised to bring him--what'shis name. Who was it? What? You know, for our big affair--ps, ps, ps. Were it not for that, should gladly stay away. Real menagerie, thathouse. " The Irishman, despite his benevolence, agreed that the society wasrather mixed at his friend's. But then! One could hardly blame him forit. The poor fellow, he knew no better. "Neither knows nor is willing to learn, " remarked Monpavon withbitterness. "Instead of consulting people of experience--ps, ps, ps--first sponger that comes along. Have you seen the horses that Boisl'Hery has persuaded him to buy? Absolute rubbish those animals. And hepaid twenty thousand francs for them. We may wager that Bois l'Hery gotthem for six thousand. " "Oh, for shame--a nobleman!" said Jenkins, with the indignation of alofty soul refusing to believe in baseness. Monpavon continued, without seeming to hear: "All that because the horses came from Mora's stable. " "It is true that the dear Nabob's heart is very full of the duke. I amabout to make him very happy, therefore, when I inform him----" The doctor paused, embarrassed. "When you inform him of what, Jenkins?" Somewhat abashed, Jenkins had to confess that he had obtained permissionfrom his excellency to present to him his friend Jansoulet. Scarcelyhad he finished his sentence before a tall spectre, with flabby faceand hair and whiskers diversely coloured, bounded from the dressing-roominto the chamber, with his two hands folding round a fleshless but veryerect neck a dressing-gown of flimsy silk with violet spots, in which hewas wrapped like a sweetmeat in its paper. The most striking thing aboutthis mock-heroic physiognomy was a large curved nose all shiny with coldcream, and an eye alive, keen, too young, too bright, for the heavy andwrinkled eyelid which covered it. Jenkins's patients all had that eye. Monpavon must indeed have been deeply moved to show himself thus devoidof all prestige. In point of fact, with white lips and a changed voicehe addressed the doctor quickly, without the lisp this time, and in asingle outburst: "Come now, _mon cher_, no tomfoolery between us, eh? We are both metbefore the same dish, but I leave you your share. I intend that youshall leave me mine. " And Jenkins's air of astonishment did not make him pause. "Let this besaid once for all. I have promised the Nabob to present him to the duke, just as, formerly, I presented you. Do not mix yourself up, therefore, with what concerns me alone. " Jenkins laid his hand on his heart, protested his innocence. He hadnever had any intention. Certainly Monpavon was too intimate a friend ofthe duke, for any other--How could he have supposed? "I suppose nothing, " said the old nobleman, calmer but still cold. "I merely desired to have a very clear explanation with you on thissubject. " The Irishman extended a widely opened hand. "My dear marquis, explanations are always clear between men of honour. " "Honour is a big word, Jenkins. Let us say people of deportment--thatsuffices. " And that deportment, which he invoked as the supreme guide of conduct, recalling him suddenly to the sense of his ludicrous situation, themarquis offered one finger to his friend's demonstrative shake of thehand, and passed back with dignity behind his curtain, while the otherleft, in haste to resume his round. What a magnificent clientele he had, this Jenkins! Nothing but princelymansions, heated staircases, laden with flowers at every landing, upholstered and silky alcoves, where disease was transformed intosomething discreet, elegant, where nothing suggested that brutal handwhich throws on a bed of pain those who only cease to work in order todie. They were not in any true speech, sick people, these clients ofthe Irish doctor. They would have been refused admission to a hospital. Their organs not possessing even strength to give them a shock, the seatof their malady was to be discovered nowhere, and the doctor, as he bentover them, might have sought in vain the throb of any suffering in thosebodies which the inertia, the silence of death already inhabited. Theywere worn-out, debilitated people, anaemics, exhausted by an absurdlife, but who found it so good still that they fought to have itprolonged. And the Jenkins pills became famous precisely by reason ofthat lash of the whip which they gave to jaded existences. "Doctor, I beseech you, let me be fit to go to the ball this evening!"the young woman would say, prostrate on her lounge, and whose voice wasreduced to a breath. "You shall go, my dear child. " And she went; and never had she looked more beautiful. "Doctor, at all costs, though it should kill me, to-morrow morning Imust be at the Cabinet Council. " He was there, and carried away from it in a triumph of eloquence and ofambitious diplomacy. Afterward--oh, afterward, if you please! But no matter! To theirlast day Jenkins's clients went about, showed themselves, cheated thedevouring egotism of the crowd. They died on their feet, as became menand women of the world. After a thousand peregrinations in the Chaussee d'Antin and theChamps-Elysees, after having visited every millionaire or titledpersonage in the Faubourg Saint Honore, the fashionable doctor arrivedat the corner of the Cours-la-Reine and the Rue Francois I. , before ahouse with a rounded front, which occupied the angle on the quay, andentered an apartment on the ground floor which resembled in nowise thosethrough which he had been passing since morning. From the threshold, tapestries covering the wall, windows of old stained glass with stripsof lead cutting across a discrete and composite light, a gigantic saintin carved wood which fronted a Japanese monster with protruding eyesand a back covered with delicate scales like tiles, indicated theimaginative and curious taste of an artist. The little page who answeredthe door held in leash an Arab greyhound larger than himself. "Mme. Constance is at mass, " he said, "and Mademoiselle is in the studioquite alone. We have been at work since six o'clock this morning, " addedthe child with a rueful yawn which the dog caught on the wing, makinghim open wide his pink mouth with its sharp teeth. Jenkins, whom we have seen enter with so much self-possession thechamber of the Minister of State, trembled a little as he raised thecurtain masking the door of the studio which had been left open. It wasa splendid sculptor's studio, the front of which, on the street corner, semi-circular in shape, gave the room one whole wall of glass, withpilasters at the sides, a large, well-lighted bay, opal-coloured justthen by reason of the fog. More ornate than are usually such work-rooms, which the stains of the plaster, the boasting-tools, the clay, thepuddles of water generally cause to resemble a stone-mason's shed, thisone added a touch of coquetry to its artistic purpose. Green plants inevery corner, a few good pictures suspended against the bare walland, here and there, resting upon oak brackets, two or three worksof Sebastien Ruys, of which the last, exhibited after his death, wascovered with a piece of black gauze. The mistress of the house, Felicia Ruys, the daughter of the famoussculptor and herself already known by two masterpieces, the bust of herfather and that of the Duc de Mora, was standing in the middle of thestudio, occupied in the modelling of a figure. Wearing a tightly fittingriding-habit of blue cloth with long folds, a fichu of China silktwisted about her neck like a man's tie, her black, fine hair caught upcarelessly above the antique modelling of her small head, Felicia wasat work with an extreme earnestness which added to her beauty theconcentration, the intensity which are given to the features by anattentive and satisfied expression. But that changed immediately uponthe arrival of the doctor. "Ah, it is you, " said she brusquely, as though awaked from a dream. "Thebell was rung, then? I did not hear it. " And in the ennui, the lassitude that suddenly took possession of thatadorable face, the only thing that remained expressive and brilliant wasthe eyes, eyes in which the factitious gleam of the Jenkins pills washeightened by the constitutional wildness. Oh, how the doctor's voice became humble and condescending as heanswered her: "So you are quite absorbed in your work, my dear Felicia. Is itsomething new that you are at work on there? It seems to me verypretty. " He moved towards the rough and still formless model out of which therewas beginning to issue vaguely a group of two animals, one a greyhoundwhich was scampering at full speed with a rush that was trulyextraordinary. "The idea of it came to me last night. I began to work it out bylamplight. My poor Kadour, he sees no fun in it, " said the girl, glancing with a look of caressing kindness at the greyhound whose pawsthe little page was endeavouring to place apart in order to get the poseagain. Jenkins remarked in a fatherly way that she did wrong to tire herselfthus, and taking her wrist with ecclesiastical precautions: "Come, I am sure you are feverish. " At the contact of his hand with her own, Felicia made a movement almostof repulsion. "No, no, leave me alone. Your pills can do nothing for me. When I do notwork I am bored. I am bored to death, to extinction; my thoughts are thecolour of that water which flows over yonder, brackish and heavy. To becommencing life, and to be disgusted with it! It is hard. I am reducedto the point of envying my poor Constance, who passes her days inher chair, without opening her mouth, but smiling to herself over hermemories of the past. I have not even that, I, happy remembrances tomuse upon. I have only work--work!" As she talked she went on modelling furiously, now with theboasting-tool, now with her fingers, which she wiped from time to timeon a little sponge placed on the wooden platform which supported thegroup; so that her complaints, her melancholies, inexplicable in themouth of a girl of twenty which, in repose, had the purity of a Greeksmile, seemed uttered at random and addressed to no one in particular. Jenkins, however, appeared disturbed by them, troubled, despite theevident attention which he gave to the work of the artist, or rather tothe artist herself, to the triumphant grace of this girl whom her beautyseemed to have predestined to the study of the plastic arts. Embarrassed by the admiring gaze which she felt fixed upon her, Feliciaresumed: "Apropos, I have seen him, you know, your Nabob. Some one pointed himout to me last Friday at the opera. " "You were at the opera on Friday?" "Yes. The duke had sent me his box. " Jenkins changed colour. "I persuaded Constance to go with me. It was the first time fortwenty-five years since her farewell performance, that she had beeninside the Opera-House. It made a great impression on her. During theballet, especially, she trembled, she beamed, all her old triumphssparkled in her eyes. Happy who has emotions like that. A real type, that Nabob. You will have to bring him to see me. He has a head that itwould amuse me to do. " "He! Why, he is hideous! You cannot have looked at him carefully. " "On the contrary, I had a perfect view. He was opposite us. That mask, as of a white Ethiopian, would be superb in marble. And not vulgar, in any case. Besides, since he is so ugly as that, you will not beso unhappy as you were last year when I was doing Mora's bust. What adisagreeable face you had, Jenkins, in those days!" "For ten years of life, " muttered Jenkins in a gloomy voice, "I wouldnot have that time over again. But you it amuses to behold suffering. " "You know quite well that nothing amuses me, " said she, shrugging hershoulders with a supreme impertinence. Then, without looking at him, without adding another word, she plungedinto one of those dumb activities by which true artists escape fromthemselves and from everything that surrounds them. Jenkins paced a few steps in the studio, much moved, with avowals onthe tip of his tongue which yet dared not put themselves into words. Atlength, feeling himself dismissed, he took his hat and walked towardsthe door. "So it is understood. I must bring him to see you. " "Who?" "Why, the Nabob. It was you who this very moment----" "Ah, yes, " remarked the strange person whose caprices were short-lived. "Bring him if you like. I don't care, otherwise. " And her beautiful dejected voice, in which something seemed broken, thelistlessness of her whole personality, said distinctly enough that itwas true, that she cared really for nothing in the world. Jenkins left the room, extremely troubled, and with a gloomy brow. But, the moment he was outside, he assumed once more his laughing and cordialexpression, being of those who, in the streets, go masked. The morningwas advancing. The mist, still perceptible in the vicinity of the Seine, floated now only in shreds and gave a vaporous unsubstantiality tothe houses on the quay, to the river steamers whose paddles remainedinvisible, to the distant horizon in which the dome of the Invalideshung poised like a gilded balloon with a rope that darted sunbeams. Adiffused warmth, the movement in the streets, told that noon was not fardistant, that it would be there directly with the striking of all thebells. Before going on to the Nabob's, Jenkins had, however, one other visit tomake. But he appeared to find it a great nuisance. However, since he hadmade the promise! And, resolutely: "68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, at the Ternes, " he said, as he sprang into hiscarriage. The address required to be repeated twice to the coachman, Joey, whowas scandalized; the very horse showed a momentary hesitation, as if thevaluable beast and the impeccably clad servant had felt revolt at theidea of driving out to such a distant suburb, beyond the limited butso brilliant circle wherein their master's clients were scattered. The carriage arrived, all the same, without accident, at the end of aprovincial-looking, unfinished street, and at the last of its buildings, a house of unfurnished apartments with five stories, which the streetseemed to have despatched forward as a reconnoitring party to discoverwhether it might continue on that side isolated as it stood betweenvaguely marked-out sites waiting to be built upon or heaped with thedebris of houses broken down, with blocks of freestone, old shutterslying amid the desolation, mouldy butchers' blocks with broken hingeshanging, an immense ossuary of a whole demolished region of the town. Innumerable placards were stuck above the door, the latter beingdecorated by a great frame of photographs white with dust before whichJenkins paused for a moment as he passed. Had the famous doctor come sofar, then, simply for the purpose of having a photograph taken? It mighthave been thought so, judging by the attention with which he stayedto examine this display, the fifteen or twenty photographs whichrepresented the same family in different poses and actions and withvarying expressions; an old gentleman, with chin supported by a highwhite neckcloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded bya bevy of young girls with their hair in plait or in curls, and withmodest ornaments on their black frocks. Sometimes the old gentleman hadposed with but two of his daughters; or perhaps one of those young andpretty profile figures stood out alone, the elbow resting upon a brokencolumn, the head bowed over a book in a natural and easy pose. But, inshort, it was always the same air with variations, and within the glassframe there was no gentleman save the old gentleman with the whiteneckcloth, nor other feminine figures that those of his numerousdaughters. "Studios upstairs, on the fifth floor, " said a line above the frame. Jenkins sighed, measured with his eye the distance that separated theground from the little balcony up there in the clouds, then he decidedto enter. In the corridor he passed a white neckcloth and a majesticleathern portfolio, evidently the old gentleman of the photographicexhibition. Questioned, this individual replied that M. Maranne didindeed live on the fifth floor. "But, " he added, with an engaging smile, "the stories are not lofty. " Upon this encouragement the Irishman beganto ascend a narrow and quite new staircase with landings no larger thana step, only one door on each floor, and badly lighted windows throughwhich could be seen a gloomy, ill-paved court-yard and other cage-likestaircases, all empty; one of those frightful modern houses, builtby the dozen by penniless speculators, and having as their worstdisadvantage thin partition walls which oblige all the inhabitants tolive in a phalansterian community. At this particular time the inconvenience was not great, the fourth andfifth floors alone happening to be occupied, as though the tenants haddropped into them from the sky. On the fourth floor, behind a door with a copper plate bearing theannouncement "M. Joyeuse, Expert in Bookkeeping, " the doctor hearda sound of fresh laughter, of young people's chatter, and of rompingsteps, which accompanied him to the floor above, to the photographicestablishment. These little businesses perched away in corners with the air of havingno communication with any outside world are one of the surprises ofParis. One asks one's self how the people live who go into thesetrades, what fastidious Providence can, for example, send clients toa photographer lodged on a fifth floor in a nondescript region, wellbeyond the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, or books to keep to the accountantbelow. Jenkins, as he made this reflection, smiled in pity, then wentstraight in as he was invited by the following inscription, "Enterwithout knocking. " Alas! the permission was scarcely abused. A tallyoung man wearing spectacles, and writing at a small table, with hislegs wrapped in a travelling-rug, rose precipitately to greet thevisitor whom his short sight had prevented him from recognising. "Good-morning, Andre, " said the doctor, stretching out his loyal hand. "M. Jenkins!" "You see, I am good-natured as I have always been. Your conduct towardsus, your obstinacy in persisting in living far away from your parents, imposed a great reserve on me, for my own dignity's sake; but yourmother has wept. And here I am. " While he spoke, he examined the poor little studio, with its bare walls, its scanty furniture, the brand-new photographic apparatus, the littlePrussian fireplace, new also and never yet used for a fire, all forcedinto painfully clear evidence beneath the direct light falling from theglass roof. The drawn face, the scanty beard of the young man, to whomthe bright colour of his eyes, the narrow height of his forehead, his long and fair hair thrown backward gave the air of a visionary, everything was accentuated in the crude light; and also the resolutewill in that clear glance which settled upon Jenkins coldly, and inadvance to all his reasonings, to all his protestations, opposed aninvincible resistance. But the good Jenkins feigned not to perceive anything of this. "You know, my dear Andre, since the day when I married your mother Ihave regarded you as my son. I looked forward to leaving you my practiceand my patients, to putting your foot in a golden stirrup, happy to seeyou following a career consecrated to the welfare of humanity. All atonce, without giving any reason, without taking into any considerationthe effect which such a rupture might well have in the eyes of theworld, you have separated yourself from us, you have abandoned yourstudies, renounced your future, in order to launch out into I know notwhat eccentric life, engaging in a ridiculous trade, the refuge and theexcuse of all unclassed people. " "I follow this occupation in order to earn a living. It is bread andbutter in the meantime. " "In what meantime? While you are waiting for literary glory?" He glanced disdainfully at the scribbling scattered over the table. "All that is not serious, you know, and here is what I am come to tellyou. An opportunity presents itself to you, a double-swing door openinginto the future. The Bethlehem Society is founded. The most splendid ofmy philanthropic dreams has taken body. We have just purchased a superbvilla at Nanterre for the housing of our first establishment. It is thecare, the management of this house that I have thought of intrustingto you as to an _alter ego_. A princely dwelling, the salary of thecommander of a division, and the satisfaction of a service rendered tothe great human family. Say one word, and I take you to see the Nabob, the great-hearted man who defrays the expense of our undertaking. Do youaccept?" "No, " said the other so curtly that Jenkins was somewhat put out ofcountenance. "Just so. I was prepared for this refusal when I came here. But I amcome nevertheless. I have taken for motto, 'To do good without hope, 'and I remain faithful to my motto. So then, it is understood you preferto the honourable, worthy, and profitable existence which I have justproposed to you, a life of hazard without aim and without dignity?" Andre answered nothing, but his silence spoke for him. "Take care. You know what that decision will involve, a definitiveestrangement, but you have always wanted that. I need not tell you, "continued Jenkins, "that to break with me is to break off relations alsowith your mother. She and I are one. " The young man turned pale, hesitated a moment, then said with effort: "If it please my mother to come to see me here, I shall be delighted, certainly. But my determination to quit your house, to have no longeranything in common with you, is irrevocable. " "And will you at least say why?" He made a negative sign; he would not say. For once the Irishman felt a genuine impulse of anger. His wholeface assumed a cunning, savage expression which would have very muchastonished those that only knew the good and loyal Jenkins; but he tookgood care not to push further an explanation which he feared perhaps asmuch as he desired it. "Adieu, " said he, half turning his head on the threshold. "And neverapply to us. " "Never, " replied his stepson in a firm voice. This time, when the doctor had said to Joey, "Place Vendome, " the horse, as though he had understood that they were going to the Nabob's, gave aproud shake to his glittering curb-chains, and the brougham set off atfull speed, transforming each axle of its wheels into sunshine. "Tocome so far to get a reception like that! A celebrity of the time to betreated thus by that Bohemian! One may try indeed to do good!" Jenkinsgave vent to his anger in a long monologue of this character, thensuddenly rousing himself, exclaimed, "Ah, bah!" and what anxiety therewas remaining on his brow quickly vanished on the pavement of the PlaceVendome. Noon was striking everywhere in the sunshine. Issued forth frombehind its curtain of mist, luxurious Paris, awake and on its feet, was commencing its whirling day. The shop-windows of the Rue de laPaix shone brightly. The mansions of the square seemed to be rangingthemselves haughtily for the receptions of the afternoon; and, right atthe end of the Rue Castiglione with its white arcades, the Tuileries, beneath a fine burst of winter sunshine, raised shivering statues, pinkwith cold, amid the stripped trees. A LUNCHEON IN THE PLACE VENDOME There were scarcely more than a score of persons that morning in theNabob's dining-room, a dining-room in carved oak, supplied the previousevening as it were by some great upholsterer, who at the same stroke hadfurnished these suites of four drawing-rooms of which you caught sightthrough an open doorway, the hangings on the ceiling, the objects ofart, the chandeliers, even the very plate on the sideboards and theservants who were in attendance. It was obviously the kind of interiorimprovised the moment he was out of the railway-train by a gigantic_parvenu_ in haste to enjoy. Although around the table there was notrace of any feminine presence, no bright frock to enliven it, itsaspect was yet not monotonous, thanks to the dissimilarity, the oddnessof the guests, people belonging to every section of society, specimensof humanity detached from all races, in France, in Europe, in the entireglobe, from the top to the bottom of the social ladder. To begin with, the master of the house--a kind of giant, tanned, burned by the sun, saffron-coloured, with head in his shoulders. His nose, which was shortand lost in the puffiness of his face, his woolly hair massed like acap of astrakhan above a low and obstinate forehead, and his bristlyeyebrows with eyes like those of an ambushed chapard gave him theferocious aspect of a Kalmuck, of some frontier savage living by war andrapine. Fortunately the lower part of the face, the fleshy and stronglip which was lightened now and then by a smile adorable in itskindness, quite redeemed, by an expression like that of a St. Vincent dePaul, this fierce ugliness, this physiognomy so original that it wasno longer vulgar. An inferior extraction, however, betrayed itself yetagain by the voice, the voice of a Rhone waterman, raucous and thick, in which the southern accent became rather uncouth than hard, and by twobroad and short hands, hairy at the back, square and nailless fingerswhich, laid on the whiteness of the table-cloth, spoke of their pastwith an embarrassing eloquence. Opposite him, on the other side of thetable at which he was one of the habitual guests, was seated the Marquisde Monpavon, but a Monpavon presenting no resemblance to the paintedspectre of whom we had a glimpse in the last chapter. He was now ahaughty man of no particular age, fine majestic nose, a lordly bearing, displaying a large shirt-front of immaculate linen crackling beneaththe continual effort of the chest to throw itself forward, and bulgingitself out each time with a noise like that made by a white turkey whenit struts in anger, or by a peacock when he spreads his tail. His nameof Monpavon suited him well. Of great family and of a wealthy stock, but ruined by gambling andspeculation, the friendship of the Duc de Mora had secured him anappointment as receiver-general in the first class. Unfortunatelyhis health had not permitted him to retain this handsomeposition--well-informed people said his health had nothing to do withit--and for the last year he had been living in Paris, awaiting hisrestoration to health, according to his own account of the matter, before resuming his post. The same people were confident that hewould never regain it, and that even were it not for certain exaltedinfluences--However, he was the important personage of the luncheon;that was clear from the manner in which the servants waited upon him, and the Nabob consulted him, calling him "Monsieur le Marquis, " as atthe Comedie-Francaise, less almost out of deference than from pride, byreason of the honour which it reflected upon himself. Full of disdainfor the people around him, M. Le Marquis spoke little, in a veryhigh voice, and as though he were stooping towards those whom he washonouring with his conversation. From time to time he would throw to theNabob across the table a few words enigmatical for all. "I saw the duke yesterday. He was talking a great deal about you inconnection with that matter. You know, that thing--that business. Whatwas the name of it?" "You really mean it? He spoke of me to you?" And the good Nabob, quiteproud, would look around him with movements of the head that weresupremely laughable, or perhaps assume the contemplative air of adevotee who should hear the name of Our Lord pronounced. "His excellency would have pleasure in seeing you take up the--ps, ps, ps--the thing. " "He told you so?" "Ask the governor if he did not--heard it like myself. " The person who was called the governor--Paganetti, to give him hisreal name--was a little, expressive man, constantly gesticulating andfatiguing to behold, so many were the different expressions which hisface would assume in the course of a single minute. He was managingdirector of the Territorial Bank of Corsica, a vast financialenterprise, and had now come to the house for the first time, introducedby Monpavon; he occupied accordingly a place of honour. On the otherside of the Nabob was an old gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in afrock-coat having a straight collar without lapels, like an Orientaltunic, his face slashed by a thousand little bloodshot veins and wearinga white moustache of military cut. It was Brahim Bey, the most valiantcolonel of the Regency of Tunis, aide-de-camp of the former Bey who hadmade the fortune of Jansoulet. The glorious exploits of this warriorshowed themselves written in wrinkles, in blemishes wrought bydebauchery upon the nerveless under-lip that hung as it were relaxed, and upon his eyes without lashes, inflamed and red. It was a head suchas one may see in the dock at certain criminal trials that are held withclosed doors. The other guests were seated pell-mell, just as they hadhappened to arrive or to find themselves, for the house was open toeverybody, and the table was laid every morning for thirty persons. There were present the manager of the theatre financed by the Nabob, Cardailhac, renowned for his wit almost as much as for his insolvencies, a marvellous carver who, while he was engaged in severing the limbs ofa partridge, would prepare one of his witticisms and deposit it witha wing upon the plate which was presented to him. He worked up hiswitticisms instead of improvising them, and the new fashion of servingmeats, _a la Russe_ and carved beforehand, had been fatal to him by itsremoval of all excuse for a preparatory silence. Consequently it was thegeneral remark that his vogue was on the decline. Parisian, moreover, a dandy to the finger tips, and, as he himself was wont to boast, "withnot one particle of superstition in his whole body, " a characteristicwhich permitted him to give very piquant details concerning the ladiesof his theatre to Brahim Bey--who listened to him as one turns over thepages of a naughty book--and to talk theology to the young priest whowas his nearest neighbour, a curate of some little southern village, lean and with a complexion sunburnt till it matched the cloth of hiscassock in colour, with fiery patches above the cheek-bones, and thepointed, forward-pushing nose of the ambitious man, who would remarkto Cardailhac very loudly, in a tone of protection and sacerdotalauthority: "We are quite pleased with M. Guizot. He is doing very well--very well. It is a conquest for the Church. " Seated next this pontiff, with a black neck-band, old Schwalbach, thefamous picture-dealer, displayed his prophet's beard, tawny in placeslike a dirty fleece, his three overcoats tinged by mildew, all thatloose and negligent attire for which he was excused in the name of art, and because, in a time when the mania for picture galleries had alreadybegun to cause millions to change hands, it was the proper thing toentertain the man who was the best placed for the conduct of theseabsurdly vain transactions. Schwalbach did not speak, contenting himselfwith gazing around him through his enormous monocle, shaped like ahand magnifying-glass, and with smiling in his beard over the singularneighbours made by this unique assembly. Thus it happened that M. DeMonpavon had quite close to him--and it was a sight to watch how thedisdainful curve of his nose was accentuated at each glance in thatdirection--the singer Garrigou, a fellow-countryman of Jansoulet, adistinguished ventriloquist who sang Figaro in the dialect of the south, and had no equal in his imitations of animals. Just beyond, Cabassu, another compatriot, a little short and dumpy man, with the neck of abull and the biceps of a statue by Michel Angelo, who suggested atonce a Marseilles hairdresser and the strong man at a fair, a masseur, pedicure, manicure, and something of a dentist, sat with elbows on thetable with the coolness of a charlatan whom one receives in the morningand knows the little infirmities, the intimate distresses of the abodein which he chances to find himself. M. Bompain completed this arrayof subordinates, all alike in one respect at any rate, Bompain, thesecretary, the steward, the confidential agent, through whose hands theentire business of the house passed; and it sufficed to observe thatsolemnly stupid attitude, that indefinite manner, the Turkish fez placedawkwardly on a head suggestive of a village school-master, in order tounderstand to what manner of people interests like those of the Nabobhad been abandoned. Finally, to fill the gaps among these figures I have sketched, theTurkish crowd--Tunisians, Moors, Egyptians, Levantines; and, mingledwith this exotic element, a whole variegated Parisian Bohemia of ruinednobleman, doubtful traders, penniless journalists, inventors of strangeproducts, people arrived from the south without a farthing, all the lostships needing revictualling, or flocks of birds wandering aimlessly inthe night, which were drawn by this great fortune as by the light of abeacon. The Nabob admitted this miscellaneous collection of individualsto his table out of kindness, out of generosity, out of weakness, byreason of his easy-going manners, joined to an absolute ignorance anda survival of that loneliness of the exile, of that need for expansionwhich, down yonder in Tunis, in his splendid palace of the Bardo, hadcaused him to welcome everybody who hailed from France, from the smalltradesman exporting Parisian wares to the famous pianist on tour and theconsul-general himself. As one listened to those various accents, those foreign intonations, gruff or faltering, as one gazed upon those widely differentphysiognomies, some violent, barbarous, vulgar, others hyper-civilized, worn, suggestive only of the Boulevard and as it were flaccid, one notedthat the same diversity was evident also among the servants who, someapparently lads just out of an office, insolent in manner, with headsof hair like a dentist's or a bath-attendant's, busied themselves amongEthiopians standing motionless and shining like candelabra of blackmarble, and it was impossible to say exactly where one was; in any case, you would never have imagined yourself to be in the Place Vendome, rightin the beating heart and very centre of the life of our modern Paris. Upon the table there was a like importation of exotic dishes, saffron oranchovy sauces, spices mixed up with Turkish delicacies, chickens withfried almonds, and all this taken together with the banality of theinterior, the gilding of the panels, the shrill ringing of the newbells, gave the impression of a _table d'hote_ in some big hotelin Smyrna or Calcutta, or of a luxurious dining-saloon on board atransatlantic liner, the "Pereire" or the "Sinai. " It might seem that this diversity among the guests--I was about to sayamong the passengers--ought to have caused the meal to be animated andnoisy. Far otherwise. They all ate nervously, watching each other outof eye-corners, and even those most accustomed to society, those whoappeared the most at their ease, had in their glance the wandering lookand the distraction of a fixed idea, a feverish anxiety which causedthem to speak without relevance and to listen without understanding aword of what was being said to them. Suddenly the door of the dining-room opened. "Ah, here comes Jenkins!" exclaimed the Nabob delightedly. "Welcome, welcome, doctor. How are you, my friend?" A smile to those around, a hearty shake of his host's hand, and Jenkinssat down opposite him, next to Monpavon, before a place at the tablewhich a servant had just prepared in all haste and without havingreceived any order, exactly as at a _table d'hote_. Among thosepreoccupied and feverish faces, this one at any rate stood out incontrast by its good humour, its cheerfulness, and that loquacious andflattering benevolence which makes the Irish in a way the Gascons ofEngland. And what a splendid appetite! With what heartiness, what easeof conscience he used his white teeth as he talked! "Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?" "What?" "How, then! you do not know? You have not read what the _Messenger_ saysabout you this morning?" Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and, his eyes shining with pleasure: "Is it possible--the _Messenger_ has spoken of me?" "Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has not shown it to you?" "Oh, " put in Moessard modestly, "it was not worth the trouble. " He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in hisdress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a face which presentedthat worn appearance noticeable as the special mark of waiters innight-restaurants, actors, and light women, and produced by conventionalgrimacing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be thepaid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The rumour was whisperedaround him, and, in his own world, secured him an envied and despicableposition. Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what hadbeen said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke's. "Let some one go fetch me a _Messenger_ quickly, " said the Nabob to theservant behind him. Moessard intervened. "It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere. " And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern _habitue_, of thereporter who scribbles his paragraph with his glass beside him, thejournalist drew out a pocket-book, crammed full of notes, stampedpapers, newspaper cuttings, notes written on glazed paper with crests, which he proceeded to litter over the table, pushing away his plate inorder to search for the proof of his article. "There you are. " He passed it over to Jansoulet; but Jenkins besoughthim: "No, no; read it aloud. " The company having echoed the request in chorus, Moessard took back hisproof and commenced to read in a loud voice, "The Bethlehem Societyand Mr. Bernard Jansoulet, " a long dithyramb in favour of artificiallactation, written from notes made by Jenkins, which were recognisablethrough certain fine phrases much affected by the Irishman, such as "thelong martyrology of childhood, " "the sordid traffic in the breast, " "thebeneficent nanny-goat as foster-mother, " and finishing, after a pompousdescription of the splendid establishment at Nanterre, with a eulogyof Jenkins and a glorification of Jansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of childhood!" It was a sight to see the vexed, scandalizedfaces of the guests. What an intriguer was this Moessard! What animpudent piece of sycophantry! And the same envious, disdainful smilequivered on every mouth. And the deuce of it was that a man had toapplaud, to appear charmed, the master of the house not being weary asyet of incense, and taking everything very seriously, both the articleand the applause it provoked. His big face shone during the reading. Often, down yonder, far away, had he dreamed a dream of having hispraises sung like this in the newspapers of Paris, of being somebodyin that society, the first among all, on which the entire world has itseyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now, that dream was becominga reality. He gazed upon all these people seated at his board, thesumptuous dessert, this panelled dining-room as high, certainly, as thechurch of his native village; he listened to the dull murmur of Parisrolling along in its carriages and treading the pavements beneath hiswindows, with the intimate conviction that he was about to becomean important piece in that active and complicated machine. And then, through the atmosphere of physical well-being produced by the meal, between the lines of that triumphant vindication, by an effect ofcontrast, he beheld unfold itself his own existence, his youth, adventurous as it was sad, the days without bread, the nights withoutshelter. Then suddenly, the reading having come to an end, his joyoverflowing in one of those southern effusions which force thoughtinto speech, he cried, beaming upon his guests with that frank andthick-lipped smile of his: "Ah, my friends, my dear friends, if you could know how happy I am! Whatpride I feel!" Scarce six weeks had passed since he had landed in France. Excepting twoor three compatriots, those whom he thus addressed as his friends werebut the acquaintances of a day, and that through his having lentthem money. This sudden expansion, therefore, appeared sufficientlyextraordinary; but Jansoulet, too much under the sway of emotion tonotice anything, continued: "After what I have just heard, when I behold myself here in thisgreat Paris, surrounded by all its wealth of illustrious names, ofdistinguished intellects, and then call up the remembrance of myfather's booth! For I was born in a booth. My father used to sell oldnails at the corner of a boundary stone in the Bourg-Saint-Andeol. If wehad bread in the house every day and stew every Sunday it was the mostwe had to expect. Ask Cabassu whether it was not so. He knew me in thosedays. He can tell you whether I am not speaking the truth. Oh, yes, Ihave known what poverty is. " He threw back his head with an impulseof pride as he savoured the odour of truffles diffused through thesuffocating atmosphere. "I have known it, and the real thing too, andfor a long time. I have been cold. I have known hunger--genuine hunger, remember--the hunger that intoxicates, that wrings the stomach, setscircles dancing in your head, deprives you of sight as if the inside ofyour eyes was being gouged out with an oyster-knife. I have passed daysin bed for want of an overcoat to go out in; fortunate at that whenI had a bed, which was not always. I have sought my bread from everytrade, and that bread cost me such bitter toil, it was so black, sotough, that in my mouth I keep still the flavour of its acrid and mouldytaste. And thus until I was thirty. Yes, my friends, at thirty yearsof age--and I am not yet fifty--I was still a beggar, without a sou, without a future, with the remorseful thought of the poor old mother, become a widow, who was half-dying of hunger away yonder in her booth, and to whom I had nothing to give. " Around this Amphitryon recounting the story of his evil days the facesof his hearers expressed curiosity. Some appeared shocked, Monpavonespecially. For him, this exposure of rags was in execrable taste, anabsolute breach of good manners. Cardailhac, sceptical and dainty, anenemy to scenes of emotion, with face set as if it were hypnotized, sliced a fruit on the end of his fork into wafers as thin as cigarettepapers. The governor exhibited, on the contrary, a flatly admiring demeanour, uttering exclamations of amazement and compassion; while, not far away, in singular contrast, Brahmin Bey, the thunderbolt of war, upon whomthis reading followed by a lecture after a heavy meal had had the effectof inducing a restorative slumber, slept with his mouth open beneath hiswhite moustache, his face congested by his collar, which had slippedup. But the most general expression was one of indifference and boredom. What could it matter to them, I ask you; what had they to do withJansoulet's childhood in the Bourg-Saint-Andeol, the trials he hadendured, the way in which he had trudged his path? They had not come tolisten to idle nonsense of that kind. Airs of interest falsely affected, glances that counted the ovals of the ceiling or the bread-crumbs on thetable-cloth, mouths compressed to stifle a yawn, betrayed, accordingly, the general impatience provoked by this untimely story. Yet he himselfseemed not to weary of it. He found pleasure in the recital of hissufferings past, even as the mariner safe in port, remembering hisvoyagings over distant seas, and the perils and the great shipwrecks. There followed the story of his good luck, the prodigious chance thathad placed him suddenly upon the road to fortune. "I was wandering aboutthe quays of Marseilles with a comrade as poverty-stricken as myself, who is become rich, he also, in the service of the Bey, and, afterhaving been my chum, my partner, is now my most cruel enemy. I maymention his name, _pardi_! It is sufficiently well known--Hemerlingue. Yes, gentlemen, the head of the great banking house. 'Hemerlingue &Co. ' had not in those days even the wherewithal to buy a pennyworth of_clauvisses_ on the quay. Intoxicated by the atmosphere of travel thatone breathes down there, the idea came into our minds of starting out, of going to seek our livelihood in some country where the sun shines, since the lands of mist were so inhospitable to us. But where to go? Wedid what sailors sometimes do in order to decide in what low hole theywill squander their pay. You fix a scrap of paper on the brim of yourhat. You make the hat spin on a walking-stick; when it stops spinningyou follow the pointer. In our case the paper needle pointed towardsTunis. A week later I landed at Tunis with half a louis in my pocket, and I came back to-day with twenty-five millions!" An electric shock passed round the table; there was a gleam in everyeye, even in those of the servants. Cardailhac said, "Phew!" Monpavon'snose descended to common humanity. "Yes, my boys, twenty-five millions in liquidated cash, without speakingof all that I have left in Tunis, of my two palaces at the Bardo, of myvessels in the harbour of La Goulette, of my diamonds, of my preciousstones, which are worth certainly more than the double. And you know, "he added, with his kindly smile and in his hoarse, plebeian voice, "whenthat is done there will still be more. " The whole company rose to its feet, galvanized. "Bravo! Ah, bravo!" "Splendid!" "Deuced clever--deuced clever!" "Now, that is something worth talking about. " "A man like him ought to be in the Chamber. " "He will be, _per Bacco_! I answer for it, " said the governor in apiercing voice; and in the transport of admiration, not knowing how toexpress his enthusiasm, he seized the fat, hairy hand of the Nabob andon an unreflective impulse raised it to his lips. They are demonstrativein his country. Everybody was standing up; no one sat down again. Jansoulet, beaming, had risen in his turn, and, throwing down hisserviette: "Let us go and have some coffee, " he said. A glad tumult immediately spread through the salons, vast apartments inwhich light, decoration, sumptuousness, were represented by gold alone. It seemed to fall from the ceiling in blinding rays, it oozed fromthe walls in mouldings, sashes, framings of every kind. A little of itremained on your hands if you moved a piece of furniture or opened awindow; and the very hangings, dipped in this Pactolus, kept on theirstraight folds the rigidity, the sparkle of a metal. But nothing bearingthe least personal stamp, nothing intimate, nothing thought out. Themonotonous luxury of the furnished flat. And there was a re-enforcementof this impression of a moving camp, of a merely provisory home, in thesuggestion of travel which hovered like an uncertainty or a menace overthis fortune derived from far-off sources. Coffee having been served, in the Eastern manner, with all its grounds, in little cups filigreed with silver, the guests grouped themselvesround, making haste to drink, scalding themselves, keeping watchful eyeson each other and especially on the Nabob as they looked out for thefavourable moment to spring upon him, draw him into some corner of thoseimmense rooms, and at length negotiate their loan. For this it was thatthey had been awaiting for two hours; this was the object of their visitand the fixed idea which gave them during the meal that absent, falselyattentive manner. But here no more constraint, no more pretence. In thatpeculiar social world of theirs it is of common knowledge that in theNabob's busy life the hour of coffee remains the only time free forprivate audiences, and each desiring to profit by it, all having comethere in order to snatch a handful of wool from the golden fleeceoffered them with so much good nature, people no longer talk, they nolonger listen, every man is absorbed in his own errand of business. It is the good Jenkins who begins. Having drawn his friend Jansouletaside into a recess, he submits to him the estimates for the house atNanterre. A big purchase, indeed! A cash price of a hundred and fiftythousand francs, then considerable expenses in connection with gettingthe place into proper order, the personal staff, the bedding, thenanny-goats for milking purposes, the manager's carriage, the omnibusesgoing to meet the children coming by every train. A great deal of money. But how well off and comfortable they will be there, those dear littlethings! what a service rendered to Paris, to humanity! The Governmentcannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon so disinterested, sophilanthropic a devotion. "The Cross, on the 15th of August. " With thesemagic words Jenkins will obtain everything he desires. In his merry, guttural voice, which seems always as though it were hailing a boat in afog, the Nabob calls, "Bompain!" The man in the fez, quickly leaving the liqueur-stand, walksmajestically across the room, whispers, moves away, and returns withan inkstand and a counterfoil check-book from which the slips detachthemselves and fly away of their own accord. A fine thing, wealth!To sign a check on his knee for two hundred thousand francs troublesJansoulet no more than to draw a louis from his pocket. Furious, with noses in their cups, the others watch this little scenefrom a distance. Then, as Jenkins takes his departure, bright, smiling, with a nod to the various groups, Monpavon seizes the governor: "Now isour chance. " And both, springing on the Nabob, drag him off towards acouch, oblige him almost forcibly to sit down, press upon each side ofhim with a ferocious little laugh that seems to signify, "What shall wedo with him now?" Get the money out of him, the largest amount possible. It is needed, to set afloat once more the Territorial Bank, for yearslain aground on a sand-bank, buried to the very top of its masts. Asuperb operation, this re-flotation, if these two gentlemen are to bebelieved, for the submerged bank is full of ingots, of precious things, of the thousand various forms of wealth of a new country discussed byeverybody and known by none. In founding this unique establishment, Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio hadas his aim to monopolize the commercial development of the whole ofCorsica: iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, coral fisheries, oyster beds, water ferruginous and sulphurous, immenseforests of thuya, of cork-oak, and to establish for the facilitation ofthis development a network of railways over the island, with a serviceof packet-boats in addition. Such is the gigantic undertaking to whichhe has devoted himself. He has sunk considerable capital in it, and itis the new-comer, the workman of the last hour, who will gain the wholeprofit. While with his Italian accent and violent gestures the Corsicanenumerates the "splendours" of the affair, Monpavon, haughty, and withan air calculated to command confidence, nods his head approvingly withconviction, and from time to time, when he judges the moment propitious, throws into the conversation the name of the Duc de Mora, which neverfails in its effect on the Nabob. "Well, in short, how much would be required?" "Millions, " says Monpavon boldly, in the tone of a man who would haveno difficulty in addressing himself elsewhere. "Yes, millions; but theenterprise is magnificent. And, as his excellency was saying, it wouldprovide even a political position. Just think! In that district withouta metallic currency, you might become counsellor-general, deputy. " TheNabob gives a start. And the little Paganetti, who feels the bait quiveron his hook: "Yes, deputy. You will be that whenever I choose. At a signfrom me all Corsica is at your disposal. " Then he launches out into anastonishing improvisation, counting the votes which he controls, thecantons which will obey his call. "You bring me your capital. I--I giveyou an entire people. " The cause is gained. "Bompain, Bompain!" calls the Nabob, roused to enthusiasm. He has nowbut one fear, that is lest the thing escape him; and in order to bindPaganetti, who has not concealed his need of money, he hastens toeffect the payment of a first instalment to the Territorial bank. Newappearance of the man in red breeches with the check-book which hecarries clasped gravely to his chest, like a choir-boy moving the Gospelfrom one side to the other. New inscription of Jansoulet's signatureupon a slip, which the governor pockets with a negligent air and whichoperates on his person a sudden transformation. The Paganetti who wasso humble and spiritless just now, goes away with the assurance of aman worth four hundred thousand francs, while Monpavon, carrying it evenhigher than usual, follows after him in his steps, and watches over himwith a more than paternal solicitude. "That's a good piece of business done, " says the Nabob to himself. "Ican drink my coffee now. " But the borrowers are waiting for him to pass. The most prompt, the mostadroit, is Cardailhac, the manager, who lays hold of him and bears himoff into a side-room. "Let us have a little talk, old friend. I must explain to you thesituation of affairs in connection with our theatre. " Very complicated, doubtless, the situation; for here is M. Bompain who advances once more, and there are the slips of blue paper flying away from the check-book. Whose turn now? There is the journalist Moessard coming to draw hispay for the article in the _Messenger_; the Nabob will find out what itcosts to have one's self called "benefactor of childhood" in the morningpapers. There is the parish priest from the country who demands fundsfor the restoration of his church, and takes checks by assault with thebrutality of a Peter the Hermit. There is old Schwalbach coming up withnose in his beard and winking mysteriously. "Sh! He had found a pearl for monsieur's gallery, an Hobbema from thecollection of the Duc de Mora. But several people are after it. It willbe difficult--" "I must have it at any price, " says the Nabob, hooked by the name ofMora. "You understand, Schwalbach. I must have this Hobbema. Twentythousand francs for you if you secure it. " "I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet. " And the old rascal calculates, as he goes away, that the twenty thousandof the Nabob added to the ten thousand promised him by the duke if hegets rid of his picture for him, will make a nice little profit forhimself. While these fortunate ones follow each other, others look on around, wild with impatience, biting their nails to the quick, for all are comeon the same errand. From the good Jenkins, who opened the advance, tothe masseur Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob away to someroom apart. But, however far they lead him down this gallery ofreception-rooms, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect theprofile of the host and the gestures of his broad back. That back haseloquence. Now and then it straightens itself up in indignation. "Oh, no; that is too much. " Or again it sinks forward with a comicalresignation. "Well, since it must be so. " And always Bompain's fez insome corner of the view. When those are finished, others arrive. They are the small fry whofollow in the wake of the big eaters in the ferocious hunts of therivers. There is a continual coming and going through these handsomewhite-and-gold drawing rooms, a noise of doors, an established currentof bare-faced and vulgar exploitation attracted from the four corners ofParis and the suburbs by this gigantic fortune and incredible facility. For these small sums, these regular distributions, recourse was not hadto the check-book. For such purposes the Nabob kept in one of hisrooms a mahogany chest of drawers, a horrible little piece of furniturerepresenting the savings of a house porter, the first that Jansoulet hadbought when he had been able to give up living in furnished apartments;which he had preserved since, like a gambler's fetish; and the threedrawers of which contained always two hundred thousand francs in cash. It was to this constant supply that he had recourse on the days of hislarge receptions, displaying a certain ostentation in the way in whichhe would handle the gold and silver, by great handfuls, thrusting it tothe bottom of his pockets to draw it out thence with the gesture ofa cattle dealer; a certain vulgar way of raising the skirts of hisfrock-coat and of sending his hand "to the bottom and into the pile. "To-day there must be a terrible void in the drawers of the little chest. After so many mysterious whispered confabulations, demands more or lessclearly formulated, chance entries and triumphant departures, the lastclient having been dismissed, the chest of drawers closed and locked, the flat in the Place Vendome began to empty in the uncertain light ofthe afternoon towards four o'clock, that close of the November days soexceedingly prolonged afterward by artificial light. The servants wereclearing away the coffee and the raki, and bearing off the open andhalf-emptied cigar-boxes. The Nabob, thinking himself alone, gave a sighof relief. "Ouf! that's over. " But no. Opposite him, some one comes outfrom a corner that is already dark, and approaches with a letter in hishand. Another! And at once, mechanically, the poor man made that eloquent, horse-dealer's gesture of his. Instinctively, also, the visitor showed amovement of recoil so prompt, so hurt, that the Nabob understood that hewas making a mistake, and took the trouble to examine the young man whostood before him, simply but correctly dressed, of a dull complexion, without the least sign of a beard, with regular features, perhaps alittle too serious and fixed for his age, which, aided by his hair ofpale blond colour, curled in little ringlets like a powdered wig, gavehim the appearance of a young deputy of the Commons under Louis XVI, thehead of a Barnave at twenty! This face, although the Nabob beheld it forthe first time, was not absolutely unknown to him. "What do you desire, monsieur?" Taking the letter which the young man held out to him, he went to awindow in order to see to read it. "Te! It is from mamma. " He said it with so happy an air; that word "mamma" lit up all his facewith so young, so kind a smile, that the visitor, who had been at firstrepulsed by the vulgar aspect of this _parvenu_, felt himself filledwith sympathy for him. In an undertone the Nabob read these few lines written in an awkwardhand, incorrect and shaky, which contrasted with the large glazednote-paper, with its heading "Chateau de Saint-Romans. " "My dear son, this letter will be delivered to you by the eldest son ofM. De Gery, the former justice of the peace for Bourg-Saint-Andeol, whohas shown us so much kindness. " The Nabob broke off his reading. "I ought to have recognised you, M. De Gery. You resemble your father. Sit down, I beg of you. " Then he finished running through the letter. His mother asked himnothing precise, but, in the name of the services which the de Geryfamily had rendered them in former years, she recommended M. Paul tohim. An orphan, burdened with the care of his two young brothers, he hadbeen called to the bar in the south, and was now coming to Paris to seekhis fortune. She implored Jansoulet to aid him, "for he needed it badly, poor fellow, " and she signed herself, "Thy mother who pines for thee, Francoise. " This letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, thoseexpressions of the south country of which he could hear the intonationsthat he knew so well, that coarse handwriting which sketched for him anadored face, all wrinkled, scored, and cracked, but smiling beneath itspeasant's head-dress, had affected the Nabob. During the six weeksthat he had been in France, lost in the whirl of Paris, the business ofgetting settled in his new habitation, he had not yet given a thoughtto his dear old lady at home; and now he saw all of her again in theselines. He remained a moment looking at the letter, which trembled in hisheavy fingers. Then, this emotion having passed: "M. De Gery, " said he, "I am glad of the opportunity which is about topermit me to repay to you a little of the kindness which your family hasshown to mine. From to-day, if you consent, I take you into my house. You are educated, you seem intelligent, you can be of great serviceto me. I have a thousand plans, a thousand affairs in hand. I am beingdrawn into a crowd of large industrial enterprises. I want some one whowill aid me; represent me at need. I have indeed a secretary, a steward, that excellent Bompain, but the unfortunate fellow knows nothing ofParis; he has been, as it were, bewildered ever since his arrival. Youwill tell me that you also come straight from the country, but thatdoes not matter. Well brought up as you are, a southerner, alert andadaptable, you will quickly pick up the routine of the Boulevard. Forthe rest, I myself undertake your education from that point of view. Ina few weeks you will find yourself, I answer for it, as much at home inParis as I am. " Poor man! It was touching to hear him speak of his Parisian habits, andof his experience; he whose destiny it was to be always a beginner. "Now, that is understood, is it not? I engage you as secretary. You willhave a fixed salary which we will settle directly, and I shall provideyou with the opportunity to make your fortune rapidly. " And while de Gery, raised suddenly above all the anxieties of anewcomer, of one who solicits a favour, of a neophyte, did not move forfear of awaking from a dream: "Now, " said the Nabob to him in a gentle voice, "sit down there, nextme, and let us talk a little about mamma. " MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER A MERE GLANCE AT THE TERRITORIAL BANK I had just finished my frugal morning repast and, as my habit was, placed the remains of my modest provisions in the board-room safe with asecret lock, which has served me as a store-cupboard during four years, almost, that I have been at the Territorial. Suddenly the governor walksinto the offices, with his face all red and eyes inflamed, as thoughafter a night's feasting, draws in his breath noisily, and in rude termssays to me, with his Italian accent: "But this place stinks, _Moussiou_ Passajon. " The place did not stink, if you like the word. Only--shall I sayit?--I had ordered a few onions to garnish a knuckle of veal which Mme. Seraphine had sent down to me, she being the cook on the second floor, whose accounts I write out for her every evening. I tried to explain thematter to the governor, but he had flown into a temper, saying that tohis mind there was no sense in poisoning the atmosphere of an office inthat way, and that it was not worth while to maintain premises at arent of twelve thousand francs, with eight windows fronting full on theBoulevard Malesherbes, in order to roast onions in them. I don't knowwhat he did not say to me in his passion. For my own part, naturallyI got angry at hearing myself addressed in that insolent manner. It issurely the least a man can do to be polite with people in his servicewhom he does not pay. What the deuce! So I answered him that it wasannoying, in truth, but that if the Territorial Bank paid me what itowed me, namely, four years' arrears of salary, _plus_ seven thousandfrancs personal advances made by me to the governor for expenses ofcabs, newspapers, cigars, and American grogs on board days, I would goand eat decently at the nearest cookshop, and should not be reduced tocooking, in the room where our board was accustomed to sit, a wretchedstew, for which I had to thank the public compassion of female cooks. Take that! In speaking thus I had yielded to an impulse of indignation veryexcusable in the eyes of any person whatever acquainted with my positionhere. Even so, I had said nothing improper and had confined myselfwithin the limits of language conformable to my age and education. (Imust have mentioned somewhere in the course of these memoirs that of thesixty-five years I have lived I passed more than thirty as beadle to theFaculty of Letters in Dijon. Hence my taste for reports and memoirs, andthose ideas of academical style of which traces will be found in manypassages of this lucubration. ) I had, then, expressed myself in thegovernor's presence with the most complete reserve, without employingany one of those terms of abuse to which he is treated by everybodyhere, from our two censors--M. De Monpavon, who, every time he comes, calls him laughingly "Fleur-de-Mazas, " and M. De Bois l'Hery, of theTrumpet Club, coarse as a groom, who, for adieu, always greets him with, "To your bedstead, bug!"--to our cashier, whom I have heard repeat ahundred times, tapping on his big book, "That he has in there enoughto send him to the galleys when he pleases. " Ah, well! All the same, my simple observation produced an extraordinary effect upon him. Thecircles round his eyes became quite yellow, and, trembling withrage, one of those evil rages of his country, he uttered these words:"Passajon, you are a blackguard. One word more, and I discharge you!"Stupor nailed me to the floor when I heard them. Discharge me--_me!_ andmy four years' arrears, and my seven thousand francs of money lent! As though he could read my thought before it was put into words, thegovernor replied that all accounts were going to be settled, mineincluded. "And as to that, " he added, "summon these gentlemen to myprivate room. I have important news to announce to them. " Upon that, he went into his office, banging the doors. That devil of a man! In vain you may know him to the core--know him aliar, a comedian--he manages always to get the better of you with hisstories. My account, mine!--mine! I was so affected by the thought thatmy legs seemed to give way beneath me as I went to inform the staff. According to the regulations, there are twelve of us employed at theTerritorial Bank, including the governor and the handsome Moessard, manager of _Financial Truth_; but more than half of that number werewanting. To begin with, since _Truth_ ceased to be issued--it is twoyears since its last appearance--M. Moessard has not once set foot inthe place. It seems he moves amid honours and riches, has a queen forhis mistress--a real queen--who gives him all the money he desires. Oh, what a Babylon, this Paris! The others come from time to time to learnwhether by chance anything new has happened at the bank; and, as nothingever has, we remain weeks without seeing them. Four or five faithfulones, all poor old men like myself, persist in putting in an appearanceregularly every morning at the same hour, from habit, from want ofoccupation, not knowing what else to do. Every one, however, busieshimself about things quite foreign to the work of the office. A man mustlive, you know. And then, too, one cannot pass the day dragging one'sself from easy chair to easy chair, from window to window, to look outof doors (eight windows fronting on the Boulevard). So one tries to dosome work as best one can. I myself, as I have said, keep the accountsof Mme. Seraphine, and of another cook in the building. Also, I writemy memoirs, which, again, takes a good deal of my time. Our receiptclerk--one who has not very hard work with us--makes line for a firmthat deals in fishing requisites. Of our two copying-clerks, one, who writes a good hand, copies plays for a dramatic agency; the otherinvents little halfpenny toys which the hawkers sell at street cornersabout the time of the New Year, and manages by this means to keephimself from dying of hunger during all the rest of the year. Ourcashier is the only one who does no outside work. He would believehis honour lost if he did. He is a very proud man, who never utters acomplaint, and whose one dread is to have the appearance of being inwant of linen. Locked in his office, he is occupied from morning tillevening in the manufacture of shirt-fronts, collars, and cuffs of paper. In this, he has attained very great skill, and his ever-dazzling linenwould deceive, if it were not that at the least movement, when hewalks, when he sits down, the stuff crackles upon him as though he had acardboard box under his waistcoat. Unfortunately all this paper does notfeed him; and he is so thin, has such a mien, that you ask yourselfon what he lives. Between ourselves, I suspect him of paying a visitsometimes to my store-cupboard. He can do so with ease; for, as cashier, he has the "word" which opens the safe with the secret lock, and I fancythat when my back is turned he forages a little among my provisions. These are certainly very extraordinary, very incredible internalarrangements for a banking house. It is, however, the mere truth thatI am telling, and Paris is full of financial institutions after thepattern of ours. Oh, if ever I publish my memoirs! But to take up theinterrupted thread of my story. When he saw us all collected in his private room, the manager said to uswith solemnity: "Gentlemen and dear comrades, the time of trials is ended. TheTerritorial Bank inaugurates a new phase. " Upon this he commenced to speak to us of a superb _combinazione_--it ishis favourite word and he pronounces it in such an insinuating manner--a_combinazione_ into which there was entering this famous Nabob, of whomall the newspapers are talking. The Territorial Bank was therefore aboutto find itself in a position which would enable it to acquit itself ofits obligations to its faithful servants, recognise acts of devotion, rid itself of useless parasites. This for me, I imagine. And inconclusion: "Prepare your statements. All accounts will be settled notlater than to-morrow. " Unhappily he has so often soothed us with lyingwords, that the effect of his speech was lost. Formerly thesefine promises were always swallowed. At the announcement of a new_combinazione_, there used to be dancing, weeping for joy in theoffices, and men would embrace each other like shipwrecked sailorsdiscovering a sail. Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, as he had said. Buton the morrow, no manager. The day following, still nobody. He had lefttown on a little journey. At length, one day when all would be there, exasperated, putting out ourtongues, maddened by the water which he had brought to our mouths, thegovernor would arrive, let himself drop into an easy chair, his head inhis hands, and before one could speak to him: "Kill me, " he would say, "kill me. I am a wretched impostor. The _combinazione_ has failed. Ithas failed, _Pechero!_ the _combinazione_. " And he would cry, sob, throw himself on his knees, pluck out his hair by handfuls, roll on thecarpet. He would call us by our Christian names, implore us to put anend to his existence, speak of his wife and children whose ruin he hadconsummated. And none of us would have the courage to protest in face ofa despair so formidable. What do I say? One always ended by sympathizingwith him. No, since theatres have existed, never has there been acomedian of his ability. But to-day, that is all over, confidence isgone. When he had left, every one shrugged his shoulders. I must admit, however, that for a moment I had been shaken. That assurance about thesettling of my account, and then the name of the Nabob, that man sorich---- "You actually believe it, you?" the cashier said to me. "You will bealways innocent, then, my poor Passajon. Don't disturb yourself. Itwill be the same with the Nabob as it was with Moessard's Queen. " And hereturned to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts. What he had just said referred to the time when Moessard was making loveto his Queen, and had promised the governor that in case of success hewould induce her Majesty to put capital into our undertaking. At theoffice, we were all aware of this new adventure, and very anxious, as you may imagine, that it should succeed quickly, since our moneydepended upon it. For two months this story held all of us breathless. We felt some disquiet, we kept a watch on Moessard's face, consideredthat the lady was inclined to insist upon a great deal of ceremony;and our old cashier, with his dignified and serious air, when he wasquestioned on the matter, would answer gravely, behind his wire screen:"Nothing fresh, " or "The thing is in a good way. " Whereupon everybodywas contented. One would say to another, "It is making progress, " asthough merely an ordinary enterprise was in question. No, in good truth, there is only one Paris, where one can see such things. Positively itmakes your head turn sometimes. In a word, Moessard, one fine morning, ceased coming to the office. He had succeeded, it appears, but theTerritorial Bank had not seemed to him a sufficiently advantageousinvestment for the money of his mistress. Now, I ask you, was thathonest? For that matter, the notion of honesty is lost so easily as hardly tobe believed. When I reflect that I, Passajon, with my white hair, myvenerable appearance, my so blameless past--thirty years of academicalservices--am grown accustomed to living like a fish in the water, in themidst of these infamies, this swindling! One might well ask what I amdoing here, why I remain, how I am come to this. How I am come to it? Oh, _mon Dieu!_ very simply. Four years ago, mywife being dead, my children married, I had just retired from my postas hall-porter at the college, when an advertisement in the newspaperchanced to meet my eye: "Wanted, an office-porter, middle-aged, at theTerritorial Bank, 56, Boulevard Malesherbes. Good references. " Let meconfess it at the outset. The modern Babylon had always attracted me. Then, too, I felt myself still a young man. I saw before me ten goodyears during which I might earn a little money, a great deal, perhaps, by means of investing my savings in the banking-house which I shouldenter. So I wrote, inclosing my photograph, the one taken at Crespon's, in the Market Place, which represents me with chin closely shaven, akeen eye beneath my thick white eyebrows, my steel chain about my neck, my ribbon as an academy official, "the air of a conscript father uponhis curule-chair, " as M. Chalmette, our dean used to say. (He insistedalso that I much resembled the late King Louis XVIII; less strongly, however. ) I supplied, further, the best of references; the mostflattering recommendations from the gentlemen of the college. By returnof post, the governor replied that my appearance pleased him--I believeit, _parbleu!_ an antechamber in the charge of a person with a strikingface like mine is a bait for the shareholder--and that I might comewhen I liked. I ought, you may say to me, myself also to have made myinquiries. Eh! no doubt. But I had to give so much information aboutmyself that it never occurred to me to ask for any about them. Besides, how could a man be suspicious, seeing this admirable installation, these lofty ceilings, these great safes, as big as cupboards, and thesemirrors, in which you can see yourself from head to knee? And thenthose sonorous prospectuses, those millions that I seemed to hear flyingthrough the air, those colossal enterprises with their fabulous profits. I was dazzled, fascinated. It must be mentioned, too, that at the timethe house did not bear quite the aspect which it has to-day. Certainly, business was already going badly--our business always has gonebadly--the paper appeared only at irregular intervals. But a little_combinazione_ of the governor's enabled him to save appearances. He had conceived the idea, just imagine, of opening a patrioticsubscription for the purpose of erecting a statue to General PaoloPaoli, or some such name; in any case, to a great countryman of his own. Money flowed accordingly into the Territorial. Unfortunately, that stateof things did not last. By the end of a couple of months the statue waseaten up before it had been made, and the series of protests and writsrecommenced. Nowadays I am accustomed to them. But in the days when Ihad just come from the country, the Auvergnats at the door, caused me apainful impression. In the house, nobody paid attention to such thingsany longer. It was known that at the last moment there would alwaysarrive a Monpavon, a Bois l'Hery, to pacify the bailiffs; for all thosegentlemen, being deeply implicated in the concern, have an interest inavoiding a bankruptcy. That is the very circumstance which saves him, our wily governor. The others run after their money--we know the meaningwhich that expression has in gaming--and they would not like all thestock on their hands to become worthless save to sell for waste paper. Small and great, that is the case of all of us who are connected withthe firm. From the landlord, to whom two years' rent is owing and who, for fear of losing it all, allows us to stay for nothing, to us pooremployees, even to me, who am involved to the extent of my seventhousand francs of savings and my four years of arrears, we are runningafter our money. That is the reason why I remain obstinately here. Doubtless, in spite of my advanced age, thanks to my good appearance, to my education, to the care which I have always taken of my clothes, I might have obtained some post under other management. There is oneperson of excellent repute known to me, M. Joyeuse, a bookkeeper in thefirm of Hemerlingue & Son, the great bankers of the Rue Saint-Honore, who, every time he meets me, never fails to remark: "Passajon, my friend, don't stop in that den of brigands. You are wrongto persist in remaining. You will never get a halfpenny out of them. Socome to Hemerlingue's. I undertake to find some little corner for youthere. You will earn less, but you will be paid much more. " I feel that he is quite right, that worthy fellow. But the thing isstronger than I. I cannot make up my mind to leave. And yet it is by nomeans gay, the life I lead here in these great, cold rooms, where noone ever comes, where each man stows himself away in a corner withoutspeaking. What will you have? Each knows the other too well. Everythinghas been said already. Again, until last year, we used to have sittings of the board ofinspection, meetings of shareholders, stormy and noisy assemblies, veritable battles of savages, from which the cries could be heard tothe Madeleine. Several times a week also there would call subscribersindignant at no longer ever receiving any news of their money. It wason such occasions that our governor shone. I have seen these people, monsieur, go into his office furious as wolves thirsting for blood, and, after a quarter of an hour, come out milder than sheep, satisfied, reassured, and their pockets relieved of a few bank-notes. For, therelay the acme of his cleverness; in the extraction of money from theunlucky people who came to demand it. Nowadays the shareholders of theTerritorial Bank no longer give any sign of existence. I think they areall dead or else resigned to the situation. The board never meets. The sittings only take place on paper; it is I who am charged with thepreparation of a so-called report--always the same--which I copy outafresh each quarter. We should never see a living soul, if, atlong intervals, there did not rise from the depths of Corsica somesubscribers to the statue of Paoli, curious to know how the monumentis progressing; or, it may be, some worthy reader of _Financial Truth_, which died over two years ago, who calls to renew his subscription witha timid air, and begs a little more regularity, if possible, in theforwarding of the paper. There is a faith that nothing shakes. So, whenone of these innocents falls among our hungry band, it is somethingterrible. He is surrounded, hemmed in, an attempt is made to secure hisname for one of our lists, and, in case of resistance, if he wishes tosubscribe neither to the Paoli monument nor to Corsican railways, thesegentlemen deal him what they call--my pen blushes to write it--what theycall, I say, "the drayman thrust. " Here is what it is: We always keep at the office a parcel prepared inadvance, a well-corded case which arrives nominally from the railwaystation while the visitor is present. "There are twenty francs carriageto pay, " says the one among us who brings the thing in. (Twenty francs, sometimes thirty, according to the appearance of the patient. ) Everyone then begins to ransack his pockets: "Twenty francs carriage! but Ihaven't got it. " "Nor I either. What a nuisance!" Some one runs to thecash-till. Closed. The cashier is summoned. He is out. And the gruffvoice of the drayman, growing impatient in the antechamber: "Come, come, make haste. " (It is generally I who play the drayman, because of thestrength of my vocal organs. ) What is to be done now? Return the parcel?That will vex the governor. "Gentlemen, I beg, will you permit me, "ventures the innocent victim, opening his purse. "Ah, monsieur, indeed--" He hands over his twenty francs, he is ushered to the door, and, as soon as his heel is turned, we all divide the fruit of thecrime, laughing like highway robbers. Fie! M. Passajon. At your age, such a trade! Eh! _mon Dieu!_ I well knowit. I know that I should do myself more honour in quitting this evilplace. But what! You would have me then renounce the hope of gettingback anything of all I have put in here. No, it is not possible. Thereis urgent need on the contrary that I should remain, that I should beon the watch, always at hand, ready to profit by any windfall, if oneshould come. Oh, for example, I swear it upon my ribbon, upon my thirtyyears of academical service, if ever an affair like this of the Naboballow me to recover my disbursements, I shall not wait another singleminute. I shall quickly be off to look after my pretty vineyard downyonder, near Monbars, cured forever of my thoughts of speculation. But, alas! that is a very chimerical hope. Exhausted, used up, known as weare upon the Paris market, with our stocks which are no longer quoted onthe Bourse, our bonds which are near being waste paper, so many lies, somany debts, and the hole that grows ever deeper and deeper. (We oweat this moment three million five hundred thousand francs. It is not, however, those three millions that worry us. On the contrary, it is theythat keep us going; but we have with the _concierge_ a little bill of ahundred and twenty-five francs for postage-stamps, a month's gas bill, and other little things. That is the really terrible part of it. ) and weare expected to believe that a man, a great financier like this Nabob, even though he were just arrived from the Congo, or dropped from themoon the same day, would be fool enough to put his money into a concernlike this. Come! Is the thing possible? You may tell that story to themarines, my dear governor. A DEBUT IN SOCIETY "M. BERNARD JANSOULET!" The plebeian name, accentuated proudly by the liveried servants, andannounced in a resounding voice, sounded in Jenkins's drawing-rooms likethe clash of a cymbal, one of those gongs which, in fairy pieces atthe theatre, are the prelude to fantastic apparitions. The light of thechandeliers paled, every eye sparkled at the dazzling perspective ofthe treasures of the Orient, of the showers of the sequins and of pearlsevoked by the magic syllables of that name, yesterday unknown. He, it was he himself, the Nabob, the rich among the rich, the greatParisian curiosity, spiced by that relish of adventure which is sopleasing to the surfeited crowd. All heads turned, all conversationswere interrupted; near the door there was a pushing among the guests, a crush as upon the quay of a seaport to witness the entry of a feluccaladen with gold. Jenkins himself, so hospitable, so self-possessed, who was standing inthe first drawing-room receiving his guests, abruptly quitted thegroup of men about him and hurried to place himself at the head of thegalleons bearing down upon the guest. "You are a thousand times, a thousand times kind. Mme. Jenkins will beso glad, so proud. --Come, let me conduct you!" And in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, he bore Jansoulet off soquickly that the latter had no time to present his companion, Paul deGery, to whom he was giving his first entry into society. The young manwelcomed this forgetfulness. He slipped away among the crowd of blackdress-coats constantly pressed back at each new arrival, buried himselfin it, seized by that wild terror which is experienced by every youngman from the country at his first introduction to a Paris drawing-room, especially when he is intelligent and refined, and beneath hisbreastplate of linen does not wear like a coat of mail the imperturbableassurance of a boor. All you, Parisians of Paris, who from the age of sixteen, in your firstdress-coat and with opera-hat against your thigh, have been wont to airyour adolescence at receptions of all kinds, you know nothing of thatanguish, compounded of vanity, of timidity, of recollections of romanticreadings, which keeps a young man from opening his mouth and so makeshim awkward and for a whole night pins him down to one spot in adoorway, and converts him into a piece of furniture in a recess, a poor, wandering and wretched being, incapable of manifesting his existencesave by an occasional change of place, dying of thirst rather thanapproach the buffet, and going away without having uttered a word, unless perhaps to stammer out one of those incoherent pieces offoolishness which he remembers for months, and which make him, at night, as he thinks of them, heave an "Ah!" of raging shame, with head buriedin the pillow. Paul de Gery was that martyr. Away yonder in his country home he hadalways lived a very retired existence with an old, pious, and gloomyaunt, up to the time when the law-student, destined in the firstinstance to the career in which his father had left an excellentreputation, had found himself introduced to a few judges' drawing-rooms, ancient, melancholy dwellings with faded pier-glasses, where he used togo to make a fourth at whist with venerable shadows. Jenkins's eveningparty was therefore a _debut_ for this provincial, of whom his veryignorance and his southern adaptability made immediately an observer. From the place where he stood, he watched the curious defile ofJenkins's guests which had not yet come to an end at midnight; all theclients of the fashionable physician; the fine flower of society;a strong political and financial element, bankers, deputies, a fewartists, all the jaded people of Parisian "high life, " wan-faced, withglittering eyes, saturated with arsenic like greedy mice, but withappetite insatiable for poison and for life. The drawing-room beingthrown open, the vast antechamber of which the doors had been removed tobe seen, laden with flowers at the sides, the principal staircase of themansion, over which swept, now shaken out to their full extent, thelong trains, whose silky weight seemed to give a backward pull to theundraped busts of the women in the course of that pretty ascendingmovement which brought them into view, little by little, till thecomplete flower of their splendour was reached. The couples as theygained the top seemed to be making an entry on the stage of a theatre;and that was twice true, since each person left on the last step thecontracted eyebrows, the lines that marked preoccupation, the weariedair, his vexations, his sorrows, to display instead a contented face, agay smile over the reposeful harmony of the features. The men exchangedhonest shakes of the hand, exhibitions of fraternal good-feeling;the women, preoccupied with themselves, as they stood making littlecaracoling movements, with trembling graces, play of eyes and shoulders, murmured, without meaning anything, a few words of greeting: "Thank you--oh, thank you! How kind you are!" Then the couples would separate, for evening parties are no longer thegatherings of charming wits, in which feminine delicacy was wont tocompel the character, the lofty knowledge, the genius, even, of mento bow graciously before it; but these overcrowded routs, in which thewomen, who alone are seated, chattering together like slaves in a harem, have no longer aught save the pleasure of being beautiful or appearingso. De Gery, after having wandered through the doctor's library, theconservatory, the billiard-room, where men were smoking, weary ofserious and dry conversation which seemed to him out of place amidsurroundings so decorated and in the brief hour of pleasure--some onehad asked him carelessly, without looking at him, what the Boursewas doing that day--made his way again towards the door of the largedrawing-room, which was barricaded by a wedged crowd of dress-coats, asea of heads bent sideways and peering past each other, watching. This salon was a spacious apartment richly furnished with the artistictaste which distinguished the host and hostess. There were a fewold pictures on the light background of the hangings. A monumentalchimneypiece, adorned by a handsome group in marble--"The Seasons, " bySebastien Ruys--around which long green stems cut in lacework or of agoffered bronze-like rigidity curved back towards the mirror as towardsthe limpidity of a clear lake. On the low seats, women in close groups, so close as almost to blend the delicate colours of their toilettes, forming an immense basket of living flowers, above which there floatedthe gleam of bare shoulders, of hair sown with diamonds that looked likedrops of water on the dark women, glittering reflections on the fair, and the same heady perfume, the same confused and gentle hum, compactof vibrant warmth and intangible wings, which, in summer, caresses agarden-bed through all its flowering time. Now and then a little laugh, rising into this luminous atmosphere, a quicker inspiration in the air, which would cause aigrettes and curls to tremble, a handsome profile tostand out suddenly. Such was the aspect of the drawing-room. A few men were present, a very small number, however, and all of thempersonages of note, laden with years and decorations. They were standingabout near couches, leaning over the backs of chairs, with that air ofcondescension which men assume when speaking to children. But in thepeaceful buzz of these conversations, one voice rang out piercing andbrazen, that of the Nabob, who was tranquilly performing his evolutionsacross this social hothouse with the assurance bestowed upon him by hisimmense wealth, and a certain contempt for women which he had broughtback from the East. At that moment, comfortably installed on a settee, his big hands inyellow gloves crossed carelessly one over the other, he was talking witha very handsome woman, whose original physiognomy--much vitality coupledwith severe features--stood out pale among the pretty faces about her, just as her dress, all white, classic in its folds and following closelythe lines of her supple figure, contrasted with toilettes that werericher, but among which none had that air of daring simplicity. From hiscorner, de Gery admired the low and smooth forehead beneath its fringeof downward combed hair, the well-opened eyes, deep blue in colour, anabysmal blue, the mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its purecurve into an expression that was weary and drooping. In sum, the ratherhaughty mien of an exceptional being. Somebody near him mentioned her name--Felicia Ruys. At once heunderstood the rare attraction of this young girl, the continuer ofher father's genius, whose budding celebrity had penetrated even to theremote country district where he had lived, with the aureole of reputedbeauty. While he stood gazing at her, admiring her least gestures, alittle perplexed by the enigma of her handsome countenance, he heardwhispers behind him. "But see how pleasant she is with the Nabob! If the duke were to comein!" "The Duc de Mora is coming?" "Certainly. It is for him that the party is given; to bring about ameeting between him and Jansoulet. " "And you think that the duke and Mlle. Ruys----" "Where have you come from? It is an intrigue known to all Paris. Theaffair dates from the last exhibition, for which she did a bust of him. " "And the duchess?" "Bah! it is not her first experience of that sort. Ah! there is Mme. Jenkins going to sing. " There was a movement in the drawing-room, a more violent swaying of thecrowd near the door, and conversation ceased for a moment. Paul deGery breathed. What he had just heard had oppressed his heart. He felthimself reached, soiled, by this mud flung in handfuls over the idealwhich in his own mind he had formed of that splendid adolescence, matured by the sun of Art to so penetrating a charm. He moved awaya little, changed his place. He feared to hear again some whisperedinfamy. Mme. Jenkins's voice did him good, a voice that was famous inthe drawing-rooms of Paris and that in spite of all its magnificence hadnothing theatrical about it, but seemed an emotional utterance vibratingover unstudied sonorities. The singer, a woman of forty or forty-five, had splendid ash-blond hair, delicate, rather nerveless features, astriking expression of kindness. Still good-looking, she was dressedin the costly taste of a woman who has not given up the thought ofpleasing. Indeed, she was far from having given it up. Married a dozenyears ago, for a second time, to the doctor, they seemed still to beat the first months of their dual happiness. While she sang a popularRussian melody, savage and sweet like the smile of a Slav, Jenkins wasingenuously proud, without seeking to dissimulate the fact, his broadface all beaming; and she, each time that she bent her head as sheregained her breath, glanced in his direction a timid, affectionatesmile that flew to seek him over the unfolded music. And then, when shehad finished amid an admiring and delighted murmur, it was touching tonotice how discreetly she gave her husband's hand a secret squeeze, asthough to secure to themselves a corner of private bliss in the midst ofher great triumph. Young de Gery was feeling cheered by the spectacle ofthis happy couple, when quite close to him a voice murmured--it was not, however, the same voice that he had heard just before: "You know what they say--that the Jenkinses are not married. " "How absurd!" "I assure you. It would seem that there is a veritable Mme. Jenkinssomewhere, but not the lady we know. Besides, have you noticed----" The dialogue continued in an undertone. Mme. Jenkins advanced, bowing, smiling, while the doctor, stopping a tray that was being borneround, brought her a glass of claret with the alacrity of a mother, animpresario, a lover. Calumny, calumny, ineffaceable defilement! To theprovincial young man, Jenkins's attentions now seemed exaggerated. He fancied that there was something affected about them, somethingdeliberate, and, too, in the words of thanks which she addressed ina low voice to her husband he thought he could detect a timidity, asubmissiveness, not consonant with the dignity of the legitimate spouse, glad and proud in an assured happiness. "But Society is a hideousaffair!" said de Gery to himself, dismayed and with cold hands. Thesmiles around him had upon him the effect of hypocritical grimaces. He felt shame and disgust. Then suddenly revolting: "Come, it is notpossible. " And, as though in reply to this exclamation, behind himthe scandalous tongue resumed in an easy tone: "After all, you know, Icannot vouch for its truth. I am only repeating what I have heard. Butlook! Baroness Hemerlingue. He gets all Paris, this Jenkins. " The baroness moved forward on the arm of the doctor, who had rushed tomeet her, and appeared, despite all his control of his facial muscles, alittle ill at ease and discomfited. He had thought, the good Jenkins, toprofit by the opportunity afforded by this evening party to bringabout a reconciliation between his friend Hemerlingue and his friendJansoulet, who were his two most wealthy clients and embarrassed himgreatly with their intestine feud. The Nabob was perfectly willing. He bore his old chum no grudge. Their quarrel had arisen out ofHemerlingue's marriage with one of the favourites of the last Bey. "Astory with a woman at the bottom of it, in short, " said Jansoulet, anda story which he would have been glad to see come to an end, since hisexuberant nature found every antipathy oppressive. But it seemed thatthe baron was not anxious for any settlement of their differences; for, notwithstanding his word passed to Jenkins, his wife arrived alone, tothe Irishman's great chagrin. She was a tall, slender, frail person, with eyebrows that suggested abird's plumes, and a youthful intimidated manner. She was aged aboutthirty but looked twenty, and wore a head-dress of grasses and ears ofcorn drooping over very black hair peppered with diamonds. With her longlashes against cheeks white with that transparency of complexion whichcharacterizes women who have long led a cloistered existence, and alittle ill at ease in her Parisian clothes, she resembled less one whohad formerly been a woman of the harem than a nun who, having renouncedher vows, was returning into the world. An air of piety, of extreme devoutness, in her bearing, a certainecclesiastical trick of walking with downcast eyes, elbows close tothe body, hands crossed, mannerisms which she had acquired in the veryreligious atmosphere in which she had lived since her conversion andher recent baptism, completed this resemblance. And you can imaginewith what ardent curiosity that worldly assembly regarded this quondamodalisk turned fervent Catholic, as she advanced escorted by a man witha livid countenance like that of some spectacled sacristan, Maitrele Merquier, deputy of Lyons, Hemerlingue's man of business, whoaccompanied the baroness whenever the baron "was somewhat indisposed, "as on this evening. At their entry into the second drawing-room, the Nabob came straight upto her, expecting to see appear in her wake the puffy face of his oldcomrade to whom it was agreed that he should go and offer his hand. Thebaroness perceived him and became still whiter. A flash as of steel shotfrom beneath her long lashes. Her nostrils dilated, quivered, and, asJansoulet bowed, she quickened her step, carrying her head high anderect, and letting fall from her thin lips an Arab word which no oneelse could understand but of which the Nabob himself well appreciatedthe insult; for, as he raised his head again, his tanned face was of thecolour of baked earthenware as it leaves the furnace. He stood for aninstant without moving, his huge fists clinched, his mouth swollen withanger. Jenkins came up and rejoined him, and de Gery, who had followedthe whole scene from a distance, saw them talking together withpreoccupied air. The thing was a failure. The reconciliation, so cunningly planned, wouldnot take place. Hemerlingue did not desire it. If only the duke, now, did not fail to keep his engagement with them. This reflection wasprompted by the lateness of the hour. The Wauters who was to sing themusic of the Night from the _Enchanted Flute_, on her way home from hertheatre, had just entered, completely muffled in her hoods of lace. And there was still no sign of the Minister. It was, however, a clearly understood, definitely promised arrangement. Monpavon was to call for him at the club. From time to time the goodJenkins glanced at his watch, while applauding absently the bouquet ofbrilliant notes which the Wauters was pouring forth from her fairylips, a bouquet costing three thousand francs, useless, like the otherexpenses of the evening, if the duke did not come. Suddenly the double doors were flung wide open: "His excellency M. Le Duc de Mora!" A long quiver of excitement welcomed him, a respectful curiosity thatranged itself in two rows instead of the mobbing crowd that flocked onthe heels of the Nabob. None better than he knew how to bear himself in society, to walk acrossa drawing-room with gravity, to endow futile things with an air ofseriousness, and to treat serious things lightly; that was the epitomeof his attitude in life, a paradoxical distinction. Still handsome, despite his fifty-six years, with a comeliness compounded of eleganceand proportion, wherein the grace of the dandy was fortified bysomething military about the figure and the haughtiness of the face; hewore with striking effect his black dress-coat, on which, to do honourto Jenkins, he had pinned a few of his decorations, which he was in thehabit of never wearing except upon official occasions. The reflectionfrom the linen, from the white cravat, the dull silver of thedecorations, the smoothness of the thin hair now turning gray, enhancedthe pallor of the features, more bloodless than all the bloodless facesthat were to be seen that evening in the Irishman's house. He had led such a terrible life! Politics, play under all its forms, from the Stock Exchange to the baccarat-table, and that reputation of aman successful with women which had to be maintained at all costs. Oh, this man was a true client of Jenkins; and this princely visit, he owedit in good sooth to the inventor of those mysterious pills which gavethat fire to his glance, to his whole being that energy so vibrating andextraordinary. "My dear duke, permit me to----" Monpavon, with solemn air and a great sense of his own importance, endeavoured to effect the presentation so long looked forward to; buthis excellency, preoccupied, seemed not to hear, continued his progresstowards the large drawing-room, borne along by one of those electriccurrents that break the social monotony. On his passage, and while hegreeted the handsome Mme. Jenkins, the ladies bent forward a little withseductive airs, a soft laugh, concerned to please. But he noticed onlyone among them, Felicia, on her feet in the centre of a group of men, discussing some question as though she were in her studio, and watchingthe duke come towards her, while tranquilly taking her sherbet. Shegreeted him with perfect naturalness. Those near had discreetly retiredto a little distance. There seemed to exist between them, however, notwithstanding what de Gery had overheard with regard to their presumedrelations, nothing more than a quite intellectual intimacy, a playfulfamiliarity. "I called at your house, mademoiselle, on my way to the Bois. " "I was informed of it. You even went into the studio. " "And I saw the famous group--my group. " "Well?" "It is very fine. The hound runs as though he were mad. The fox scampersaway admirably. Only I did not quite understand. You had told me that itwas our own story, yours and mine. " "Ah, there! Try. It is an apologue that I read in--You do not readRabelais, M. Le Duc?" "My faith, no. He is too coarse. " "Ah, well, his works were the text-book of my first reading lessons. Very badly brought up, you know. Oh, exceedingly badly. My apologue, then, is taken from Rabelais. Here it is: Bacchus created a wonderfulfox, impossible to capture. Vulcan, on the other hand, gave a dog ofhis own creation the power to catch every animal that he should pursue. 'Now, ' as my author has it, 'it happened that the two met. ' You seewhat a wild and interminable chase. It seems to me, my dear duke, that destiny has in the same way brought us together, endowed withconflicting attributes; you who have received from the gods the gift ofreaching all hearts, I whose heart will never be made prisoner. " She spoke these words, looking him full in the face, almost laughing, but sheathed and erect in the white tunic which seemed to defend herperson against the liberties of his thought. He, the conqueror, theirresistible, had never before met one of this audacious and headstrongbreed. He brought to bear upon her, therefore, all the magnetic currentsof his seductiveness, while around them the rising murmur of the _fete_, the soft laughter, the rustle of satins and the rattling of pearlsformed the accompaniment to this duet of mundane passion and juvenileirony. He resumed after a minute's pause: "But how did the gods escape from that awkward situation?" "By turning the two runners into stone. " "Upon my word, " said he, "that is a solution which I do not at allaccept. I defy the gods ever to petrify my heart. " A fiery gleam shot for a moment from his eyes, extinguished immediatelyby the thought that people were observing them. In effect, people were observing them intently, but no one with somuch curiosity as Jenkins, who wandered round them a little way off, impatient and fidgety, as though he were annoyed with Felicia for takingprivate possession of the important personage of the assembly. The younggirl laughingly called the duke's attention to it. "People will say that I am monopolizing you. " She pointed out to him Monpavon waiting, standing near the Nabob who, from afar, was gazing at his excellency with the beseeching, submissiveeyes of a big, good-tempered mastiff. The Minister of State thenremembered the object which had brought him. He bowed to the young girland returned to Monpavon, who was able at last to present to him "hishonourable friend, M. Bernard Jansoulet. " His excellency bowed slightly, the _parvenu_ humbled himself lower than the earth, then they chattedfor a moment. A group curious to observe. Jansoulet, tall, strong, with an air of thepeople about him, a sunburned skin, his broad back arched as though maderound for ever by the low bowings of Oriental courtiery, his big, shorthands splitting his light gloves, his excessive gestures, his southernexuberance chopping up his words like a puncher. The other, a high-bredgentleman, a man of the world, elegance itself, easy in his leastgestures, though these, however, were extremely rare, carelessly lettingfall unfinished sentences, relieving by a half smile the gravity of hisface, concealing beneath an imperturbable politeness the deep contemptwhich he had for man and woman; and it was in that contempt that hisstrength lay. In an American drawing-room the antithesis would have beenless violent. The Nabob's millions would have re-established the balanceand even made the scale lean to his side. But Paris does not yet placemoney above every other force, and to realize this, it was sufficientto observe the great contractor wriggling amiably before the greatgentleman and casting under his feet, like the courtier's cloak ofermine, the dense vanity of a newly rich man. From the corner in which he had ensconced himself, de Gery was watchingthe scene with interest, knowing what importance his friend attached tothis introduction, when the same chance which all through the eveninghad so cruelly been giving the lie to the native simplicity of hisinexperience, caused him to distinguish a short dialogue near him, amidthat buzz of many conversations through which each hears just the wordthat interests him. "It is indeed the least that Monpavon can do, to enable him to make afew good acquaintances. He has introduced him to so many bad ones. Youknow that he has just put Paganetti and all his gang on his shoulders. " "Poor fellow! But they will devour him. " "Bah! It is only fair that he should be made to disgorge a little. Hehas been such a thief himself away yonder among the Turks. " "Really, do you believe that is so?" "Do I believe it? I am in possession of very precise details on thepoint which I have from Baron Hemerlingue, the banker, who effected thelast Tunisian loan. He knows some stories about the Nabob, he does. Justimagine. " And the infamous gossip commenced. For fifteen years Jansoulet hadexploited the former Bey in a scandalous fashion. Names of purveyorswere cited and tricks wonderful in their assurance, their effrontery;for instance, the story of a musical frigate, yes, a veritable musicalbox, like a dining-room picture, which he had bought for two hundredthousand francs and sold again for ten millions; the cost price of athrone sold at three millions for which the account could be seen in thebooks of an upholsterer of the Faubourg Saint-Honore did not exceed ahundred thousand francs; and the funniest part of it was that, the Beyhaving changed his mind, the royal seat, fallen into disgrace before ithad even been unpacked, remained still nailed in its packing-case at thecustom-house in Tripoli. Next, beyond these wildly extravagant commissions on the provision ofthe least toy, they laid stress upon accusations more grave but no lesscertain, since they also sprang from the same source. It seemed therewas, adjoining the seraglio, a harem of European women admirablyequipped for his Highness by the Nabob, who must have been a goodjudge in such matters, having practised formerly, in Paris--beforehis departure for the East--the most singular trades: vendor oftheatre-tickets, manager of a low dancing-hall, and of an establishmentmore ill-famed still. And the whispering ended in a smothered laugh, thecoarse laugh of men chatting among themselves. The first impulse of the young man from the country, as he heard theseinfamous calumnies, was to turn round and exclaim: "You lie!" A few hours earlier he would have done it without hesitating; but, sincehe had been there, he had learned distrust, scepticism. He containedhimself, therefore, and listened to the end, motionless in the sameplace, having deep down within himself an unavowed desire to becomefurther acquainted with the man whose service he had entered. As forthe Nabob, the completely unconscious subject of this hideous recital, tranquilly installed in a small room to which its blue hangings and twoshaded lamps gave a reposeful air, he was playing his game of _ecarte_with the Duc de Mora. O magic of Fortune's argosy! The son of the dealer in old iron seatedalone at a card-table opposite the first personage of the Empire!Jansoulet could scarcely believe the Venetian mirror in which werereflected his own bright countenance and the august head with itsparting down the middle. Accordingly, in order to show his appreciationof this great honour, he sought to lose decently as many thousand-francnotes as possible, feeling himself even so the winner of the game, andquite proud to see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whoseleast gesture he studied as they dealt, cut, or held the cards. A circle had formed around them, always keeping a distance, however, the ten paces exacted for the salutation of a prince; it was the publicthere to witness this triumph in which the Nabob was bearing his partas in a dream, intoxicated by those fairy harmonies rather faint in thedistance, whose songs that reached him in snatches as over the resonantobstacle of a pool, the perfume of flowers that seem to become fullblown in so singular fashion towards the end of Parisian balls, whenthe late hour that confuses all notions of time and the weariness ofthe sleepless nights communicate to brains soothed in a more nervousatmosphere, as it were, a dizzy sense of enjoyment. The robust nature ofJansoulet, civilized savage that he was, was more sensitive than anotherto these unknown subtleties, and he had need of all his strength torefrain from manifesting by some glad hurrah, by some untimely effusionof gestures and speech, the impulse of physical gaiety which pervadedhis whole being, as happens to those great mountain dogs that arethrown into epileptic fits of madness by the inhaling of a drop of someessence. "The sky is clear, the pavement dry. If you like, my dear boy, wewill send the carriage away and return on foot, " said Jansoulet to hiscompanion as they left Jenkins's house. De Gery accepted with eagerness. He felt that he required to walk, toshake off in the open air the infamies and the lies of that comedyof society which had left his heart cold and oppressed, with all hislife-blood driven to his temples where he could hear the swollen veinsbeating. He staggered as he walked, like those unfortunate persons who, having been operated upon for cataract, in the terror of sight regained, do not dare put one foot before the other. But with what a brutal handthe operation had been performed! So that great artist with the gloriousname, that pure and untamed beauty the sight alone of whom had troubledhim like an apparition, was only a courtesan. Mme. Jenkins, that statelywoman, of bearing at once so proud and so gentle, had no real title tothe name. That illustrious man of science with the open countenance, anda manner so pleasant in his welcome, had the impudence thus to paradea disgraceful concubinage. And Paris suspected it, but that did notprevent it from running to their parties. And, finally, Jansoulet, sokind, so generous, for whom he felt in his heart so much gratitude, heknew him to be fallen into the hands of a gang of brigands, a brigandhimself and well worthy of the conspiracy organized to cause him todisgorge his millions. Was it possible, and how much of it was he to be obliged to believe? A glance which he threw sideways at the Nabob, whose immense personalmost blocked the pavement, revealed to him suddenly in that walkoppressed by the weight of his wealth, a something low and vulgar whichhe had not previously remarked. Yes, he was indeed the adventurerfrom the south, moulded of the slimy clay that covers the quays ofMarseilles, trodden down by all the nomads and wanderers of a seaport. Kind, generous, forsooth! as harlots are, or thieves. And the gold, flowing in torrents through that tainted and luxurious world, splashingthe very walls, seemed to him now to be loaded with all the dross, allthe filth of its impure and muddy source. There remained, then, forhim, de Gery, but one thing to do, to go away, to quit with all possiblespeed this situation in which he risked the compromising of his goodname, the one heritage from his father. Doubtless. But the two littlebrothers down yonder in the country. Who would pay for their board andlodging? Who would keep up the modest home miraculously brought intobeing once more by the handsome salary of the eldest son, the head ofthe family? Those words, "head of the family, " plunged him immediatelyinto one of those internal combats in which interest and consciencestruggled for the mastery--the one brutal, substantial, attackingvigorously with straight thrusts, the other elusive, breaking away bysubtle disengagements--while the worthy Jansoulet, unconscious causeof the conflict, walked with long strides close by his young friend, inhaling the fresh air with delight at the end of his lighted cigar. Never had he felt it such a happiness to be alive; and this eveningparty at Jenkins's, which had been his own first real entry into societyas well as de Gery's, had left with him an impression of porticoeserected as for a triumph, of an eagerly assembled crowd, of flowersthrown on his path. So true is it that things only exist through theeyes that observe them. What a success! the duke, as he took leave ofhim inviting him to come to see his picture gallery, which meant thedoors of Mora House opened to him within a week. Felicia Ruysconsenting to do his bust, so that at the next exhibition the son of thenail-dealer would have his portrait in marble by the same greatartist who had signed that of the Minister of State. Was it not thesatisfaction of all his childish vanities? And each pondering his own thoughts, sombre or glad, they continued towalk shoulder to shoulder, absorbed and so absent in mind that the PlaceVendome, silent and bathed in a blue and chilly light, rang under theirsteps before a word had been uttered between them. "Already?" said the Nabob. "I should not at all have minded walking alittle longer. What do you say?" And while they strolled two or threetimes around the square, he gave vent in spasmodic bursts to the immensejoy which filled him. "How pleasant the air is! How one can breathe! Thunder of God! I wouldnot have missed this evening's party for a hundred thousand francs. What a worthy soul that Jenkins is! Do you like Felicia Ruys's style ofbeauty? For my part, I dote on it. And the duke, what a great gentleman!so simple, so kind. A fine place, Paris, is it not, my son?" "It is too complicated for me. It frightens me, " answered Paul de Geryin a hollow voice. "Yes, yes, I understand, " replied the other with an adorable fatuity. "You are not yet accustomed to it; but, never mind, one quickly becomesso. See how after a single month I find myself at my ease. " "That is because it is not your first visit to Paris. You have livedhere. " "I? Never in my life. Who told you that?" "Indeed! I thought--" answered the young man; and immediately, a host ofreflections crowding into his mind: "What, then, have you done to this Baron Hemerlingue? It is a hatred tothe death between you. " For a moment the Nabob was taken aback. That name of Hemerlingue, thrownsuddenly into his glee, recalled to him the one annoying episode of theevening. "To him as to the others, " said he in a saddened voice, "I have neverdone anything save good. We began together in poverty. We made progressand prospered side by side. Whenever he wished to try a flight on hisown wings, I always aided and supported him to the best of my ability. It was I who during ten consecutive years secured for him the contractsfor the fleet and the army; almost his whole fortune came from thatsource. Then one fine morning this slow-blooded imbecile of a Bernesegoes crazy over an odalisk whom the mother of the Bey had caused to beexpelled from the harem. The hussy was beautiful and ambitious, she madehim marry her, and naturally, after this brilliant match, Hemerlinguewas obliged to leave Tunis. Somebody had persuaded him to believe that Iwas urging the Bey to close the principality to him. It was not true. Onthe contrary, I obtained from his Highness permission for Hemerlingue'sson--a child by his first wife--to remain in Tunis in order to lookafter their suspended interests, while the father came to Paris to foundhis banking-house. Moreover, I have been well rewarded for my kindness. When, at the death of my poor Ahmed, the Mouchir, his brother, ascendedthe throne, the Hemerlingues, restored to favour, never ceased to workfor my undoing with the new master. The Bey still keeps on good termswith me; but my credit is shaken. Well, in spite of that, in spite ofall the shabby tricks that Hemerlingue has played me, that he plays mestill, I was ready this evening to hold out my hand to him. Not onlydoes the blackguard refuse it, but he causes me to be insulted by hiswife, a savage and evil-disposed creature, who does not pardon me foralways having declined to receive her in Tunis. Do you know what shecalled me just now as she passed me? 'Thief and son of a dog. ' As freein her language as that, the odalisk--That is to say, that if I did notknow my Hemerlingue to be as cowardly as he is fat--After all, bah! letthem say what they like. I snap my fingers at them. What can they doagainst me? Ruin me with the Bey? That is a matter of indifferenceto me. There is nothing any longer for me to do in Tunis, and I shallwithdraw myself from the place altogether as soon as possible. Thereis only one town, one country in the world, and that is Paris--Pariswelcoming, hospitable, not prudish, where every intelligent man may findspace to do great things. And I, now, do you see, de Gery, I want to dogreat things. I have had enough of mercantile life. For twenty years Ihave worked for money; to-day I am greedy of glory, of consideration, offame. I want to be somebody in the history of my country, and that willbe easy for me. With my immense fortune, my knowledge of men and ofaffairs, the things I know I have here in my head, nothing is beyond myreach and I aspire to everything. Believe me, therefore, my dear boy, never leave me"--one would have said that he was replying to the secretthought of his young companion--"remain faithfully on board my ship. Themasts are firm; I have my bunkers full of coal. I swear to you that weshall go far, and quickly, _nom d'un sort_!" The ingenuous southerner thus poured out his projects into the nightwith many expressive gestures, and from time to time, as they walkedrapidly to and fro in the vast and deserted square, majesticallysurrounded by its silent and closed palaces, he raised his head towardsthe man of bronze on the column, as though taking to witness that greatupstart whose presence in the midst of Paris authorizes all ambitions, endows every chimera with probability. There is in young people a warmth of heart, a need of enthusiasm whichis awakened by the least touch. As the Nabob talked, de Gery felt hissuspicion take wing and all his sympathy return, together with a shadeof pity. No, very certainly this man was not a rascal, but a poor, illuded being whose fortune had gone to his head like a wine too heavyfor a stomach long accustomed to water. Alone in the midst of Paris, surrounded by enemies and people ready to take advantage of him, Jansoulet made upon him the impression of a man on foot laden with goldpassing through some evil-haunted wood, in the dark and unarmed. Andhe reflected that it would be well for the _protege_ to watch, without seeming to do so, over the protector, to become the discerningTelemachus of the blind Mentor, to point out to him the quagmires, todefend him against the highwaymen, to aid him, in a word, in his combatsamid all that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt were prowlingferociously around the Nabob and his millions. THE JOYEUSE FAMILY Every morning of the year, at exactly eight o'clock, a new and almosttenantless house in a remote quarter of Paris, echoed to cries, calls, merry laughter, ringing clear in the desert of the staircase: "Father, don't forget my music. " "Father, my crochet wool. " "Father, bring us some rolls. " And the voice of the father calling from below: "Yaia, bring me down my portfolio, please. " "There you are, you see! He has forgotten his portfolio. " And there would be a glad scurry from top to bottom of the house, arunning of all those pretty faces confused by sleep, of all those headswith disordered hair which the owners made tidy as they ran, until themoment when, leaning over the baluster, half a dozen girls bade loudgood-bye to a little, old gentleman, neat and well-groomed, whosereddish face and short profile disappeared at length in the spiralperspective of the stairs. M. Joyeuse had departed for his office. At once the whole band, escaped from their cage, would rush quicklyupstairs again to the fourth floor, and, the door having been opened, group themselves at an open casement to gain one last glimpse of theirfather. The little man used to turn round, kisses were exchanged acrossthe distance, then the windows were closed, the new and tenantless housebecame quiet again, except for the posters dancing their wild sarabandin the wind of the unfinished street, as if made gay, they also, by allthese proceedings. A moment later the photographer on the fifth floorwould descend to hang at the door his showcase, always the same, inwhich was to be seen the old gentleman in a white tie surrounded by hisdaughters in various groups; he went upstairs again in his turn, and thecalm which succeeded immediately upon this little morning uproar leftone to imagine that the "father" and his young ladies had re-entered thecase of photographs, where they remained smiling and motionless untilevening. From the Rue Saint-Ferdinand to the establishment of Hemerlingue &Son, his employers, M. Joyeuse had a good three-quarters of an hour'sjourney. He walked with head erect and straight, as though he had fearedto disarrange the smart knot of the cravat tied by his daughters, or hishat put on by them, and when the eldest, ever anxious and prudent, justas he went out raised his coat-collar to protect him against theharsh gusts of the wind that blew round the street corner, even if thetemperature were that of a hothouse M. Joyeuse would not lower it againuntil he reached the office, like the lover who, quitting his mistress'sarms, dares not to move for fear of losing the intoxicating perfume. A widower for some years, this worthy man lived only for his children, thought only of them, went through life surrounded by those fair littleheads that fluttered around him confusedly as in a picture of theAssumption. All his desires, all his projects, bore reference to "thoseyoung ladies, " returned to them without ceasing, sometimes after longcircuits, for M. Joyeuse--this was connected no doubt with the fact thathe possessed a short neck and a small figure whereof his turbulentblood made the circuit in a moment--was a man of fecund and astonishingimagination. In his brain the ideas performed their evolutions with therapidity of hollow straws around a sieve. At the office, figures kepthis steady attention by reason of their positive quality; but, outside, his mind took its revenge upon that inexorable occupation. The activityof the walk, the habit that led him by a route where he was familiarwith the least incidents, allowed full liberty to his imaginativefaculties. He invented at these times extraordinary adventures, enoughof them to crank out a score of the serial stories that appear in thenewspapers. If, for example, M. Joyeuse, as he went up the Faubourg Saint-Honore, on the right-hand footwalk--he always took that one--noticed a heavylaundry-cart going along at a quick pace, driven by a woman from thecountry with a child perched on a bundle of linen and leaning oversomewhat: "The child!" the terrified old fellow would cry. "Have a care of thechild!" His voice would be lost in the noise of the wheels and his warning amongthe secrets of Providence. The cart passed. He would follow it for amoment with his eye, then resume his walk; but the drama begun inhis mind would continue to unfold itself there, with a thousandcatastrophes. The child had fallen. The wheels were about to pass overhim. M. Joyeuse dashed forward, saved the little creature on the verybrink of destruction; the pole of the cart, however, struck himselffull in the chest and he fell bathed in blood. Then he would see himselfborne to some chemists' shop through the crowd that had collected. Hewas placed in an ambulance, carried to his own house, and then suddenlyhe would hear the piercing cry of his daughters, his well-beloveddaughters, when they beheld him in this condition. And that agonizedcry touched his heart so deeply, he would hear it so distinctly, sorealistically: "Papa, my dear papa, " that he would himself utter italoud in the street, to the great astonishment of the passers-by, in ahoarse voice which would wake him from his fictitious nightmare. Will you have another sample of this prodigious imagination? It israining, freezing; wretched weather. M. Joyeuse has taken the omnibusto go to his office. Finding himself seated opposite a sort of colossus, with the head of a brute and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse, himself verysmall, very puny, with his portfolio on his knees, draws in his legs inorder to make room for the enormous columns which support the monumentalbody of his neighbour. As the vehicle moves on and as the rain beats onthe windows, M. Joyeuse falls into reverie. And suddenly the colossusopposite, whose face is kind after all, is very much surprised to seethe little man change colour, look at him and grind his teeth, look athim with ferocious eyes, an assassin's eyes. Yes, with the eyes of averitable assassin, for at that moment M. Joyeuse is dreaming a terribledream. He sees one of his daughters sitting there opposite him, by theside of this giant brute, and the wretch has put his arm round her waistunder her cape. "Remove your hand, sir!" M. Joyeuse has already said twice over. Theother has only sneered. Now he wishes to kiss Elise. "Ah, rascal!" Too feeble to defend his daughter, M. Joyeuse, foaming with rage, drawshis knife from his pocket, stabs the insolent fellow full in the breast, and with head high goes off, strong in the right of an outraged father, to make his declaration at the nearest police-station. "I have just killed a man in an omnibus!" At the sound of his own voiceactually uttering these sinister words, but not in the police-station, the poor fellow wakes us, guesses from the bewildered mannerof the passengers that he must have spoken the words aloud, and very quickly takes advantage of the conductor's call, "Saint-Philippe--Pantheon--Bastille--" to alight, feeling greatlyconfused, amid general stupefaction. This imagination constantly on the stretch, gave to M. Joyeuse asingular physiognomy, feverish and worn, in strong contrast with thegeneral correct appearance of a subordinate clerk which he presented. In one day he lived so many passionate existences. The race is morenumerous than one thinks of these waking dreamers, in whom a toorestricted fate compresses forces unemployed and heroic faculties. Dreaming is the safety-valve through which all those expend themselveswith terrible ebullitions, as of the vapour of a furnace and floatingimages that are forthwith dissipated into air. From these visionssome return radiant, others exhausted and discouraged, as they findthemselves once more on the every-day level. M. Joyeuse was of theselatter, rising without ceasing to heights whence a man cannot butre-descend, somewhat bruised by the velocity of the transit. Now, one morning that our "visionary" had left his house at his habitualhour, and under the usual circumstances, he began at the turning of theRue Saint-Ferdinand one of his little private romances. As the end ofthe year was at hand, perhaps it was the hammer-strokes on a wooden hutwhich was being erected in the neighbouring timber-yard that caused histhoughts to turn to "presents--New Year's Day. " And immediately the wordbounty implanted itself in his mind as the first landmark of a marvelousstory. In the month of December all persons in Hemerlingue's servicereceived double pay, and you know that in small households there arefounded on windfalls of this kind a thousand projects, ambitious orkind, presents to be made, a piece of furniture to be replaced, a littlesum of money to be saved in a drawer against the unforeseen. In simple fact, M. Joyeuse was not rich. His wife, a Mlle. DeSaint-Armand, tormented with ideas of greatness and society, had setthis little clerk's household on a ruinous footing, and though since herdeath three years had passed during which Bonne Maman had managed thehousekeeping with so much wisdom, they had not yet been able to saveanything, so heavy had proved the burden of the past. Suddenly itoccurred to the good fellow that this year the bounty would be largerby reason of the increase of work which had been caused by the Tunisianloan. The loan constituted a very fine stroke of business for the firm, too fine even, for M. Joyeuse had permitted himself to remark in theoffice that this time "Hemerlingue & Son had shaved the Turk a littletoo close. " "Certainly, yes, the bounty will be doubled, " reflected the visionary, as he walked; and already he saw himself, a month thence, mounting withhis comrades, for the New Year's visit, the little staircase that ledto Hemerlingue's apartment. He announced the good news to them; then hedetained M. Joyeuse for a few words in private. And, behold, that masterhabitually so cold in his manner, sheathed in his yellow fat as ina bale of raw silk, became affectionate, paternal, communicative. Hedesired to know how many daughters Joyeuse had. "I have three; no, I should say, four, M. Le Baron. I always confusethem. The eldest is such a sensible girl. " Further he wished to know their ages. "Aline is twenty, M. Le Baron. She is the eldest. Then we have Elise, who is preparing for the examination which she must pass when she iseighteen. Henriette, who is fourteen, and Zara or Yaia who is onlytwelve. " That pet name of Yaia intensely amused M. Le Baron, who inquired nextwhat were the resources of this interesting family. "My salary, M. Le Baron; nothing else. I had a little money put aside, but my poor wife's illness, the education of the girls--" "What you are earning is not sufficient, my dear Joyeuse. I raise yoursalary to a thousand francs a month. " "Oh, M. Le Baron, it is too much. " But although he had uttered this last sentence aloud, in the ear ofa policeman who watched with a mistrustful eye the little man pass, gesticulating and nodding his head, the poor visionary awoke not. Withadmiration he saw himself returning home, announcing the news to hisdaughters, taking them to the theatre in the evening in celebration ofthe happy day. _Dieu!_ how pretty they looked in the front of their box, the Demoiselles Joyeuse, what a bouquet of rosy faces! And then, thenext day, the two eldest asked in marriage by--Impossible to determineby whom, for M. Joyeuse had just suddenly found himself once morebeneath the arch of the Hemerlingue establishment, before the swing-doorsurmounted by a "counting-house" in letters of gold. "I shall always be the same, it seems, " said he to himself, laughing alittle and passing his hand over his forehead, on which the perspirationstood in drops. In a good humour as the result of this pleasant fancy and at the sightof the fire crackling in the suite of parquet-floored offices, withtheir screens of iron trellis-work and their air of secrecy in the coldlight of the ground floor, where one could count the pieces of goldwithout dazzling his eyes, M. Joyeuse gave a gay greeting to theother clerks and slipped on his working coat and his black velvet cap. Suddenly, some one whistled from upstairs, and the cashier, applying hisear to the tube, heard the oily and gelatinous voice of Hemerlingue, the sole and veritable Hemerlingue--the other, the son, was alwaysabsent--asking for M. Joyeuse. What! Could the dream be continuing? He was conscious of a great agitation; took the little inside staircasewhich he had seen himself ascending just before so bravely, and foundhimself in the banker's private room, a narrow apartment, with a veryhigh ceiling, furnished only with green curtains and enormous leathereasy chairs of a size proportioned to the terrific bulk of the head ofthe house. He was there, seated at his desk which his belly preventedhim from approaching very closely, obese, ill-shaped, and so yellow thathis round face with its hooked nose, the head of a fat and sick owl, suggested as it were a light at the end of the solemn and gloomy room. Arich Moorish merchant grown mouldy in the damp of his little court-yard. Beneath his heavy eyelids, raised with an effort, his glance glitteredfor a second when the accountant entered; he signed to him to approach, and slowly, coldly, pausing to take breath between his sentences, instead of "M. Joyeuse, how many daughters have you?" he said this: "Joyeuse, you have allowed yourself to criticise in the office our lastoperations in the Tunis market. Useless to defend yourself. Your remarkshave been reported to me word for word. And as I am unable to admit themfrom the mouth of one in my service, I give you notice that dating fromthe end of this month you cease to be a member of my establishment. " A wave of blood mounted to the accountant's face, fell back, returnedagain, bringing each time a confused whizzing into his ears, into hisbrain a tumult of thoughts and images. His daughters! What was to become of them? Employment is so hard to find at that period of the year. Poverty appeared before his eyes and also the vision of an unfortunateman falling at Hemerlingue's feet, supplicating him, threatening him, springing at his throat in an access of despairing rage. All thisagitation passed over his features like a gust of wind which throws thesurface of a lake into ripples, fashioning there all manner of mobilewhirlpools; but he remained mute, standing in the same place, and uponthe master's intimation that he could withdraw, went down with totteringstep to resume his work in the counting-house. In the evening when he went home to the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, M. Joyeusetold his daughters nothing. He did not dare. The idea of darkening thatradiant gaiety which was the life of the house, of making dull withheavy tears those pretty bright eyes, was insupportable to him. Timorous, too, and weak, he was of those who always say, "Let us waittill to-morrow. " He waited therefore before speaking, at first until themonth of November should be ended, deluding himself with the vague hopethat Hemerlingue might change his mind, as though he did not know thatwill as of some mollusk flabby and tenacious upon its ingot of gold. Then when his salary had been paid up and another accountant had takenhis place before the high desk at which he had stood for so long, hehoped to find something else quickly and repair his misfortune beforebeing obliged to confess it. Every morning he feigned to start for the office, allowed himself tobe equipped and accompanied to the door as usual, his huge leatherportfolio all ready for the evening's numerous commissions. Although hewould forget some of them on purpose because of the approaching andso problematical end of the month, he did not lack time now to executethem. He had his day to himself, the whole of an interminable day whichhe spent in rushing about Paris in search for an employment. People gavehim addresses, excellent recommendations. But in that terrible month ofDecember, so cold and with such short hours of daylight, bringing withit so many expenses and preoccupations, employees need to take patienceand employers also. Each man tries to end the year in peace, postponingto the month of January, to that great leap of time towards a freshhalting-place, any changes, ameliorations, attempts at a new life. In every house where M. Joyeuse presented himself, he beheld facessuddenly grow cold as soon as he explained the object of his visit. "What! You are no longer with Hemerlingue & Son? How is that?" He would explain the matter as best he could through a caprice of thehead of the firm, the ferocious Hemerlingue whom Paris knew; but hewas conscious of a coldness, a mistrust in the uniform reply which hereceived: "Call on us again after the holidays. " And, timid as he was tobegin with, he reached a point at which he could no longer bring himselfto call on any one, a point at which he could walk past the same doora score of times and never have crossed its threshold at all had it notbeen for the thought of his daughters. This alone pushed him along bythe shoulders, put heart in his legs, despatched him in the courseof the same day to the opposite extremities of Paris, to very vagueaddresses given to him by comrades, to a great manufactory of animalblack at Aubervilliers, where he was made to return for nothing threedays in succession. Oh, the journeys in the rain, in the frost, the closed doors, the masterwho is out or engaged, the promises given and immediately withdrawn, the hopes deceived, the enervation of hours of waiting, the humiliationsreserved for every man who asks for work, as though it were a shamefulthing to lack it. M. Joyeuse knew all these melancholy things and, too, the good will that tires and grows discouraged before the persistence ofevil fortune. And you may imagine how the hard martyrdom of "the man whoseeks a place" was rendered tenfold more bitter by the mirages of hisimagination, by those chimeras which rose before him from the Parispavements as over them he journeyed along on foot in every direction. For a month he was one of those woeful puppets, talking in monologue, gesticulating on the footways, from whom every chance collision with thecrowd wrests an exclamation as of one walking in his sleep. "I told youso, " or "I have no doubt of it, sir. " One passes by, almost one wouldlaugh, but one is seized with pity before the unconsciousness of thoseunhappy men possessed by a fixed idea, blind whom the dream leads, drawnalong by an invisible leash. The terrible thing was that after thoselong, cruel days of inaction and fatigue, when M. Joyeuse returned home, he had perforce to play the comedy of the man returning from his work, to recount the incidents of the day, the things he had heard, the gossipof the office with which he had been always wont to entertain his girls. In humble homes there is always a name which comes up more often thanall others, which is invoked in days of stress, which is mingled withevery wish, with every hope, even with the games of the children, penetrated as they are with its importance, a name which sustains inthe dwelling the part of a sub-Providence, or rather of a householddivinity, familiar and supernatural. In the Joyeuse family, it wasHemerlingue, always Hemerlingue, returning ten times, twenty times aday in the conversation of the girls, who associated it with all theirplans, with the most intimate details of their feminine ambitions. "If Hemerlingue would only----" "All that depends on Hemerlingue. " Andnothing could be more charming than the familiarity with which theseyoung people spoke of that enormously wealthy man whom they had neverseen. They would ask for news of him. Had their father spoken to him? Was hein a good temper? And to think that we all of us, whatever our position, however humble we be, however weighed down by fate, we have alwaysbeneath us unfortunate beings more humble, yet more weighed down, forwhom we are great, for whom we are as gods, and in our quality of gods, indifferent, disdainful, or cruel. One imagines the torture of M. Joyeuse, obliged to invent stories andanecdotes about the wretch who had so ruthlessly discharged him afterten years of good service. He played his little comedy, however, so wellas completely to deceive everybody. Only one thing had been remarked, and that was that father when he came home in the evening always satdown to table with a great appetite. I believe it! Since he lost hisplace the poor man had gone without his luncheon. The days passed. M. Joyeuse found nothing. Yes, one place as accountantin the Territorial Bank, which he refused, however, knowing too muchabout banking operations, about all the corners and innermost recessesof the financial Bohemia in general, and of the Territorial bank inparticular, to set foot in that den. "But, " said Passajon to him--for it was Passajon who, meeting the honestfellow and hearing that he was out of employment, had suggested tohim that he should come to Paganetti's--"but since I repeat that it isserious. We have lots of money. They pay one. I have been paid. See howprosperous I look. " In effect, the old office porter had a new livery, and beneath his tunicwith its buttons of silver-gilt his paunch protruded, majestic. Allthe same M. Joyeuse had not allowed himself to be tempted, even afterPassajon, opening wide his shallow-set blue eyes, had whispered into hisear with emphasis these words rich in promises: "The Nabob is in the concern. " Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to say No. Was it notbetter to die of hunger than to enter a fraudulent house of whichhe might perhaps one day be summoned to report upon the books in thecourts? So he continued to wander; but, discouraged, he no longer sought employ. As it was necessary that he should absent himself from home, he usedto linger over the stalls on the quays, lean for hours on the parapets, watch the water flow and the unladening of the vessels. He became one ofthose idlers whom one sees in the first rank whenever a crowd collectsin the street, taking shelter from the rain under the porches, warminghimself at the stoves where, in the open air, the tar of the asphaltersreeks, sinking on a bench of some boulevard when his legs could nolonger carry him. To do nothing! What a fine way of making life seem longer! On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too weary or the skytoo unkind, he would wait at the end of the street until his daughtersshould have closed their window again and, returning to the house, keeping close to the walls, would mount the staircase very quickly, passbefore his own door holding his breath, and take refuge in the apartmentof the photographer Andre Maranne, who, aware of his ill-fortune, alwaysgave him that kindly welcome which the poor have for each other. Clientsare rare so near the outskirts of the town. He used to remain long hoursin the studio, talking in a very low voice, reading at his friend'sside, listening to the rain on the window-panes or the wind that blewas it does on the open sea, shaking the old doors and the window-sashesbelow in the wood-sheds. Beneath him he could hear sounds well knownand full of charm, songs that escaped in the satisfaction of workaccomplished, assembled laughter, the pianoforte lesson being given byBonne Maman, the tic-tac of the metronome, all the delicious householdstir that pleased his heart. He lived with his darlings, who certainlynever could have guessed that they had him so near them. Once, when Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse keeping faithful watch over thestudio and its new apparatus, heard two little strokes given on theceiling of the apartment below, two separate, very distinct strokes, then a cautious pattering of fingers, like the scamper of mice. Thefriendliness of the photographer with his neighbours sufficientlyauthorized these communications like those of prisoners. But what didthey mean? How reply to what seemed a call? Quite at hazard, he repeatedthe two strokes, the light tapping, and the conversation ended there. Onthe return of Andre Maranne he learned the explanation of the incident. It was very simple. Sometimes, in the course of the day, the youngladies below, who only saw their neighbour in the evening, would inquirehow things were going with him, whether any clients were coming in. Thesignal he had heard meant, "Is business good to-day?" And M. Joyeuse hadreplied, obeying only an instinct without any knowledge, "Fairly wellfor the season. " Although young Maranne was very red as he made thisaffirmation, M. Joyeuse accepted his word at once. Only this idea offrequent communications between the two households made him afraid forthe secrecy of his position, and from that time forward he cut himselfoff from what he used to call his "artistic days. " Moreover, themoment was approaching when he would no longer be able to conceal hismisfortune, the end of the month arriving, complicated by the ending ofthe year. Paris was already assuming the holiday appearance which it wears duringthe last weeks of December. In the way of national or popular rejoicingit had little left but that. The follies of the Carnival died withGavarni, the religious festivals with their peals of bells which onescarcely hears amid the noise of the streets confine themselves withintheir heavy church-doors, the 15th of August has never been anything butthe Saint Charles-the-Great of the barracks; but Paris has maintainedits observance of New Year's Day. From the beginning of December an immense childishness begins topermeate the town. You see hand-carts pass laden with gilded drums, wooden horses, playthings by the dozen. In the industrial quarters, fromtop to bottom of the five-storied houses, the old private residencesstill standing in that low-lying district, where the warehouses havesuch lofty ceilings and majestic double doors, the nights are passed inthe making up of gauze flowers and spangles, in the gumming of labelsupon satin-lined boxes, in sorting, marking, packing, the thousanddetails of the toy, that great branch of commerce on which Paris placesthe seal of its elegance. There is a smell about of new wood, of freshpaint, glossy varnish, and, in the dust of garrets, on the wretchedstairways where the poor leave behind them all the dirt through whichthey have passed, there lie shavings of rosewood, scraps of satin andvelvet, bits of tinsel, all the _debris_ of the luxury whose end is todazzle the eyes of children. Then the shop-windows are decorated. Behindthe panes of clear glass the gilt of presentation-books rises like aglittering wave under the gaslight, the stuffs of various and temptingcolours display their brittle and heavy folds, while the young ladiesbehind the counter, with their hair dressed tapering to a point and witha ribbon beneath their collar, tie up the article, little finger in theair, or fill bags of moire into which the sweets fall like a rain ofpearls. But, over against this kind of well-to-do business, established inits own house, warmed, withdrawn behind its rich shop-front, there isinstalled the improvised commerce of those wooden huts, open to thewind of the streets, of which the double row gives to the boulevardsthe aspect of some foreign mall. It is in these that you find the trueinterest and the poetry of New Year's gifts. Sumptuous in the districtof the Madeleine, well-to-do towards the Boulevard Saint-Denis, of more"popular" order as you ascend to the Bastille, these little sheds adaptthemselves according to their public, calculate their chances of successby the more or less well-lined purses of the passers-by. Among these, there are set up portable tables, laden with trifling objects, miraclesof the Parisian trade that deals in such small things, constructed outof nothing, frail and delicate, and which the wind of fashion sometimessweeps forward in its great rush by reason of their very triviality. Finally, along the curbs of the footways, lost in the defile of thecarriage traffic which grazes their wandering path, the orange-girlscomplete this peripatetic commerce, heaping up the sun-coloured fruitbeneath their lanterns of red paper, crying "La Valence" amid the fog, the tumult, the excessive haste which Paris displays at the ending ofits year. Ordinarily, M. Joyeuse was accustomed to make one of the busy crowdwhich goes and comes with the jingle of money in its pocket and parcelsin every hand. He would wander about with Bonne Maman at his side on thelookout for New Year's presents for his girls, stop before the booths ofthe small dealers, who are accustomed to do much business and excitedby the appearance of the least important customer, have based uponthis short season hopes of extraordinary profits. And there would becolloquies, reflections, an interminable perplexity to know what toselect in that little complex brain of his, always ahead of the presentinstant and of the occupation of the moment. This year, alas! nothing of that kind. He wandered sadly through thetown in its rejoicing, time seeming to hang all the heavier for theactivity around him, jostled, hustled, as all are who stand obstructingthe way of active folk, his heart beating with a perpetual fear, forBonne Maman for some days past, in conversation with him at table, had been making significant allusions with regard to the New Year'spresents. Consequently he avoided finding himself alone with her and hadforbidden her to come to meet him at the office at closing-time. Butin spite of all his efforts he knew the moment was drawing near whenconcealment would be impossible and his grievous secret be unveiled. Was, then, a very formidable person, Bonne Maman, that M. Joyeuse shouldstand in such fear of her? By no means. A little stern, that was all, with a pretty smile that instantly forgave one. But M. Joyeuse wasa coward, timid from his birth; twenty years of housekeeping with amasterful wife, "a member of the nobility, " having made him a slave forever, like those convicts who, after their imprisonment is over, have toundergo a period of surveillance. And for him this meant all his life. One evening the Joyeuse family was gathered in the little drawing-room, last relic of its splendour, still containing two upholstered chairs, many crochet decorations, a piano, two lamps crowned with little greenshades, and a what-not covered with bric-a-brac. True family life exists in humble homes. For the sake of economy, there was lighted for the whole household butone fire and a single lamp, around which the occupations and amusementsof all were grouped. A fine big family lamp, whose old paintedshade--night scenes pierced with shining dots--had been the astonishmentand the joy of every one of those young girls in her early childhood. Issuing softly from the shadow of the room, four young heads were bentforward, fair or dark, smiling or intent, into that intimate and warmcircle of light which illumined them as far as the eyes, seemed to feedthe fire of their glance, to shelter them, protect them, preserve themfrom the black cold blowing outside, from phantoms, from snares, frommiseries and terrors, from all the sinister things that a winter nightin Paris brings forth in the remoteness of its quiet suburbs. Thus, drawn close together in a small room at the top of the lonelyhouse, in the warmth, the security of their comfortable home, theJoyeuse household seems like a nest right at the top of a loftytree. The girls sew, read, chat a little. A leap of the lamp-flame, a crackling of fire, is what you may hear, with from time to time anexclamation from M. Joyeuse, a little removed from his small circle, lost in the shadow where he hides his anxious brow and all theextravagance of his imagination. Just now he is imagining that inthe distress into which he finds himself driven beyond possibilityof escape, in that absolute necessity of confessing everything to hischildren, this evening, at latest to-morrow, an unhoped-for succour maycome to him. Hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sends to him, as toall those who took part in the work connected with the Tunis loan, hisDecember gratuity. A tall footman brings it: "On behalf of M. Le Baron. "The visionary says those words aloud. The pretty faces turn towards him;the girls laugh, move their chairs, and the poor fellow awakes suddenlyto reality. Oh, how angry he is with himself now for his delay in confessing all, for that false security which he has maintained around him and which hewill have to destroy at a blow. What need had he, too, to criticise thatTunis loan? At this moment he even reproaches himself for not havingaccepted a place in the Territorial Bank. Had he the right to refuse?Ah, the sorry head of a family, without strength to keep or to defendthe happiness of his own! And, glancing at the pretty group withinthe circle of the lamp-shade, whose reposeful aspect forms so great acontrast with his own internal agitation, he is seized by a remorse soviolent for the weakness of his soul that his secret rises to his lips, is about to escape him in a burst of sobs, when the ring of a bell--nochimera, that--gives them all a start and arrests him at the very momentwhen he was about to speak. Whoever could it be, coming at this hour? They had lived in retirementsince the mother's death and saw almost nobody. Andre Maranne, whenhe came down to spend a few minutes with them, tapped like a familiarfriend. Profound silence in the drawing-room, long colloquy on thelanding. Finally, the old servant--she had been in the family as long asthe lamp--showed in a young man, complete stranger, who stopped, struckwith admiration at the charming picture of the four darlings gatheredround the table. This made his entrance timid, rather awkward. However, he explained clearly the object of his visit. He had been referred to M. Joyeuse by an honest fellow of his acquaintance, old Passajon, to takelessons in bookkeeping. One of his friends happened to be engaged inlarge financial transactions in connection with an important joint-stockcompany. He wished to be of service to him in keeping an eye on theemployment of the capital, the straightforwardness of the operations;but he was a lawyer, little familiar with financial methods, with theterms employed in banking. Could not M. Joyeuse in the course of a fewmonths, with three or four lessons a week-- "Yes, indeed, sir, yes, indeed, " stammered the father, quite overcome bythis unlooked-for piece of good luck. "Assuredly I can undertake, in afew months, to qualify you for such auditing work. Where shall we haveour lessons?" "Here, at your own house, if you are agreeable, " said the young man, "for I am anxious that no one should know that I am working at thesubject. But I shall be grieved if I always frighten everybody away as Ihave this evening. " For, at the first words of the visitor, the four curly heads haddisappeared, with little whisperings, and with rustlings of skirts, andthe drawing-room looked very bare now that the big circle of white lightwas empty. Always quick to take offence, where his daughters were concerned, M. Joyeuse replied that "the young girls were accustomed to retire earlyevery evening, " and the words were spoken in a brief, dry tone whichvery clearly signified: "Let us talk of our lessons, young man, if youplease. " Days were then fixed, free hours in the evening. As for the terms, they would be whatever monsieur desired. Monsieur mentioned a sum. The accountant became quite red. It was the amount he used to earn atHemerlingue's. "Oh, no, that is too much. " But the other was no longer listening. He was seeking for words, asthough he had something very difficult to say, and suddenly, making uphis mind to it: "Here is your first month's salary. " "But, monsieur--" The young man insisted. He was a stranger. It was only fair that heshould pay in advance. Evidently, Passajon has told his secret. M. Joyeuse understood, and in a low voice said, "Thank you, oh, thankyou, " so deeply moved that words failed him. Life! it meant life, several months of life, the time to turn round, to find another place. His darlings would want for nothing. They would have their New Year'spresents. Oh, the mercy of Providence! "Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse. " "Till Wednesday, monsieur--" "De Gery--Paul de Gery. " And they separated, both delighted, fascinated, the one by theapparition of this unexpected saviour, the other by the adorable pictureof which he had only a glimpse, all those young girls grouped round thetable covered with books, exercise-books, and skeins of wool, with anair of purity, of industrious honesty. This was a new Paris for Paul deGery, a courageous, home-like Paris, very different from that which healready knew, a Paris of which the writers of stories in the newspapersand the reporters never speak, and which recalled to him his own countryhome, with an additional charm, that charm which the struggle and tumultaround lend to the tranquil, secured refuge. FELICIA RUYS "And your son, Jenkins. What are you doing with him? Why does one neversee him now at your house? He seemed a nice fellow. " As she spoke in that tone of disdainful bluntness which she almostalways used when speaking to the Irishman, Felicia was at work on thebust of the Nabob which she had just commenced, posing her model, layingdown and taking up the boasting-tool, quickly wiping her fingers withthe little sponge, while the light and peace of a fine Sunday afternoonfell on the top-light of the studio. Felicia "received" every Sunday, if to receive were to leave her door open to allow people to come in, go out, sit down for a moment, without stirring from her work or eveninterrupting the course of a discussion to welcome the new arrivals. They were artists, with refined heads and luxuriant beards; here andthere you might see among them white-haired friends of Ruys, her father;then there were society men, bankers, stock-brokers, and a few young menabout town, come to see the handsome girl rather than her sculpture, inorder to be able to say at the club in the evening, "I was at Felicia'sto-day. " Among them was Paul de Gery, silent, absorbed in an admirationwhich each day sunk into his heart a little more deeply, trying tounderstand the beautiful sphinx draped in purple cashmere and ecru lace, who worked away bravely amid her clay, a burnisher's apron reachingnearly to her neck, allowing her small, proud head to emerge with thosetransparent tones, those gleams of veiled radiance of which the sense, the inspiration bring the blood to the cheek as they pass. Paul alwaysremembered what had been said of her in his presence, endeavoured toform an opinion for himself, doubted, worried himself, and was charmed, vowing to himself each time that he would come no more and never missinga Sunday. A little woman with gray, powdered hair was always there inthe same place, her pink face like a pastel somewhat worn by years, who, in the discrete light of a recess, smiled sweetly, with her hands lyingidly on her knees, motionless as a fakir. Jenkins, amiable, with hisopen face, his black eyes, and his apostolical manner, moved on from onegroup to another, liked and known by all. He did not miss, either, oneof Felicia's days; and, indeed, he showed his patience in this, all thesnubs of his hostess both as artist and pretty woman being reserved forhim alone. Without appearing to notice them, with ever the same smiling, indulgent serenity, he continued to pay his visits to the daughter ofhis old Ruys, of the man whom he had so loved and tended to his lastmoments. This time, however, the question which Felicia had just addressed to himrespecting his son appeared extremely disagreeable to him, and it waswith a frown and a real expression of annoyance that he replied:"Ma foi! I know no more than yourself what he is doing. He has quitedeserted us. He was bored at home. He cares only for his Bohemia. " Felicia gave a jump that made them all start, and with flashing eyes andnostrils that quivered, said: "That is too absurd. Ah, now, come, Jenkins. What do you mean byBohemia? A charming word, by-the-bye, and one that ought to recall longdays of wandering in the sun, halts in woody nooks, all the freshness offruits gathered by the open road. But since you have made a reproach ofthe name, to whom do you apply it? To a few poor devils with long hair, in love with liberty in rags, who starve to death in a fifth-floorgarret, or seek rhymes under tiles through which the rain filters;to those madmen, growing more and more rare, who, from horror of thecustomary, the traditional, the stupidity of life, have put their feettogether and made a jump into freedom? Come, that is too old a story. It is the Bohemia of Murger, with the workhouse at the end, terror ofchildren, boon of parents, Red Riding-Hood eaten by the wolf. It wasworn out a long time ago, that story. Nowadays, you know well thatartists are the most regular people in their habits on earth, that theyearn money, pay their debts, and contrive to look like the first man youmay meet on the street. The true Bohemians exist, however; they are thebackbone of our society; but it is in your own world especially thatthey are to be found. _Parbleu!_ They bear no external stamp andnobody distrusts them; but, so far as uncertainty, want of substantialfoundation in their lives is concerned, they have nothing to wish forfrom those whom they call so disdainfully 'irregulars. ' Ah! if weknew how much turpitude, what fantastic or abominable stories, a blackevening-coat, the most correct of your hideous modern garments, canmask. Why, see, Jenkins, the other evening at your house I was amusingmyself by counting them--all these society adventurers--" The little old lady, pink and powdered, put in gently from her place: "Felicia, take care!" But she continued, without listening: "What do you call Monpavon, doctor? And Bois l'Hery? And de Morahimself? And--" She was going to say "and the Nabob?" but stoppedherself. "And how many others! Oh, truly, you may well speak of Bohemia withcontempt. But your fashionable doctor's clientele, oh sublime Jenkins, consists of that very thing alone. The Bohemia of commerce, of finance, of politics; unclassed people, shady people of all castes, and thehigher one ascends the more you find of them, because rank givesimpunity and wealth can pay for rude silence. " She spoke with a hard tone, greatly excited, with lip curled by a savagedisdain. The doctor forced a laugh and assumed a light, condescendingtone, repeating: "Ah, feather-brain, feather-brain!" And his glance, anxious and beseeching, sought the Nabob, as though to demand his pardonfor all these paradoxical impertinences. But Jansoulet, far from appearing vexed, was so proud of posing to thishandsome artist, so appreciative of the honour that was being done him, that he nodded his head approvingly. "She is right, Jenkins, " said he at last, "she is right. It is we whoare the true Bohemia. Take me, for example; take Hemerlingue, two of themen who handle the most money in Paris. When I think of the point fromwhich we started, of all the trades through which we have made our way. Hemerlingue, once keeper of a regimental canteen. I, who have carriedsacks of wheat in the docks of Marseilles for my living. And the strokesof luck by which our fortunes have been built up--as all fortunes, moreover, in these times are built up. Go to the Bourse between threeand five. But, pardon, mademoiselle, see, through my absurd habit ofgesticulating when I speak, I have lost the pose. Come, is this right?" "It is useless, " said Felicia. A true daughter of an artist, of a genialand dissolute artist, thoroughly in the romantic tradition, as wasSebastien Ruys. She had never known her mother. She was the fruit of oneof those transient loves which used to enter suddenly into the bachelorlife of the sculptor like swallows into a dovecote of which the door isalways open, and who leave it again because no nest can be built there. This time, the lady, ere she flew away, had left to the great artist, then about forty years of age, a beautiful child whom he had broughtup, and who became the joy and the passion of his life. Until shewas thirteen, Felicia had lived in her father's house, introducing achildish and tender note into that studio full of idlers, models, andhuge greyhounds lying at full length on the couches. There was a cornerreserved for her, for her attempts at sculpture, a whole miniatureequipment, a tripod, wax, etc. , and old Ruys would cry to those whoentered: "Don't go there. Don't move anything. That is the little one's corner. " So it came about that at ten years old she scarcely knew how to read andcould handle the boasting-tool with marvellous skill. Ruys would haveliked to keep always with him this child whom he never felt to be in theway, a member of the great brotherhood from her earliest years. Butit was pitiful to see the little girl amid the free behaviour of thefrequenters of the house, the constant going and coming of the models, the discussions of an art, so to speak, entirely physical, and even atthe noisy Sunday dinner-parties, sitting among five or six women, to allof whom her father spoke familiarly. There were actresses, dancers orsingers, who, after dinner, would settle themselves down to smoke withtheir elbows on the table absorbed in the indecent stories so keenlyrelished by their host. Fortunately, childhood is protected by aresisting candour, by an enamel over which all impurities glide. Feliciabecame noisy, turbulent, ill-behaved, but without being touched by allthat passed over her little soul so near to earth. Every year, in the summer, she used to go to stay for a few days withher godmother, Constance Crenmitz, the elder Crenmitz, whom all Europehad called for so long "the famous dancer, " and who lived in peacefulretirement at Fontainebleau. The arrival of the "little demon" used to bring into the life of the olddancer an element of disturbance from which she had afterward all theyear to recover. The frights which the child caused her by her daringin climbing, in jumping, in riding, all the passionate transports ofher wild nature made this visit for her at once delicious and terrible;delicious for she adored Felicia, the one family tie that remained tothis poor old salamander in retirement after thirty years of flutteringin the glare of the footlights; terrible, for the demon used to upsetwithout pity the dancer's house, decorated, carefully ordered, perfumed, like her dressing-room at the opera, and adorned with a museum ofsouvenirs dated from every stage in the world. Constance Crenmitz was the one feminine element in Felicia's childhood. Futile, limited in mind, she had at least a coquettish taste, agilefingers that knew how to sew, to embroider, to arrange things, to leavein every corner of the room their dainty and individual trace. Shealone undertook to train up the wild young plant, and to awaken withdiscretion the woman in this strange being on whom cloaks, furs, everything elegant devised by fashion, seemed to take odd folds or lookcuriously awkward. It was the dancer again--in what neglect must she not have lived, thislittle Ruys--who, triumphing over the paternal selfishness, insistedupon a necessary separation, when Felicia was twelve or thirteen yearsold; and she took also the responsibility of finding a suitable school, a school which she selected of deliberate purpose, very comfortable andvery respectable, right at the upper end of an airy road, occupying aroomy, old-world building surrounded by high walls, big trees, a sort ofconvent without its constraint and contempt of serious studies. Much work, on the contrary, was done in Mme. Belin's institution, where the pupils went out only on the principal holidays and had nocommunication with outside except the visits of relatives on Thursdays, in a little garden planted with flowering shrubs or in the immenseparlour with carved and gilded work over its doors. The first entryof Felicia into this almost monastic house caused indeed a certainsensation; her dresses chosen by the Austrian dancer, her hair curlingto her waist, her gait free and easy like a boy's, aroused somehostility, but she was a Parisian and could adapt herself quickly toevery situation and to all surroundings. A few days later, she lookedbetter than any one in the little black apron, to which the morecoquettish were wont to hang their watches, the straight skirt--a severeand hard prescription at that period when fashion expanded women'sfigures with an infinity of flounces--the regulation coiffure, twoplaits tied rather low, at the neck, after the manner of the Romanpeasants. Strange to say, the regularity of the classes, their calm exactitude, suited Felicia's nature, intelligent and quick, in which the tastefor study was relieved by a juvenile expansion at ease in the noisygood-humour of playtime. She was popular. Among those daughters ofwealthy businessmen, of Parisian lawyers or of gentlemen-farmers, arespectable and rather affectedly serious world, the well-known nameof old Ruys, the respect with which at Paris an artist's reputation issurrounded, created for Felicia a greatly envied position, rendered morebrilliant still by her successes in the school-work, a genuine talentfor drawing, and her beauty, that superiority which asserts itspower even among young girls. In the wholesale atmosphere of theboarding-school, she was conscious of an extreme pleasure as she grewfeminized, in resuming her sex, in learning to know order, regularity, otherwise than these were taught by that amiable dancer whose kissesseemed always to keep the taste of paint and her embraces somewhatartificial in the curving of her arms. Ruys, her father, was enrapturedeach time that he came to see his daughter, to find her more grown, womanly, knowing how to enter, to walk, and to leave a room with thatpretty courtesy which caused all Mme. Belin's pupils to long for thetrailing rustle of a long skirt. At first he came often, then, as he had not time enough for all hiscommissions, accepted and undertaken, the advances on which went to payfor the scrapes, the pleasures of his existence, he was seen more seldomin the parlour. Finally, sickness intervened. Stricken by an incurableanaemia, he would remain for weeks without leaving his house, withoutdoing any work. Thereupon he wished to have his daughter with him again;and from the boarding-school, sheltered by so healthy a tranquility, Felicia returned once more to her father's studio, haunted still by thesame boon companions, the parasites which swarm around every celebrity, into the midst of which sickness had introduced a new personage, Dr. Jenkins. His fine open countenance, the air of candour, of serenity that seemedto dwell about the person of this physician, already famous, who waswont to speak of his art so carelessly and yet seemed to work miraculouscures, the care with which he surrounded her father, these things madea great impression on the young girl. Jenkins became immediately herfriend, confidant, a vigilant and kind guardian. Occasionally, when, in the studio, somebody--her father most likely of all--uttered a riskyjest, the Irishman would contract his eyebrows, give a little click ofthe tongue, or perhaps distract Felicia's attention. He often used to take her to pass the day with Mme. Jenkins, endeavouring to prevent her from becoming again the wild young thing shewas before going to school, or even something worse, as she threatenedto do in the moral neglect, sadder than all other, in which she wasleft. But the young girl had as a protection something even better than theirreproachable and worldly example of the handsome Mme. Jenkins: the artthat she adored, the enthusiasm which it implanted in her nature whollyoccupied with outside things, the sentiment of beauty, of truth, which, from her thoughtful brain, full of ideas, passed into her fingers witha little quivering of the nerves, a desire of the idea accomplished, ofthe realized image. All day long she would work at her sculpture, givingshape to her dreams with that happiness of instinctive youth whichlends so much charm to early work; this prevented her from any excessiveregret for the austerity of the Belin institution, sheltering and lightas the veil of a novice before her vows, and preserved her also fromdangerous conversations, unheard amid her unique preoccupation. Ruys was proud of this talent growing up at his side. Growing every dayfeebler, already at that stage in which the artist regrets himself, hefound in following Felicia's progress a certain consolation for hisown ended career. He saw the boasting-tool, which trembled in his hand, taken up again under his eye with a virile firmness and assurance, tempered by all those delicacies of her being which a woman can apply tothe realization of an art. A strange sensation, this double paternity, this survival of genius as it abandons the man whose day is over to passinto him who is at his dawn, like those beautiful, familiar birds which, on the eve of a death, will desert the menaced roof to fly away to aless mournful lodging. During the last period of her father's life, Felicia--a great artist andstill a mere child--used to execute half of his works; and nothing wasmore touching than this collaboration of father and daughter, in thesame studio, around the same group. The operation did not always proceedpeaceably; although her father's pupil, Felicia already felt herown personality rebel against any despotic direction. She had thoseaudacities of the beginner, those intuitions of the future which are theheritage of young talents, and, in opposition to the romantic traditionsof Sebastien Ruys, a tendency to modern realism, a need to plant thatglorious old flag upon some new monument. These things were the occasion of terrible arguments, of discussionsfrom which the father came out beaten, conquered by his daughter'slogic, astonished at the progress made by the young, while the old, whohave opened the way for them, remain motionless at the point from whichthey started. When she was working for him, Felicia would yield moreeasily; but, where her own sculpture was concerned she was found tobe intractable. Thus the _Joueur de Boules_, her first exhibited work, which obtained so great a success at the Salon of 1862, was the subjectof violent scenes between the two artists, of contradictions so strong, that Jenkins had to intervene and help to secure the safety of theplaster-cast which Ruys had threatened to destroy. Apart from such little dramas, which in no way affected the tendernessof their hearts, these two beings adored each other with thepresentiment and, gradually, the cruel certitude of an approachingseparation, when suddenly there occurred in Felicia's life a horribleevent. One day, Jenkins had taken her to dine at his house, as oftenhappened. Mme. Jenkins was away on a couple of days' visit, as also herson; but the doctor's age, his semi-paternal intimacy, allowed him tohave with him, even in his wife's absence, this young girl whose fifteenyears, the fifteen years of an Eastern Jewess glorious in her precociousbeauty, left her still near childhood. The dinner was very gay, and Jenkins pleasant and cordial as usual. Afterwards they went into the doctor's study, and suddenly, on thecouch, in the middle of an intimate and quite friendly conversationabout her father, his health, their work together, Felicia felt as itwere the chill of a gulf between herself and this man, then the brutalgrasp of a faun. She beheld an unknown Jenkins, wild-looking, stammeringwith a besotted laugh and outraging hands. In the surprise, theunexpectedness of this bestial attack, any other than Felicia--a childof her own age, really innocent, would have been lost. As for her, poorlittle thing! what saved her was her knowledge. She had heard so manystories of this kind of thing at her father's table! and then art, and the life of the studio--She was not an _ingenue_. In a moment sheunderstood the object of this grasp, struggled, sprang up, then, notbeing strong enough, cried out. He was afraid, released his hold, andsuddenly she found herself standing up, free, with the man on his kneesweeping and begging forgiveness. He had yielded to a fit of madness. She was so beautiful; he loved her so much. For months he had beenstruggling. But now it was over, never again, oh, never again! Noteven would he so much as touch the hem of her dress. She made no reply, trembled, put her hair and her clothes straight again with the fingersof a woman demented. To go home--she wished to go home instantly, quitealone. He sent a servant with her; and, quite low, as she was gettinginto the carriage, whispered: "Above all, not a word. It would kill your father. " He knew her so well, he was so sure of his power over her through thatsuggestion, the blackguard! that he returned on the morrow lookingbright as ever and with loyal face as though nothing had happened. Infact, she never spoke of the matter to her father, nor to any one. But, dating from that day, a change came over her, a sudden development, asit were, of her haughty ways. She was subject to caprices, wearinesses, a curl of disgust in her smile, and sometimes quick fits of angeragainst her father, a glance of contempt which reproached him for nothaving known how to watch over her. "What is the matter with her?" Ruys, her father, used to say; andJenkins, with the authority of a doctor, would put it down to her ageand some physical disturbance. He avoided speaking to the girl herself, counting on time to efface the sinister impression, and not despairingof attaining his end, for he desired it still, more than ever, prey tothe exasperated love of a man of forty-seven to one of those incurablepassions of maturity; and that was this hypocrite's punishment. Thisunusual condition of his daughter was a real grief to the sculptor; butthis grief was of short duration. Without warning, Ruys flickered out oflife, fell to pieces in a moment, as was the way with all the Irishman'spatients. His last words were: "Jenkins, I beg you to look after my daughter. " They were so ironically mournful that Jenkins could not prevent himselffrom turning pale. Felicia was even more stupefied than grief-stricken. To the amazementcaused by death, which she had never seen and which now came before herwearing features so dear, there was joined the sense of a vast solitudesurrounded by darkness and perils. A few of the sculptor's friends gathered together as a family councilto consider the future of this unfortunate child without relatives orfortune. Fifty francs had been discovered in the box where Sebastienused to put his money, on a piece of the studio furniture well known toits needy frequenters and visited by them without scruple. There wasno other inheritance, at least in cash; only a quantity of artisticand curious furniture of the most sumptuous description, a few valuablepictures, and a certain amount of money owing but scarcely sufficingto cover numberless debts. It was proposed to organize a sale. Felicia, when she was consulted, replied that she would not care if everythingwere sold, but, for God's sake, let them leave her in peace. The sale did not take place, however, thanks to the godmother, theexcellent Crenmitz, who suddenly made her appearance, calm and gentle asusual. "Don't listen to them, my child. Sell nothing. Your old Constance hasan income of fifteen thousand francs, which was destined to come to youlater on. You will take advantage of it at once, that is all. We willlive here together. You will see, I shall not be in the way. You willwork at your sculpture, I shall manage the house. Does that suit you?" It was said so tenderly, with that childishness of accent whichforeigners have when expressing themselves in French, that the girlwas deeply moved. Her heart that had seemed turned to stone opened, aburning flood came pouring from her eyes, and she rushed, flung herselfinto the arms of the dancer. "Ah, godmother, how good you are to me!Yes, yes, don't leave me any more. Stay with me always. Life frightensand disgusts me. I see so much hypocrisy in it, so much falsehood. " Andthe old woman arranged for herself a silken and embroidered nest in thishouse so like a traveller's camp laden with treasures from every land, and the suggested dual life began for these two different natures. It was no small sacrifice that Constance had made for the dear demon inquitting her Fontainebleau retreat for Paris, which inspired her withterror. Ever since the day when this dancer, with her extravagantcaprices, who made princely fortunes flow and disappear through her fiveopen fingers, had descended from her triumphant position, a little ofits dazzling glitter still in her eyes, and had attempted to resumean ordinary existence, to manage her little income and her modesthousehold, she had been the object of a thousand impudent exploitations, of frauds that were easy in view of the ignorance of this poor butterflythat was frightened by reality and came into collision with all itsunknown difficulties. Living in Felicia's house, the responsibilitybecame still more serious by reason of the wastefulness introduced longago by the father and continued by the daughter, two artists knowingnothing of economy. She had, moreover, other difficulties to conquer. She found the studio insupportable with its permanent atmosphere oftobacco smoke, an impenetrable cloud for her, in which the discussionson art, the analysis of ideas, were lost and which infallibly gave her aheadache. "Chaff, " above all, frightened her. As a foreigner, as atone time a divinity of the green-room, brought up on out-of-datecompliments, on gallantries _a la Dorat_, she did not understand it, and would feel terrified in the presence of the wild exaggerations, theparadoxes of these Parisians refined by the liberty of the studio. That kind of thing was intimidating to her who had never possessed witsave in the vivacity of her feet, and reduced her simply to the rank ofa lady-companion; and, seeing this amiable old dame sitting, silent andsmiling, her knitting in her lap, like one of Chardin's _bourgeoises_, or hastening by the side of her cook up the long Rue de Chaillot, wherethe nearest market happened to be, one would never have guessed thatthat simple old body had ruled kings, princes, the whole classof amorous nobles and financiers, at the caprice of her step andpirouettings. Paris is full of such fallen stars, extinguished by the crowd. Some of these famous ones, these conquerors of a former day, cherish arage in their heart; others, on the contrary, enjoy the past blissfully, digest in an ineffable content all their glorious and ended joys, askingonly repose, silence, shadow, good enough for memory and contemplations, so that when they die people are quite astonished to learn that they hadbeen still living. Constance Crenmitz was among these fortunate ones. The household ofthese two women was a curious one. Both were childlike, placing side byside in a common domain, inexperience and ambition, the tranquility ofan accomplished destiny and the fever of a life plunged in struggle, all the different qualities manifest even in the serene style of dressaffected by this blonde who seemed all white like a faded rose, with something beneath her bright colours that vaguely suggested thefootlights, and that brunette with the regular features, who almostalways clothed her beauty in dark materials, simple in fold, asemblance, as it were, of virility. Things unforeseen, caprices, ignorance of even the least importantdetails, led to an extreme disorder in the finances of the household, disorder which was only rectified by dint of privations, by thedismissal of servants, by reforms that were laughable in theirexaggeration. During one of these crises, Jenkins had made veileddelicate offers, which, however, were repulsed with contempt by Felicia. "It is not nice of you, " Constance would remark to her, "to be sohard on the poor doctor. After all, there was nothing offensive in hissuggestion. An old friend of your father. " "He, any one's friend! Ah, the hypocrite!" And Felicia, hardly able to contain herself, would give an ironical turnto her wrath, imitating Jenkins with his oily manner and his hand on hisheart; then, puffing out her cheeks, she would say in a loud, deep voicefull of lying unction: "Let us be humane, let us be kind. To do good without hope of reward!That is the whole point. " Constance used to laugh till the tears came, in spite of herself. Theresemblance was so perfect. "All the same, you are too hard. You will end by driving him awayaltogether. " "Little fear of that, " a shake of the girl's head would reply. In effect he always came back, pleasant, amiable, dissimulating hispassion, which was visible only when it grew jealous of newcomers, paying assiduous attention to the old dancer, who, in spite ofeverything, found his good-nature pleasing and recognised in him a manof her own time, of the time when one accosted a woman with a kiss onher hand, with a compliment on her appearance. One morning, Jenkins having called in the course of his round, foundConstance alone and doing nothing in the antechamber. "You see, doctor, I am on guard, " she remarked tranquilly. "How is that?" "Felicia is at work. She wishes not to be disturbed; and the servantsare so stupid, I am myself seeing that her orders are obeyed. " Then, seeing that the Irishman made a step towards the studio: "No, no, don't go in. She told me very particularly not to let any onego in. " "But I?" "I beg you not. You would get me a scolding. " Jenkins was about to take his leave when a burst of laughter fromFelicia, coming through the curtains, made him prick up his ears. "She is not alone, then?" "No, the Nabob is with her. They are having a sitting for the portrait. " "And why this mystery? It is a very singular thing. " He commenced towalk backward and forward, evidently very angry, but containing hiswrath. At last he burst forth. It was an unheard-of impropriety to let a girl thus shut herself in witha man. He was surprised that one so serious, so devoted as Constance--What didit look like? The old lady looked at him with stupefaction. As though Felicia werelike other girls! And then what danger was there with the Nabob, sostaid a man and so ugly? Besides, Jenkins ought to know quite well thatFelicia never consulted anybody, that she always had her own way. "No, no, it is impossible! I cannot tolerate this, " exclaimed theIrishman. And, without paying any further heed to the dancer, who raised her armsto heaven as a call upon it to witness what was about to happen, hemoved towards the studio; but, instead of entering immediately, hesoftly half-opened the door and raised a corner of the hangings, wherebythe portion of the room in which the Nabob was posing became visible tohim, although at a considerable distance. Jansoulet, seated without cravat and with his waist-coat open, wastalking apparently in some agitation and in a low voice. Felicia wasreplying in a similar tone, in laughing whispers. The sitting was veryanimated. Then a silence, a silken rustle of skirts, and the artist, going up to her model, turned down his linen collar all round withfamiliar gesture, allowing her light hand to run over the sun-tannedskin. That Ethiopian face on which the muscles stood out in the veryintoxication of health, with its long drooping eyelashes as of some deerbeing gently stroked in its sleep; the bold profile of the girl as sheleaned over those strange features in order to verify their proportions;then a violent, irresistible gesture, clutching the delicate hand as itpassed and pressing it to two thick, passionate lips. Jenkins saw allthat in one red flash. The noise that he made in entering caused the two personages instantlyto resume their respective positions, and, in the strong light whichdazzled his prying eyes, he saw the young girl standing before him, indignant, stupefied. "Who is that? Who has taken the liberty?" and the Nabob, on hisplatform, with his collar turned down, petrified, monumental. Jenkins, a little abashed, frightened by his own audacity, murmured someexcuses. He had something very urgent to say to M. Jansoulet, a piece ofnews which was most important and would suffer no delay. "He knew uponthe best authority that certain decorations were to be bestowed on the16th of March. " Immediately the face of the Nabob, that for a moment had been frowning, relaxed. "Ah! can it be true?" He abandoned his pose. The thing was worth the trouble, _que diable!_M. De la Perriere, a secretary of the department involved had beencommissioned by the Empress to visit the Bethlehem Refuge. Jenkins hadcome in search of the Nabob to take him to see the secretary at theTuileries and to appoint a day. This visit to Bethlehem, it meant thecross for him. "Quick, let us start, my dear doctor. I follow you. " He was no longer angry with Jenkins for having disturbed him, and heknotted his cravat feverishly, forgetting in his new emotions how he hadbeen upset a moment earlier, for ambition with him came before all else. While the two men were talking in a half-whisper, Felicia, standingmotionless before them, with quivering nostrils and her lip curled incontempt, watched them with an air of saying, "Well, I am waiting. " Jansoulet apologized for being obliged to interrupt the sitting; but avisit of the most extreme importance--She smiled in pity. "Don't mention it, don't mention it. At the point which we have reachedI can work without you. " "Oh, yes, " said the doctor, "the work is almost completed. " He added with the air of a connoisseur: "It is a fine piece of work. " And, counting upon covering his retreat with this compliment, he madefor the door with shoulders drooped; but Felicia detained him abruptly. "Stay, you. I have something to say to you. " He saw clearly from her look that he would have to yield, on pain of anexplosion. "You will excuse me, _cher ami_? Mademoiselle has a word for me. Mybrougham is at the door. Get in. I will be with you immediately. " As soon as the door of the studio had closed on that heavy, retreatingfoot, each of them looked at the other full in the face. "You must be either drunk or mad to have allowed yourself to behave inthis way. What! you dare to enter my house when I am not at home? Whatdoes this violence mean? By what right--" "By the right of a despairing and incurable passion. " "Be silent, Jenkins, you are saying words that I will not hear. I allowyou to come here out of pity, from habit, because my father was fond ofyou. But never speak to me again of your--love"--she uttered the word ina very low voice, as though it were shameful--"or you shall never see meagain, even though I should have to kill myself in order to escape youonce and for all. " A child caught in mischief could not bend its head more humbly than didJenkins, as he replied: "It is true. I was in the wrong. A moment of madness, of blindness--Butwhy do you amuse yourself by torturing my heart as you do?" "I think of you often, however. " "Whether you think of me or not, I am there, I see what goes on, andyour coquetry hurts me terribly. " A touch of red mounted to her cheeks at this reproach. "A coquette, I? And with whom?" "With that, " said the Irishman, indicating the ape-like and powerfulbust. She tried to laugh. "The Nabob? What folly!" "Don't tell an untruth about it now. Do you think I am blind, that Ido not notice all your little manoeuvres? You remain alone with him forvery long at a time. Just now, I was there. I saw you. " He dropped hisvoice as though breath had failed him. "What do you want, strange andcruel child? I have seen you repulse the most handsome, the most noble, the greatest. That little de Gery devours you with his eyes; you take nonotice. The Duc de Mora himself has not been able to reach your heart. And it is that man there who is ugly, vulgar, who had no thought of you, whose head is full of quite other matters than love. You saw how he wentoff just now. What can you mean? What do you expect from him?" "I want--I want him to marry me. There!" Coldly, in a softened tone, as though this avowal had brought hernearer the level of the man whom she so much despised, she explained hermotives. The life which she led was pushing her into a situation fromwhich there was no way out. She had luxurious and expensive tastes, habits of disorder which nothing could conquer and which would bring herinevitably to poverty, both her and that good Crenmitz, who was allowingherself to be ruined without saying a word. In three years, four yearsat the outside, all would be over with them. And then the wretchedexpedients, the debts, the tatters and old shoes of poor artists'households. Or, indeed, the lover, the man who keeps a mistress--that isto say, slavery and infamy. "Come, come, " said Jenkins. "And what of me, am I not here?" "Anything rather than you, " she exclaimed, stiffening. "No, what Irequire, what I want, is a husband who will protect me from others andfrom myself, who will save me from many terrible things of which I amafraid in my moments of ennui, from the gulfs in which I feel that I mayperish, some one who will love me while I am at work and relieve my poorold wearied fairy of her sentry duty. This man here suits my purpose, and I thought of him from the first time I met him. He is ugly, but hehas a kind manner; then, too, he is ridiculously rich, and wealth, uponthat scale, must be amusing. Oh, I know well enough. No doubt thereis in his life some blemish that has brought him luck. All that moneycannot be made honestly. But come, truly now, Jenkins, with your handon that heart you so often invoke, do you think me a wife who should bevery attractive to an honest man? See: among all these young men who askpermission as a favour to be allowed to come here, which one has dreamedof offering me marriage? Never a single one. De Gery no more than therest. I am attractive, but I make men afraid. It is intelligible enough. What can one imagine of a girl brought up as I have been, without amother, among my father's models and mistresses? What mistresses, _monDieu_! And Jenkins for sole guardian. Oh, when I think, when I think!" And from that far-off memory things surged up that stirred her to adeeper wrath. "Ah, yes, _parbleu_! I am a daughter of adventure, and this adventureris, of a truth, the fit husband for me. " "You must wait at least till he is a widower, " replied Jenkins calmly. "And, in that case, you run the risk of having a long time to wait, forhis Levantine seems to enjoy excellent health. " Felicia Ruys turned pale. "He is married?" "Married? certainly, and father of a bevy of children. The whole camp ofthem landed a couple of days ago. " For a minute she remained overwhelmed, looking into space, her cheeksquivering. Opposite her, the Nabob's large face, with its flattenednose, its sensual and weak mouth, spoke insistently of life and realityin the gloss of its clay. She looked at it for an instant, then made astep forward and, with a gesture of disgust, overturned, with the highwooden stool on which it stood, the glistening and greasy block, whichfell on the floor shattered to a heap of mud. JANSOULET AT HOME Married he was and had been so for twelve years, but he had mentionedthe fact to no one among his Parisian acquaintances, through Easternhabit, that silence which the people of those countries preserve uponaffairs of the harem. Suddenly it was reported that madame was coming, that apartments were to be prepared for herself, her children, and herfemale attendants. The Nabob took the whole second floor of the houseon the Place Vendome, the tenant of which was turned out at an expenseworthy of a Nabob. The stables also were extended, the staff doubled;then, one day, coachmen and carriages went to the Gare de Lyon to meetmadame, who arrived by train heated expressly for her during the journeyfrom Marseilles and filled by a suite of negresses, serving-maids, andlittle negro boys. She arrived in a condition of frightful exhaustion, utterly worn outand bewildered by her long railway journey, the first of her life, for, after being taken to Tunis while still quite a child, she had never leftit. From her carriage, two negroes carried her into her apartments on aneasy chair which, subsequently, always remained downstairs beneaththe entrance porch, in readiness for these difficult removals. Mme. Jansoulet could not mount the staircase, which made her dizzy; shewould not have lifts, which creaked under her weight; besides, shenever walked. Of enormous size, bloated to such a degree that it wasimpossible to assign to her any particular age between twenty-five andforty, with a rather pretty face but grown shapeless in its features, dull eyes beneath lids that drooped, vulgarly dressed in foreignclothes, laden with diamonds and jewels after the fashion of a Hinduidol, she was as fine a sample as could be found of those transplantedEuropean women called Levantines--a curious race of obese creoles whomspeech and costume alone attach to our world, but whom the East wrapsround with its stupefying atmosphere, with the subtle poisons of itsdrugged air in which everything, from the tissues of the skin to thewaists of garments, even to the soul, is enervated and relaxed. This particular specimen of it was the daughter of an immensely richBelgian who was engaged in the coral trade at Tunis, and in whosebusiness Jansoulet, after his arrival in the country, had been employedfor some months. Mlle. Afchin, in those days a delicious little doll oftwelve years old, with radiant complexion, hair, and health, used oftento come to fetch her father from the counting-house in the great chariotwith its yoke of mules which carried them to their fine villa at LaMarsu, in the vicinity of Tunis. This mischievous child with splendidbare shoulders, had dazzled the adventurer as he caught glimpses ofher amid her luxurious surroundings, and, years afterward, when, havingbecome rich and the favourite of the Bey, he began to think of settlingdown, it was to her that his thoughts went. The child had grown into afat young woman, heavy and white. Her intelligence, dull in the firstinstance, had become still more obscured through the inertia of adormouse's existence, the carelessness of a father given over tobusiness, the use of opium-saturated tobacco and of preserves made fromrose-leaves, the torpor of her Flemish blood, re-enforced by Orientalindolence. Furthermore, she was ill-bred, gluttonous, sensual, arrogant, a Levantine jewel in perfection. But Jansoulet saw nothing of all this. For him she was, and remained, up to the time of her arrival in Paris, asuperior creature, a lady of the most exalted rank, a Demoiselle Afchin. He addressed her with respect, in her presence maintained an attitudewhich was a little constrained and timid, gave her money withoutcounting, satisfied her most costly fantasies, her wildest caprices, allthe strange desires of a Levantine's brain disordered through boredomand idleness. One word alone excused everything. She was a DemoiselleAfchin. Beyond this, no intercourse between them; he always at theKasbah or the Bardo, courting the favour of the Bey, or else in hiscounting-houses; she passing her days in bed, wearing in her hair adiadem of pearls worth three hundred thousand francs which she nevertook off, befuddling her brain with smoking, living as in a harem, admiring herself in the glass, adorning herself, in company with a fewother Levantines, whose supreme distraction consisted in measuring withtheir necklaces arms and legs which rivalled each other in plumpness, and bearing children about whom she never gave herself the leasttrouble, whom she never used to see, who had not even cost her a pang, for she gave birth to them under chloroform. A lump of white fleshperfumed with musk. And, as Jansoulet used to say with pride: "I marrieda Demoiselle Afchin!" Under the sky of Paris and its cold light the disillusion began. Determined to settle down, to receive, to give entertainments, the Nabobhad brought his wife over with the idea of setting her at the head ofthe establishment; but when he saw the arrival of that display of gaudydraperies of Palais-Royal jewelry, and all the strange paraphernalia inher suite, he had the vague impression of a Queen Pomare in exile. The fact was that now he had seen real women of the world, and he madecomparisons. After having planned a great ball to celebrate her arrival, he prudently changed his mind. Besides, Mme. Jansoulet desired to seenobody. Here her natural indolence was increased by the home-sicknesswhich she suffered, from the first hour of her coming, by the chillinessof a yellow fog and the dripping rain. She passed several days withoutgetting up, weeping aloud like a child, saying that it was in order tocause her death that she had been brought to Paris, and not permittingher women to do even the least thing for her. She lay there bellowingamong the laces of her pillow, with her hair bristling in disorder abouther diadem, the windows of the room closed, the curtains drawn close, the lamps lighted night and day, crying out that she wanted to goaway-y, to go away-y; and it was pitiful to see, in that funeral gloom, the half-unpacked trunks scattered over the carpets, the frightenedmaids, the negresses crouched around their mistress in her nervousattack, they also groaning, with haggard eyes like those dogs of artictravellers that go mad without the sun. The Irish doctor, called in to deal with all this trouble, had nosuccess with his fatherly manners, the pretty phrases that issued fromhis compressed lips. The Levantine would have nothing to do at any pricewith the arsenic pearls as a tonic. The Nabob was in consternation. What was to be done? Send her back to Tunis with the children? It wasscarcely possible. He was decidedly in disgrace in that quarter. TheHemerlingues were triumphant. A last affront had filled up themeasure. At Jansoulet's departure, the Bey had commissioned him to havegold-pieces struck at the Paris Mint of a new design to the value ofseveral millions; then the order, suddenly withdrawn, had been givento Hemerlingue. Publicly outraged, Jansoulet had replied by a publicdemonstration, offering for sale all his possessions, his palace atthe Bardo given to him by the former Bey, his villas of La Marsu all ofwhite marble, surrounded by splendid gardens, his counting-houses whichwere the largest and the most sumptuous in the city, and, charging, finally, the intelligent Bompain to bring over to him his wife andchildren in order to make a clear affirmation of a definitive departure. After such an uproar, it was no easy thing for him to return there;this was what he endeavoured to make evident to Mlle. Afchin, who onlyreplied to him by deep groans. He tried to console her, to amuse her, but what distraction could be found to appeal to that monstrouslyapathetic nature? And then, could he change the sky of Paris, restore tothe unhappy Levantine her _patio_ paved with marble, where she used topass long hours in a cool, delicious sleepiness, listening to the wateras it dripped on the great alabaster fountain with its three basins, oneover the other, and her gilded barge, with its awning of crimson, whicheight Tripolitan boatmen supple and vigorous rowed after sunset on thebeautiful lake of El-Baheira? However luxurious the apartment of thePlace Vendome might be, it could not compensate for the loss of thesemarvels. And then she would be more miserable than ever. At last, a manwho was a frequent visitor to the house succeeded in lifting her outof her despair. This was Cabassu, the man who described himself on hiscards as "professor of massage, " a big, dark, thick-set man, smellingof garlic and pomade, square-shouldered, hairy to the eyes, and whoknew stories of Parisian seraglios, tales within the reach of madame'sintelligence. Having once come to massage her, she wished to see himagain, retained him. He had to give up all his other clients, andbecame, at the salary of a senator, the masseur of this stout lady, herpage, her reader, her body-guard. Jansoulet, delighted to see his wifecontented, was unconscious of the ridicule attached to this intimacy. Cabassu was now seen in the Bois, seated beside the favourite maid inthe huge and sumptuous open carriage, also at the back of the theatreboxes taken by the Levantine, for she began to go out, since she hadgrown less torpid under the treatment of her masseur and was determinedto amuse herself. The theatre pleased her, especially farces ormelodramas. The apathy of her large body found a stimulus in the falseglare of the footlights. But it was to Cardailhac's theatre that shewent for preference. There, the Nabob found himself in his own house. From the chief superintendent to the humblest _ouvreuse_, the wholestaff was under his control. He had a key which enabled him to pass fromthe corridors on to the stage; and the small drawing-room communicatingwith his box was decorated in Oriental manner, with a concave ceilinglike a beehive, its couches covered in camel's hair, the flame of thegas inclosed in a little Moorish lantern. Here one could enjoy a siestaduring rather long intervals between the acts; a gallant attention onthe part of the manager to the wife of his partner. Nor did that ape ofa Cardailhac stop at this. Remarking the taste of the Demoiselle Afchinfor the drama, he had ended by persuading her that she also possessedthe intuition, the knowledge of it, and by begging her when she hadnothing better to do to glance over and let him know what she thoughtof the pieces that were submitted to him. A good way of cementing thepartnership more firmly. Poor manuscripts in your blue or yellow covers, bound by hope withfragile ribbons, that set out full of ambition and dreams, who knowswhat hands may touch you, turn over your pages, what indiscreet fingersdeflower your charm, the charm of the unknown, that glittering dustwhich lies on new ideas? Who may judge you and who condemn? Sometimes, before dining out, Jansoulet, mounting to his wife's room, would findher on her lounge, smoking, her head thrown back, bundles of manuscriptsby her side, and Cabassu, armed with a blue pencil, reading in his thickvoice and with the Bourg-Saint-Andeol accent, some dramatic lucubrationwhich he cut and scored without pity at the least criticism from thelady. "Don't disturb yourselves, " the good Nabob would signal with his hand, entering on tiptoe. He would listen, shake his head with an admiringair, as he watched his wife: "She is astonishing!" for he himselfunderstood nothing about literature, and there, at least, he coulddiscover once again the superiority of Mlle. Afchin. "She had the instinct of the stage, " as Cardailhac used to say; but, onthe other hand, the maternal instinct was wanting in her. Never didshe take any interest in her children, abandoning them to the hands ofstrangers, and, when they were brought to her once a month, contentingherself with offering to them the flaccid and inanimate flesh ofher cheeks between two puffs of cigarette-smoke, without making anyinquiries into those details of their bringing up and of their healthwhich perpetuate the physical bond of maternity and make the hearts oftrue mothers bleed at the least suffering of their children. They were three big, dull and apathetic boys of eleven, nine, and sevenyears, having, with the sallow complexion and the precocious bloatednessof the Levantine, the kind, black, velvety eyes of their father. Theywere ignorant as young lords of the middle ages. At Tunis, M. Bompainhad directed their studies; but at Paris, the Nabob, anxious to givethem the benefit of a Parisian education, had sent them to that smartestand most expensive of boarding-schools, the College Bourdaloue, managedby good priests who sought less to instruct their pupils than to make ofthem good-mannered and right-thinking men of the world, and succeededin turning them out affectedly grave and ridiculous little prigs, disdainful of games, absolutely ignorant, without anything spontaneousor boyish about them, and of a desperate precocity. The littleJansoulets were not very happy in this forcing-house, notwithstandingthe immunities which they enjoyed by reason of their immense wealth;they were, indeed, utterly left to themselves. Even the creoles in thecharge of the institution had some friend whom they visited and peoplewho came to see them; but the Jansoulets were never summoned to theparlour, no one knew any of their relatives; from time to time theyreceived basketfuls of sweetmeats, piles of confectionery, and that wasall. The Nabob, doing some shopping in Paris, would strip for them thewhole of a pastry-cook's window and send the spoils to the college, withthat generous impulse of the heart mingled with negro ostentationwhich characterized all his actions. It was the same in the matterof playthings. They were always too pretty, tricked out too finely, useless--those toys that are for show but which the Parisian does notbuy. But that which above all attracted to the little Jansoulets therespect both of pupils and masters, were their purses heavy with gold, ever ready for school subscriptions, for the professors' birthdays, and the charity visits, those famous visits organized by the CollegeBourdaloue, one of the tempting things in the prospectus, the marvel ofsensitive souls. Twice a month, turn and turn about, the pupils who were members of theminiature Society of St. Vincent de Paul founded in the college upon themodel of the great one, went in little squads, alone, as though they hadbeen grown-up, to bear succour and consolation into the deepest recessesof the more densely populated quarters of the town. This was designedto teach them a practical charity, the art of knowing the needs, themiseries of the lower classes, and to heal these heart-rending evilsby a nostrum of kind words and ecclesiastical maxims. To console, toevangelize the masses by the help of childhood, to disarm religiousincredulity by the youth and _naivete_ of the apostles, such was the aimof this little society; an aim entirely missed, moreover. The children, healthy, well-dressed, well-fed, calling only at addresses previouslyselected, found poor persons of good appearance, sometimes ratherunwell, but very clean, already on the parish register and in receipt ofaid from the wealthy organization of the Church. Never did theychance to enter one of those nauseous dwellings wherein hunger, grief, humiliation, all physical and moral ills are written in leprous mould onthe walls, in indelible lines on the brows. Their visits were preparedfor, like that of the sovereign who enters a guard-room to taste thesoldiers' soup: the guard-room is warmed and the soup seasoned forthe royal palate. Have you seen those pictures in pious books, where alittle communicant, with candle in hand, and perfectly groomed, comesto minister to a poor old man lying sick on his straw pallet and turningthe whites of his eyes to heaven? These visits of charity had the sameconventionality of setting and of accent. To the measured gestures ofthe little preachers were corresponding words learned by heart andfalse enough to make one squint. To the comic encouragement, to the"consolations lavished" in prize-book phrases by the voices of youngurchins with colds, were the affecting benedictions, the whining andpiteous mummeries of a church-porch after vespers. And the moment theyoung visitors departed, what an explosion of laughter and shouting inthe garret, what a dance in a circle round the present brought, what anupsetting of the arm-chair in which one had pretended to be lying ill, of the medicine spilt in the fire, a fire of cinders very artisticallyprepared! When the little Jansoulets went out to visit their parents at home, they were intrusted to the care of the man with the red fez, theindispensable Bompain. It was Bompain who conducted them to theChamps-Elysees, clad in English jackets, bowler hats of the latestfashion--at seven years old!--and carrying little canes in theirdog-skin-gloved hands. It was Bompain who stuffed the race-wagonettewith provisions. Here he mounted with the children, who, with theirentrance-cards stuck in their hats round which green veils were twisted, looked very like those personages in Liliputian pantomimes whose entirefunniness lies in the enormous size of their heads compared with theirsmall legs and dwarf-like gestures. They smoked and drank; it was apainful sight. Sometimes the man in the fez, hardly able to hold himselfupright, would bring them home frightfully sick. And yet Jansoulet wasfond of them, the youngest especially, who, with his long hair, hisdoll-like manner, recalled to him the little Afchin passing in hercarriage. But they were still of the age when children belong to themother, when neither the fashionable tailor, nor the most accomplishedmasters, nor the smart boarding-school, nor the ponies girthed speciallyfor the little men in the stable, nor anything else can replacethe attentive and caressing hand, the warmth and the gaiety of thehome-nest. The father could not give them that; and then, too, he was sobusy! A thousand irons in the fire: the Territorial Bank, the installationof the picture gallery, drives to Tattersall's with Bois l'Hery, some _bibelot_ to inspect, here or there, at the houses of collectorsindicated by Schwalbach, hours passed with trainers, jockeys, dealersin curiosities, the encumbered and multiple existence of a _bourgeoisgentilhomme_ in modern Paris. This rubbing of shoulders with all sortsand conditions of people brought him improvement, in that each day hewas becoming a little more Parisianized; he was received at Monpavon'sclub, in the green-room of the ballet, behind the scenes at thetheatres, and presided regularly at his famous bachelor luncheons, theonly receptions possible in his household. His existence was really avery busy one, and de Gery relieved him of the heaviest part of it, thecomplicated department of appeals and of charities. The young man now became acquainted with all the audacious and burlesqueinventions, all the serio-comic combinations of that mendicancy of greatcities, organized like a department of state, innumerable as an army, which subscribes to the newspapers and knows its _Bottin_ by heart. Hereceived the blonde lady, bold, young, and already faded, who only asksfor a hundred napoleons, with the threat that she will throw herselfinto the river when she leaves if they are not given to her, and thestout matron of prepossessing and unceremonious manner, who says, as sheenters: "Sir, you do not know me. Neither have I the honour of knowingyou. But we shall soon make each other's acquaintance. Be kind enough tosit down and let us have a chat. " The merchant at bay, on the verge ofbankruptcy--sometimes it is true--who comes to entreat you to save hishonour, with a pistol ready to shoot himself, bulging out the pocketof his overcoat--sometimes it is only his pipe-case. And often genuinedistresses, wearisome and prolix, of people who are unable even to tellhow little competent they are to earn a livelihood. Side by side withthis open begging, there was that which wears various kinds of disguise:charity, philanthropy, good works, the encouragement of projects of art, the house-to-house begging for infant asylums, parish churches, rescuedwomen, charitable societies, local libraries. Finally, those who weara society mask, with tickets for concerts, benefit performances, entrance-cards of all colours, "platform, front seats, reserved seats. "The Nabob insisted that no refusals should be given, and it was aconcession that he no longer burdened his own shoulders with suchmatters. For quite a long time, in generous indifference, he had goneon covering with gold all that hypocritical exploitation, payingfive hundred francs for a ticket for the concert of some Wurtembergcithara-player or Languedocian flutist, which at the Tuileries or at theDuc de Mora's might have fetched ten francs. There were days when theyoung de Gery issued from these audiences nauseated. All the honesty ofhis youth revolted; he approached the Nabob with schemes of reform. Butthe Nabob's face, at the first word, would assume the bored expressionof weak natures when they have to make a decision, or he would perhapsreply: "But that is Paris, my dear boy. Don't get frightened orinterfere with my plans. I know what I am doing and what I want. " At that time he wanted two things: a deputyship and the cross of theLegion of Honour. These were for him the first two stages of the greatascent to which his ambition pushed him. Deputy he would certainly bethrough the influence of the Territorial Bank, at the head of which hestood. Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio was often saying it to him: "When theday arrives, the island will rise and vote for you as one man. " It is not enough, however, to control electors; it is necessary alsothat there be a seat vacant in the Chamber, and the representation ofCorsica was complete. One of its members, however, the old Popolusca, infirm and in no condition to do his work, might perhaps, upon certainconditions, be willing to resign his seat. It was a difficult matter tonegotiate, but quite feasible, the old fellow having a numerous family, estates which produced little or nothing, a palace in ruins at Bastia, where his children lived on _polenta_, and a furnished apartment atParis in an eighteenth-rate lodging-house. If a hundred or two hundredthousand francs were not a consideration, one ought to be able toobtain a favourable decision from this honourable pauper who, soundedby Paganetti, would say neither yes nor no, tempted by the large sumof money, held back by the vainglory of his position. The matter hadreached that point, it might be decided from one day to another. As for the cross, things were going still better. The Bethlehem Societyhad assuredly made the devil of a noise at the Tuileries. They were nowonly waiting until after the visit of M. De la Perriere and his report, which could not be other than favorable, before inscribing on the listfor the 16th March, on the date of an imperial anniversary, the gloriousname of Jansoulet. The 16th March; that was to say, within a month. Whatwould the fat Hemerlingue find to say of this signal favour, he who forso long had had to content himself with the Nisham? And the Bey, who hadbeen misled into believing that Jansoulet was cut by Parisian society, and the old mother, down yonder at Saint-Romans, ever so happy inthe successes of her son! Was that not worth a few millions cleverlysquandered along the path of glory which the Nabob was treading like achild, all unconscious of the fate that lay waiting to devour him at itsend? And in these external joys, these honours, this consideration sodearly bought, was there not a compensation for all the troubles of thisOriental won back to European life, who desired a home and possessedonly a caravansary, looked for a wife and found only a Levantine? THE BETHLEHEM SOCIETY BETHLEHEM! Why did it give one such a chill to see written in lettersof gold over the iron gate that historic name, sweet and warm like thestraw of the miraculous stable! Perhaps it was partly to be accountedfor by the melancholy of the landscape, that immense gloomy plain whichstretches from Nanterre to Saint Cloud, broken only by a few clumpsof trees or the smoke of factory chimneys. Possibly also by thedisproportion that existed between the humble little straggling villagewhich you expected to find and the grandiose establishment, this countrymansion in the style of Louis XIII, an agglomeration of mortar lookingpink through the branches of its leafless park, ornamented with widepieces of water thick with green weeds. What is certain is that as youpassed this place your heart was conscious of an oppression. When youentered it was still worse. A heavy inexplicable silence weighed on thehouse, and the faces you might see at the windows had a mournful airbehind the little, old-fashioned greenish panes. The goats scatteredalong the paths nibbled languidly at the new spring grass, with "baas"at the woman who was tending them, and looked bored, as she followed thevisitors with a lack-lustre eye. A mournfulness was over the place, likethe terror of a contagion. Yet it had been a cheerful house, and onewhere even recently there had been high junketings. Replanted withtimber for the famous singer who had sold it to Jenkins, it revealedclearly the kind of imagination which is characteristic of theopera-house in a bridge flung over the miniature lake, with itsbroken punt half filled with mouldy leaves, and in its pavilion allof rockery-work, garlanded by ivy. It had witnessed gay scenes, thispavilion, in the singer's time; now it looked on sad ones, for theinfirmary was installed in it. To tell the truth, the whole establishment was one vast infirmary. Thechildren had hardly arrived when they fell ill, languished, and endedby dying, if their parents did not quickly take them away and put themagain under the protection of home. The cure of Nanterre had to go sooften to Bethlehem with his black vestments and his silver cross, theundertaker had so many orders from the house, that it became knownin the district, and indignant mothers shook their fists at the modelnurse; from a long way off, it is true, for they might chance to have intheir arms pink-and-white babies to be preserved from all the contagionsof the place. It was these things that gave to the poor place soheart-rending an aspect. A house in which children die cannot be gay;you cannot see trees break into flower there, birds building, streamsflowing like rippling laughter. The thing seemed altogether false. Excellent in itself, Jenkins's schemewas difficult, almost impracticable in its application. Yet, God knows, the affair had been started and carried out with the greatest enthusiasmto the last details, with as much money and as large a staff as wererequisite. At its head, one of the most skilful of practitioners, M. Pondevez, who had studied in the Paris hospitals; and by his side, toattend to the more intimate needs of the children, a trusty matron, Mme. Polge. Then there were nursemaids, seamstresses, infirmary-nurses. Andhow many the arrangements and how thorough was the maintenance of theestablishment, from the water distributed by a regular system from fiftytaps to the omnibus trotting off with jingling of its posting bellsto meet every train of the day at Rueil station! Finally, magnificentgoats, Thibetan goats, silky, swollen with milk. In regard toorganization, everything was admirable; but there was a point whereit all failed. This artificial feeding, so greatly extolled by theadvertisements, did not agree with the children. It was a singular pieceof obstinacy, a word which seemed to have been passed between them bya signal, poor little things! for they couldn't yet speak, most of themindeed were never to speak at all: "Please, we will not suck the goats. "And they did not suck them, they preferred to die one after anotherrather than suck them. Was Jesus of Bethlehem in his stable suckled by agoat? On the contrary, did he not press a woman's soft breast, on whichhe could go to sleep when he was satisfied? Who ever saw a goat betweenthe ox and the ass of the story on that night when the beasts spoke toeach other? Then why lie about it, why call the place Bethlehem? The director had been moved at first by the spectacle of so manyvictims. This Pondevez, a waif of the life of the "Quarter, " merestudent still after twenty years, and well known in all the resorts ofthe Boulevard St. Michel under the name of Pompon, was not an unkindman. When he perceived the small success of the artificial feeding, hesimply brought in four or five vigorous nurses from the district aroundand the children's appetites soon returned. This humane impulse wentnear costing him his place. "Nurses at Bethlehem!" said Jenkins, furious, when he came to pay hisweekly visit. "Are you out of your mind? Well! why then have we goatsat all, and meadows to pasture them; what becomes of my idea, and thepamphlets upon my idea? What happens to all that? But you are goingagainst my system. You are stealing the founder's money. " "All the same, _mon cher maitre_, " the student tried to reply, passinghis hands through his long red beard, "all the same, they will not takethis nourishment. " "Well, then, let them go without, but let the principle of artificiallactation be respected. That is the whole point. I do not wish to haveto repeat it to you again. Send off these wretched nurses. For therearing of our children we have goats' milk, cows' milk in case ofabsolute necessity. I can make no further concession in the matter. " He added, with an assumption of his apostle's air: "We are here for thedemonstration of a philanthropic idea. It must be made to triumph, evenat the price of some sacrifices. " Pondevez insisted no further. After all the place was a good one, nearenough to Paris to allow of descents upon Nanterre of a Sunday fromthe Quarter, or to allow the director to pay a visit to his old_brasseries_. Mme. Polge, to whom Jenkins always referred as "ourintelligent superintendent, " and whom he had placed there to superintendeverything, and chiefly the director himself, was not so austere, as herprerogatives might have led one to suppose, and submitted willingly to afew liqueur-glasses of cognac or to a game of bezique. He dismissedthe nurses, therefore, and endeavoured to harden himself in advance toeverything that could happen. What did happen? A veritable Massacreof the Innocents. Consequently the few parents in fairly easycircumstances, workpeople or suburban tradesfolk, who, tempted by theadvertisements, had severed themselves from their children, very soontook them home again, and there only remained in the establishment somelittle unfortunates picked up on doorsteps or in out-of-the-way places, sent from the foundling hospitals, doomed to all evil things from theirbirth. As the mortality continued to increase, even these came to bescarce, and the omnibus which had posted to the railway station wouldreturn bouncing and light as an empty hearse. How long would the thinglast? How long would the twenty-five or thirty little ones who remainedtake to die? This was what Monsieur the Director, or rather, to givehim the nickname which he had himself invented, Monsieur theGrantor-of-Certificates-of-death Pondevez, was asking himself onemorning as he sat opposite Mme. Polge's venerable ringlets, taking ahand in this lady's favourite game. "Yes, my good Mme. Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot go onmuch longer as they are. Jenkins will not give way; the children are asobstinate as mules. There is no denying it, they will all slip throughour fingers. There is the little Wallachian--I mark the king, Mme. Polge--who may die from one moment to another. Just think, the poorlittle chap for the last three days has had nothing in his stomach. Itis useless for Jenkins to talk. You cannot improve children like snailsby making them go hungry. It is disheartening all the same not to beable to save one of them. The infirmary is full. It is really a wretchedoutlook. Forty and bezique. " A double ring at the entrance gate interrupted his monologue. Theomnibus was returning from the railway station and its wheels weregrinding on the sand in an unusual manner. "What an astonishing thing, " remarked Pondevez, "the conveyance is notempty. " Indeed it did draw up at the foot of the steps with a certain pride, andthe man who got out of it sprang up the staircase at a bound. He wasa courier from Jenkins bearing a great piece of news. The doctor wouldarrive in two hours to visit the Home, accompanied by the Nabob anda gentleman from the Tuileries. He urgently enjoined that everythingshould be ready for their reception. The thing had been decided at suchshort notice that he had not had the time to write; but he counted on M. Pondevez to do all that was necessary. "That is good!--necessary!" murmured Pondevez in complete dismay. Thesituation was critical. This important visit was occurring at the worstpossible moment, just as the system had utterly broken down. The poorPompon, exceedingly perplexed, tugged at his beard, thoughtfully gnawingwisps of it. "Come, " said he suddenly to Mme. Polge, whose long face had grown stilllonger between her ringlets, "we have only one course to take. We mustremove the infirmary and carry all the sick into the dormitory. Theywill be neither better nor worse for passing another half-day there. Asfor those with the rash, we will put them out of the way in some corner. They are too ugly, they must not be seen. Come along, you up there! Iwant every one on the bridge. " The dinner-bell being violently rung, immediately hurried steps areheard. Seamstresses, infirmary-nurses, servants, goatherds, issue fromall directions, running, jostling each other across the court-yards. Others fly about, cries, calls; but that which dominates is the noiseof a mighty cleansing, a streaming of water as though Bethlehem had beensuddenly attacked by fire. And those groanings of sick children snatchedfrom the warmth of their beds, all those little screaming bundlescarried across the damp park, their coverings fluttering through thebranches, powerfully complete the impression of a fire. At the end oftwo hours, thanks to a prodigious activity, the house is ready from topto bottom for the visit which it is about to receive, all the staff attheir posts, the stove lighted, the goats picturesquely sprinkled overthe park. Mme. Polge has donned her green silk dress, the director acostume somewhat less _neglige_ than usual, but of which the simplicityexcluded all idea of premeditation. The Departmental Secretary may come. And here he is. He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a splendid coach with thered and gold livery of the Nabob. Feigning the deepest astonishment, Pondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors. "Ah, M. Jenkins, what an honour! What a surprise!" Greetings are exchanged on the flight of steps, bows, shakings of hands, introductions. Jenkins with his flowing overcoat wide open overhis loyal breast, beams his best and most cordial smile; there isa significant wrinkle on his brow, however. He is uneasy about thesurprises which may be held in store for them by the establishment, ofthe distressful condition of which he is better aware than any one. Ifonly Pondevez had taken proper precautions. Things begin well, at anyrate. The rather theatrical view from the entrance, of those whitefleeces frisking about among the bushes, have enchanted M. De laPerriere, who himself, with his honest eyes, his little white beard, and the continual nodding of his head, resembles a goat escaped from itstether. "In the first place, gentlemen, the apartment of principal importancein the house, the nursery, " said the director, opening a massive door atthe end of the entrance-hall. His guests follow him, go down a fewsteps and find themselves in an immense, low room, with a tiled floor, formerly the kitchen of the mansion. The most striking object onentering is a lofty and vast fireplace built on the antique model, of red brick, with two stone benches opposite one another beneath thechimney, and the singer's coat of arms--an enormous lyre barred witha roll of music--carved on the monumental pediment. The effect isstartling; but a frightful draught comes from it, which joined to thecoldness of the tile floor and the dull light admitted by the littlewindows on a level with the ground, may well terrify one for thehealth of the children. But what was do be done? The nursery had tobe installed in this insalubrious spot on account of the sylvan andcapricious nurses, accustomed to the unconstraint of the stable. Youonly need to notice the pools of milk, the great reddish puddles dryingup on the tiles, to breathe in the strong odour that meets you asyou enter, a mingling of whey, of wet hair, and of many other thingsbesides, in order to be convinced of the absolute necessity of thisarrangement. The gloomy-walled apartment is so large that to the visitors at firstthe nursery seems to be deserted. However, at the farther end, a groupof creatures, bleating, moaning, moving about, is soon distinguished. Two peasant women, hard and brutalized in appearance, with dirty faces, two "dry-nurses, " who well deserve the name, are seated on mats, each with an infant in her arms and a big nanny-goat in front of her, offering its udder with legs parted. The director seems pleasantlysurprised. "Truly, gentlemen, this is lucky. Two of our children are having theirlittle luncheon. We shall see how well the nurses and infants understandeach other. " "What can he be doing? He is mad, " said Jenkins to himself inconsternation. But the director on the contrary knows very well what he is doing andhas himself skilfully arranged the scene, selecting two patient andgentle beasts and two exceptional subjects, two little desperate mortalswho want to live at any price and open their mouths to swallow, nomatter what food, like young birds still in the nest. "Come nearer, gentlemen, and observe. " Yes, they are indeed sucking, these little cherubs! One of them, lyingclose to the ground, squeezed up under the belly of the goat, is goingat it so heartily that you can hear the gurglings of the warm milkdescending, it would seem, even into the little limbs that kick withsatisfaction at the meal. The other, calmer, lying down indolently, requires some little encouragement from his Auvergnoise attendant. "Suck, will you suck then, you little rogue!" And at length, as thoughhe had suddenly come to a decision, he begins to drink with such aviditythat the woman leans over to him, surprised by this extraordinaryappetite, and exclaims laughing: "Ah, the rascal, is he not cunning?--it is his thumb that he is suckinginstead of the goat. " The angel has hit on that expedient so that he may be left in peace. The incident does not create a bad impression. M. De la Perriere is muchamused by this notion of the nurse that the child was trying totake them all in. He leaves the nursery, delighted. "Positivelyde-e-elighted, " he repeats, nodding his head as they ascend the greatstaircase with its echoing walls decorated with the horns of stags, leading to the dormitory. Very bright, very airy, is this vast room, running the whole length ofone side of the house, with numerous windows and cots, separated onefrom another by a little distance, hung with fleecy white curtains likeclouds. Women go and come through the large arch in the centre, withpiles of linen on their arms, or keys in their hands, nurses with thespecial duty of washing the babies. Here too much has been attempted and the first impression of thevisitors is a bad one. All this whiteness of muslin, this polishedparquet, the brightness of the window-panes reflecting the sky sad atbeholding these things, seem to throw into bold relief the thinness, theunhealthy pallor of these dying little ones, already the colour of theirshrouds. Alas! the oldest are only aged some six months, the youngestbarely a fortnight, and already there is in all these faces, these facesin embryo, a disappointed expression, a scowling, worn look, a sufferingprecocity visible in the numerous lines on those little bald foreheads, cramped by linen caps edged with poor, narrow hospital lace. What arethey suffering? What diseases can they have? They have everything, everything that one can have: diseases of children and diseases ofmen. The fruit of vice and poverty, they bring into the world hideousphenomena of heredity at their very birth. This one has a perforatedpalate, and this great copper-coloured patches on the forehead, allof them rickety. Then they are dying of hunger. Notwithstanding thespoonfuls of milk, of sweetened water, which are forced down theirthroats, notwithstanding the feeding-bottle employed now and then, though against orders, they perish of inanition. These littlecreatures, worn out before birth, require the most tender and the moststrengthening food; the goats might perhaps be able to give it, butapparently they have sworn not to suck the goats. And this is whatmakes the dormitory mournful and silent, not one of those littleclinched-fisted tempers, one of those cries showing the pink and firmgums in which the child makes trial of his lungs and strength; only aplaintive moaning, as it were the disquiet of a soul that turns overand over in a little sick body, without being able to find a comfortableplace to rest there. Jenkins and the director, who have seen the bad impression produced ontheir guests by this inspection of the dormitory, try to put a littlelife into the situation, talk very loudly in a good-natured, complacent, satisfied way. Jenkins shakes hands warmly with the superintendent. "Well, Mme. Polge, and how are our little nurslings getting on?" "As you see, M. Le Docteur, " she replies, pointing to the beds. This tall Mme. Polge is funereal in her green dress, the ideal ofdry-nurses. She completes the picture. But where has Monsieur the Departmental Secretary gone? He has stoppedbefore a cot which he examines sadly, as he stands nodding his head. "_Bigre de bigre!_" says Pompon in a low voice to Mme. Polge. "It is theWallachian. " The little blue placard hung over the cot, as in the foundlinghospitals, states the child's nationality: "Moldo, Wallachian. " What apiece of ill-luck that Monsieur the Secretary's attention should havebeen attracted to that particular child! Oh, that poor little head lyingon the pillow, its linen cap askew, with pinched nostrils, and mouthhalf opened by a quick, panting respiration, the breathing of the newlyborn, of those also who are about to die. "Is he ill?" asked Monsieur the Secretary softly of the director, whohas come up to him. "Not the least in the world, " the shameless Pompon replies, and, advancing to the side of the cot, he tries to make the little one laughby tickling him with his finger, straightens the pillow, and says in ahearty voice, somewhat overcharged with tenderness: "Well, old fellow?"Shaken out of his torpor, escaping for a moment from the shades whichalready are closing on him, the child opens his eyes on those facesleaning over him, glances at them with a gloomy indifference, then, returning to his dream which he finds more interesting, clinches hislittle wrinkled hands and heaves an elusive sigh. Mystery! Who shall sayfor what end that baby had been born into life? To suffer for two monthsand to depart without having seen anything, understood anything, withoutany one even knowing the sound of his voice. "How pale he is!" murmurs M. De la Perriere, very pale himself. TheNabob is livid also. A cold breath seems to have passed over the place. The director assumes an air of unconcern. "It is the reflection. We are all of us green here. " "Yes, yes, that is so, " remarks Jenkins, "it is the reflection of thelake. Come and look, Monsieur the Secretary. " And he draws him to thewindow to point out to him the large sheet of water with its dippingwillows, while Mme. Polge makes haste to draw over the eternal dream ofthe little Wallachian the parted curtains of his cradle. The inspection of the establishment must be continued very quickly inorder to destroy this unfortunate impression. To begin with, M. De la Perriere is shown a splendid laundry, withstoves, drying-rooms, thermometers, immense presses of polished walnut, full of babies' caps and frocks, labelled and tied up in dozens. Whenthe linen has been warmed, the linen-room maid passes it out througha little door in exchange for the number left by the nurse. A perfectorder reigns, one can see, and everything, down to its healthy smell ofsoap-suds, gives to this apartment a wholesome and rural aspect. Thereis clothing here for five hundred children. That is the number whichBethlehem can accommodate, and everything has been arranged upon acorresponding scale; the vast pharmacy, glittering with bottles andLatin inscriptions, pestles and mortars of marble in every corner, thehydropathic installation, its large rooms built of stone, with gleamingbaths possessing a huge apparatus including pipes of all dimensions fordouches, upward and downward, spray, jet, or whip-lash, and the kitchensadorned with superb kettles of copper, and with economical coal and gasovens. Jenkins wished to institute a model establishment; and he foundthe thing easy, for the work was done on a large scale, as it can bewhen funds are not lacking. You feel also over it all the experience andthe iron hand of "our intelligent superintendent, " to whom the directorcannot refrain from paying a public tribute. This is the signal forgeneral congratulations. M. De la Perriere, delighted with the manner inwhich the establishment is equipped, congratulates Dr. Jenkins upon hisfine creations, Jenkins compliments his friend Pondevez, who, in histurn, thanks the Departmental secretary for having consented to honourBethlehem with a visit. The good Nabob makes his voice heard in thischorus of eulogy, finds a kind word for each one, but is a littlesurprised all the same that he has not been congratulated himself, sincethey were about it. It is true that the best of congratulations awaitshim on the 16th March on the front page of the _Official Journal_ ina decree which flames in advance before his eyes and makes him glanceevery now and then at his buttonhole. These pleasant words are exchanged as the party passes along a bigcorridor in which the voices ring out in all their honest accents; butsuddenly a frightful noise interrupts the conversation and the advanceof the visitors. It seems to be made up of the mewing of cats indelirium, of bellowings, of the howlings of savages performing awar-dance, an appalling tempest of human cries, reverberated, swelled, and prolonged by the echoing vaults. It rises and falls, ceasessuddenly, then goes on again with an extraordinary effect of unanimity. Monsieur the Director begins to be uneasy, makes an inquiry. Jenkinsrolls furious eyes. "Let us go on, " says the director, rather anxious this time. "I knowwhat it is. " He knows what it is; but M. De la Perriere wishes to know also what itis, and, before Pondevez has had the time to unfasten it, he pushes openthe massive door whence this horrible concert proceeds. In a sordid kennel which the great cleansing has passed over, for, infact, it was not intended to be exhibited, on mattresses ranged on thefloor, a dozen little wretches are laid, watched over by an empty chairon which the beginning of a knitted vest lies with an air of dignity, and by a little broken saucepan, full of hot wine, boiling on a smokywood fire. These are the children with ringworm, with rashes, thedisfavoured of Bethlehem, who had been hidden in this retired cornerwith recommendation to their dry-nurse to rock them, to soothe them, tosit on them, if need were, in order to keep them from crying; but whomthis country-woman, stupid and inquisitive, had left alone there inorder to see the fine carriage standing in the court-yard. Her backturned, the infants had very quickly grown weary of their horizontalposition; and then all these little scrofulous patients raised theirlusty concert, for they, by a miracle, are strong, their malady savesand nourishes them. Bewildered and kicking like beetles when they areturned on their backs, helping themselves with their hips and theirelbows, some fallen on one side and unable to regain their balance, others raising in the air their little benumbed, swaddled legs, spontaneously they cease their gesticulations and cries as they see thedoor open; but M. De la Perrier's nodding goatee beard reassures them, encourages them anew, and in the renewed tumult the explanation givenby the director is only heard with difficulty: "Children keptseparate--Contagion--Skin-diseases. " This is quite enough for Monsieurthe Departmental Secretary; less heroic than Bonaparte on his visit tothe plague-stricken of Jaffa, he hastens towards the door, and in histimid anxiety, wishing to say something and yet not finding words, murmurs with an ineffable smile: "They are char-ar-ming. " Next, the inspection at an end, see them all gathered in the salon onthe ground floor, where Mme. Polge has prepared a little luncheon. Thecellar of Bethlehem is well stocked. The keen air of the table-land, these climbs up and downstairs have given the old gentleman from theTuileries an appetite such as he has not known for a long time, so thathe chats and laughs as if he were at a picnic, and at the moment ofdeparture, as they are all standing, raises his glass, nodding his head, to drink, "To Be-Be-Bethlehem!" Those present are moved, glasses aretouched, then, at a quick trot, the carriage bears the party away downthe long avenue of limes, over which a red and cold sun is just setting. Behind them the park resumes its dismal silence. Great dark massesgather in the depths of the copses, surround the house, gain little bylittle the paths and open spaces. Soon all is lost in gloom save theironical letters embossed above the entrance-gate, and, away overyonder, at a first-floor window, one red and wavering spot, the light ofa candle burning by the pillow of the dead child. "By a decree dated the 12th March, 1865, issued upon the proposal of the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur the Doctor Jenkins, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society is named a Chevalier of the Imperial Order of the Legion of Honour. Great devotion to the cause of humanity. " As he read these words on the front page of the _Official Journal_, onthe morning of the 16th, the poor Nabob felt dazed. Was it possible? Jenkins decorated, and not he! He read the paragraph twice over, distrusting his own eyes. His earsbuzzed. The letters danced double before his eyes with those great redrings round them which they have in strong sunlight. He had been soconfident of seeing his name in this place; Jenkins, only the eveningbefore, had repeated to him with so much assurance, "It is alreadydone!" that he still thought his eyes must have deceived him. But no, it was indeed Jenkins. The blow was heavy, deep, prophetic, as it were afirst warning from destiny, and one that was felt all the more intenselybecause for years this man had been unaccustomed to failure. Everythinggood in him learned mistrust at the same time. "Well, " said he to de Gery as he came as usual every morning into hisroom, and found him visibly affected, holding the newspaper in his hand, "have you seen? I am not in the _Official_. " He tried to smile, his features puckered like those of a childrestraining his tears. Then, suddenly, with that frankness which wassuch a pleasing quality in him: "It is a great disappointment to me. Iwas looking forward to it too confidently. " The door opened upon these words, and Jenkins rushed in, out of breath, stammering, extraordinarily agitated. "It is an infamy, a frightful infamy! The thing cannot be, it shall notbe!" The words stumbled over each other in disorder on his lips, all tryingto get out at once; then he seemed to despair of finding expression forhis thoughts and in disgust threw on the table a small box and a largeenvelope, both bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office. "There are my cross and my brevet. They are yours, friend. I could notkeep them. " At bottom the words did not signify much. Jansoulet adorning himselfwith Jenkins's ribbon might very well have been guilty of illegality. But a piece of theatrical business is not necessarily logical; this onebrought about between the two men an effusion of feeling, embraces, agenerous battle, at the end of which Jenkins replaced the objects in hispocket, speaking of protests, letters to the newspapers. The Nabob wasagain obliged to check him. "Be very careful you do no such thing. To begin with, it would be toinjure my chances for another time--who knows, perhaps on the 15th ofAugust, which will soon be here. " "Oh, as to that, " said Jenkins, jumping at this idea, and stretching outhis arm as in the _Oath_ of David, "I solemnly swear it. " The matter was dropped at this point. At luncheon the Nabob was as gayas usual. This good humour was maintained all day, and de Gery, for whomthe scene had been a revelation of the true Jenkins, the explanation ofthe ironies and the restrained wrath of Felicia Ruys whenever she spokeof the doctor, asked himself in vain how he could enlighten his dearpatron about such hypocrisy. He should have been aware, however, thatin southerners, with all their superficiality and effusion, there is noblindness, no enthusiasm, so complete as to remain insensible beforethe wisdom of reflection. In the evening the Nabob had opened a shabbylittle letter-case, worn at the corners, in which for ten years he hadbeen accustomed to work out the calculations of his millions, writingdown in hieroglyphics understood only by himself his receipts andexpenditures. He buried himself in his accounts for a moment, thenturning to de Gery: "Do you know what I am doing, my dear Paul?" he asked. "No, sir. " "I am just calculating"--and his mocking glance thoroughlycharacteristic of his race, rallied the good nature of his smile--"Iam just calculating that I have spend four hundred and thirty thousandfrancs to get a decoration for Jenkins. " Four hundred and thirty thousand francs! And that was not the end. BONNE MAMAN Paul de Gery went three times a week in the evening to take his lessonin bookkeeping in the Joyeuses' dining-room, not far from that littleparlour in which he had seen the family the first day, and while withhis eyes fixed on his teacher he was being initiated into all themysteries of "debtor and creditor, " he used to listen, in spite ofhimself, for the light sounds coming from the industrious group behindthe door, with thoughts dwelling regretfully on the vision of all thosepretty brows bent in the lamplight. M. Joyeuse never said a word of hisdaughters; jealous of their charms as a dragon watching over beautifulprincesses in a tower, and excited by the fantastic imaginings of hisexcessive affection for them, he would answer with marked brevity theinquiries of his pupil regarding the health of "the young ladies, " sothat at last the young man ceased to mention them. He was surprised, however, at not once seeing that Bonne Maman whosename was constantly recurring in the conversation of M. Joyeuse, entering into the least details of his existence, hovering over thehousehold like the emblem of its perfect ordering and of its peace. So great a reserve on the part of a venerable lady who must assuredlyhave passed the age at which the interest of young men is to be feared, seemed to him exaggerated. The lessons, however, were good ones, given with great clearness, the teacher having an excellent systemof demonstration, and only one fault, that of becoming absorbed insilences, broken by sudden starts and exclamations let off like rockets. Apart from this, he was the best of masters, intelligent, patient, andconscientious, and Paul learned to know his way through the complexlabyrinth of commercial books and resigned himself to ask nothingbeyond. One evening, towards nine o'clock, as the young man had risen to go, M. Joyeuse asked him if he would do him the honour of taking a cup of teawith his family, a custom dating from the time when Mme. Joyeuse, _nee_de Saint-Amand, was alive, she having been used to receive her friendson Thursdays. Since her death and the change in the financial position, the friends had become dispersed; but his little weekly function hadbeen kept up. Paul having accepted, the good old fellow opened the door and called: "Bonne Maman!" An alert footstep in the passage, and immediately the face of a girl oftwenty, in a halo of abundant brown hair, made its appearance. De Gery, stupefied, looked at M. Joyeuse. "Bonne Maman?" "Yes, it is a name that we gave her when she was a little girl. With herfrilled cap, her authority as the eldest child, she had a quaint littleair. We thought her like her grandmother. The name has clung to her. " From the honest fellow's tone as he spoke thus, one felt that to himthis grandparent's title applied to such an embodiment of attractiveyouth seemed the most natural thing in the world. Every one else thoughtas he did on the point; both her sisters, who had hastened to theirfather's side, grouping themselves round him somewhat as in the portraitexhibited in the window on the ground floor, and the old servantwho placed on the table in the little drawing-room a magnificenttea-service, a relic of the former splendours of the household. Everyone called the girl "Bonne Maman" without her ever once having growntired of it, the influence of that sacred title touching the affectionof each one with a deference which flattered her and gave to her idealauthority a singular gentleness of protection. Whether or not it were by reason of this appellation of grandmotherwhich as a child he had learned to reverence, de Gery felt aninexpressible attraction towards this young girl. It was not like thesudden shock which he had received from that other, that emotionalagitation in which were mingled the desire to flee, to escape from apossession and the persistent melancholy of the morrow of a festivity, extinguished candles, the lost refrains of songs, perfumes vanishedinto the night. In the presence of this young girl as she stoodsuperintending the family table, seeing if anything were wanting, enveloping her children, her grandchildren, with the active tendernessof her eyes, there came to him a longing to know her, to be countedamong her old friends, to confide to her things which he confessed onlyto himself; and when she offered him his cup of tea without any of themincings of society or drawing-room affectations, he would have liked tosay with the rest a "Thank you, Bonne Maman, " in which he would have putall his heart. Suddenly, a cheerful knock at the door made everybody start. "Ah, here comes M. Andre. Elise, a cup quickly. Jaia, the little cakes. "At the same time, Mlle. Henriette, the third of M. Joyeuse's daughters, who had inherited from her mother, _nee_ de Saint-Amand, a certaininstinct for society, observing the number of visitors who seemed likelyto crowd their rooms that evening, rushed to light the two candles onthe piano. "My fifth act is finished, " cried the newcomer as he entered, then hestopped short. "Ah, pardon, " and his face assumed a rather discomfitedexpression in the presence of the stranger. M. Joyeuse introducedthem to each other: "M. Paul de Gery--M. Andre Maranne, " not withouta certain solemnity. He remembered the receptions held formerly byhis wife, and the vases on the chimneypiece, the two large lamps, thewhat-not; the easy chairs grouped in a circle had an air of joining inthis illusion, and seemed more brilliant by reason of this unaccustomedthrong. "So your play is finished?" "Finished, M. Joyeuse, and I hope to read it to you one of theseevenings. " "Oh, yes, M. Andre. Oh, yes, " said all the girls in chorus. Their neighbour was in the habit of writing for the stage, and no onehere doubted of his success. Photography, in any case, promised fewerprofits. Clients were very rare, passers-by little disposed to business. To keep his hand in and to save his new apparatus from rusting, M. Andrewas accustomed to practise anew on the family of his friends oneach succeeding Sunday. They lent themselves to his experimentswith unequalled long-suffering; the prosperity of this suburbanphotographer's business was for them all an affair of _amour propre_, and awakened, even in the girls, that touching confraternity of feelingwhich draws together the destinies of people as insignificant inimportance as sparrows on a roof. Andre Maranne, with the inexhaustibleresources of his great brow full of illusion, used to explain withoutbitterness the indifference of the public. Sometimes the season wasunfavourable, or, again, people were complaining of the bad state ofbusiness generally, and he would always end with the same consolingreflection, "When _Revolt_ is produced!" That was the title of his play. "It is surprising all the same, " said the fourth of M. Joyeuse'sdaughters, twelve years old, with her hair in a pigtail, "it issurprising that with such a good balcony so little business shouldresult. " "And, if he were established on the Boulevard des Italiens, " remarks M. Joyeuse thoughtfully, and he is launched forth!--riding his chimeratill it is brought to the ground suddenly with a gesture and these wordsuttered sadly: "Closed on account of bankruptcy. " In the space of amoment the terrible visionary has just installed his friend in splendidquarters on the Boulevard, where he gains enormous sums of money, at thesame time, however, increasing his expenditure to so disproportionate anextent that a fearful failure in a few months engulfs both photographerand his photography. They laugh heartily when he gives this explanation;but all agree that the Rue Saint-Ferdinand, although less brilliant, ismuch more to be depended upon than the Boulevard des Italiens. Besides, it happens to be quite near the Bois de Boulogne, and if once thefashionable world got into the way of passing through it--That exaltedsociety which was so much sought by her mother, is Mlle. Henriette'sfixed idea, and she is astonished that the thought of receiving "lehigh-life" in his little apartment on the fifth floor makes theirneighbour laugh. The other week, however, a carriage with livery hadcalled on him. Only just now, too, he had a very "swell" visit. "Oh, quite a great lady!" interrupts Bonne Maman. "We were at the windowon the lookout for father. We saw her alight from her carriage and lookat the show-frame; we made sure that her visit was for you. " "It was for me, " said Andre, a little embarrassed. "For a moment we were afraid that she was going to pass on like so manyothers, on account of your five flights of stairs. So all four of ustried to attract her without her knowing it, by the magnetism of ourfour staring pairs of eyes. We drew her gently by the feathers of herhat and the laces of her cape. 'Come up then, madame, come up, ' andfinally she entered. There is so much magnetism in eyes that are kindlydisposed. " Magnetism she certainly had, the dear creature, not only in her glances, indeterminate of colour, veiled or gay like the sky of her Paris, but inher voice, in the draping of her dress, in everything about her, even tothe long curl, falling over the neck erect and delicate as a statue's. Tea having been served, while the gentlemen finished their cups andtalked--old Joyeuse was always very long over everything he did, byreason of his sudden expeditions to the moon--the girls brought outtheir work, the table became covered with wicker baskets, embroideries, pretty wools that rejuvenated with their bright tints the faded flowersof the old carpet, and the group of the other evening gathered oncemore within the bright circle defined by the lamp-shade, to the greatsatisfaction of Paul de Gery. It was the first evening of the kind thathe had spent in Paris; it recalled to him others of a like sort very faraway, lulled by the same innocent laughter, the peaceful sound producedby scissors as they are put down on the table, by a needle as it piercesthrough linen, or the rustle of a page turned over, and dear faces, disappeared for ever, gathered also around the family lamp, alas! soabruptly extinguished. Having been admitted to this charming intimacy, he remained in it, tookhis lessons in the presence of the girls and was encouraged to chat withthem when the good old man closed his big book. Here everything restedhim after the whirl of that life into which he was thrown by theluxurious social existence of the Nabob; he come to renew his strengthin this atmosphere of honesty, of simplicity, tried, too, to findhealing there for the wounds with which a hand more indifferent thancruel stabbed his heart mercilessly. "Some women have hated me, other women have loved me. She who has hurtme most never either loved or hated me. " Paul had met that woman of whomHenri Heine speaks. Felicia was full of welcome and cordiality for him. There was no one whom she treated with more favour. She used to reservefor him a special smile wherein one felt the kindliness of an artist'seye arrested by and dwelling on a pleasing type, and the satisfaction ofa jaded mind amused by anything new, however simple in appearance it maybe. She liked that reserve, suggestive in a southerner, the honestyof that judgment, independent of every artistic or social formula andenlivened by a touch of provincial accent. These things were a changefor her from the zigzag stroke of the thumb illustrating a eulogy withits gesture of the studio, from the compliments of comrades on the wayin which she would snub some old fellow, or again from those affectedadmirations, from the "char-ar-ming, very nice indeed's" with whichyoung men about town, sucking the knobs of their canes, were accustomedto regale her. This young man at any rate did not say such things asthat to her. She had nicknamed him Minerva, on account of his apparenttranquility and the regularity of his profile; and the moment she sawhim, however far-off, she would call: "Ah, here comes Minerva. Hail, beautiful Minerva! Put down your helmetand let us have a chat. " But this familiar, almost fraternal, tone convinced the young man thathe would make no further advance into that feminine comradeship inwhich tenderness was wanting, and that he lost each day something ofhis charm--the charm of the unforeseen--in the eyes of that woman bornweary, who seemed to have already lived her life and found in all thatshe heard or saw the insipidity of a repetition. Felicia was bored. Her art alone could distract her, carry her away, transport her into adazzling fairyland, whence she would fall back worn out, surprisedeach time by this awakening like a physical fall. She used to drawa comparison between herself and those jelly-fish whose transparentbrilliancy, so much alive in the cool movements of the waves, drift totheir death on the shore in little gelatinous pools. During thosetimes devoid of inspiration, when the artist's hand was heavy onhis instrument, Felicia, deprived of the one moral support of herintellectual being, became unsociable, unapproachable, a tormentingmocker--the revenge taken of human weakness on the tired brains ofgenius. After having brought tears to the eyes of every one who caredfor her, raking up painful recollections or enervating anxieties, shereached the lowest depths of her fatigue, and as there was always somefun in her, even in her _ennui_ in a kind of caged wild-beast's howl, which she called "the cry of the jackal in the desert, " and which usedto make the good Crenmitz turn pale. Poor Felicia! That life of hers was indeed a frightful desert when artdid not beguile it with its illusions; a desert mournful and flat, whereeverything was lost, reduced to one level, beneath the same monotonousimmensity, the naive love of a child of twenty, a passionate duke'scaprice, in which all was overwhelmed by an arid sand driven by blastingfates. Paul was conscious of that void, desired to escape it; butsomething held him back, like a weight which unrolls a chain, and inspite of the calumnies he heard, and notwithstanding the odd whims ofthe strange creature, he dallied deliciously after her, at the priceof bearing away with him from this long lover's contemplation only thedespair of a believer reduced to the adoring of images alone. The refuge lay down there, in that remote quarter of the town where thewind blew so hard, yet without preventing the flame from mounting whiteand straight--it was the family circle presided over by Bonne Maman. Oh!she at least was not bored, she never uttered the cry of the "jackalin the desert. " Her life was far too full; the father to encourage, tosustain, the children to teach, all the material cares of a home wherethe mother's hand is wanting, those preoccupations that awake with thedawn and are put to sleep by the evening, unless indeed it bring themback in dream, one of those devotions, tireless but without apparenteffort, very pleasant for poor human egotism, because they dispense fromall gratitude and hardly make themselves felt, so light is their hand. She was not the courageous daughter who works to support her parents, gives private lessons from morning to night, forgets in the excitementof a profession all the troubles of the household. No, she hadunderstood her task in a different sense, a sedentary bee restrictingher cares to the hive, without once humming out of doors in the open airamong the flowers. A thousand functions: tailoress, milliner, menderof clothes, bookkeeper also for M. Joyeuse, who, incapable of allresponsibility, left to her the free disposal of their means, to bepianoforte-teacher, governess. As it happens in families that have been in a good position, Aline, as the eldest daughter, had been educated at one of the bestboarding-schools in Paris. Elise had been with her there for two years;but the last two, born too late, and sent to small day-schools in thelocality, had all their studies yet to complete, and this was no easymatter, the youngest laughing upon every occasion from sheer goodhealth, warbling like a lark intoxicated with the delight of green corn, and flying away far out of sight of desk and exercises, while Mlle. Henriette, ever haunted by her ideas of grandeur, her love of luxuriousthings, took to work hardly less unwillingly. This young person offifteen, to whom her father had transmitted something of his imaginativefaculties, was already arranging her life in advance and declaredformally that she should marry one of the nobility, and would neverhave more than three children: "A boy to inherit the name and two littlegirls--so as to be able to dress them alike. " "Yes, that's right, " Bonne Maman would say, "you shall dress them alike. In the meantime, let us attend to our participles a little. " But the one who caused the most concern was Elise, with her examinationtaken thrice without success, always failing in history and preparingherself anew, seized by a deep fear and a mistrust of herself whichmade her carry about with her everywhere and open every moment thatunfortunate history of France, in the omnibus, in the street, even atthe luncheon-table; she was already a grown girl and very pretty, andshe no longer possessed that little mechanical memory of childhoodwherein dates and events lodge themselves for the whole of one's life. Beset by other preoccupations, the lesson was forgotten in an instant, despite the apparent application of the pupil, with her long lashesfringing her eyes, her curls sweeping over the pages, and her rosymouth animated by a little quiver of attention, repeating ten times insuccession: "Louis, surnamed le Hutin, 1314-1316; Philip V, surnamedthe Long, 1316-1322. Ah, Bonne Maman, it's no good; I shall never knowthem. " Whereupon Bonne Maman would come to her assistance, help herto concentrate her attention, to store up a few of those dates of theMiddle Ages, barbarous and sharp as the helmets of the warriors of theperiod. And in the intervals of these occupations, of this generaland constant superintendence, she yet found time to do some prettyneedlework, to extract from her work-basket some delicate crochet laceor a piece of tapestry on which she was engaged and to which she clungas closely as the young Elise to her history of France. Even when shetalked, her fingers never remained unoccupied for a moment. "Do you never take any rest?" said de Gery to her, as she counted underher breath the stitches of her tapestry, "three, four, five, " to securethe right variation in the shading of the colours. "But this is a rest from work, " she answered. "You men cannot understandhow good needlework is for a woman's mind. It gives order to thethoughts, fixes by a stitch the moment that passes what would otherwisepass with it. And how many griefs are calmed, anxieties forgotten, thanks to this wholly physical act of attention, to this repetition ofan even movement, in which one finds--of necessity and very quickly--theequilibrium of one's whole being. It does not hinder me from followingthe conversation around me, from listening to you still better than Ishould if I were doing something. Three, four, five. " Oh, yes, she listened. That was apparent in the animation of her face, in the way in which she would suddenly straighten herself as she sat, needle in air, the thread taut over her raised little finger. Then shewould quickly resume her work, sometimes after putting in a thoughtfulword, which agreed generally with the opinions of friend Paul. An affinity of nature, responsibilities and duties similar in character, drew these two young people together, interested each of them in theother's occupations. She knew the names of his two brothers Pierre andLouis, his plans for their future when they should have left school. Pierre wanted to be a sailor. "Oh, no, not a sailor, " Bonne Maman wouldsay, "it will be much better for him to come to Paris with you. " Andwhen he admitted that he was afraid of Paris for them, she laughed athis fears, called him provincial, full of affection for the cityin which she had been born, in which she had grown to chaste youngwomanhood, and that gave her in return those vivacities, those naturalrefinements, that jesting good-humour which incline one to believethat Paris, with its rain, its fogs, its sky which is no sky, is theveritable fatherland of woman, whose nerves it heals gently and whosequalities of intelligence and patience it develops. Each day Paul de Gery came to appreciate Mlle. Aline better--he was theonly person in the house who so called her--and, strange circumstance, it was Felicia who completed the cementing of their intimacy. Whatrelations could there exist between the artist's daughter, moving in thehighest spheres, and this little middle-class girl buried in thedepths of a suburb? Relations of childhood and of friendship, commonrecollections, the great court-yard of the Institution Belin, wherethey had played together for three years. Paris is full of thesejuxtapositions. A name uttered by chance in the course of a conversationbrought out suddenly the bewildered question: "You know her then?" "Do I know Felicia? Why, our desks were next each other in the firstform. We had the same garden. Such a nice girl, and so handsome andclever!" And, observing the pleasure with which she was listened to, Aline usedto recall the times which already formed a past for her, seductive andmelancholy like all pasts. She was very much alone in life, the littleFelicia. On Thursdays, when the visitors' names were called out in theparlour, there was no one for her; except from time to time a good butrather absurd lady, formerly a dancer, it was said, whom Felicia calledthe Fairy. In the same way she used to have pet names for all the peopleshe cared for and whom she transformed in her imaginations. In theholidays they used to see each other. Mme. Joyeuse, while she refused toallow Aline to visit the studio of M. Ruys, used to invite Felicia overfor whole days, very short days they seemed, minglings of study, music, dual dreams, young intimate conversations. "Oh, when she used to talk tome of her art, with that enthusiasm which she put into everything, howdelighted I was to listen to her! How many things I have understoodthrough her, of which I should never have had any idea. Even now when wego to the Louvre with papa, or to the exhibition of the 1st of May, that special feeling I have about a beautiful piece of sculpture, a goodpicture, carries me back immediately to Felicia. In my early girlhoodshe represented art to me, and it corresponded with her beauty. Hernature was a little vague, but so kind, I always felt she was somethingsuperior to myself, that bore me to great heights without frighteningme. Suddenly she stopped coming to see me. I wrote to her; no reply. Later on, fame came to her; to me great sorrows, absorbing duties. Andof all that friendship, which was very deep, however, since I cannotspeak of it without--'three, four, five'--nothing now remains except oldmemories like dead ashes. " Bending over her work, the brave girl made haste to count her stitches, to imprison her regret in the capricious designs of her tapestry, whilede Gery, moved as he heard the testimony of those pure lips against thecalumnies of rejected young dandies or of jealous comrades, felt himselfraised, restored to the proud dignity of his love. This sensation wasso sweet to him that he returned in search of it very often, not onlyon the evenings of the lessons, but on other evenings, too, and almostforgot to go to see Felicia for the pleasure of hearing Aline talk abouther. One evening, as he was leaving the Joyeuses' home, Paul met theneighbour, M. Andre, on the landing, who was waiting for him and tookhis arm feverishly. "Monsieur de Gery, " he said in a trembling voice, with eyes thatglittered behind their spectacles, the one feature of his face that wasvisible in the darkness. "I have an explanation to ask from you. Willyou come up to my rooms for a moment?" There had only been between this young man and himself the banalrelations of two persons accustomed to frequent the same house, whom notie unites, who seem ever separated by a certain antipathy of nature, ofmanner of life. What explanation could there be called for between them?He followed him with much perplexed curiosity. The aspect of the little studio, chilly under its top-light, the emptyfireplace, the wind blowing as though they were out of doors and makingthe candle flicker, the solitary light on the scene of the night'slabour of a poor and lonely man, reflected on sheets of paper scribbledover and scattered about, in short, this atmosphere of habitationswherein the soul of the inhabitants lives on its own aspirations, causedde Gery to understand the visionary air of Andre Maranne, his long hairthrown back and streaming loose, that somewhat excessive appearance, very excusable when it is paid for by a life of sufferings andprivations, and his sympathy immediately went out to this courageousfellow whose intrepidity of spirit he guessed at a glance. But theother was too deeply moved by emotion to notice the progress of thesereflections. As soon as the door was closed upon them, he said, with theaccent of a stage hero addressing the perfidious seducer, "M. De Gery, Iam not yet a Cassandra. " And seeing the stupefaction of de Gery: "Yes, yes, " he went on, "we understand each other. I have knownperfectly well what it is that draws you to M. Joyeuse's house, andthe eager welcome with which you are received there has not escaped mynotice either. You are rich, you are of noble birth, there can be nohesitation between you and the poor poet who follows a ridiculous tradein order to give himself full time to reach a success which perhaps willnever come. But I shall not allow my happiness to be stolen from me. We must fight, monsieur, we must fight, " he repeated, excited by thepeaceful calm of his rival. "For long I have loved Mlle. Joyeuse. Thatlove is the end, the joy, and the strength of an existence which is veryhard, in many respects painful. I have only it in the world, and I wouldrather die than give it up. " Strangeness of the human soul! Paul did not love the charming Aline. Hiswhole heart belonged to the other. He thought of her simply as a friend, the most adorable of friends. But the idea that Maranne was interestedin her, that she no doubt returned this regard, gave him the jealousshiver of an annoyance, and it was with some considerable sharpness thathe inquired whether Mlle. Joyeuse was aware of this sentiment of Andre'sand had in any way authorized him thus to proclaim his rights. "Yes, monsieur, Mlle. Elise knows that I love her, and before yourfrequent visits--" "Elise? It is of Elise you are speaking?" "And of whom, then, should I be speaking? The two others are too young. " He fully entered into the traditions of the family, this Andre. For him, Bonne Maman's age of twenty years, her triumphant grace, were obscuredby a surname full of respect and the attributes of a Providence whichseemed to cling to her. A very brief explanation having calmed Andre Maranne's mind, he offeredhis apologies to de Gery, begged him to sit down in the arm-chairof carved wood which was used by his sitters, and their conversationquickly assumed an intimate and sympathetic character, brought about bythe so abrupt avowal at its opening. Paul confessed that he, too, was inlove, and that he came so often to M. Joyeuse's only in order to speakof her whom he loved with Bonne Maman, who had known her formerly. "That is my case, too, " said Andre. "Bonne Maman knows all my secrets;but we have not yet ventured to say anything to the father. My positionis too unsatisfactory. Ah, when I shall have got _Revolt_ produced!" Then they talked of that famous drama, _Revolt_, upon which he had beenat work for six months, day and night, which had kept him warm all thewinter, a very severe winter, but whose rigours the magic of compositionhad tempered in the little studio, which it transformed. It was there, within that narrow space, that all the heroes of his piece had appearedto his poet's vision like familiar gnomes dropped from the roof orriding moon-beams, and with them the gorgeous tapestries, the glitteringchandeliers, the park scenes with their gleaming flights of steps, allthe luxurious circumstance expected in stage effects, as well asthe glorious tumult of his first night, the applause of which wasrepresented for him by the rain beating on the glass roof and the boardsrattling in the door, while the wind, driving below over the murkytimber-yard with a noise as of far-off voices, borne near and anewcarried off into the distance, resembled the murmurs from the boxesopened on the corridor to let the news of his success circulate amongthe gossip and wonderment of the crowd. It was not only fame and moneythat it was destined to procure him, this thrice-blessed play, butsomething also more precious still. With what care accordingly did henot turn over the leaves of the manuscript in five thick books, allbound in blue, books like those that the Levantine was accustomed tostrew about on the divan where she took her siestas, and that she markedwith her managerial pencil. Paul, having in his turn approached the table in order to examine themasterpiece had his glance attracted by a richly framed portrait of awoman, which, placed so near to the artist's work, seemed to be there topreside over it. Elise, doubtless? Oh, no, Andre had not yet the rightto bring out from its protecting case the portrait of his little friend. This was a woman of about forty, gentle of aspect, fair, and extremelyelegant. As he perceived her, de Gery could not suppress an exclamation. "You know her?" asked Andre Maranne. "Why, yes. Mme. Jenkins, the wife of the Irish doctor. I have had supperat their house this winter. " "She is my mother. " And the young man added in a lower tone: "Mme. Maranne made a second marriage with Dr. Jenkins. You aresurprised, are you not, to see me in these poor surroundings, while myrelatives are living in the midst of luxury? But, you know, the chancesof family life sometimes group together natures that differ very widely. My stepfather and I have never been able to understand each other. Hewished to make me a doctor, whereas my only taste was for writing. So atlast, in order to avoid the continual discussions which were painful tomy mother, I preferred to leave the house and plough my furrow alone, without the help of anybody. A rough business. Funds were wanting. Thewhole fortune has gone to that--to M. Jenkins. The question was toearn a livelihood, and you are aware what a difficult thing that is forpeople like ourselves, supposed to be well brought-up. To think thatamong all the accomplishments gained from what we are accustomed to calla complete education, this child's play was the only thing I could findby which I could hope to earn my bread. A few savings, my own purse, slender like that of most young men, served to buy my first outfit andI installed myself here far away, in the remotest region of Paris, inorder not to embarrass my relatives. Between ourselves, I don't expectto make a fortune out of photography. The first days especially werevery difficult. Nobody came, or if by chance some unfortunate wight didmount, I made a failure of him, got on my plate only an image blurredand vague as a phantom. One day, at the very beginning, a wedding-partycame up to me, the bride all in white, the bridegroom with awaistcoat--like that! And all the guests in white gloves, which theyinsisted on keeping on for the portrait on account of the rarity of suchan event with them. No, I thought I should go mad. Those blackfaces, the great white patches made by the dresses, the gloves, theorange-blossoms, the unlucky bride, looking like a queen of Niam-niamunder her wreath merging indistinguishably into her hair. And all ofthem so full of good-will, of encouragements to the artist. I began themover again at least twenty times, and kept them till five o'clock in theevening. And then they only left me because it was time for dinner. Canyou imagine that wedding-day passed at a photographer's?" While Andre was recounting to him with this good humour the troubles ofhis life, Paul recalled the tirade of Felicia that day when Bohemianshad been mentioned, and all that she had said to Jenkins of their loftycourage, avid of privations and trials. He thought also of Aline'spassion for her beloved Paris, of which he himself was only acquainted, for his part, with the unwholesome eccentricities, while the great cityhid in its recesses so many unknown heroisms and noble illusions. Thislast impression, already experienced within the sheltered circle of theJoyeuse's great lamp, he received perhaps still more vividly in thisatmosphere, less warm, less peaceful, wherein art also entered to addits despairing or glorious uncertainty; and it was with a moved heartthat he listened to Andre Maranne as he spoke to him of Elise, ofthe examinations which it was taking her so long to pass, of thedifficulties of photography, of all that unforeseen element in his lifewhich would end certainly "when he could have secured the productionof _Revolt_, " a charming smile accompanying on the poet's lips this sooften expressed hope, which he was wont himself to hasten to make funof, as though to deprive others of the right to do so. MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER SERVANTS Truly Fortune in Paris has bewildering turns of the wheel! To have seen the Territorial Bank as I have seen it, the rooms withoutfires, never swept, the desert with its dust, protested bills piled highas _that_ on the desks, every week a notice of sale posted at the door, my stew spreading throughout the whole place the odour of a poor man'skitchen; and then to witness now the reconstitution of our company inits newly furnished halls, in which I have orders to light fires bigenough for a Government department, amid a busy crowd, blowings ofwhistles, electric bells, gold pieces piled up till they fall over; itsavours of miracle. I need to look at myself in the glass before I canbelieve it, to see in the mirror my iron-gray coat, trimmed with silver, my white tie, my usher's chain like the one I used to wear at theFaculty on the days when there were sittings. And to think that to workthis transformation, to bring back to our brows gaiety, the mother ofconcord, to restore to our scrip its value ten times over, to our deargovernor the esteem and confidence of which he had been so unjustlydeprived, one man has sufficed, the being of supernatural wealth whomthe hundred voices of renown designate by the name of the Nabob. Oh, the first time that he came to the office, with his fine presence, his face a little worn perhaps, but so distinguished, his manners of oneaccustomed to frequent courts, upon terms of the utmost familiarity withall the princes of the Orient--in a word, that indescribable quality ofassurance and greatness which is bestowed by immense wealth--I felt myheart bursting beneath the double row of buttons on my waistcoat. Peoplemay mouth in vain their great words of equality and fraternity; thereare men who stand so surely above the rest that one would like tobow one's self down flat in their presence, to find new phrases ofadmiration in order to compel them to take a practical interest in one. Let us hasten to add that I had need of nothing of the kind to attractthe attention of the Nabob. As I rose at his passage--moved to someemotion, but with dignity, you may trust Passajon for that--he lookedat me with a smile and said in an undertone to the young man whoaccompanied him: "What a fine head, like a--" Then there came a wordwhich I did not catch very well, a word ending in _art_, something like_leopard_. No, however, it cannot have been that. _Jean-Bart_, perhaps, although even then I hardly see the connection. However that be, inany case he did say, "What a fine head, " and this condescension made meproud. Moreover, all the directors show me a marked degree of kindnessand politeness. It seems that there was a discussion with regard to meat the meeting of the board, to determine whether I should be kept ordismissed like our cashier, that ill-tempered fellow who was alwaystalking of getting everybody sent to the galleys, and whom they havenow invited to go elsewhere to manufacture his cheap shirt-fronts. Well done! That will teach him to be rude to people. So far as Iam concerned, Monsieur the Governor kindly consented to overlook mysomewhat hasty words, in consideration of my record of service at theTerritorial and elsewhere; and at the conclusion of the board meeting, he said to me with his musical accent: "Passajon, you remain with us. "It may be imagined how happy I was and how profuse in the expressionof my gratitude. But just think! I should have left with my few pencewithout hope of ever saving any more; obliged to go and cultivate myvineyard in that little country district of Montbars, a very narrowfield for a man who has lived in the midst of all the financialaristocracy of Paris, and among those great banking operations by whichfortunes are made at a stroke. Instead of that, here I am establishedafresh in a magnificent situation, my wardrobe renewed, and my savings, which I spent a whole day in fingering over, intrusted to the kindcare of the governor, who has undertaken to invest them for meadvantageously. I think that is a manoeuvre which he is the very manto execute successfully. And no need for the least anxiety. Every fearvanishes before the word which is in vogue just now at all the councilsof administration, in all shareholders' meetings, on the Bourse, theboulevards, and everywhere: "The Nabob is in the affair. " That is tosay, gold is being poured out abundantly, the worst _combinazioni_ areexcellent. He is so rich, that man! Rich to a degree one cannot imagine. Has he not just lent fifteenmillion francs as a simple loan passing from hand to hand, to the Beyof Tunis? I repeat, fifteen millions. It was a trick he played on theHemerlingues, who wished to embroil him with that monarch and cut thegrass under his feet in those fine regions of the Orient where it growsgolden, high, and thick. It was an old Turk whom I know, Colonel Brahim, one of our directors at the Territorial, who arranged the affair. Naturally, the Bey, who happened to be, it appears, short ofpocket-money, was very much touched by the alacrity of the Nabob tooblige him, and he has just sent him through Brahim a letter of thanksin which he announces that upon the occasion of his next visit toVichy, he will stay a couple of days with him at that fine Chateau deSaint-Romans, which the former Bey, the brother of this one, honouredwith a visit once before. You may fancy, what an honour! To receive areigning prince as a guest! The Hemerlingues are in a rage. They who hadmanoeuvred so carefully--the son at Tunis, the father in Paris--to getthe Nabob into disfavour. And then it is true that fifteen millions isa big sum. And do not say, "Passajon is telling us some fine tales. " Theperson who acquainted me with the story has held in his hands the papersent by the Bey in an envelope of green silk stamped with the royalseal. If he did not read it, it was because this paper was written inArabic, otherwise he would have made himself familiar with its contentsas in the case of all the rest of the Nabob's correspondence. Thisperson is his _valet de chambre_, M. Noel, to whom I had the honourof being introduced last Friday at a small evening-party of persons inservice which he gave to all his friends. I record an account of thisfunction in my memoirs as one of the most curious things which I haveseen in the course of my four years of sojourn in Paris. I had thought at first when M. Francis, Monpavon's _valet de chambre_, spoke to me of the thing, that it was a question of one of those littleclandestine junketings such as are held sometimes in the garrets of ourboulevards with the fragments of food brought up by Mlle. Seraphine andthe other cooks in the building, at which you drink stolen wine, andgorge yourself, sitting on trunks, trembling with fear, by the lightof a couple of candles which are extinguished at the least noise in thecorridors. These secret practices are repugnant to my character. Butwhen I received, as for the regular servants' ball, an invitationwritten in a very beautiful hand upon pink paper: "M. Noel rekwests M---- to be present at his evenin-party on the 25thinstent. Super will be provided" I saw clearly, not withstanding the defective spelling, that it was aquestion of something serious and authorized. I dressed myself thereforein my newest frock-coat, my finest linen, and arrived at the PlaceVendome at the address indicated by the invitation. For the giving of his party, M. Noel had taken advantage of afirst-night at the opera, to which all fashionable society wasthronging, thus giving the servants a free rein, and putting the entireplace at our disposal until midnight. Notwithstanding this, the hosthad preferred to receive us upstairs in his own bed-chamber, and this Iapproved highly, being in that matter of the opinion of the old fellowin the rhyme: Fie on the pleasure That fear may corrupt! But my word, the luxury on the Place Vendome! A felt carpet on thefloor, the bed hidden away in an alcove, Algerian curtains with redstripes, an ornamental clock in green marble on the chimneypiece, thewhole lighted by lamps of which the flames can be regulated at will. Ouroldest member, M. Chalmette, is not better lodged at Dijon. I arrivedabout nine o'clock with Monpavon's old Francis, and I must confess thatmy entry made a sensation, preceded as I was by my academical past, myreputation for politeness, and great knowledge of the world. My finepresence did the rest, for it must be said that I know how to go into aroom. M. Noel, in a dress-coat, very dark skinned and with mutton-chopwhiskers, came forward to meet us. "You are welcome, M. Passajon, " said he, and taking my cap with silvergalloons which, according to the fashion, I had kept in my right handwhile making my entry, he gave it to a gigantic negro in red and goldlivery. "Here, Lakdar, hang that up--and that, " he added by way of a joke, giving him a kick in a certain region of the back. There was much laughter at this sally, and we began to chat togetherin very friendly fashion. An excellent fellow, this M. Noel, with hisaccent of the Midi, his pronounced style of dress, the smoothness andthe simplicity of his manners. He reminded me of the Nabob, withouthis distinction, however. I noticed, moreover, that evening, that theseresemblances are frequently to be observed in _valets de chambre_ who, living in the intimacy of their masters, by whom they are always alittle dazzled, end by acquiring their manners and habits. Thus, M. Francis has a certain way of straightening his body when displaying hislinen-front, a mania for raising his arms in order to pull his cuffsdown--it is Monpavon to a T. Now one, for instance, who bears noresemblance to his master is Joey, the coachman of Dr. Jenkins. I callhim Joey, but at the party every one called him Jenkins; for, in thatworld, the stable folk among themselves give to each other the namesof their masters, call each other Bois l'Hery, Monpavon, and Jenkins, without ceremony. Is it in order to degrade their superiors, to raisethe status of menials? Every country has its customs; it is only a foolwho will be surprised by them. To return to Joey Jenkins, how can thedoctor, affable as he is, so polished in every particular, keep in hisservice that brute, bloated with _porter_ and _gin_, who will remainsilent for hours at a time, then, at the first mounting of liquor tohis head, begins to howl and to wish to fight everybody, as witness thescandalous scene which had just occurred when we entered? The marquis's little groom, Tom Bois l'Hery, as they call him here, haddesired to have a jest with this uncouth creature of an Irishman, whohad replied to a bit of Parisian urchin's banter with a terrible Belfastblow of his fist right in the lad's face. "A sausage with paws, I! A sausage with paws, I!" repeated the coachman, choking with rage, while his innocent victim was being carried into theadjoining room, where the ladies and girls found occupation in bathinghis nose. The disturbance was quickly appeased, thanks to our arrival, thanks also to the wise words of M. Barreau, a middle-aged man, sedateand majestic, with a manner resembling my own. He is the Nabob's cook, a former _chef_ of the Cafe Anglais, whom Cardailhac, the manager ofthe Nouveautes, has procured for his friend. To see him in a dress-coat, with white tie, his handsome face full and clean-shaven, you would havetaken him for one of the great functionaries of the Empire. It is truethat a cook in an establishment where the table is set every morningfor thirty persons, in addition to madame's special meal, and all eatingonly the very finest and most delicate of food, is not the same as theordinary preparer of a _ragout_. He is paid the salary of a colonel, lodged, boarded, and then the perquisites! One has hardly a notionof the extent of the perquisites in a berth like this. Every oneconsequently addressed him respectfully, with the deference due to a manof his importance. "M. Barreau" here, "My dear M. Barreau" there. Forit is a great mistake to imagine that servants among themselves are allcronies and comrades. Nowhere do you find a hierarchy more prevalentthan among them. Thus at M. Noel's party I distinctly noticed that thecoachmen did not fraternize with their grooms, nor the valets with thefootmen and the lackeys, any more than the steward or the butler wouldmix with the lower servants; and when M. Barreau emitted any littlepleasantry it was amusing to see how exceedingly those under his ordersseemed to enjoy it. I am not opposed to this kind of thing. Quite onthe contrary. As our oldest member used to say, "A society withouta hierarchy is like a house without a staircase. " The observation, however, seems to me one worth setting down in these memoirs. The party, I need scarcely say, did not shine with its full splendouruntil after the return of its most beauteous ornaments, the ladies andgirls who had gone to nurse the little Tom, ladies'-maids with shiningand pomaded hair, chiefs of domestic departments in bonnets adorned withribbons, negresses, housekeepers, a brilliant assembly in which I wasimmediately given great prestige, thanks to my dignified bearing and tothe surname of "Uncle" which the younger among these delightful personssaw fit to bestow upon me. I fancy there was in the room a good deal of second-hand frippery inthe way of silk and lace, rather faded velvet, even, eight-buttongloves that had been cleaned several times, and perfumes abstracted frommadame's dressing-table, but the faces were happy, thoughts given whollyto gaiety, and I was able to make a little corner for myself, which wasvery lively, always within the bounds of propriety--that goes withoutsaying--and of a character suitable for an individual in my position. This was, moreover, the general tone of the party. Until towards the endof the entertainment I heard none of those unseemly jests, none of thosescandalous stories which give so much amusement to the gentlemen ofour Board; and I take pleasure in remarking that Bois l'Hery thecoachman--to cite only one example--is much more observant of theproprieties than Bois l'Hery the master. M. Noel alone was conspicuous by his familiar tone and by the livelinessof his repartees. In him you have a man who does not hesitate to callthings by their names. Thus he remarked aloud to M. Francis, from oneend of the room to the other: "I say, Francis, that old swindler ofyours has made a nice thing out of us again this week. " And as the otherdrew himself up with a dignified air, M. Noel began to laugh. "No offence, old chap. The coffer is solid. You will never get to thebottom of it. " And it was on this that he told us of the loan of fifteen millions, towhich I alluded above. I was surprised, however, to see no sign of preparation for the supperwhich was mentioned on the cards of invitation, and I expressed myanxiety on the point to one of my charming nieces, who replied: "They are waiting for M. Louis. " "M. Louis?" "What! you do not know M. Louis, the _valet de chambre_ of the Duc deMora?" I then learned who this influential personage was, whose protection issought by prefects, senators, even ministers, and who must make them paystiffly for it, since with his salary of twelve hundred francs fromthe duke he has saved enough to produce him an income of twenty-fivethousand, sends his daughters to the convent school of the Sacre Coeur, his son to the College Bourdaloue, and owns a chalet in Switzerlandwhere all his family goes to stay during the holidays. At this juncture the personage in question arrived; but nothing in hisappearance would have suggested the unique position in Paris which ishis. Nothing of majesty in his deportment, a waistcoat buttoned up tothe collar, a mean-looking and insolent manner, and a way of speakingwithout moving the lips which is very impolite to those who arelistening to you. He greeted the assembly with a slight nod of the head, extended a fingerto M. Noel, and we were sitting there looking at each other, frozen byhis grand manners, when a door opened at the farther end of the room andwe beheld the supper laid out with all kinds of cold meats, pyramidsof fruit, and bottles of all shapes beneath the light falling from twocandelabra. "Come, gentlemen, give the ladies your hands. " In a minute we were attable, the ladies seated next the eldest or the most important amongus all, the rest on their feet, serving, chattering, drinking fromeverybody's glass, picking a morsel from any plate. I had M. Francisfor my neighbour and I had to listen to his grudges against M. Louis, ofwhose place he was envious, so brilliant was it in comparison with thatwhich he occupied under the noble but worn-out old gambler who was hismaster. "He is a _parvenu_, " he muttered to me in a low voice. "He owes hisfortune to his wife, to Mme. Paul. " It appears that this Mme. Paul is a housekeeper, who has been in theduke's establishment for twenty years, and who excels beyond all othersin the preparation for him of a certain ointment for an affection towhich he is subject. She is indispensable to Mora. Recognising this, M. Louis made love to the old lady, married her though much younger thanshe, and in order not to lose his sick-nurse and her ointments, hisexcellency engaged the husband as _valet de chambre_. At bottom, inspite of what I said to M. Francis, for my own part I thought theproceeding quite praiseworthy and conformable to the loftiest morality, since the mayor and the priest had a finger in it. Moreover, thatexcellent meal, composed of delicate and very expensive foods withwhich I was unacquainted even by name, had strongly disposed my mind toindulgence and good-humour. But every one was not similarly inclined, for from the other side of the table I could hear the bass voice of M. Barreau, complaining: "Why can he not mind his own business? Do I go pushing my nose intohis department? To begin with, the thing concerns Bompain, not him. Andthen, after all, what is it that I am charged with? The butcher sends mefive baskets of meat every morning. I use only two of them and sell thethree others back to him. Where is the _chef_ who does not do the same?As if, instead of coming to play the spy in my basement, he would notdo better to look after the great leakage up there. When I think thatin three months that gang on the first floor has smoked twenty-eightthousand francs' worth of cigars. Twenty-eight thousand francs! AskNoel if I am not speaking the truth. And on the second floor, in theapartments of madame, that is where you should look to see a fineconfusion of linen, of dresses thrown aside after being worn once, jewels by the handful, pearls that you crush on the floor as you walk. Oh, but wait a little. I shall get my own back from that same littlegentleman. " I understood that the allusion was to M. De Gery, that young secretaryof the Nabob who often comes to the Territorial, where he is alwaysoccupied rummaging into the books. Very polite, certainly, but a veryhaughty young man, who does not know how to push himself forward. Fromall round the table there came nothing but a concert of maledictionson him. M. Louis himself addressed some remarks to the company upon thesubject with his grand air: "In our establishment, my dear M. Barreau, the cook quite recently hadan affair, similar to yours, with the chief of his excellency's Cabinet, who had permitted himself to make some comments upon the expenditure. The cook went up to the duke's apartments upon the instant in hisprofessional costume, and with his hand on the strings of his apron, said, 'Let your excellency choose between monsieur and myself. ' The dukedid not hesitate. One can find as many Cabinet leaders as one desires, while the good cooks, you can count them. There are in Paris fouraltogether. I include you, my dear Barreau. We dismissed the chiefof our Cabinet, giving him a prefecture of the first class by way ofconsolation; but we kept the _chef_ of our kitchen. " "Ah, you see, " said M. Barreau, who rejoiced to hear this story, "you see what it is to serve in the house of a _grand seigneur_. But_parvenus_ are _parvenus_--what will you have?" "And that is all Jansoulet is, " added M. Francis, tugging at his cuffs. "A man who used to be a street porter at Marseilles. " M. Noel took offence at this. "Hey, down there, old Francis, you are very glad all the same to havehim to pay your card-debts, the street porter of La Cannebriere. You maywell be embarrassed by _parvenus_ like us who lend millions to kings, and whom _grand seigneurs_ like Mora do not blush to admit to theirtables. " "Oh, in the country, " chuckled M. Francis, with a sneer that showed hisold tooth. The other rose, quite red in the face. He was about to give way to hisanger when M. Louis made a gesture with his hand to signify that he hadsomething to say, and M. Noel sat down immediately, putting his hand tohis ear like all the rest of us in order to lose nothing that fell fromthose august lips. "It is true, " remarked the personage, speaking with the slightestpossible movement of his mouth and continuing to take his wine in littlesips, "it is true that we received the Nabob at Grandbois the otherweek. There even happened something very funny on the occasion. We havea quantity of mushrooms in the second park, and his excellency amuseshimself sometimes by gathering them. Now at dinner was served a largedish of fungi. There were present, what's his name--I forget, what isit?--Marigny, the Minister of the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noel. The mushrooms went the round of the table, they lookednice, the gentlemen helped themselves freely, except M. Le Duc, whocannot digest them and out of politeness feels it his duty to remark tohis guests: 'Oh, you know, it is not that I am suspicious of them. Theyare perfectly safe. It was I myself who gathered them. ' "'_Sapristi!_' said Monpavon, laughing, 'then, my dear Auguste, allow meto be excused from tasting them. ' Marigny, less familiar, glanced at hisplate out of the corner of his eye. "'But, yes, Monpavon, I assure you. They look extremely good, thesemushrooms. I am truly sorry that I have no appetite left. ' "The duke remained very serious. "'Come, M. Jansoulet, I sincerely hope that you are not going to offerme this affront, you also. Mushrooms selected by myself. ' "'Oh, Excellency, the very idea of such a thing! Why, I would eat themwith my eyes closed. ' "So you see what sort of luck he had, the poor Nabob, the first timethat he dined with us. Duperron, who was serving opposite him, told usall about it in the pantry. It seems there could have been nothing morecomic than to see the Jansoulet stuffing himself with mushrooms, androlling terrified eyes, while the others sat watching him curiouslywithout touching their plates. He sweated under the effort, poor wretch. And the best of it was that he took a second portion, he actually foundthe courage to take a second portion. He kept drinking off glasses ofwine, however, like a mason, between each mouthful. Ah, well, do youwish to hear my opinion? What he did there was very clever, and I am nolonger surprised that this fat cow-herd should have become thefavourite of sovereigns. He knows where to flatter them in those littlepretensions which no man avows. In brief, the duke has been crazy overhim since that day. " This little story caused much laughter and scattered the clouds whichhad been raised by a few imprudent words. So then, since the wine haduntied people's tongues, and they knew each other better, elbows wereleaned on the table and the conversation fell on masters, on the placesin which each of them had served, on the amusing things he had seen inthem. Ah! of how many such adventures did I not hear, how much of theinterior life of those establishments did I not see pass before me. Naturally I also made my own little effect with the story of my larderat the Territorial, the times when I used to keep my stew in the emptysafe, which circumstance, however, did not prevent our old cashier, agreat stickler for forms, from changing the key-word of the lock everytwo days, as though all the treasures of the Bank of France had beeninside. M. Louis appeared to find my anecdote entertaining. But themost astonishing was what the little Bois l'Hery, with his Parisianstreet-boy's accent, related to us concerning the household of hisemployers. Marquis and Marquise de Bois l'Hery, second floor, Boulevard Haussmann. Furniture rich as at the Tuileries, blue satin on all the walls, Chinese ornaments, pictures, curiosities, a veritable museum, indeed, overflowing even on to the stairway. The service very smart: sixmen-servants, chestnut livery in winter, nankeen livery in summer. These people are seen everywhere at the small Mondays, at the races, atfirst-nights, at embassy balls, and their name always in the newspaperswith a remark upon the handsome toilettes of Madame, and Monsieur'sremarkable chic. Well! all that is nothing at all but pretence, platedgoods, show, and when the marquis wants five francs nobody wouldlend them to him upon his possessions. The furniture is hired bythe fortnight from Fitily, the upholsterer of the demi-monde. Thecuriosities, the pictures, belong to old Schwalbach, who sends hisclients round there and makes them pay doubly dear, since people don'tbargain when they think they are dealing with a marquis, an amateur. As for the toilettes of the marquise, the milliner and the dressmakerprovide her with them each season gratis, get her to wear the newfashions, a little ridiculous sometimes but which society subsequentlyadopts because Madame is still a very handsome woman and reputed forher elegance; she is what is called a _launcher_. Finally, the servants!Makeshifts like the rest, changed each week at the pleasure of theregistry office which sends them there to do a period of probation byway of preliminary to a serious engagement. If you have neither suretiesnor certificates, if you have just come out of prison or anything ofthat kind, Glanand, the famous agent of the Rue de la Paix, sends youoff to the Boulevard Haussmann. You remain in service there for aweek or two, just the time necessary to buy a good reference from themarquis, who, of course, it is understood, pays you nothing and barelyboards you; for in that house the kitchen-ranges are cold most of thetime, Monsieur and Madame dining out nearly every evening or going toballs, where a supper is included in the entertainment. It is positivefact that there are people in Paris who take the sideboard seriously andmake the first meal of their day after midnight. The Bois l'Herys, inconsequence, are well-informed with regard to the houses that providerefreshments. They will tell you that you get a very good supper at theAustrian Embassy, that the Spanish Embassy rather neglects the wines, and that it is at the Foreign Office again that you find the best_chaud-froid de volailles_. And that is the life of this curioushousehold. Nothing that they possess is really theirs; everything istacked on, loosely fastened with pins. A gust of wind and the wholething blows away. But at least they are certain of losing nothing. It isthis assurance which gives to the marquis that air of raillery worthy ofa Father Tranquille which he has when he looks at you with both hands inhis pockets, as much as to say: "Ah, well, and what then? What can theydo to me?" And the little groom, in the attitude which I have just mentioned, withhis head like that of a prematurely old and vicious child, imitated hismaster so well that I could fancy I saw himself as he looks at our boardmeetings, standing in front of the governor and overwhelming him withhis cynical pleasantries. All the same, one must admit that Paris isa tremendously great city, for a man to be able to live thus, throughfifteen, twenty years of tricks, artifice, dust thrown in people's eyes, without everybody finding him out, and for him still to be able to makea triumphal entry into a drawing-room in the rear of his name announcedloudly and repeatedly, "Monsieur le Marquis de Bois l'Hery. " No, look you, the things that are to be learned at a servants' party, what a curious spectacle is presented by the fashionable world of Paris, seen thus from below, from the basements, you need to go to onebefore you can realize. Here, for instance, is a little fragment ofconversation which, happening to find myself between M. Francis and M. Louis, I overheard about the worthy sire de Monpavon. "You are making a mistake, Francis. You are in funds just now. Youought to take advantage of the occasion to restore that money to theTreasury. " "What will you have?" replied M. Francis with a despondent air. "Play isdevouring us. " "Yes, I know it well. But take care. We shall not always be there. Wemay die, fall from power. Then you will be asked for accounts by thepeople down yonder. And it will be a terrible business. " I had often heard whispered the story of a forced loan of two hundredthousand francs which the marquis was reputed to have secured from theState at the time when he was Receiver-General; but the testimony of his_valet de chambre_ was worse than all. Ah! if masters had any suspicionof how much servants know, of all the stories that are told in theservants' hall, if they could see their names dragged among thesweepings of the house and the refuse of the kitchen, they would neveragain dare to say even "shut the door" or "harness the horses. " Why, forinstance, take Dr. Jenkins, with the most valuable practice in Paris, ten years of life in common with a magnificent woman, who is soughtafter everywhere; it is in vain that he has done everything todissimulate his position, announced his marriage in the newspapers afterthe English fashion, admitted to his house only foreign servants knowinghardly three words of French. In those three words, seasoned with vulgaroaths and blows of his fist on the table, his coachman Joey, who hateshim, told us his whole history during supper. "She is going to kick the bucket, his Irish wife, the real one. Remainsto be seen now whether he will marry the other. Forty-five, she is, Mrs. Maranne, and not a shilling. You should see how afraid she is of beingleft in the lurch. Whether he marries her or whether he does not marryher--kss, kss--we shall have a good laugh. " And the more drink he was given, the more he told us about her, speakingof his unfortunate mistress as though she were the lowest of the low. For my own part, I confess that she interested me, this false Mme. Jenkins, who goes about weeping in every corner, implores her loveras though he were the executioner, and runs the chance of being thrownoverboard altogether, when all society believes her to be married, respectable, and established in life. The others only laughed over thestory, the women especially. Dame! it is amusing when one is in serviceto see that the ladies of the upper ten have their troubles also andtorments that keep them awake at night. Our festal board at this stage presented the most lively aspect, acircle of gay faces stretched towards this Irishman whose story wasadjudged to have won the prize. The fact excited envy; the rest soughtand hunted through their memories for whatever they might hold in theway of old scandals, adventures of deceived husbands, of those intimateprivacies which are emptied on the kitchen-table along with the scrapsfrom the plates and the dregs from the bottles. The champagne wasbeginning to claim its own among the guests. Joey wanted to dance a jigon the table-cloth. The ladies, at the least word that was a little gay, threw themselves back with the piercing laughter of people who are beingtickled, allowing their embroidered skirts to trail beneath the table, loaded with the remains of the food and covered with spilt grease. M. Louis had discreetly retired. Glasses were filled up before they hadbeen emptied; one of the housekeepers dipped a handkerchief in hers, filled with water, and bathed her forehead with it, because her head wasswimming, she said. It was time that the festivity should end; and, in fact, an electric bell ringing in the corridor warned us that thefootman, on duty at the theatre, had come to summon the coachmen. Thereupon Monpavon proposed the health of the master of the house, thanking him for his little party. M. Noel announced that he proposedto give another at Saint-Romans, in honour of the visit of the Bey, towhich most of those present would probably be invited. And I was aboutto rise in my turn, being sufficiently accustomed to social banquetsto know that on such an occasion the oldest man present is expected topropose the health of the ladies, when the door opened abruptly, anda tall footman, bespattered with mud, a dripping umbrella in his hand, perspiring, out of breath, cried to us, without respect for the company: "But come on then, you set of idiots! What are you sticking here for?Don't you know it is over?" THE FESTIVITIES IN HONOUR OF THE BEY In the regions of the Midi, of bygone civilization, historical castlesstill standing are rare. Only at long intervals on the hillsides someold abbey lifts its tottering and dismembered front, perforated by holesthat once were windows, whose empty spaces look now only to the sky. A monument of dust, burnt up by the sun, dating from the time of theCrusades or of the Courts of Love, without a trace of man among itsstones, where even the ivy no longer clings nor the acanthus, but whichthe dried lavenders and the ferns embalm. In the midst of all thoseruins the castle of Saint-Romans is an illustrious exception. If youhave travelled in the Midi you have seen it, and you are to see it againnow. It is between Valence and Montelimart, on a site just where therailway runs alongside the Rhone, at the foot of the rich slopesof Baume, Raucoule, and Mercurol, where the far-famed vineyards ofl'Ermitage, spreading out for five miles in close-planted rows of vines, which seem to grow as one looks, roll down almost into the river, whichis there as green and full of islands as the Rhine at Basle, but undera sun the Rhine has never known. Saint-Romans is opposite on the otherside of the river; and, in spite of the brevity of the vision, theheadlong rush of the train, which seems trying to throw itself madlyinto the Rhone at each turning, the castle is so large, so well situatedon the neighbouring hill, that it seems to follow the crazy race of thetrain, and stamps on your mind forever the memory of its terraces, itsbalustrades, its Italian architecture; two low stories surmounted by acolonnaded gallery and flanked by two slate-roofed pavilions dominatingthe great slopes where the water of the cascades rebounds, the networkof gravel walks, the perspective of long hedges, terminated by somewhite statue which stands out against the blue sky as on the luminousground of a stained-glass window. Quite at the top, in the middle of thevast lawns whose green turf shines ironically under the scorching sun, a gigantic cedar uplifts its crested foliage, enveloped in black andfloating shadows--an exotic silhouette, upright before this formerdwelling of some Louis XIV farmer of revenue, which makes one think of agreat negro carrying the sunshade of a gentleman of the court. From Valence to Marseilles, throughout all the Valley of the Rhone, Saint-Romans of Bellaignes is famous as an enchanted palace; and, indeed, in that country burnt up by the fiery wind, this oasis ofgreenness and beautiful rushing water is a true fairy-land. "When I am rich, mamma, " Jansoulet used to say, as quite a small boy, to his mother whom he adored, "I shall give you Saint-Romans ofBellaignes. " And as the life of the man seemed the fulfilment of a storyfrom the Arabian Nights, as all his wishes came true, even the mostdisproportionate, as his maddest chimeras came to lie down before him, to lick his hands like familiar and obedient spaniels, he had boughtSaint-Romans to offer it, newly furnished and grandiosely restored, tohis mother. Although it was ten years since then, the dear old woman wasnot yet used to her splendid establishment. "It is the palace of QueenJeanne that you have given me, my dear Bernard, " she wrote to her son. "I shall never live there. " She never did live there, as a matter offact, having stayed at the steward's house, an isolated building ofmodern construction, situated quite at the other end of the grounds, so as to overlook the outbuildings and the farm, the sheepfolds and theoil-mills, with their rural horizon of stacks, olive-trees and vines, extending over the plain as far as one could see. In the great castleshe would have imagined herself a prisoner in one of those enchanteddwellings where sleep seizes you in the midst of your happiness anddoes not let you go for a hundred years. Here, at least, thepeasant-woman--who had never been able to accustom herself tothis colossal fortune, come too late, from too far, and like athunder-clap--felt herself linked to reality by the coming and going ofthe work-people, the letting-out and taking-in of the cattle, their slowmovement to the drinking pond, all that pastoral life which woke her bythe familiar call of the cocks and the sharp cries of the peacocks, andbrought her down the corkscrew staircase of the pavilion before dawn. She looked upon herself only as the trustee of this magnificent estate, which she was taking care of for her son, and wished to give back to himin perfect condition on the day when, rich enough and tired of livingwith the Turks, he would come, according to his promise, to live withher beneath the shade of Saint-Romans. Then, too, what universal and indefatigable supervision! Through themists of early morning the farm-servants heard her rough and huskyvoice: "Olivier, Peyrol, Audibert. Come on! It is four o'clock. " Thenshe would hasten to the immense kitchen, where the maids, heavy withsleep, were heating the porridge over the crackling, new-lit fire. They gave her a little dish of red Marseilles-ware full of boiledchestnuts--frugal breakfast of bygone times, which nothing would haveinduced her to change. At once she was off, hurrying with great strides, her large silver keyring at her belt, whence jingled all her keys, herplate in her hand, balanced by the distaff which she held, in workingorder, under her arm, for she spun all day long, and did not stop evento eat her chestnuts. On the way, a glance at the stables, still dark, where the animals were moving duly, at the stifling pens with their rowsof impatient and outstretched muzzles; and the first glimmers of lightcreeping over the layers of stones that supported the embankment of thepark, lit up the figure of the old woman, running in the dew, with thelightness of a girl, despite her seventy years--verifying exactly eachmorning all the wealth of the domain, anxious to make sure that thenight had not taken away the statues and the vases, uprooted thehundred-year-old quincunx, dried up the springs which filtered intotheir resounding basins. Then the full sunlight of midday, humming andvibrating, showed still, on the sand of an alley, against the white wallof a terrace, the long figure of the old woman, elegant and straightas her spindle, picking up bits of dead wood, breaking off some unevenbranch of a shrub, careless of the shock it caused her and the sweatwhich broke out over her skin. Towards this hour another figure was tobe seen in the park also--less active, less noisy, dragging rather thanwalking, leaning against the walls and railings--a poor round-shoulderedbeing, shaky and stiff, a figure from which life seemed to have goneout, never speaking, when he was tired giving a little plaintive crytowards the servant, who was always near, who helped him to sit down, tocrouch upon some step, where he would stay for hours, motionless, mute, his mouth hanging, his eyes blinking, hushed by the strident monotony ofthe grasshopper's cry--a blotch of humanity in the splendid horizon. This, this was the first-born, Bernard's brother, the darling child ofhis father and mother, the glorious hope of the nail-maker's family. Slaves, like so many others in the Midi, to the superstition of therights of primogeniture, they had made every possible sacrifice to sendto Paris their fine, ambitious lad, who set out assured of success, theadmiration of all the young women of the town; and Paris, after havingfor six years, beaten, twisted, and squeezed in its great vat thebrilliant southern stripling, after having burnt him with all itsvitriol, rolled him in all its mud, finished by sending him back inthis state of wreckage, stupefied and paralyzed--killing his father withsorrow, and forcing his mother to sell her all, and live as a sort ofchar-woman in the better-class houses of her own country-side. Lucky itwas that just then, when this broken piece of humanity, dischargedfrom all the hospitals of Paris, was sent back by public charity toBourg-Saint-Andeol, Bernard--he whom they called Cadet, as in thesesouthern families, half Arab as they are, the eldest always takes thefamily name, and the last-comer that of Cadet--Bernard was at Tunismaking his fortune, and sending home money regularly. But what pain itwas for the poor mother to owe everything, even the life, the comfortof the sad invalid, to the robust and courageous boy whom his father andshe had loved without any tenderness; who, since he was five years old, they had treated as a "hand, " because he was very strong, woolly-headed, and ugly, and even then knew better than any one in the house how todeal in old nails. Ah! how she longed to have him near her, her Cadet, to make some return to him for all the good he did, to pay at last thedebt of love and motherly tenderness that she owed him! But, you see, these princely fortunes have the burdens, the wearinessesof royal lives. This poor mother, in her dazzling surroundings, was verylike a real queen: familiar with long exiles, cruel separations, and thetrials which detract from greatness; one of her sons forever stupefied, the other far away, seldom writing, absorbed in his business, saying, "I will come, " and never coming. She had only seen him once in twelveyears, and then in the whirl of a visit of the Bey to Saint-Romans--arush of horses and carriages, of fireworks, and of banquets. He had gonein the suite of his monarch, having scarcely time to say good-bye to hisold mother, to whom there remained of this great joy only a few picturesin the illustrated papers, showing Bernard Jansoulet arriving at thecastle with Ahmed, and presenting his mother. Is it not thus that kingsand queens have their family feelings exploited in the journals? Therewas also a cedar of Lebanon, brought from the other end of the world, aregular mountain of a tree, whose transport had been as difficult and ascostly as that of Cleopatra's needle, and whose erection as a souvenirof the royal visit by dint of men, money, and teams had shaken the veryfoundations. But this time, at least, knowing him to be in France forseveral months--perhaps for good--she hoped to have her Bernard toherself. And now he returned to her, one fine evening, enveloped in thesame triumphant glory, in the same official display, surrounded by acrowd of counts, of marquises, of fine gentlemen from Paris, filling, they and their servants, the two large wagonettes she had sent to meetthem at the little station of Giffas on the other side of the Rhone. "Come, give me a kiss, my dear mother. There is nothing to be ashamedof in giving a good hug to the boy you haven't seen all these years. Besides, all these gentlemen are our friends. This is the Marquisde Monpavon, the Marquis de Bois d'Hery. Ah! the time is past whenI brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, little Cabassu andJean-Batiste Bompain. You know M. De Gery? With my old friendCardailhac, whom I now present, that makes the first batch. There areothers to come. Prepare yourself for a fine upsetting. We entertain theBey in four days. " "The Bey again!" said the old woman, astounded. "I thought he was dead. " Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this comical terror, accentuated by her southern intonation. "It is another, mamma. There is always a Bey--thank goodness. Butdon't be afraid. You won't have so much bother this time. Our friendCardailhac has undertaken everything. We are going to have magnificentcelebrations. In the meantime, quick--dinner and our rooms. OurParisians are worn out. " "Everything is ready, my son, " said the old lady quietly, stiff andstraight under her Cambrai cap, the head-dress with its yellowing flaps, which she never left off even for great occasions. Good fortune had notchanged her. She was a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent andproud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac's country folk, tooartless to be purse-proud. One pride alone she had--that of showing herson with what scrupulous care she had discharged her duties as guardian. Not an atom of dust, not a trace of damp on the walls. All the splendidground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings of iridescent silknew out of the dust sheets, the long summer galleries cool and sonorous, paved with mosaics and furnished with a flowery lightness in theold-fashioned style, with Louis XIV sofas in cane and silk, the immensedining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiard-room with itsrows of brilliant ivory balls, its crystal chandeliers and its suitsof armour--all the length of the castle, through its tall windows, wideopen to the stately terrace, lay displayed for the admiration of thevisitors. The marvellous beauty of the horizon and the setting sun, itsown serene and peaceful richness, were reflected in the panes of glassand in the waxed and polished wood with the same clearness as in themirror-like ornamental lakes, the pictures of the poplars and the swans. The setting was so lovely, the whole effect so grand, that the clamorousand tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared, even to the mosthypercritical eyes. "There is something to work on, " said Cardailhac, the manager, his glassin his eye, his hat on one side, combining already his stage-effect. And the haughty air of Monpavon, whom the head-dress of the old womanreceiving them on the terrace had shocked, gave way to a condescendingsmile. Here was something to work on, certainly, and, guided by personsof taste, their friend Jansoulet could really give his Moorish Highnessan exceedingly suitable reception. All the evening they talked ofnothing else. In the sumptuous dining-room, their elbows on the table, full of meat and drink, they planned and discussed. Cardailhac, who hadgreat ideas, had already his plan complete. "First of all, you give me _carte-blanche_, don't you, Nabob?_Carte-blanche_, old fellow, and make that fat Hemerlingue burst withenvy. " Then the manager explained his scheme. The festivities were to bedivided into days, as at Vaux, when Fouquet entertained Louis XIV. Oneday a play; another day Provencal games, dances, bull-fights, local bands; the third day--And already the manager's hand sketchedprogrammes, announcements; while Bois l'Hery slept, his hands in hispockets, his chair tilted back, his cigar sunk in the corner ofhis sneering mouth; and the Marquis de Monpavon, always on his bestbehaviour, straightened his shirt-front to keep himself awake. De Gery had left them early. He had sought refuge beside the oldmother--who had known him as a boy, him and his brothers--in the humbleparlour of the brightly decorated, white-curtained house, where theNabob's mother tried to perpetuate her humble past with the help of afew relics saved from its wreck. Paul chatted quietly with the fine old woman, admiring her severe andregular features, her white hair massed together like the hemp of herdistaff, as she sat holding herself straight in her seat--never in herlife having leaned back or sat in an arm-chair--a little green shawlfolded tightly across her flat breast. He called her Francoise, and shecalled him M. Paul. They were old friends. And guess what they talkedabout? Of her grandchildren, of Bernard's three sons, whom she did notknow and so much longed to know. "Ah, M. Paul, if you knew how I long to see them! I should have beenso happy if he had brought them, my three little ones, instead of thesefine gentlemen. Think, I have never seen them, only their portraitswhich are over there. I am a little afraid of their mother, she is quitea great lady, a Miss Afchin. But them, the children, I am sure they arenot proud, and they would love their old granny. It would be like havingtheir father a little boy again, and I would give to them what I did notgive to him. You see, M. Paul, parents are not always just. They havetheir favourites. But God is just, he is. The ones that are most pettedand spoiled at the expense of the others, you should see what he does tothem for you! And the favour of the old often brings misfortune to theyoung!" She sighed, looking towards the large recess from behind the curtains ofwhich there came, at intervals, a long sobbing breath like the sleepingwail of a beaten child who has cried bitterly. A heavy step on the staircase, a loud, sweet voice saying, very softly, "It is I; don't move, " and Jansoulet appeared. He knew his mother'shabits, how her lamp was the last to go out, so when every one in thecastle was in bed, he came to see her, to chat with her for a little, torejoice her heart with an affection he could not show before the others. "Oh, stay, my dear Paul; we don't mind you, " and once more a child inhis mother's presence, with loving gestures and words that were reallytouching, the huge man threw himself on the ground at her feet. She wasvery happy to have him there, so dearly near, but she was just a littleshy. She looked upon him as an all-powerful being, extraordinary, raising him, in her simplicity, to the greatness of an Olympiancommanding the thunder and lightning. She spoke to him, asking about hisfriends, his business, but not daring to put the question she had askedde Gery: "Why haven't my grandchildren come?" But he spoke of themhimself. "They are at school, mother. Whenever the holidays begin theyshall be sent with Bompain. You remember Jean-Baptiste Bompain? And youshall keep them for two long months. They will come to you and make youtell them stories, and they will go to sleep with their heads on yourlap--there, like that. " And he himself, putting his heavy, woolly head on her knee, rememberedthe happy evenings of his childhood when he would go to sleep so, if shewould let him, and his brother had not taken up all the room. He tastedfor the first time since his return to France a few minutes of deliciouspeace away from his restless and artificial life, as he lay pressed tohis old mother's heart, in the deep silence of night and of the countrywhich one feels hovering over him in limitless space; the only soundsthe beating of that old faithful heart and the swing of the pendulum ofthe ancient clock in the corner. Suddenly came the same long sigh, as ofa child fallen asleep sobbing. Jansoulet lifted his head and looked athis mother, and softly asked: "Is it--?" "Yes, " she said, "I make himsleep there. He might need me in the night. " "I would like to see him, to embrace him. " "Come, then. " She rose very gravely, took the lamp and went to thealcove, of which she softly drew the large curtain, making a sign to herson to draw near quietly. He was sleeping. And no doubt something lived in him while he slept thatwas not there when he waked, for instead of the flaccid immobility inwhich he was congealed all day, he was now shaken by sudden starts, andon the inexpressive and death-like face there were lines of pain and thecontractions of suffering life. Jansoulet, much affected, looked longat those wasted features, faded and sickly, where the beard grew with asurprising vigour. Then he bent down, put his lips to the damp brow, andfeeling him move, said very gravely and respectfully, as one speaks tothe head of the family, "Good-night, my brother. " Perhaps the captivesoul had heard it from the depths of its dark and abject limbo. For thelips moved and a long moan answered him, a far-away wail, a despairingcry, which filled with helpless tears the glance exchanged betweenFrancoise and her son, and tore from them both the same cry in whichtheir sorrow met, "Pecaire, " the local word which expressed all pity andall tenderness. The next day, from early morning, the commotion began with the arrivalof the actors, an avalanche of hats and wigs and big boots, of shortskirts and affected cries, of floating veils and fresh make-ups. Thewomen were in a great majority, as Cardailhac thought that for a Beythe play was of little consequence, and that all that was needful was tohave catchy tunes in pretty mouths, to show fine arms and shapely legsin the easy costume of light opera. All the well-made celebrities of histheatre were there, Amy Ferat at the head of them, a bold young womanwho had already had her teeth in the gold of several crowns. Therewere two or three well-known men whose pale faces made the same kind ofchalky and spectral spots amid the green of the trees as the plaster ofthe statues. All these people, enlivened by the journey, the surprise ofthe country, the overflowing hospitality, as well as the hope of makingsomething out of this sojourn of Beys and Nabobs and other gilded fools, wanted only to play, to jest and sing with the vulgar boisterousnessof a crew of freshly discharged Seine boatmen. But Cardailhac meantotherwise. No sooner were they unpacked, freshened up, and luncheon overthan, quick, the parts, the rehearsals! There was no time to lose. Theyworked in the small drawing-room next the summer gallery, where thetheatre was already being fitted up; and the noise of hammers, the songsfrom the burlesque, the shrill voices, the conductor's fiddle, mingledwith the loud trumpet-like calls of the peacocks, and rose upon the hotsouthern wind, which, not recognising it as only the mad rattle of itsown grasshoppers, shook it all disdainfully on the trailing tip of itswings. Seated in the centre of the terrace, as in the stage-box of his theatre, Cardailhac watched the rehearsals, gave orders to a crowd of workmenand gardeners, had trees cut down as spoiling the view, designed thetriumphal arches, sent off telegrams, express messengers to mayors, tosub-prefects, to Arles--to arrange for a deputation of girls in nationalcostume; to Barbantane, where the best dancers are; to Faraman, famousfor its wild bulls and Camargue horses. And as the name of Jansoulet, joined to that of the Bey of Tunis, flared at the end of all thesemessages, on all sides they hastened to obey; the telegraph wires werenever still, messengers wore out horses on the roads. And this littleSardanapalus of the stage called Cardailhac repeated ever, "There'ssomething to work on here, " happy to scatter gold at random likehandfuls of seed, to have a stage of forty leagues to stir about--thewhole of Provence, of which this rabid Parisian was a native and whosepicturesque resources he knew to the core. Dispossessed of her office, the old mother never appeared. She occupiedherself with the farm, and her invalid. She was terrified by this crowdof visitors, these insolent servants whom it was difficult to know fromthe masters, these women with their impudent and elegant airs, theseclean-shaven men who looked like bad priests--all these mad-caps whochased each other at night in the corridors with pillows, with wetsponges, with curtain tassels they had torn down, for weapons. Evenafter dinner she no longer had her son; he was obliged to stay with hisguests, whose number grew each day as the _fetes_ approached; not eventhe resource of talking to M. Paul about her grandchildren was left, forJansoulet, a little embarrassed by the seriousness of his friend, had sent him to spend a few days with his brothers. And the carefulhousekeeper, to whom they came every minute asking the keys for linen, for a room, for extra silver, thought of her piles of beautiful dishes, of the sacking of her cupboards and larders, remembered the statein which the old Bey's visit had left the castle, devastated as by acyclone, and said in her _patois_ as she feverishly wet the linen on herdistaff: "May lightning strike them, this Bey and all the Beys!" At last the day came, the great day which is still spoken of in all thecountry-side. Towards three o'clock in the afternoon, after a sumptuousluncheon at which the old mother presided, this time in a new cap, overa company composed of Parisian celebrities, prefects, deputies, all infull uniform, mayors with their sashes, priests newshaven, Jansoulet infull dress stepped out on to the terrace surrounded by his guests. Hesaw before him in that splendid frame of magnificent natural scenery, inthe midst of flags and arches and coats of arms, a vast swarm of people, a flare of brilliant costumes in rows on the slopes, at corners of thewalks; here, grouped in beds, like flowers on a lawn, the prettiestgirls of Arles, whose little dark heads showed delicately from beneaththeir lace fichus; farther down were the dancers from Barbantane--eighttambourine players in a line, ready to begin, their hands joined, ribbons flying, hats cocked, and the red scarves round their hips;beyond them, on the succeeding terraces were the choral societies inrows, dressed in black with red caps, their standard-bearer in front, grave, important, his teeth clinched, holding high his carved staff;farther down still, on a vast circular space now arranged as anamphitheatre, were the black bulls, and the herdsmen from Camargueseated on their long-haired white horses, their high boots over theirknees, at their wrists an uplifted spear; then more flags, helmets, bayonets, and decorations right down to the triumphal arch at the gates;as far as the eye could see, on the other side of the Rhone (acrosswhich the two railways had made a pontoon bridge that they mightcome straight from the station to Saint-Romans), whole villages wereassembling from every side, crowding to the Giffas road in a cloud ofdust and a confusion of cries, sitting at the hedge-sides, clinging tothe elms, squeezed in carts--a living wall for the procession. Above alla great white sun which scintillated in every direction--on the copperof a tambourine, on the point of a trident, on the fringe of a banner;and in the midst the great proud Rhone carrying to the sea the movingpicture of this royal feast. Before these marvels, where shone all thegold of his coffers, the Nabob had a sudden feeling of admiration and ofpride. "This is beautiful, " he said, paling; and behind him his mothermurmured, "It is too beautiful for man. It is as if God were coming. "She was pale, too, but with an unutterable fear. The sentiment of the old Catholic peasant was indeed that which wasvaguely felt by all those people massed upon the roads as though for thepassing of a gigantic Corpus Christi procession, and whom this visitof an Eastern prince to a child of their own country reminded of thelegends of the Magi, or the advent of Gaspard the Moor, bringing to thecarpenter's son myrrh and the triple crown. As Jansoulet was being warmly congratulated by every one, Cardailhac, who had not been seen since morning, suddenly appeared, triumphant andperspiring. "Didn't I tell you there was something to work on! Eh? Isn'tit fine? What a scene! I bet our Parisians would pay dear to be at sucha first performance as this!" And lowering his voice, on account of themother who was quite near, "Have you seen our country girls? No? Examinethem more closely--the first, the one in front, who is to present thebouquet. " "Why, it is Amy Ferat!" "Just so. You see, old fellow, if the Bey should throw his handkerchiefamid that group of loveliness there must be some one to pick it up. Theywouldn't understand, these innocents. Oh, I have thought of everything, you will see. Everything is prepared and regulated just as on the stage. Garden side--farm side. " Here, to give an idea of the perfect organization, the manager raisedhis stick. Immediately his gesture was repeated from the top to thebottom of the park, and from the choral societies, from the brass bands, from the tambourines, there burst forth the majestic strains of thepopular southern song, _Grand Soleil de la Provence_. Voices andinstruments rose in the sunlight, the banners filled, the dancers swayedto their first movement, while on the other side of the river a reportflew like a breeze that the Bey had arrived unexpectedly by anotherroute. The manager made another gesture, and the immense orchestra washushed. The response was slower this time, there were little delays, ahail of words lost in the leaves; but one could not expect more from aconcourse of three thousand people. Just then the carriages appeared, the state coaches which had been used on the occasion of the last Bey'svisit--two large chariots, pink and gold as at Tunis. Mme. Jansoulethad tended them almost as holy relics, and they had come out of theircoverings, with their panels, their hangings and their gold fringes, as shining and new as the day they were made. Here again Cardailhac'singenuity had been freely exercised. He had thought horses looked tooheavy for those unreal fragilities, so he had harnessed instead eightmules, with white reins, decorated with bows and pompons and bells, andcaparisoned from head to foot in that marvellous Esparto work--an artProvence has borrowed from the Moors and perfected. How could the Beynot be pleased! The Nabob, Monpavon, the prefect, and one of the generals got into thefirst coach; the others filled the succeeding carriages. The priests andthe mayors, swelling with importance, rushed to the head of the choralsocieties of their villages which were to go in front, and all moved offalong the road to Giffas. The weather was magnificent, but hot and heavy, three months in advanceof the season, as often happens in this impetuous country, whereeverything is in a hurry and comes too soon. Although there was not acloud to be seen, the stillness of the atmosphere--the wind hadfallen suddenly like a loose sail--dazzling and heated white, a silentsolemnity hanging over all, foretold a storm brewing in some cornerof the horizon. The immense torpor of things gradually influenced theliving beings. One heard too distinctly the tinkling mule-bells, theheavy steps in the dust of the band of singers whom Cardailhac wasplacing at regular distances in the seething human hedge which borderedthe road and was lost in the distance; a sudden call, children's voices, and the cry of the water-seller, that necessary accompaniment of allopen-air festivals in the Midi. "Open your window, general, it is stifling, " said Monpavon, crimson, fearing for his paint, and the lowered windows exposed to the populacethese high functionaries mopping their august faces, strained, agonized, by the same expression of waiting--waiting for the Bey, for the storm, waiting for something, in short. Still another trimphal arch. It was at Giffas, its long, stony streetstrewn with green palms, and its sordid houses gay with flowers andbright hangings. The station was outside the village, white and square, stuck like a thimble on the roadside--true type of a little countrystation, lost in the midst of vineyards, never having any one in itexcept perhaps sometimes an old woman and her parcels waiting in acorner, come three hours before the time. In honour of the Bey this slight building had been rigged out withflags, adorned with rugs and divans; a splendid buffet had been fittedup with sherbets, all ready for his Highness. Once there and out of thecarriage the Nabob tried to dispel the feeling of uneasiness which he, too, had begun to suffer from. Prefects, generals, deputies, peoplein dress-coats and uniforms, were standing about on the platform inimposing groups, their faces solemn, their mouths pursed, their bodiesswaying and jerking in the knowing way of public functionaries who feelpeople are looking at them. And you can imagine how noses were flattenedagainst the windows to see all this hierarchical swelldom. Therewas Monpavon, his shirt-front bulging like a whipped egg. Cardailhacbreathlessly giving his last orders, and the honest face of Jansoulet, whose sparkling eyes, set over his fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like twogold nails in a goffering of Spanish leather. Suddenly an electricbell rang. The station-master, in a new uniform, ran down the line:"Gentlemen, the train is signalled. It will be here in eight minutes. "Every one started, and with the same instinctive movement pulled outtheir watches. Only six minutes more. Then in the great silence some onesaid: "Look over there!" To the right, on the side from which the trainwas to come, two great slopes, covered with vines, made a sort of funnelinto which the track disappeared as though swallowed up. Just then allthis hollow was as black as ink, darkened by an enormous cloud, a bar ofgloom, cutting the blue of the sky perpendicularly, throwing out banksthat resembled cliffs of basalt on which the light broke all white likemoonshine. In the solemnity of the deserted track, over the lines ofsilent rails where one felt that everything was ready for the comingof the prince, it was terrifying to see this aerial crag approaching, throwing its shadow before it, to watch the play of the perspectivewhich gave the cloud a slow, majestic movement, and the shadow therapidity of a galloping horse. "What a storm we shall have directly!"was the thought which came to every one, but none had voice to expressit, for a strident whistle sounded and the train appeared at the end ofthe dark funnel. A real royal train, rapid and short, and decorated withflags. The smoking, roaring engine carried a large bouquet of roses onits breastplate, like a bridesmaid at some leviathan wedding. It came out of the funnel at full speed, but slowed down as itapproached. The functionaries grouped themselves, straightened theirbacks, hitched their swords and eased their collars, while Jansouletwent down the track to meet the train, an obsequious smile on his lips, his back curved ready for the "Salam Alek. " The train proceeded veryslowly. Jansoulet thought it had stopped, and put his hand on the doorof the royal carriage, glittering with gold under the black sky. But, doubtless, the impetus had been too strong, and the train continued toadvance, the Nabob walking beside it, trying to open the accursed doorwhich was stuck fast, and making signs to the engine-driver. Theengine was not answering. "Stop, stop, there!" It did not stop. Losingpatience, he jumped on to the velvet-covered step, and in that fiery, impulsive manner of his which had so delighted the old Bey, he cried, his woolly head at the door, "Saint-Romans station, your Highness. " You know the sort of vague light there is in dreams, the colourlessempty atmosphere where everything has the look of a phantom. Jansouletwas suddenly enveloped in this, stricken, paralyzed. He wanted to speak, words would not come, his nerveless hand held the door so feebly thathe almost fell backward. What had he seen? On a divan at the back ofthe saloon, reposing on his elbow, his beautiful dark head with itslong silky beard leaning on his hand, was the Bey, close wrapped inhis Oriental coat, without other ornaments than the large ribbon of theLegion of Honour across his breast and the diamond in the aigretteof his fez. He was fanning himself impassively with a little fan ofgold-embroidered strawwork. Two aides-de-camp and an engineer of therailway company were standing beside him. Opposite, on another divan, in a respectful attitude, but favoured evidently, as they were the onlyones seated in the Bey's presence, were two owl-like men, their longwhiskers falling on their white ties, one fat and the other thin. Theywere the Hemerlingues, father and son, who had won over his Highnessand were bearing him off in triumph to Paris. What a horrible dream! Allthree men, who knew Jansoulet well, looked at him coldly as though hisface recalled nothing. Piteously white, his forehead covered with sweat, he stammered, "But, your Highness, are you not going to--" A vivid flashof lightning, followed by a terrible peal of thunder, stopped thewords. But the lightning in the eyes of his sovereign seemed to him asterrible. Sitting up, his arm outstretched, in guttural voice as of oneaccustomed to roll the hard Arab syllables, but in pure French, theBey struck him down with the slow, carefully prepared words: "Go home, swindler. The feet go where the heart guides. Mine will never enter thehouse of the man who has cheated my country. " Jansoulet tried to say something. The Bey made a sign: "Go on. " Theengineer pressed a button, a whistle replied, the train, which had neverreally stopped, seemed to stretch itself, making all its iron musclescrack, to take a bound and start off at full speed, the flags flutteringin the storm-wind, and the black smoke meeting the lightning flashes. Jansoulet, left standing on the track, staggering, stunned, ruined, watched his fortune fly away and disappear, oblivious of the largedrops of rain which were falling on his bare head. Then, when the othersrushed upon him, surrounded him, rained questions upon him, he stutteredsome disconnected words: "Court intrigues--infamous plot. " And suddenly, shaking his fist after the train, with eyes that were bloodshot, and afoam of rage upon his lips, he roared like a wild beast, "Blackguards!" "You forget yourself, Jansoulet, you forget yourself. " You guess who itwas that uttered those words, and, taking the Nabob's arm, tried to pullhim together, to make him hold his head as high as his own, conductedhim to the carriage through the rows of stupefied people in uniform, and made him get in, exhausted and broken, like a near relation of thedeceased that one hoists into a mourning-coach after the funeral. Therain began to fall, peals of thunder followed one another. Every one nowhurried into the carriages, which quickly took the homeward road. Thenthere occurred a heart-rending yet comical thing, one of the cruelfarces played by that cowardly destiny which kicks its victims afterthey are down. In the falling day and the growing darkness of thecyclone, the crowd, squeezed round the approaches of the station, thought they saw his Highness somewhere amid the gorgeous trappings, andas soon as the wheels started an immense clamour, a frightful bawling, which had been hatching for an hour in all those breasts, burst out, rose, rolled, rebounded from side to side and prolonged itself in thevalley. "Hurrah, hurrah for the Bey!" This was the signal for the firstbands to begin, the choral societies started in their turn, and thenoise growing step by step, the road from Giffas to Saint-Romans wasnothing but an uninterrupted bellow. Cardailhac and all the gentlemen, Jansoulet himself, leant in vain out of the windows making desperatesigns, "That will do! That's enough!" Their gestures were lost in thetumult and the darkness; what the crowd did see seemed to act only asan excitant. And I promise you there was no need of that. All thesemeridionals, whose enthusiasm had been carefully led since earlymorning, excited the more by the long wait and the storm, shouted withall the force of their voices and the strength of their lungs, minglingwith the song of Provence the cry of "Hurrah for the Bey!" till itseemed a perpetual chorus. Most of them had no idea what a Bey was, did not even think about it. They accentuated the appellation in anextraordinary manner as though it had three b's and ten y's. But it madeno difference, they excited themselves with the cry, holding up theirhands, waving their hats, becoming agitated as a result of their ownactivity. Women wept and rubbed their eyes. Suddenly, from the top of anelm, the shrill voice of a child made itself heard: "Mamma, mamma--I seehim!" He saw him! They all saw him, for that matter! Now even, they willall swear to you they saw him! Confronted by such a delirium, in the impossibility of imposing silenceand calm on such a crowd, there was only one thing for the people in thecarriages to do: to leave them alone, pull up the windows and dash alongat full speed. It would at least shorten a bitter martyrdom. But thiswas even worse. Seeing the procession hurrying, all the road began togallop with it. To the dull booming of their tambourines the dancersfrom Barbantane, hand in hand, sprang--a living garland--round thecarriage doors. The choral societies, breathless with singing as theyran, but singing all the same, dragged on their standard-bearers, thebanners now hanging over their shoulders; and the good, fat priests, redand panting, shoving their vast overworked bellies before them, stillfound strength to shout into the very ear of the mules, in an unctuous, effusive voice, "Long live our noble Bey!" The rain on all this, therain falling in buckets, discolouring the pink coaches, precipitatingthe disorder, giving the appearance of a rout to this triumphal return, but a comic rout, mingled with songs and laughs, mad embraces, andinfernal oaths. It was something like the return of a religiousprocession flying before a storm, cassocks turned up, surplices overheads, and the Blessed Sacrament put back in all haste, under a porch. The dull roll of the wheels over the wooden bridge told the poor Nabob, motionless and silent in a corner of his carriage, that they were almostthere. "At last!" he said, looking through the clouded windows at thefoaming waters of the Rhone, whose tempestuous rush seemed calm afterwhat he had just suffered. But at the end of the bridge, when the firstcarriage reached the great triumphal arch, rockets went off, drums beat, saluting the monarch as he entered the estates of his faithful subject. To crown the irony, in the gathering darkness a gigantic flare of gassuddenly illuminated the roof of the castle, and in spite of the windand the rain, these fiery letters could still be seen very plainly, "Long liv' th' B'Y 'HMED!" "That--that is the wind-up, " said the poor Nabob, who could not helplaughing, though it was a very piteous and bitter laugh. But no, he wasmistaken. The end was the bouquet waiting at the castle door. Amy Feratcame to present it, leaving the group of country maidens under theveranda, where they were trying to shelter the shining silks of theirskirts and the embroidered velvets of their caps as they waited forthe first carriage. Her bunch of flowers in her hand, modest, her eyesdowncast, but showing a roguish leg, the pretty actress sprang forwardto the door in a low courtesy, almost on her knees, a pose she hadworked at for a week. Instead of the Bey, Jansoulet got out, stiff andtroubled, and passed without even seeing her. And as she stayed there, bouquet in hand, with the silly look of a stage fairy who has missed hercue, Cardailhac said to her with the ready chaff of the Parisian whois never at a loss: "Take away your flowers, my dear. The Bey is notcoming. He had forgotten his handkerchief, and as it is only with thathe speaks to ladies, you understand--" Now it is night. Everything is asleep at Saint-Romans after thetremendous uproar of the day. Torrents of rain continue to fall; and inthe park, where the triumphal arches and the Venetian masts still liftvaguely their soaking carcasses, one can hear streams rushing down theslopes transformed into waterfalls. Everything streams or drips. A noiseof water, an immense noise of water. Alone in his sumptuous room, withits lordly bed all hung with purple silks, the Nabob is still awake, turning over his own black thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is notthe affront, that public outrage before all these people, that occupieshim, it is not even the gross insult the Bey had flung at him in thepresence of his mortal enemies. No, this southerner, whose sensationswere all physical and as rapid as the firing of new guns, had alreadythrown off the venom of his rancour. And then, court favourites, byfamous examples, are always prepared for these sudden falls. Whatterrifies him is that which he guesses to lie behind this affront. He reflects that all his possessions are over there, firms, counting-houses, ships, all at the mercy of the Bey, in that lawlessEast, that country of the ruler's good-pleasure. Pressing his burningbrow to the streaming windows, his body in a cold sweat, his hands icy, he remains looking vaguely out into the night, as dark, as obscure ashis own future. Suddenly a noise of footsteps, of precipitate knocks at the door. "Who is there?" "Sir, " said Noel, coming in half dressed, "it is a very urgent telegramthat has been sent from the post-office by special messenger. " "A telegram! What can there be now?" He takes the envelope and opens it with shaking fingers. The god, strucktwice already, begins to feel himself vulnerable, to know the fears, the nervous weakness of other men. Quick--to the signature. MORA! Isit possible? The duke--the duke to him! Yes, it is indeed--M-O-R-A. And above it: "Popolasca is dead. Election coming in Corsica. You areofficial candidate. " Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing to fear. No one dares treata representative of the great French nation as a mere swindler. TheHemerlingues were finely defeated. "Oh, my duke, my noble duke!" He was so full of emotion that he could not sign his name. Suddenly:"Where is the man who brought this telegram?" "Here, M. Jansoulet, " replied a jolly south-country voice from thecorridor. He was lucky, that postman. "Come in, " said the Nabob. And giving him the receipt, he took in aheap from his pockets--ever full--as many gold pieces as his hands couldhold, and threw them into the cap of the poor fellow, who stuttered, distracted and dazzled by the fortune showered upon him, in the night ofthis fairy palace. A CORSICAN ELECTION Pozzonegro--near Sartene. At last I can give you my news, dear M. Joyeuse. During the five dayswe have been in Corsica we have rushed about so much, made so manyspeeches, so often changed carriages and mounts--now on mules, now onasses, or even on the backs of men for crossing the torrents--written somany letters, noted so many requests, visited so many schools, presented chasubles, altar-cloths, renewed cracked bells, and foundedkindergartens; we have inaugurated so many things, proposed so manytoasts, listened to so many harangues, consumed so much Talano wine andwhite cheese, that I have not found time to send even a greeting to thelittle family circle round the big table, from which I have been missingthese two months. Happily my absence will not be for much longer, as weexpect to leave the day after to-morrow, and are coming straight backto Paris. From the electioneering point of view, I think our journey hasbeen a success. Corsica is an admirable country, indolent and poor, amixture of poverty and pride, which makes both the nobles and the middleclasses strive to keep up an appearance of easy circumstances at theprice of the most painful privations. They speak quite seriously ofPopolasca's fortune--that needy deputy whom death robbed of the fourthousand pounds his resignation in favour of the Nabob would havebrought him. All these people have, as well, an administrative mania, athirst for places which give them any sort of uniform, and a cap towear with the words "Government official" written on it. If you gave aCorsican peasant the choice between the richest farm in France and theshabbiest sword-belt of a village policeman, he would not hesitate andwould take the belt. In that conditions of things, you may imaginewhat chances of election a candidate has who can dispose of a personalfortune and the Government favours. Thus, M. Jansoulet will be elected;and especially if he succeeds in his present undertaking, which hasbrought us here to the only inn of a little place called Pozzonegro(black well). It is a regular well, black with foliage, consisting offifty small red-stone houses clustered round a long Italian church, atthe bottom of a ravine between rigid hills and coloured sandstone rocks, over which stretch immense forests of larch and juniper trees. From myopen window, at which I am writing, I see up above there a bit of bluesky, the orifice of the well; down below on the little square--whicha huge nut-tree shades as though the shadows were not already thickenough--two shepherds clothed in sheep-skins are playing at cards, withtheir elbows on the stone of a fountain. Gambling is the bane of thisland of idleness, where they get men from Lucca to do their harvesting. The two poor wretches I see probably haven't a farthing between them, but one bets his knife against a cheese wrapped up in vine leaves, andthe stakes lie between them on the bench. A little priest smokes hiscigar as he watches them, and seems to take the liveliest interest intheir game. And that is not all. Not a sound anywhere except the drops of water onthe stone, the oaths of one of the players who swears by the _sangodel seminaro_, and from underneath my room in the inn parlour the eagervoice of our friend mingling with the sputterings of the illustriousPaganetti, who is interpreter, in his conversation with the not lessillustrious Piedigriggio. M. Piedigriggio (gray feet) is a local celebrity. He is a tall, old manof seventy-five, with a flowing beard and a straight back. He wears alittle pilot coat, a brown wool Catalonian cap on his white locks. Athis belt he carries a pair of scissors to cut the long leaves of thegreen tobacco he smokes into the hollow of his hand. A venerable-lookingperson in fact, and when he crossed the square, shaking hands withthe priest, smiling protectingly at the gamblers, I would never havebelieved that I was looking at the famous brigand Piedigriggio, who heldthe woods in Monte-Rotondo from 1840 to 1860, outwitted the police andthe military, and who to-day, thanks to the proscription by which hebenefits, after seven or eight cold-blooded murders, moves peaceablyabout the country which witnessed his crimes, and enjoys a considerableimportance. This is why: Piedigriggio has two sons who, nobly followingin his footsteps, have taken to the carbine and the woods, in theirturn not to be found, not to be caught, as their father was, for twentyyears; warned by the shepherds of the movements of the police, when thelatter leave a village, they make their appearance in it. The eldest, Scipio, came to mass last Sunday at Pozzonegro. To say they love them, and that the bloody hand-shake of those wretches is a pleasure to allwho harbour them, would be to calumniate the peaceful inhabitants ofthis parish. But they fear them, and their will is law. Now, these Piedigriggios have taken it into their heads to favour ouropponent in the election. And their influence is a formidable power, forthey can make two whole cantons vote against us. They have longlegs, the rascals, as long in proportion as the reach of their guns. Naturally, we have the police on our side, but the brigands are far morepowerful. As our innkeeper said this morning: "The police, they go away;_ma_ the _banditti_ they stay. " In the face of this logical reasoningwe understood that the only thing to be done was to treat with theGray-feet, to try a "job, " in fact. The mayor said something of this tothe old man, who consulted his sons, and it is the conditions of thistreaty they are discussing downstairs. I hear the voice of our generaldirector, "Come, my dear fellow, you know I am an old Corsican myself, "and then the other's quiet replies, broken, like his tobacco, by theirritating noise of his scissors. The "dear fellow" does not seem tohave much confidence, and until the coin is ringing upon the table Ifancy there will not be any advance. You see, Paganetti is known in his native country. The worth of his wordis written on the square in Corte, still waiting for the monument toPaoli, on the vast fields of carrots which he has managed to planton the Island of Ithaca, in the gaping empty purses of all thoseunfortunate small tradesmen, village priests, and petty nobility, whosepoor savings he has swallowed up dazzling their eyes with chimerical_combinazioni_. Truly, for him to dare to come back here, it needed allhis phenomenal audacity, as well as the resources now at his disposal tosatisfy all claims. And, indeed, what truth is there in the fabulous works undertaken by theTerritorial Bank? None. Mines, which produce nothing and never will produce anything, for theyexist only on paper; quarries, which are still innocent of pick ordynamite, tracts of uncultivated sandy land that they survey with agesture, telling you, "We begin here, and we go right over there, asfar as you like. " It is the same with the forests. The whole of a woodedhill in Monte-Rotondo belongs to us, it seems, but the felling of thetrees is impossible unless aeronauts undertake the woodman's work. It isthe same with the watering-places, among which this miserable hamletof Pozzonegro is one of the most important, with its fountain whoseastonishing ferruginous properties Paganetti advertises. Of thestreamers, not a shadow. Stay--an old, half-ruined Genoese tower on theshore of the Gulf of Ajaccio bears on a tarnished escutcheon, aboveits hermetically sealed doors, this inscription: "Paganetti's Agency. Maritime Company. Inquiry Office. " Fat, gray lizards tend the office incompany with an owl. As for the railways, all these honest Corsicans towhom I spoke of it smiled knowingly, replied with winks and mysterioushints, and it was only this morning that I had the exceedinglybuffoonish explanation of all this reticence. I had read among the documents which the director-general flaunts in oureyes from time to time, like a fan to puff up his impostures, the billof sale of a marble quarry at a place said to be "Taverna, " two hours'distance from Pozzonegro. Profiting by our stay here, I got on a mulethis morning, without telling any one, and guided by a tall scamp ofa fellow with legs like a deer--true type of a Corsican poacher orsmuggler, his thick, red pipe in his mouth, his gun in a bandoleer--Iwent to Taverna. After a fearful progress across cracked rocks and bogs, past abysses of unsoundable depths--on the very edges of which mymule maliciously walked as though to mark them out with her shoes--wearrived, by an almost perpendicular descent, at the end of our journey. It was a vast desert of rocks, absolutely bare, all white with thedroppings of gulls and sea-fowl, for the sea is at the bottom, quitenear, and the silence of the place was broken only by the flow of thewaves and the shrill cries of the wheeling circles of birds. My guide, who has a holy horror of excisemen and the police, stayed above on thecliff, because of a little coastguard station posted like a watchman onthe shore. I made for a large red building which still maintained, inthis burning solitude its three stories, in spite of broken windowsand ruinous tiles. Over the worm-eaten door was an immense sign-board:"Territorial Bank. Carr----bre----54. " The wind, the sun, the rain, havewiped out the rest. There has been there, certainly, a commencement of operations, for alarge square, gaping hole, cut out with a punch, is still open in theground, showing along its crumbling sides, like a leopard's spots, redslabs with brown veins, and at the bottom, in the brambles, enormousblocks of the marble, called in the trade "black-heart" (marble spottedwith red and brown), condemned blocks that no one could make anything offor want of a road leading to the quarry or a harbour to make the coastaccessible for freight ships, and for want, above all, of subsidiesconsiderable enough to carry out one or the other of these two projects. So the quarry remains abandoned, at a few cable-lengths from theshore, as cumbrous and useless as Robinson Crusoe's canoe in the sameunfortunate circumstances. These details of the heart-rending story ofour sole territorial wealth were furnished by a miserable caretaker, shaking with fever, whom I found in the low-ceilinged room of the yellowhouse trying to roast a piece of kid over the acrid smoke of a pistachiobush. This man, who in himself is the whole staff of the Territorial Bank inCorsica, is Paganetti's foster-father, an old lighthouse-keeper uponwhom the solitude does not weigh. Our director-general leaves him therepartly for charity and partly because letters dated from the Tavernaquarry, now and again, make a good show at the shareholders' meetings. I had the greatest difficulty extracting a little information from thispoor creature, three parts savage, who looked upon me with cautiousmistrust, half hidden behind the long hair of his goat-skin _pelone_. Hetold me, however, without intending it, what the Corsicans understand bythe word "railway, " and why they put on mysterious airs when they speakof it. As I was trying to find out if he knew anything about the schemefor a railway in the country, this old man, instead of smiling knowinglylike his compatriots, said, quite naturally, in passable French, hisvoice rusty and benumbed like an ancient, little-used lock: "Oh, sir, no need of a railway here. " "But it would be most valuable, most useful; it would facilitatecommunications. " "I don't say no; but with the police we have enough here. " "The policemen?" "Certainly. " This _quid pro quo_ went on for some five minutes before I discoveredthat here the secret police service is called "the railway. " As thereare many Corsican policemen on the Continent they use this euphemism todesignate the ignoble calling they follow. You inquire of the relations, "Where is your brother Ambrosini? What is your uncle Barbicaglia doing?"They will answer with a little wink, "He has a place on the railway, "and every one knows what that means. Among the people, the peasants, who have never seen a railway and don't know what it is, it is quiteseriously believed that the great occult administration of the Imperialpolice has no other name than that. Our principal agent in the countryshares this touching simplicity of belief. It shows you the realstate of the "Line from Ajaccio to Bastia, passing by Bonifacio, PortoVecchio, etc. , " as it is written on the big, green-backed books ofthe house of Paganetti. In fact all the goods of the Territorial Bankconsist of a few sign-boards and two ruins, the whole not worthy oflying in the "old materials" yard in the Rue Saint-Ferdinand; everynight as I go to sleep I hear the old vanes grating and the old doorsbanging on emptiness. But in this case, where have gone, where are going now, the enormoussums M. Jansoulet has spent during the last five months--not to countwhat came from the outside, attracted by the magic of his name? Ithought, as you did, that all these soundings, borings, purchasings ofland that the books set forth in fine round-hand were exaggerated beyondmeasure. But who could suspect such effrontery? This is why the directorwas so opposed to the idea of bringing me on the electioneering trip. I don't want to have an explanation now. My poor Nabob has quite enoughtrouble in this election. Only, whenever we get back, I shall lay beforehim all the details of my long inquiry, and, whether he wants it or not, I will get him out of this den of thieves. They have finished below. Old Piedigriggio is crossing the square, pulling up the slip-knot ofhis long peasant's purse, which looks to me well filled. The bargain ismade, I conclude. Good-bye, hurriedly, my dear M. Joyeuse; remember meto your daughters and ask them to keep a tiny little place for me roundthe work-table. PAUL DE GERY. The electioneering whirlwind which had enveloped them in Corsica, crossed the sea behind them like a blast of the sirocco and filled theflat in the Place Vendome with a mad wind of folly. It was overrun frommorning to night by the habitual element, augmented now by a constantarrival of little dark men, brown as the locust-bean, with regularfeatures and thick beards, some turbulent and talkative, like Paganetti, others silent, self-contained and dogmatic: the two types of the raceupon which the same climate produces different effects. All thesefamished islanders, in the depths of their savage country, promisedeach other to meet at the Nabob's table. His house had become an inn, arestaurant, a market-place. In the dining-room, where the table waskept constantly laid, there was always to be found some newly arrivedCorsican, with the bewildered and greedy appearance of a country cousin, having something to eat. The boasting, clamorous race of election agents is the same everywhere;but these were unusually fiery, had a zeal even more impassioned andthe vanity of turkey-cocks, all worked up to white heat. The mostinsignificant recorder, inspector, mayor's secretary, villageschoolmaster, spoke as if he had the whole country behind him, and thepockets of his threadbare black coat full of votes. And it is a fact, in Corsican parishes (Jansoulet had seen it for himself) families areso old, have sprung from so little, have so many ramifications, that anypoor fellow breaking stones on the road is able to claim relationshipwith the greatest personages of the island, and is thereby able to exerta serious influence. These complications are aggravated still moreby the national temperament, which is proud, secretive, scheming, andvindictive; so it follows that one has to be careful how one walks amidthe network of threads stretching from one extremity of the people tothe other. The worst was that all these people were jealous of each other, detested each other, and quarrelled across the table about the election, exchanging black looks and grasping the handles of their knives at theleast contradiction. They spoke very loud and all at once, some in thehard, sonorous Genoese dialect, and others in the most comical French, all choking with suppressed oaths. They threw in each other's teethnames of unknown villages, dates of local scandals, which suddenlyrevived between two fellow guests two centuries of family hatreds. TheNabob was afraid of seeing his luncheons end tragically, and strove tocalm all this violence and conciliate them with his large good-naturedsmile. But Paganetti reassured him. According to him, the vendetta, though still existing in Corsica, no longer employs the stiletto or therifle except very rarely, and among the lowest classes. The anonymousletter had taken their place. Indeed, every day unsigned letters werereceived at the Place Vendome written in this style: "M. Jansoulet, you are so generous that I cannot do less than point outto you that the Sieur Bornalinco (Ange-Marie) is a traitor, bought byyour enemies. I could say very differently about his cousin Bornalinco(Louis-Thomas), who is devoted to the good cause, etc. " Or again: "M. Jansoulet, I fear your chances of election will come to nothing, andare on a poor foundation for success if you continue to employ one namedCastirla (Josue), of the parish of Omessa. His relative, Luciani, is theman you need. " Although he no longer read any of these missives, the poor candidatesuffered from the disturbing effect of all these doubts and of all theseunchained passions. Caught in the gearing of those small intrigues, fullof fears, mistrustful, curious, feverish, he felt in every aching nervethe truth of the Corsican proverb, "The greatest ill you can wish yourenemy is an election in his house. " It may be imagined that the check-book and the three deep drawers inthe mahogany cabinet were not spared by this hoard of devouring locustswhich had fallen upon "Moussiou Jansoulet's" dwelling. Nothing couldbe more comic than the haughty manner in which these good islanderseffected their loans, briskly, and with an air of defiance. At the sametime it was not they who were the worst--except for the boxes of cigarswhich sank in their pockets as though they all meant to open a "Civette"on their return to their own country. For just as the very hotweather inflames and envenoms old sores, so the election had givenan astonishing new growth to the pillaging already established in thehouse. Money was demanded for advertising expenses, for Moessard'sarticles, which were sent to Corsica in bales of thousands of copies, with portraits, biographies, pamphlets--all the printed clamour thatit was possible to raise round a name. And always the usual work of thesuction-pumps went on, those pumps now fixed to this great reservoir ofmillions. Here, the Bethlehem Society, a powerful machine working withregular, slow-recurring strokes, full of impetus; the Territorial Bank, a marvellous exhauster, indefatigable, with triple and quadruple rowsof pumps, several thousand horse-power, the Schwalbach pump, the Boisl'Hery pump, and how many others as well? Some enormous and noisywith screaming pistons, some quite dumb and discreet with clack-valvesknowingly oiled, pumps with tiny valves, dear little pumps as fineas the sting of insects, and like them, leaving a poison in the placewhence they have drawn life; all working together and bound to bringabout if not a complete drought, at least a serious lowering of level. Already evil rumours, vague as yet, were going the round of the Bourse. Was this a move of the enemy? For Jansoulet was waging a furious moneywar against Hemerlingue, trying to thwart all his financial operations, and was losing considerable sums at the game. He had against him his ownfury, his adversary's coolness, and the blunderings of Paganetti, whowas his man of straw. In any case his golden star was no longer inthe ascendant. Paul de Gery knew this through Joyeuse, who was now astock-broker's accountant and well up in the doings on the Bourse. Whattroubled him most, however, was the Nabob's singular agitation, his needof constant distraction which had succeeded his former splendid calm ofstrength and security, the loss, too, of his southern sobriety. He kepthimself in a continual state of excitement, drinking great glassesof _raki_ before his meals, laughing long, talking loud, like a roughsailor ashore. You felt that here was a man overdoing himself to escapefrom some heavy care. It showed, however, in the sudden contraction ofall the muscles of his face, as some unhappy thought crossed hismind, or when he feverishly turned the pages of his little gilt-edgednote-book. The serious interview that Paul wanted so much Jansouletwould not give him at any price. He spent his nights at the club, hismornings in bed, and from the moment he awoke his room was full ofpeople who talked to him as he dressed, and to whom he replied, spongein hand. If, by a miracle, de Gery caught him alone for a second, hefled, stopping his words with a "Not now, not now, I beg of you. " In theend the young man had recourse to drastic measures. One morning, towards five o'clock, when Jansoulet came home from hisclub, he found a letter on the table near his bed. At first he took itto be one of the many anonymous denunciations he received daily. Itwas indeed a denunciation, but it was signed and undisguised; and itbreathed in every word the loyalty and the earnest youthfulness of himwho wrote it. De Gery pointed out very clearly all the infamies and allthe double dealing which surrounded him. With no beating about the bushhe called the rogues by their names. There was not one of the usualguests whom he did not suspect, not one who came with any other objectthan to steal and to lie. From the top to the bottom of the house allwas pillage and waste. Bois l'Hery's horses were unsound, Schwalbach'sgallery was a swindle, Moessard's articles a recognised blackmail. DeGery had made a long detailed memorandum of these scandalous abuses, with proofs in support of it. But he specially recommended toJansoulet's attention the accounts of the Territorial Bank as the realdanger of the situation. Attracted by the Nabob's name, as chairmanof the company, hundreds of shareholders had fallen into the infamoustrap--poor seekers of gold, following the lucky miner. In the othermatters it was only money he lost; here his honour was at stake. He would discover what a terrible responsibility lay upon him if heexamined the papers of the business, which was only deception andcheatery from one end to the other. "You will find the memorandum of which I speak, " said Paul de Gery, atthe end of his letter, "in the top drawer of my desk along with sundryreceipts. I have not put them in your room, because I mistrust Noellike the rest. When I go away to-night I will give you the key. For Iam going away, my dear benefactor and friend, I am going away full ofgratitude for the good you have done me, and heartbroken that your blindconfidence has prevented me from repaying you even in part. As thingsare now, my conscience as an honest man will not let me stay any longeruseless at my post. I am looking on at a disaster, at the sack of apalace, which I can do nothing to prevent. My heart burns at all I see. I give handshakes which shame me. I am your friend, and I seem theiraccomplice. And who knows that if I went on living in such an atmosphereI might not become one?" This letter, which he read slowly and carefully, even between the linesand through the words, made so great an impression on the Nabob that, instead of going to bed, he went at once to find his young secretary. DeGery had a study at the end of the row of public rooms where he slept ona sofa. It had been a provisional arrangement, but he had preferred notto change it. The house was still asleep. As he was crossing the lofty rooms, filledwith the vague light of a Parisian dawn (those blinds were neverlowered, as no evening receptions were held there), the Nabob stopped, struck by the look of sad defilement his luxury wore. In the heavyodour of tobacco and various liqueurs which hung over everything, thefurniture, the ceilings, the woodwork could be seen, already faded andstill new. Spots on the crumpled satins, ashes staining the beautifulmarbles, dirty footmarks on the carpets. It reminded one of a hugefirst-class railway carriage incrusted with all the laziness, theimpatience, the boredom of a long journey, and all the wasteful, spoiling disdain of the public for a luxury for which it has paid. In the middle of this set scene, still warm from the atrocious comedyplayed there every day, his own image, reflected in twenty cold andstaring looking-glasses, stood out before him, forbidding yet comical, in absolute contrast to his elegant clothes, his eyes swollen, his facebloated and inflamed. What an obvious and disenchanting to-morrow to the mad life he wasleading! He lost himself for a moment in dreary thought; then he gave hisshoulders a vigorous shake, a movement frequent with him--it was like apeddler shifting his pack--as though to rid himself of too cruel cares, and again took up the burden every man carried with him, which bows hisback, more or less, according to his courage or his strength, and wentinto de Gery's room, who was already up, standing at his desk sortingpapers. "First of all, my friend, " said Jansoulet, softly shutting the door fortheir interview, "answer me frankly. Is it really for the motives givenin your letter that you have resolved to leave me? Is there not, beneathit all, one of those scandals that I know are being circulated in Parisagainst me? I am sure you would be loyal enough to warn me and to giveme the opportunity of--of clearing myself to you. " Paul assured him that he had no other reasons for going, but that thosewere surely sufficient, since it was a matter of conscience. "Then, my boy, listen to me, and I am sure of keeping you. Your letter, so eloquent of honesty and sincerity, has told me nothing that I havenot been convinced of for three months. Yes, my dear Paul, you wereright. Paris is more complicated than I thought. What I needed, when Iarrived, was an honest and disinterested cicerone to put me on my guardagainst people and things. I met only swindlers. Every worthless rascalin the town has left the mud of his boots on my carpets. I was lookingat them just now--my poor drawing-rooms. They need a fine sweeping out. And I swear to you they shall have it, by God, and with no light hand!But I must wait for that until I am a deputy. All these scoundrels areof use to me for the election, and this election is far too necessarynow for me to risk losing the smallest chance. In a word, this is thesituation: Not only does the Bey mean to keep the money I lent him threemonths ago, but he has replied to my summons by a counter action foreighty millions, the sum out of which he says I cheated his brother. Itis a frightful theft, an audacious libel. My fortune is mine, my own. Imade it by my trade as a merchant. I had Ahmed's favour; he gave me theopportunity of becoming rich. It is possible I may have put on the screwa little tightly sometimes. But one must not judge these things froma European standpoint. Over there, the enormous profits the Levantinesmake is an accepted fact--a known thing. It is the ransom those savagespay for the western comfort we bring them. That wretch Hemerlingue, whois suggesting all this persecution against me, has done just as much. But what is the use of talking? I am in the lion's jaws. While waitingfor me to go to defend myself at his tribunals--and how I know it, justice of the Orient!--the Bey has begun by putting an embargo on allmy goods, ships, and palaces, and what they contain. The affair wasconducted quite regularly by a decree of the Supreme Court. YoungHemerlingue had a hand in that, you can see. If I am made a deputy, itis only a joke. The court takes back its decree and they give me backmy treasure with every sort of excuse. If I am not elected I loseeverything, sixty, eighty millions, even the possibility of makinganother fortune. It is ruin, disgrace, dishonour. Are you going toabandon me in such a crisis? Think--I have only you in the whole world. My wife--you have seen her, you know what help, what support she isto her husband. My children--I might as well not have any. I never seethem; they would scarcely know me in the street. My horrible wealthhas killed all affection around me and has enveloped me with shamelessself-seeking. I have only my mother to love me, and she is far away, andyou who came to me from my mother. No, you will not leave me alone amidall the scandals that are creeping around me. It is awful--if you onlyknew! At the club, at the play, wherever I go I seem to see the littleviper's head of the Baroness Hemerlingue, I hear the echo of her hiss, I feel the venom of her bite. Everywhere mocking looks, conversationstopped when I appear, lying smiles, or kindness mixed with a littlepity. And then the deserters, and the people who keep out of the way asat the approach of a misfortune. Look at Felicia Ruys: just as she hadfinished my bust she pretends that some accident, I know not what, hashappened to it, in order to avoid having to send it to the _Salon_. Isaid nothing, I affected to believe her. But I understood that thereagain was some new evil report. And it is such a disappointment to me. In a crisis as grave as this everything has its importance. My bust inthe exhibition, signed by that famous name, would have helped me greatlyin Paris. But no, everything falls away, every one fails me. You see nowthat I cannot do without you. You must not desert me. " A DAY OF SPLEEN Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain since morning and a gray sky lowenough to be reached with an umbrella; the close weather which sticks. Mess, mud, nothing but mud, in heavy puddles, in shining trails in thegutters, vainly chased by the street-scrapers and the scavengers, heavedinto enormous carts which carry it slowly towards Montreuil--promenadingit in triumph through the streets, always moving, and always springingup again, growing through the pavements, splashing the panels of thecarriages, the breasts of the horses, the clothes of the passers-by, spattering the windows, the door-steps, the shop-fronts, till one fearedthat the whole of Paris would sink and disappear under this sorrowful, miry soil where everything dissolves and is lost in mud. And it movesone to pity to see the invasion of this dirt on the whiteness of the newhouses, on the parapets of the quays, and on the colonnades of the stonebalconies. There is some one, however, who rejoices at the sight, apoor, sick, weary being, lying all her length on a silk-embroidereddivan, her chin on her clinched fists. She is looking out gladly throughthe dripping windows and delighting in all the ugliness. "Look, my fairy! this is indeed the weather I wanted to-day. See themdraggling along! Aren't they hideous? Aren't they dirty? What mire! Itis everywhere--in the streets, on the quays, right down to the Seine, right up to the heavens. I tell you, mud is good when one is sad. Iwould like to play in it, to make sculpture with it--a statue a hundredfeet high, that should be called 'My weariness. '" "But why are you so miserable, dearest?" said the old dancer gently, amiable and pink, and sitting straight in her seat for fear ofdisarranging her hair, which was even more carefully dressed than usual. "Haven't you everything to make you happy?" And for the hundredth timeshe enumerated in her tranquil voice the reasons for her happiness: herglory, her genius, her beauty, all the men at her feet, the handsomest, the greatest--oh! yes, the very greatest, as this very day--But aterrible howl, like the heart-rending cry of the jackal exasperated bythe monotony of his desert, suddenly made all the studio windows shake, and frightened the old and startled little chrysalis back into hercocoon. A week ago, Felicia's group was finished and sent to the exhibition, leaving her in a state of nervous prostration, moral sickness, anddistressful exasperation. It needs all the tireless patience of thefairy, all the magic of her memories constantly evoked, to make lifesupportable beside this restlessness, this wicked anger, which growlsbeneath the girl's long silences and suddenly bursts out in a bitterword or in an "Ugh!" of disgust at everything. All the critics areasses. The public? An immense goitre with three rows of chains. And yet, the other Sunday, when the Duc de Mora came with the superintendent ofthe art section to see her exhibits in the studio, she was so happy, soproud of the praise they gave her, so fully delighted with her own work, which she admired from the outside, as though the work of some one else, now that her tools no longer created between her and her work that bondwhich makes impartial judgment so hard for the artist. But it is like this every year. The studio stripped of her recent work, her glorious name once again thrown to the unexpected caprice of thepublic, Felicia's thoughts, now without a visible object, stray in theemptiness of her heart and in the hollowness of her life--that of thewoman who leaves the quiet groove--until she be engrossed in some newwork. She shuts herself up and will see no one, as though she mistrustedherself. Jenkins is the only person who can help her during theseattacks. He seems even to court them, as though he expected somethingtherefrom. She is not pleasant with him, all the same, goodness knows. Yesterday, even, he stayed for hours beside this wearied beauty withouther speaking to him once. If that be the welcome she is keeping for thegreat personage who is doing them the honour of dining with them--Herethe good Crenmitz, who is quietly turning over all these thoughts as shegazes at the bows on the pointed toes of her slippers, remembers thatshe has promised to make a dish of Viennese cakes for the dinner of thepersonage in question, and goes out of the studio, silently, on the tipsof her little feet. The rain falls, the mud deepens; the beautiful sphinx lies still, hereyes lost in the dull horizon. What is she thinking of? What does shesee coming there, over those filthy roads, in the falling night, thather lip should take that curve of disgust and her brow that frown? Isshe waiting for her fate? A sad fate, that sets forth in such weather, fearless of the darkness and the dirt. Some one comes into the studio with a heavier tread than the mouse-likestep of Constance--the little servant, doubtless; and, without lookinground, Felicia says roughly, "Go away! I don't want any one in. " "I should have liked to speak to you very much, all the same, " says afriendly voice. She starts, sits up. Mollified and almost smiling at this unexpectedvisitor, she says: "What--you, young Minerva! How did you get in?" "Very easily. All the doors are open. " "I am not surprised. Constance is crazy, since this morning, over herdinner. " "Yes, I saw. The anteroom is full of flowers. Who is coming?" "Oh! a stupid dinner--an official dinner. I don't know how I could--Sitdown here, near me. I am so glad to see you. " Paul sat down, a little disturbed. She had never seemed to him sobeautiful. In the dusk of the studio, amid the shadowy brilliance of theworks of art, bronzes, and tapestries, her pallor was like a soft light, her eyes shone like precious stones, and her long, close-fitting gownrevealed the unrestraint of her goddess-like body. Then, she spoke soaffectionately, she seemed so happy because he had come. Why had hestayed away so long? It was almost a month since they had seen him. Werethey no longer friends? He excused himself as best he could--business, a journey. Besides, if he hadn't been there, he had often spoken ofher--oh, very often, almost every day. "Really? And with whom?" "With----" He was going to say "With Aline Joyeuse, " but a feeling of restraintstopped him, an undefinable sentiment, a sense of shame at pronouncingher name in the studio which had heard so many others. There are thingsthat do not go together, one scarcely knows why. Paul preferred to replywith a falsehood, which brought him at once to the object of his visit. "With an excellent fellow to whom you have given very unnecessary pain. Come, why have you not finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was a greatjoy to him, such a very proud thing for him, to have that bust in theexhibition. He counted upon it. " At the Nabob's name she was slightly troubled. "It is true, " she said, "I broke my word. But what do you expect? I ammade of caprice. See, the cover is over it; all wet, so that the claydoes not harden. " "And the accident? You know, we didn't believe in it. " "Then you were wrong. I never lie. It had a fall, a most awful upset;only the clay was fresh, and I easily repaired it. Look!" With a sweeping gesture she lifted the cover. The Nabob suddenlyappeared before them, his jolly face beaming with the pleasure of beingportrayed; so like, so tremendously himself, that Paul gave a cry ofadmiration. "Isn't it good?" she said artlessly. "Still a few touches here andthere--" She had taken the chisel and the little sponge and pushed thestand into what remained of the daylight. "It could be done in a fewhours. But it couldn't go to the exhibition. To-day is the 22nd; all theexhibits have been in a long time. " "Bah! With influence----" She frowned, and her bad expression came back, her mouth turning down. "That's true. The _protege_ of the Duc de Mora. Oh! you have no need toapologize. I know what people say, and I don't care _that_--" and shethrew a little ball of clay at the wall, where it stuck, flat. "Perhapsmen, by dint of supposing the thing which is not--But let us leave theseinfamies alone, " she said, holding up her aristocratic head. "I reallywant to please you, Minerva. Your friend shall go to the _Salon_ thisyear. " Just then a smell of caramel and warm pastry filled the studio, wherethe shadows were falling like a fine gray dust, and the fairy appeared, a dish of sweetmeats in her hand. She looked more fairy-like than ever, bedecked and rejuvenated; dressed in a white gown which showed herbeautiful arms through sleeves of old lace; they were beautiful still, for the arm is the beauty that fades last. "Look at my _kuchen_, dearie; they are such a success this time. Oh! Ibeg your pardon. I did not see you had friends. And it is M. Paul! Howare you M. Paul? Taste one of my cakes. " And the charming old lady, whose dress seemed to lend her anextraordinary vivacity, came towards him, balancing the plate on thetips of her tiny fingers. "Don't bother him. You can give him some at dinner, " said Feliciaquietly. "At dinner?" The dancer was so astonished that she almost upset her pretty pastries, which looked as light and airy and delicious as herself. "Yes, he is staying to dine with us. Oh! I beg it of you, " she added, with a particular insistence as she saw he was going to refuse, "I begyou to stay. Don't say no. You will be rendering me a real service bystaying to-night. Come--I didn't hesitate a few minutes ago. " She had taken his hand; and in truth might have been struck by a strangedisproportion between her request and the supplicating, anxious tone inwhich it was made. Paul still attempted to excuse himself. He was notdressed. How could she propose it!--a dinner at which she would haveother guests. "My dinner? But I will countermand it! That is the kind of person I am. We shall be alone, just the three of us, with Constance. " "But, Felicia, my child, you can't really think of such a thing. Ah, well! And the--the other who will be coming directly. "I am going to write to him to stay at home, _parbleu_!" "You unlucky being, it is too late. " "Not at all. It is striking six o'clock. The dinner was for half pastseven. You must have this sent to him quickly. " She was writing hastily at a corner of the table. "What a strange girl, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_" murmured the dancer inbewilderment, while Felicia, delighted, transfigured, was joyouslysealing her letter. "There! my excuse is made. Headaches have not been invented for Kadour. " Then, the letter having been despatched: "Oh, how pleased I am! What a jolly evening we shall have! Do kiss me, Constance! It will not prevent us from doing honour to your _kuchen_, and we shall have the pleasure of seeing you in a pretty toilette whichmakes you look younger than I do. " This was more than was required to cause the dancer to forgive this newcaprice of her dear demon, and the crime of _lese-majeste_ in which shehad just been involved against her will. To treat so great a personageso cavalierly! There was no one like her in the world--there was no onelike her. As for Paul de Gery, he no longer tried to resist, under thespell once more of that attraction from which he had been able to fancyhimself released by absence, but which, from the moment he crossed thethreshold of the studio, had put chains on his will, delivered him over, bound and vanquished, to the sentiment which he was quite resolved tocombat. Evidently the dinner--a repast for a veritable _gourmet_, superintendedby the Austrian lady in its least details--had been prepared for a guestof great mark. From the lofty Kabyle chandelier with its seven branchesof carved wood, which cast its light over the table-cloth covered withembroidery, to the long-necked decanters holding the wines within theirstrange and exquisite form, the sumptuous magnificence of the service, the delicacy of the meats, to which edge was given by a certainunusualness in their selection, revealed the importance of the expectedvisitor, the anxiety which there had been to please him. The table wascertainly that of an artist. Little silver, but superb china, much unityof effect, without the least attempt at matching. The old Rouen, thepink Sevres, the Dutch glass mounted in old filigree pewter met on thistable as on a sideboard devoted to the display of rare curios collectedby a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of his taste. A littledisorder naturally, in this household equipped at hazard, as choicethings could be picked up. The wonderful cruet-stand had lost itsstoppers. The chipped salt-cellar allowed its contents to escape on thetable-cloth, and at every moment you would hear, "Why! what is become ofthe mustard-pot?" "What has happened to this fork?" This embarrassed deGery a little on account of the young mistress of the house, who for herpart took no notice of it. But something made Paul feel still more ill at ease--his anxiety, namely, to know who the privileged guest might be whom he was replacingat this table, who could be treated at once with so much magnificenceand so complete an informality. In spite of everything, he felthim present, an offence to his personal dignity, that visitor whoseinvitation had been cancelled. It was in vain that he tried to forgethim; everything brought him back to his mind, even the fine dress of thegood fairy sitting opposite him, who still maintained some of the grandairs with which she had equipped herself in advance for the solemnoccasion. This thought troubled him, spoiled for him the pleasure ofbeing there. On the other hand, by contrast, as it happens in all friendshipsbetween two people who meet very rarely, never had he seen Felicia soaffectionate, in such happy temper. It was an overflowing gaiety thatwas almost childish, one of those warm expansions of feeling that areexperienced when a danger has been passed, the reaction of a brightroaring fire after the emotion of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily, teased Paul about his accent and what she called his _bourgeois_ ideas. "For you are a terrible _bourgeois_, you know. But it is that that Ilike in you. It is an effect of contraries, doubtless; it is because Imyself was born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have alwaysliked sedate, reasonable natures. " "Oh, my child, what are you going to have M. Paul think, that you wereborn under a bridge?" said the good Crenmitz, who could not accustomherself to the exaggeration of certain metaphors, and always tookeverything literally. "Let him think what he likes, my fairy. We are not trying to catch himfor a husband. I am sure he would not want one of those monsters who areknown as female artists. He would think he was marrying the devil. Youare quite right, Minerva. Art is a despot. One has to give one's selfentirely up to him. To toil in his service, one devotes all the ideal, all the energy, honesty, conscience, that one possesses, so that youhave none of these things left for real life, and the completed labourthrows you down, strengthless and without a compass, like a dismantledhulk at the mercy of every wave. A sorry acquisition, such a wife!" "And yet, " the young man hazarded timidly, "it seems to me that art, however exigent it be, cannot for all that entirely absorb a woman. What would she do with her affections, of that need to love, to devoteherself, which in her, much more than in us, is the spring of all heractions?" She mused a moment before replying. "Perhaps you are right, wise Minerva. It is true that there are dayswhen my life rings terribly hollow. I am conscious of abysses, profoundchasms in it. Everything that I throw in to fill it up disappears. Myfinest enthusiasms of the artist are engulfed there and die each timein a sigh. And then I think of marriage. A husband; children--a swarm ofchildren, who would roll about the studio; a nest to look after for themall; the satisfaction of that physical activity which is lacking inour existences of artists; regular occupations; high spirits, songs, innocent gaieties, which would oblige you to play instead of thinking inthe air, in the dark--to laugh at a wound to one's self-love, to beonly a contented mother on the day when the public should see you as aworn-out, exhausted artist. " And before this tender vision the girl's beauty took on an expressionwhich Paul had never seen in it before, an expression which gripped hiswhole being, and gave him a mad longing to carry off in his arms thatbeautiful wild bird, dreaming of the home-cote, to protect and shelterit in the sure love of an honest man. She, without looking at him, continued: "I am not so erratic as I appear; don't think it. Ask my good godmotherif, when she sent me to boarding-school, I did not observe the rules. But what a muddle in my life afterward. If you knew what sort of anearly youth I had; how precocious an experience tarnished my mind, inthe head of the little girl I was, what a confusion of the permitted andthe forbidden, of reason and folly! Art alone, extolled and discussed, stood out boldly from among it all, and I took refuge in it. That isperhaps why I shall never be anything but an artist, a woman apartfrom others, a poor Amazon with heart imprisoned in her iron cuirass, launched into the conflict like a man, and as a man condemned to liveand die. " Why did he not say to her, at this: "Beauteous lady-warrior, lay down your arms, resume the flowing robe andthe graces of the woman's sphere. I love you! Marry me, I implore you, and win happiness both for yourself and for me. " Ah, there it is! He was afraid lest the other--you know him, the man whowas to have come to dinner that evening and who remained between themdespite his absence--should hear him speak thus and be in a position tojest at or to pity him for that fine outburst. "In any case, I firmly swear one thing, " she resumed, "and it is that ifever I have a daughter, I will try to make a true woman of her, and nota poor lonely creature like myself. Oh! you know, my fairy, it is notfor you that I say that. You have always been kind to your demon, fullof attentions and tenderness. But just see how pretty she is, how youngshe looks this evening. " Animated by the meal, the bright lights, one of those white dresses thereflection from which effaces wrinkles, the Crenmitz, leaning backin her chair, held up on a level with her half-closed eyes a glass ofChateau-Yquem, come from the cellar of the neighbouring Moulin-Rouge;and her dainty little rosy face, her flowing garments, like those youmight see in some pastel, reflected in the golden wine, which lent tothem its own piquant fervour, recalled to mind the quondam heroine ofgay little suppers after the theatre, the Crenmitz of the brave olddays--not an audacious creature after the manner of the stars of ourmodern opera, but unconscious, and wrapped in her luxury like a finepearl in the delicate whiteness of its shell. Felicia, who decidedlythat evening was anxious to please everybody, turned her mind gentlyto the chapter of recollections; got her to recount once more her greattriumphs in _Gisella_, in the _Peri_, and the ovations of the public;the visit of the princes to her dressing-room; the present of QueenAmelia, accompanied by such a charming little speech. The recalling ofthese glories intoxicated the poor fairy; her eyes shone; they heardher little feet moving impatiently under the table as though seized bya dancing frenzy. And in effect, dinner over, when they had returned tothe studio, Constance began to walk backward and forward, now andthen half executing a step, a pirouette, while continuing to talk, interrupting herself to hum some ballad air of which she would keepthe rhythm with a movement of the head; then suddenly she bent herselfdouble, and with a bound was at the other end of the studio. "Now she is off!" said Felicia in a low voice to de Gery. "Watch! It isworth your while; you are going to see the Crenmitz dance. " It was charming and fairy-like. Against the background of the immenseroom lost in shadow and receiving almost no light save through thearched glass roof over which the moon was climbing in a pale sky ofnight blue, a veritable sky of the opera, the silhouette of the famousdancer stood out all white, like a droll little shadow, light andimponderable, which seemed rather to be flying in the air than springingover the floor; then, erect upon the tips of her toes, supported in theair only by her extended arms, her face lifted in an elusive pose, whichleft nothing visible but the smile, she advanced quickly towards thelight or fled away with little rushes so rapid that you were constantlyexpecting to hear a slight shivering of glass and to see her thus mountbackward the slope of the great moonbeam that lay aslant the studio. That which added a charm, a singular poetry, to this fantastic balletwas the absence of music, the sound alone of the rhythmical beat theforce of which was accentuated by the semi-darkness, of that quick andlight tapping not heavier on the parquet floor than the fall, petal bypetal, of a dahlia going out of bloom. Thus it went on for some minutes, at the end of which they knew, byhearing her shorter breathing, that she was becoming fatigued. "Enough! enough! Sit down now, " said Felicia. Thereupon the little whiteshadow halted beside an easy chair, and there remained posed, readyto start off again, smiling and breathless, until sleep overcame her, rocking and balancing her gently without disturbing her pretty pose, as of a dragon-fly on the branch of a willow dipping in the water andswayed by the current. While they watched her, dozing on her easy chair: "Poor little fairy!" said Felicia, "hers is what I have had best andmost serious in my life in the way of friendship, protection, andguardianship. Can you wonder now at the zig-zags, the erratic nature ofmy mind? Fortunate at that, to have gone no further. " And suddenly, with a joyous effusion of feeling: "Ah, Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that you came this evening! Butyou must not leave me to myself for so long again, mind. I need to havenear me an honest mind like yours, to see a true face among the masksthat surround me. A fearful _bourgeois_, all the same, " she added, laughing, "and a provincial into the bargain. But no matter! It is you, for all that, whom it gives me the most pleasure to see. And I believethat my liking for you is due especially to one thing: you remind me ofsome one who was the great affection of my youth, a sedate and sensiblelittle being she also, chained to the matter-of-fact side of existence, but tempering it with that ideal element which we artists set asideexclusively for the profit of our work. Certain things which you sayseem to me as though they had come from her. You have the same mouth, like an antique model's. Is it that that gives this resemblance to yourwords? I have no idea, but most certainly you are like each other. Youshall see. " On the table laden with sketches and albums, at which she was sittingfacing him, she drew, as she talked, with brow inclined and her ratherwild curly hair shading her graceful little head. She was no longer thebeautiful couchant monster, with the anxious and gloomy countenance, condemning her own destiny, but a woman, a true woman, in love, andeager to beguile. This time Paul forgot all his mistrusts in presenceof so much sincerity and such passing grace. He was about to speak, topersuade. The minute was decisive. But the door opened and the littlepage appeared. M. Le Duc had sent to inquire whether mademoiselle wasstill suffering from her headache of earlier in the evening. "Still just as much, " she said with irritation. When the servant had gone out, a moment of silence fell between them, a glacial coldness. Paul had risen. She continued her sketch, with herhead still bowed. He took a few paces in the studio; then, having come back to the table, he asked quietly, astonished to feel himself so calm: "It was the Duc de Mora who was to have dined here?" "Yes. I was bored--a day of spleen. Days of that kind are bad for me. " "Was the duchess to have come?" "The duchess? No. I don't know her. " "Well, in your place I would never receive in my house, at my table, amarried man whose wife I did not meet. You complain of being deserted;why desert yourself? When one is without reproach, one should avoid thevery suspicion of it. Do I vex you?" "No, no, scold me, Minerva. I have no objection to your ethics. Theyare honest and frank, yours; they do not blink uncertain, like those ofJenkins. I told you, I need some one to guide me. " And tossing over to him the sketch which she had just finished: "See, that is the friend of whom I was speaking to you. A profound andsure affection, which I was foolish enough to allow to be lost to me, like the bungler I am. She it was to whom I appealed in moments ofdifficulty, when a decision required to be taken, some sacrifice made. Iused to say to myself, 'What will she think of this?' just as we artistsmay stop in the midst of a piece of work to refer it mentally to somegreat man, one of our masters. I must have you take her place for me. Will you?" Paul did not answer. He was looking at the portrait of Aline. It wasshe, herself to the letter; her pure profile, her mocking and kindlymouth, and the long curl like a caress on the delicate neck. Felicia hadceased to exist for him. Poor Felicia, endowed with superior talents, she was indeed like thosemagicians who knot and unknot the destinies of men, without possessingany power over their own happiness. "Will you give me this sketch?" he said in a low, quivering voice. "Most willingly. She is nice--isn't she? Ah! her indeed, if you shouldmeet, love her, marry her. She is worth more than all the rest ofwomankind together. And yet, failing her--failing her----" And the beautiful sphinx, tamed, raised to him, moist and laughing, hergreat eyes, in which an enigma had ceased to be indecipherable. THE EXHIBITION "SUPERB!" "A tremendous success! Barye has never done anything so good before. " "And the bust of the Nabob! What a marvel. How happy Constance Crenmitzis! Look at her trotting about!" "What! That little old lady in the ermine cape is the Crenmitz? Ithought she had been dead twenty years ago. " Oh, no! Very much alive, on the contrary. Delighted, made young againby the triumph of her goddaughter, who had made what is decidedly thesuccess of the exhibition, she passes about among the crowd of artistsand fashionable people, who, wedged together and stifling themselves inorder to get a look at the two points where the works sent by Feliciaare exhibited, form as it were two solid masses of black backs andjumbled dresses. Constance, ordinarily so timid, edges her way into thefront rank, listens to the discussions, catches, as they fly, disjointedphrases, formulas which she takes care to remember, approves with anod, smiles, raises her shoulders when she hears a stupid remark made, inclined to murder the first person who should not admire. Whether it be the good Crenmitz or another, you will always see it atevery opening of the _Salon_, that furtive silhouette, prowling nearwherever a conversation is going on, with an anxious manner and alertear; sometimes a simple old fellow, some father, whose glance thanks youfor any kind word said in passing, or assumes a grieved expression byreason of some epigram, flung at the work of art, that may wound someheart behind you. A figure not to be forgotten, certainly, if everit should occur to any painter with a passion for modernity to fix oncanvas that very typical manifestation of Parisian life, the opening ofan exhibition in that vast conservatory of sculpture, with its pathsof yellow sand, and its immense glass roof beneath which, half-way up, stand out the galleries of the first floor, lined by heads bent over tolook down, and decorated with improvised flowing draperies. In a rather cold light, made pallid by those green curtains thathang all around, in which one would fancy that the light-rays becomerarefied, in order to give to the vision of the people walking aboutthe room a certain contemplative justice, the slow crowd goes and comes, pauses, disperses itself over the seats in serried groups, and yetmixing up different sections of society more thoroughly than any otherassembly, just as the weather, uncertain and changeable at this time ofthe year, produces a confusion in the world of clothes, causes to brusheach other as they pass, the black laces, the imperious train of thegreat lady come to see how her portrait looks, and the Siberian furs ofthe actress just back from Russia and anxious that everybody should knowit. Here, no boxes, no stalls, no reserved seats, and it is this that givesto this _premiere_ in full daylight so great a charm of curiosity. Genuine ladies of fashion are able to form an opinion of those paintedbeauties who receive so much commendation in an artificial light;the little hat, following a new mode of the Marquise de Bois l'Hery, confronts the more than modest toilette of some artist's wife ordaughter; while the model who posed for that beautiful Andromeda at theentrance, goes by victoriously, clad in too short a skirt, in wretchedgarments that hide her beauty beneath all the false lines of fashion. People observe, admire, criticise each other, exchange glancescontemptuous, disdainful, or curious, interrupted suddenly at thepassage of a celebrity, of that illustrious critic whom we seem still tosee, tranquil and majestic, his powerful head framed in its long hair, making the round of the exhibits in sculpture followed by a dozen youngdisciples eager to hear the verdict of his kindly authority. If thesound of voices is lost beneath that immense dome, sonorous only underthe two vaults of the entrance and the exit, faces take on there anastonishing intensity, a relief of movement and animation concentratedespecially in the huge, dark bay where refreshments are served, crowdedto overflowing and full of gesticulation, the brightly coloured hatsof the women and the white aprons of the waiters gleaming against thebackground of dark clothes, and in the great space in the middle wherethe oval swarming with visitors makes a singular contrast withthe immobility of the exhibited statues, producing the insensiblepalpitation with which their marble whiteness and their movements as ofapotheosis are surrounded. There are wings poised in giant flight, a sphere supported by fourallegorical figures whose attitude of turning suggests some vaguewaltz-measure--a total effect of equilibrium well conveying the illusionof the sweeping onward of the earth; and there are arms raised to givethe signal, bodies heroically risen, containing an allegory, a symbolwhich stamps them with death and immortality, secures to them a place inhistory, in legend, in that ideal world of museums which is visited bythe curiosity or the admiration of the nations. Although Felicia's group in bronze had not the proportions of theselarge pieces, its exceptional merit had caused it to be selected toadorn one of the open spaces in the middle, from which at this momentthe public was holding itself at a respectful distance, watching, overthe hedge of custodians and policemen, the Bey of Tunis and his suite, an array of long bernouses falling in sculptural folds, which had theeffect of placing living statues opposite the other ones. The Bey, who had been in Paris since a few days before, and was thelion of all the _premieres_, had desired to see the opening of theexhibition. He was "an enlightened prince, a friend of art, " whopossessed at the Bardo a gallery of remarkable Turkish paintings andchromo-lithographic reproductions of all the battles of the FirstEmpire. The moment he entered, the sight of the big Arab greyhoundhad struck him as he passed. It was the _sleughi_ all over, the true_sleughi_, delicate and nervous, of his own country, the companion ofall his hunting expeditions. He laughed in his black beard, felt theloins of the animal, stroked its muscles, seemed to want to urge it onstill faster, while with nostrils open, teeth showing, all itslimbs stretched out and unwearying in their vigorous elasticity, thearistocratic beast, the beast of prey, ardent in love and the chase, intoxicated with their double intoxication, its eyes fixed, was alreadyenjoying a foretaste of its capture with a little end of its tonguewhich hung and seemed to sharpen the teeth with a ferocious laugh. Whenyou only looked at the hound you said to yourself, "He has got him!" Butthe sight of the fox reassured you immediately. Beneath the velvet ofhis lustrous coat, cat-like almost lying along the ground, covering itrapidly without effort, you felt him to be a veritable fairy; and hisdelicate head with its pointed ears, which as he ran he turned towardsthe hound, had an expression of ironical security which clearly markedthe gift received from the gods. While an Inspector of Fine Arts, who had rushed up in all haste, withhis official dress in disorder, and a head bald right down to his back, explained to Mohammed the apologue of "The Dog and the Fox, " related inthe descriptive catalogue with these words inscribed beneath, "Now ithappened that they met, " and the indication, "The property of the Ducde Mora, " the fat Hemerlingue, perspiring and puffing by his Highness'sside, had great difficulty to convince him that this masterly pieceof sculpture was the work of the beautiful young lady whom they hadencountered the previous evening riding in the Bois. How could a woman, with her feeble hands, thus mould the hard bronze, and give to it thevery appearance of the living body? Of all the marvels of Paris, thiswas the one which caused the Bey the most astonishment. He inquiredconsequently from the functionary if there was nothing else to see bythe same artist. "Yes, indeed, monseigneur, another masterpiece. If your Highness willdeign to step this way I will conduct you to it. " The Bey commenced to move on again with his suite. They were alladmirable types, with chiselled features and pure lines, warm pallors ofcomplexion of which even the reflections were absorbed by the whitenessof their _haiks_. Magnificently draped, they contrasted with the bustsranged on either side of the aisle they were following, which, perchedon their high columns, looking slender in the open air, exiled fromtheir own home, from the surroundings in which doubtless they wouldhave recalled severe labours, a tender affection, a busy and courageousexistence, had the sad aspect of people gone astray in their path, andvery regretful to find themselves in their present situation. Exceptingtwo or three female heads, with opulent shoulders framed in petrifiedlace, and hair rendered in marble with that softness of touch whichgives it the lightness of a powdered wig, excepting, too, a few profilesof children with their simple lines, in which the polish of the stoneseems to resemble the moistness of the living flesh, all the restwere only wrinkles, crow's-feet, shrivelled features and grimaces, ourexcesses in work and in movement, our nervousness and our feverishness, opposing themselves to that art of repose and of beautiful serenity. The ugliness of the Nabob had at least energy in its favour, the vulgarside of him as an adventurer, and that expression of benevolence, sowell rendered by the artist, who had taken care to underlay her plasterwith a layer of ochre, which gave it almost the weather-beaten andsunburned tone of the model. The Arabs, when they saw it, uttered astifled exclamation, "Bou-Said!" (the father of good fortune). This wasthe surname of the Nabob in Tunis, the label, as it were, of his luck. The Bey, for his part, thinking that some one had wished to play a trickon him in thus leading him to inspect the bust of the hated trader, regarded his guide with mistrust. "Jansoulet?" said he in his guttural voice. "Yes, Highness: Bernard Jansoulet, the new deputy for Corsica. " This time the Bey turned to Hemerlingue, with a frown on his brow. "Deputy?" "Yes, monseigneur, since this morning; but nothing is yet settled. " And the banker, raising his voice, added with a stutter: "No French Chamber will ever admit that adventurer. " No matter. The stroke had fallen on the blind faith of the Bey in hisbaron financier. The latter had so confidently affirmed to him that theother would never be elected and that their action with regard to himneed not be fettered or in any way hampered by the least fear. Andnow, instead of a man ruined and overthrown, there rose before hima representative of the nation, a deputy whose portrait in stone theParisians were coming to admire; for in the eyes of the Oriental, anidea of distinction being mingled in spite of everything with thispublic exhibition, that bust had the prestige of a statue dominatinga square. Still more yellow than usual, Hemerlingue internally accusedhimself of clumsiness and imprudence. But how could he ever have dreamedof such a thing? He had been assured that the bust was not finished. Andin fact it had been there only since morning, and seemed quite athome, quivering with satisfied pride, defying its enemies with thegood-tempered smile of its curling lip. A veritable silent revenge forthe disaster of Saint-Romans. For some minutes the Bey, cold and impassible as the sculptured image, gazed at it without saying anything, his forehead divided by a straightcrease wherein his courtiers alone could read his anger; then, aftertwo quick words in Arabic, to order the carriages and to reassemble hisscattered suite, he directed his steps gravely towards the door of exit, without consenting to give even a glance to anything else. Who shallsay what passes in these august brains surfeited with power? Even oursovereigns of the West have incomprehensible fantasies; but they arenothing compared with Oriental caprices. Monsieur the Inspector of FineArts, who had made sure of taking his Highness all round theexhibition and of thus winning the pretty red-and-green ribbon of theNicham-Iftikahr, never knew the secret of this sudden flight. At the moment when the white _haiks_ were disappearing under the porch, just in time to see the last wave of their folds, the Nabob made hisentry by the middle door. In the morning he had received the news, "Elected by an overwhelming majority"; and after a sumptuous luncheon, at which the new deputy for Corsica had been extensively toasted, hecame, with some of his guests, to show himself, to see himself also, toenjoy all his new glory. The first person whom he saw as he arrived was Felicia Ruys, standing, leaning on the pedestal of a statue, surrounded by compliments andtributes of admiration, to which he made haste to add his own. She wassimply dressed, clad in a black costume embroidered and trimmed withjet, tempering the severity of her attire with a glittering of reflectedlights, and with a delightful little hat all made of downy plumes, theplay of colour in which her hair, curled delicately on her forehead anddrawn back to the neck in great waves, seemed to continue and to soften. A crowd of artists and fashionable people were assiduous in theirattentions to so great a genius allied to so much beauty; and Jenkins, bareheaded, and puffing with warm effusiveness, was going from one tothe other, stimulating their enthusiasm but widening the circle aroundthis young fame of which he constituted himself at once the guardian andthe trumpeter. His wife during this time was talking to the young girl. Poor Mme. Jenkins! She had heard that savage voice, which she aloneknew, say to her, "You must go and greet Felicia. " And she had gone todo so, controlling her emotion; for she knew now what it was that hiditself at the bottom of that paternal affection, although she avoidedall discussion of it with the doctor, as if she had been fearful of theissue. After Mme. Jenkins, it is the turn of the Nabob to rush up, and takingthe artist's two long, delicately-gloved hands between his fat paws, heexpresses his gratitude with a cordiality which brings the tears to hisown eyes. "It is a great honour that you have done me, mademoiselle, to associatemy name with yours, my humble person with your triumph, and to proveto all this vermin gnawing at my heels that you do not believe thecalumnies which have been spread with regard to me. Yes, truly, I shallnever forget it. In vain I may cover this magnificent bust with gold anddiamonds, I shall still be your debtor. " Fortunately for the good Nabob, with more feeling than eloquence, he isobliged to make way for all the others attracted by a dazzling talent, the personality in view; extravagant enthusiasms which, for want ofwords to express themselves, disappear as they come; the conventionaladmirations of society, moved by good-will, by a lively desire toplease, but of which each word is a douche of cold water; and then thehearty hand-shakes of rivals, of comrades, some very frank, others thatcommunicate to you the weakness of their grasp; the pretentious greatbooby, at whose idiotic eulogy you must appear to be transported withgladness, and who, lest he should spoil you too much, accompanies itwith "a few little reserves, " and the other, who, while overwhelmingyou with compliments, demonstrates to you that you have not learned thefirst word of your profession; and the excellent busy fellow, who stopsjust long enough to whisper in your ear "that so-and-so, the famouscritic, does not look very pleased. " Felicia listened to it all with thegreatest calm, raised by her success above the littleness of envy, andquite proud when a glorious veteran, some old comrade of her father, threw to her a "You've done very well, little one!" which took her backto the past, to the little corner reserved for her in the old days inher father's studio, when she was beginning to carve out a little gloryfor herself under the protection of the renown of the great Ruys. But, taken altogether, the congratulations left her rather cold, becausethere lacked one which she desired more than any other, and which shewas surprised not to have yet received. Decidedly he was more often inher thoughts than any other man had ever been. Was it love at last, thegreat love which is so rare in an artist's soul, incapable as that isof giving itself entirely up to the sway of sentiment, or was it perhapssimply a dream of honest _bourgeoise_ life, well sheltered against_ennui_, that spiritless _ennui_, the precursor of storms, which she hadso much reason to dread? In any case, she was herself taken in by it, and had been living for some days past in a state of delicious trouble, for love is so strong, so beautiful a thing, that its semblances, itsmirages, allure and can move us as deeply as itself. Has it ever happened to you in the street, when you have beenpreoccupied with thoughts of some one dear to you, to be warned of hisapproach by meeting persons with a vague resemblance to him, preparatoryimages, sketches of the type to appear directly afterward, which standout for you from the crowd like successive appeals to your overexcitedattention? Such presentiments are magnetic and nervous impressions atwhich one should not be too disposed to smile, since they constitutea faculty of suffering. Already, in the moving and constantly renewedstream of visitors, Felicia had several times thought to recognise thecurly head of Paul de Gery, when suddenly she uttered a cry of joy. Itwas not he, however, this time again, but some one who resembled himclosely, whose regular and peaceful physiognomy was always now connectedin her mind with that of her friend Paul through the effect of alikeness more moral than physical, and the gentle authority which bothexercised over her thoughts. "Aline!" "Felicia!" If nothing is more open to suspicion than the friendship of twofashionable ladies sharing the prerogatives of drawing-room royalty andlavishing on each other epithets, and the trivial graces of femininefondness, the friendships of childhood keep in the grown womana frankness of manner which distinguishes them, and makes themrecognisable among all others, bonds woven naively and firm as theneedlework of little girls in which an experienced hand had beenprodigal of thread and big knots; plants reared in fresh soil, inflower, but with strong roots, full of vitality and new shoots. And whata joy, hand in hand--you glad dances of boarding-school days, where areyou?--to retrace some steps of one's way with somebody who has an equalacquaintance with it and its least incidents, and the same laugh oftender retrospection. A little apart, the two girls, for whom it hasbeen sufficient to find themselves once more face to face to forget fiveyears of separation, carry on a rapid exchange of recollections, whilethe little _pere_ Joyeuse, his ruddy face brightened by a new cravat, straightens himself in pride to see his daughter thus warmly welcomed bysuch an illustrious person. Proud certainly he had reason to be, forthe little Parisian, even in the neighbourhood of her brilliant friend, holds her own in grace, youth, fair candour, beneath her twenty smoothand golden years, which the gladness of this meeting brings to freshbloom. "How happy you must be! For my part, I have seen nothing yet; but I heareverybody saying it is so beautiful. " "Happy above all to see you again, little Aline. It is so long--" "I should think so, you naughty girl! Whose the fault?" And from the saddest corner of her memory, Felicia recalls the date ofthe breaking off of their relations, coinciding for her with anotherdate on which her youth came to its end in an unforgettable scene. "And what have you been doing, darling, all this time?" "Oh, I, always the same thing--or, nothing to speak of. " "Yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, you brave little thing!Giving your life to other people, isn't it?" But Aline was no longer listening. She was smiling affectionately tosome one straight in front of her; and Felicia, turning round to see whoit was, perceived Paul de Gery replying to the shy and tender greetingof Mlle. Joyeuse. "You know each other, then?" "Do I know M. Paul! I should think so, indeed. We talk of you veryoften. He has never told you, then?" "Never. He must be a terribly sly fellow. " She stopped short, her mind enlightened by a flash; and quickly withoutheed to de Gery, who was coming up to congratulate her on her triumph, she leaned over towards Aline and spoke to her in a low voice. Thatyoung lady blushed, protested with smiles and words under her breath:"How can you think of such a thing? At my age--a 'grandmamma'!" andfinally seized her father's arm in order to escape some friendlyteasing. When Felicia saw the two young people going off together, when she hadrealized the fact, which they had not yet grasped themselves, that theywere in love with each other, she felt as it were a crumbling allaround her. Then upon her dream, now fallen to the ground in a thousandfragments, she set herself to stamp furiously. After all, he was quiteright to prefer this little Aline to herself. Would an honest manever dare to marry Mlle. Ruys? She, a home, a family--what nonsense! Aharlot's daughter you are, my dear; you must be a harlot too if you wantto become anything at all. The day wore on. The crowd, more active now that there were empty spaceshere and there, commenced to stream towards the door of exit after greateddyings round the successes of the year, satisfied, rather tired, butexcited still by that air charged with the electricity of art. A greatflood of sunlight, such as sometimes occurs at four o'clock in theafternoon, fell on the stained-glass rose-window, threw on the sandtracks of rainbow-coloured lights, softly bathing the bronze or themarble of the statues, imparting an iridescent hue to the nudity of abeautiful figure, giving to the vast museum something of the luminouslife of a garden. Felicia, absorbed in her deep and sad reverie, did notnotice the man who advanced towards her, superb, elegant, fascinating, through the respectfully opened ranks of the public, while the name of"Mora" was everywhere whispered. "Well, mademoiselle, you have made a splendid success. I only regret onething about it, and that is the cruel symbol which you have hidden inyour masterpiece. " As she saw the duke before her, she shuddered. "Ah, yes, the symbol, " she said, lifting her face towards his with asmile of discouragement; and leaning against the pedestal of the large, voluptuous statue near which they happened to be standing, with theclosed eyes of a woman who gives or abandons herself, she murmured low, very low: "Rabelais lied, as all men lie. The truth is that the fox is utterlywearied, that he is at the end of his breath and his courage, ready tofall into the ditch, and that if the greyhound makes another effort----" Mora started, became a shade paler, all the blood he had in his bodyrushing back to his heart. Two sombre flames met with their eyes, tworapid words were exchanged by lips that hardly moved; then the dukebowed profoundly, and walked away with a step gay and light, as thoughthe gods were bearing him. At that moment there was in the palace only one man as happy as he, andthat was the Nabob. Escorted by his friends, he occupied, quite filledup, the principal bay with his own party alone, speaking loudly, gesticulating, proud to such a degree that he looked almost handsome, asthough by dint of naive and long contemplation of his bust he had beentouched by something of the splendid idealization with which theartist had haloed the vulgarity of his type. The head, raised to thethree-quarters position, standing freely out from the wide, loosecollar, drew contradictory remarks on the resemblance from thepassers-by; and the name of Jansoulet, so many times repeated by theelectoral ballot-boxes, was repeated over again now by the prettiestmouths, by the most authoritative voices, in Paris. Any other than theNabob would have been embarrassed to hear uttered, as he passed, these expressions of curiosity which were not always friendly. But theplatform, the springing-board, well suited that nature which becamebolder under the fire of glances, like those women who are beautiful orwitty only in society, and whom the least admiration transfigures andcompletes. When he felt this delirious joy growing calmer, when he thought tohave drunk the whole of its proud intoxication, he had only to say tohimself, "Deputy! I am a Deputy!" And the triumphal cup foamed once moreto the brim. It meant the embargo raised from all his possessions, theawakening from a nightmare that had lasted two months, the puff of coolwind sweeping away all his anxieties, all his inquietudes, even to theaffront of Saint-Romans, very heavy though that was in his memory. Deputy! He laughed to himself as he thought of the baron's face when he learnedthe news, of the stupefaction of the Bey when he had been led up to hisbust; and suddenly, upon the reflection that he was no longer merelyan adventurer stuffed with gold, exciting the stupid admiration ofthe crowd, as might an enormous rough nugget in the window of amoney-changer, but that people saw in him, as he passed, one of themen elected by the will of the nation, his simple and mobile face grewthoughtful with a deliberate gravity, there suggested themselves to himprojects of a career, of reform, and the wish to profit by the lessonsthat had been latterly taught by destiny. Already, remembering thepromise which he had given to de Gery, for the household troop thatwriggled ignobly at his heels, he made exhibition of certain disdainfulcoldnesses, a deliberate pose of authoritative contradiction. He calledthe Marquis de Bois l'Hery "my good fellow, " imposed silence verysharply on the governor, whose enthusiasm was becoming scandalous, andmade a solemn vow to himself to get rid as soon as possible of all thatmendicant and promising Bohemian set, when he should have occasion tobegin the process. Penetrating the crowd which surrounded him, Moessard--the handsomeMoessard, in a sky-blue cravat, pale and bloated like a white embodimentof disease, and pinched at the waist in a fine frock-coat--seeing thatthe Nabob, after having gone twenty times round the hall of sculpture, was making for the door, dashed forward, and passing his arm throughhis, said: "You are taking me with you, you know. " Especially of late, since the time of the election, he had assumed, inthe establishment of the Place Vendome, an authority almost equal tothat of Monpavon, but more impudent; for, in point of impudence, theQueen's lover was without his equal on the pavement that stretches fromthe Rue Drouot to the Madeleine. This time he had gone too far. Themuscular arm which he pressed was shaken violently, and the Nabobanswered very dryly: "I am sorry, _mon cher_, but I have not a place to offer you. " No place in a carriage that was as big as a house, and which five ofthem had come in! Moessard gazed at him in stupefaction. "I had, however, a few words to say to you which are very urgent. Withregard to the subject of my note--you received it, did you not?" "Certainly; and M. De Gery should have sent you a reply this verymorning. What you ask is impossible. Twenty thousand francs! _Tonnerrede Dieu!_ You go at a fine rate!" "Still, it seems to me that my services--" stammered the beauty-man. "Have been amply paid for. That is how it seems to me also. Two hundredthousand francs in five months! We will draw the line there, if youplease. Your teeth are long, young man; you will have to file them downa little. " They exchanged these words as they walked, pushed forward by the surgingwave of the people going out. Moessard stopped: "That is your last word?" The Nabob hesitated for a moment, seized by a presentiment as he lookedat that pale, evil mouth; then he remembered the promise which he hadgiven to his friend: "That is my last word. " "Very well! We shall see, " said the handsome Moessard, whose switch-canecut the air with the hiss of a viper; and, turning on his heel, he madeoff with great strides, like a man who is expected somewhere on veryurgent business. Jansoulet continued his triumphal progress. That day much more wouldhave been required to upset the equilibrium of his happiness; on thecontrary, he felt himself relieved by the so-quickly achieved fulfilmentof his purpose. The immense vestibule was thronged by a dense crowd of people whom theapproach of the hour of closing was bringing out, but whom one of thosesudden showers, which seem inseparable from the opening of the _Salon_, kept waiting beneath the porch, with its floor beaten down and sandylike the entrance to the circus where the young dandies strut about. Thescene that met the eye was curious, and very Parisian. Outside, great rays of sunshine traversing the rain, attaching toits limpid beads those sharp and brilliant blades which justify theproverbial saying, "It rains halberds"; the young greenery of theChamps-Elysees, the clumps of rhododendrons, rustling and wet, thecarriages ranged in the avenue, the mackintosh capes of the coachmen, all the splendid harness-trappings of the horses receiving from therain and the sunbeams an added richness and effect, and blue everywherelooming out, the blue of a sky which is about to smile in the intervalbetween two downpours. Within, laughter, gossip, greetings, impatience, skirts held up, satinsbulging out above the delicate folds of frills, of lace, of flouncesgathered up in the hands of their wearers in heavy, terribly frayedbundles. Then, to unite the two sides of the picture, these prisonersframed in by the vaulted ceiling of the porch and in the gloom of itsshadow, with the immense background in brilliant light, footmen runningbeneath umbrellas, crying out names of coachmen or of masters, broughamscoming up at walking pace, and flustered couples getting into them. "M. Jansoulet's carriage!" Everybody turned round, but, as one knows, that did not embarrass him. And while the good Nabob, waiting for his suite, stood posing a littleamid these fashionable and famous people, this mixed _tout Paris_ whichwas there, with its every face bearing a well-known name, a nervous andwell-gloved hand was stretched out to him, and the Duc de Mora, on hisway to his brougham, threw to him, as he passed, these words, with thateffusion which happiness gives to the most reserved of men: "My congratulations, my dear deputy. " It was said in a loud voice, and every one could hear it: "My deardeputy. " There is in the life of all men one golden hour, one luminous peak, whereon all that they can hope of prosperity, joy, triumph, waits forthem and is given into their hands. The summit is more or less lofty, more or less rugged and difficult to climb, but it exists equally forall, for powerful and humble alike. Only, like that longest day of theyear on which the sun has shone with its utmost brilliance, and of whichthe morrow seems a first step towards winter, this _summum_ of humanexistences is but a moment given to be enjoyed, after which one can butredescend. This late afternoon of the first of May, streaked with rainand sunshine, thou must forget it not, poor man--must fix forever itschanging brilliance in thy memory. It was the hour of thy full summer, with its flowers in bloom, its fruits bending their golden boughs, itsripe harvests of which so recklessly thou wast plucking the corn. Thestar will now pale, gradually growing more remote and falling, incapableere long of piercing the mournful night wherein thy destiny shall beaccomplished. MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER IN THE ANTCHAMBER Great festivities last Saturday in the Place Vendome. In honour ofhis election, M. Bernard Jansoulet, the new deputy for Corsica, gavea magnificent evening party, with municipal guards at the door, illumination of the entire mansion, and two thousand invitations sentout to fashionable Paris. I owed to the distinction of my manners, to the sonority of my vocalorgan, which the chairman of the board had had occasion to notice at themeetings at the Territorial Bank, the opportunity of taking part inthis sumptuous entertainment, at which, for three hours, standing in thevestibule, amid the flowers and hangings, clad in scarlet and gold, withthat majesty peculiar to persons who are rather generously built, andwith my calves exposed for the first time in my life, I launched, likea cannon-ball, through the five communicating drawing-rooms, the nameof each guest, which a glittering beadle saluted every time with the"_bing_" of his halberd on the floor. How many the curious observations which that evening again I was ableto make; how many the pleasant sallies, the high-toned jests exchangedamong the servants upon all that world as it passed by! Not withthe vine-dressers of Montbars in any case should I have heard suchdrolleries. I should remark that the worthy M. Barreau, to begin with, had caused to be served to us all in his pantry, filled to the ceilingwith iced drinks and provisions, a solid lunch well washed down, whichput each of us in a good humour that was maintained during the eveningby the glasses of punch and champagne pilfered from the trays whendessert was served. The masters, indeed, seemed in less joyous mood than we. So early asnine o'clock, when I arrived at my post, I was struck by the uneasynervousness apparent on the face of the Nabob, whom I saw walking withM. De Gery through the lighted and empty drawing-rooms, talking quicklyand making large gestures. "I will kill him!" he said; "I will kill him!" The other endeavoured to soothe him; then madame came in, and thesubject of their conversation was changed. A mighty fine woman, this Levantine, twice as stout as I am, dazzling tolook at with her tiara of diamonds, the jewels with which her hugewhite shoulders were laden, her back as round as her bosom, her waistcompressed within a cuirass of green gold, which was continued in longbraids down the whole length of her stiff skirt. I have never seenanything so imposing, so rich. She suggested one of those beautifulwhite elephants that carry towers on their backs, of which we read inbooks of travel. When she walked, supporting herself with difficultyby means of clinging to the furniture, her whole body quivered, herornaments clattered like a lot of old iron. Added to this, a small, very piercing voice, and a fine red face which a little negro boykept cooling for her all the time with a white feather fan as big as apeacock's tail. It was the first time that this indolent and retiring person had showedherself to Parisian society, and M. Jansoulet seemed very happy andproud that she had been willing to preside over his party; whichundertaking, for that matter, did not cost the lady much trouble, for, leaving her husband to receive the guests in the first drawing-room, she went and lay down on the divan of the small Japanese room, wedgedbetween two piles of cushions, motionless, so that you could see herfrom a distance right in the background, looking like an idol, beneaththe great fan which her negro waved regularly like a piece of clockwork. These foreign women possess an assurance! All the same, the Nabob's irritation had struck me, and seeing the_valet de chambre_ go by, descending the staircase four steps at a time, I caught him on the wing and whispered in his ear: "What's the matter, then, with your governor, M. Noel?" "It is the article in the _Messenger_, " was his reply, and I had togive up the idea of learning anything further for the moment, theloud ringing of a bell announcing that the first carriage had arrived, followed soon by a crowd of others. Wholly absorbed in my occupation, careful to utter clearly the nameswhich were given to me, and to make them echo from salon to salon, Ihad no longer a thought for anything besides. It is no easy business toannounce in a proper manner persons who are always under the impressionthat their name must be known, whisper it under their breath as theypass, and then are surprised to hear you murder it with the finestaccent, and are almost angry with you on account of those entranceswhich, missing fire and greeted with little smiles, follow upon anill-made announcement. At M. Jansoulet's, what made the work stillmore difficult for me was the number of foreigners--Turks, Egyptians, Persians, Tunisians. I say nothing of the Corsicans, who were verynumerous that day, because during my four years at the Territorial Ihave become accustomed to the pronunciation of those high-sounding, interminable names, always followed by that of the locality: "Paganettide Porto Vecchio, Bastelica di Bonifacio, Paianatchi de Barbicaglia. " It was always a pleasure to me to modulate these Italian syllables, togive them all their sonority, and I saw clearly, from the bewilderedairs of these worthy islanders, how charmed and surprised they were tobe introduced in such a manner into the high society of the Continent. But with the Turks, these pashas, beys, and effendis, I had muchmore trouble, and I must have happened often to fall on a wrongpronunciation; for M. Jansoulet, on two separate occasions, sent wordto me to pay more attention to the names that were given to me, andespecially to announce in a more natural manner. This remark, utteredaloud before the whole vestibule with a certain roughness, annoyed megreatly, and prevented me--shall I confess it?--from pitying this rich_parvenu_ when I learned, in the course of the evening, what cruelthorns lay concealed in his bed of roses. From half past ten until midnight the bell was constantly ringing, carriages rolling up under the portico, guests succeeding one another, deputies, senators, councillors of state, municipal councillors, who looked much rather as though they were attending a meeting ofshareholders than an evening-party of society people. What could accountfor this? I had not succeeded in finding an explanation, but a remark ofthe beadle Nicklauss opened my eyes. "Do you notice, M. Passajon, " said that worthy henchman, as he stoodopposite me, halberd in hand, "do you notice how few ladies we have?" That was it, egad! Nor were we the only two to observe the fact. As eachnew arrival made his entry I could hear the Nabob, who was standing nearthe door, exclaim, with consternation in his thick voice like that of aMarseillais with a cold in his head: "What! all alone?" The guest would murmur his excuses. "Mn-mn-mn--his wife a trifleindisposed. Certainly very sorry. " Then another would arrive, and thesame question call forth the same reply. By its constant repetition this phrase "All alone?" had eventuallybecome a jest in the vestibule; lackeys and footmen threw it at eachother whenever there entered a new guest "all alone!" And we laughedand were put in good-humour by it. But M. Nicklauss, with his greatexperience of the world, deemed this almost general abstention of thefair sex unnatural. "It must be the article in the _Messenger_, " said he. Everybody was talking about it, this rascally article, and before themirror garlanded with flowers, at which each guest gave a finishingtouch to his attire before entering, I surprised fragments of whisperedconversation such as this: "You have read it?" "It is horrible!" "Do you think the thing possible?" "I have no idea. In any case, I preferred not to bring my wife. " "I have done the same. A man can go everywhere without compromisinghimself. " "Certainly. While a woman----" Then they would go in, opera hat under arm, with that conquering air ofmarried men when they are unaccompanied by their wives. What, then, could there be in this newspaper, this terrible article, tomenace to this degree the influence of so wealthy a man? Unfortunately, my duties took up the whole of my time. I could go down neither to thepantry nor to the cloak-room to obtain information, to chat with thecoachmen and valets and lackeys whom I could see standing at the footof the staircase, amusing themselves by jests upon the people who weregoing up. What will you? Masters give themselves great airs also. Hownot laugh to see go by with an insolent manner and an empty stomach theMarquis and the Marquise de Bois l'Hery, after all that we have beentold about the traffickings of Monsieur and the toilettes of Madame? Andthe Jenkins couple, so tender, so united, the doctor carefully puttinga lace shawl over his lady's shoulders for fear she should take coldon the staircase; she herself smiling and in full dress, all in velvet, with a great long train, leaning on her husband's arm with an air thatseems to say, "How happy I am!" when I happened to know that, in fact, since the death of the Irishwoman, his real, legitimate wife, the doctoris thinking of getting rid of the old woman who clings to him, in orderto be able to marry a chit of a girl, and that the old woman passes hernights in lamentation, and in spoiling with tears whatever beauty shehas left. The humorous thing is that not one of these people had the leastsuspicion of the rich jests and jeers that were spat over their backsas they passed, not a notion of the filth which those long trains drewafter them as they crossed the carpet of the antechamber, and they allwould look at you so disdainfully that it was enough to make you die oflaughing. The two ladies whom I have just named, the wife of the governor, alittle Corsican, to whom her bushy eyebrows, her white teeth, and hershining cheeks, dark beneath the skin, give the appearance of a woman ofAuvergne with a washed face, a good sort, for the rest, and laughing allthe time except when her husband is looking at other women; in addition, a few Levantines with tiaras of gold or pearls, less perfect specimensof the type than our own, but still in a similar style, wives ofupholsterers, jewellers, regular tradesmen of the establishment, withshoulders as large as shop-fronts, and expensive toilettes; finally, sundry ladies, wives of officials of the Territorial, in sorry, badlycreased dresses; these constituted the sole representation of the fairsex in the assembly, some thirty ladies lost among a thousand blackcoats--that is to say, practically none at all. From time to timeCassagne, Laporte, Grandvarlet, who were serving the refreshments intrays, stopped to inform us of what was passing in the drawing-rooms. "Ah, my boys, if you could see it! it has a gloom, a melancholy. The mendon't stir from the buffets. The ladies are all at the back, seated in acircle, fanning themselves and saying nothing. The fat old lady doesnot speak to a soul. I fancy she is sulking. You should see the look onMonsieur! Come, _pere_ Passajon, a glass of Chateau-Larose; it will pickyou up a bit. " They were charmingly kind to me, all these young people, and took amischievous pleasure in doing me the honours of the cellar so often andso copiously, that my tongue commenced to become heavy, uncertain, andas the young folk said to me, in their somewhat free language. "Uncle, you are babbling. " Happily the last of the effendis had just arrived, and there was nobody else to announce; for it was in vain that I soughtto shake off the impression, every time I advanced between the curtainsto send a name hurtling through the air at random, I saw the chandeliersof the drawing-rooms revolving with hundreds of dazzling lights, and thefloors slipping away with sharp and perpendicular slopes like Russianmountains. I was bound to get my speech mixed, it is certain. The cool night-air, sundry ablutions at the pump in the court-yard, quickly got the better of this small discomfort, and when I entered thecloak-room nothing of it was any longer apparent. I found a numerous andgay company collected round a _marquise au champagne_, of which allmy nieces, wearing their best dresses, with their hair puffed outand cravats of pink ribbon, took their full share notwithstandingexclamations and bewitching little grimaces that deceived nobody. Naturally, the conversation turned on the famous article, an article byMoessard, it appears, full of frightful occupations which the Nabob wasalleged to have followed fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time of hisfirst sojourn in Paris. It was the third attack of the kind which the _Messenger_ had publishedin the course of the last week, and that rogue of a Moessard had thespite to send the number each time done up in a packet to the PlaceVendome. M. Jansoulet received it in the morning with his chocolate; and at thesame hour his friends and his enemies--for a man like the Nabob couldbe regarded with indifference by none--would be reading, commenting, tracing for themselves the relation to him a line of conduct designed tosave them from becoming compromised. Today's article must be supposed tohave struck hard all the same; for Jansoulet, the coachman, recountedto us a few hours ago, in the Bois, his master had not exchanged tengreetings in the course of ten drives round the lake, while ordinarilyhis hat is as rarely on his head as a sovereign's when he takes the air. Then, when they got back, there was another trouble. The three boys hadjust arrived at the house, all in tears and dismay, brought home fromthe College Bourdaloue by a worthy father in the interest of the poorlittle fellows themselves, who had received a temporary leave of absencein order to spare them from hearing in the parlour or the playgroundany unkind story or painful allusion. Thereupon the Nabob flew into aterrible passion, which caused him to destroy a service of porcelain, and it appears that, had it not been for M. De Gery, he would haverushed off at once to punch Moessard's head. "And he would have done very well, " remarked M. Noel, entering at theselast words, very much excited. "There is not a line of truth in thatrascal's article. My master had never been in Paris before last year. From Tunis to Marseilles, from Marseilles to Tunis, those were his onlyjourneys. But this knave of a journalist is taking his revenge becausewe refused him twenty thousand francs. " "There you acted very unwisely, " observed M. Francis uponthis--Monpavon's Francis, Monpavon the old beau whose solitary toothshakes about in the centre of his mouth at every word he says, but whomthe young ladies regard with a favourable eye all the same on account ofhis fine manners. "Yes, you were unwise. One must know how to conciliatepeople, so long as they are in a position to be useful to us or toinjure us. Your Nabob has turned his back too quickly upon his friendsafter his success; and between you and me, _mon cher_, he is notsufficiently firmly established to be able to disregard attacks of thiskind. " I thought myself able here to put in a word in my turn: "That is true enough, M. Noel, your governor is no longer the same sincehis election. He has adopted a tone and manners which I can hardly butdescribe as reprehensible. The day before yesterday, at the Territorial, he raised a commotion which you can hardly imagine. He was heard toexclaim before the whole board: 'You have lied to me; you have robbedme, and made me a robber as much as yourselves. Show me your books, youset of rogues!' If he has treated Moessard in the same sort of fashion, I am not surprised any longer that the latter should be taking hisrevenge in his newspaper. " "But what does this article say?" asked M. Barreau. "Who is present thathas read it?" Nobody answered. Several had tried to buy it, but in Paris scandal sellslike bread. At ten o'clock in the morning there was not a single copyof the _Messenger_ left in the office. Then it occurred to one of mynieces--a sharp girl, if ever there was one--to look in the pocket ofone of the numerous overcoats in the cloak-room, folded carefully inlarge pigeon-holes. At the first which she examined: "Here it is!" exclaimed the charming child with an air of triumph, asshe drew out a _Messenger_ crumpled in the folding like a paper that hasjust been read. "Here is another!" cried Tom Bois l'Hery, who was making a search on hisown account. A third overcoat, a third _Messenger_. And in every one thesame thing: pushed down to the bottom of a pocket, or with its titlepageprotruding, the newspaper was everywhere, just as its article musthave been in every memory; and one could imagine the Nabob up aboveexchanging polite phrases with his guests, while they could have reeledoff by heart the atrocious things that had been printed about him. Weall laughed much at this idea; but we were anxious to make acquaintancein our own turn with this curious article. "Come, _pere_ Passajon, read it aloud to us. " It was the general desire, and I assented. I don't know if you are like me, but when I read aloud I gargle mythroat with my voice; I introduce modulations and flourishes to such anextent that I understand nothing of what I am saying, like those singersto whom the sense of the words matters little, provided the notes betrue. The thing was entitled "The Boat of Flowers"--a sufficientlycomplicated story, with Chinese names, about a very rich mandarin, whohad at one time in the past kept a "boat of flowers" moored quite at thefar end of the town near a barrier frequented by the soldiers. At theend of the article we were not farther on than at the beginning. Wetried certainly to wink at each other, to pretend to be clever; but, frankly, we had no reason. A veritable puzzle without solution; and weshould still be stuck fast at it if old Francis, a regular rascal whoknows everything, had not explained to us that this meeting place ofthe soldiers must stand for the Military School, and that the "boat offlowers" did not bear so pretty a name as that in good French. And thisname, he said it aloud notwithstanding the presence of the ladies. There was an explosion of cries, of "Ah's!" and "Oh's!" some saying, "Isuspected it!" others, "It is impossible!" "Pardon me, " added Francis, formerly a trumpeter in the NinthLancers--the regiment of Mora and of Monpavon--"pardon me. Twenty yearsago, during the last half year of my service, I was in barracks in theMilitary School, and I remember very well that near the fortificationsthere was a dirty dancing-hall known as the Jansoulet Rooms, with alittle furnished flat above and bedrooms at twopence-halfpenny the hour, to which one could retire between two quadrilles. " "You are an infamous liar!" said M. Noel, beside himself with rage--"athief and a liar like your master. Jansoulet has never been in Parisbefore now. " Francis was seated a little outside our circle engaged in sippingsomething sweet, because champagne has a bad effect on his nerves andbecause, too, it is not a sufficiently distinguished beverage for him. He rose gravely, without putting down his glass, and, advancing towardsM. Noel, said to him very quietly: "You are wanting in manners, _mon cher_. The other evening I foundyour tone coarse and unseemly. To insult people serves no good purpose, especially in this case, since I happen to have been an assistant to afencing-master, and, if matters were carried further between us, couldput a couple of inches of steel into whatever part of your body I mightchoose. But I am good-natured. Instead of a sword-thrust, I prefer togive you a piece of advice, which your master will do well to follow. This is what I should do in your place: I should go and find Moessard, and I should buy him, without quibbling about price. Hemerlingue hasgiven him twenty thousand francs to speak; I would offer him thirtythousand to hold his tongue. " "Never! never!" vociferated M. Noel. "I should rather go and knock therascally brigand's head off. " "You will do nothing of the kind. Whether the calumny be true or false, you have seen the effect of it this evening. This is a sample of thepleasures in store for you. What can you expect, _mon cher_? You havethrown away your crutches too soon, and thought to walk by yourselves. That is all very well when one is well set up and firm on the legs; butwhen one had not a very solid footing, and has also the misfortuneto feel Hemerlingue at his heels, it is a bad business. Besides, yourmaster is beginning to be short of money; he has given notes of hand toold Schwalbach--and don't talk to me of a Nabob who gives notes of hand. I know well that you have millions over yonder, but your election mustbe declared valid before you can touch them; a few more articles liketo-day's, and I answer for it that you will not secure that declaration. You set yourselves up to struggle against Paris, _mon bon_, but you arenot big enough for such a match; you know nothing about it. Here weare not in the East, and if we do not wring the necks of people whodisplease us, if we do not throw them into the water in a sack, we haveother methods of effecting their disappearance. Noel, let your mastertake care. One of these mornings Paris will swallow him as I swallowthis plum, without spitting out either the stone or skin. " He was terrible, this old man, and notwithstanding the paint on hisface, I felt a certain respect for him. While he was speaking, we couldhear the music upstairs, and the horses of the municipal guards shakingtheir curb-chains in the square. From without, our festivities must haveseemed very brilliant, all lighted up by their thousands of candles, and with the great portico illuminated. And when one reflected that ruinperhaps lay beneath it all! We sat there in the vestibule like rats thathold counsel with each other at the bottom of a ship's hold, when thevessel is beginning to leak and before the crew has found it out, and Isaw clearly that all the lackeys and chambermaids would not be long indecamping at the first note of alarm. Could such a catastrophe indeed bepossible? And in that case what would become of me, and the Territorial, and the money I had advanced, and the arrears due to me? That Francis has left me with a cold shudder down my back. A PUBLIC MAN The bright warmth of a clear May afternoon heated the lofty casementwindows of the Mora mansion to the temperature of a greenhouse. Theblue silk curtains were visible from outside through the branches of thetrees, and the wide terraces, where exotic flowers were planted out ofdoors for the first time of the season, ran in borders along the wholelength of the quay. The raking of the garden paths traced the lightfootprints of summer in the sand, while the soft fall of the water fromthe hoses on the lawns was its refreshing song. All the luxury of the princely residence lay sunning itself in the softwarmth of the temperature, borrowing a beauty from the silence, therepose of this noontide hour, the only hour when the roll of carriageswas not to be heard under the arches, nor the banging of the great doorsof the antechamber, and that perpetual vibration which the ringing ofbells upon arrivals or departures sent coursing through the very ivy onthe walls; the feverish pulse of the life of a fashionable house. It waswell known that up to three o'clock the duke held his reception at theMinistry, and that the duchess, a Swede still benumbed by the snowsof Stockholm, had hardly issued from her drowsy curtains; consequentlynobody came to call, neither visitors or petitioners, and only thefootmen, perched like flamingoes on the deserted flight of steps infront of the house, gave the place a touch of animation with the slimshadows of their long legs and their yawning weariness of idlers. As an exception, however, that day Jenkins's brougham was standingwaiting in a corner of the court-yard. The duke, unwell since theprevious evening, had felt worse after leaving the breakfast-table, andin all haste had sent for the man of the pearls in order to question himon his singular condition. Pain nowhere, sleep and appetite as usual;only an inconceivable lassitude, and a sense of terrible chill whichnothing could dissipate. Thus at that moment, notwithstanding thebrilliant spring sunshine which flooded his chamber and almostextinguished the fire flaming in the grate, the duke was shiveringbeneath his furs, surrounded by screens; and while signing papers for an_attache_ of his cabinet on a low table of gold lacquer, placed so nearto the fire that it frizzled, he kept holding out his numb fingersevery moment toward the blaze, which might have burned the skin withoutrestoring circulation. Was it anxiety caused by the indisposition of his illustrious client?Jenkins appeared nervous, disquieted, walked backward and forward withlong strides over the carpet, hunting about right and left, seekingin the air something which he believed to be present, a subtle andintangible something like the trace of a perfume or the invisible trackleft by a bird in its flight. You heard the crackling of the wood inthe fireplace, the rustle of papers hurriedly turned over, the indolentvoice of the duke indicating in a sentence, always precise and clear, areply to a letter of four pages, and the respectful monosyllables ofthe _attache_--"Yes, M. Le Ministre, " "No, M. Le Ministre"; then thescraping of a rebellious and heavy pen. Out of doors the swallows weretwittering merrily over the water, the sound of a clarinet was waftedfrom somewhere near the bridges. "It is impossible, " suddenly said the Minister of State, rising. "Takethat away, Lartigues; you must return to-morrow. I cannot write. I amtoo cold. See, doctor; feel my hands--one would think that they had justcome out of a pail of iced water. For the last two days my whole bodyhas been the same. Isn't it too absurd, in this weather!" "I am not surprised, " muttered the Irishman, in a sullen, curt tone, rarely heard from that honeyed personage. The door had closed upon the young _attache_, bearing off his paperswith majestic dignity, but very happy, I imagine, to feel himself freeand to be able to stroll for an hour or two, before returning to theMinistry, in the Tuileries gardens, full of spring frocks and prettygirls sitting near the still empty chairs round the band, under thechestnut-trees in flower, through which from root to summit there ranthe great thrill of the month when nests are built. The _attache_ wascertainly not frozen. Jenkins, silently, examined his patient, sounded him, and tapped hischest; then, in the same rough tone which might be explained by hisanxious devotion, the annoyance of the doctor who sees his orderstransgressed: "Ah, now, my dear duke, what sort of life have you been living lately?" He knew from the gossip of the antechamber--in the case of his regularclients the doctor did not disdain this--he knew that the duke had a newfavourite, that this caprice of recent date possessed him, excited himin an extraordinary measure, and the fact, taken together withother observations made elsewhere, had implanted in Jenkins's mind asuspicion, a mad desire to know the name of this new mistress. Itwas this that he was trying to read on the pale face of his patient, attempting to fathom the depth of his thoughts rather than the originof his malady. But he had to deal with one of those faces which arehermetically sealed, like those little coffers with a secret springwhich hold jewels and women's letters, one of those discreet naturesclosed by a cold, blue eye, a glance of steel by which the most astuteperspicacity may be baffled. "You are mistaken, doctor, " replied his excellency tranquilly. "I havemade no changes in my habits. " "Very well, M. Le Duc, you have done wrong, " remarked the Irishmanabruptly, furious at having made no discovery. And then, feeling that he was going too far, he gave vent to his badtemper and to the severity of his diagnosis in words which were a tissueof banalities and axioms. One ought to take care. Medicine was notmagic. The power of the Jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, by the necessities of age, by the resources of nature, which, unfortunately, are not inexhaustible. The duke interrupted him in anirritable tone: "Come, Jenkins, you know very well that I don't like phrases. I am notall right, then? What is the matter with me? What is the reason of thischilliness?" "It is anaemia, exhaustion--a sinking of the oil in the lamp. " "What must I do?" "Nothing. An absolute rest. Eat, sleep, nothing besides. If you could goand spend a few weeks at Grandbois. " Mora shrugged his shoulders: "And the Chamber--and the Council--and--? Nonsense! how is it possible?" "In any case, M. Le Duc, you must put the brake on; as somebody said, renounce absolutely--" Jenkins was interrupted by the entry of the servant on duty, who, discreetly, on tiptoe, like a dancing-master, came in to deliver aletter and a card to the Minister of State, who was still shiveringbefore the fire. At the sight of that satin-gray envelope of a peculiarshape the Irishman started involuntarily, while the duke, having openedand glanced over his letter, rose with new vigor, his cheeks wearingthat light flush of artificial health which all the heat of the stovehad not been able to bring there. "My dear doctor, I must at any price--" The servant still stood waiting. "What is it? Ah, yes; this card. Take the visitor to the gallery. Ishall be there directly. " The gallery of the Duke de Mora, open to visitors twice a week, was forhimself, as it were, a neutral ground, a public place where he could seeany one without binding or compromising himself in any way. Then, theservant having withdrawn: "Jenkins, _mon bon_, you have already worked miracles for me. I ask youfor one more. Double the dose of my pearls; find something, whateveryou will. But I must be feeling young by Sunday. You understand me, altogether young. " And on the little letter in his hand, his fingers, warm once more andfeverish, clinched themselves with a thrill of eager desire. "Take care, M. Le Duc, " said Jenkins, very pale and with compressedlips. "I have no wish to alarm you unnecessarily with regard to thefeeble state of your health, but it becomes my duty--" Mora gave a smile of pretty arrogance: "Your duty and my pleasure are two separate things, my worthy friend. Let me burn the candle at both ends, if it amuses me. I have never hadso fine an opportunity as this time. " He started: "The duchess!" A door concealed behind a curtain had just opened to give passage to amerry little head with fair curls in disorder, quite fairy-like amid thelaces and frills of a dressing-jacket worthy of a princess: "What do I hear? You have not gone out? But do scold him, doctor. He iswrong, isn't he, to have so many fancies about himself? Look at him--apicture of health!" "There--you see, " said the duke, laughing, to the Irishman. "You willnot come in, duchess?" "No, I am going to carry you off, on the contrary. My uncle d'Estainghas sent me a cage full of tropical birds. I want to show them to you. Wonderful creatures, of all colours, with little eyes like black pearls. And so sensitive to cold--nearly as much so as you are. " "Let us go and have a look at them, " said the minister. "Wait for me, Jenkins. I shall be back in a moment. " Then, noticing that he still had his letter in his hand, he threw itcarelessly into the drawer of the little table at which he had beensigning papers, and left the room behind the duchess, with the finecoolness of a husband accustomed to these changes of situation. What prodigious mechanic, what incomparable manufacturer of toys, must it have been who succeeded in endowing the human mask with itssuppleness, its marvellous elasticity! How interesting to observethe face of this great seigneur surprised in the very planning of hisadultery, with cheeks flushed in the anticipation of promised delights, calming down at a moment's notice into the serenity of conjugaltenderness; how fine the devout obsequiousness, the paternal smile, after the Franklin method, of Jenkins, in the presence of the duchess, giving place suddenly, when he found himself alone, to a savageexpression of anger and hatred, the pallor of a criminal, the pallor ofa Castaing or of a Lapommerais hatching his sinister treasons. One rapid glance towards each of the two doors, and he stood before thedrawer full of precious papers, the little gold key still remaining inthe lock with an arrogant carelessness, which seemed to say, "No onewill dare. " Jenkins dared. The letter lay there, the first on a pile of others. The grain ofthe paper, an address of three words dashed off in a simple, boldhandwriting, and then the perfume, that intoxicating, suggestiveperfume, the very breath of her divine lips--It was true, then, hisjealous love had not deceived him, nor the embarrassment she had shownin his presence for some time past, nor the secretive and rejuvenatedairs of Constance, nor those bouquets magnificently blooming in thestudio as in the shadow of an intrigue. That indomitable pride hadsurrendered, then, at last? But in that case, why not to him, Jenkins?To him who had loved her for so long--always; who was ten yearsyounger than the other man, and who certainly was troubled with no coldshiverings! All these thoughts passed through his head like arrows shotfrom a tireless bow. And, stabbed through and through, torn to pieces, his eyes blinded, he stood there looking at the little satiny and coldenvelope which he did not dare open for fear of dismissing a finaldoubt, when the rustling of a curtain warned him that some one had justcome in. He threw the letter back quickly, and closed the wonderfullyadjusted drawer of the lacquered table. "Ah! it is you, Jansoulet. How is it you are here?" "His excellency told me to come and wait for him in his room, " repliedthe Nabob, very proud of being thus introduced into the privacy of theapartments, at an hour, especially, when visitors were not generallyreceived. As a fact, the duke was beginning to show a real liking forthis savage, for several reasons: to begin with, he liked audaciouspeople, adventurers who followed their lucky star. Was he not one ofthem himself? Then, the Nabob amused him; his accent, his frank manners, his rather coarse and impudent flattery, were a change for him fromthe eternal conventionality of his surroundings, from that scourgeof administrative and court life which he held in horror--the setspeech--in such great horror that he never finished a sentence which hehad begun. The Nabob had an unforeseen way of finishing his which wassometimes full of surprises. A fine gambler as well, losing games of_ecarte_ at five thousand francs the fish without flinching. And soconvenient when one wanted to get rid of a picture, always ready tobuy, no matter at what price. To these motives of condescending kindnessthere had come to be joined of late a sentiment of pity and indignationin the face of the tenacity with which the unfortunate man was beingpersecuted, the cowardly and merciless war so ably managed, that publicopinion, always credulous and with neck outstretched to see which waythe wind is blowing, was beginning to be seriously influenced. Onemust do to Mora the justice of admitting that he was no follower of thecrowd. When he had seen in a corner of the gallery the simple but ratherpiteous and discomfited face of the Nabob, he had thought it cowardly toreceive him there, and had sent him up to his private room. Jenkins and Jansoulet, sufficiently embarrassed by each other'spresence, exchanged a few commonplace words. Their great friendshiphad recently cooled, Jansoulet having refused point-blank all furthersubsidies to the Bethlehem Society, leaving the business on theIrishman's hands, who was furious at this defection, and much morefurious still at this moment because he had not been able to openFelicia's letter before the arrival of the intruder. The Nabob, on hisside, was asking himself whether the doctor was going to be present atthe conversation which he wished to have with the duke on the subject ofthe infamous insinuations with which the _Messenger_ was pursuing him;anxious also to know whether these calumnies might not have produced acoolness in that sovereign good-will which was so necessary to him atthe moment of the verification of his election. The greeting which hehad received in the gallery had half reassured him on this point; hewas entirely satisfied when the duke entered and came towards him withoutstretched hand: "Well, my poor Jansoulet, I hope Paris is making you pay dearly enoughfor your welcome. What brawling and hate and spite one finds!" "Ah, M. Le Duc, if you knew--" "I know. I have read it, " said the minister, moving closer to the fire. "I sincerely hope that your excellency does not believe these infamies. Besides, I have here--I bring the proof. " With his strong hairy hands, trembling with emotion, he hunted among thepapers in an enormous shagreen portfolio which he had under his arm. "Never mind that--never mind. I am acquainted with the whole affair. Iknow that, wilfully or not, they have mixed you up with another person, whom family considerations--" The duke could not restrain a smile at the bewilderment of the Nabob, stupefied to find him so well informed. "A Minister of State has to know everything. But don't worry. Yourelection will be declared valid all the same. And once declared valid--" Jansoulet heaved a sigh of relief. "Ah, M. Le Duc, how it cheers me to hear you speak thus! I was beginningto lose all confidence. My enemies are so powerful. And a piece of badluck into the bargain. Do you know that it is Le Merquier himself who ischarged with the report on my election?" "Le Merquier? The devil!" "Yes, Le Merquier, Hemerlingue's agent, the dirty hypocrite whoconverted the baroness, no doubt because his religion forbade him tohave a Mohammedan for a mistress. " "Come, come, Jansoulet. " "Well, M. Le Duc? One can't help being angry. Think of the situationin which these wretches are placing me. Here I ought to have had myelection made valid a week ago, and they arrange the postponement of thesitting expressly because they know the terrible position in which I amplaced--my whole fortune paralyzed, the Bey waiting for the decision ofthe Chamber to decide whether or not he can plunder me. I have eightymillions over there, M. Le Duc, and here I begin to be short of money. If the thing goes on only a little longer--" He wiped away the big drops of sweat that trickled down his cheeks. "Ah, well, I will look after this validation myself, " said the ministersharply. "I will write to what's-his-name to hurry up with his report;and even if I have to be carried to the Chamber--" "Your excellency is unwell?" asked Jansoulet, in a tone of interestwhich, I swear to you, had no affectation about it. "No--a little weakness. I am rather anaemic--wanting blood; but Jenkinsis going to put me right. Aren't you, Jenkins?" The Irishman, who had not been listening, made a vague gesture. "_Tonnerre!_ And here am I with only too much of it. " And the Nabob loosened his cravat about his neck, swollen like anapoplexy by his emotion and the heat of the room. "If I could onlytransfer a little to you, M. Le Duc!" "It would be an excellent thing for both, " said the Minister of Statewith pale irony. "For you, especially, who are a violent fellow, andwho at this moment need so much self-control. Take care on that point, Jansoulet. Beware of the hot retorts, the steps taken in a fit of temperto which they would like to drive you. Repeat to yourself now that youare a public man, on a platform, all of whose actions are observed fromfar. The newspapers are abusing you; don't read them, if you cannotconceal the emotion which they cause you. Don't do what I did, with myblind man of the Pont de la Concorde, that frightful clarinet-player, who for the last ten years has been blighting my life by playing allday 'De tes fils, Norma. ' I have tried everything to get him away fromthere--money, threats. Nothing has succeeded in inducing him to go. Thepolice? Ah, yes, indeed. With modern ideas, it becomes quite a businessto clear off a blind man from a bridge. The Opposition newspapers wouldtalk of it, the Parisians would make a story out of it--'_The Cobblerand the Financier_. ' 'The Duke and the Clarinet. ' No, I must resignmyself. It is, besides, my own fault. I never ought to have let thisman see that he annoyed me. I am sure that my torture makes half thepleasure of his life now. Every morning he comes forth from his wretchedlodging with his dog, his folding-stool, his frightful music, and saysto himself, 'Come, let us go and worry the Duc de Mora. ' Not a daydoes he miss, the wretch! Why, see, if I were but to open the window atrifle, you would hear his deluge of little sharp notes above the noiseof the water and the traffic. Well, this journalist of the _Messenger_, he is your clarinet; if you allow him to see that his music wearies you, he will never finish. And with this, my dear deputy, I will remind youthat you have a meeting at three o'clock at the office, and I must sendyou back to the Chamber. " Then turning to Jenkins: "You know what I asked of you, doctor--pearls for the day afterto-morrow; and let them be extra strong!" Jenkins started, shook himself as at the sudden awakening from a dream: "Certainly, my dear duke. You shall be given some stamina--oh, yes;stamina, breath enough to win the great Derby stakes. " He bowed, and left the room laughing, the veritable laugh of a wolfshowing its gleaming white teeth. The Nabob took leave in his turn, hisheart filled with gratitude, but not daring to let anything of it appearin the presence of this sceptic in whom all demonstrativeness arouseddistrust. And the Minister of State, left alone, rolled up in his wrapsbefore the crackling and blazing fire, sheltered in the padded warmth ofhis luxury, doubled that day by the feverish caress of the May sunshine, began to shiver with cold again, to shiver so violently that Felicia'sletter which he had reopened and was reading rapturously shook in hishands. A deputy is in a very singular situation during the period which followshis election and precedes--as they say in parliamentary jargon--theverification of its validity. It is a little like the position of thenewly married man during the twenty-four hours separating the civilmarriage from its consecration by the Church. Rights of which he cannotavail himself, a half-happiness, a semi-authority, the embarrassmentof keeping the balance a little on this side or on that, the lack of adefined footing. One is married and yet not married, a deputy and yetnot perfectly sure of being it; only, for the deputy, this uncertaintyis prolonged over days and weeks, and since the longer it lasts the moreproblematical does the validation become, it is like torture for theunfortunate representative on probation to be obliged to attend theChamber, to occupy a place which he will perhaps not keep, to listen todiscussions of which it is possible that he will never hear the end, tofix in his eyes and ears the delicious memory of parliamentary sittingswith their sea of bald or apoplectic foreheads, their confused noise ofrustling papers, the cries of attendants, wooden knives beating a tattooon the tables, private conversations from amid which the voice ofthe orator issues, a thundering or timid solo with a continuousaccompaniment. This situation, at best so trying to the nerves, was complicated inthe Nabob's case by these calumnies, at first whispered, now printed, circulated in thousands of copies by the newspapers, with theconsequence that he found himself tacitly put in quarantine by hiscolleagues. The first days he went and came in the corridors, the library, thedining-room, the lecture-hall, like the rest, delighted to roam throughall the corners of that majestic labyrinth; but he was unknown to mostof his associates, unacknowledged by a few members of the Rue RoyaleClub, who avoided him, detested by all the clerical party of whichLe Merquier was the head. The financial set was hostile to thismulti-millionaire, powerful in both "bull" and "bear" market, like thosevessels of heavy tonnage which displace the water of a harbour, andthus his isolation only became the more marked by the change in hiscircumstances and the same enmity followed him everywhere. His gestures, his manner, showed trace of it in a certain constraint, a sort of hesitating distrust. He felt he was watched. If he went for aminute into the _buffet_, that large bright room opening on the gardensof the president's house, which he liked because there, at the broadcounter of white marble laden with bottles and provisions, the deputieslost their big, imposing airs, the legislative haughtiness alloweditself to become more familiar, even there he knew that the next daythere would appear in the _Messenger_ a mocking, offensive paragraphexhibiting him to his electors as a wine-bibber of the most notoriousorder. Those terrible electors added to his embarrassments. They arrived in crowds, invaded the Salle des Pas-Perdus, galloped allover the place like little fiery black kids, shouting to each other fromone end to the other of the echoing room, "O Pe! O Tche!" inhaling withdelight the odour of government, of administration, pervading the air, watching admiringly the ministers as they passed, following in theirtrail with keen nose, as though from their respected pockets, from theirswollen portfolios, there might fall some appointment; but especiallysurrounding "Moussiou" Jansoulet with so many exacting petitions, reclamations, demonstrations, that, in order to free himself from thegesticulating uproar which made everybody turn round, and turned himas it were into the delegate of a tribe of Tuaregs in the midst ofcivilized folk, he was obliged to implore with a look the help of someattendant on duty familiar with such acts of rescue, who would come tohim with an air of urgency to say "that he was wanted immediately inBureau No. 8. " So at last, embarrassed everywhere, driven from thecorridors, from the Pas-Perdus, from the refreshment-room, the poorNabob had adopted the course of never leaving his seat, where heremained motionless and without speaking during the whole time of thesitting. He had, however, one friend in the Chamber, a deputy newly elected forthe Deux-Sevres, called M. Sarigue, a poor man sufficiently resemblingthe inoffensive and ill-favoured animal whose name he bore, with his redand scanty hair, his timorous eyes, his hopping walk, his white gaiters;he was so timid that he could not utter two words without stuttering, almost voiceless, continually sucking jujubes, which completed theconfusion of his speech. One asked what such a weakling as he had cometo do in the Assembly, what feminine ambition run mad had urged intopublic life this being useless for no matter what private activity. By an amusing irony of fate, Jansoulet, himself agitated by all theanxieties of his own validation, was chosen in Bureau no. 8 to draw upthe report on the election in the Deux-Sevres; and M. Sarigue, humbleand supplicating, conscious of his incapacity and filled by a horribledread of being sent back to his home in disgrace, used to follow aboutthis great jovial fellow with the curly hair and big shoulder bladesthat moved like the bellows of a forge beneath a light and tightlyfitting frock-coat, without any suspicion that a poor anxious being likehimself lay concealed within that solid envelope. As he worked at the report on the Deux-Sevres election, as he examinedthe numerous protests, the accusations of electioneering trickery, mealsgiven, money spent, casks of wine broached at the doors of the mayors'houses, the usual accompaniments of an election in those days, Jansouletused to shudder on his own account. "Why, I did all that myself, " hewould say to himself, terrified. Ah! M. Sarigue need not be afraid;never could he have put his hand on an examiner with kinder intentionsor more indulgent, for the Nabob, taking pity on the sufferer, knowingby experience how painful is the anguish of waiting, had made hastethrough his labour; and the enormous portfolio which he carried underhis arm, as he left the Mora mansion, contained his report ready to besent in to the bureau. Whether it were this first essay in a public function, the kind wordsof the duke, or the magnificent weather out of doors, keenly enjoyed bythis southerner, with his susceptibility to wholly physical impressionsand accustomed to life under a blue sky and the warmth of thesunshine--however that may have been, certain it is that the attendantsof the legislative body beheld that day a proud and haughty Jansouletwhom they had not previously known. The fat Hemerlingue's carriage, caught sight of at the gate, recognisable by the unusual width of itsdoors, completed his reinstatement in the possession of his true natureof assurance and bold audacity. "The enemy is there. Attention!" Ashe crossed the Salle des Pas-Perdus, he caught sight of the financierchatting in a corner with Le Merquier, the examiner; he passed quitenear them, and looked at them with a triumphant air which made peoplewonder: "What is the meaning of this?" Then, highly pleased at his own coolness, he passed on towards thecommittee-rooms, big and lofty apartments opening right and left on along corridor, and having large tables covered with green baize, andheavy chairs all of a similar pattern and bearing the impress of a dullsolemnity. People were beginning to come in. Groups were taking up theirpositions, discussing matters, gesticulating, with bows, shakingsof hands, inclinations of the head, like Chinese shadows against theluminous background of the windows. Men were there who walked about with bent back, solitary, as it werecrushed down beneath the weight of the thoughts which knitted theirbrow. Others whispering in their neighbour's ears, confiding to eachother exceedingly mysterious and terribly important pieces of news, finger on lip, eyes opened wide in silent recommendation to discretion. A provincial flavour characterized it all, varieties of intonation, theviolence of southern speech, drawling accents of the central districts, the sing-song of Brittany, fused into one and the same imbecileself-conceit, frock-coats as they cut them at Landerneau, mountainshoes, home-spun linen, and a self-assurance begotten in a village or inthe club of some insignificant town, local expressions, provincialismsabruptly introduced into the speech of the political and administrativeworld, that flabby and colourless phraseology which has invented suchexpressions as "burning questions that come again to the surface" and"individualities without mandate. " To see these excited or thoughtful people, you might have supposed themthe greatest apostles of ideas in the world; unfortunately, on the daysof the sittings they underwent a transformation, sat in hushed silencein their places, laughing in servile fashion at the jests of theclever man who presided over them, or only rising to make ridiculouspropositions, the kind of interruption which would tempt one to believethat it is not a type only, but a whole race, that Henri Monnier hassatirized in his immortal sketch. Two or three orators in all theChamber, the rest well qualified to plant themselves before thefireplace of a provincial drawing-room, after an excellent meal at thePrefect's, and to say in nasal voice, "The administration, gentlemen, "or "The Government of the Emperor, " but incapable of anything further. Ordinarily the good Nabob had been dazzled by these poses, that buzzingas of an empty spinning-wheel which is made by would-be importantpeople; but to-day he found his own place, and fell in with the generalnote. Seated at the centre of the green table, his portfolio open beforehim, his elbows planted well forward upon it, he read the reportdrawn up by de Gery, and the members of the committee looked at him inamazement. It was a concise, clear, and rapid summary of their fortnight'sproceedings, in which they found their ideas so well expressed that theyhad great difficulty in recognising them. Then, as two or three amongthem considered the report too favourable, that it passed too lightlyover certain protests that had reached the committee, the examineraddressed the meeting with an astonishing assurance, with the prolixity, the verbosity of his own people, demonstrated that a deputy ought notto be held responsible beyond a certain point for the imprudence ofhis election agents, that no election, otherwise, would bear a minuteexamination, and since in reality it was his own cause that hewas pleading, he brought to the task a conviction, an irresistibleenthusiasm, taking care to let out now and then one of those long, dullsubstantives with a thousand feet, such as the committee loved. The others listened to him thoughtfully, communicating their sentimentsto each other by nods of the head, making flourishes, in order thebetter to concentrate their attention, and drawing heads on theirblotting-pads--a proceeding which harmonized well with the schoolboyishnoises in the corridors, a murmur of lessons in course of repetition, and those droves of sparrows which you could hear chirping under thecasements in a flagged court-yard, just like the court-yard of a school. The report having been adopted, M. Sarigue was summoned in order thathe might offer some supplementary explanations. He arrived, pale, emaciated, stuttering like a criminal before conviction, and youwould have laughed to see with what an air of authority and protectionJansoulet encouraged and reassured him. "Calm yourself, my dearcolleague. " But the members of Committee No. 8 did not laugh. They wereall, or nearly all, Sarigues in their way, two or three of thembeing absolutely broken down, stricken by partial paralysis. So muchassurance, such great eloquence, had moved them to enthusiasm. When Jansoulet issued from the legislative assembly, reconducted tohis carriage by his grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock. The splendid weather--a beautiful sunset over the Seine, which laystretching away like molten gold on the Trocadero side--was a temptationto a walk for this robust plebeian, on whom it was imposed by theconventions that he should ride in a carriage and wear gloves, but whoescaped such encumbrances as often as he possibly could. He dismissedhis servants, and, with his portfolio under his arm, set forth acrossthe Pont de la Concorde. Since the first of May he had not experienced such a sense ofwell-being. With rolling gait, hat a little to the back of his head, in the position in which he had seen it worn by overworked politiciansharassed by pressure of business, allowing all the laborious feverof their brain to evaporate in the coolness of the air, as a factorydischarges its steam into the gutter at the end of a day's work, hemoved forward among other figures like his own, evidently comingtoo from that colonnaded temple which faces the Madeleine above thefountains of the _Place_. As they passed, people turned to look afterthem, saying, "Those are deputies. " And Jansoulet felt the delight of achild, a plebeian joy, compounded of ignorance and naive vanity. "Ask for the _Messenger_, evening edition. " The words came from a newspaper kiosk at the corner of the bridge, fullat that hour of fresh printed sheets in heaps, which two women werequickly folding, and which smelt of the damp press--late news, thesuccess of the day or its scandal. Nearly all the deputies bought a copy as they passed, and glanced overit quickly in the hope of finding their name. Jansoulet, for his part, feared to see his in it and did not stop. Then suddenly he reflected:"Must not a public man be above these weaknesses? I am strong enough nowto read everything. " He retraced his steps and took a newspaper likehis colleagues. He opened it, very calmly, right at the place usuallyoccupied by Moessard's articles. As it happened, there was one. Stillthe same title: "_Chinoiseries_, " and an _M. _ for signature. "Ah! ah!" said the public man, firm and cold as marble, with a finesmile of disdain. Mora's lesson still rung in his ears, and, had heforgotten it, the air from _Norma_ which was being slowly played inlittle ironical notes not far off would have sufficed to recall itto him. Only, after all calculations have been made amid the fleetinghappenings of our existence, there is always the unforeseen to bereckoned with; and that is how it came that the poor Nabob suddenly felta wave of blood blind him, a cry of rage strangle itself in the suddencontraction of his throat. This time his mother, his old Frances, hadbeen dragged into the infamous joke of the "Bateau de fleurs. " How wellhe aimed his blows, this Moessard, how well he knew the really sensitivespots in that heart, so frankly exposed! "Be quiet, Jansoulet; be quiet. " It was in vain that he repeated the words to himself again and again:anger, a wild anger, that intoxication of the blood that demands blood, took possession of him. His first impulse was to hail a cab, thathe might escape from the irritating street, free his body from thepreoccupation of walking and maintaining a physical composure--to hail acab as for a wounded man. But the carriages which thronged the squareat that hour of general home-going were victorias, landaus, privatebroughams, hundreds of them, passing down from the lurid splendourof the Arc de Triomphe towards the violet shadows of the Tuileries, rushing, it seemed, one over another, in the sloping perspective ofthe avenue, down to the great square where the motionless statues, withtheir circular crowns on their brows, watched them as they separatedtowards the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the Rue Royale and the Rue deRivoli. Jansoulet, his newspaper in his hand, traversed this tumult withoutgiving it a thought, carried by force of habit towards the club where hewent every day for his game of cards from six to seven. A public man, hewas that still; but excited, speaking aloud, muttering oaths and threatsin a voice that had suddenly grown tender again at the memory of thedear old woman. To have dragged her into that--her also! Oh, if sheshould read it, if she should understand! What punishment could heinvent for such an infamy? He had reached the Rue Royale, up which weredisappearing with the speed of horses that knew they were going homeand with glancings of shining axles, visions of veiled women, heads offair-haired children, equipages of all kinds returning from the Bois, depositing a little genuine earth upon the Paris pavement, and bringingodours of spring mingled with the scent of _poudre de riz_. Opposite the Ministry of Marine, a very high phaeton on light wheels, rather like a great spider, its body represented by the little groomhanging on to the box and the two persons occupying the front seat, justmissed a collision with the curb as it turned the corner. The Nabob raised his head and stifled a cry. Beside a painted woman, with red hair and wearing a tiny hat with widestrings, who, perched on her leathern cushion, sat leaning stifflyforward, hands, eyes, her whole factitious person intent on driving thehorse, there sat, pink and made-up also, grown fat with the same vices, Moessard, the handsome Moessard--the harlot and the journalist; and ofthe two, it was not the woman who had sold herself the most. High abovethose women reclining in their open carriages, those men opposite themhalf buried beneath the flounces of their gowns, all those poses offatigue and weariness which the overfed exhibit in public as in contemptof pleasure and riches, they lorded it insolently, she very proud to beseen driving with the lover of the Queen, and he without the least shamein sitting beside a creature who hooked men in the drives of the Boiswith the lash of her whip, removed on her high-perched seat from allfear of the salutary raids of the police. Perhaps, in order to whet theappetite of his royal mistress, he chose to parade beneath her windowsin company of Suzanne Bloch, known as Suze the Red. "Hep! hep, then!" The horse, a high trotter with slim legs, just such a horse as a_cocotte_ would care to own, recovered from its swerve and resumed itsproper place with dancing steps, graceful pawings executed on the samespot without advancing. Jansoulet let fall his portfolio, and as thoughhe had dropped with it all his gravity, his prestige as a public man, he made a terrible spring, and dashed to the bit of the animal, which heheld firm with his strong, hairy hands. A carriage forcibly stopped in the Rue Royale, and in broaddaylight--only this Tartar would have dared such a stroke as that! "Get down!" said he to Moessard, whose face had turned green and yellowwhen he saw him. "Get down immediately!" "Will you let go my horse, you bloated idiot! Whip up Suzanne; it is theNabob. " She tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held firmly, rearedso sharply that a little more and like a sling the fragile vehicle wouldhave sent everybody in it flying far away. At this, furious with one ofthose plebeian rages which in women of her kind shatter all the veneerof their luxury, she dealt the Nabob two stinging lashes with her whip, which left little trace on his tanned and hardened face, but whichbrought there a ferocious expression, accentuated by the short nosewhich had turned white and was slit at the end like that of a sportingterrier. "Come down, or, by God, I will upset the whole thing!" Amid an eddy of carriages arrested by the block in the traffic, or thatpassed slowly round the obstacle, with thousands of curious eyes, amidcries of coachmen and clinking of bits, two wrists of iron shook theentire vehicle. "Jump--but jump, I tell you! Don't you see he will have us over? What agrip!" And the woman looked at the Hercules with interest. Hardly had Moessard set foot to the ground, and before he could takerefuge on the pavement, whither the black military caps of policemencould be seen hastening, Jansoulet threw himself upon him, lifted him bythe back of the neck like a rabbit, and, careless of his protestationsand his terrified stammerings: "Yes, yes, I will give you satisfaction, you blackguard! But, first, Iintend to do to you what is done to dirty beasts to prevent them fromrepeating the same offence. " And roughly he set to work rubbing his nose and face all over with hisnewspaper, which he had rolled into a ball, stifling him, blinding himwith it, and making scratches from which the blood trickled over hisskin. The man was dragged from his hands, crimson, suffocated. A littlemore and he would have killed him. The struggle over, pulling down his sleeves, adjusting his crumpledlinen, picking up his portfolio out of which the papers of the Sarigueelection were flying scattered even to the gutter, the Nabob answeredthe policemen who were asking him for his name in order to draw up asummons: "Bernard Jansoulet, Deputy for Corsica. " A public man! Only then did he remember that he was one. Who would have suspectedit, seeing him breathless and bare-headed, like a porter after a streetfight, under the eager, coldly mocking glances of the crowd? THE APPARITION If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would see overflowingaffection, tenderness, laughter--the laughter born of great happinesswhich, at a tiny movement of the lips, is brought to the verge oftears--and the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright eyestransparent to the very depths of the souls behind them--all thesethings you may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, anew house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg. The glassdoor on the ground floor shines more brightly than usual. More gailythan ever dance the letters over the door, and from the open windowscomes the sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness. "Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck! Henriette, Elise, do comehere! M. Maranne's play is accepted!" Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of the_Nouveautes_, sent for him to inform him that his play was to beproduced immediately--that it would be put on next month. They passedthe evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution ofparts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbour's door when hegot home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the morning infeverish impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring belowand the shutters open with a click against the house-front, he madehaste to go down to announce the good news to his friends. Just now theyare all assembled together, the young ladies in pretty _deshabille_, their hair hastily twisted up, and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcementhad surprised in the midst of shaving, presenting under his embroiderednight-cap a strange face divided into two parts, one side shaved, theother not. But Andre Maranne is the most excited, for you know what theacceptance of _Revolt_ means for him; what was agreed between them andBonne Maman. The poor fellow looks at her as if to find an encouragementin her eyes; and the rather mischievous, kind eyes seem to say, "Makethe experiment, in any case. What is the risk?" To give himselfcourage he looks also at Mlle. Elise, pretty as a flower, with her longeyelashes drooped. At last, making up his mind: "M. Joyeuse, " said he thickly, "I have a very serious communication tomake to you. " M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment. "A communication? Ah, _mon Dieu_, you alarm me!" And lowering his voice: "Are the girls in the way?" "No. Bonne Maman knows what I mean. Mlle. Elise also must have somesuspicion of it. It is only the children. " Mlle. Henriette and her sister are asked to retire, which theyimmediately do, the one with a dignified and annoyed air, like a truedaughter of the Saint-Amands, the other, the young Chinese Yaia, hardlyhiding a wild desire to laugh. Thereupon a great silence; after which, the lover begins his littlestory. I quite believe that Mlle. Elise has some suspicion in her mind, foras soon as their young neighbour spoke of a communication, she drew her_Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket and plunged precipitately into theadventures of somebody surnamed the Hutin, thrilling reading which makesthe book tremble in her hands. There is reason for trembling, certainly, before the bewilderment, the indignant stupefaction into which M. Joyeuse receives this request for his daughter's hand. "Is it possible? How has it happened? What an extraordinary event! Whocould ever have suspected such a thing?" And suddenly the good old man burst into a great roar of laughter. Well, no, it is not true. He had heard of the affair; knew about it, a longtime ago. Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman had betrayed them then! Andbefore the reproachful glances cast in her direction, the culprit comesforward smiling: "Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too much for me. I found I couldnot keep it to myself alone. And then, father is so kind--one cannothide anything from him. " As she says this she throws her arms round the little man's neck; butthere is room enough for two, and when Mlle. Elise in her turn takesrefuge there, there is still an affectionate, fatherly hand stretchedout towards him whom M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son. Silent embraces, long looks meeting each other full of emotion, blessedmoments that one would like to hold forever by the fragile tips oftheir wings. There is chat, and gentle laughter when certain detailsare recalled. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him in thefirst instance by tapping spirits, one day when he was alone inAndre's apartment. "How is business going, M. Maranne?" the spirits hadinquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne's absence: "Fairly well, for the season, Sir Spirit. " The little man repeats, "Fairly well forthe season, " in a mischievous way, while Mlle. Elise, quite confusedat the thought that it was with her father that she talked that day, disappears under her fair curls. After the first stress of emotion they talk more seriously. It iscertain that Mme. Joyeuse, _nee_ de Saint-Amand, would never haveconsented to this marriage. Andre Maranne is not rich, still less noble;but the old accountant, luckily, has not the same ideas of grandeur thathis wife possessed. They love each other; they are young, healthy, andgood-looking--qualities that in themselves constitute fine dowries, without involving any heavy registration fees at the notary's. The newhousehold will be installed on the floor above. The photography willbe continued, unless _Revolt_ should produce enormous receipts. (TheVisionary may be trusted to see to that. ) In any case, the father willstill remain near them; he has a good place at his stockbroker's office, some expert business in the courts; provided that the little shipcontinue to sail in deep enough water, all will go well, with the aid ofwave, wind, and star. Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeuse: "Will Andre's parents consentto this marriage? How will Dr. Jenkins, so rich, so celebrated, takeit?" "Let us not speak of that man, " said Andre, turning pale; "he is awretch to whom I owe nothing--who is nothing to me. " He stops, embarrassed by this explosion of anger, which he was unable torestrain and cannot explain, and goes on more gently: "My mother, who comes to see me sometimes in spite of the prohibitionlaid upon her, was the first to be told of our plans. She already lovesMlle. Elise as her daughter. You will see, mademoiselle, how good sheis, and how beautiful and charming. What a misfortune that she belongsto such a wicked man, who tyrannizes over her, and tortures her even tothe point of forbidding her to utter her son's name. " Poor Maranne heaves a sign that speaks volumes on the great grief whichhe hides in the depths of his heart. But what sadness would not havebeen vanquished in presence of that dear face lighted up with its faircurls and the radiant perspective of the future? These serious questionshaving been settled, they are able to open the door and recall the twoexiles. In order to avoid filling their little heads with thoughts abovetheir age, it has been agreed to say nothing about the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they have all to make haste and dress, breakfast still more quickly, so as to be able to spend the afternoon inthe Bois, where Maranne will read his play to them, before they go on toSuresnes to have dinner at Kontzen's: a whole programme of delights inhonour of the acceptance of _Revolt_, and of another piece of good newswhich they will hear later. "Ah, really--what is it, then?" ask the two little girls, with aninnocent air. But if you fancy they don't know what is in the air, if you think thatwhen Mlle. Elise used to give three raps on the ceiling they imaginedthat it was for information on business, you are more ingenuous eventhan _le pere_ Joyeuse. "That's all right--that's all right, children; go and dress, in anycase. " Then there begins another refrain: "What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman--the gray?" "Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat. " "Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more starched cravats left?" For ten minutes the charming grandmother is besieged with questions andentreaties. Every one needs her help in some way; it is she who had thekeys of everything, she who gives out the pretty, white, fine gofferedlinen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the daintythings which, taken out from drawers and wardrobes, spread over the bed, fill a house with a bright Sunday gaiety. The workers, the people with tasks to fulfil, alone know that delightwhich returns each week consecrated by the customs of a nation. Forthese prisoners of the week, the almanac with its closed prison-likegratings opens at regular intervals into luminous spaces, withbreaths of refreshing air. It is Sunday, the day that seems so longto fashionable folk, to the Parisians of the boulevard whose habits itdisturbs, so gloomy to people far from their homes and relatives, thatconstitutes for a multitude of human beings the only recompense, the oneaim of the desperate efforts of six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail, nothing makes any difference, nothing will prevent them from goingout, from closing behind them the door of the deserted workshop, of thestuffy little lodging. But when the springtime is come, when the Maysunshine glitters on it as this morning, and it can deck itself out ingay colours, then indeed Sunday is the holiday of holidays. If one would know it well, it must be seen especially in the workingquarters of the town, in those gloomy streets which it lights up andenlarges by closing the shops, keeping in their sheds the heavy draysand trucks, leaving the space free for wandering bands of childrenwashed and in their Sunday clothes, and for games of battledore andshuttlecock played amid the great circlings of the swallows beneath someporch of old Paris. It must be seen in the densely populated, feverishlytoiling suburbs, where, as soon as morning is come, you may feel ithovering, resposeful and sweet, in the silence of the factories, passingwith the ringing of church-bells and that sharp whistle of the railways, and filling the horizon, all around the outskirts of the city, withan immense song, as it were, of departure and of deliverance. Then oneunderstands it and loves it. O Sunday of Paris, Sunday of the toilers and the humble, often have Icursed thee without reason, I have poured whole streams of abusive inkover thy noisy and extravagant joys, over the dust of railway stationsfilled by thy uproar and the maddening omnibuses that thou takest byassault, over thy tavern songs bawled everywhere from carts adorned withgreen and pink dresses, on thy barrel-organs grinding out their tunesbeneath the balconies of deserted court-yards; but to-day, abjuring myerrors, I exalt thee, and I bless thee for all the joy and relief thougivest to courageous and honest labour, for the laughter of the childrenwho greet thee with acclamation, the pride of mothers happy to dresstheir little ones in their best clothes in thy honour, for the dignitythou dost preserve in the homes of the poorest, the glorious raiment setaside for thee at the bottom of the old shaky chest of drawers; I blessthee especially by reason of all the happiness thou hast brought thatmorning to the great new house in the old faubourg. Toilettes having been completed, the _dejeuner_ finished, taken onthe thumb, as they say--and you can imagine what quantity these youngladies' thumbs would carry--they came to put on their hats before themirror in the drawing-room. Bonne Maman threw around her supervisingglance, inserted a pin here, retied a ribbon there, straightened herfather's cravat; but while all this little world was stamping withimpatience, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, there came aring at the bell, echoing through the apartment and disturbing their gayproceedings. "Suppose we don't open the door?" propose the children. And what a relief, with a cry of delight, they see their friend Paulcome in! "Quick! quick! Come and let us tell you the good news. " He knew well, before any of them, that the play had been accepted. Hehad had a good deal of trouble to get it read by Cardailhac, who, themoment he saw its "short lines, " as he called verse, wished to send themanuscript to the Levantine and her _masseur_, as he was wont to do inthe case of all beginners in the writing of drama. But Paul was carefulnot to refer to his own intervention. As for the other event, the one ofwhich nothing was said, on account of the children, he guessed it easilyby the trembling greeting of Maranne, whose fair mane was standingstraight up over his forehead by reason of the poet's two hands havingbeen pushed through it so many times, a thing he always did in hismoments of joy, by the slightly embarrassed demeanour of Elise, by thetriumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who was standing very erect in his newsummer clothes, with all the happiness of his children written on hisface. Bonne Maman alone preserved her usual peaceful air; but one noticed, in the eager alacrity with which she forestalled her sister's wants, acertain attention still more tender than before, an anxiety to make herlook pretty. And it was delicious to watch the girl of twenty as shebusied herself about the adornment of others, without envy, withoutregret, with something of the gentle renunciation of a mother welcomingthe young love of her daughter in memory of a happiness gone by. Paulsaw this; he was the only one who did see it; but while admiring Aline, he asked himself sadly if in that maternal heart there would ever beplace for other affections, for preoccupations outside the tranquil andbright circle wherein Bonne Maman presided so prettily over the eveningwork. Love is, as one knows, a poor blind creature, deprived of hearingand speech, and only led by presentiments, divinations, the nervousfaculties of a sick man. It is pitiable indeed to see him wandering, feeling his way, constantly making false steps, passing his hands overthe supports by which he guides himself with the distrustful awkwardnessof the infirm. At the very moment when Paul was doubting Aline'ssensibility, in announcing to his friends that he was about to start ona journey which would occupy several days, perhaps several weeks, didnot remark the girl's sudden paleness, did not hear the distressed crythat escaped her lips: "You are going away?" He was going away, going to Tunis, very much troubled at leaving hispoor Nabob in the midst of the pack of furious wolves that surroundedhim. Mora's protection, however, gave him some reassurance; and then, the journey in question was absolutely necessary. "And the Territorial?" asked the old accountant, ever returning to thesubject in his mind. "How are things standing there? I see Jansoulet'sname still at the head of the board. You cannot get him out, then, fromthat Ali-Baba's cave? Take care--take care!" "Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse. But, to leave it with honour, money is needed, much money, a fresh sacrifice of two or three millions, and we have not got them. That is exactly the reason why I am going toTunis to try to wrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of that greatfortune which he is retaining in his possession so unjustly. At presentI have still some chance of succeeding, while later on, perhaps--" "Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and if you return, as I wish youmay, with a heavy bag, see that you deal first of all with the Paganettigang. Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest has thepower to smash the whole thing up, to demand an inquiry; and you knowwhat the inquiry would reveal. Now I come to think of it, " added M. Joyeuse, whose brow had contracted a frown, "I am even surprised thatHemerlingue, in his hatred for you, has not secretly brought up a fewshares. " He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which the name ofHemerlingue raised from all the young people, who detested the fatbanker for the injury he had done their father, and for the ill-will hebore that good Nabob, who was adored in the house through Paul de Gery. "Hemerlingue, the heartless monster! Wretch! That wicked man!" But amid all these exclamations, the Visionary was following up hisidea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder in the Territorial for thepurpose of dragging his enemy into the courts. And you may imagine thestupefaction of Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the whole affair, when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to him, and, with face purple and swollenwith rage, point his finger at him, with these terrible words: "The greatest rascal, after all, in this affair, is you, sir!" "Oh, papa, papa! what are you saying?" "Eh, what? Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre. I was fancying myself in theexamining magistrate's private room, face to face with that rogue. It ismy confounded brain that is always running away with me. " All broke into uproarious laughter, which escaped into the outer airthrough the open windows, and went to mingle with the thousand noises ofmoving vehicles and people in their Sunday clothes going up the Avenuedes Ternes. The author of _Revolt_ took advantage of the diversion toask whether they were not soon going to start. It was late--the goodplaces would be taken in the Bois. "To the Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" exclaimed Paul de Gery. "Oh, our Bois is not yours, " replied Aline with a smile. "Come with us, and you will see. " Did it ever happen to you, in the course of a solitary and contemplativewalk, to lie down on your face in the undergrowth of a forest, amid thatvegetation which springs up, various and manifold, through the fallenautumn leaves, and allow your eyes to wander along the level of theground before you? Little by little the sense of height is lost, theinterwoven branches of the oaks above your head form an inaccessiblesky, and you behold a new forest extending beneath the other, openingits deep avenues filled by a green and mysterious light, and formedof tiny shrubs or root fibres taking the appearance of the stemsof sugar-canes, of severely graceful palm-trees, of delicate cupscontaining a drop of water, of many-branched candlesticks bearing littleyellow lights which the wind blows on as it passes. And the miraculousthing is, that beneath these light shadows live minute plants andthousand of insects whose existence, observed from so near at hand, isa revelation to you of all the mysteries. An ant, bending like awood-cutter under his burden, drags after it a splinter of bark biggerthan itself; a beetle makes its way along a blade of grass thrown like abridge from one stem to another; while beneath a lofty bracken standingisolated in the middle of a patch of velvety moss, a little blue or redinsect waits, with antennae at attention, for another little insecton its way through some desert path over there to arrive at thetrysting-place beneath the giant tree. It is a small forest beneath agreat one, too near the soil to be noticed by its big neighbours, toohumble, too hidden to be reached by its great orchestra of song andstorm. A similar revelation awaits in the Bois de Boulogne. Behind those sandeddrives, watered and clean, whereon files of carriage-wheels movingslowly round the lake trace all day long a worn and mechanical furrow, behind that admirably set scene of trimmed green hedges, of captivewater, of flowery rocks, the true Bois, a wild wood with perennialundergrowth, grows and flourishes, forming impenetrable recessestraversed by narrow paths and bubbling springs. This is the Bois of the children, the Bois of the humble, the littleforest beneath the great one. And Paul, who knew only the long avenuesof the aristocratic Parisian promenades, the sparkling lake perceivedfrom the depths of a carriage or from the top of a coach in a drive backfrom Longchamps, was astonished to see the deliciously sheltered nook towhich his friends had led him. It was on the banks of a pond lying likea mirror under willow-trees, covered with water-lilies, with here andthere large white shimmering spaces where sunbeams fell and lay on thebright surface. On the sloping bank, sheltered by the boughs of trees where the leaveswere already thick, they sat down to listen to the reading of the play, and the pretty, attentive faces, the skirts lying puffed out over thegrass, made one think of some Decameron, more innocent and chaste, ina peaceful atmosphere. To complete this pleasant country scene, twowindmill-sails seen through an opening in the branches were revolvingover in the direction of Suresnes, while of the dazzling and luxuriousvision to be met at every cross-roads in the Bois there reached themonly a confused and perpetual murmur, which one ended by ceasing tonotice. The poet's voice alone rose in the silence, the verses fell onthe air tremblingly, repeated below the breath by other moved lips, andstifled sounds of approbation greeted them, with shudders at the tragicpassages. Bonne Maman was even seen to wipe away a big tear. That comes, you see, from having no embroidery in one's hand! His first work! That was what the _Revolt_ was for Andre, that firstwork always too exuberant and ornate, into which the author throws, tobegin with, whole arrears of ideas and opinions, pent up like the watersof a river-lock; that first work which is often the richest if not thebest of its writer's productions. As for the fate that awaited it, noone could predict it; and the uncertainty that hovered over the readingof the drama added to its own emotion that of each auditor, the hopes, all arrayed in white, of Mlle. Elise, the fantastic hallucinations ofM. Joyeuse, and the more positive desires of Aline as she installedin advance the modest fortune of her sister in the nest of an artist'shousehold, beaten by the winds but envied by the crowd. Ah, if one of those idle people, taking a turn for the hundredth timeround the lake, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habitual promenade, had come and parted the branches, how surprised he would have been atthis picture! But would he ever have suspected how much passion, howmany dreams, what poetry and hope there could be contained in thatlittle green corner, hardly larger than the shadow a fern throws on themoss? "You were right; I did not know the Bois, " said Paul in a low voice toAline, who was leaning on his arm. They were following a narrow path overarched by the boughs of trees, andas they talked were moving forward at a quick pace, well in advanceof the others. It was not, however, _pere_ Kontzen's terrace nor hisappetizing fried dishes that drew them on. No; the beautiful lineswhich they had just heard had carried them away, lifting them to greatheights, and they had not yet come down to earth again. They walkedstraight on towards the ever-retreating end of the road, which openedout at its extremity into a luminous glory, a mass of sunbeams, as ifall the sunshine of that beautiful day lay waiting for them where it hadfallen on the outskirts of the wood. Never had Paul felt so happy. Thatlight arm that lay on his arm, that child's step by which his own wasguided, these alone would have made life sweet and pleasant to him, noless than this walk over the mossy turf of a green path. He would havetold the girl so, simply, as he felt it, had he not feared to alarm thatconfidence which Aline placed in him, no doubt because of the sentimentswhich she knew he possessed for another woman, and which seemed to holdat a distance from them every thought of love. Suddenly, right before them, against the bright background, a groupof persons riding on horseback came in sight, at first vague andindistinct, then appearing as a man and a woman, handsomely mounted, andentered the mysterious path among the bars of gold, the leafy shadows, the thousand dots of light with which the ground was strewn, and which, displaced by their progress as they cantered along, rose and coveredthem with flowery patterns from the chests of the horses to the blueveil of the lady rider. They came along slowly, capriciously, and thetwo young people, who had drawn back into the copse, could see passclose by them, with a clinking of bits proudly shaken and white withfoam as though after a furious gallop, two splendid animals carrying apair of human beings brought very near together by the narrowing of thepath; he, supporting with one arm the supple figure moulded in a darkcloth habit; she, with a hand resting on the shoulder of her cavalierand her small head seen in retreating profile beneath the half-droppedtulle of her veil, resting on it tenderly. This embrace, half disturbedby the impatience of the horses, that kiss on which their reins becameconfused, that passion which stalked in broad day through the Bois withso great a contempt for public opinion, would have been enough to betraythe duke and Felicia, if the haughty and charming mein of the lady andthe aristocratic ease of her companion, his pallor slightly tinged withcolour as the result of his ride and of Jenkins's miraculous pearls, hadnot already betrayed them. It is not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the Bois on a Sunday. Like his master, he loved to show himself to the Parisians, to advertisehis popularity with all sections of the public; and then the duchessnever accompanied him on that day, and he could make a halt quite at hisease in that little villa of Saint-James, known to all Paris, whose redtowers, outlined among the trees schoolboys used to point out to eachother in whispers. But only a mad woman, a daring affronter of societylike this Felicia, could have dreamt of advertising herself like this, with the loss of her reputation forever. A sound of hoofs dying away inthe distance, of shrubs brushed in passing; a few plants that had beenpressed down and were straightening themselves again; branches pushedout of the way resuming their places--that was all that remained of theapparition. "You saw?" said Paul; speaking first. She had seen, and she had understood, notwithstanding the candour of herinnocence, for a blush spread over her features, one of those feelingsof shame experienced for the faults of those we love. "Poor Felicia!" she said in a low voice, pitying not only the unhappywoman who had just passed them, but also him whom this defection musthave smitten to the very heart. The truth is that Paul de Gery had feltno surprise at this meeting, which justified previous suspicions and theinstinctive aversion which he had felt for Felicia at their dinner somedays before. But he found it pleasant to be pitied by Aline, to feel thecompassion in that voice becoming more tender, in that arm leaning uponhis. Like children who pretend to be ill for the sake of the pleasureof being fondled by their mother, he allowed his consoler to strive toappease his grief, speaking to him of his brothers, of the Nabob, andof his forthcoming trip to Tunis--a fine country, they said. "You mustwrite to us often, and long letters about the interesting things on thejourney, the place you stay in. For one can see those who are far awaybetter when one imagines the kind of place they are inhabiting. " So talking, they reached the end of the bowered path terminating in animmense open glade through which there moved the tumult of the Bois, carriages and riders on horseback alternating with each other, and thecrowd at that distance seeming to be tramping through a flaky dustwhich blended it into a single confused herd. Paul slackened his pace, emboldened by this last minute of solitude. "Do you know what I am thinking of?" he said, taking Aline's hand. "I amthinking that it would be a pleasure to be unhappy so as to be comfortedby you. But however precious your pity may be to me, I cannot allowyou to waste your compassion on an imaginary pain. No, my heart is notbroken, but more alive, on the contrary, and stronger. And if I were totell you what miracle it is that has preserved it, what talisman--" He held out before her eyes a little oval frame in which was seta simple profile, a pencil outline wherein she recognised herself, surprised to see herself so pretty, reflected, as it were, in the magicmirror of Love. Tears came into her eyes without her knowing the reason, an open spring whose stream beat within her chaste breast. He continued: "This portrait belongs to me. It was drawn for me. And yet, at themoment of starting on this journey I have a scruple. I do not wish tohave it except from yourself. Take it, then, and if you find a worthierfriend, some one who loves you with a love deeper and more loyal thanmine, I am willing that you should give it to him. " She had regained her composure, and looking de Gery full in the facewith a serious tenderness, she said: "If I listened only to my heart, I should feel no hesitation about myreply: for, if you love me as you say, I am sure that I love you too. But I am not free; I am not alone in the world. Look yonder. " She pointed to her father and her sisters, who were beckoning to them inthe distance and hastening to come up with them. "Well, and I myself?" answered Paul quickly. "Have I not similar duties, similar responsibilities? We are like two widowed heads of families. Will you not love mine as much as I love yours?" "True? is it true? You will let me stay with them? I shall be Aline foryou, and Bonne Maman for all our children? Oh! then, " exclaimed the dearcreature, beaming with joy, "there is my portrait--I give it to you! Andall my soul with it, too, and forever. " THE JENKINS PEARLS About a week after his adventure with Moessard, that new complication inthe terrible muddle of his affairs, Jansoulet, on leaving the Chamber, one Thursday, ordered his coachman to drive him to Mora's house. He hadnot paid a visit there since the scuffle in the Rue Royale, and the ideaof finding himself in the duke's presence gave him, through his thickskin, something of the panic that agitates a boy on his way upstairsto see the head-master after a fight in the schoolroom. However, theembarrassment of this first interview had to be gone through. They saidin the committee-rooms that Le Merquier had completed his report, amasterpiece of logic and ferocity, that it meant an invalidation, andthat he was bound to carry it with a high hand unless Mora, so powerfulin the Assembly, should himself intervene and give him his word ofcommand. A serious matter, and one that made the Nabob's cheeks flush, while in the curved mirrors of his brougham he studied his appearance, his courtier's smiles, trying to think out a way of effecting abrilliant entry, one of those strokes of good-natured effrontery whichhad brought him fortune with Ahmed, and which served him likewise in hisrelations with the French ambassador. All this accompanied by beatingsof the heart and by those shudders between the shoulder-blades whichprecede decisive actions, even when these are settled within a gildedchariot. When he arrived at the mansion by the river, he was much surprised tonotice that the porter on the quay, as on the days of great receptions, was sending carriages up the Rue de Lille, in order to keep a door freefor those leaving. Rather anxious, he wondered, "What is there goingon?" Perhaps a concert given by the duchess, a charity bazaar, somefestivity from which Mora might have excluded him on account of thescandal of his last adventure. And this anxiety was augmented stillfurther when Jansoulet, after having passed across the principalcourt-yard amid a din of slamming doors and a dull and continuous rumbleof wheels over the sand, found himself--after ascending the steps--inthe immense entrance-hall filled by a crowd which did not extend beyondany of the doors leading to the rooms; centring its anxious goingand coming around the porter's table, where all the famous names offashionable Paris were being inscribed. It seemed as though a disastrousgust of wind had gone through the house, carrying off a little of itscalm, and allowing disquiet and danger to filter into its comfort. "What a misfortune!" "Ah! it is terrible. " "And so suddenly!" Such were the remarks that people were exchanging as they met. An idea flashed into Jansoulet's mind: "Is the duke ill?" he inquired of a servant. "Ah, monsieur, he is dying! He will not live through the night!" If the roof of the palace had fallen in upon his head he would nothave been more utterly stunned. Red lights flashed before his eyes, hetottered, and let himself drop into a seat on a velvet-covered benchbeside the great cage of monkeys. The animals, over-excited by all thisbustle, suspended by their tails, by their little long-thumbedhands, were hanging to the bars in groups, and came, inquisitive andfrightened, to make the most ludicrous grimaces at this big, stupefiedman as he sat staring at the marble floor, repeating aloud to himself, "I am ruined! I am ruined!" The duke was dying. He had been seized suddenly with illness on theSunday after his return from the Bois. He had felt intolerable burningsin his bowels, which passed through his whole body, searing as with ared-hot iron, and alternating with a cold lethargy and long periods ofcoma. Jenkins, summoned at once, did not say much, but ordered certainsedatives. The next day the pains came on again with greater intensityand followed by the same icy torpor, also more accentuated, as if life, torn up by the roots, were departing in violent spasms. Among thosearound him, none was greatly concerned. "The day after a visit toSaint-James Villa, " was muttered in the antechamber, and Jenkins'shandsome face preserved its serenity. He had spoken to two orthree people, in the course of his morning rounds, of the duke'sindisposition, and that so lightly that nobody had paid much attentionto the matter. Mora himself, notwithstanding his extreme weakness, although he felt hishead absolutely blank, and, as he said, "not an idea anywhere, " was farfrom suspecting the gravity of his condition. It was only on the thirdday, on waking in the morning, that the sight of a tiny stream of blood, which had trickled from his mouth over his beard and the stained pillow, had frightened this fastidious man, who had a horror of all humanills, especially sickness, and now saw it arrive stealthily with itspollutions, its weaknesses, and the loss of physical self-control, the first concession made to death. Monpavon, entering the room behindJenkins, surprised the anxious expression of the great seigneur facedby the terrible truth, and at the same time was horrified by theravages made in a few hours upon Mora's emaciated face, in which all thewrinkles of age, suddenly evident, were mingled with lines of suffering, and those muscular depressions which tell of serious internal lesions. He took Jenkins aside, while the duke's toilet necessaries were carriedto him--a whole apparatus of crystal and silver contrasting with theyellow pallor of the invalid. "Look here, Jenkins, the duke is very ill. " "I am afraid so, " said the Irishman, in a low voice. "But what is the matter with him?" "What he wanted, _parbleu_!" answered the other in a fury. "One cannotbe young at his age with impunity. This intrigue will cost him dear. " Some evil passion was getting the better of him but he subdued itimmediately, and, puffing out his cheeks as though his head were full ofwater, he sighed deeply as he pressed the old nobleman's hands. "Poor duke! poor duke! Ah, my friend, I am most unhappy!" "Take care, Jenkins, " said Monpavon coldly, disengaging his hands, "youare assuming a terrible responsibility. What! is the duke as badas that?--ps--ps--ps--Will you see nobody? You have arranged noconsultation?" The Irishman raised his hands as if to say, "What good can it do?" The other insisted. It was absolutely necessary that Brisset, Jousseline, Bouchereau, all the great physicians should be called in. "But you will frighten him. " De Monpavon expanded his chest, the one pride of the old broken-downcharger. "_Mon Cher_, if you had seen Mora and me in the trenches ofConstantine--ps--ps. Never looked away. We don't know fear. Give noticeto your colleagues. I undertake to inform him. " The consultation took place in the evening with great privacy, the dukehaving insisted on this from a singular sense of shame produced by hisillness, by that suffering which discrowned him, making him the equal ofother men. Like those African kings who hide themselves in the recessesof their palaces to die, he would have wished that men should believehim carried off, transfigured, become a god. Then, too, he dreaded aboveall things the expressions of pity, the condolences, the compassion withwhich he knew that his sick-bed would be surrounded; the tears becausehe suspected them to be hypocritical, and because, if sincere, theydispleased him still more by their grimacing ugliness. He had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, everything thatcould move him to emotion or disturb the harmonious equilibrium of hislife. Every one knew this, and the order was to keep away from him thedistress, the misery, which from one end of France to the other flowedtowards Mora as to one of those forest refuges lighted during thenight at which all wanderers may knock. Not that he was hard to theunfortunate; perhaps he may have been too easily moved to the pity whichhe regarded as an inferior sentiment, a weakness unworthy of the strong, and, refusing it to others, he dreaded it for himself, for the integrityof his courage. Nobody in the palace, then, except Monpavon and Louisthe _valet de chambre_, knew of the visit of those three personagesintroduced mysteriously into the Minister of State's apartments. Theduchess herself was ignorant of it. Separated from her husband by thebarriers frequently placed by the political and fashionable life ofthe great world between married people, she believed him slightlyindisposed, nervous more than anything else; and had so little suspicionof a catastrophe that at the very hour when the doctors were mountingthe great, dimly lit staircase at the other end of the palace, herprivate apartments were being lit up for a girls' dance, one of those_bals blancs_ which the ingenuity of the idle world had begun to makefashionable in Paris. This consultation was like all others: solemn and sinister. Doctors nolonger wear their great periwigs of the time of Moliere, but they stillassume the same gravity of the priests of Isis, of astrologers bristlingwith cabalistic formulae pronounced with sage noddings of the head, towhich, for comical effect, there is only wanting the high pointed cap offormer days. In this case the scene borrowed an imposing aspect from itssetting. In the vast bed-chamber, transformed, heightened, as it were, in dignity by the immobility of the owner, these grave figures cameforward round the bed on which the light was concentrated, illuminatingamid the whiteness of the linen and the purple of the hangings a faceworn into hollows, pale from lips to eyes, but wrapped in serenity as ina veil, as in a shroud. The consultants spoke in low tones, cast furtiveglances as each other, or exchanged some barbarous word, remainingimpassive, without even a frown. But this mute and reticent expressionof the doctor and magistrate, this solemnity with which science andjustice hedge themselves about to hide their frailty or ignorance, hadno power to move the duke. Sitting up in bed, he continued to talk quietly, with the upward glanceof the eye in which it seems as if thought rises before it finally takeswing, and Monpavon coldly followed his cue, hardening himself againsthis own emotion, taking from his friend a last lesson in "form"; whileLouis, in the background, stood leaning against the door leading to theduchess's apartment, the spectre of a silent domestic in whom detachedindifference is a duty. The most agitated, nervous man present was Jenkins. Full of obsequiousattentions for his "illustrious colleagues, " as he called them, with hislips pursed up, he hung round their consultation and attempted totake part in it; but the colleagues kept him at a distance and hardlyanswered him, as Fagon--the Fagon of Louis XIV--might have addressedsome empiric summoned to the royal bedside. Old Bouchereau especiallyhad black looks for the inventor of the Jenkins pearls. Finally, whenthey had thoroughly examined and questioned their patient, they retiredto deliberate among themselves in a little room with lacquered ceilingsand walls, filled by an assortment of _bric-a-brac_ the triviality ofwhich contrasted strangely with the importance of the discussion. Solemn moment! Anguish of the accused awaiting the decision of hisjudges--life, death, reprieve, or pardon! With his long, white hand Mora continued to stroke his mustache with afavourite gesture, to talk with Monpavon of the club, of the foyerof the _Varietes_, asking news of the Chamber, how matters stood withregard to the Nabob's election--all this coldly, without the leastaffectation. Then, tired, no doubt, or fearing lest his glance, constantly drawn to that curtain opposite him, from behind which thesentence was to come presently, should betray the emotion which he musthave felt in the depths of his soul, he laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, and did not open them again until the return of thedoctors. Still the same cold and sinister faces, veritable physiognomiesof judges having on their lips the terrible decree of human fate, thefinal word which the courts pronounce fearlessly, but which the doctors, whose science it mocks, elude, and express in periphrases. "Well, gentlemen, what says the faculty?" demanded the sick man. There were sundry murmurs of hypocritical encouragement, vaguerecommendations; then the three learned physicians hastened to depart, eager to escape from the responsibility of this disaster. Monpavonrushed after them. Jenkins remained at the bedside, overwhelmed by thecruel truths which he had just heard during the consultation. In vainhad he laid his hand on his heart, quoted his famous motto; Bouchereauhad not spared him. It was not the first of the Irishman's clients whomhe had seen thus suddenly collapse; but he fervently hoped that thedeath of Mora would act as a salutary warning to the world of fashion, and that the prefect of police, after this great calamity, would sendthe "dealer in cantharides" to retail his drugs on the other side of theChannel. The duke understood immediately that neither Jenkins nor Louis wouldtell him the true issue of the consultation. He abstained, therefore, from any insistence in his questionings of them, submitted to theirpretended confidence, affected even to share it, to believe the mosthopeful things they announced to him. But when Monpavon returned, hesummoned him to his bedside, and, confronted by the lie visible evenbeneath the make-up of the decrepit old man, remarked: "Oh, you know--no humbug! From you to me, truth. What do they say? I amin a very bad way, eh?" Monpavon prefaced his reply with a significant silence; then brutally, cynically, for fear of breaking down as he spoke: "Done for, my poor Augustus!" The duke received the sentence full in the face without flinching. "Ah!" he said simply. He pulled his mustache with a mechanical gesture, but his featuresremained motionless. And immediately he made up his mind. That the poor wretch who dies in a hospital, without home or family, without other name than the number of his bed, that he should acceptdeath as a deliverance or bear it as his last trial; that the oldpeasant who passes away, bent double, worn out, in his dark and smokycellar, that he should depart without regret, savouring in advancethe taste of that fresh earth which he has so many times dug over andover--that is intelligible. And yet how many, even among such, cling toexistence despite all their misery! how many there are who cry, holdingon to their sordid furniture and to their rags, "I don't want to die!"and depart with nails broken and bleeding from that supreme wrench. Buthere there was nothing of the kind. To possess all, and to lose all. What a catastrophe! In the first silence of that dreadful moment, while he heard the soundof the music coming faintly from the duchess's ball at the other end ofthe palace, whatever attached this man to life, power, honour, wealth, all that splendour must have seemed to him already far away and in anirrevocable past. A courage of a quite exceptional temper must havebeen required to bear up under such a blow without any spur of personalvanity. No one was present save the friend, the doctor, the servant, three intimates acquainted with all his secrets; the lights moved back, left the bed in shadow, and the dying man might quite well have turnedhis face to the wall in lamentation of his own fate without beingnoticed. But not an instant of weakness, nor of useless demonstration. Without breaking a branch of the chestnut-trees in the garden, withoutwithering a flower on the great staircase of the palace, his footstepsmuffled on the thick pile of the carpets, Death had opened the door ofthis man of power and signed to him "Come!" And he answered simply, "Iam ready. " The true exit of a man of the world, unforeseen, rapid, anddiscreet. Man of the world! Mora was nothing if not that. Passing through lifemasked, gloved, breast-plated--breast-plate of white satin, such asthe masters of fence wear on great days; preserving his fighting dressimmaculate and clean; sacrificing everything to that irreproachableexterior which with him did duty for armour; he had determined on his_role_ as statesman in the passage from the drawing-room to a widerscene, and made, indeed, a statesman of the first rank on the strengthalone of his qualities as a man about town, the art of listening and ofsmiling, knowledge of men, scepticism, and coolness. That coolness didnot leave him at the supreme moment. With eyes fixed on the time, so short, which still remained to him--forthe dark visitor was in a hurry, and he could feel on his face thedraught from the door which he had not closed behind him--his onethought now was to occupy the time well, to satisfy all the obligationsof an end like his, which must leave no devotion unrecompensed norcompromise any friend. He gave a list of certain persons whom he wishedto see and who were sent for immediately, summoned the head of hiscabinet, and, as Jenkins ventured the opinion that it was a greatfatigue for him, said: "Can you guarantee that I shall wake to-morrow morning? I feel strong atthis moment; let me take advantage of it. " Louis inquired whether the duchess should be informed. The duke, beforereplying, listened to the sounds of music that reached his room throughthe open windows from the little ball, sounds that seemed prolonged inthe night on an invisible bow, then answered: "Let us wait a little. I have something to finish. " They brought to his bedside the little lacquered table that he mighthimself sort out the letters which were to be destroyed; but feeling hisstrength give way, he called Monpavon. "Burn everything, " said he to him in a faint voice; and seeing him movetowards the fireplace, where a fire was burning despite the warmth ofthe season. "No, " he added, "not here. There are too many of them. Some one mightcome. " Monpavon took up the writing-table, which was not heavy, and signed tothe _valet de chambre_ to go before him with a light. But Jenkins sprangforward: "Stay here, Louis; the duke may want you. " He took hold of the lamp; and moving carefully down the whole length ofthe great corridor, exploring the waiting-rooms, the galleries, in whichthe fireplaces proved to be filled with artificial plants and quiteemptied of ashes, they wandered like spectres in the silence anddarkness of the vast house, alive only over yonder on the right, werepleasure was singing like a bird on a roof which is about to fall inruins. "There is no fire anywhere. What is to be done with all this?" theyasked each other in great embarrassment. They might have been twothieves dragging away a chest which they did not know how to open. Atlast Monpavon, out of patience, walked straight to a door, the only onewhich they had not yet opened. "_Ma foi_, so much the worse! Since we cannot burn them, we will drownthem. Hold the light, Jenkins. " And they entered. Where were they? Saint-Simon relating the downfall of one of thosesovereign existences, the disarray of ceremonies, of dignities, of grandeurs, caused by death and especially by sudden death, onlySaint-Simon might have found words to tell you. With his delicate, carefully kept hands, the Marquis de Monpavon did the pumping. The otherpassed to him the letters after tearing them into small pieces, packetsof letters, on satin paper, tinted, perfumed, adorned with crests, coatsof arms, small flags with devices, covered with handwritings, fine, hurried, scrawling, entwining, persuasive; and all those flimsy pageswent whirling one over the other in eddying streams of water whichcrumpled them, soiled them, washed out their tender links beforeallowing them to disappear with a gurgle down the drain. They were love-letters and of every kind, from the note of theadventuress, "_I saw you pass yesterday in the Bois, M. Le Duc_, " to thearistocratic reproaches of the last mistress but one, and the complaintsof ladies deserted, and the page, still fresh, of recent confidences. Monpavon was in the secret of all these mysteries--put a name on each ofthem: "That is Mme. Moor. Hallo! Mme. D'Athis!" A confusion of coronetsand initials, of caprices and old habits, sullied by the promiscuity ofthis moment, all engulfed in the horrid closet by the light of a lamp, with the noise of an intermittent gush of water, departing into oblivionby a shameful road. Suddenly Jenkins paused in his work of destruction. Two satin-gray letters trembled as he held them in his fingers. "Who is that?" asked Monpavon, noticing the unfamiliar handwriting andthe Irishman's nervous excitement. "Ah, doctor, if you want to read themall, we shall never have finished. " Jenkins, his cheeks flushed, the two letters in his hand, was consumedby a desire to carry them away, to pore over them at his ease, tomartyrize himself with delight by reading them, perhaps also to forgeout of this correspondence a weapon for himself against the imprudentwoman who had signed her name. But the rigorous correctness of themarquis made him afraid. How could he distract his attention--get himaway? The opportunity occurred of its own accord. Among the letters, atiny page written in a senile and shaky hand, caught the attentionof the charlatan, who said with an ingenuous air: "Oh, oh! here issomething that does not look much like a _billet-doux. 'Mon Duc, to therescue--I am sinking! The Court of Exchequer has once more stuck itsnose into my affairs. '_" "What are you reading there?" exclaimed Monpavon abruptly, snatching theletter from his hands. And immediately, thanks to Mora's negligence inthus allowing such private letters to lie about, the terrible situationin which he would be left by the death of his protector returned to hismind. In his grief, he had not yet given it a thought. He told himselfthat in the midst of all his preparations for his departure, the dukemight quite possibly overlook him; and, leaving Jenkins to complete thedrowning of Don Juan's casket by himself, he returned precipitatelyin the direction of the bed-chamber. Just as he was on the point ofentering, the sound of a discussion held him back behind the lowereddoor-curtain. It was Louis's voice, tearful like that of a beggar ina church-porch, trying to move the duke to pity for his distress, andasking permission to take certain bundles of bank-notes that lay in adrawer. Oh, how hoarse, utterly wearied, hardly intelligible the answer, in which there could be detected the effort of the sick man to turn overin his bed, to bring back his vision from a far-off distance alreadyhalf in sight: "Yes, yes; take them. But for God's sake, let me sleep--let me sleep!" Drawers opened, closed again, a short and panting breath. Monpavon heardno more of what was going on, and retraced his steps without entering. The ferocious rapacity of his servant had set his pride upon its guard. Anything rather than degradation to such a point as that. The sleep which Mora craved for so insistently--the lethargy, to be moreaccurate--lasted a whole night, and through the next morning also, withuncertain wakings disturbed by terrible sufferings relieved each time bysoporifics. No further attempt was made to nurse him to recovery; theytried only to soothe his last moments, to help him to slip painlesslyover that terrible last step. His eyes had opened again during thistime, but were already dimmed, fixed in the void on floating shadows, vague forms like those a diver sees quivering in the uncertain lightunder water. In the afternoon of the Thursday, towards three o'clock, he regainedcomplete consciousness, and recognising Monpavon, Cardailhac, and twoor three other intimate friends, he smiled to them, and betrayed in asentence his only anxiety: "What do they say about it in Paris?" They said many things about it, different and contradictory; but verycertainly he was the only subject of conversation, and the news spreadthrough the town since the morning, that Mora was at his last breath, agitated the streets, the drawing-rooms, the cafes, the workshops, revived the question of the political situation in newspaper offices andclubs, even in porters' lodges and on the tops of omnibuses, in everyplace where the unfolded public newspapers commented on this startlingrumour of the day. Mora was the most brilliant incarnation of the Empire. One sees from adistance, not the solid or insecure base of the building, but the gildedand delicate spire, embellished, carved into hollow tracery, addedfor the satisfaction of the age. Mora was what was seen in France andthroughout Europe of the Empire. If he fell, the monument would finditself bereft of all its elegance, split as by some long and irreparablecrack. And how many lives would be dragged down by that sudden fall, how many fortunes undermined by the weakened reverberations ofthe catastrophe! None so completely as that of the big man sittingmotionless downstairs, on the bench in the monkey-house. For the Nabob, this death was his own death, the ruin, the end of allthings. He was so deeply conscious of it that, when he entered thehouse, on learning the hopeless condition of the duke, no expression ofpity, no regrets of any sort, had escaped him, only the ferocious wordof human egoism, "I am ruined!" And this word kept recurring to hislips; he repeated it mechanically each time that he awoke suddenlyafresh to all the horror of his situation, as in those dangerousmountain storms, when a sudden flash of lightning illumines the abyssto its depths, showing the wounding spurs and the bushes on its sides, ready to tear and scratch the man who should fall. The rapid clairvoyance which accompanies cataclysms spared him nodetail. He saw the invalidation of his election almost certain, now thatMora would no longer be there to plead his cause; then the consequencesof the defeat--bankruptcy, poverty, and still worse; for when theseincalculable riches collapse they always bury a little of a man's honourbeneath their ruins. But how many briers, how many thorns, how manycruel scratches and wounds before arriving at the end! In a week therewould be the Schwalbach bills--that is to say, eight hundred thousandfrancs--to pay; indemnity for Moessard, who wanted a hundred thousandfrancs, or as the alternative he would apply for the permission of theChamber to prosecute him for a misdemeanour, a suit still more sinisterinstituted by the families of two little martyrs of Bethlehem againstthe founders of the Society; and, on top of all, the complications ofthe Territorial Bank. There was one solitary hope, the mission of Paulde Gery to the Bey, but so vague, so chimerical, so remote! "Ah, I am ruined! I am ruined!" In the immense entrance-hall no one noticed his distress. The crowd ofsenators, of deputies, of councillors of state, all the high officialsof the administration, came and went around him without seeing him, holding mysterious consultations with uneasy importance near the twofireplaces of white marble which faced one another. So many ambitionsdisappointed, deceived, hurled down, met in this visit _in extremis_, that personal anxieties dominated every other preoccupation. The faces, strangely enough, expressed neither pity nor grief, rather asort of anger. All these people seemed to have a grudge against the dukefor dying, as though he had deserted them. One heard remarks of thiskind: "It is not surprising, with such a life as he has lived!" Andlooking out of the high windows, these gentlemen pointed out to eachother, amid the going and coming of the equipages in the court-yard, thedrawing up of some little brougham from within which a well-gloved hand, with its lace sleeve brushing the sash of the door, would hold out acard with a corner turned back to the footman. From time to time one of the _habitues_ of the palace, one of those whomthe dying man had summoned to his bedside, appeared in the medley, gavean order, then went away, leaving the scared expression of his facereflected on twenty others. Jenkins showed himself thus for a moment, with his cravat untied, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his cuffs crumpled, inall the disorder of the battle in which he was engaged upstairsagainst a terrible opponent. He was instantly surrounded, besieged withquestions. Certainly the monkeys flattening their short noses against the bars oftheir cage, excited by the unaccustomed tumult, and very attentive toall that passed about them as though they were occupied in making amethodical study of human hypocrisy, had a magnificent model in theIrish physician. His grief was superb, a splendid grief, masculine andstrong, which compressed his lips and made him pant. "The agony has begun, " he said mournfully. "It is only a matter ofhours. " And as Jansoulet came towards him, he said to him emphatically: "Ah, my friend, what a man! What courage! He has forgotten nobody. Onlyjust now he was speaking to me of you. " "Really?" "'The poor Nabob, ' said he, 'how does the affair of his electionstand?'" And that was all. The duke had added no further word. Jansoulet bowed his head. What had he been hoping? Was it not enoughthat at such a moment a man like Mora had given him a thought? Hereturned and sat down on his bench, falling back into the stupor whichhad been galvanized by one moment of mad hope, and remained until, without his noticing it, the hall had become nearly deserted. He did notremark that he was the only and last visitor left, until he heard themen-servants talking aloud in the waning light of the evening: "For my part, I've had enough of it. I shall leave service. " "I shall stay on with the duchess. " And these projects, these arrangements some hours in advance of death, condemned the noble duke still more surely than the faculty. The Nabob understood then that it was time for him to go, but, first, hewished to inscribe his name in the visitors' book kept by the porter. Hewent up to the table, and leaned over it to see distinctly. The page wasfull. A blank space was pointed out to him below a signature in a verysmall, spidery hand, such as is frequently written by very fat fingers, and when he had signed, it proved to be the name of Hemerlinguedominating his own, crushing it, clasping it round with insidiousflourish. Superstitious, like the true Latin he was, he was struck bythis omen, and went away frightened by it. Where should he dine? At the club? Place Vendome? To hear still moretalk of this death that obsessed him! He preferred to go somewhere bychance, walking straight before him, like all those who are a prey tosome fixed idea which they hope to conjure away by rapid movement. Theevening was warm, the air full of sweet scents. He walked along thequays, and reached the trees of the Cours-la-Reine, then found himselfbreathing that air in which is mingled the freshness of watered roadsand the odour of fine dust so characteristic of summer evenings inParis. At that hour all was deserted. Here and there chandeliers werebeing lighted for the concerts, blazes of gaslight flared among thegreen trees. A sound of glasses and plates from a restaurant gave himthe idea of going in. The strong man was hungry despite all his troubles. He was served undera veranda with glazed walls backed by shrubs, and facing the greatporch of the Palais de l'Industrie, where the duke, in the presence of athousand people, had greeted him as a deputy. The refined, aristocraticface rose before his memory in the darkness of the sky, while he couldsee it also as it lay over yonder on the funereal whiteness of thepillow; and suddenly, as he ran his eye over the bill of fare presentedto him by the waiter, he noticed with stupefaction that it bore the dateof the 20th of May. So a month had not elapsed since the opening of theexhibition. It seemed to him like ten years ago. Gradually, however, thewarmth of the meal cheered him. In the corridor he could hear waiterstalking: "Has anybody heard news of Mora? It appears he is very ill. " "Nonsense! He will get over it, you will see. Men like him get all theluck. " And so deeply is hope implanted in the human soul, that, despite whatJansoulet had himself seen and heard, these few words, helped by twobottles of burgundy and a few glasses of cognac, sufficed to restorehis courage. After all, people had been known to recover from illnessesquite as desperate. Doctors often exaggerate the ill in order to getmore credit afterward for curing it. "Suppose I called to inquire. " Hemade his way back towards the house, full of illusion, trusting to thatchance which had served him so many times in his life. And indeed theaspect of the princely abode had something about it to fortify hishope. It presented the reassuring and tranquil appearance of ordinaryevenings, from the avenue with its lights at long intervals, majesticand deserted, to the steps where stood waiting a huge carriage ofold-fashioned shape. In the antechamber, peaceful also, two enormous lamps were burning. Afootman slept in a corner; the porter was reading before the fireplace. He looked at the new arrival over his spectacles, made no remark, andJansoulet dared ask no question. Piles of newspapers lying on the tablein their wrappers, addressed to the duke, seemed to have been thrownthere as useless. The Nabob took up one of them, opened it, and triedto read, but quick and gliding steps, a muttered chanting, made him lifthis eyes, and he saw a white-haired and bent old man, decked out in laceas though he had been an altar, who was praying aloud as he departedwith a long priestly stride, his ample red cassock spreading in a trainover the carpet. It was the Archbishop of Paris, accompanied by twoassistants. The vision, with its murmur as of an icy north wind, passed quickly before Jansoulet, plunged into the great carriage anddisappeared, carrying away with it his last hope. "Doing the right thing, _mon cher_, " remarked Monpavon, appearingsuddenly at his side. "Mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideas ofhow do you say--you know--what is it you call it? Eighteenth century. Very bad for the masses, if a man in his position--ps--ps--ps--Ah, he isthe master who sets us all an example--ps--ps--irreproachable manners!" "Then, it is all over?" said Jansoulet, overwhelmed. "There is no longerany hope?" Monpavon signed to him to listen. A carriage rolled heavily along theavenue on the quay. The visitors' bell rang sharply several times insuccession. The marquis counted aloud: "One, two, three, four. " At thefifth he rose: "No more hope now. Here comes the other, " said he, alluding to theParisian superstition that a visit from the sovereign was always fatalto dying persons. From every side the lackeys hastened up, opened thedoors wide, ranged themselves in line, while the porter, his hat cockedforward and his staff resounding on the marble floor, announced thepassage of two august shadows, of whom Jansoulet only caught a confusedglimpse behind the liveried domestics, but whom he saw beyond a longperspective of open doors climbing the great staircase, preceded bya footman bearing a candelabrum. The woman ascended, erect and proud, enveloped in a black Spanish mantilla; the man supported himself by thebaluster, slower in his movements and tired, the collar of his lightovercoat turned up above a rather bent back, which was shaken by aconvulsive sob. "Let us be off, Nabob. Nothing more to be done here, " said the old beau, taking Jansoulet by the arm and drawing him outside. He paused on thethreshold, with raised hand, making a little gesture of farewell in thedirection of the man who lay dying upstairs. "Good-bye old fellow!" Thegesture and the tone were polite, irreproachable, but the voice trembleda little. The club in the Rue Royale, which was famous for its gambling parties, rarely saw one so desperate as the gaming of that night. It commenced ateleven o'clock and was still going on at five in the morning. Enormoussums were scattered over the green cloth, changing hands, moved now toone side, now to the other, heaped up, distributed, regained. Fortuneswere engulfed in this monster play, at the end of which the Nabob, whohad started it to forget his terrors in the hazards of chance, aftersingular alternations and runs of luck enough to turn the hair of abeginner white, retired with winnings amounting to five hundred thousandfrancs. On the boulevard the next day they said five millions, andeverybody cried out on the scandal, especially the _Messenger_, three-quarters filled by an article against certain adventurerstolerated in the clubs, and who cause the ruin of the most honourablefamilies. Alas! what Jansoulet had won hardly represented enough to meet the firstSchwalbach bills. During this wild play, of which Mora was, however, the involuntarycause, and, as it were, the soul, his name was not once uttered. NeitherCardailhac nor Jenkins put in an appearance. Monpavon had taken to hisbed, stricken more deeply than he wished it to be thought. Nobody hadany news. "Is he dead?" Jansoulet said to himself as he left the club; and he felta desire to make a call to inquire before going home. It was no longerhope that urged him, but that sort of morbid and nervous curiosity whichafter a great fire leads the smitten unfortunate people, ruined andhomeless, back to the wreck of their dwellings. Although it was still very early, and a pink mist of dawn hung in thesky, the whole mansion stood open as if for a solemn departure. Thelamps still smoked over the fire-places, dust floated about the rooms. The Nabob advanced amid an inexplicable solitude of desertion to thefirst floor, where at last he heard a voice he knew, that of Cardailhac, who was dictating names, and the scratching of pens over paper. Theclever stage-manager of the festivities in honour of the Bey wasorganizing with the same ardour the funeral pomps of the Duc de Mora. What activity! His excellency had died during the evening; when morningcame already ten thousand letters were being printed, and everybodyin the house who could hold a pen was busy with the writing of theaddresses. Without passing through these improvised offices, Jansouletreached the waiting-room, ordinarily so crowded, to-day with all itsarm-chairs empty. In the middle, on a table, lay the hat, cane, andgloves of M. Le Duc, always ready in case he should go out unexpectedly, so as to save him even the trouble of giving an order. The objects thatwe always wear keep about them something of ourselves. The curve of thehat suggested that of the mustache; the light-coloured gloves were readyto grasp the supple and strong Chinese cane; the total effect was oneof life and energy, as if the duke were about to appear, stretch out hishand while talking, take up those things, and go out. Oh, no. M. Le Duc was not going out. Jansoulet had but to approachthe half-open door of the bed-chamber to see on the bed, raised threesteps--always the platform even after death--a rigid, haughty form, amotionless and aged profile, metamorphosed by the beard's growth of anight, quite gray; near the sloping pillow, kneeling and burying herhead in the white drapery, was a woman, whose fair hair lay in rippleddisorder, ready to fall beneath the shears of eternal widowhood; then apriest and a nun, gathered in this atmosphere of watch by the dead, inwhich are mingled the fatigue of sleepless nights and the murmurs ofprayer. The chamber in which so many ambitions had strengthened their wings, somany hopes and disappointments had throbbed, was wholly given overnow to the peace of passing Death. Not a sound, not a sigh. Only, notwithstanding the early hour, away yonder, towards the Pont de laConcorde, a little clarinet, shrill and sharp, could be heard abovethe rumbling of the first vehicles; but its exasperating mockery washenceforth lost on him who lay there asleep, showing to the terrifiedNabob an image of his own destiny, chilled, discoloured, ready for thetomb. Others besides Jansoulet found that death-chamber lugubrious: thewindows wide open, the night and the wind entering freely from thegarden, making a strong draught; a human form on a table; the body, which had just been embalmed; the hollow skull filled with a sponge, the brain in a basin. The weight of this brain of a statesman was trulyextraordinary. It weighed--it weighed--the newspapers of the periodmentioned the figure. But who remembers it to-day? THE FUNERAL "Don't weep, my fairy, you rob me of all my courage. Come, you will be agreat deal happier when you no longer have your terrible demon. You willgo back to Fontainebleau and look after your chickens. The ten thousandfrancs from Brahim will help to get you settled down. And then, don't beafraid, once you are over there I shall send you money. Since this Beywants to have sculpture done by me, he will have to pay for it, as youmay imagine. I shall return rich, rich. Who knows? Perhaps a sultana. " "Yes, you will be a sultana, but I--I shall be dead and I shall neversee you again. " And the good Crenmitz in despair huddled herself into acorner of the cab so that she would not be seen weeping. Felicia was leaving Paris. She was trying to escape the horriblesadness, the sinister disgust into which Mora's death had thrown her. What a terrible blow for the proud girl! _Ennui_, pique, had thrown herinto this man's arms; she had given him pride--modesty--all; and nowhe had carried all away with him, leaving her tarnished for life, atearless widow, without mourning and without dignity. Two or threevisits to Saint-James Villa, a few evenings in the back of some boxat some small theatre, behind the curtain that shelters forbidden andshameful pleasure, these were the only memories left to her by thisliaison of a fortnight, this loveless intrigue wherein her pride had notfound even the satisfaction of the commotion caused by a big scandal. The useless and indelible stain, the stupid fall of a woman who does notknow how to walk and who is embarrassed in her rising by the ironicalpity of the passers-by. For a moment she thought of suicide, then the reflection that it wouldbe set down to a broken heart arrested her. She saw in a glance thesentimental compassion of the drawing-rooms, the foolish figure that hersham passion would cut among the innumberable love affairs of the duke, and the Parma violets scattered by the pretty Moessards of journalismon her grave, dug so near the other. Travelling remained to her--one ofthose journeys so distant that they take even one's thoughts into a newworld. Unfortunately the money was wanting. Then she remembered that onthe morrow of her great success at the Exhibition, old Brahim Bey hadcalled to see her, to make her, in behalf of his master, magnificentproposals for certain great works to be executed in Tunis. She hadsaid No at the time, without allowing herself to be tempted by Orientalremuneration, a splendid hospitality, the finest court in the Bardo fora studio, with its surrounding facades of stone in lacework carving. Butnow she was quite willing. She had to make but a sign, the agreementwas immediately concluded, and after an exchange of telegrams, a hastypacking and shutting up of the house, she set out for the railwaystation as if for a week's absence, astonished herself by her promptdecision, flattered on all the adventurous and artistic sides of hernature by the hope of a new life in an unknown country. The Bey's pleasure yacht was to await her at Genoa; and in anticipation, closing her eyes in the cab which was taking her to the station, shecould see the white stone buildings of an Italian port embracing aniridescent sea where the sunshine was already Eastern, where everythingsang, to the very swelling of the sails on the blue water. Paris, as ithappened, was muddy that day, uniformly gray, flooded by one of thosecontinuous rains of which it seems to have the special property, rainsthat seem to have risen in clouds from its river, from its smoke, fromits monster's breath, and to fall in torrents from its roofs, fromits spouts, from the innumerable windows of its garrets. Feliciawas impatient to get away from this gloomy Paris, and her feverishimpatience found fault with the cabmen who made slow progress with thehorses, two sorry creatures of the veritable cab-horse type, with aninexplicable block of carriages and omnibuses crowded together in thevicinity of the Pont de la Concorde. "But go on, driver, go on, then. " "I cannot, madame. It is the funeral procession. " She put her head out of the window and drew it back again immediately, terrified. A line of soldiers marching with reversed arms, a confusionof caps and hats raised from the forehead at the passage of an endlesscortege. It was Mora's funeral procession defiling past. "Don't stop here. Go round, " she cried to the cabman. The vehicle turned about with difficulty, dragging itself regretfullyfrom the superb spectacle which Paris had been awaiting for four days;it remounted the avenues, took the Rue Montaigne, and, with its slowand surly little trot, came out at the Madeleine by the BoulevardMalesherbes. Here the crowd was greater, more compact. In the misty rain, the illuminated stained-glass windows of the church, the dull echo of the funeral chants beneath the lavishly distributedblack hangings under which the very outline of the Greek temple waslost, filled the whole square with a sense of the office in course ofcelebration, while the greater part of the immense procession was stillsqueezed up in the Rue Royale, and as far even as the bridges a longblack line connecting the dead man with that gate of the LegislativeAssembly through which he had so often passed. Beyond the Madeleinethe highway of the boulevard stretched away empty, and looking biggerbetween two lines of soldiers with arms reversed, confining the curiousto the pavements black with people, all the shops closed, and thebalconies, in spite of the rain, overflowing with human beings allleaning forward in the direction of the church, as if to see a mid-Lentfestival or the home-coming of victorious troops. Paris, hungry for thespectacular, constructs it indifferently out of anything, civil war asreadily as the burial of a statesman. It was necessary for the cab to retrace its course again and to make anew circuit; and it is easy to imagine the bad temper of the driver andhis beasts, all three of them Parisian in soul and passions, at havingto deprive themselves of so fine a show. Then, as all the life of Parishad been drawn into the great artery of the boulevard, there beganthrough the deserted and silent streets--a capricious and irregulardrive--the snail-like progress of a cab taken by the hour. Firsttouching the extreme points of the Faubourg Saint-Martin and theFaubourg Saint-Denis, returning again towards the centre, and at theconclusion of circuits and dodges finding always the same obstacle inambush, the same crowd, some fragment of the black defile perceived fora moment at the branching of a street, unfolding itself in the rain tothe sound of muffled drums--a dull and heavy sound, like that of earthfalling on a coffin-lid. What torture for Felicia! It was her weakness and her remorse crossingParis in this solemn pomp, this funeral train, this public mourningreflected by the very clouds; and the proud girl revolted against thisaffront done her by fate, and tried to escape from it to the back ofthe carriage, where she remained exhausted with eyes closed, while oldCrenmitz, believing her nervousness to be grief, did her best to comforther, herself wept over their separation, and hiding also, left theentire window of the cab to the big Algerian hound with his finelymodelled head scenting the wind, and his two paws resting in thesash with an heraldic stiffness of pose. Finally, after a thousandinterminable windings, the cab suddenly came to a halt, jolted on againwith difficulty amid cries and abuse, then, tossed about, the luggage ontop threatening its equilibrium, it ended by coming to a full stop, heldprisoner, as it were, at anchor. "_Bon Dieu!_ what a mass of people!" murmured the Crenmitz, terrified. Felicia came out of her stupor. "Where are we?" Under a colourless, smoky sky, blotted out by a fine network of rain andstretched like gauze over everything, there lay an immense space filledby an ocean of humanity surging from all the streets that led to it, and motionless around a lofty column of bronze, which dominated this sealike the gigantic mast of a sunken vessel. Cavalry in squadrons, with swords drawn, guns in batteries stood at intervals along an openpassage, awaiting him who was to come by, perhaps in order to try toretake him, to carry him off by force from the formidable enemy who wasbearing him away. Alas! all the cavalry charges, all the guns could beof no avail here. The prisoner was departing, firmly guarded, defendedby a triple wall of hardwood, metal, and velvet, impervious togrape-shot; and it was not from those soldiers that he could hope forhis deliverance. "Get away from this. I will not stay here, " said Felicia, furious, plucking at the wet box-coat of the driver, and seized by a wild dreadat the thought of the nightmare which was pursuing her, of _that_which she could hear coming in a frightful rumbling, still distant, but growing nearer from minute to minute. At the first movement of thewheels, however, the cries and shouts broke out anew. Thinking that hewould be allowed to cross the square, the driver had penetrated withgreat difficulty to the front ranks of the crowd; it now closed behindhim and refused to allow him to go forward. There they had to remain, to endure those odours of common people and of alcohol, those curiousglances, already fired by the prospect of an exceptional spectacle. Theystared rudely at the beautiful traveller who was starting off withso many trunks, and a dog of such size for her defender. Crenmitz washorribly afraid; Felicia, for her part, could think of only one thing, and that was that _he_ was about to pass before her eyes, that she wouldbe in the front rank to see him. Suddenly a great shout "Here it comes!" Then silence fell on the wholesquare at last at the end of three weary hours of waiting. It came. Felicia's first impulse was to lower the blind on her side, on the sidepast which the procession was about to pass. But at the rolling of thedrums close at hand, seized by the nervous wrath at her inability toescape the obsession of the thing, perhaps also infected by the morbidcuriosity around her, she suddenly let the blind fly up, and her paleand passionate little face showed itself at the window, supported by hertwo clinched hands. "There! since you will have it: I am watching you. " As a funeral it was as fine a thing as can be seen, the supreme honoursrendered in all their vain splendour, as sonorous, as hollow as therhythmic accompaniment on the muffled drums. First the white surplicesof the clergy, amid the mourning drapery of the first five carriages;next, drawn by six black horses, veritable horses of Erebus, thereadvanced the funeral car, all beplumed, fringed and embroidered insilver, with big tears, heraldic coronets surmounting gigantic M's, prophetic initials which seemed those of Death himself, _La Mort_ madea duchess decorated with the eight waving plumes. So many canopies andmassive hangings hid the vulgar body of the hearse, as it trembled andquivered at each step from top to bottom as though crushed beneath themajesty of its dead burden. On the coffin, the sword, the coat, theembroidered hat, parade undress--which had never been worn--shone withgold and mother-of-pearl in the darkened little tent formed by thehangings and among the bright tints of fresh flowers telling of springin spite of the sullenness of the sky. At a distance of ten paces camethe household servants of the duke; then, behind, in majestic isolation, the cloaked officer bearing the emblems of honour--a veritable displayof all the orders of the whole world--crosses, multicoloured ribbons, which covered to overflowing the cushion of black velvet with silverfringe. The master of ceremonies came next, in front of the representatives ofthe Legislative Assembly--a dozen deputies chosen by lot, among themthe tall figure of the Nabob, wearing the official costume for the firsttime, as if ironical Fortune had desired to give to the representativeon probation a foretaste of all parliamentary joys. The friends of thedead man, who followed, formed a rather small group, singularly wellchosen to exhibit in its crudity the superficiality and the void of thatexistence of a great personage reduced to the intimacy of a theatricalmanager thrice bankrupt, of a picture-dealer grown wealthy throughusuary, of a nobleman of tarnished reputation, and of a few men abouttown without distinction. Up to this point everybody was walking on footand bareheaded; among the parliamentary representatives there were onlya few black skull-caps, which had been put on timidly as they approachedthe populous districts. After them the carriages began. At the death of a great warrior it is the custom for the funeral convoyto be followed by the favourite horse of the hero, his battle charger, regulating to the slow step of the procession that dancing step excitedby the smell of powder and the pageantry of standards. In this case, Mora's great brougham, that "C-spring" which used to bear him tofashionable or political gatherings, took the place of that companionin victory, its panels draped with black, its lamps veiled in longstreamers of light crape, floating to the ground with undulatingfeminine grace. These veiled lamps constituted a new fashion forfunerals--the supreme "chic" of mourning; and it well became this dandyto give a last lesson in elegance to the Parisians, who flocked to hisobsequies as to a "Longchamps" of death. Three more masters of ceremony; then came the impassive officialprocession, always the same for marriages, deaths, baptisms, openingsof Parliament, or receptions of sovereigns, the interminable cortege ofglittering carriages, with large windows and showy liveries bedizenedwith gilt, which passed through the midst of the dazzled people, towhom they recalled fairy-tales, Cinderella chariots, while evoking those"Oh's!" of admiration that mount and die away with the rockets on theevenings of firework displays. And in the crowd there was always to befound some good-natured policeman, some learned little grocer saunteringround on the lookout for public ceremonies, ready to name in a loudvoice all the people in the carriages, as they defiled past, with theirregulation escorts of dragoons, cuirassiers, or Paris guards. First the representatives of the Emperor, the Empress and all theImperial family; after these, in the hierarchic order, cunninglyelaborated, and the least infraction of which might have been the causeof grave conflicts between the various departments of the State--themembers of the Privy Council, the Marshals, the Admirals, the HighChancellor of the Legion of Honour; then the Senate, the LegislativeAssembly, the Council of State, the whole organization of the law and ofthe university, the costumes, the ermine, the headgear of which tookyou back to the days of old Paris--an air of something stately andantiquated, out of date in our sceptical epoch of the workman's blouseand the dress-coat. Felicia, to avoid her thoughts, voluntarily fixed her eyes upon thismonotonous defile, exasperating in its length; and little by little atorpor stole over her, as if on a rainy day she had been turning overthe leaves of an album of engravings, a history of official costumesfrom the most remote times down to our own day. All these people, seenin profile, still and upright, behind the large glass panes of thecarriage windows, had indeed the appearance of personages in colouredplates, sitting well forward on the edge of the seats in order thatthe spectators should miss nothing of their golden embroideries, theirpalm-leaves, their galloons, their braids--puppets given over to thecuriosity of the crowd--and exposing themselves to it with an air ofindifference and detachment. Indifference! That was the most special characteristic of this funeral. It was to be felt everywhere, on people's faces and in their hearts, aswell among these functionaries of whom the greater part had only knownthe duke by sight, as in the ranks on foot between his hearse and hisbrougham, his closest friends, or those who had been in daily attendanceupon him. The fat minister, Vice-President of the Council, seemedindifferent, and even glad, as he held in his powerful fist the stringsof the pall and seemed to draw it forward, in more haste than the horsesand the hearse to conduct to his six feet of earth the enemy of twentyyears' standing, the eternal rival, the obstacle to all his ambitions. The other three dignitaries did not advance with the same vigour, andthe long cords floated loosely in their weary or careless hands withsignificant slackness. The priests were indifferent by profession. Indifferent were the servants of his household, whom he never calledanything but "_chose_, " and whom he treated really like "things. "Indifferent was M. Louis, for whom it was the last day of servitude, aslave become emancipated, rich enough to enjoy his ransom. Even amongthe intimate friends of the dead man this glacial cold had penetrated. Yet some of them had been deeply attached to him. But Cardailhac was toobusy superintending the order and the progress of the procession to giveway to the least emotion, which would, besides, have been foreign to hisnature. Old Monpavon, stricken to the heart, would have considered theleast bending of his linen cuirass and of his tall figure a piece ofdeplorably bad taste, totally unworthy of his illustrious friend. Hiseyes remained as dry and glittering as ever, since the undertakersprovide the tears for great mournings, embroidered in silver on blackcloth. Some one was weeping, however, away yonder among the members ofthe committee; but he was expending his compassion very naively uponhimself. Poor Nabob! softened by that music and splendour, it seemed tohim that he was burying all his ambitions of glory and dignity. And hiswas but one more variety of indifference. Among the public, the enjoyment of a fine spectacle, the pleasure ofturning a week-day into a Sunday, dominated every other sentiment. Along the line of the boulevards, the spectators on the balconies almostseemed disposed to applaud; here, in the populous districts, irreverencewas still more frankly manifest. Jests, blackguardly wit at the expenseof the dead man and his doings, known to all Paris, laughter raised bythe tall hats of the rabbis, the pass-word of the council experts, allwere heard in the air between two rolls of the drum. Poverty, forcedlabour, with its feet in the wet, wearing its blouse, its apron, itscap raised from habit, with sneering chuckle watched this inhabitant ofanother sphere pass by, this brilliant duke, severed now from all hishonours, who perhaps while living had never paid a visit to that end ofthe town. But there it is. To arrive up yonder, where everybody has togo, the common route must be taken, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the Ruede la Roquette as far as that great gate where the _octroi_ is collectedand the infinite begins. And well! it does one good to see that lordlypersons like Mora, dukes, ministers, follow the same road towardsthe same destination. This equality in death consoles for many of theinjustices of life. To-morrow bread will seem less dear, wine better, the workman's tool less heavy, when he will be able to say to himselfas he rises in the morning, "That old Mora, he has come to it like therest!" The procession still went on, more fatiguing even than lugubrious. Nowit consisted of choral societies, deputations from the army and thenavy, officers of all descriptions, pressing on in a troop in advanceof a long file of empty vehicles--mourning-coaches, privatecarriages--present for reasons of etiquette. Then the troops followedin their turn, and into the sordid suburb, that long Rue de la Roquette, already swarming with people as far as eye could reach, there plungeda whole army, foot-soldiers, dragoons, lancers, carabineers, heavy gunswith their great mouths in the air, ready to bark, making pavementand windows tremble, but not able to drown the rolling of the drums--asinister and savage rolling which suggested to Felicia's imaginationsome funeral of an African chief, at which thousands of sacrificedvictims accompany the soul of a prince so that it shall not pass aloneinto the kingdom of spirits, and made her fancy that perhaps thispompous and interminable retinue was about to descend and disappear inthe superhuman grave large enough to receive the whole of it. "_Now and in the hour of our death. Amen_, " Crenmitz murmured, while thecab swayed from side to side in the lighted square, and high in spacethe golden statue of Liberty seemed to be taking a magic flight; and theold dancer's prayer was perhaps the one note of sincere feeling calledforth on the immense line of the funeral procession. All the speeches are over; three long speeches as icy as the vaultinto which the dead man has just descended, three official declamationswhich, above all, have provided the orators with an opportunity ofgiving loud voice to their own devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times the guns have roused the many echoes of the cemetery, shaken the wreaths of jet and everlasting flowers--the light _ex-voto_offerings suspended at the corners of the monuments--and while a reddishmist floats and rolls with a smell of gunpowder across the city of thedead, ascends and mingles slowly with the smoke of factories in theplebeian district, the innumerable assembly disperses also, scatteredthrough the steep streets, down the lofty steps all white among thefoliage, with a confused murmur, a rippling as of waves over rocks. Purple robes, black robes, blue and green coats, shoulder-knots of gold, slender swords, of whose safety the wearers assure themselves withtheir hands as they walk, all hasten to regain their carriages. Peopleexchange low bows, discreet smiles, while the mourning-coaches tear downthe carriage-ways at a gallop, revealing long lines of black coachmen, with backs bent, hats tilted forward, the box-coats flying in the windmade by their rapid motion. The general impression is one of thankfulness to have reached the endof a long and fatiguing performance, a legitimate eagerness to quit theadministrative harness and ceremonial costumes, to unbuckle sashes, toloosen stand-up collars and neckbands, to slacken the tension of facialmuscles, which had been subject to long restraint. Heavy and short, dragging along his swollen legs with difficulty, Hemerlingue was hastening towards the exit, declining the offers whichwere made to him of a seat in this or that carriage, since he knew wellthat his own alone was of size adequate to cope with his proportions. "Baron, Baron, this way. There is room for you. " "No, thank you. I want to walk to straighten my legs. " And to avoid these invitations, which were beginning to embarrass him, he took an almost deserted pathway, one that proved too deserted indeed, for hardly had he taken a step along it before he regretted it. Eversince entering the cemetery he had had but one preoccupation--the fearof finding himself face to face with Jansoulet, whose violence of temperhe knew, and who might well forget the sacredness of the place, and evenin Pere Lachaise renew the scandal of the Rue Royale. Two or three timesduring the ceremony he had seen the great head of his old chum emergefrom among the crowd of insignificant types which largely composed thecompany and move in his direction, as though seeking him and desiringa meeting. Down there, in the main road, there would, at any rate, have been people about in case of trouble, while here--Brr--It was thisanxiety that made him quicken his short step, his panting breaths, butin vain. As he looked round, in his fear of being followed, the strong, erect shoulders of the Nabob appeared at the entrance to the path. Impossible for the big man to slip away through one of the narrowpassages left between the tombs, which are placed so close together thatthere is not even space to kneel. The damp, rich soil slipped and gaveway beneath his feet. He decided to walk on with an air of indifference, hoping that perhaps the other might not recognise him. But a hoarse andpowerful voice cried behind him: "Lazarus!" His name--the name of this rich man--was Lazarus. He made no reply, buttried to catch up a group of officers who were moving on, very far infront of him. "Lazarus! Oh, Lazarus!" Just as in old times on the quay of Marseilles. Under the influence ofold habit he was tempted to stop; then the remembrance of his infamies, of all the ill he had done the Nabob, that he was still occupied indoing him, came back to him suddenly with a horrible fear so strongthat it amounted to a paroxysm, when an iron hand laid hold of himunceremoniously. A sweat of terror broke out over all his flabby limbs, his face became still more yellow, his eyes blinked in anticipation ofthe formidable blow which he expected to come, while his fat arms wereinstinctively raised to ward it off. "Oh, don't be afraid. I wish you no harm, " said Jansoulet sadly. "Only Ihave come to beg you to do no more to me. " He stooped to breathe. The banker, bewildered and frightened, openedwide his round owl's eyes in presence of this suffocating emotion. "Listen, Lazarus; it is you who are the stronger in this war wehave been waging on each other for so long. I am down; yes, down. Myshoulders have touched the ground. Now, be generous; spare your oldchum. Give me quarter; come, give me quarter. " This southerner was trembling, defeated and softened by the emotionaldisplay of the funeral ceremony. Hemerlingue, as he stood facing him, was hardly more courageous. The gloomy music, the open grave, thespeeches, the cannonade of that lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all these things had worked on the feelings of this fat baron. The voiceof his old comrade completed the awakening of whatever there remained ofhuman in that packet of gelatine. His old chum! It was the first time for ten years--since theirquarrel--that he had seen him so near. How many things were recalled tohim by those sun-tanned features, those broad shoulders, so ill adaptedfor the wearing of embroidered coats! The thin woollen rug full ofholes, in which they used to wrap themselves both to sleep on the bridgeof the _Sinai_, the food shared in brotherly fashion, the wanderingsthrough the burned-up country round Marseilles, where they used to stealbig onions and eat them raw by the side of some ditch, the dreams, theschemings, the pence put into a common fund, and, when fortune had begunto smile on them, the fun they had had together, those excellent quietlittle suppers over which they would tell each other everything, withtheir elbows on the table. How can one ever reach the point of seriously quarrelling when one knowsthe other so well, when they have lived together like two twins at thebreast of the lean and strong nurse, Poverty, sharing her sour milk andher rough caresses! These thoughts passed through Hemerlingue's mindlike a flash of lightning. Almost instinctively he let his heavy handfall into the one which the Nabob was holding out to him. Something ofthe primitive animal was roused in them, something stronger than theirenmity, and these two men, each of whom for ten years had been tryingto bring the other to ruin and disgrace, fell to talking without anyreserve. Generally, between friends newly met, after the first effusions areover, a silence comes as if they had no more to tell each other, whileit is in reality the abundance of things, their precipitate rush, thatprevents them from finding utterance. The two chums had touched thatcondition; but Jansoulet kept a tight grasp on the banker's arm, fearingto see him escape and resist the kindly impulse he had just roused. "You are not in a hurry, are you? We can take a little walk, if youlike. It has stopped raining, the air is pleasant; one feels twentyyears younger. " "Yes, it is pleasant, " said Hemerlingue; "only I cannot walk for long;my legs are heavy. " "True, your poor legs. See, there is a bench over there. Let us go andsit down. Lean on me, old friend. " And the Nabob, with brotherly aid, led him to one of those benchesdotted here and there among the tombs, on which those inconsolablemourners rest who make the cemetery their usual walk and abode. Hesettled him in his seat, gazed upon him tenderly, pitied him for hisinfirmity, and, following what was quite a natural channel in such aspot, they came to talking of their health, of the old age that wasapproaching. This one was dropsical, the other subject to apoplecticfits. Both were in the habit of dosing themselves with the Jenkinspearls, a dangerous remedy--witness Mora, so quickly carried off. "My poor duke!" said Jansoulet. "A great loss to the country, " remarked the banker with an air ofconviction. And the Nabob added naively: "For me above all, for me; for, if he had lived--Ah! what luck you have, what luck you have!" Fearing to have wounded him, he went on quickly: "And then, too, you are clever, so very clever. " The baron looked at him with a wink so droll, that his little blackeyelashes disappeared amid his yellow fat. "No, " said he, "it is not I who am clever. It is Marie. " "Marie?" "Yes, the baroness. Since her baptism she has given up her name ofYamina for that of Marie. She is a real sort of woman. She knows morethan I do myself about banking and Paris and business. It is she whomanages everything at home. " "You are very fortunate, " sighed Jansoulet. His air of gloom told a longstory of qualities missing in Mlle. Afchin. Then, after a silence, thebaron resumed: "She has a great grudge against you, Marie, you know. She will not bepleased when she hears that we have been talking together. " A frown passed over his heavy brow, as though he were regretting theirreconciliation, at the thought of the scene which he would have with hiswife. Jansoulet stammered: "I have done her no harm, however. " "Come, come, neither of you has been very nice to her. Think of theaffront put upon her when we called after our marriage. Your wifesending word to us that she was not in the habit of receiving quondamslaves. As though our friendship ought not to have been stronger than aprejudice. Women don't forget things of that kind. " "But no responsibility lay with me for that, old friend. You know howproud those Afchins are. " He was not proud himself, poor man. His mien was so woebegone, sosupplicating under his friend's frown, that he moved him to pity. Decidedly, the cemetery had softened the baron. "Listen, Bernard; there is only one thing that counts. If you want us tobe friends, as formerly, and this reconciliation not to be wasted, youwill have to get my wife to consent. Without her nothing can be done. When Mlle. Afchin shut her door in our faces you let her have her way, did you not? In the same way, on my side, if Marie said to me when I gohome, 'I will not let you be friends, ' all my protestations now wouldnot prevent me from throwing you overboard. For there is no such thingas friendship in face of such difficulties. Peace at one's fireside isbetter than everything else. " "But in that case, what is to be done?" asked the Nabob, frightened. "I am going to tell you. The baroness is at home every Saturday. Comewith your wife and pay her a visit the day after to-morrow. You willfind the best society in Paris at the house. The past shall not bementioned. The ladies will gossip together of chiffons and frocks, talkof the things women do talk about. And then the whole matter will besettled. We shall become friends as we used to be; and since you are indifficulties, well, we will find some way of getting you out of them. " "Do you think so? The fact is I am in terrible straits, " said the other, shaking his head. Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared again beneath the folds of hischeeks like two flies in butter. "Well, yes; I have played a strong game. But you don't lack shrewdness, all the same. The loan of the fifteen millions to the Bey--it was a goodstroke, that. Ah! you are bold enough; only you hold your cards badly. One can see your game. " Till now they had been talking in low tones, impressed by the silenceof the great necropolis; but little by little human interests assertedthemselves in a louder key even there where their nothingness layexposed on all those flat stones covered with dates and figures, as ifdeath was only an affair of time and calculation--the desired solutionof a problem. Hemerlingue enjoyed the sight of his friend reduced to such humility, and gave him advice on his affairs, with which he seemed to be fullyacquainted. According to him the Nabob could still get out of hisdifficulties very well. Everything depended on the validation, on theturning up of a card. The question was to make sure that it should be agood one. But Jansoulet had no more confidence. In losing Mora, he hadlost everything. "You lose Mora, but you regain me; so things are equalized, " said thebanker tranquilly. "No, do you see it is impossible. It is too late. Le Merquier hascompleted the report. It is a dreadful one, I believe. " "Well, if he has completed his report, he will have to prepare another. " "How is that to be done?" The baron looked at him with surprise. "Ah, you are losing your senses. Why, by paying him a hundred, twohundred, three hundred thousand francs, if necessary. "How can you think of such a thing? Le Merquier, that man of integrity!'My conscience, ' as they call him. " This time Hemerlingue's laugh burst forth with an extraordinaryheartiness, and must have reached the inmost recesses of theneighbouring mausoleums, little accustomed to such disrespect. "'My conscience' a man of integrity! Ah! you amuse me. You don't know, then, that he is in my pay, conscience and all, and that--" He paused, and looked behind him, somewhat startled by a sound which he had heard. "Listen. " It was the echo of his laughter sent back to them from the depths of avault, as if the idea of Le Merquier having a conscience moved even thedead to mirth. "Suppose we walk a little, " said he, "it begins to be chilly on thisbench. " Then, as they walked among the tombs, he went on to explain to him witha certain pedantic fatuity, that in France bribes played as important apart as in the East. Only one had to be a little more delicate aboutit here. You veiled your bribes. "Thus, take this Le Merquier, forinstance. Instead of offering him your money openly, in a big purse, asyou would to a local pasha, you go about it indirectly. The man isfond of pictures. He is constantly having dealings with Schwalbach, whoemploys him as a decoy for his Catholic clients. Well, you offer himsome picture--a souvenir to hang on a panel in his study. The wholepoint is to make the price quite clear. But you will see. I will takeyou round to call on him myself. I will show you how the thing isworked. " And delighted at the amazement of the Nabob, who, to flatter him, exaggerated his surprise still further, and opened his eyes wide with anair of admiration, the banker enlarged the scope of his lesson--made ofit a veritable course of Parisian and worldly philosophy. "See, old comrade, what one has to look after in Paris, above everythingelse, is the keeping up of appearances. They are the only things thatcount--appearances! Now you have not sufficient care for them. You goabout town, your waistcoat unbuttoned, a good-humoured fellow, talkingof your affairs, just what you are by nature. You stroll around justas you would in the bazaars of Tunis. That is how you have come to getbowled over, my good Bernard. " He paused to take breath, feeling quite exhausted. In an hour he hadwalked farther and spoken more than he was accustomed to do in thecourse of a whole year. They noticed, as they stopped, that their walkand conversation had led them back in the direction of Mora's grave, which was situated just above a little exposed plateau, whence lookingover a thousand closely packed roofs, they could see Montmartre, theButtes Chaumont, their rounded outline in the distance looking like highwaves. In the hollows lights were already beginning to twinkle, likeships' lanterns, through the violet mists that were rising; chimneysseemed to leap upward like masts, or steamer funnels discharging theirsmoke. Those three undulations, with the tide of Pere Lachaise, wereclearly suggestive of waves of the sea, following each other at equalintervals. The sky was bright, as often happens in the evening of arainy day, an immense sky, shaded with tints of dawn, against whichthe family tomb of Mora exhibited in relief four allegorical figures, imploring, meditative, thoughtful, whose attitudes were made moreimposing by the dying light. Of the speeches, of the officialcondolences, nothing remained. The soil trodden down all around, masonsat work washing the dirt from the plaster threshold, were all that wasleft to recall the recent burial. Suddenly the door of the ducal tomb shut with a clash of all itsmetallic weight. Thenceforth the late Minister of State was to remainalone, utterly alone, in the shadow of its night, deeper than that whichthen was creeping up from the bottom of the garden, invading the windingpaths, the stone stairways, the bases of the columns, pyramids and tombsof every kind, whose summits were reached more slowly by the shroud. Navvies, all white with that chalky whiteness of dried bones, werepassing by, carrying their tools and wallets. Furtive mourners, draggingthemselves away regretfully from tears and prayer, glided along themargins of the clumps of trees, seeming to skirt them as with the silentflight of night-birds, while from the extremities of Pere Lachaisevoices rose--melancholy calls announcing the closing time. The day ofthe cemetery was at its end. The city of the dead, handed over oncemore to Nature, was becoming an immense wood with open spaces marked bycrosses. Down in a valley, the window-panes of a custodian's house werelighted up. A shudder seemed to run through the air, losing itself inmurmurings along the dim paths. "Let us go, " the two old comrades said to each other, gradually comingto feel the impression of that twilight, which seemed colder thanelsewhere; but before moving off, Hemerlingue, pursuing his train ofthought, pointed to the monument winged at the four corners by thedraperies and the outstretched hands of its sculptured figures. "Look here, " said he. "That was the man who understood the art ofkeeping up appearances. " Jansoulet took his arm to aid him in the descent. "Ah, yes, he was clever. But you are the most clever of all, " heanswered with his terrible Gascon intonation. Hemerlingue made no protest. "It is to my wife that I owe it. So I strongly recommend you to makeyour peace with her, because unless you do----" "Oh, don't be afraid. We shall come on Saturday. But you will take me tosee Le Merquier. " And while the two silhouettes, the one tall and square, the othermassive and short, were passing out of sight among the twinings of thegreat labyrinth, while the voice of Jansoulet guiding his friend, "Thisway, old fellow--lean hard on my arm, " died away by insensible degrees, a stray beam of the setting sun fell upon and illuminated behind themin the little plateau, an expressive and colossal bust, with great browbeneath long swept-back hair, and powerful and ironic lip--the bust ofBalzac watching them. LA BARONNE HEMERLINGUE Just at the end of the long vault, under which were the offices ofHemerlingue and Sons, the black tunnel which Joyeuse had for ten yearsadorned and illuminated with his dreams, a monumental staircase with awrought-iron balustrade, a staircase of mediaeval time, led towards theleft to the reception rooms of the baroness, which looked out on thecourt-yard just above the cashier's office, so that in summer, when thewindows were open, the ring of the gold, the crash of the piles ofmoney scattered on the counters, softened a little by the rich and loftyhangings at the windows, made a mercantile accompaniment to the buzzingconversation of fashionable Catholicism. The entrance struck at once the note of this house, as of her who didthe honours of it. A mixture of a vague scent of the sacristy, withthe excitement of the Bourse, and the most refined fashion, theseheterogeneous elements, met and crossed each other's path there, butremained as much apart as the noble faubourg, under whose patronagethe striking conversion of the Moslem had taken place, was from thefinancial quarters where Hemerlingue had his life and his friends. The Levantine colony--pretty numerous in Paris--was composed in greatmeasure of German Jews, bankers or brokers who had made colossalfortunes in the East, and still did business here, not to lose thehabit. The colony showed itself regularly on the baroness's visitingday. Tunisians on a visit to Paris never failed to call on the wife ofthe great banker; and old Colonel Brahim, _charge d'affaires_ ofthe Bey, with his flabby mouth and bloodshot eyes, had his nap everySaturday in the corner of the same divan. "One seems to smell scorching in your drawing-room, my child, " said theold Princess de Dions smilingly to the newly named Marie, whom M. LeMerquier and she had led to the font. But the presence of all theseheretics--Jews, Moslems, and even renegades--of these great over-dressedblotched women, loaded with gold and ornaments, veritable bundlesof clothes, did not hinder the Faubourg Saint-Germain from visiting, surrounding, and looking after the young convert, the plaything of thesenoble ladies, a very obedient puppet, whom they showed, whom they tookout, and whose evangelical simplicities, so piquant by contrast withher past, they quoted everywhere. Perhaps deep down in the heart of heramiable patronesses a hope lay of meeting in this circle of returnedOrientals some new subject for conversion, an occasion for filling thearistocratic Chapel of Missions again with the touching spectacle of oneof those adult baptisms which carry one back to the first days of theFaith, far away on the banks of the Jordan; baptisms soon to be followedby a first communion, a confirmation, when baptismal vows are renewed;occasions when a godmother may accompany her godchild, guide the youngsoul, share in the naive transports of a newly awakened belief, andmay also display a choice of toilettes, delicately graduated to theimportance of the sentiment of the ceremony. But not every day does ithappen that one of the leaders of finance brings to Paris an Armenianslave as his wife. A slave! That was the blot in the past of this woman from the East, bought in the bazaar of Adrianople for the Emperor of Morocco, thensold, when he died and his harem was dispersed, to the young Bey Ahmed. Hemerlingue had married her when she passed from this new seraglio, but she could not be received at Tunis, where no woman--Moor, Turk orEuropean--would consent to treat a former slave as an equal, on accountof a prejudice like that which separates the creoles from the bestdisguised quadroons. Even in Paris the Hemerlingues found thisinvincible prejudice among the small foreign colonies, constituted, as they were, of little circles full of susceptibilities and localtraditions. Yamina thus passed two or three years in a complete solitudewhose leisure and spiteful feelings she well knew how to utilize, for she was an ambitious woman endowed with extraordinary will andpersistence. She learned French thoroughly, said farewell to herembroidered vests and pantaloons of red silk, accustomed her figure andher walk to European toilettes, to the inconvenience of long dresses, and then, one night at the opera, showed the astonished Parisiansthe spectacle, a little uncivilized still, but delicate, elegant, andoriginal, of a Mohammedan in a costume of _Leonard's_. The sacrifice of her religion soon followed that of her costume. Mme. Hemerlingue had long abandoned the practices of Mohammedan religion, when M. Le Merquier, their friend and mentor in Paris, showed them thatthe baroness's public conversion would open to her the doors ofthat section of the Parisian world whose access became more andmore difficult as society became more democratic. Once the FaubourgSaint-Germain was conquered, all the others would follow. And, in fact, when, after the announcement of the baptism, they learned that thegreatest ladies in France could be seen at the Baroness Hemerlingue'sSaturdays, Mmes. Gugenheim, Furenberg, Caraiscaki, Maurice Trott--allwives of millionaires celebrated on the markets of Tunis--gave up theirprejudices and begged to be invited to the former slave's receptions. Mme. Jansoulet alone--newly arrived with a stock of cumbersome Orientalideas in her mind, like her ostrich eggs, her narghile pipe, and theTunisian _bric-a-brac_ in her rooms--protested against what she calledan impropriety, a cowardice, and declared that she would never set herfoot at _her_ house. Soon a little retrograde movement was felt roundthe Gugenheims, the Caraiscaki, and the other people, as happens atParis every time when some irregular position, endeavouring to establishitself, brings on regrets and defections. They had gone too far to drawback, but they resolved to make the value of their good-will, of theirsacrificed prejudices, felt, and the Baroness Marie well understood theshade of meaning in the protecting tone of the Levantines, treating heras "My dear child, " "My dear good girl, " with an almost contemptuouspride. Thenceforward her hatred of the Jansoulets knew no bounds--thecomplicated ferocious hatred of the seraglio, with strangling and thesack at the end, perhaps more difficult to arrive at in Paris thanon the banks of the lake of El Bahaira, but for which she had alreadyprepared the stout sack and the cord. One can imagine, knowing all this, what was the surprise and agitationof this corner of exotic society, when the news spread, not only thatthe great Afchin--as these ladies called her--had consented to see thebaroness, but that she would pay her first visit on her next Saturday. Neither the Fuernbergs nor the Trotts would wish to miss such anoccasion. On her side, the baroness did everything in her power to givethe utmost brilliancy to this solemn reparation. She wrote, she visited, and succeeded so well, that in spite of the lateness of the season, Mme. Jansoulet, on arriving at four o'clock at the Faubourg Saint-Honore, would have seen drawn up before the great arched doorway, side by sidewith the discreet russet livery of the Princess de Dion, and ofmany authentic _blasons_, the pretentious and fictitious arms, themulticoloured wheels of a crowd of plutocrat equipages, and the tallpowdered lackeys of the Caraiscaki. Above, in the reception rooms, was another strange and resplendentcrowd. In the first two rooms there was a going and coming, a continualpassage of rustling silks up to the boudoir where the baroness sat, sharing her attentions and cajoleries between two very distinct camps. On one side were dark toilettes, modest in appearance, whose refinementwas appreciable only to observant eyes; on the other, a wild burst ofvivid colour, opulent figures, rich diamonds, floating scarfs, exoticfashions, in which one felt a regret for a warmer climate, and moreluxurious life. Here were sharp taps with the fan, discreet whispersfrom the few men present, some of the _bien pensant_ youth, silent, immovable, sucking the handles of their canes, two or three figures, upright behind the broad backs of their wives, speaking with their headsbent forward, as if they were offering contraband goods for sale; andin a corner the fine patriarchal beard and violet cassock of an orthodoxArmenian bishop. The baroness, in attempting to harmonize these fashionable diversities, to keep her rooms full until the famous interview, moved aboutcontinually, took part in ten different conversations, raisingher harmonious and velvety voice to the twittering diapason whichdistinguishes Oriental women, caressing and coaxing, the mind suppleas the body, touching on all subjects, and mixing in the requisiteproportions fashion and charity sermons, theatres and bazaars, thedressmaker and the confessor. The mistress of the house united a greatpersonal charm with this acquired science--a science visible even in herblack and very simple dress, which brought out her nun-like pallor, herhouri-like eyes, her shining and plaited hair drawn back from a narrow, child-like forehead, a forehead of which the small mouth accentuatedthe mystery, hiding from the inquisitive the former _favourite's_ wholevaried past, she who had no age, who knew not herself the date of herbirth, and never remembered to have been a child. Evidently if the absolute power of evil--rare indeed among women, influenced as they are by their impressionable physical nature by somany different currents--could take possession of a soul, it would bein that of this slave, moulded by basenesses, revolted but patient, andcomplete mistress of herself, like all those whom the habit of veilingthe eyes has accustomed to lie safely and unscrupulously. At this moment no one could have suspected the anguish she suffered;to see her kneeling before the princess, an old, good, straightforwardsoul, of whom the Fuernberg was always saying, "Call that aprincess--that!" "I beg of you, godmamma, don't go away yet. " She surrounded her with all sorts of cajoleries, of graces, of littleairs, without telling her, to be sure, that she wanted to keep her tillthe arrival of the Jansoulets, to add to her triumph. "But, " said the princess, pointing out to her the majestic Armenian, silent and grave, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I must take this poorbishop to the _Grand Saint-Christophe_, to buy some medals. He wouldnever get on without me. " "No, no, I wish--you must--a few minutes more. " And the baroness threw afurtive look on the ancient and sumptuous clock in a corner of the room. Five o'clock already, and the great Afchin not arrived. The Levantinesbegan to laugh behind their fans. Happily tea was just being served, also Spanish wines, and a crowd of delicious Turkish cakes which wereonly to be had in that house, whose receipts, brought away with her bythe favourite, had been preserved in the harem, like some secrets ofconfectionery on our convents. That made a diversion. Hemerlingue, whoon Saturdays came out of his office from time to time to make his bow tothe ladies, was drinking a glass of Madeira near the little table whiletalking to Maurice Trott, once the dresser of Said-Pasha, when his wifeapproached him, gently and quietly. He knew what anger this impenetrablecalm must cover, and asked her, in a low tone, timidly: "No one?" "No one. You see to what an insult you expose me. " She smiled, her eyes half closed, taking with the end of her nail acrumb of cake from his long black whiskers, but her little transparentnostrils trembled with a terrible eloquence. "Oh, she will come, " said the banker, his mouth full. "I am sure shewill come. " The noise of dresses, of a train rustling in the next room made thebaroness turn quickly. But, to the great joy of the "bundles, " lookingon from their corners, it was not the lady they were expecting. This tall, elegant blonde, with worn features and irreproachabletoilette, was not like Mlle. Afchin. She was worthy in every way to beara name as celebrated as that of Dr. Jenkins. In the last two or threemonths the beautiful Mme. Jenkins had greatly changed, become mucholder. In the life of a woman who has long remained young there comes atime when the years, which have passed over her head without leaving awrinkle, trace their passage all at once brutally in indelible marks. People no longer say, on seeing her, "How beautiful she is!" but "Howbeautiful she must have been!" And this cruel way of speaking in thepast, of throwing back to a distant period that which was but yesterdaya visible fact, marks a beginning of old age and of retirement, a changeof all her triumphs into memories. Was it the disappointment ofseeing the doctor's wife arrive, instead of Mme. Jansoulet, or did thediscredit which the Duke de Mora's death had thrown on the fashionablephysician fall on her who bore his name? There was a little of eachof these reasons, and perhaps of another, in the cool greeting of thebaroness. A slight greeting on the ends of her lips, some hurried words, and she returned to the noble battalion nibbling vigorously away. Theroom had become animated under the effects of wine. People no longerwhispered; they talked. The lamps brought in added a new brilliance tothe gathering, but announced that it was near its close; some indeed, not interested in the great event, having already taken their leave. Andstill the Jansoulets did not come. All at once a heavy, hurried step. The Nabob appeared, alone, buttonedup in his black coat, correctly dressed, but with his face upset, hiseyes haggard, still trembling from the terrible scene which he had left. She would not come. In the morning he had told the maids to dress madame for three o'clock, as he did each time he took out the Levantine with him, when it wasnecessary to move this indolent person, who, not being able to accepteven any responsibility whatever, left others to think, decide, act forher, going willingly where she was desired to go, once she wasstarted. And it was on this amiability that he counted to take her toHemerlingue's. But when, after _dejeuner_, Jansoulet dressed, superb, perspiring with the effort to put on gloves, asked if madame would soonbe ready, he was told that she was not going out. The matter was grave, so grave, that putting on one side all the intermediaries of valets andmaids, which they made use of in their conjugal dialogues, he ran up thestairs four steps at once like a gust of wind, and entered the draperiedrooms of the Levantine. She was still in bed, dressed in that great open tunic of silk oftwo colours, which the Moors call a _djebba_, and in a little capembroidered with gold, from which escaped her heavy long black hair, allentangled round her moon-shaped face, flushed from her recent meal. Thesleeves of her _djebba_ pushed back showed two enormous shapeless arms, loaded with bracelets, with long chains wandering through a heap oflittle mirrors, of red beads, of scent-boxes, of microscopic pipes, ofcigarette cases--the childish toyshop collection of a Moorish woman ather rising. The room, filled with the heavy opium-scented smoke of Turkish tobacco, was in similar disorder. Negresses went and came, slowly removing theirmistress's coffee, the favourite gazelle was licking the dregs of a cupwhich its delicate muzzle had overturned on the carpet, while seated atthe foot of the bed with a touching familiarity, the melancholy Cabassuwas reading aloud to madame a drama in verse which Cardailhac wasshortly going to produce. The Levantine was stupefied with this reading, absolutely astounded. "My dear, " said she to Jansoulet, in her thick Flemish accent, "I don'tknow what our manager is thinking of. I am just reading this _Revolt_, which he is so mad about. But it is impossible. There is nothingdramatic about it. " "Don't talk to me of the theatre, " said Jansoulet, furious, in spite ofhis respect for the daughter of the Afchins. "What, you are not dressedyet? Weren't you told that we were going out?" They had told her, but she had begun to read this stupid piece. And withher sleepy air: "We will go out to-morrow. " "To-morrow! Impossible. We are expected to-day. A most important visit. " "But where?" He hesitated a second. "To Hemerlingue's. " She raised her great eyes, thinking he was making game of her. Then hetold her of his meeting with the baron at the funeral of de Mora and theunderstanding they had come to. "Go there, if you like, " said she coldly. "But you little know me if youbelieve that I, an Afchin, will ever set foot in that slave's house. " Cabassu, prudently seeing what was likely to happen, had fled into aneighbouring room, carrying with him the five acts of _The Revolt_ underhis arm. "Come, " said the Nabob to his wife, "I see that you do not know theterrible position I am in. Listen. " Without thinking of the maids or the negresses, with the sovereignindifference of an Oriental for his household, he proceeded to picturehis great distress, his fortune sequestered over seas, his creditdestroyed over here, his whole career in suspense before the judgmentof the Chamber, the influence of the Hemerlingues on the judge-advocate, and the necessity of the sacrifice at the moment of all personal feelingto such important interests. He spoke hotly, tried to convince her, tocarry her away. But she merely answered him, "I shall not go, " as if itwere only a matter of some unimportant walk, a little too long for her. He said trembling: "See, now, it is not possible that you should say that. Think that myfortune is at stake, the future of our children, the name you bear. Everything is at stake in what you cannot refuse to do. " He could have spoken thus for hours and been always met by the samefirm, unshakable obstinacy--an Afchin could not visit a slave. "Well, madame, " said he violently, "this slave is worth more than you. She has increased tenfold her husband's wealth by her intelligence, while you, on the contrary----" For the first time in the twelve years of their married life Jansouletdared to hold up his head before his wife. Was he ashamed of this crimeof _lese-majeste_, or did he understand that such a remark would placean impassable gulf between them? He changed his tone, knelt down beforethe bed, with that cheerful tenderness when one persuades children to bereasonable. "My little Martha, I beg of you--get up, dress yourself. It is for yourown sake I ask it, for your comfort, for your own welfare. What wouldbecome of you if, for a caprice, a stupid whim, we should become poor?" But the word--poor--represented absolutely nothing to the Levantine. Onecould speak of it before her, as of death before little children. She was not moved by it, not knowing what it was. She was perfectlydetermined to keep in bed in her _djebba_; and to show her decision, shelighted a new cigarette at her old one just finished; and while the poorNabob surrounded his "dear little wife" with excuses, with prayers, withsupplications, promising her a diadem of pearls a hundred times morebeautiful than her own, if she would come, she watched the heavy smokerising to the painted ceiling, wrapping herself up in it as in animperturbable calm. At last, in face of this refusal, this silence, thisbarrier of headstrong obstinacy, Jansoulet unbridled his wrath and roseup to his full height: "Come, " said he, "I wish it. " He turned to the negresses: "Dress your mistress at once. " And boor as he was at the bottom, the son of a southern nail-makerasserting itself in this crisis which moved him so deeply, he threw backthe coverlids with a brutal and contemptuous gesture, knocking down theinnumerable toys they bore, and forcing the half-clad Levantine tobound to her feet with a promptitude amazing in so massive a person. Sheroared at the outrage, drew the folds of her dalmatic against her bust, pushed her cap sideways on her dishevelled hair, and began to abuse herhusband. "Never, understand me, never! You may drag me sooner to this----" The filth flowed from her heavy lips as from a spout. Jansoulet couldhave imagined himself in some frightful den of the port of Marseilles, at some quarrel of prostitutes and bullies, or again at some open-airdispute between Genoese, Maltese, and Provencal hags, gleaning on thequays round the sacks of wheat, and abusing each other, crouched in thewhirlwinds of golden dust. She was indeed a Levantine of a seaport, a spoiled child, who, in the evening, left alone, had heard from herterrace or from her gondola the sailors revile each other in everytongue of the Latin seas, and had remembered it all. The wretched manlooked at her, frightened, terrified at what she forced him to hear, ather grotesque figure, foaming and gasping: "No, I will not go--no, I will not go!" And this was the mother of his children, a daughter of the Afchins!Suddenly, at the thought that his fate was in the hands of this woman, that it would only cost her a dress to put on to save him--and that timewas flying--that soon it would be too late, a criminal feeling rose tohis brain and distorted his features. He came straight to her, his handscontracted, with such a terrible expression that the daughter of theAfchins, frightened, rushed, calling towards the door by which the_masseur_ had just gone out: "Aristide!" This cry, the words, this intimacy of his wife with a servant! Jansouletstopped, his rage suddenly calmed; then, with a gesture of disgust, heflung himself out, slamming the doors, more eager to fly the misfortuneand the horror whose presence he divined in his own home, than to seekelsewhere the help he had been promised. A quarter of an hour later he made his appearance at the Hemerlingues', making a despairing gesture as he entered to the banker, and approachedthe baroness stammering the ready-made phrase he had heard repeated sooften the night of his ball, "His wife, very unwell--most grieved notto have been able to come--" She did not give him time to finish, roseslowly, unwound herself like a long and slender snake from the pleatedfolds of her tight dress, and said, without looking at him, "Oh, Iknew--I knew!" then changed her place and took no more notice of him. Heattempted to approach Hemerlingue, but the good man seemed absorbed inhis conversation with Maurice Trott. Then he went to sit down near Mme. Jenkins, whose isolation seemed like his own. But, even while talkingto the poor woman, as languid as he was preoccupied, he was watchingthe baroness doing the honours of this drawing-room, so comfortable whencompared with his own gilded halls. It was time to leave. Mme. Hemerlingue went to the door with some ofthe ladies, presented her forehead to the old princess, bent under thebenediction of the Armenian bishop, nodded with a smile to the young menwith the canes, found for each the fitting adieu with perfect ease; andthe wretched man could not prevent himself from comparing this Easternslave, so Parisian, so distinguished in the best society of the world, with the other, the European brutalized by the East, stupefied withTurkish tobacco, and swollen with idleness. His ambitions, his pride asa husband, were extinguished and humiliated in this marriage of whichhe saw the danger and the emptiness--a final cruelty of fate taking fromhim even the refuge of personal happiness from all his public disasters. Little by little the room was emptied. The Levantines disappeared oneafter another, leaving each time an immense void in their place. Mme. Jenkins was gone, and only two or three ladies remained whom Jansouletdid not know, and behind whom the mistress of the house seemed toshelter herself from him. But Hemerlingue was free, and the Nabobrejoined him at the moment when he was furtively escaping to his officeson the same floor opposite his rooms. Jansoulet went out with him, forgetting in his trouble to salute the baroness, and once on theantechamber staircase, Hemerlingue, cold and reserved while he was underhis wife's eye, expanded a little. "It is very annoying, " said he in a low voice, as if he feared to beoverheard, "that Mme. Jansoulet has not been willing to come. " Jansoulet answered him by a movement of despair and savage helplessness. "Annoying, annoying, " repeated the other in a whisper, and feeling forhis key in his pocket. "Come, old fellow, " said the Nabob, taking his hand, "there's no reason, because our wives don't agree--That doesn't hinder us from remainingfriends. What a good chat the other day, eh?" "No doubt" said the baron, disengaging himself, as he opened the doornoiselessly, showing the deep workroom, whose lamp burned solitarilybefore the enormous empty chair. "Come, good-bye, I must go; I have mymail to despatch. " "_Ya didon, monci_" (But look here, sir) said the poor Nabob, trying tojoke, and using the _patois_ of the south to recall to his old chum allthe pleasant memories stirred up the other evening. "Our visit to LeMerquier still holds good. The picture we were going to present to him, you know. What day?" "Ah, yes, Le Merquier--true--eh--well, soon. I will write to you. " "Really? You know it is very important. " "Yes, yes. I will write to you. Good-bye. " And the big man shut his door in a hurry, as if he were afraid of hiswife coming. Two days after, the Nabob received a note from Hemerlingue, almostunreadable on account of the complicated scrawls, of abbreviations moreor less commercial, under which the ex-sutler hid his entire want ofspelling: MY DEAR OLD COM_--I cannot accom_ you to Le Mer. _Too bus_ just now. Besid_ y_ will be _bet_ alone to _tal_. Go _th bold_. You are _exp. A_Cassette, _ev morn_ 8 to 10. Yours _faith_ HEM. Below as a postscript, a very small hand had written very legibly: "A religious picture, as good as possible. " What was he to think of this letter? Was there real good-will in it, or polite evasion? In any case hesitation was no longer possible. Timepressed. Jansoulet made a bold effort, then--for he was very frightenedof Le Merquier--and called on him one morning. Our strange Paris, alike in its population and its aspects, seems aspecimen map of the whole world. In the Marais there are narrow streets, with old sculptured worm-eaten doors, with overhanging gablesand balconies, which remind you of old Heidelberg. The FaubourgSaint-Honore, lying round the Russian church with its white minarets andgolden domes, seems a part of Moscow. On Montmartre I know a picturesqueand crowded corner which is simply Algiers. Little, low, clean houses, each with its brass plate and little front garden, are English streetsbetween Neuilly and the Champs-Elysees while all behind the apse ofSaint-Sulpice, the Rue Feron, the Rue Cassette, lying peaceably in theshadow of its great towers, roughly paved, their doors each with itsknocker, seem lifted out of some provincial and religious town--Toursor Orleans, for example--in the district of the cathedral or the palace, where the great over-hanging trees in the gardens rock themselves to thesound of the bells and the choir. It was there, in the neighbourhood of the Catholic Club--of which hehad just been made honorary president--that M. Le Merquier lived. He was_avocat_, deputy for Lyons, business man of all the great communities ofFrance; and Hemerlingue, moved by a deep-seated instinct, had intrustedhim with the affairs of his firm. He arrived before nine o'clock at an old mansion of which the groundfloor was occupied by a religious bookshop, asleep in the odour of thesacristy, and of the thick gray paper on which the stories of miraclesare printed for hawkers, and mounted the great whitewashed conventstairway. Jansoulet was touched by this provincial and Catholicatmosphere, in which revived the souvenirs of his past in the south, impressions of infancy still intact, thanks to his long absence fromhome; and since his arrival at Paris he had had neither the time nor theoccasion to call them in question. Fashionable hypocrisy had presenteditself to him in all its forms save that of religious integrity, andhe refused now to believe in the venality of a man who lived in suchsurroundings. Introduced into the _avocat's_ waiting-room--a vastparlour with fine white muslin curtains, having for its sole ornamenta large and beautiful copy of Tintoretto's Dead Christ--his doubt andtrouble changed into indignant conviction. It was not possible! He hadbeen deceived as to Le Merquier. There was surely some bold slander init, such as so easily spreads in Paris--or perhaps it was one of thoseferocious snares among which he had stumbled for six months. No, thisstern conscience, so well known in Parliament and the courts, this coldand austere personage, could not be treated like those great swollenpashas with loosened waist-belts and floating sleeves open to concealthe bags of gold. He would only expose himself to a scandalous refusal, to the legitimate revolt of outraged honour, if he attempted such meansof corruption. The Nabob told himself all this, as he sat on the oak bench which ranround the room, a bench polished with serge dresses and the rough clothof cassocks. In spite of the early hour several persons were waitingthere with him. A Dominican, ascetic and serene, walking up and downwith great strides; two sisters of charity, buried under their caps, counting long rosaries which measured their time of waiting; priestsfrom Lyons, recognisable by the shape of their hats; others reserved andsevere in air, sitting at the great ebony table which filled the middleof the room, and turning over some of those pious journals printed atFouvieres, just above Lyons, the _Echo of Purgatory_, the _Rose-bushof Mary_, which give as a present to all yearly subscribers pontificalindulgences and remissions of future sins. Some muttered words, astifled cough, the light whispered prayers of the sisters, recalled toJansoulet the distant and confused sensation of the hours of waiting inthe corner of his village church round the confessional on the eves ofthe great festivals of the Church. At last his turn came, and if a doubt as to M. Le Merquier had remained, he doubted no longer when he saw this great office, simple and severe, yet a little more ornate than the waiting-room, a fitting frame forthe austerity of the lawyer's principles, and for his thin form, tall, stooping, narrow-shouldered, squeezed into a black coat too short inthe sleeves, from which protruded two black fists, broad and flat, two sticks of Indian ink with hieroglyphs of great veins. The clericaldeputy had, with the leaden hue of a Lyonnese grown mouldy between histwo rivers, a certain life of expression which he owed to his doublelook--sometimes sparkling, but impenetrable behind the glass of hisspectacles; more often, vivid, mistrustful, and dark, above these sameglasses, surrounded by the shadow which a lifted eye and a stooping headgives the eyebrow. After a greeting almost cordial in comparison with the cold bow whichthe two colleagues exchanged at the Chamber, an "I was expecting you" inwhich perhaps an intention showed itself, the lawyer pointed the Nabobinto a seat near his desk, told the smug domestic in black not to cometill he was summoned, arranged a few papers, after which, sinking intohis arm-chair with the attitude of a man ready to listen, who becomesall ears, his legs crossed, he rested his chin on his hand, with hiseyes fixed on a great rep curtain falling to the ground in front of him. The moment was decisive, the situation embarrassing. Jansoulet did nothesitate. It was one of the poor Nabob's pretensions to know men aswell as Mora. And this instinct, which, said he, had never deceivedhim, warned him that he was at that moment dealing with a rigid andunshakable honesty, a conscience in hard stone, untouchable by pick-axeor powder. "My conscience!" Suddenly he changed his programme, threw tothe winds the tricks and equivocations which embarrassed his open andcourageous disposition, and, head high and heart open, held to thishonest man a language he was born to understand. "Do not be astonished, my dear colleague, "--his voice trembled, but soonbecame firm in the conviction of his defence--"do not be astonished ifI am come to find you here instead of asking simply to be heard bythe third committee. The explanation which I have to make to you is sodelicate and confidential that it would have been impossible to make itpublicly before my colleagues. " Maitre Le Merquier, above his spectacles, looked at the curtain with adisturbed air. Evidently the conversation was taking an unexpected turn. "I do not enter on the main question, " said the Nabob. "Your report, Iam assured, is impartial and loyal, such as your conscience has dictatedto you. Only there are some heart-breaking calumnies spread about me towhich I have not answered, and which have perhaps influenced the opinionof the committee. It is on this subject that I wish to speak to you. Iknow the confidence with which you are honoured by your colleagues, M. Le Merquier, and that, when I shall have convinced you, your word willbe enough without forcing me to lay bare my distress to them all. Youknow the accusation--the most terrible, the most ignoble. There are somany people who might be deceived by it. My enemies have given names, dates, addresses. Well, I bring you the proofs of my innocence. I laythem bare before you--you only--for I have grave reasons for keeping thewhole affair secret. " Then he showed the lawyer a certificate from the Consulate of Tunis, that during twenty years he had only left the principality twice--thefirst time to see his dying father at Bourg-Saint Andeol; the second, to make, with the Bey, a visit of three days to his chateau ofSaint-Romans. "How comes it, then, that with a document so conclusive in my handsI have not brought my accusers before the courts to contradict andconfound them? Alas, monsieur, there are cruel responsibilities infamilies. I have a brother, a poor fellow, weak and spoiled, who has forlong wallowed in the mud of Paris, who has left there his intelligenceand his honour. Has he descended to that degree of baseness which I, inhis name, am accused of? I have not dared to find out. All I can sayis, that my poor father, who knew more than any one in the family ofit, whispered to me in dying, 'Bernard, it is your elder brother who haskilled me. I die of shame, my child. '" He paused, compelled by his suppressed emotion; then: "My father is dead, Maitre Le Merquier, but my mother still lives, andit is for her sake, for her peace, that I have held back, that I holdback still, before the scandal of my justification. Up to now, in fact, the mud thrown at me has not touched her; it only comes from a certainclass, in a special press, a thousand leagues away from the poor woman. But law courts, a trial--it would be proclaiming our misfortune fromone end of France to the other, the articles of the official paperreproduced by all the journals, even those of the little district wheremy mother lives. The calumny, my defence, her two children coveredwith shame by the one stroke, the name--the only pride of the oldpeasant--forever disgraced. It would be too much for her. It would beenough to kill her. And truly, I find it enough, too. That is why Ihave had the courage to be silent, to weary, if I could, my enemies bysilence. But I need some one to answer for me in the Chamber. It mustnot have the right to expel me for reasons which would dishonour me, andsince it has chosen you as the chairman of the committee, I am come totell you everything, as to a confessor, to a priest, begging you not todivulge anything of this conversation, even in the interests of my case. I only ask you, my dear colleague, absolute silence; for the rest, Irely on your justice and your loyalty. " He rose, ready to go, and Le Merquier did not move, still asking thegreen curtain in front of him, as if seeking inspiration for his answerthere. At last he said: "It shall be as you desire, my dear colleague. This confidence shallremain between us. You have told me nothing, I have heard nothing. " The Nabob, still heated with his burst of confidence, which demanded, it seemed to him, a cordial response, a pressure of the hand, was seizedwith a strange uneasiness. This coolness, this absent look, so unnervedhim that he was at the door with the awkward bow of one who feelshimself importunate, when the other stopped him. "Wait, then, my dear colleague. What a hurry you are in to leave me! Afew moments, I beg of you. I am too happy to have a chat with a man likeyou. Besides, we have more than one common bond. Our friend Hemerlinguehas told me that you, too, are much interested in pictures. " Jansoulet trembled. The two words--"Hemerlingue, " "pictures"--meetingin the same phrase so unexpectedly, restored all his doubts, all hisperplexities. He did not give himself away yet, however, and let LeMerquier advance, word by word, testing the ground for his stumblingadvances. People had told him often of the collection of his honourablecolleague. "Would it be indiscreet to ask the favour of being admitted, to--" "On the contrary, I should feel much honoured, " said the Nabob, tickledin the most sensible--since the most costly--point of his vanity; andlooking round him at the walls of the room, he added with the tone of aconnoisseur, "You have some fine things, too. " "Oh, " said the other modestly, "just a few canvases. Painting is so dearnow, it is a taste so difficult to satisfy, a true passion _de luxe_--apassion for a Nabob, " said he, smiling, with a furtive look over hisglasses. They were two prudent players, face to face; but Jansoulet was a littleastray in this new situation, where he who only knew how to be bold, hadto be on his guard. "When I think, " murmured the lawyer, "that I have been ten yearscovering these walls, and that I have still this panel to fill. " In fact, at the most conspicuous place on the wall there was an emptyplace, emptied rather, for a great gold-headed nail near the ceilingshowed the visible, almost clumsy, trace of a snare laid for the poorsimpleton, who let himself be taken in it so foolishly. "My dear M. Le Merquier, " said he with his engaging, good-natured voice, "I have a Virgin of Tintoretto's just the size of your panel. " Impossible to read anything in the eyes of the lawyer, this time hiddenunder their overhanging brows. "Permit me to hang it there, opposite your table. That will help you tothink sometimes of me. " "And to soften the severities of my report, too, sir?" cried LeMerquier, formidable and upright, his hand on the bell. "I have seenmany shameless things in my life, but never anything like this. Suchoffers to me, in my own house!" "But, my dear colleague, I swear to you----" "Show him out, " said the lawyer to the hang-dog servant who had justentered; and from the middle of his office, whose door remained open, before all the waiting-room, where the paternosters were silent, hepursued Jansoulet--who slunk off murmuring excuses to the door--withthese terrible words: "You have outraged the honour of the Chamber in my person, sir. Ourcolleagues shall be informed of it this very day; and, this crime comingafter your others, you will learn to your cost that Paris is not theEast, and that here we do not make shameless traffic of the humanconscience. " Then, after having chased the seller from the temple, the just manclosed his door, and approaching the mysterious green curtain, said in atone that sounded soft amidst his pretended anger: "Is that what you wanted, Baroness Marie?" THE SITTING That morning there were no guests to lunch at 32 Place Vendome, sothat towards one o'clock might have been seen the majestic form of M. Barreau, gleaming white at the gate, among four or five of his scullionsin their cook's caps, and as many stable-boys in Scotch caps--animposing group, which gave to the house the aspect of an hotel where thestaff was taking the air between the arrivals of the trains. To completethe resemblance, a cab drew up before the door and the driver took downan old leather trunk, while a tall old woman, her upright figure wrappedin a little green shawl, jumped lightly to the footpath, a basket onher arm, looked at the number with great attention, then approached theservants to ask if it was there that M. Bernard Jansoulet lived. "It is here, " was the answer; "but he is not in. " "That does not matter, " said the old lady simply. She returned to the driver, who put her trunk in the porch, and paidhim, returning her purse to her pocket at once with a gesture that saidmuch for the caution of the provincial. Since Jansoulet had been deputy for Corsica, the domestics had seenso many strange and exotic figures at his house, that they were notsurprised at this sunburnt woman, with eyes glowing like coals, atrue Corsican under her severe coif, but different from the ordinaryprovincial in the ease and tranquility of her manners. "What, the master is not here?" said she, with an intonation whichseemed better fitted for farm people in her part of the country, thanfor the insolent servants of a great Parisian mansion. "No, the master is not here. " "And the children?" "They are at lessons. You cannot see them. " "And madame?" "She is asleep. No one sees her before three o'clock. " It seemed to astonish the good woman a little that any one could stayin bed so late; but the tact which guides a refined nature, even withouteducation, prevented her from saying anything before the servants, andshe asked for Paul de Gery. "He is abroad. " "Bompain Jean-Baptiste, then. " "He is with monsieur at the sitting. " Her great gray eyebrows wrinkled. "It does not matter; take up my trunk just the same. " And with a little malicious twinkle of her eye, a proud revenge fortheir insolent looks, she added: "I am his mother. " The scullions and stable-boys drew back respectfully. M. Barreau raisedhis cap: "I thought I had seen madame somewhere. " "And I too, my lad, " answered Mme. Jansoulet, who shivered still at theremembrance of the Bey's _fete_. "My lad, " to M. Barreau, to a man of his importance! It raised her atonce to a very high place in the esteem of the others. Well! grandeur and splendour hardly dazzled this courageous old lady. She did not go into ecstasies over gilding and petty baubles, and as shewalked up the grand staircase behind her trunk, the baskets of flowerson the landings, the lamps held by bronze statues, did not prevent herfrom noticing that there was an inch of dust on the balustrade, andholes in the carpet. She was taken to the rooms on the second floorbelonging to the Levantine and her children; and there, in an apartmentused as a linen-room, which seemed to be near the school-room (to judgeby the murmur of children's voices), she waited alone, her basket onher knees, for the return of her Bernard, perhaps the waking of herdaughter-in-law, or the great joy of embracing her grandchildren. Whatshe saw around her gave her an idea of the disorder of this houseleft to the care of the servants, without the oversight and foreseeingactivity of a mistress. The linen was heaped in disorder, piles onpiles in great wide-open cupboards, fine linen sheets and table-clothscrumpled up, the locks prevented from shutting by pieces of torn lace, which no one took the trouble to mend. And yet there were many servantsabout--negresses in yellow Madras muslin, who came to snatch herea towel, there a table-cloth, walking among the scattered domestictreasures, dragging with their great flat feet frills of fine lacefrom a petticoat which some lady's-maid had thrown down--thimble here, scissors there--ready to pick up again in a few minutes. Jansoulet's mother was doubly wounded. The half-rustic artisan in herwas outraged in the tenderness, the respect, the sweet unreasonablenessthe woman of the provinces feels towards a full linen cupboard--acupboard filled piece by piece, full of relics of past struggles, whosecontents grow finer little by little, the first token of comfort, ofwealth, in the house. Besides, she had held the distaff from morningtill night, and if the housewife in her was angry, the spinner couldhave wept at the profanation. At last, unable to contain herself longer, she rose, and actively, her little shawl displaced at each movement, sheset herself to pick up, straighten, and carefully fold this magnificentlinen, as she used to do in the fields of Saint-Romans, when she gaveherself the treat of a grand washing-day, with twenty washerwomen, theclothes-baskets flowing over with floating whiteness, and the sheetsflapping in the morning wind on the clothes-lines. She was in the midstof this occupation, forgetting her journey, forgetting Paris, eventhe place where she was, when a stout, thick-set, bearded man, withvarnished boots and a velvet jacket, over the torso of a bull, came intothe linen-room. "What! Cabassu!" "You here, Mme. Francoise! What a surprise!" said the _masseur_, staringlike a bronze figure. "Yes, my brave Cabassu, it is I. I have just arrived; and as you see, Iam at work already. It made my heart bleed to see all this muddle. " "You came up for the sitting, then?" "What sitting?" "Why, the grand sitting of the legislative body. It's do-day. " "Dear me, no. What has that got to do with me? I should understandnothing at all about it. No, I came because I wanted to know my littleJansoulets, and then, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I have writtenseveral times without getting an answer. I was afraid that there was achild sick, that Bernard's business was going wrong--all sorts of ideas. At last I got seriously worried, and came away at once. They are wellhere, they tell me. " "Yes, Mme. Francoise. Thank God, every one is quite well. " "And Bernard. His business--is that going on as he wants it to?" "Well, you know one has always one's little worries in life--still, I don't think he should complain. But, now I think of it, you must behungry. I will go and make them bring you something. " He was going to ring, more at home and at ease than the old motherherself. She stopped him. "No, no, I don't want anything. I have still something left in mybasket. " And she put two figs and a crust of bread on the edge of thetable. Then, while she was eating: "And you, lad, your business? Youlook very much sprucer than you did the last time you were at Bourg. Howsmart you are! What do you do in the house?" "Professor of massage, " said Aristide gravely. "Professor--you?" said she with respectful astonishment; but she didnot dare ask him what he taught, and Cabassu, who felt such questions alittle embarrassing, hastened to change the subject. "Shall I go and find the children? Haven't they told them that theirgrandmother is here?" "I didn't want to disturb them at their work. But I believe it must beover now--listen!" Behind the door they could hear the shuffling impatience of the childrenanxious to be out in the open air, and the old woman enjoyed this stateof things, doubling her maternal desire, and hindering her from doinganything to hasten its pleasure. At last the door opened. The tutor cameout first--a priest with a pointed nose and great cheek-bones, whom wehave met before at the great _dejeuners_. On bad terms with his bishop, he had left the diocese where he had been engaged, and in the precariousposition of an unattached priest--for the clergy have their Bohemianstoo--he was glad to teach the little Jansoulets, recently turned out ofthe Bourdaloue College. With his arrogant, solemn air, overweighted withresponsibilities, which would have become the prelates charged with theeducation of the dauphins of France, he preceded three curled and glovedlittle gentlemen in short jackets, with leather knapsacks, and great redstockings reaching half-way up their little thin legs, in complete suitsof cyclist dress, ready to mount. "My children, " said Cabassu, "that is Mme. Jansoulet, your grandmother, who has come to Paris expressly to see you. " They stopped in a row, astonished, examining this old wrinkled visagebetween the folds of her cap, this strange dress of a simplicityunknown to them; and their grandmother's astonishment answered theirs, complicated with a heart-breaking discomfiture and constraint in dealingwith these little gentlemen, as stiff and disdainful as any of thenobles or ministers whom her son had brought to Saint-Romans. On thebidding of their tutor "to salute their venerable grandmother, " theycame in turn to give her one of those little half-hearted shakes ofthe hand of which they had distributed so many in the garrets theyhad visited. The fact is that this good woman, with her agriculturalappearance and clean but very simple clothes, reminded them of thecharity visits of the College Bourdaloue. They felt between them thesame unknown quality, the same distance, which no remembrance, noword of their parents had ever helped to bridge. The abbe felt thisconstraint, and tried to dispel it--speaking with the tone of voice andgestures customary to those who always think they are in the pulpit. "Well, madame, the day has come, the great day when Jansoulet willconfound his enemies--_confundantur hostes mei, quia injuste iniquitatemfecerunt in me_--because they have unjustly persecuted me. " The old lady bent religiously before the Latin of the Church, but herface expressed a vague expression of uneasiness at this idea of enemiesand of persecutions. "These enemies are powerful and numerous, my noble lady, but let usnot be alarmed beyond measure. Let us have confidence in the decrees ofHeaven and in the justice of our cause. God is in the midst of it, itshall not be overthrown--_in medio ejus non commovebitur_. " A gigantic negro, resplendent with gold braid, interrupted him byannouncing that the bicycles were ready for the daily lesson on theterrace of the Tuileries. Before setting out, the children againshook solemnly their grandmother's wrinkled and hardened hand. Shewas watching them go, stupefied and oppressed, when all at once, by anadorable spontaneous movement, the youngest turned back when he had gotto the door and, pushing the great negro aside, came to throw himselfhead foremost, like a little buffalo, into Mme. Jansoulet's skirts, squeezing her to him, while holding out his smooth forehead, coveredwith brown curls, with the grace of a child offering its kiss like aflower. Perhaps this one, nearer the warmth of the nest, the cradlingknees of the nurses with their peasant songs, had felt the maternalinfluence, of which the Levantine had deprived him, reach his heart. The old woman trembled all over with the surprise of this instinctiveembrace. "Oh! little one, little one, " said she, seizing the little silky, curlyhead which reminded her so much of another and she kissed it wildly. Then the child unloosed himself, and ran off without saying anything, his head moist with hot tears. Left alone with Cabassu, the mother, comforted by this embrace, askedsome explanation of the priest's words. Had her son many enemies? "Oh!" said Cabassu, "it is not astonishing, in his position. " "But what is this great day--this sitting of which you all speak?" "Well, then, it is to-day that we shall know whether Bernard will bedeputy or no. " "What? He is not one now, then? And I have told them everywhere in thecountry. I illuminated Saint-Romans a month ago. Then they have made metell a lie. " The _masseur_ had a great deal of trouble in explaining to her theparliamentary formalities of the verification of elections. She onlylistened with one ear, walking up and down the linen-room feverishly. "That's where my Bernard is now, then?" "Yes, madame. " "And can women go to the Chamber? Then why is his wife not there? Forone does not need telling that it is an important matter for him. On aday like this he needs to feel all those whom he loves at his side. See, my lad, you must take me there, to this sitting. Is it far?" "No, quite near. Only, it must have begun already. And then, " added he, a little disconcerted, "it is the hour when madame wants me. " "Ah! Do you teach her this thing you are professor of? What do you callit?" "Massage. We have learned it from the ancients. Yes, there she isringing for me, and some one will come to fetch me. Shall I tell her youare here?" "No, no; I prefer to go there at once. " "But you have no admission ticket. " "Bah! I will tell them I am Jansoulet's mother, come to hear himjudged. " Poor mother, she spoke truer than she knew. "Wait, Mme. Francoise. I will give you some one to show you the way, atleast. " "Oh, you know, I have never been able to put up with servants. I have atongue. There are people in the streets. I shall find my way. " He made a last attempt, without letting her see all his thought. "Takecare; his enemies are going to speak against him in the Chamber. Youwill hear things to hurt you. " Oh, the beautiful smile of belief and maternal pride with which sheanswered: "Don't I know better than them all what my child is worth?Could anything make me mistaken in him? I should have to be veryungrateful then. Get along with you!" And shaking her head with its flapping cap wings, she set off fiercelyindignant. With head erect and upright bearing the old woman strode along under thegreat arcades which they had told her to follow, a little troubled bythe incessant noise of the carriages, and by the idleness of this walk, unaccompanied by the faithful distaff which had never quitted herfor fifty years. All these ideas of enmities and persecutions, themysterious words of the priest, the guarded talk of Cabassu, frightenedand agitated her. She found in them the meaning of the presentimentswhich had so overpowered her as to snatch her from her habits, herduties, the care of the house and of her invalid. Besides, since Fortunehad thrown on her and her son this golden mantle with its heavy folds, Mme. Jansoulet had never become accustomed to it, and was always waitingfor the sudden disappearance of these splendours. Who knows if thebreak-up was not going to begin this time? And suddenly, through thesesombre thoughts, the remembrance of the scene that had just passed, of the little one rubbing himself on her woollen gown, brought on herwrinkled lips a tender smile, and she murmured in her peasant tongue: "Oh, for the little one, at any rate. " She crossed a magnificent square, immense, dazzling, two fountainsthrowing up their water in a silvery spray, then a great stone bridge, and at the end was a square building with statues on its front, arailing with carriages drawn up before it, people going on, numbers ofpolicemen. It was there. She pushed through the crowd bravely and cameup to the high glass doors. "Your card, my good woman?" The "good woman" had no card, but she said quite simply to one of theporters in red who were keeping the door: "I am Bernard Jansoulet's mother. I have come for the sitting of myboy. " It was indeed the sitting of her boy; for everywhere in this crowdbesieging the doors, filling the passages, the hall, the tribune, thewhole palace, the same name was repeated, accompanied with smiles andanecdotes. A great scandal was expected, terrible revelations from thechairman, which would no doubt lead to some violence from the barbarianbrought to bay, and they hurried to the spot as to a first night or acelebrated trial. The old mother would hardly have been heard in themiddle of this crowd, if the stream of gold left by the Nabob whereverhe had passed, marking his royal progress, had not opened all the roadsto her. She went behind the attendant in this tangle of passages, of folding-doors, of empty resounding halls, filled with a hum whichcirculated with the air of the building, as if the walls, themselvessoaked with babble, were joining to the sound of all these voices theechoes of the past. While crossing a corridor she saw a little dark mangesticulating and crying to the servants: "You will tell Moussiou Jansoulet that it is I, that I am the Mayor ofSarlazaccio, that I have been condemned to five months' imprisonment forhim. In God's name, surely that is worth a card for the sitting. " Five months' imprisonment for her son! Why? Very much disturbed, shearrived at last, her ears singing, at the top of the staircase, wheredifferent inscriptions--"Tribune of the Senate, of the Diplomatic Body, of the Deputies"--stood above little doors like boxes in a theatre. Sheentered, and without seeing anything at first except four or five rowsof seats filled with people, and opposite, very far off, separated fromher by a vast clear space, other galleries similarly filled. She leanedup against the wall, astonished to be there, exhausted, almost ashamed. A current of hot air which came to her face, a chatter of rising voices, drew her towards the slope of the gallery, towards the kind of gulf openin the middle where her son must be. Oh! how she would like to see him. So squeezing herself in, and using her elbows, pointed and hard as herspindle, she glided and slipped between the wall and the seats, takingno notice of the anger she aroused or the contempt of the well-dressedwomen whose lace and fresh toilettes she crushed; for the assemblywas elegant and fashionable. Mme. Jansoulet recognised, by his stiffshirt-front and aristocratic nose, the marquis who had visited them atSaint-Romans, who so well suited his name, but he did not look at her. She was stopped farther progress by the back of a man sitting down, an enormous back which barred everything and forbade her go farther. Happily, she could see nearly all the hall from here by leaning forwarda little; and these semi-circular benches filled with deputies, thegreen hanging of the walls, the chair at the end, occupied by a bald manwith a severe air, gave her the idea, under the studious and gray lightfrom the roof, of a class about to begin, with all the chatter andmovement of thoughtless schoolboys. One thing struck her--the way in which all looks turned to one side, to the same point of attraction; and as she followed this currentof curiosity which carried away the entire assembly, hall as well asgalleries, she saw that what they were all looking at--was her son. In the Jansoulet's country there is still, in some old churches, at theend of the choir, half-way up the crypt, a stone cell where lepers wereadmitted to hear mass, showing their dark profiles to the curious andfearful crowd, like wild beasts crouched against the loopholes in thewall. Francoise well remembered having seen in the village where she hadbeen brought up the leper, the bugbear of her infancy, hearing mass fromhis stone cage, lost in the shade and in isolation. Now, seeing her sonseated, his head in his hands, alone, up there away from the others, this memory came to her mind. "One might think it was a leper, " murmuredthe peasant. And, in fact, this poor Nabob was a leper, his millionsfrom the East weighing on him like some terrible and mysterious disease. It happened that the bench on which he had chosen to sit had severalrecent vacancies on account of holidays or deaths; so that while theother deputies were talking to each other, laughing, making signs, he sat silent, alone, the object of attention to all the Chamber; anattention which his mother felt to be malevolent, ironic, which burnedinto her heart. How was she to let him know that she was there, nearhim, that one faithful heart beat not far from his? He would not turn tothe gallery. One would have said that he felt it hostile, that he fearedto look there. Suddenly, at the sound of the bell from the presidentialplatform, a rustle ran through the assembly, every head leaned forwardwith that fixed attention which makes the features unmovable, and a thinman in spectacles, whose sudden rise among so many seated figures gavehim the authority of attitude at once, said, opening the paper he heldin his hand: "Gentlemen, in the name of your third committee, I beg to move thatthe election of the second division of the department of Corsica beannulled. " In the deep silence following this phrase, which Mme. Jansoulet did notunderstand, the giant seated before her began to puff vigorously, andall at once, in the front row of the gallery, a lovely face turned roundto address him a rapid sign of intelligence and approval. Forehead pale, lips thin, eyebrows too black for the white framing of her hat, it allproduced in the eyes of the good old lady, without her knowing why, theeffect of the first flash of lightning in a storm and the apprehensionof the thunderbolt following the lightning. Le Merquier was reading his report. The slow, dull monotonous voice, the drawling, weak Lyonnese accent, while the long form of the lawyerbalanced itself in an almost animal movement of the head and shoulders, made a singular contrast to the ferocious clearness of the brief. First, a rapid account of the electoral irregularities. Never had universalsuffrage been treated with such primitive and barbarous contempt. AtSarlazaccio, where Jansoulet's rival seemed to have a majority, theballot-box was destroyed the night before it was counted. The same thingalmost happened at Levia, at Saint-Andre, at Avabessa. And it was themayors themselves who committed these crimes, who carried the urns homewith them, broke the seals, tore up the voting papers, under coverof their municipal authority. There had been no respect for the law. Everywhere fraud, intrigue, even violence. At Calcatoggio an armedman sat during the election at the window of a tavern in front ofthe _mairie_, holding a blunderbuss, and whenever one of Sebastiani'selectors (Sebastiani was Jansoulet's opponent) showed himself, the mantook aim: "If you come in, I will blow out your brains. " And whenone saw the inspectors of police, justices, inspectors of weights andmeasures, not afraid to turn into canvassing agents, to frighten orcajole a population too submissive before all these little tyrannicallocal influences, was that not proof of a terrible state of things? Evenpriests, saintly pastors, led astray by their zeal for the poor-box andthe restoration of an impoverished building, had preached a mission infavour of Jansoulet's election. But an influence still more powerful, though less respectable, had been called into play for the goodcause--the influence of the banditti. "Yes, banditti, gentlemen; I amnot joking. " And then came a sketch in outline of Corsican banditti ingeneral, and of the Piedigriggio family in particular. The Chamber listened attentively, with a certain uneasiness. For, afterall, it was an official candidate whose doings were thus described, andthese strange doings belonged to that privileged land, cradle of theimperial family, so closely attached to the fortunes of the dynasty, that an attack on Corsica seemed to strike at the sovereign. But whenpeople saw the new minister, successor and enemy of Mora, glad of theblow to a _protege_ of his predecessor, smile complacently fromthe Government bench at Le Merquier's cruel banter, all constraintdisappeared at once, and the ministerial smile repeated on three hundredmouths, grew into a scarcely restrained laugh--the laugh of crowds underthe rod which bursts out at the least approbation of the master. In thegalleries, not usually treated to the picturesque, but amused by thesestories of brigands, there was general joy, a radiant animation on allthese faces, pleased to look pretty without insulting the solemnity ofthe spot. Little bright bonnets shook with all their flowers and plumes, round gold-encircled arms leaned forward the better to hear. The graveLe Merquier had imported into the sitting the distraction of a show, the little spice of humour allowed in a charity concert to bribe theuninitiated. Impassable and cold in the midst of his success, he continued to read inhis gloomy voice, penetrating like the rain of Lyons: "Now, gentlemen, one asks how a stranger, a Provencial returned from theEast, ignorant of the interests and needs of this island where he hadnever been seen before the election, a true type of what the Corsicandisdainfully calls a 'continental'--how has this man been able to excitesuch an enthusiasm, such devotion carried to crime, to profanity. His wealth will answer us, his fatal gold thrown in the face of theelectors, thrust by force into their pockets with a barefaced cynicismof which we have a thousand proofs. " Then the interminable series ofdenunciations: "I, the undersigned, Croce (Antoine), declare in theinterests of truth, that the Commissary of Police Nardi, calling on usone evening, said: 'Listen, Croce (Antoine), I swear by the fire of thislamp that if you vote for Jansoulet you will have fifty francsto-morrow morning. '" And this other: "I, the undersigned, Lavezzi(Jacques-Alphonse), declare that I refused with contempt seventeenfrancs offered me by the Mayor of Pozzonegro to vote against mycousin Sebastiani. " It is probably that for three francs more Lavezzi(Jacques-Alphonse) would have swallowed his contempt in silence. But theChamber did not look into things so closely. Indignation seized on this incorruptible Chamber. It murmured, itfidgeted on its padded seats of red velvet, it raised a positiveclamour. There were "Oh's" of amazement, eyes lifted in astonishment, brusque movements on the benches, as if in disgust at this spectacle ofhuman degradation. And remark that the greater part of these deputieshad used the same electoral methods, that these were the heroes of thosefamous orgies when whole oxen were carried in triumph, ribanded anddecorated as at Gargantuan feasts. Just these men cried louder thanothers, turned furiously towards the solitary seat where the poor leperlistened, still and downcast. Yet in the midst of the general uproar, one voice was raised in his favour, but low, unpractised, less a voicethan a sympathetic murmur, through which was distinguishedvaguely: "Great services to the Corsican population--Considerableworks--Territorial Bank. " He who mumbled thus was a little man in white gaiters, an albinohead, and thin hair in scattered locks. But the interruption of thisunfortunate friend only furnished Le Merquier with a rapid and naturaltransition. A hideous smile parted his flabby lips. "The honourable M. Sarigue mentions the Territorial Bank. We shall be able to answer him. "He seemed in fact to be very familiar with the Paganetti den. In afew neat and lively phrases he threw the light on to the depths of thegloomy cave, showed all the traps, the gulfs, the windings, the snares, like a guide waving his torch above the _oubliettes_ of some sinisterdungeon. He spoke of the fictitious quarries, of the railways on paper, of the chimeric liners disappearing in their own steam. The frightfuldesert of the Taverna was not forgotten, nor the old Genoese castle, theoffice of the steamship agency. But what amused the Chamber most was thestory of a swindling ceremony organized by the governor for the piercingof a tunnel through Monte Rotondo, a gigantic undertaking always inproject, put off from year to year, demanding millions of money andthousands of workmen, and which was begun in great pomp a week beforethe election. His report gave the thing a comic air--the first blow ofthe pickaxe given by the candidate in the enormous mountain covered byancient forests, the speech of the Prefect, the benediction of the flagswith the cries of "Long live Bernard Jansoulet!" and the two hundredworkmen beginning the task at once, working day and night for a week;then, when the election was over, leaving the fragments of rock heapedround the abandoned excavation for a laughing-stock--another asylumfor the terrible banditti. The game was over. After having extorted theshareholders' money for so long, the Territorial Bank this time wasused as a means to swindle the electors of their votes. "Furthermore, gentlemen, another detail, with which perhaps I should have begun andspared you the recital of this electoral pasquinade. I learn that ajudicial inquiry has been opened to-day into the affairs of the CorsicanBank, and that a serious examination of its books will very probablyreveal one of those financial scandals--too frequent, alas! in ourdays--and in which, for the honour of the Chamber, we would wish thatnone of our members were concerned. " With this sudden revelation, the speaker stopped a moment, like an actormaking his point; and in the heavy silence weighing on the assembly, thenoise of a closing door was heard. It was the Governor Paganetti leavingthe tribune, his face white, the eyes wide open, his mouth half opened, like some Pierrot scenting in the air a formidable blow. Monpavon, motionless, expanded his shirtfront. The big man puffed violently intothe flowers of his wife's little white hat. Jansoulet's mother looked at her son. "I have spoken of the honour of the Chamber, gentlemen. On that pointI have more to say. " Now Le Merquier was reading no longer. After thechairman of the committees, the orator came on the scene, or ratherthe judge. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden; nothing lived, nothing moved in all his body save the right arm--the long angular armwith short sleeves--which rose and fell automatically, like a sword ofjustice, making at the end of each sentence the cruel and inexorablegesture of beheading. And truly it was an execution at which they werepresent. The orator would leave on one side scandalous legends, themystery which brooded over this colossal fortune acquired in distantlands, far from all control. But there were in the life of the candidatecertain points difficult to clear up, certain details. He hesitated, seemed to select his words; then, before the impossibility offormulating a direct accusation: "Do not let us lower the debate, gentlemen. You have understood me. You know to what infamous stories Iallude--to what calumnies, I wish I could say; but truth forces me tostate that when M. Jansoulet called before your committee, was asked todeny the accusations made against him, his explanations were so vaguethat, though convinced of his innocence, a scrupulous regard for yourhonour forced us to reject a candidature so besmirched. No, this manmust not sit among you. Besides, what would he do there? Living so longin the East, he has unlearned the laws, the manners, and the usages ofhis country. He believes in rough and ready justice, in fights in theopen street; he relies on the abuses of power, and worse still, onthe venality and crouching baseness of all men. He is the merchant whothinks that everything can be bought at a price--even the votes of theelectors, even the conscience of his colleagues. " One should have seen with what naive admiration these fat deputies, enervated with good fortune, listened to this ascetic, this manof another age, like some Saint-Jerome who had left his Thebaid tooverwhelm with his vigorous eloquence, in a full assembly of theRoman Empire, the shameless luxury of the prevaricators and of the_concussionaires_. How well they understood now this grand surname of"My conscience" which the courts had given him. In the galleries theenthusiasm rose higher still. Lovely heads leaned to see him, to drinkin his words. Applause went round, bending the bouquets here and there, like the wind in a wheat-field. A woman's voice cried with a littleforeign accent, "Bravo! Bravo!" And the mother? Standing upright, immovable, concentrated in her desire to understandsomething of this legal phraseology, of these mysterious allusions, shewas there like deaf-mutes who only understand what is said before themby the movement of the lips and the expression of the faces. But it wasenough for her to watch her son and Le Merquier to understand what harmone was doing to the other, what perfidious and poisoned meaning fellfrom this long discourse on the unfortunate man whom one might havebelieved asleep, except for the trembling of his strong shoulders andthe clinching of his hands in his hair, while hiding his face. Oh, if she could have said to him: "Don't be afraid, my son. If they allmisconstrue you, your mother loves you. Let us come away together. Whatneed have we of them?" And for one moment she could believe that whatshe was saying to him thus in her heart he had understood by somemysterious intuition. He had just raised and shaken his grizzled head, where the childish curve of his lips quivered under a possibility oftears. But instead of leaving his seat, he spoke from it, his greathands pounded the wood of the desk. The other had finished, now it washis time to answer: "Gentlemen, " said he. He stopped at once, frightened by the sound of his voice, hoarse, frightfully low and vulgar, which he heard for the first time in public. He must find the words for his defence, tormented as he was by thetwitchings of his face, the intonations which he could not express. Andif the anguish of the poor man was touching, the old mother up there, leaning, gasping, moving her lips nervously as if to help him findwords, reflected the picture of his torture. Though he could not seeher, intentionally turned away from her gallery, as he evidently was, this maternal inspiration, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes, ended by giving him life, and suddenly his words and gestures flowedfreely: "First of all, gentlemen, I must say that I do not defend the methods ofmy election. If you believe that electoral morals have not been alwaysthe same in Corsica, that all the irregularities committed are due tothe corrupting influence of my gold and not to the uncultivated andpassionate temperament of its people, reject me--it will be justiceand I will not murmur. But in this debate other matters have been dealtwith, accusations have been made which involve my personal honour, andthose, and those alone, I wish to answer. " His voice was growing firmer, always broken, veiled, but with some soft cadences. He spoke rapidly ofhis life, his first steps, his departure for the East. It sounded likean eighteenth century tale of the Barbary corsairs sailing the Latinseas, of Beys and of bold Provencals, as sunburned as crickets, whoused to end by marrying some sultana and "taking the turban, " in theold expression of the Marseillais. "As for me, " said the Nabob, with hisgood-humoured smile. "I had no need of taking the turban to grow rich. Ihad only to take into this land of idleness the activity and flexibilityof a southern Frenchman; and in a few years I made one of those fortuneswhich can only be made in those hot countries, where everything isgigantic, prodigious, disproportionate, where flowers grow in a night, and one tree produces a forest. The excuse of such fortunes is themanner in which they are used; and I make bold to say that never has anyfavourite of fortune tried harder to justify his wealth. I have notbeen successful. " No! he had not succeeded. From all the gold he hadscattered he had only gathered contempt and hatred. Hatred! Who couldboast more of it than he? like a great ship in the dock when its keeltouches the bottom. He was too rich, and that stood for every vice, and every crime pointed him out for anonymous vengeances, cruel andincessant enmities. "Ah, gentlemen, " cried the poor Nabob, lifting his clinched hands, "Ihave known poverty, I have struggled face to face with it, and it is adreadful struggle, I swear. But to struggle against wealth, to defendone's happiness, honour--rest--to have no shelter but piles of goldwhich fall and crush you, is something more hideous, more heart-breakingstill. Never, in the darkest days of my distress, have I had the pains, the anguish, the sleepless nights with which fortune has loaded me--thishorrible fortune which I hate and which stifles me. They call me theNabob, in Paris. It is not the Nabob they should say, but the Pariah--asocial pariah holding out wide arms to a society which will have none ofhim. " Written down, the words may appear cold; but there, before the assembly, the defence of this man was stamped with an eloquent and grandiosesincerity, which at first, coming from this rustic, this upstart, without culture or education, with the voice of a boatman, firstastonished and then singularly moved his hearers just on account ofits wild, uncultivated style, foreign to every notion of parliamentaryetiquette. Already marks of favour had agitated members, used to theflood of gray and monotonous administrative speech. But at this cryof rage and despair against wealth, uttered by the wretch whom itwas enfolding, rolling, drowning in its floods of gold, while he wasstruggling and calling for help from the depths of his Pactolus, thewhole Chamber rose with loud applause, and outstretched hands, as if togive the unfortunate Nabob more testimonies of esteem, of which he wasso desirous, and at the same time to save him from shipwreck. Jansouletfelt it; and warmed by this sympathy, he went on, with head erect andconfident look: "You have just been told, gentlemen, that I was unworthy of sittingamong you. And he who said it was the last from whom I should haveexpected it, for he alone knew the sad secret of my life, he alone couldspeak for me, justify me, and convince you. He has not done it. Well, I will try, whatever it may cost me. Outrageously calumniated before mycountry, I owe it to myself and my children this public justification, and I will make it. " With a brusque movement he turned towards the tribune where he knew hisenemy was watching him, and suddenly stopped, full of fear. There, in front of him, behind the pale, malignant head of the baroness, hismother, his mother whom he believed to be two hundred leagues awayfrom the terrible storm, was looking at him, leaning against the wall, bending down her saintly face, flooded with tears, but proud and beamingnevertheless with her Bernard's great success. For it was really asuccess of sincere human emotion, which a few more words would changeinto a triumph. Cries of "Go on, go on!" came from all sides of theChamber to reassure and encourage him. But Jansoulet did not speak. Hehad only to say: "Calumny has wilfully confused two names. I am calledBernard Jansoulet, the other Jansoulet Louis. " Not a word more wasneeded. But in the presence of his mother, still ignorant of his brother'sdishonour, he could not say it. Respect--family ties forbade it. Hecould hear his father's voice: "I die of shame, my child. " Would not shedie of shame too, if he spoke? He turned from the maternal smile with asublime look of renunciation, then in a low voice, utterly discouraged, he said: "Excuse me, gentlemen; this explanation is beyond my power. Order aninvestigation of my whole life, open as it is to all, alas! since anyone can interpret all my actions. I swear to you that you will findnothing there which unfits me to sit among the representatives of mycountry. " In the face of this defeat, which seemed to everybody the suddencrumbling of an edifice of effrontery, the astonishment anddisillusionment were immense. There was a moment of excitement on thebenches, the tumult of a vote taken on the spot, which the Nabob sawvaguely through the glass doors, as the condemned man looks down fromthe scaffold on the howling crowd. Then, after that terrible pause whichprecedes a supreme moment, the president made, amid deep silence, thesimple pronouncement: "The election of M. Bernard Jansoulet is annulled. " Never had a man's life been cut off with less solemnity or disturbance. Up there in her gallery, Jansoulet's mother understood nothing, exceptthat the seats were emptying near her, that people were rising and goingaway. Soon there was no one else there save the fat man and the ladyin the white hat, who leaned over the barrier, watching Bernard withcuriosity, who seemed also to be going away, for he was putting upgreat bundles of papers in his portfolio quite calmly. When they werein order, he rose and left his place. Ah! the life of public men hadsometimes cruel situations. Gravely, slowly, under the gaze of the wholeassembly, he must descend those steps which he had mounted at the costof so much trouble and money, to whose feet an inexorable fatality wasprecipitating him. The Hemerlingues were waiting for this, following to its last stage thishumiliating exit, which crushes the unseated member with some of theshame and fear of a dismissal. Then, when the Nabob had disappeared, they looked at each other with a silent laugh, and left the gallerybefore the old woman had dared to ask them anything, warned by herinstinct of their secret hostility. Left alone, she gave all herattention to a new speech, persuaded that her son's affairs were stillin question. They spoke of an election, of a scrutiny, and the poormother leaning forward in her red hood, wrinkling her great eyebrows, would have religiously listened to the whole of the report of theSarigue election, if the attendant who had introduced her had not cometo say that it was finished and she had better go away. She seemed verymuch surprised. "Indeed! Is it over?" said she, rising almost regretfully. And quietly, timidly: "Has he--has he won?" It was innocent, so touching that the attendant did not even dream ofsmiling. "Unfortunately, no, madame. M. Jansoulet has not won. But why did hestop in that way? If it is true that he never came to Paris, and thatanother Jansoulet did everything they accuse him of, why did he not sayso?" The old mother, turning pale, leaned on the balustrade of the staircase. She had understood. Bernard's brusque interruption on seeing her, the sacrifice he had madeto her so simply--that noble glance as of a dying animal, came to hermind, and the shame of the elder, the favourite child, mingled itselfwith Bernard's disaster--a double-edged maternal sorrow, which tore herwhichever way she turned. Yes, yes, it was on her account he would notspeak. But she would not accept such a sacrifice. He must come back atonce and explain himself before the deputies. "My son, where is my son?" "Below, madame, in his carriage. It was he who sent me to look for you. " She ran before the attendant, walking quickly, talking aloud, pushingaside out of her way the little black and bearded men who weregesticulating in the passages. After the waiting-hall she crossed agreat round antechamber where servants in respectful rows made a livingwainscotting to the high, blank wall. From there she could see throughthe glass doors, the outside railing, the crowd in waiting, and amongthe other vehicles, the Nabob's carriage waiting. As she passed, thepeasant recognised in one of the groups her enormous neighbour of thegallery, with the pale man in spectacles who had attacked her son, whowas receiving all sorts of felicitation for his discourse. At thename of Jansoulet, pronounced among mocking and satisfied sneers, shestopped. "At any rate, " said a handsome man with a bad feminine face, "he has notproved where our accusations were false. " The old woman, hearing that, wrenched herself through the crowd, andfacing Moessard said: "What he did not say I will. I am his mother, and it is my duty tospeak. " She stopped to seize Le Merquier by the sleeve, who was escaping: "Wicked man, you must listen, first of all. What have you got against mychild? Don't you know who he is? Wait a little till I tell you. " And turning to the journalist: "I had two sons, sir. " Moessard was no longer there. She returned to Le Merquier: "Two sons, sir. " Le Merquier had disappeared. "Oh, listen to me, some one, I beg, " said the poor mother, throwing herhands and her voice round her to assemble and retain her hearers; butall fled, melted away, disappeared--deputies, reporters, unknown andmocking faces to whom she wished at any cost to tell her story, carelessof the indifference where her sorrows and her joys fell, her pride andmaternal tenderness expressed in a tornado of feeling. And while she wasthus exciting herself and struggling--distracted, her bonnet awry--atonce grotesque and sublime, as are all the children of nature whenbrought into civilization, taking to witness the honesty of her sonand the injustice of men, even the liveried servants, whose disdainfulimpassibility was more cruel than all, Jansoulet appeared suddenlybeside her. "Take my arm, mother. You must not stop there. " He said it in a tone so firm and calm that all the laughter ceased, andthe old woman, suddenly quieted, sustained by this solid hold, stilltrembling a little with anger, left the palace between two respectfulrows. A dignified and rustic couple, the millions of the son gilding thecountrified air of the mother, like the rags of a saint enshrined in agolden _chasse_--they disappeared in the bright sunlight outside, in thesplendour of their glittering carriage--a ferocious irony in their deepdistress, a striking symbol of the terrible misery of the rich. They sat well back, for both feared to be seen, and hardly spoke atfirst. But when the vehicle was well on its way, and he had behindhim the sad Calvary where his honour hung gibbeted, Jansoulet, utterlyovercome, laid his head on his mother's shoulder, hid it in the oldgreen shawl, and there, with the burning tears flowing, all his greatbody shaken by sobs, he returned to the cry of his childhood: "Mother. " DRAMAS OF PARIS Que l'heure est donc breve, Qu'on passe en aimant! C'est moins qu'un moment, Un peu plus qu'un reve. In the semi-obscurity of a great drawing-room filled with flowers, theseats of the furniture covered with holland, the chandeliers draped withmuslin, the windows open, and the venetians lowered, Mme. Jenkins isseated at the piano reading the new song of the fashionable musician;some melodic phrases accompanying exquisite verse, a melancholy _Lied_, unequally divided, which seems written for the tender gravities of hervoice and the disturbed state of her soul. Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement sighs the poor woman, moved by the sound of her own voice, and whilethe notes float away in the court-yard of the house, where the fountainfalls drop by drop among a bed of rhododendrons, the singer breaks off, her hands holding the chord, her eyes fixed on the music, but her lookfar away. The doctor is absent. The care of his health and business hasexiled him from Paris for some days, and the thoughts of the beautifulMme. Jenkins have taken that grave turn, as often happens in solitude, that analytical tendency which sometimes makes even momentaryseparations fatal in the most united households. United they had notbeen for sometime. They only saw each other at meal-times, beforethe servants, hardly speaking unless he, the man of unctuous manners, allowed himself to make some disobliging or brutal remark on her son, or on her age, which she began to show, or on some dress which did notbecome her. Always gentle and serene, she stifled her tears, acceptedeverything, feigned not to understand; not that she loved him stillafter so much cruelty and contempt, but it was the story, as theircoachman Joe told it, "of an old clinger who was determined to make himmarry her. " Up to then a terrible obstacle--the life of the legitimatewife--had prolonged a dishonourable situation. Now that the obstacleno longer existed she wished to put an end to the situation, becauseof Andre, who from one day to another might be forced to despise hismother, because of the world which they had deceived for ten years--aworld she never entered but with a beating heart, for fear of thetreatment she would receive after a discovery. To her allusions, toher prayers, Jenkins had answered at first by phrases, grand gestures:"Could you distrust me? Is not our engagement sacred?" He pointed out the difficulty of keeping an act of this importancesecret. Then he shut himself up in a malignant silence, full of coldanger and violent determinations. The death of the duke, the fall of anabsurd vanity, had struck a final blow at the household; for disaster, which often brings hearts ready to understand one another nearer, finishes and completes disunions. And it was indeed a disaster. Thepopularity of the Jenkins pearls suddenly stopped, the situation of theforeign doctor and charlatan, ably defined by Bouchereau in the Journalof the Academy, and people of fashion looked at each other in fright, paler from terror than from the arsenic they had imbibed. Already theIrishman had felt the effect of those counter blasts which make Parisianinfatuations so dangerous. It was for that reason, no doubt, that Jenkins had judged it wise todisappear for some time, leaving madame to continue to frequent thehouses still open to them, to gauge and hold public opinion in respect. It was a hard task for the poor woman, who found everywhere the cool anddistant welcome which she had received at the Hemerlingues. But she didnot complain; thus earning her marriage, she was putting between them asa last resource the sad tie of pity and common trials. And as she knewthat she was welcomed in the world on account of her talent, of theartistic distraction she lent to their private parties, she was alwaysready to lay on the piano her fan and long gloves, to play some fragmentof her vast repertory. She worked constantly, passing her afternoonsin turning over new music, choosing by preference sad and complicatedharmonies, the modern music which no longer contents itself with beingan art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our nerves, to ourrestlessness, than to sentiment. Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to her mistress;"Heurteux, business agent. " The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing madame. "You have told him the doctor is travelling?" He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to speak. "To me?" Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name:"Heurteux. " What could it be? "Well, show him in. " Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into thesemi-obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, tryingto see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctly a stiff figure, withiron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of thelaw whom one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with abitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. Hesat down on the edge of the chair which she pointed out to him, turnedhis head to make sure that the servant had gone out, then opened hisportfolio methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did notspeak, she began in a tone of impatience: "I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, and that I am notacquainted with his business. " Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered:"I know that _M. Jenkins_ is absent, madame"--he emphasized moreparticularly the two words "M. Jenkins"--"especially as I come on hisbehalf. " She looked at him frightened. "On his behalf?" "Alas! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, as you are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortunatedealings on the Stock Exchange, the failure of a great financialenterprise in which his money is invested, the _OEuvre de Bethleem_which weighs heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once haveforced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horses, everything that he possesses, and has given me a power of attorney forthat purpose. " He had at last found what he was looking for--one of those stampedfolded papers, interlined and riddled with references, where theimpassible law makes itself responsible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkinswas going to say: "But I was here. I would have carried out all hiswishes, all his orders--" when she suddenly understood by the coolnessof her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that she wasincluded in this clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansionand useless riches, and that her departure would be the signal for thesale. She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on: "What I have still tosay, madame"--oh, she knew it, she could have dictated to him, what hehad still to say--"is so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leavingParis for a long time, and in the fear of exposing you to the hazardsand adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking youaway from a son you cherish, and in whose interest perhaps you hadbetter----" She heard no more, saw no more, and while he was spinning out hisgossamer phrases, given over to despair, she heard the song over andover in her mind, as the last image seen pursues a drowning man: Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement. All at once her pride returned. "Let us put a stop to this, sir. Allyour turns and phrases are only an additional insult. The fact is that Iam driven out--turned into the street like a servant. " "Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruel enough, don't let us make itworse by hard words. In the evolution of his _modus vivendi_ M. Jenkinshas to separate from you, but he does so with the greatest pain tohimself; and the proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of hissentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorizedto let you take--" "That will do, " said she. She flew to the bell. "I am going out. Quick--my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry. " And while they went to fetch her what she wanted she said: "Everything here belongs to M. Jenkins. Let him dispose of it as helikes. I want nothing from him. Don't insist; it is useless. " The man did not insist. His mission fulfilled, the rest mattered littleto him. Steadily, coldly, she arranged her hat carefully before the glass, themaid fastening her veil, and arranging on her shoulders the folds of hermantle, then she looked round her and considered for a moment whethershe was forgetting anything precious to her. No, nothing--her son'sletters were in her pocket, she never allowed them to be away from her. "Madame does not wish for the carriage?" "No. " And she left the house. It was about five o'clock. At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was crossingthe doorway of the legislative chamber, his mother on his arm; butpoignant as was the drama enacted there, this one surpassed it--moresudden, unforeseen, and without any stage effects. A drama between fourwalls, improvised in Paris day by day. Perhaps it is this which givesthat vibration to the air of the city, that tremor which forces thenerves into activity. The weather was magnificent. The streets of thewealthy quarter, large and straight as avenues, shone in the declininglight, embellished with open windows, flowery balconies, and patchesof green seen on the boulevards, light and soft among the narrow, hardprospects of stone. Mme. Jenkins hurried in this direction, walkingaimlessly, in a dull stupor. What a horrible crash! Five minutes agorich, surrounded by all the respect and comfort of easy circumstances. Now--nothing. Not even a roof to sleep under, not even a name. Thestreet! Where was she to go? What would become of her? At first she had thought of her son. But, to acknowledge her fault, toblush before her own child, to weep while taking from him the right toconsole her, was more than she could do. No, there was nothing for herbut death. To die as soon as possible, to escape shame by a completedisappearance, to unravel in this way an inextricable situation. Butwhere to die! How? There are so many ways of departure! And she calledthem all up mentally while she walked. Life flowed around her, itsluxury at this time of the year in full flower, round the Madeleineand its market, in a space marked off by the perfume of carnations androses. On the wide footpath were well-dressed women whose skirts mingledtheir rustle with the trembling of the young leaves; there was some ofthe pleasure here of a meeting in a drawing-room, an air of acquaintanceamong the passers-by, of smiles and discreet greetings in passing. Andall at once Mme. Jenkins, anxious lest her features might betray her, fearing what might be thought if any one saw her rushing on so blindly, slackened her pace to the aimless gait of an afternoon walk, stoppinghere and there. The light materials of the dresses spoke of summer, of the country; a thin skirt for the sandy paths of the parks, gauze-trimmed hats for the seaside, fans, sunshades. Her fixed eyesfastened on these trifles without seeing them; but in a vague and palereflection in the clear windows she saw her image, lying motionless onthe bed of some hotel, the leaden sleep of a poison in her head; or, down there, beyond the walls, among the slime of some sunken boat. Whichof the two was better? She hesitated, considered, compared; then, her decision made, startedoff with the resolved air of a woman tearing herself regretfullyfrom the temptations of the window. As she moved away, the Marquis deMonpavon, proud and well-dressed, a flower in his coat, saluted her ata distance with that sweep of the hat so dear to women's vanity, thewell-bred brow, with the hat lifted high above the erect head. Sheanswered him with her pretty Parisian's greeting, expressed in animperceptible inclination of the body and a smile; and seeing thisexchange of politeness in the midst of the spring gaiety, one wouldnever think that the same sinister idea was guiding the two, meeting bychance on the road they were traversing in opposite directions, but tothe same end. The prediction of Mora's valet had come true for the marquis: "Wemay die or lose power; then there will be a reckoning, and it will beterrible. " It was terrible. The former receiver-general had obtainedwith difficulty a delay of a fortnight to make up his deficiencies, taking the last chance that Jansoulet, with his election confirmed, andwith full control over his millions again, would come to the rescue oncemore. The decision of the Assembly had just taken from him this lasthope. As soon as he knew it, he returned to the club calmly, and wentup to his room, where Francis was waiting impatiently for him withan important paper just arrived. It was a notification to the SieurLouis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon to appear the next day in the officeof the Juge d'Instruction. Was it addressed to the censor of theTerritorial Bank or to the former receiver-general? In any case, thebold formula of a judicial assignation in the first instance, instead ofa private invitation, spoke sufficiently of the gravity of the situationand the firm resolution of Justice. In view of such an extremity, foreseen and expected for long, hehad made his plans. A Monpavon in the criminal courts!--a Monpavon, librarian in a convict prison! Never! He put all his affairs in order, tore up his papers, emptied his pockets carefully, and took somethingfrom his toilet-table, so calmly and naturally, that when he saidto Francis, as he was going out, "Am going to the baths--That dirtyChamber--Filthy dust"--the servant took him at his word. And the marquiswas not lying. His exciting post up there in the dust of the tribune hadtired him as much as two nights in the train; and his decision to dieassociated itself with his desire to take a bath, the old Sybaritethought of going to sleep in the bath, like what's his name, and otherfamous personages of antiquity. And in justice, it must be said that notone of these Stoics went to his death more quietly than he. With a white camellia in his buttonhole, above his rosette of the Legionof Honour, he was going up the Boulevard des Capucines with a lightstep, when the sight of Mme. Jenkins troubled his serenity for a moment. She had a youthful air, a light in her eyes, something so piquant thathe stopped to look at her. Tall and beautiful, with her long dress ofblack gauze, her shoulders wrapped in a lace mantle, her hat trimmedwith a garland of autumn leaves, she disappeared in the midst of otherelegant women in the balmy atmosphere; and the thought that his eyeswere going to close forever on this delightful sight, whose pleasures heknew so well, saddened Monpavon a little, and took the spring from hisstep. But a few paces farther on, a meeting of another kind gave himback all his courage. Some one, threadbare, shamefaced, dazzled by the light, was coming downthe Boulevard. It was old Marestang, former senator, former minister, so deeply compromised in the affairs of the "Malta Biscuits, " that, in spite of his age, his services, and the great scandal of such aproceeding, he had been condemned to two years of prison, struck offthe roll of the Legion of Honour, of which he had been one of thedignitaries. The affair was long ago; the poor wretch had just been letout of prison before his sentence had expired, lost, ruined, not havingeven the means to gild his trouble, for he had had to pay what he owed. Standing on the curb, he was waiting with bent head till the crowds ofcarriages should allow him to pass, embarrassed by this stoppage at thefullest spot of the boulevards between the passers-by and the sea ofopen carriages filled with familiar figures. Monpavon walking near him, caught his timid, uneasy look, imploring a recognition and hiding fromit at the same time. The idea that one day he could humiliate himselfthus, gave him a shudder of revolt. "Oh! that is not possible!" Andstraightening himself up and throwing out his chest, he kept on his way, firmer and more resolute than before. M. De Monpavon walks to his death! He goes there by the long line ofthe boulevards, all on fire in the direction of the Madeleine, wherehe treads the elastic asphalt once more as a lounger, nose in the air, hands crossed behind. He has time; there is no hurry; he is master ofthe rendezvous. At each instant he smiles before him, waves a greetingfrom the ends of his fingers or makes the more formal bow we havejust seen. Everything revives him, charms him, the noise of thewatering-carts, the awnings of the _cafes_, pulled down to the middleof the foot-paths. The approach of death gives him the feelings of aconvalescent accessible to all the delicacy, the hidden poesy of anexquisite hour of summer in the midst of Parisian life--of an exquisitehour--his last, and which he will prolong till night. No doubt it isfor that reason that he passes the sumptuous establishment where heordinarily takes his bath. He does not stop either at the Chinese Baths. He is too well known here. All Paris would know of it the same evening. There would be a scandal of bad taste, much coarse rumour about hisdeath in the clubs and drawing-rooms. And the old sensualist, thewell-bred man, wishes to spare himself this shame, to plunge and beswallowed up in the vague anonymity of suicide, like those soldiers who, after great battles, neither wounded, dead, or living, are simplyput down as "missing. " That is why he has nothing on him which can berecognised, or furnish a hint to the inquiries of the police, why heseeks in this immense Paris the distant quarter where will open for himthe terrible but oblivious confusion of the pauper's grave. Already, since Monpavon has been walking, the aspect of the boulevardhas changed. The crowd has become more compact, more active, andpreoccupied, the houses smaller, marked with signs of commerce. When thegates of Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin are passed, with their overflowfrom the faubourgs, the provincial physiognomy of the town accentuatesitself. The old beau no longer knows any one, and can congratulatehimself on being unknown. The shopkeepers looking curiously after him, with his fine linen, hiswell-cut coat, and good figure, take him for some famous actor strollingon the boulevard--witness of his first triumphs--before the play begins. The wind freshens, the twilight softens the distances, and while thelong road behind him still glitters, it grows darker now at everystep--like the past, with its retrospections to him who looks back andregrets. It seems to Monpavon that he is walking into blackness. Heshivers a little, but does not falter, and continues to walk with erecthead and chest thrown out. M. De Monpavon walks to his death! Now he is entering the complicatedlabyrinth of noisy streets, where the clatter of the omnibus mingleswith the thousand humming trades of the working city, where the heatof the factory chimneys loses itself in the fever of a whole peoplestruggling against hunger. The air trembles, the gutters steam, thehouses shake at the passing of the wagons, of the heavy drays rumblinground the narrow streets. On a sudden the marquis stops; he has foundwhat he wanted. Between the black shop of a charcoal-seller and theestablishment of a packing-case maker, whose pine boards leaning on thewalls give him a little shiver, there is a wide door, surmounted by itssign, the word BATHS on a dirty lantern. He enters, crosses a littledamp garden where a jet of water weeps in a rockery. Here is the gloomycorner he was looking for. Who would ever believe that the Marquis deMonpavon had come there to cut his throat? The house is at the end, low, with green blinds and a glass door, with a sham air of a villa. He asksfor a bath, and while it is being prepared he smokes his cigar at thewindow, with the noise of the water behind him, looks at the flower-bedof sparse lilac, and the high walls which inclose it. At the side there is a great yard, the court-yard of a fire station, with a gymnasium, whose masts and swings, vaguely seen from below, looklike gibbets. A bugle-call sounds in the yard, and its call takes themarquis thirty years back, reminds him of his campaigns in Algeria, thehigh ramparts of Constantine, the arrival of Mora at the regiment, andthe duels, and the little parties. Ah! how well life began then! What apity that those cursed cards--ps--ps--ps--Well, it's something to havesaved appearances. "Your bath is ready, sir, " said the attendant. At that moment, breathless and pale, Mme. Jenkins was entering Andre'sstudio, where an instinct stronger than her will had brought her--thewish to embrace her child before she died. When she opened the door (hehad given her a key) she was relieved to find that he was not there, andthat she would have time to calm her excitement, increased as it was bythe long walk to which she was so little accustomed. No one was there. But on the table was the little note which he always left when he wentout, so that his mother, whose visits were becoming shorter and lessfrequent on account of the tyranny of Jenkins, could tell where he was, and wait for him or rejoin him easily. The two had not ceased to loveeach other deeply, tenderly, in spite of the cruelty of life whichforced into the relations of mother and son the clandestine precautionsof an intrigue. "I am at my rehearsal, " said the note to-day, "I shall be back atseven. " This attention of the son, whom she had not seen for three weeks, yetwho persisted in expecting her all the same, brought to the mother'seyes the flood of tears which was suffocating her. She felt as if shehad just entered a new world. This little room was so pure, so quiet, soelevated. It kept the last rays of the setting sun on its windows, and seemed, with its bare walls, hewn from a corner of the sky. It wasadorned only with one great portrait, hers, nothing but hers, smilingin the place of honour, and again, down there, on the table in a giltframe. This humble little lodging, so light when all Paris was becomingdark, made an extraordinary impression on her, in spite of the povertyof its sparse furniture, scattered in two rooms, its common chintz, andits chimney garnished with two great bunches of hyacinths--those flowerswhich are hawked round the streets in barrowsful. What a good and worthylife she could have led by the side of her Andre! And in her mind's eyeshe had arranged her bed in one corner, her piano in another, she sawherself giving lessons, and caring for the home to which she was addingher share of ease and courageous gaiety. How was it that she had notseen that her duty, the pride of her widowhood, was there? By whatblindness, what unworthy weakness? It was a great fault, no doubt, but one for which many excuses might befound in her easy and tender disposition, and the clever knavery of heraccomplice, always talking of marriage, hiding from her that he himselfwas no longer free, and when at last obliged to confess it, paintingsuch a picture of his dull life, of his despair, of his love, that thepoor creature, so deeply compromised already, and incapable of oneof those heroic efforts which raise the sufferer above the falsesituations, had given way at last, had accepted this double existence, so brilliant and so miserable, built on a lie which had lastedten years. Ten years of intoxicating success and unspeakableunhappiness--ten years of singing, with the fear of exposure betweeneach verse--where the least remark on irregular unions wounded her likean allusion--where the expression of her face had softened to the air ofmild humility, of a guilty woman begging for pardon. Then the certaintythat she would be deserted had come to spoil even these borrowed joys, had tarnished her luxury; and what misery, what sufferings borne insilence, what incessant humiliations, even to this last, the mostterrible of all! While she is thus sadly reviewing her life in the cool of the eveningand the calm of the deserted house, a gust of happy laughter rose fromthe rooms beneath; and recalling the confidences of Andre, his lastletter telling the great news, she tried to distinguish among all thesefresh and limpid voices that of her daughter Elise, her son's betrothed, whom she did not know, whom she would never know. This reflection addedto the misery of her last moments, and loaded them with so much remorseand regret that, in spite of her will to be brave, she wept. Night comes on little by little. Large shadows cover the slopingwindows, where the immense depth of the sky seems to lose its colour, and to deepen into obscurity. The roofs seem to draw close together forthe night, like soldiers preparing for the attack. The bells count thehours gravely, while the martins fly round their hidden nests, and thewind makes its accustomed invasion of the rubbish of the old wood-yard. To-night it sighs with the sound of the river, a shiver of the fog; itsighs of the river, to remind the unfortunate woman that it is thereshe must go. She shivers beforehand in her lace mantle. Why did she comehere to reawaken her desire for a life impossible after the avowal shewas forced to make? Hasty steps shake the staircase; the door opensprecipitately; it is Andre. He is singing, happy, in a great hurry, forthey are waiting dinner for him below. But, as he is striking the match, he feels that someone is in the room--a moving shadow among the shadowsat rest. "Who is there?" Something answers him like a stifled laugh or a sob. He believes thatit is one of his little neighbours, a plot of the children to amusethemselves. He draws near. Two hands, two arms, seize and surround him. "It is I. " And with a feverish voice, hurrying as if to assure herself, she tellshim that she is setting out on a long journey, and that before going-- "A journey! And where are you going?" "Oh, I do not know. We are going over there, a long way, on business inhis own part of the world. " "What! You will not be here for my play? It is in three days. And then, immediately after, my marriage. Come now, he cannot hinder you fromcoming to my marriage?" She makes excuses, imagines reasons, but her hands burning between herson's, and her altered voice, tell Andre that she is not speaking thetruth. He is going to strike a light; she prevents him. "No, no; it is useless. We are better without it. Besides, I have somuch to get ready still. I must go away. " They are both standing up, ready for the separation, but Andre will notlet her go without telling him what is the matter, what tragic careis hollowing that fair face where the eyes--was it an effect of thedusk?--shone with a strange light. "Nothing; no, nothing, I assure you. Only the idea of not being able totake part in your happiness, your triumph. At any rate, you know I loveyou; you don't mistrust your mother, do you? I have never been a daywithout thinking of you: do the same--keep me in your heart. And nowkiss me and let me go quickly. I have waited too long. " Another minute and she would have the strength for what she had to do. She darts forward. "No, you shall not go. I feel that something extraordinary is happeningin your life which you do not want to tell. You are in some greattrouble, I am sure. This man has done some infamous thing. " "No, no. Let me go! Let me go!" But he held her fast. "Tell me, what is it? Tell me. " Then, whispering in her ear, with a voice tender and low as a kiss: "He has left you, hasn't he?" The wretched woman shivers, hesitates. "Ask me nothing. I will say nothing. Adieu!" He pressed her to his heart: "What could you tell me that I do not know already, poor mother? You didnot guess, then, why I left six months ago?" "You know?" "I know everything. And what has happened to you to-day I have foreseenfor long, and hoped for. " "Oh, wretch, wretch that I am, why did I come?" "Because it is your home, because you owe me ten years of my mother. Yousee now that I must keep you. " He said all this on his knees, before the sofa on which she had letherself fall, in a flood of tears, and the last painful sobs of herwounded pride. She wept thus for long, her child at her feet. And nowthe Joyeuse family, anxious because Andre did not come down, hurriedup in a troop to look for him. It was an invasion of innocent faces, transparent gaiety, floating curls, modest dress, and over all thegroup shone the big lamp, the good old lamp with the vast shade whichM. Joyeuse solemnly carried, as high, as straight as he could, with thegesture of a caryatid. Suddenly they stopped before this pale and sadlady, who looked, touched to the depths, at all this smiling grace, above all at Elise, a little behind the others, whose conscious air inthis indiscreet visit points her out as the _fiancee_. "Elise, embrace our mother and thank her. She has come to live with herchildren. " There she is, caught in all these caressing arms, pressed against fourlittle feminine hearts which have missed the shelter of a mother's lovefor so long; there she is introduced, and so gently, into the luminouscircle of the family lamp, widened to allow her to take her place there, to dry her eyes, to warm and brighten her spirit at this steady flame, even in this little studio near the roof, where just now the terriblestorm blew so wildly. He who breathes his last over there, lying in his blood-stained bath, has never known this sacred flame. Egoistical and hard, he has lived upto the last for show, throwing out his chest in a bubble of vanity. Andthis vanity was what was best in him. It alone had held him firm andupright so long; it alone clinched his teeth on the groans of hislast agony. In the damp garden the water drips sadly. The bugle of thefiremen sounds the curfew. "Go and look at No. 7, " says the mistress, "he will never have done with his bath. " The attendant goes, and uttersa cry of fright, of horror: "Oh, madame, he is dead! But it is not thesame man. " They go, but nobody can recognise the fine gentleman whoentered a short time ago, in this death's-head puppet, the head leaningon the edge of the bath, a face where the blood mingles with paint andpowder, all the limbs lying in the supreme lassitude of a part playedto the end--to the death of the actor. Two cuts of the razor across themagnificent chest, and all the factitious majesty has burst and resolveditself into this nameless horror, this heap of mud, of blood, of spoiledand dead flesh, where, unrecognisable, lies the man of appearances, theMarquis Louis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon. MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER THE LAST LEAVES I put down in haste and with an agitated pen the terrible events ofwhich I have been the plaything for the last few days. This time itis all up with the Territorial and with my ambitious dreams. Disputedbills, men in possession, visits of the police, all our books in thehands of the courts, the governor fled, Bois l'Hery, the director, inprison, another--Monpavon--disappeared. My brain reels in the midst ofthese catastrophes. And if I had obeyed the warnings of reason, I shouldhave been quietly six months ago at Montbars cultivating my vineyard, with no other care than that of seeing the clusters grow round andgolden in the good Burgundian sun, and to gather from the leaves, afterthe dew, the little gray snails, so excellent when they are fried. I should have built for myself with my savings, at the end of thevineyard, on the height--I can see the place at this moment--a tower inrough stone, like M. Chalmette's, so convenient for an afternoon nap, while the quails are chirping round the place. But always misled bydeceiving illusions, I wished to enrich myself, speculate, meddle infinance, chain my fortune to the car of the conquerors of the day; andnow here I am back again in the saddest pages of my history, clerk ina bankrupt establishment, my duty to answer a horde of creditors, ofshareholders drunk with fury, who load my white hairs with the worstoutrages, and would like to make me responsible for the ruin of theNabob and the flight of the governor; as if I myself was not as cruellystruck by the loss of my four years of arrears, and my seven thousandfrancs which I had confided to that scoundrel of Paganetti dePorto-Vecchio. But it is my fate to empty the cup of humiliation and degradation to thedregs. Have I not been made to appear before a Juge d'Instruction--I, Passajon, former apparitor of the faculty, with thirty years of faithfulservice, and the ribbon of Officer of the Academy? Oh! when I sawmyself going up that staircase of the Palace of Justice, so big, soconspicuous, without a rail to hold by, I felt my head turning and mylegs sinking under me. I was forced to reflect there, crossing thesehalls, black with lawyers and judges, studded with great green doorsbehind which one heard the imposing noise of the hearings; and uphigher, in the corridor of the Juges d'Instruction, during my hour'swaiting on a bench, where the prison vermin crawled on my legs, while Ilistened to a lot of thieves, pickpockets, and loose women talking andlaughing with the gendarmes, and the butts of the rifles echo in thepassages, and the dull roll of prison vans. I understood then the dangerof "combinations, " and that it was not always good to ridicule M. Gogo. What reassured me, however, was that never having taken any part in thedeliberations of the Territorial, I had no share in their dealings andintrigues. But explain this to me: Once in the judge's office, beforethat man in a velvet cap looking at me across his table with his littleeyes like hooks, I felt so pierced through, searched, turned over tothe very depth of my being, that, in spite of my innocence, I wanted toconfess. Confess what? I don't know. But that is the effect which thelaw had. This devil of a man spent five minutes looking at me withoutspeaking, all the while turning over a book filled with writing notunknown to me, and suddenly he said, in a mocking and severe tone: "Well, M. Passajon, how long is it since the affair of the drayman?" The memory of a certain little misdeed, in which I had taken part in mydays of distress, was already so distant that I did not understand atonce; but some words of the judge showed me how completely he knew thehistory of our bank. This terrible man knew everything, down to theleast details, the most secret things. Who could have informed him sothoroughly? It was all very short, very dry, and, when I wished to enlighten justicewith some wise observations, a certain insolent fashion of saying, "Don't make phrases, " so much the more wounding at my age and with myreputation of a good talker; also we were not alone in his office. Aclerk seated near me was writing down my deposition, and behind I heardthe noise of great leaves turning. The judge asked me all sorts ofquestions about the Nabob--the time when he had made his payments, theplace where we kept our books; and all at once, addressing himself tothe person whom I could not see: "Show us the cash-book, _M. L'Expert_. " A little man in a white tie brought the great register to the table. Itwas M. Joyeuse, the former cashier of Hemerlingue & Sons. But I had nottime to offer him my respects. "Who has done that?" asked the judge, opening the book where a page wastorn out. "Don't lie, now. " I did not lie; I knew nothing of it, never having had to do with thebooks. However, I thought it my duty to mention M. De Gery, the Nabob'ssecretary, who often came at night into the office and shut himself upfor hours casting balances. Then little Father Joyeuse turned red withanger. "That is an absurdity, M. Le Juge d'Instruction. M. De Gery is theyoung man of whom I have spoken to you. He came to the Territorial as asuperintendent, and thought too much of this poor M. Jansoulet toremove the receipts for his payments; that is the proof of his blind butthorough honesty. Besides, M. De Gery, who has been detained in Tunis, is on his way back, and will furnish before long all the explanationnecessary. " I felt that my zeal was about to compromise me. "Take care, Passajon, " said the judge. "You are only here as a witness;but if you attempt to mislead justice, you may return a prisoner"(he, the monster, had, indeed, the manner of desiring it). "Come now, consider; who tore out this page?" Then I very fortunately remembered that some days before he left Paristhe governor had me made bring the books to his house, where they wereall night. The clerk took a note of my declaration, after which thejudge dismissed me with a sign, warning me to be ready when I waswanted. Then, on the threshold, he called me back: "Stay, M. Passajon, take this away. I don't want it any more. " He held out the papers he had been consulting while he was questioningme; and judge of my confusion when I saw on the cover the word"Memoirs, " written in my best round-hand. I, myself, had providedmaterial to Justice--important details which the suddenness of ourcatastrophe had prevented me from saving from the police search of ouroffice. My first idea on returning home was to tear up these indiscreet papers;but on reflection, and after having assured myself that the Memoirscontained nothing that would compromise me, I have decided to go on withthem, with the certainty of getting some profit out of them one day oranother. There are plenty of novelists at Paris who have no imaginationand can only put true stories in their books, who would be glad to buya little book of incidents. That is how I shall avenge myself on thissociety of well-to-do swindlers, with which I have been mixed up to myshame and misfortune. Besides, I must occupy my leisure time. There is nothing to do at thebank, which is completely deserted since the judicial inquiry began, except to arrange the bills of all colours. I have again undertaken thewriting for the cook on the second floor, Mlle. Seraphine, from whomI accept in return some little refreshment, which I keep in thestrong-box, once more become a provision safe. The wife of the governoris also very good to me, and stuffs my pockets each time I go to see herin her great rooms on the Chaussee d'Antin. There nothing has changed;the same luxury, the same comfort, also a three-months'-old baby--theseventh--and a superb nurse, whose Norman cap is the admiration of theBois de Boulogne. It seems that once started on the rails of fortune, people need a certain time to slacken their speed or stop. Besides, thisthief of a Paganetti had, in case of accident, settled everything on hiswife. Perhaps that is why this rag-bag of an Italian woman has such anunshakable admiration for him. He has fled, he is in hiding; but sheremains convinced that her husband is a little Saint-John of innocence, the victim of his goodness and credulity. One ought to hear her. "Youknow him, you Moussiou Passajon. You know if he is scrupulous. But astrue as there is a God, if my husband had committed such crimes as he isaccused of, I myself--you hear me--I myself would put a blunderbuss inhis hands, and would say to him, 'Here, Tchecco, blow out your brains!'"and by the way in which she opens the nostrils of her little turned-upnose, her round eyes, black as jet, one feels that this little Corsicanwould have acted as she spoke. He must be very clever, this infernalgovernor, to deceive even his wife, to act a part even at home, wherethe cleverest let themselves be seen as they really are. In the meantime all these rogues have good dinners; even Bois l'Heryhas his meals sent in to the prison from the Cafe Anglais, and poor oldPassajon is reduced to live on scraps picked up in the kitchen. Stillwe must not grumble too much. There are others more wretched than weare--witness M. Francis, who came in this morning to the Territorial, thin, pale, with dirty linen and frayed cuffs, which he still pulleddown by force of habit. I was at the moment grilling some bacon before the fire in theboard-room, my plate laid on the corner of a marqueterie table, with anewspaper underneath to preserve it. I invited Monpavon's valet to sharemy frugal meal; but since he has waited on a marquis he had come tothink that he formed part of the nobility, and he declined with adignified air, perfectly ridiculous with his hollow cheeks. He began bytelling me that he still had no news of his master; that they hadsent him away from the club, all the papers under seal, and a horde ofcreditors like locusts on the marquis's small wardrobe. "So that I ama little short, " added M. Francis. That is to say, that he had not theworth of a radish in his pockets, that he had been sleeping for two dayson the benches in the streets, awakened at each instant by the police, obliged to rise, to pretend to be drunk so as to seek another shelter. As to eating, I believe he had not done so for a long time, for helooked at the food with such hungry eyes as to wring one's heart, andwhen I insisted on putting before him a slice of bacon and a glass ofwine, he fell on it like a wolf. All at once the blood came back to hischeeks and, still eating, he began to chatter. "You know, _pere_ Passajon, " said he to me between two mouthfuls, "Iknow where he is. I have seen him. " He winked his eye knowingly. I looked at him in wonder. "Who is it youhave seen, M. Francis?" "The marquis, my master--over there in the little white house behindNotre-Dame. " (He did not use the word morgue, it is too low. ) "I wassure I should find him there. I went there first thing next morning. There he was. Oh, well disguised, I tell you. Only his valet couldrecognise him. The hair gray, the teeth gone, the wrinkles showing hissixty-five years, which he used to hide so well. On the marble slab, with the tap running above, I seemed to see him at his dressing-table. " "And you said nothing?" "No. I knew his intentions on the subject for long. I let him go awaydiscreetly, without awakening attention, as he wished. But, all thesame, he might have given me a crust of bread before he went, after aservice of twenty years. " And on a sudden, striking the table with his fist with rage: "When I think that if I had liked I might have been with Mora, insteadof going to Monpavon, that I might have had Louis's place. What luck hehas had! How many bags of gold he laid his hands on when his duke died!And the wardrobe--hundreds of shirts, a dressing-gown of blue fox furworth more than twenty thousand francs. Like Noel, too, he must havemade his pile! He had to hurry, too, for he knew that it would stopsoon. Now there is nothing to be got in the Place Vendome. An oldpoliceman of a mother who manages everything. Saint-Romans is to besold, the pictures are to be sold, half the house to be let. It is areal break-up. " I must confess that I could not help showing my satisfaction, forthis wretched Jansoulet is the cause of all our misfortunes. A man whoboasted of being so rich, who said so everywhere. The public bit atit like a fish who sees the scales shine through the net. He has lostmillions, I admit, but why did he make us believe he had more? They havearrested Bois l'Hery; they should have arrested _him_. Ah! if we had hadanother expert, I am sure it would have been done. Besides, as I said toFrancis, you had only to look at this upstart of a Jansoulet to see whathe was worth. What a head--like a bandit! "And so common, " said the ex-valet. "No principles. " "An absolute want of form. Well, there he is on his beam-ends, and thenJenkins, too, and plenty of others with them. " "What! the doctor too? Ah! so much the worse. Such a polite and amiableman. " "Yes, still another breaking-up of his establishment. Horses, carriages, furniture. The yard of the house is full of bills, and it sounds asempty as if some one were dead. The place at Nanterre is on sale. Therewere half a dozen of the 'little Bethlehems' left whom they packed up ina cab. It is a break-up, I tell you, _pere_ Passajon, a ruin whichwe, old as we are, may not see the end of, but it will be complete. Everything is rotten, it must all come down!" He was a sinister figure, this old steward of the Empire, thin, stubbly, covered with mud, and shouting like a Jeremiah, "It is the downfall!"with a toothless mouth, black and wide open. I felt afraid and ashamedof him, with a great desire to see him outside, and I thought: "Oh, M. Chalmette! Oh, my little vineyard of Montbars!" _Same date_. --Great news. Mme. Gaganetti came this afternoon to bring memysteriously a letter from the governor. He is in London, going to begina magnificent thing. Fine offices in the best part of the town, a superblist of shareholders. He offers me the chance of joining him, "happy torepair thus the damage he has caused me, " says he. I shall have twice mywages at the Territorial, be lodged comfortably, five shares in the newbank, and all my arrears paid. All I need is a little money to gothere and to pay a few small debts round here. Good luck! My fortuneis assured. I shall write to the notary of Montbars to mortgage myvineyard. AT BORDIGHERA As M. Joyeuse had told the Juge d'Instruction, Paul de Gery returnedfrom Tunis after three weeks' absence. Three interminable weeks spentin struggling among intrigues, and traps secretly laid by the powerfulhatred of the Hemerlingues--in wandering from hall to hall, fromministry to ministry through the immense palace of the Bardo, whichgathered within one enclosure, bristling with culverins, all thedepartments of the State, as much under the master's eye as his stablesand harem. On his arrival, Paul had learned that the Chamber of Justicewas preparing secretly Jansoulet's trial--a derisive trial, lostbeforehand; and the closed offices of the Nabob on the Marine Quay, theseals on his strong boxes, his ships moored to the Goulette, a guardround his palace, seemed to speak of a sort of civil death, of adisputed succession of which the spoils would not long remain to beshared. There was not a defender, nor a friend, in this voracious crowd; theFrench colony itself appeared satisfied with the fall of a courtier whohad so long monopolized the roads to favour. To attempt to snatch thisprey from the Bey, excepting by a striking triumph at the Assembly, wasnot to be thought of. All that de Gery could hope for was to save someshreds of his fortune, and this only if he hurried, for he was expectingday by day to learn of his friend's complete ruin. He set himself to work, therefore, hurried on his business withan activity which nothing could discourage, neither Orientaldiscursiveness--that refined fair-spoken politeness, under which ishidden ferocity--nor coolly indifferent smiles, nor averted looks, invoking divine fatalism when human lies fail. The self-possession ofthis southerner, in whom was condensed, as it were, all the exuberanceof his compatriots, served him as well as his perfect knowledge ofFrench law, of which the Code of Tunis is only a disfigured copy. By his diplomacy and discretion, in spite of the intrigues ofHemerlingue's son--who was very influential at the Bardo--he succeededin withdrawing from confiscation the money lent by the Nabob somemonths before, and to snatch ten millions out of fifteen from Mohammed'srapacity. The very morning of the day on which the money was to be paidover, he received from Paris the news of the unseating of Jansoulet. Hehurried at once to the Palace to arrive there before the news, and onhis return with the ten millions in bills on Marseilles secure in hispocket-book, he passed young Hemerlingue's carriage, with his threemules at full gallop. The thin owl's face was radiant. De Geryunderstood that if he remained many hours at Tunis his bills ran therisk of being confiscated, so took his place at once on an Italianpacket which was sailing next morning for Genoa, passed the night onboard, and was only easy in his mind when he saw far behind him whiteTunis with her gulf and the rocks of Cape Carthage spread out beforeher. On entering Genoa, the steamer while making for the quay passednear a great yacht with the Tunisian flag flying. De Gery felt greatlyexcited, and for a moment believed that she had come in pursuit of him, and that on landing he might be seized by the Italian police like acommon thief. But the yacht was swinging peacefully at anchor, hersailors cleaning the deck or repainting the red siren of her figurehead, as if they were expecting someone of importance. Paul had not thecuriosity to ask who this personage was. He crossed the marble city, andreturned by the coast railway from Genoa to Marseilles--that marvellousroute where one passes suddenly from the blackness of the tunnels to thedazzling light of the blue sea. At Savona the train stopped, and the passengers were told that theycould go no farther, as one of the little bridges over the torrentswhich rush from the mountains to the sea had been broken during thenight. They must wait for the engineer and the break-down gang, alreadysummoned by telegraph; wait perhaps a half day. It was early morning. The Italian town was waking in one of those veiled dawns which forecastgreat heat for the day. While the dispersed travellers took refuge inthe hotels, installed themselves in the _cafes_, and others visited thetown, de Gery, chafing at the delay, tried to think of some means ofsaving these few hours. He thought of poor Jansoulet, to whom the moneyhe was bringing might save honour and life, of his dear Aline, her whoseremembrance had not quitted him a single day of his journey, no morethan the portrait which she had given him. Then he was inspired to hireone of those four-horse _calesinos_ which run from Genoa to Nice, alongthe Italian Corniche--an adorable trip which foreigners, lovers, andwinners at Monaco often enjoy. The driver guaranteed that he would beat Nice early; and even if he arrived no earlier than the train, hisimpatient spirit felt the comfort of movement, of feeling at each turnof the wheel the distance from his desire decrease. On a fine morning in June, when one is young and in love, it is adelicious intoxication to tear behind four horses over the whiteCorniche road. To the left, a hundred feet below, the sea sparkling withfoam, from the rounded rocks of the shore to those vapoury distanceswhere the blue of the waves and of the heavens mingle; red or whitesails are scattered over it like wings, steamers leaving behind themtheir trail of smoke; and on the sands, fishermen no larger than birds, in their anchored boats like nests. Then the road descends, follows arapid declivity along the rocks and sharp promontories. The fresh windfrom the waves shakes the little harness bells; while on the right, onthe side of the mountain, the rows of pine-trees, the green oaks withroots capriciously leaving the arid soil, and olive-trees growing ontheir terraces, up to a wide and white pebbly ravine, bordered withgrass, marking the passage of the waters. This is really a dried-upwater-course, which the loaded mules ascend with firm foot among theshingle, and a washer-woman stoops near a microscopic pond--the fewdrops that remained of the great inundation of winter. From time to timeone crosses the street of some village, or little town rather, grownrusty through too much sun, of historic age, the houses closely packedand joined by dark arcades--a network of vaulted courts which clamberthe hillside with glimpses of the upper daylight, here and there lettingone see crowds of children with aureoles of hair, baskets of brilliantfruit, a woman coming down the road, her water-pot on her head and herdistaff on her arm. Then at a corner of the street, the blue sparkle ofthe waves and the immensity of nature. But as the day advanced, the sun rising in the heavens spread overthe sea--now escaped from its mists, still with the transparenceof quartz--thousands of rays striking the water like arrow-heads, adazzling sight made doubly so by the whiteness of the rocks and ofthe soil, by a veritable African sirocco which raised the dust ina whirlwind on the road. They were coming to the hottest and mostsheltered places of the Corniche--a true exotic temperature, scatteringdates, cactus, and aloes. Seeing these thin trunks, this fantasticvegetation in the white hot air, feeling the blinding dust crackle underthe wheels like snow, de Gery, his eyes half closed, dreaming in thisleaden noon, thought he was once more on that fatiguing road from Tunisto the Bardo, in a singular medley of Levantine carriages with brilliantliveries, of long-necked camels, of caparisoned mules, of young donkeys, of Arabs in rags, of half-naked negroes, of officials in full-dress withtheir guard of honour. Should he find there, where the road ran throughthe gardens of palm-trees, the strange and colossal architecture of theBey's palace, its barred windows with closed lattices, its marble gates, its balconies in carved wood painted in bright colours?--It was not theBardo, but the lovely country of Bordighera, divided, like all thoseon the coast, into two parts--the sea town lying on the shore; and theupper town, joined to it by a forest of motionless palm-trees, withupright stem and falling crown--like green rockets, springing into theblue with their thousand feathers. The insupportable heat, the overtired horses, forced the traveller tostop for a couple of hours at one of those great hotels which line theroad, and bring every November into this little town, so marvellouslysheltered, the luxurious life and cosmopolitan animation of anaristocratic wintering place. But at this time of year there was no onein the sea town of Bordighera but fishermen, invisible at this hour. Thevillas and hotels seemed dead, their blinds and shutters closed. They took Paul through long, cool, and silent passages to a greatdrawing-room facing north, which seemed to be part of the suites letfor the season, whose doors communicated with the other rooms. Whitecurtains, a carpet, the comfort demanded by the English even whentravelling, and outside the windows, which the hotel-keeper openedwide to tempt the traveller to a longer stay, a splendid view of themountain. An astonishing quiet reigned in this great deserted inn, withneither manager, nor cook, nor waiters--the whole staff coming onlyin the winter--and given up for domestic needs to a local spoil-sauce, expert at a _stoffato_, a _risotto_; also to two stablemen, who clothedthemselves at meal-time with the dress-coat and white tie of office. Happily, de Gery was only going to remain there for an hour or two, torest his eyes from the overpowering light, his head from the dolorousgrip of the sun. From the divan where he lay, the admirable landscape, diversified withlight and trembling leaves, seemed to descend to his window by stagesof different greens, where scattered villas shone white, and amongthem that of Maurice Trott, the banker, recognisable by its capriciousarchitecture and the height of its palms. The Levantine house, whose gardens came up to the windows of the hotel, had sheltered for some months an artistic celebrity, the sculptorBrehat, who was dying of consumption, and owed the prolonging of hisexistence to this princely hospitality. The neighbourhood of this dyingcelebrity--of which the hotel-keeper was proud, and which he would haveliked to charge in the bill--the name of Brehat, which de Gery had sooften heard pronounced with admiration in Felicia Ruys's studio, broughtback his thoughts to the beautiful face, with its pure lines, which hehad last seen in the Bois de Boulogue, leaning on Mora's shoulder. Whathad become of this unfortunate girl when this prop had failed her?Would this lesson be of use to her in the future? And, by a strangecoincidence, while he was thinking thus of Felicia, a great whitegreyhound was bounding up an alley of green trees on the slopes of theneighbouring garden. It was like Kadour--the same short hair, the samemouth, red, fierce, and delicate. Paul, before his open window, wasassailed in a moment by all sorts of visions, sad or charming. Perhapsthe beauty of the scene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Underthe orange-trees and lemon-trees in rows, laden with their goldenfruit, stretched immense fields of violets in regular and packed beds, separated by little irrigation canals, whose white stone cut up theexuberant verdure. An exquisite ordour of violets dried in the sun was rising--a hotboudoir scent, enervating, enfeebling, which called up for de Geryfeminine visions--Aline, Felicia--permeating the fairy-like landscape, in this blue-charged atmosphere, this heavenly day, which one might havecalled the perfume become visible of so many open flowers. The creakingof a door made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone into the nextroom. He heard the rustle of a dress against the thin partition, a leafturned in a book which could not be very interesting, for a long sighturning into a yawn made him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Hadhe not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert, " so much in keepingwith the burning temperature out of doors? No--nothing more. He fellasleep again, and this time all the confused images which pursued himfixed themselves in a dream--a very pleasant dream. He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her cleareyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. Inthis very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting inwhite morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of hertrousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfastsof a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and theclear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, theeyes where one sees one's self, the future--life--the distant horizon. Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy theywere! And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad. Hereyes filled with tears. She said to him: "Felicia is there. You willlove me no longer. " And he laughed, "Felicia here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes; she is there. " Trembling she pointed to the next room, fromwhich came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia: "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hidingand suddenly discovered. Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room, before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the greathillside. But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of adog, and hurried knocks on the door. "Open the door! It is I--it is Jenkins. " Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here? How was that? To whomwas he speaking? What voice was going to answer him? No one answered. Alight step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously. "Here you are at last, " said the Irishman, entering. And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul wouldnever have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through thepartition for the doctor's with his sugary manners. "At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing fromGenoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had not gone, becausethe yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns onthe coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have just come from him. It washe who told me you were here. " But to whom was he speaking? Who was so singularly obstinate? At last abeautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon airvibrate. "Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?" Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down withdisgust. "I have come to prevent you from going--from doing this foolish thing. " "What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there. " "But you don't think, my dear child, that--" "Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know what lies underneathit. Speak to me as you did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to thespaniel. I fear it less. " "Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young andbeautiful as you are. " "And am I not always alone? Would you like me to take Constance, at herage?" "Or me?" "You!" She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh. "And what aboutParis? And your patients--deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, onany account. " "I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go, " saidJenkins resolutely. There was an instant of silence. Paul asked himself if it was worthyof him to listen to this conversation which was full of terriblerevelations. But in spite of his fatigue an invincible curiosity nailedhim to the spot. It seemed to him that the enigma which had so long beenperplexing and troubling him was going to be solved at last, to show thewoman sad or perverse, concealed by the fashionable artist. He remainedthere, still holding his breath, needlessly, however; for the two, believing themselves to be alone in the hotel, let their passions andtheir voices rise without constraint. "Well, what do you want of me?" "I want you. " "Jenkins!" "Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me to say such words before you, but other men than I have said them, and nearer still. " "And if it were so, wretch! If I have not been able to protect myselffrom disgust and boredom, if I have lost my pride, is it for you to saya word? As if you were not the cause of it; as if you had not foreversaddened and darkened my life for me!" And these burning and rapid words revealed to the terrified Paul deGery the horrible meaning of this apparently affectionate guardianship, against which the mind, the thought, the dreams of the young girl hadhad to struggle so long, and which had left her the incurable sadness ofprecocious regret, the heart-break of a life hardly begun. "I loved you! I love you still! Passion excuses everything, " answeredJenkins in a hollow voice. "Love me, then, if that amuses you. As for me, I hate you not only forthe wrong you have done me, all the beliefs and energy you have killedin me, but because you represent what is most execrable, most hideousunder the sun--hypocrisy and lies. This society masquerade, this heap offalsity, of grimaces, of cowardly and unclean conventions have sickenedme to such an extent, that I am running away exiling myself so as to seethem no longer; rather than them I would have the prison, the sewer, thestreets. And yet it is your deceit, O sublime Jenkins, which horrifiesme most. You have mingled our French hypocrisy, all smiles andpoliteness, with your large English shakes of the hand, with yourcordial and demonstrative loyalty. They have all been caught by it. Theysaid, 'The good Jenkins; the worthy, honest Jenkins. ' But I--I knew you, and in spite of your fine motto on the envelopes of your letters, on your seal, your sleeve-links, your hat-bands, the doors of yourcarriage, I always saw the rascal you are. " Her voice hissed through her teeth, clinched by an incredible ferocityof expression, and Paul expected some furious revolt of Jenkins under somany insults. But this hate and contempt of the woman he loved must havegiven him more sorrow than anger, for he answered softly, in a tone ofwounded gentleness: "Oh! you are cruel. If you knew the pain you are giving me! Hypocrite!yes, it is true; but I was not born like that. One is forced into it bythe difficulties of life. When one has the wind against one, and wishesto advance, one tacks. I have tacked. Lay the blame on my miserablebeginnings, my false entry into existence, and agree at least that onething in me has never lied--my passion! Nothing has been able to killit--neither your disdain, nor your abuse, nor all that I have read inyour eyes, which for so many years have not once smiled at me. It isstill my passion which gives me the strength, even after what I havejust heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen! You told me once that youwanted a husband--some one who would watch over you during your work, who would take over some of the duties of the poor Crenmitz. Those wereyour own words, which wounded me then because I was not free. Now allthat is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?" "And your wife?" cried the young girl, while Paul was asking himself thesame question. "My wife is dead. " "Dead? Mme. Jenkins? Is it true?" "You never knew her of whom I speak. The other was not my wife. WhenI met her I was already married in Ireland--years before. A horribleforced marriage. My dear, when I was twenty-five I was confronted withthis alternative: a debtor's prison or Miss Strang, an ugly and goutyold maid, sister of the usurer who had lent me five hundred pounds topay for my medical studies. I preferred the prison; but after weeks andmonths I came to the end of my courage, and I married Miss Strang, whobrought me for dowry--my note of hand. You can guess what my life wasbetween these two monsters who adored each other. A jealous, impotentwife. The brother spied on me, following me everywhere. I should havegone away, but one thing kept me there. The usurer was said to be veryrich. I wished to have some return for my cowardice. You see, I tell youall. Come now, I have been punished. Old Strang died insolvent; he usedto gamble, had ruined himself without saying a word. Then I put my wifeand her rheumatism in a hospital, and came to France. I had to beginexistence again, more struggles and misery. But I had experience on myside, hatred and contempt for men, and my newly conquered liberty, for Idid not dream that the horrible weight of this cursed union was going tohinder my getting on, at that distance. Happily, it is over--I am free. " "Yes, Jenkins, free. But why do you not make your wife the poor creaturewho has shared your life so long, so humble and devoted as she is?" "Oh!" said he, with an outburst of sincerity, "between my two prisonsI would prefer the other, where I could be frankly indifferent. But theatrocious comedy of conjugal love, of unwearying happiness, when forso long I had loved you and thought of you alone! There is not such atorture on earth. If I can guess, the poor woman must have uttered a cryof relief and happiness at the separation. It is the only adieu I hopedfor from her. " "But who forced you to such a thing?" "Paris, society, the world. Married by its opinion, we were held by it. " "And now you are held no longer?" "Now something comes before all--it is the idea of losing you, of seeingyou no longer. Oh! when I learned of your flight, when I saw the billover your door TO LET, I felt sure that it was all up with poses andgrimaces, that I had nothing else to do but to set out, to run quicklyafter my happiness, which you were taking away. You were leavingParis--I have left it. Everything of yours was being sold; everything ofmine will be sold. " "And she?" said Felicia trembling. "She, the irreproachable companion, the honest woman whom no one has ever suspected, where will she go?What will she do? And it is her place you have just offered me. A stolenplace, think what a hell! Well, and your motto, good Jenkins, virtuousJenkins, what shall we do with it? '_Le bien sans esperance_, ' eh!" At this sneer, cutting his face like a whip, the wretch answeredpanting: "That will do! Do not sneer at me so. It is too horrible now. Does itnot touch you, then, to be loved as I love you in sacrificing everythingto you--fortune, honour, respect? See, look at me. I have snatched mymask off for you, I have snatched if off before all. And now, see, hereis the hypocrite. " He heard the muffled noise of two knees falling on the floor. Andstammering, distracted with love, weak before her, he begged herto consent to this marriage, to give him the right to follow hereverywhere, to defend her. Then the words failed him, stifled in apassionate sob, so deep, so lacerating that it should have touched anyheart, above all among this splendid impassible scenery in this perfumedheat. But Felicia was not touched. "Let us have done, Jenkins, " saidshe brusquely. "What you ask is impossible. We have nothing to hide fromeach other, and after your confidences just now, I wish to make one toyou, which humbles my pride, but your degradation makes you worthy. Iwas Mora's mistress. " Paul knew this. And yet it was so sad to hear this beautiful, pure voiceladen with such a confession, in the midst of the intoxicating air, thathe felt his heart contract. "I knew it, " answered Jenkins in a low voice, "I have the letters youwrote to him. " "My letters?" "Oh, I will give them to you--here. I know them by heart. I have readand reread them. It is that which hurts one, when one loves. But Ihave suffered other tortures. When I think that it was I--" He stoppedhimself. He choked. "I who had to furnish fuel for your flames, warmthis frozen lover, send him to you ardent and young--Ah! he has devouredmy pearls--I might refuse over and over again, he was always takingthem. At last I was mad. You wish to burn, wretched woman. Well, burn, then!" Paul rose to his feet in terror. Was he going to hear the confessionof a crime? But the shame of hearing more was not inflicted on him. A violent knocking, this time on his own door, warned him that his_calesino_ was ready. "Is the French gentleman ready?" In the next room there was silence, then a whisper. --There had been someone near who had heard them. --Paul de Gery hurried downstairs. He mustget out of this room to escape the weight of so much infamy. As the post-chaise swayed, he saw among the common white curtains, whichfloat at all the windows in the south, a pale figure with the hair ofa goddess, and great burning eyes fixed on him. But a glance at Aline'sportrait quickly dispelled this disturbing vision, and forever curedof his old love, he travelled until evening through the magic landscapewith the lovely bride of the _dejeuner_, who carried in the folds of hermodest robe and mantle all the violets of Bordighera. THE FIRST NIGHT OF "REVOLT" "Take your places for the first act!" The cry of the stage-manager, standing with his hand raised to hismouth to form a trumpet, at the foot of the staircase behind the scenes, echoes under the roof, rises and rolls along, to be lost in the depthsof corridors full of the noise of doors banging, of hasty steps, ofdesperate calls to the _coiffeur_ and the dressers; while there appearone by one on the landings of the various floors, slow and majestic, without moving their heads for fear of disturbing the least detailof their make-up, all the personages of the first act of _Revolt_, inelegant modern ball costumes, with the creaking of new shoes, the silkenrustle of the trains, the jingling of rich bracelets pushed up the armwhile gloves are being buttoned. All these people seem excited, nervous, pale beneath their paint, and under the skilfully prepared satin-likesurface of the shoulders, tremors flutter like shadows. Dry-mouthed, they speak little. The least nervous, while affecting to smile, havein their eyes and voice the hesitation that marks an absent mind--thatapprehension of the battle behind the foot-lights which is ever one ofthe most powerful attractions of the comedian's art, its piquancy, itsfreshness. The stage is encumbered by the passage to and fro of machinists andscene-builders hastening about, running into one another in the dim, pallid light falling from above, which will give place directly, as soonas the curtain rises, to the dazzling of the foot-lights. Cardailhac isthere in his dress-coat and white tie, his opera hat on one side, givinga final glance to the arrangement of the scenery, hurrying the workmen, complimenting the _ingenue_ who is waiting dressed and ready, beaming, humming an air, looking superb. To see him no one would ever guess theterrible worries which distract him. He is compromised by the fall ofthe Nabob--which entails the loss of his directorate--and is risking hisall on the piece of this evening, obliged, if it be not a success, toleave the cost of this marvellous scenery, these stuffs at a hundredfrancs the yard, unpaid. It is a fourth bankruptcy that stares him inthe face. But, bah! our manager is confident. Success, like all themonsters that feed on men, loves youth; and this unknown author, whosename is appearing for the first time on a theatre bill, flatters thegambler's superstitions. Andre Maranne feels less confident. As the hour for the production ofthe piece approaches he loses faith in his work, terrified by the sightof the house, at which he looks through the hole in the curtain asthrough the narrow lens of a stereoscope. A splendid house, crammed to the roof, notwithstanding the late periodof the spring and the fashionable taste for early departure to thecountry; a house that Cardailhac, a declared enemy of nature and thecountry, endeavouring always to keep Parisians in Paris till the latestpossible date, has succeeded in crowding and making as brilliant as inmidwinter. Fifteen hundred heads are swarming beneath the great centralchandelier, erect--bent forward--turning round--questioning amid a greatplay of shadows and reflections; some massed in the obscure corners ofthe floor, others in a bright light reflected through the open doors ofthe boxes from the white walls of the corridor; the first-night publicwhich is always the same, that brigand-like _tout Paris_ which goeseverywhere, carrying those envied places by storm when a favour or aclaim by right of some official position fails to secure them. In the stalls are low-cut waistcoats, clubmen, shining bald heads, widepartings in scanty hair, light-coloured gloves, big opera-glasses raisedand directed towards various points. In the galleries a mixture ofdifferent social sets and all kinds of dress, all the people well knownas figuring at this kind of solemnity, and the embarrassing promiscuitywhich places the modest smile of the virtuous woman along-side of theblack-ringed eyes, the vermilion-painted lips of her who belongs toanother category. White hats, pink hats, diamonds and paint. Above, theboxes present the same confusion; actresses and women of the demi-monde, ministers, ambassadors, famous authors, critics--these last wearing agrave air and frowning brow, sitting crosswise in their _fauteuils_ withthe impassive haughtiness of judges whom nothing can corrupt. The boxesnear the stage especially stand out in the general picture brilliantlylighted, occupied by celebrities of the financial world, the women_decollete_ and with bare arms, glittering with jewels like the Queen ofSheba on her visit to the King of Judea. But on the left, one of theselarge boxes, entirely empty, attracts attention by reason of its curiousdecoration, lighted from the back by a Moorish lantern. Over the wholeassembly is an impalpable and floating dust, the flickering of the gas, that odour that mingles with all the pleasures of Paris, its littlesputterings, sharp and quick like the breaths drawn by a consumptive, accompanying the movement of opened fans. And then, too, _ennui_, agloomy _ennui_, the _ennui_ of seeing the same faces always in thesame places, with their defects or their poses, that uniformity offashionable gatherings which ends by establishing in Paris each wintera spiteful and gossiping provincialism more petty than that of theprovinces themselves. Maranne observed this ill-humour, this lassitude of the public, andthinking of all the changes which the success of his play might bringabout in his simple life, he asked himself, full of a great anxiety, what he could do to bring his ideas home to those thousands of people, to pluck them away from their preoccupation, and to send throughthis crowd a single current which should draw to himself those absentglances, those minds of every different calibre, so difficult to move tounison. Instinctively his eyes sought friendly faces, a box facing thestage occupied by the Joyeuse family; Elise and the younger girls seatedin the front, Aline and the father in the row behind--a charming familygroup, like a bouquet wet with dew amid a display of artificial flowers. And while all Paris was disdainfully asking, "Who are those peoplethere?" the poet instrusted his fate to those little fairy hands, newgloved for the occasion, which very soon would boldly give the signalfor applause. The curtain is going up! Maranne has barely time to spring into thewings; and suddenly he hears as from far, very far away, the first wordsof his play, which rise, like a flight of timid birds, into the silenceand immensity of the theatre. A terrible moment. Where should he go?What should he do? Remain there leaning against a wing, with strainingear and beating heart? Encourage the actors when he himself stood in somuch need of encouragement? He prefers rather to look the peril in theface; and by the little door communicating with the corridor behind theboxes he slips out to a corner box, which he orders to be opened for himsoftly. "Sh! It is I. " Some one is seated in the shadow--a woman, shewhom all Paris knows and who is hiding herself from the public gaze. Andre sits down by her side, and so, close to one another, mother andson tremblingly watch the progress of the play. It astonished the audience at first. This Theatre des Nouveautes, situated in the very heart of the boulevard, where its portico glittersall illuminated among the great restaurants of the smart clubs; thistheatre, to which people were accustomed to come in parties after aluxurious dinner to listen until supper-time to an act or two of somesuggestive piece, had become in the hands of its clever manager the mostfashionable of all Parisian entertainments, without any very precisecharacter of its own, and partaking something of all, from thefairy-operetta which exhibits undressed women, to the serious moderndrama. Cardailhac was especially anxious to justify his title of"Manager of the Nouveautes, " and, since the Nabob's millions had beenat the back of the undertaking, had made a point of preparing forthe boulevardiers the most dazzling surprises. That of this eveningsurpassed them all; the piece was in verse--and moral. A moral play! The old rogue had realized that the moment had arrived to try thateffect, and he was trying it. After the astonishment of the firstminutes, a few disappointed exclamations here and there in the boxes, "Why, it is in verse!" the house began to feel the charm of thisinvigorating and healthy piece, as if there had been sprinkled on it, in its rarefied atmosphere, some fresh and pungent essence, an elixir oflife perfumed with thyme from the hillside. "Ah! this is nice--it is restful. " Such was the general sense, a thrill of ease, a spasm of pleasureaccompanying each line. That fat old Hemerlingue found it restful, puffing in his stage-box on the ground floor as in a trough of cerisesatin. It was restful also to that tall Suzanne Bloch, her hair dressedin the antique way, ringlets flowing over a diadem of gold; andnear her, Amy Ferat, all in white like a bride and with sprigs oforange-blossom in her fluffy hair, it was restful to her also, you maybe sure. A crowd of demi-mondaines were present, some very fat, with a dirtygreasiness acquired in a hundred seraglios, three chins, and an air ofstupidity; others absolutely green in spite of their paint, as if theyhad been dipped in a bath of that arsenate of copper which is calledin the shops "Paris green. " These were wrinkled, faded to such a degreethat they hid in the back of their boxes, only allowing a portion ofa white arm to be seen, a rounded shoulder protruding. Then there wereyoung men about town, flabby and without backbone, those who atthat time used to be called _petits creves_, creatures worn out bydissipation, with stooping necks and drooping lids, incapable ofstanding erect or of articulating a single word perfectly. And all thesepeople exclaimed with one accord: "This is nice--it is restful. " Thehandsome Moessard murmured it like a refrain beneath his little fairmustache, while his queen in the stage-box translated it into thebarbarism of her foreign tongue. Positively they found it restful. Theydid not say after what--after what heart-breaking labour, after whatforced, idle and useless task. All these friendly murmurs, united and mingled, began to give to thehouse an eventful appearance. Success was felt in the air, facesbecame serene again, the women seemed the more beautiful for reflectingenthusiasm, for being moved to glances that were as exciting asapplause. Andre, at his mother's side, thrilled with such an unknownpleasure, with that proud delight which a man feels when he stirs themultitude, be he only a singer in a suburban back-yard, with a patrioticrefrain and two pathetic notes in his voice. Suddenly the whisperingsredoubled, were transformed into a tumult. People were chuckling andfidgeting with excitement. What had happened? Some accident on thestage? Andre, leaning terrified towards the actors as astonished ashimself, saw every opera-glass turned towards the big stage-box whichhad remained empty until then, and which some one had just entered, whosat down immediately with both his elbows on the velvet ledge, andwith his opera-glass drawn from its case, taking his place in gloomysolitude. In ten days the Nabob had aged twenty years. Violent southern natureslike his, if they are rich in enthusiasms, become also more utterlyprostrate than others. Since his unseating the unfortunate man had shuthimself up in his bedroom, with drawn curtains, no longer wishing evento see the light of day nor to cross over the threshold beyond whichlife was waiting for him, with the engagements he had undertaken, the promises he had made, a mass of protested bills and writs. TheLevantine, gone off to some spa accompanied by her _masseur_ and hernegress, was totally indifferent to the ruin of the establishment;Bompain--the man in the fez--in frightened bewilderment amid the demandsfor money, not knowing how to approach his ill-starred master, whopersistently kept his bed and turned his face to the wall as soon asbusiness matters were mentioned. His old mother alone remained behind toface the disaster, with the knowledge born of her narrow and straitenedexperience as a village woman, who knows what a stamped document--asignature--is, and thinks honour is the greatest and best thing inthe world. Her peasant's cap made its appearance on every floor ofthe mansion, examining bills, reforming the domestic arrangements, andfearing neither outcries or humiliation. At all hours the good womanmight be seen striding about the Place Vendome, gesticulating, talkingto herself, and saying aloud: "_Te_, I will go and see the bailiff. "And never did she consult her son about anything save when it wasindispensable, and then only in a few discreet words, while avoidingeven a glance at him. To rouse Jansoulet from his torpor it had requiredde Gery's telegram, dated from Marseilles, announcing that he was on hisway back, bringing ten million francs. Ten millions!--that is to say, bankruptcy averted, the possibility of recovering his position--ofstarting life afresh. And behold our southerner rebounding from thedepth of his fall, intoxicated with joy, and full of hope. He orderedthe windows to be opened and newspapers to be brought to him. What amagnificent opportunity was this first night of _Revolt_ to show himselfto the Parisians, who were believing him to have gone under, to enterthe great whirlpool once more through the swing door of his box at theNouveautes! His mother, warned by some instinct, did indeed try to holdhim back. Paris now terrified her. She would have liked to carry off herchild to some unknown corner of the Midi, to nurse him along with hiselder brother--stricken down both of them by the great city. But he wasthe master. Resistance was impossible to that will of a man spoiled bywealth. She helped him to dress for the occasion, "made him look nice, "as she said laughing, and watched him not without a certain pride ashe departed, dignified, full of new life, having almost got over theprostration of the preceding days. After his arrival at the theatre, Jansoulet quickly perceived thecommotion which his presence caused in the house. Accustomed to similarcurious ovations, he acknowledged them ordinarily without the leastembarrassment, with a frank display of his wide and good-natured smile;but this time the manifestation was hostile, almost indignant. "What! It is he?" "There he is. " "What impudence!" Such exclamations from the stalls confusedly rose among many others. Theretirement in which he had taken refuge for some days past had left himin ignorance of the public exasperation, of the homilies, the statementsbroadcast in the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his wealthas their text--articles written for effect, hypocritical phraseologyby the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to time on theinnocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. It was a terriblyembarrassing exhibition, which gave him at first more sorrow than anger. Deeply moved, he hid his emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing hisattention on the least details of the stage arrangements, giving athree-quarters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape thescandalous observation of which he was the victim and which made hisears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glassbecome full of those whirling multi-coloured circles which are the firstsymptom of brain disorder. When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remainedmotionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, nowmore distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue onthe stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing theirplaces in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave hisbox and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beastescaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling inthe narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he foundhimself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths, journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as partof their trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened forair, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping: "A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good. " "That Nabob! What impudence!" "Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it. " "How is it that he has not yet been arrested?" "Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play. " "Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Why, there is the marquiseopposite, in the balcony, with a new hat. " "What does that prove? She is at her business as a stager of newfashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In Desgrange's racing colours. " "And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?" "At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seen them both. It seems thatthe Bey has begun to take the pearls. " "The deuce he has!" Farther along, soft voices were murmuring: "Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See how lonely he looks, poorman!" "But, children, I do not know him. " "Never mind. Just a bow. Something to show him that he is not utterlydeserted. " Thereupon the little old gentleman, very red in the face and wearinga white tie, stepped quickly in front of the Nabob, and ceremoniouslyraised his hat to him with great respect. With what gratitude, whata smile of eager good-will was that solitary greeting returned, thatgreeting from a man whom Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, and who had yet exerted a weighty influence upon his destiny; for, butfor the _pere_ Joyeuse, the chairman of the board of the Territorialwould probably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois l'Hery. Thusit is that in the tangle of modern society, that great web of interests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all the various worlds areconnected, united beneath the surface, from the highest existencesto the most humble; this it is that explains the variegation, thecomplexity of this study of manners, the collection of the scatteredthreads of which the writer who is careful of truth is bound to make thebackground of his story. In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected to every manifestationof the terrible ostracism of that Paris world to which he had neitherrelationship nor serious ties, and whose contempt isolated him moresurely than a visiting monarch is isolated by respect--the averted look, the apparently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulleddown over the eyes. Overcome by embarrassment and shame, he stumbled. Some one said quite loudly, "He is drunk, " and all that the poor mancould manage to do was to return and shut himself up in the salon at theback of his box. Ordinarily, this little retreat was crowded duringthe intervals between the acts by stock-brokers and journalists. Theylaughed and smoked and made a great noise; the manager would come togreet his sleeping partner. But on this evening there was nobody. Andthe absence of Cardailhac, with his keen nose for success, signifiedfully to Jansoulet the measure of his disgrace. "What have I done? Why will Paris have no more of me?" Thus he questioned himself amid a solitude that was accentuated by thenoises around, the abrupt turning of keys in the doors of the boxes, thethousand exclamations of an amused crowd. Then suddenly, the freshnessof his luxurious surroundings, the Moorish lantern casting strangeshadows on the brilliant silks of the divan and walls, reminded him ofthe date of his arrival. Six months! Only six months since he came toParis! Completely done for and ruined in six months! He sank into akind of torpor, from which he was roused by the sound of applauseand enthusiastic bravos. It was decidedly a great success--this play_Revolt_. There were some passages of strength and satire, and theviolent tirades, a trifle over-emphatic but written with youth andsincerity, excited the audience after the idyllic calm of the opening. Jansoulet in his turn wished to hear and see. This theatre belonged tohim after all. His place in that stage-box had cost him over a millionfrancs; the very least he could do was to occupy it. So he seated himself in the front of his box. In the theatre the heatwas suffocating in spite of the fans which were vigorously at work, throwing reflections from their bright spangles through the impalpableatmosphere of silence. The house was listening religiously to anindignant and lofty denunciation of the scamps who occupied exaltedpositions, after having robbed their fellows in those depths from whichthey were sprung. Certainly, Maranne when he wrote these fine lineshad been far from having the Nabob in his mind. But the public sawan allusion in them; and while a triple salvo of applause greeted theconclusion of the speech, all heads were turned towards the stage-box onthe left with an indignant, openly offensive movement. The poor wretch, pilloried in his own theatre! A pillory which had cost him so dear!This time he made no attempt to escape the insult, but settled himselfresolutely in his seat, with arms folded, and braved the crowd that wasstaring at him--those hundreds of faces raised in mockery, that virtuous_tout Paris_ which had seized upon him as a scapegoat and was drivinghim into the wilderness, after having laden him with the burden of allits own crimes. A pretty gang, truly, for a manifestation of that kind! Opposite, thebox of a bankrupt banker, the wife and her lover sitting next eachother in the front row, the husband behind in the shadow, voluntarilyinconspicuous and solemn. Near them the frequent trio of a mother whohas married her daughter in accordance with the personal inclinationof her own heart, in order to make a son-in-law of her lover. Thenirregular households, courtesans exhibiting the price of shame, diamondslike circlets of fire riveted around arms and neck. And those groups ofemasculate youths, with their open collars and painted eyebrows, whoseshirts of embroidered cambric and white satin corsets people used toadmire in the guest-chambers at Compiegne; those _mignons_, of the timeof Agrippa, calling each other among themselves: "My heart--Mydear girl. " An assemblage of all the scandals, all the turpitudes, consciences sold or for sale, the vice of an epoch devoid of greatnessand without originality, intent on making trial of the caprices of everyother age. And these were the people who were insulting him and crying: "Away withthee, thou art unworthy!" "Unworthy--I! But my worth is a hundred times greater than that of anyamong you, wretches that you are! You make my millions a reproach tome, but who has helped me to spend them? Thou, cowardly and treacherouscomrade, who hidest thy sick pasha-like obesity in the corner of thystage-box! I made thy fortune along with my own in the days when weshared all things in brotherly community. Thou, pale marquis--I paid ahundred thousand francs at the club in order to save thee from shamefulexpulsion! "Thee I covered with jewels, hussy, letting thee pass for my mistress, because that kind of thing makes a good impression in our world--butwithout ever asking thee anything in return. And thou, brazen-facedjournalist, who for brain hast all the dirty sediment of thy inkstand, and on thy conscience as many spots as thy queen has on her skin, thouthinkest that I have not paid thee thy price and that is why thy insultsare heaped on me. Yes, yes; stare at me, you vermin! I am proud. Myworth is above yours. " All that he was thus saying to himself mentally, in an ungovernablerage, visible in the quivering of his pale, thick lips. The unfortunateman, who was nearly mad, was about perhaps to shout it aloud in thesilence, to denounce that insulting crowd--who knows?--to spring intothe midst of it, kill one of them--ah! kill _one_ of them--when hefelt a light tap on his shoulder, and a fair head came before his eyes, serious and frank, two hands held out, which he grasped convulsively, like a drowning man. "Ah! dear friend, dear--" the poor man stammered. But he had not thestrength to say more. This emotion of joy coming suddenly in the midstof his fury melted him into a sobbing torrent of tears, and stifledwords. His face became purple. He motioned "Take me away. " And, stumbling in his walk, leaning on de Gery's arm, he only managed tocross the threshold of his box before he fell prostrate in the corridor. "Bravo! Bravo!" cried the house in reply to the speech which the actorhad just finished; and there was a noise like a hailstorm, and stampingof enthusiastic feet while the great lifeless body, raised withdifficulty by the scene-shifters, was carried through the brightlylighted wings, crowded with people pressing in their curiosity round thestage, excited by the atmosphere of success and who hardly noticed thepassage of the inert and vanquished man, borne on men's arms likesome victim of a riot. They laid him on a couch in the room where theproperties were stored, Paul de Gery at his side, with a doctor and twoporters who eagerly lent all the assistance in their power. Cardailhac, extremely busy over his play, had sent word that he should come to hearthe news "directly, after the fifth act. " Bleeding after bleeding, cuppings, mustard leaves--nothing brought evena quiver to the skin of the patient, insensible apparently to all theremedies usually employed in cases of apoplexy. The whole being seemedto be surrendering to death, to be preparing the way for the rigidityof the corpse; and this in the most sinister place in the world, thischaos, lighted by a lantern merely, amid which there lie about pell-mellin the dust all the remains of former plays--gilt furniture, curtainswith gay fringes, coaches, boxes, card-tables, dismantled staircasesand balusters, among ropes and pulleys, a confusion of out-of-datetheatrical properties, thrown down, broken, and damaged. BernardJansoulet, as he lay among this wreckage, his shirt opened over hischest, pale and covered with blood, was indeed a man come to theshipwreck of his life, bruised and tossed aside along with the pitifulruins of his artificial luxury dispersed and broken up, in the whirlpoolof Paris. Paul, with aching heart, contemplated the scene sadly, thatface with its short nose, preserving in its inertia the savage yetkindly expression of an inoffensive creature that tried to defend itselfbefore it died and had not time to bite. He reproached himself bitterlywith his inability to be of any service to him. Where was that fineproject of leading Jansoulet across the bogs, of guarding him againstambushes? All that he had been able to do had been to save a fewmillions for him, and even these had come too late. The windows had just been thrown open upon the curved balcony overthe boulevard, now at the height of its noisy and brilliant stir. Thetheatre was surrounded by, as it were, a plinth of gas-jets, a zone offire which brought the gloomiest recesses into light, pricked out withrevolving lanterns, like stars journeying through a dark sky. The playwas over. People were coming out. The black and dense crowd on the stepswas dispersing over the white pavements, on its way to spread throughthe town the news of a great success and the name of an unknown authorwho to-morrow would be triumphant and famous. A splendid evening, sothat the windows of the restaurants were lighted up in gaiety and filesof carriages passed through the streets at a late hour. This tumult offestivity which the poor Nabob had loved so keenly, which seemed to goso well with the dizzy whirl of his existence, roused him to life fora moment. His lips moved, and into his dilated eyes, turned towardsde Gery, there came before he died a pained expression, beseeching andprotesting, as though to call upon him as witness of one of the greatestand most cruel acts of injustice that Paris has ever committed.