The Works of Guy de Maupassant

 VOLUME V

 UNE VIE AND OTHER STORIES

 _ILLUSTRATED_

 NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY NEW YORK

 Copyright, 1909, By BIGELOW, SMITH & CO. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 A Woman's Life (Une Vie) 1

 Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior 268

 Little Louise Roqué 287

 Mother and Daughter 335

 A Passion 341

 No Quarter 352

 The Impolite Sex 361

 Woman's Wiles 369

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INTRODUCTION

By Edmund Gosse

The most robust and masculine of recent French novelists is a typicalNorman, sprung from an ancient noble family, originally of Lorraine, butlong settled in the Pays de Caux. The traveler from England towardsParis, soon after leaving Dieppe, sees on his left hand, immediatelybeyond the station of St. Aubin, a handsome sixteenth-century house, theChâteau de Miromesnil, on a hill above the railway. Here, surrounded bythe relics of his warlike and courtly ancestors, Henri René Albert Guyde Maupassant was born on the 5th of August, 1850. He was earlyassociated with the great Norman master of fiction, Gustave Flaubert, who perceived his genius and enthusiastically undertook the training ofhis intelligence. Through 1870 and 1871 the young man served in the waras a common soldier. He was somewhat slow in taking up the profession ofletters, and was thirty years of age before he became in any degreedistinguished. In 1879 the Troisième Théâtre Français produced a shortplay of his, _Histoire du Vieux Temps_ (An Old-World Story), gracefullywritten in rhyme, but showing no very remarkable aptitude for the stage. 

It was in 1880 that De Maupassant was suddenly made famous by twopublished volumes. The one was a volume of Verses (_Des Vers_), twentypieces, most of them of a narrative character, extremely brilliant inexecution, and audacious in tone. One of these, slightly exceeding itsfellows in crudity, was threatened with a prosecution in law as anoutrage upon manners, and the fortune of the volume was secured. Theearly poems of De Maupassant like those of Paul Bourget, are not withoutsterling merit as poetry, but their main interest is that they reflectthe characteristics of their author's mind. Such pieces as"Fin-d'Amour, " and "Au Bord de l'Eau, " in the 1880 volume, are simplyshort stories told in verse, instead of in prose. In this same year, Guyde Maupassant, who had thrown in his lot with the Naturalist Novelists, contributed a short tale to the volume called _Les Soirées de Médan_, towhich Zola, Huysmans, Hennique, Céard and Paul Alexis also affixed theirnames. He was less known than any of these men, yet it was his story, _Boule de Suif_ (Lump of Suet, or Ball of Fat), which ensured thesuccess of the book. This episode of the war, treated with cynicism, tenderness, humor and pathos mingled in quite a new manner, revealed afresh genius for the art of narrative. There was an instant demand formore short stories from the same pen, and it was soon discovered thatthe fecundity and resource of the new writer were as extraordinary asthe charm of his style and the objective force of his vision. 

It is unnecessary to recount here the names of even the chief of DeMaupassant's stories. If we judge them merely by their vivacity, richness and variety, they are the best short tales which have beenproduced anywhere during the same years. But it is impossible not toadmit that they have grave faults, which exclude them from all possiblerecommendation to young and ingenuous readers. No bibliography of themcan be attempted, the publishers of M. Guy de Maupassant havingreprinted his lesser stories so frequently, and with such infinitevarieties of arrangement, that the positive sequence of these littlemasterpieces has been hopelessly confused. Three stories in particular, however, may be mentioned, _La Maison Tellier_, 1881; _Les SoeursRondoli_, 1884, and _Miss Harriett_, 1885, because the collections whichoriginally bore these names were pre-eminently successful in drawing theattention of the critics to the author's work. 

It was not until he had won a very great reputation as a shortstory-teller, that De Maupassant attempted a long novel. He publishedonly six single volume stories, all of which are included in the presentedition. The first was _Une Vie_ (A Life), 1883, a very careful study ofNorman manners, highly finished in the manner of Flaubert, whom he hasstyled "that irreproachable master whom I admire above all others. " Incertain directions, I do not think that De Maupassant has surpassed _UneVie_, in fidelity to nature, in a Dutch exactitude of portraiture, in acertain distinction of tone; it was the history of an unhappygentlewoman, doomed throughout life to be deceived, impoverished, disdained and overwhelmed. _Bel-Ami_, 1885, which succeeded this quietand Quaker-colored book, was a much more vivid novel, an extremelyvigorous picture of the rise in social prominence of a penniless fellowin Paris, without a brain or a heart, who depends wholly upon hisimpudence and his good looks. After 1885 De Maupassant published fournovels--_Mont-Oriol_, 1887; _Pierre et Jean_, 1888; _Fort comme la Mort_(As _Strong as Death_, or The Ruling Passion), 1889; and _Nôtre Coeur_(Our Heart), 1890. 

Of these six remarkable books, the _Pierre et Jean_ is certainly themost finished and the most agreeable. In _Mont-Oriol_, a beautifullandscape of Auvergne mountain and bath enshrines a singularlypessimistic rendering of the adage "He loved and he rode away. " Few ofthe author's thoughtful admirers will admit that in _Fort comme la Mort_he has done justice to his powers. In _Nôtre Coeur_ he has taken up oneof the psychological problems which have hitherto lain in the undisputedprovince of M. Bourget, and has shown how difficult it is in the muskyatmosphere of fashionable Paris for two hearts to recover the Maydayfreshness of their impulses, the spontaneous flow of their illusions; hedisplays himself here in a new light, less brutal than of old, moredelicate and analytical. With regard to _Pierre et Jean_, it would bedifficult to find words wherewith to describe it and its relation to thebest English fiction more just or more felicitous than those in whichMr. Henry James welcomed its first appearance:--"_Pierre et Jean_ is, sofar as my judgment goes, a faultless production.... It is the best of M. De Maupassant's novels, mainly because M. De Maupassant has never beforebeen so clever. It is a pleasure to see a mature talent able to renewitself, strike another note, and appear still young.... The author'schoice of a _milieu_, moreover, will serve to English readers as anexample of how much more democratic contemporary French fiction is thanthat of his own country. The greater part of it--almost all the work ofZola and of Daudet, the list of Flaubert's novels, and the best of thoseof the brothers De Goncourt--treat of that vast, dim section of society, which, lying between those luxurious walks on whose behalf there areeasy suppositions and that darkness of misery which, in addition tobeing picturesque, brings philanthropy also to the writer's aid, constitutes really, in extent and expressiveness, the substance of everynation. In England, where the fashion of fiction still sets mainly tothe country-house and the hunting-field, and yet more novels arepublished than anywhere else in the world, that thick twilight ofmediocrity of condition has been little explored. May it yield triumphsin the years to come!"

The great merit of M. De Maupassant as a writer is his frank andmasculine directness. He sees life clearly, and he undertakes todescribe it as he sees it, in concise and vigorous language. He is arealist, yet without the gloominess of Zola, over whom he claims onegreat advantage, that of possessing a rich sense of humor, and a largeshare of the old Gallic wit. His pessimism, indeed, is inexorable, andhe pushes the misfortune, or more often the degradation, of hischaracters to its extreme logical conclusion. Yet, even in his saddeststories, the general design is rarely sordid. For a long while he wasalmost exclusively concerned with impressions of Normandy; a littlelater he became one of the many painters of Paris. Then he traveledwidely, in the south of Europe, in Africa; wherever he went he took withhim a quick and sensitive eye for the aspects of nature, and hisdescriptive passages, which are never pushed to a tiresome excess oflength, are often faultlessly vivid. He attempted, with a good deal ofcleverness, to analyze character, but his real power seems to lie indescribing, in a sober style and with a virile impartiality, thesuperficial aspects of action and intrigue. 

 * * * * *

UNE VIE

(A WOMAN'S LIFE)

I

Jeanne, having finished her packing, went to the window, but it had notstopped raining. 

All night long the downpour had pattered against the roofs and thewindow-panes. The low, heavy clouds seemed as though they had burst, andwere emptying themselves on the world, to reduce it to a pulp and meltit as though it were a sugar-loaf. A hot wind swept by in gusts; themurmur of the overflowing gutters filled the empty streets, and thehouses, like sponges, absorbed the moisture which, penetrating to theinterior, made the walls wet from cellar to attic. 

Jeanne, who had left the convent the day before, free at last and readyfor all the happiness of a life of which she had dreamed for so long, feared that her father would hesitate about starting if the weather didnot clear up, and, for the hundredth time since the morning, she studiedthe horizon. 

Looking round, she saw that she had forgotten to put her almanac in hertraveling bag. She took from the wall the little card which bore in thecenter of a design, the date of the current year 1819 in gilt letters, and crossed out with a pencil the first four columns, drawing a linethrough each saint's name till she came to the second of May, the dayshe had left the convent. 

A voice outside the door called: "Jeannette!"

Jeanne answered: "Come in, papa. " And her father appeared. 

The Baron Simon-Jecques Le Perthuis des Vauds was a gentleman of the oldschool, eccentric and good-hearted. An enthusiastic follower ofJean-Jacques Rousseau, he had a loving tenderness for all nature; forthe fields, the woods, and for animals. An aristocrat by birth, he hated'93 by instinct; but of a philosophical temperament and liberal byeducation, he loathed tyranny with an inoffensive and declamatoryhatred. The strongest, and at the same time the weakest, trait in hischaracter was his generosity; a generosity which had not enough arms tocaress, to give, to embrace; the generosity of a creator which wasutterly devoid of system, and to which he gave way with no attempt toresist his impulses, as though part of his will were paralyzed; it was awant of energy, and almost amounted to a vice. 

A man of theories, he had thought out a whole plan of education for hisdaughter, wishing to make her happy and good, straightforward andaffectionate. Till she was twelve years old she had stayed at home;then, in spite of her mother's tears, she was sent to the Sacred HeartConvent. He had kept her strictly immured there, totally ignorant ofworldly things, for he wished her to return to him, at the age ofseventeen, innocent, that he might himself immerse her in a sort of bathof rational poetry; and, in the fields, surrounded by the fertile earth, he meant to instruct her, and enlighten her by the sight of the serenelaws of life, the innocent loves and the simple tenderness of theanimals. 

And now she was leaving the convent, radiant and brimful of happiness, ready for every joy and for all the charming adventures that, in theidle moments of her days and during the long nights, she had alreadypictured to herself. 

She looked like a portrait by Veronese, with her shining, fair hair, which looked as though it had given part of its color to her skin, thecreamy skin of a high-born girl, hardly tinted with pink and shaded by asoft velvety down, which could just be seen when she was kissed by asun-ray. Her eyes were blue, an opaque blue, like the eyes of a Dutchchina figure. On her left nostril was a little mole, another on theright side of her chin, where curled a few hairs so much like the colorof the skin that they could hardly be seen. She was tall, with awell-developed chest and supple waist. Her clear voice sometimes soundedtoo shrill, but her merry laugh made everyone around her feel happy. Shehad a way of frequently putting both hands to her forehead, as though tosmooth her hair. 

She ran to her father, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. 

"Well, are we going to start?" she asked. 

He smiled, shook back his white hair, which he wore rather long, andpointing towards the window:

"How can you think of traveling in such weather?" he said. 

Then she pleaded coaxingly and affectionately, "Oh, papa, please do letus start. It will be fine in the afternoon. "

"But your mother will never consent to it. "

"Oh, yes, I promise you she shall; I will answer for her. "

"Well, if you can persuade your mother, I am quite willing to start. "

She hastened towards the baroness's room, for she had looked forward tothis day with great impatience. Since she had entered the convent shehad not left Rouen, as her father would allow no distracting pleasuresbefore the age he had fixed. Only twice had she been taken to Paris fora fortnight, but that was another town, and she longed for the country. Now she was going to spend the summer on their estate, Les Peuples, inan old family château built on the cliff near Yport; and she was lookingforward to the boundless happiness of a free life beside the waves. Andthen it was understood that the manor was to be given to her, and thatshe was to live there always when she was married; and the rain whichhad been falling incessantly since the night before was the first realgrief of her life. 

In three minutes she came running out of her mother's room, crying:

"Papa! papa! Mamma is quite willing. Tell them to harness the horses. "

The rain had not given over in the least, in fact, it was coming downstill faster when the landau came round to the door. Jeanne was ready tojump in when the baroness came down the stairs, supported on one side byher husband, and on the other by a tall maid, whose frame was as strongand as well-knit as a boy's. She was a Normandy girl from Caux, andlooked at least twenty years old, though she really was scarcelyeighteen. In the baron's family she was treated somewhat like a seconddaughter, for she was Jeanne's foster-sister. She was named Rosalie, andher principal duty consisted in aiding her mistress to walk, for, withinthe last few years, the baroness had attained an enormous size, owingto an hypertrophy of the heart, of which she was always complaining. 

Breathing very hard, the baroness reached the steps of the old hotel;there she stopped to look at the court-yard where the water wasstreaming down, and murmured:

"Really, it is not prudent. "

Her husband answered with a smile:

"It was you who wished it, Madame Adélaïde. "

She bore the pompous name of Adélaïde, and he always prefaced it by"Madame" with a certain little look of mock-respect. 

She began to move forward again, and with difficulty got into thecarriage, all the springs of which bent under her weight. The baron satby her side, and Jeanne and Rosalie took their places with their backsto the horses. Ludivine, the cook, brought a bundle of rugs, which werethrown over their knees, and two baskets, which were pushed under theirlegs; then she climbed up beside old Simon and enveloped herself in agreat rug, which covered her entirely. The concierge and his wife cameto shut the gate and wish them good-bye, and after some partinginstructions about the baggage, which was to follow in a cart, thecarriage started. 

Old Simon, the coachman, with his head held down and his back bent underthe rain, could hardly be seen in his three-caped coat; and the moaningwind rattled against the windows and swept the rain along the road. 

The horses trotted briskly down to the quay, passed the row of bigships, whose masts and yards and ropes stood out against the gray skylike bare trees, and entered the long Boulevard du Mont Riboudet. Soonthey reached the country, and from time to time the outline of aweeping-willow, with its branches hanging in a corpse-like inertness, could be vaguely seen through the watery mist. The horses' shoesclattered on the road; and the four wheels made regular rings of mud. 

Inside the carriage they were silent; their spirits seemed damped, likethe earth. The baroness leaned back, rested her head against thecushions, and closed her eyes. The baron looked out mournfully at themonotonous, wet fields, and Rosalie, with a parcel on her knees, satmusing in the animal-like way in which the lower classes indulge. ButJeanne felt herself revive under this warm rain like a plant which isput into the open air after being shut up in a dark closet; and thegreatness of her joy seemed to prevent any sadness reaching her heart. Although she did not speak, she wanted to sing and to put her handoutside and drink the water with which it would be filled; and thedesolate look of the country only added to the enjoyment she felt atbeing carried along so swiftly, and at feeling herself sheltered in themidst of this deluge. 

Under the ceaseless rain a cloud of steam rose from the backs of the twohorses. 

The baroness gradually fell asleep; her face, surrounded by six stiffcurls, sank lower and lower, though it was partly sustained by the threebig waves of her neck, the last curves of which lost themselves in theamplitude of her chest. Her head, raised by each respiration, asregularly sank again; her cheeks puffed out, and from her half-openedlips issued a deep snore. Her husband leaned over towards her and softlyplaced in her hands, crossed on her ample lap, a leather pocket-book. The touch awoke her, and she looked at the object in her lap with thestupefied look of one suddenly aroused from sleep. The pocket-book felland opened, and the gold and bank-notes it contained were scattered allover the carriage. That woke her up altogether, and thelight-heartedness of her daughter found vent in a burst of laughter. 

The baron picked up the money and placed it on her knees. 

"There, my dear, " he said. "That is all that is left of the farm atEletot. I have sold it to pay for the doing up of Les Peuples as weshall live there so much now. "

She counted the six thousand, four hundred francs, and put them quietlyinto her pocket. 

It was the ninth farm that they had sold out of the thirty-one left themby their parents; but they still had about twenty thousand livres a yearcoming in from property which, well-managed, would have easily broughtin thirty thousand francs. As they lived quietly, this income would havebeen amply sufficient for them, if their lavish generosity had notconstantly exhausted their supplies. It drained their money from them asthe sun draws water from a swamp. The gold melted, vanished, disappeared. How? No one knew. One of them was always saying: "I don'tknow how it is, but I have spent a hundred francs to-day, and I haven'tanything to show for it. "

To give was one of the great joys of their existence, and they perfectlyunderstood each other on this point in a way that was at once grand andtouching. 

Jeanne asked: "Is my château looking beautiful now?"

"You will see, my child, " answered the baron, gaily. 

Little by little the violence of the storm diminished; soon there wasnothing more than a sort of mist, a very fine drizzling rain. The archof the clouds seemed to get higher and lighter; and suddenly a longoblique sunbeam fell on the fields. Through the break in the clouds astreak of blue sky could be seen, and then the rift got bigger as thougha veil were being drawn back, and a beautiful sky of a pure deep bluespread itself out over the world. There was a fresh mild breeze like ahappy sigh from the earth, and from the gardens and woods came now andagain the merry song of a bird drying his wings. 

The evening was drawing in; everyone inside the carriage, except Jeanne, was asleep. Twice they had stopped at an inn, to rest the horses andgive them water and corn. The sun had set, and in the distance the bellswere ringing; in a little village the lamps were being lighted, and thesky was studded with stars. Sometimes the lights of a homestead could beseen, their rays piercing the darkness; and, all at once among thefir-trees, behind a hill, the large, red, sleepy moon arose. 

It was so mild that the windows were left down, and Jeanne, tired ofdreaming, and her stock of happy visions exhausted, was now sleeping. Sometimes the numbness caused by resting too long in one positionaroused her, and she looked outside and saw the trees fly past her inthe clear night, or some cows, lying in a field, raise their heads atthe noise of the carriage. Then she settled herself in a fresh position, and tried to continue an interrupted dream, but the continual rumblingof the carriage sounded in her ears, confusing her thoughts, and sheshut her eyes again, her mind feeling as tired as her body. 

At last the carriage stopped, and men and women came to the doors withlanterns in their hands. They had arrived, and Jeanne, suddenlyawakened, sprang out, while her father and Rosalie, lighted by a farmer, almost carried in the baroness; she was quite worn out, and, catchingher breath, she kept saying in a weak little voice: "Ah, my children!what shall I do?" She would have nothing to eat or drink, but went tobed and fell asleep at once. 

Jeanne and the baron had supper alone. They smiled when their glancesmet, and, at every moment, took each other's hands across the table;then, both of them filled with a childish delight, they went over themanor which had just been put in thorough repair. 

It was one of those big, high, Normandy houses generally built of whitestone which turns gray, and which, large enough to accommodate aregiment, have something of the farm about them as well as the château. 

An immense hall, going from end to end, divided the house into twoparts, its large doors opening opposite each other. A double staircasebestrode this entrance hall leaving the center empty, and, meeting atthe height of the first floor, formed a sort of bridge. On theground-floor, to the right, was the huge drawing-room hung with tapestrywith a design of birds and flowers. All the furniture was in tapestry, the subjects of the designs being taken from La Fontaine's fables. Jeanne was delighted at recognizing a chair she had liked when she wasquite a child, and which represented the history of the Fox and theStork. The library, full of old books, and two other rooms, which werenot used, came next to the drawing-room. On the left were thedining-room, which had been newly wainscoted, the linen-press, thepantry, the kitchen, and a little room with a bath in it. 

A corridor ran the whole length of the first story, the ten doors of asmany rooms opening on to it, and Jeanne's room was quite at the end, onthe right. The baron had just had it freshly furnished by simply usingsome hangings and furniture that had been stored away in a garret. Veryold Flemish tapestry peopled the room with strange characters, and whenshe saw the bed Jeanne gave a cry of delight. At the four corners fourbirds of carved oak, quite black and polished till they shone, supportedthe bed, looking as though they were its guardians. The sides weredecorated with two large garlands of carved flowers and fruit; and thefour bed-posts, finely fluted and crowned with Corinthian capitals, supported a cornice of entwined roses and cupids. It was a monumentalcouch, and yet was very graceful, despite the somber appearance of thewood darkened by age. The counterpane and canopy, made of old dark bluesilk, starred here and there with great _fleurs de lis_ embroidered ingold, sparkled like two firmaments. 

When she had finished admiring the bed, Jeanne, raising her light, examined the tapestry, trying to discover the subject of the design. 

A young nobleman and a young lady, dressed in the strangest way ingreen, red, and yellow, were talking under a blue tree on which whitefruit was ripening. A big rabbit of the same color as the fruit wasnibbling a little gray grass. Just above the figures, in a conventionaldistance, five little round houses with pointed roofs could be seen, andup at the top, nearly in the sky, was a red wind-mill. Great branchesof flowers twined in and out over the whole. 

The next two panels were very like the first, except that out of thehouses came four little men, dressed in Flemish costume, who raisedtheir heads to heaven as if to denote their extreme surprise and anger. But the last set of hangings depicted a drama. Near the rabbit, whichwas still nibbling, the young man was stretched out, apparently dead. The young lady, with her eyes fixed on him, was thrusting a sword intoher breast, and the fruit on the tree had become black. 

Jeanne was just giving up trying to understand it when she discovered ina corner a microscopic animal, which the rabbit could have eaten aseasily as a blade of grass, and which was meant for a lion. Then sherecognized the misfortunes of Pyramis and Thisbe; and, although shesmiled at the simplicity of the designs, she felt happy at beingsurrounded by these pictures which would always accord with her dearesthopes; and at the thought that every night this antique and legendarylove would watch over her dreams. 

The rest of the furniture was of the most different styles, and bore thetraces of many generations. A superb Louis XVI chest of drawers, boundwith polished brass, stood between two Louis XV armchairs which werestill covered with their original brocaded silk. A rosewood escritoirewas opposite the mantelpiece, on which, under a glass shade, was a clockmade in the time of the Empire. It was in the form of a bronze bee-hivehanging on four marble columns over a garden of gilded flowers. On asmall pendulum, coming out of the hive through a long slit, swung alittle bee, with enamel wings, backwards and forwards over the flowers;the dial was of painted china and was let into the side of the hive. Itstruck eleven, and the baron kissed his daughter and went to his ownroom. 

Then Jeanne regretfully went to bed, giving a last look round her roombefore she put out her candle. Only the head of the bed was against thewall, and on the left was a window through which a stream of moonlightentered, making a pool of light on the floor, and casting palereflections on the walls over the motionless loves of Pyramis andThisbe. Through the other window, opposite the foot of the bed, Jeannecould see a big tree bathed in a soft light. She turned over and closedher eyes, but after a little while opened them again, for she stillseemed to feel the jolting of the carriage, and its rumbling was yet inher ears. 

For some time she lay quite still, hoping thus to soon fall asleep, butthe restlessness of her mind communicated itself to her body, and atlast she got out of bed. With her arms and feet bare, in her longchemise, which made her look like a phantom, she crossed the flood oflight on the boards, opened her window and looked out. 

The night was so clear that everything could be seen as plainly as inbroad daylight; and the young girl recognized all the country she had soloved as a child. 

First of all, just opposite her, was a big lawn looking as yellow asgold under the light of the night. There were two enormous trees beforethe château, a plane-tree to the north, a linden to the south, and quiteat the end of the grass, a little thicket ended the estate which wasprotected from the hurricanes by five rows of old elms twisted, torn, and sloped like a roof, by the sea wind which was constantly blowing. 

This kind of park was bounded on the right and left by two long avenuesof immense poplar-trees (called _peuples_ in Normandy) which separatedthe squire's residence from the two farms adjoining, one of which wasoccupied by the Couillards, the other by the Martins. These _peuples_had given the names to the château. 

Beyond this enclosure lay a large piece of uncultivated ground coveredwith gorse, over which the wind rustled and blew day and night. Then thecoast suddenly fell a hundred yards, forming a high, white cliff, thefoot of which was washed by the sea; and Jeanne gazed at the vast, watery expanse whose waves seemed to be sleeping under the stars. 

In this repose of nature, when the sun was absent, the earth gave outall her perfumes. A jasmine, which had climbed round the lower windows, exhaled its penetrating fragrance which united with the subtler odor ofthe budding leaves, and the soft breeze brought with it the damp, saltsmell of the seaweeds and the beach. 

At first the young girl gave herself up to the pleasure of simplybreathing, and the peace of the country calmed her as would a cool bath. All the animals which wake at evening-time, and hide their obscureexistence in the peacefulness of the night, filled the clear darknesswith a silent restlessness. Great birds fled silently through the airlike shadows; the humming of invisible insects could be heard, andnoiseless races took place across the dewy grass or along the quietsandy roads. The short monotonous croak of the frogs was the only soundthat could be distinguished. 

It seemed to Jeanne that her heart was getting bigger, becoming full ofwhisperings like this clear evening, and of a thousand wandering desireslike these nocturnal insects whose quivering life surrounded her. Anunconscious sympathy drew her towards this living poetry and she feltthat joy and happiness were floating towards her through the soft whitenight, and she began to dream of love. 

Love! For two years she had been anxiously awaiting the time when itwould come to her, and now she was free to love, she had only tomeet--him! What should he be like? She did not know, and did not troubleherself even to think about it. _He_ would be _himself_, that wasenough. She only knew that she should adore him with her whole heart, and that he would love her with all his strength, and she picturedherself walking with him on evenings such as this, under the luminousglow of the stars. They would walk hand in hand, pressing close to oneanother, listening to the beating of their hearts, mingling their lovewith the sweet clearness of the summer nights, and so united that by thesimple power of their love, they would easily divine each other's inmostthoughts. And that would endure indefinitely, in the serenity of anindestructible affection. 

Suddenly she fancied he was there--close to her; and a vague feeling ofsensuality swept over her from head to foot. She unconsciously pressedher arms against her breast, as if to clasp her dream to her; andsomething passed over her mouth, held out towards the unknown, whichalmost made her faint, as if the springtide wind had given her a kiss oflove. 

All at once, on the road behind the château, she heard someone walkingin the night, and in the rapture of her love-filled soul, in a transportof faith in the impossible, in providential hazards, in divinepresentiment, in the romantic combinations of Fate, she thought: "If itshould be he!" She anxiously listened to the steps of the traveler, surethat he would stop at the gate to demand hospitality. But he had passedby and she felt sad, as though she had experienced a deception; thenafter a moment she understood the feverish excitement of her hopes, andsmiled at her own folly. 

A little calmer, she let her thoughts float down the stream of a morereasonable reverie, trying to pierce the shadows of the future andplanning out her life. 

She would live here with him, in their quiet château overlooking thesea. She would have two children, a son for him, and a daughter forherself, and she pictured them running on the grass between theplane-tree and the linden, while their father and mother followed theirmovements with proud eyes, sometimes exchanging looks full of love abovetheir heads. 

She stayed dreaming until the moon had finished her journey across thesky, and began to descend into the sea. The air became cooler. Towardsthe east the horizon was getting lighter. A cock crowed in the farm onthe right, others answered from the farm on the left, their hoarsenotes, coming through the walls of the poultry-houses, seeming to be along way off, and the stars were disappearing from the immense dome ofthe sky which had gradually whitened. The little chirp of a birdsounded; warblings, timid at first, came from among the leaves; then, getting bolder, they became vibrating, joyous, and spread from branch tobranch, from tree to tree. Jeanne suddenly felt a bright light; andraising her head, which she had buried in her hands, she shut her eyes, dazzled by the splendor of the dawn. 

A mountain of crimson clouds, partly hidden by the avenue of poplars, cast a red glow over the awakened earth, and, breaking through thebright clouds, bathing the trees, the plain, the ocean, the wholehorizon, in a fiery light, the blazing orb appeared. 

Jeanne felt mad with happiness. A delirious joy, an infinite tendernessbefore the splendor of nature filled her heart. It was her sunrise! herdawn! the beginning of her life! the rising of her hopes! She stretchedout her arms towards the radiant space, with a longing to embrace thesun; she wanted to speak, to cry aloud something divine like thisday-break; but she remained dumb in a state of impotent ecstasy. Then, laying her forehead on her hands, her eyes filled with tears, and shecried for joy. 

When she again raised her head the glorious colors of the dawning dayhad already disappeared. She felt calmer and a little tired and chilled. Leaving the window open, she threw herself on the bed, mused for a fewminutes longer, then fell into such a sound sleep that she did not hearher father calling her at eight o'clock, and only awoke when he cameinto her room. 

He wanted to show her the improvements that had been made in thechâteau; in _her_ château. 

The back of the house was separated from the village road, whichhalf-a-mile further on joined the high road from Havre to Fécamp, by alarge sort of court planted with apple-trees. A straight path wentacross it leading from the steps of the house to the wooden fence, andthe low, thatched out-houses, built of flints from the beach, ran thewhole length of two sides of the court, which was separated from theadjoining farms by two long ditches. 

The roof of the château had been repaired, the woodwork restored, andthe walls mended; all the inside of the house had been painted and therooms had fresh hangings, and on the old decaying gray walls the snowyshutters and the new plaster stood out like white stains. One ofJeanne's windows was in the front of the house, which looked out overthe little wood and the wall of wind-torn elms, on to the sea. 

Arm in arm Jeanne and the baron went all over the château withoutmissing a single corner, and then they walked slowly along the longpoplar avenues which enclosed the park, as it was called. The grass hadgrown under the trees, making a green carpet, and the grove at thebottom was delightfully pretty with its little winding paths, separatedby leafy walls, running in and out. 

Jeanne was startled by a hare springing suddenly across their path; itran down the slope and made off towards the cliff, among the rushes. 

After breakfast, Madame Adélaïde went to lie down as she had not yetrecovered from the fatigue of the journey, and the baron proposed thathe and Jeanne should walk to Yport. They set off, going through thehamlet of Etouvent in which was situated Les Peuples, and three peasantssaluted them as if they had known them all their lives. 

They entered the sloping woods which go right down to the sea, and soonthe village of Yport came in sight. The women, sitting at their doorsmending clothes, looked up as they passed. There was a strong smell ofbrine in the steep street with the gutter in the middle and the heaps ofrubbish lying before the doors. The brown nets to which a few shiningshells, looking like fragments of silver, had clung, were drying beforethe doors of huts whence came the odors of several families living inthe same room, and a few pigeons were looking for food at the side ofthe gutter. To Jeanne it was all as new and curious as a scene at atheater. 

Turning a sharp corner, they suddenly came upon the smooth opaque bluesea, and opposite the beach they stopped to look around. 

Boats, with sails looking like the wings of white birds, were in theoffing; to the right and left rose the high cliffs; a sort of capeinterrupted the view on one side, while on the other the coast-linestretched out till it could no longer be distinguished, and a harbor andsome houses could be seen in a bay a little way off. Tiny waves fringingthe sea with foam, broke on the beach with a faint noise, and someNormandy boats, hauled up on the shingle, lay on their sides with thesun shining on their tarred planks; a few fishermen were getting themready to go out with the evening tide. 

A sailor came up with some fish to sell, and Jeanne bought a brill thatshe insisted on carrying home herself. Then the man offered his servicesif ever they wanted to go sailing, telling them his name, "Lastique, Joséphin Lastique, " over and over again so that they should not forgetit. The baron promised to remember him, and then they started to go backto the château. 

As the large fish was too heavy for Jeanne, she passed her father'sstick through its gills, and carrying it between them, they went gailyup the hill, with the wind in their faces, chattering like two children;and as the brill made their arms ache, they let it drop lower and lowertill its big tail swept along the grass. 

 * * * * *

II

A delightful life of freedom began for Jeanne. She read, dreamed, andwandered about all alone, walking slowly along the road, buildingcastles in the air, or dancing down the little winding valleys whosesloping sides were covered with golden gorse. Its strong, sweet odor, increased by the heat, intoxicated her like a perfumed wine, while shewas lulled by the distant sound of the waves breaking on the beach. Whenshe was in an idle mood she would throw herself down on the thick grassof the hill-side, and sometimes when at the turn of a road she suddenlycaught a glimpse of the blue sea, sparkling in the light of the sun, with a white sail at the horizon, she felt an inordinate joy, amysterious presentiment of future happiness. 

She loved to be alone with the calm beauty of nature, and would sitmotionless for so long on the top of a hill, that the wild rabbits wouldbound fearlessly up to her; or she would run swiftly along the cliff, exhilarated by the pure air of the hills, and finding an exquisitepleasure in being able to move without fatigue, like the swallows in theair and the fish in the water. 

Very fond of bathing, and strong, fearless, and unconscious of danger, she would swim out to sea till she could no longer be perceived from theshore, feeling refreshed by the cool water, and enjoying the rocking ofits clear blue waves. When she was a long way out, she floated, and, with her arms crossed on her breast, gazed at the deep, blue sky, against which a swallow or the white outline of a sea-gull couldsometimes be seen. No noise could be heard except the far away murmur ofthe waves breaking on the beach, and the vague, confused, almostimperceptible sound of the pebbles being drawn down by the recedingwaves. When she went out too far, a boat put off to bring her in and shewould return to the château pale with hunger, but not at all tired, witha smile on her lips, and her eyes dancing with joy. 

The baron was planning great agricultural improvements; he wanted tomake experiments, to try new machines, to acclimatize foreign plants, and he passed part of his time talking to the peasants, who shook theirheads and refused to believe in his ideas. 

He often went on the sea with the sailors of Yport, and when he had seenthe caves, the springs, and the rocks that were of any interest in theneighborhood, he fished like a common seaman. On windy days, when thebreeze filled the sails and forced the boat over till its edge touchedthe water, and the mackerel-nets trailed over the sides, he would hold aslender fishing-line, waiting with anxiety for the bite of a fish. Thenhe went out in the moonlight to take up the nets set the night before(for he loved to hear the creaking of the masts, and to breathe thefresh night air), and, after a long time spent in tacking about to findthe buoys, guided by a ridge of rocks, the spire of a church, or thelight-house at Fécamp, he liked to lie still under the first rays of therising sun, which turned into a glittering mass the slimy rays and thewhite-bellied turbot which lay on the deck of the boat. 

At every meal, he gave a glowing account of his excursions, and thebaroness, in her turn, would tell him how many times she had walked upand down the long poplar-avenues on the right next to the Couillards'sfarm, the other one not having enough sun on it. 

She had been advised to "take exercise, " and she walked for hourstogether. As soon as the sun was high enough for its warmth to be feltshe went out, leaning on Rosalie's arm, and enveloped in a cloak and twoshawls, with a red scarf on her head and a black hood over that. 

Then she began a long, uninteresting walk from the corner of the châteauto the first shrubs of the wood and back again. Her left foot, whichdragged a little, had traced two furrows where the grass had died. Ateach end of the path she had had a bench placed, and every five minutesshe stopped, saying to the poor, patient maid who supported her: "Let ussit down, my girl; I am a little tired. "

And at each rest she left on one or other of the benches first the scarfwhich covered her head, then one shawl, then the other, then the hood, and then the cloak; and all these things made two big bundles of wraps, which Rosalie carried on her free arm, when they went in to lunch. 

In the afternoon the baroness recommenced her walk in a feebler way, taking longer rests, and sometimes dozing for an hour at a time on acouch that was wheeled out of doors for her. She called it taking "herexercise, " in the same way as she spoke of "my hypertrophy. "

A doctor she had consulted ten years before because she suffered frompalpitations, had hinted at hypertrophy. Since then she had constantlyused this word, though she did not in the least understand what itmeant, and she was always making the baron, and Jeanne, and Rosalie puttheir hands on her heart, though its beatings could not be felt, soburied was it under her bosom. She obstinately refused to be examined byany other doctor in case he should say she had another malady, and shespoke of "her hypertrophy" so often that it seemed as though thisaffection of the heart were peculiar to her, and belonged to her, likesomething unique, to which no one else had any right. The baron andJeanne said "my wife's" or "mamma's hypertrophy" in the same way as theywould have spoken of her dress or her umbrella. 

She had been very pretty when she was young, and as slender as a reed. After flirting with the officers of all the regiments of the Empire, shehad read _Corinne_, which had made her cry, and, in a certain measure, altered her character. 

As her waist got bigger her mind became more and more poetical, andwhen, through her size, she had to remain nearly all day in herarmchair, she dreamed of love adventures, of which she was always theheroine; always thinking of the sort she liked best, like a hand-organcontinually repeating the same air. The languishing romances, where theytalk about captives and swallows, always made her cry; and she evenliked some of Béranger's coarse verses, because of the grief theyexpressed. She would sit motionless for hours, lost in thought, and shewas very fond of Les Peuples, because it served as a scene for herdreams, the surrounding woods, the sea, and the waste land reminding herof Sir Walter Scott's books, which she had lately been reading. 

On rainy days she stayed in her room looking over what she called her"relics. " They were all her old letters; those from her father andmother, the baron's when she was engaged to him, and some othersbesides. She kept them in a mahogany escritoire with copper sphinxes atthe corners, and she always used a particular tone when she said:"Rosalie, bring me my souvenir-drawer. "

The maid would open the escritoire, take out the drawer, and place it ona chair beside her mistress, who slowly read the letters one by one, occasionally letting fall a tear. 

Jeanne sometimes took Rosalie's place and accompanied her mother'swalks, and listened to her reminiscences of childhood. The young girlrecognized herself in these tales, and was astonished to find that hermother's thoughts and hopes had been the same as hers; for every oneimagines that he is the first to experience those feelings which madethe hearts of our first parents beat quicker, and which will continue toexist in human hearts till the end of time. 

These tales, often interrupted for several seconds by the baroness'swant of breath, were told as slowly as she walked, and Jeanne let herthoughts run on to the happy future, without waiting to hear the end ofher mother's anecdotes. 

One afternoon, as they were resting on the seat at the bottom of thewalk, they saw a fat priest coming towards them from the other end ofthe avenue. He bowed, put on a smiling look, bowed again when he wasabout three feet off, and cried:

"Well, Madame la baronne, and how are we to-day?"

He was the curé of the parish. 

The baroness, born in a philosophical century and brought up inrevolutionary times by a father who did not believe very much inanything, did not often go to church, although she liked priests withthe sort of religious instinct that most women have. She had forgottenall about the Abbé Picot, her curé, and her face colored when she sawhim. She began to make excuses for not having gone to see him, but thegood-natured priest did not seem at all put out. He looked at Jeanne, complimented her on her good looks, sat down, put his hat on his knees, and wiped his forehead. 

He was a very fat, red-faced man, who perspired very freely. Everyminute he drew an enormous, checked handkerchief from his pocket andwiped his face and neck; but he had hardly put it back again when freshdrops appeared on his skin and, falling on his cassock, made the dust onit into little, round spots. He was a true country-priest, lively andtolerant, talkative and honest. He told anecdotes, talked about thepeasants, and did not seem to have noticed that his two parishioners hadnot been to mass; for the baroness always tried to reconcile her vagueideas of religion to her indolence, and Jeanne was too happy at havingleft the convent, where she had been sickened of holy ceremonies, tothink about going to church. 

The baron joined them. His pantheistic religion made him indifferent todoctrine, and he asked the abbé, whom he knew by sight, to stay todinner. The priest had the art of pleasing every one, and thanks to theunconscious tact that is acquired by the most ordinary men called byfate to exercise any moral power over their fellow creatures, and thebaroness, attracted perhaps by one of these affinities which drawsimilar natures together, paid every attention to him, the fat man'ssanguine face and short breath agreeing with her gasping obesity. By thetime dessert was placed on the table he had begun telling funny stories, with the _laisser_-_aller_ of a man who had had a good dinner incongenial society. 

All at once, as though a good idea had just occurred to him, heexclaimed:

"Oh, I have a new parishioner I must introduce to you, M. Le Vicomte deLamare. "

The baroness, who had all the heraldy of the province at her fingerends, asked:

"Does he belong to the family of Lamare de l'Eure?"

The priest bowed:

"Yes, madame; he is the son of the Vicomte Jean de Lamare, who died lastyear. "

Then Madame Adélaïde, who loved the aristocracy above everything, askeda great many questions, and learnt that the young man had sold thefamily château to pay his father's debts, and had come to live on one ofthe three farms that he owned at Etouvent. 

This property only brought in about five or six thousand livres a year, but the vicomte was of a foreseeing, economical disposition and meant tolive quietly for two or three years, so that he might save enough to gointo society and marry well, without having to get into debt or mortgagehis farms. 

"He is a charming young fellow, " added the curé; "and so steady, soquiet. But he can't find many amusements in the country. "

"Bring him to see us, M. L'Abbé, " said the baron; "he might like to comehere sometimes. " And then the conversation turned to other subjects. 

When they went into the drawing-room the priest asked if he might go outinto the garden, as he was used to a little exercise after meals. Thebaron went out with him, and they walked backwards and forwards thewhole length of the château, while their two shadows, the one thin, andthe other quite round and looking as though it had a mushroom on itshead, fell sometimes before and sometimes behind them, according as theywalked towards the moon or turned their backs on it. The curé chewed asort of cigarette that he had taken from his pocket; he told the baronwhy he used it in the plain speech of a countryman:

"It is to help the digestion; my liver is rather sluggish. "

Looking at the sky where the bright moon was sailing along, he suddenlysaid:

"That is a sight one never gets tired of. "

Then he went in to say good-bye to the ladies. 

 * * * * *

III

The next Sunday the baroness and Jeanne went to mass out of deference totheir curé, and after it was over they waited to ask him to luncheon forthe following Thursday. He came out of the vestry with a tall, good-looking, young man who had familiarly taken his arm. 

As soon as he saw the two ladies he gave a look of pleased surprise, andexclaimed:

"What a lucky thing! Madame la baronne and Mlle. Jeanne, permit me topresent to you your neighbor, M. Le Vicomte de Lamare. "

The vicomte bowed, expressed the desire he had long felt to make theiracquaintance, and began to talk with the ease of a man accustomed togood society. His face was one that women raved about and that all mendisliked. His black, curly hair fell over a smooth, bronzed forehead, and long, regular eyebrows gave a depth and tenderness to his dark eyes. Long, thick lashes lent to his glance the passionate eloquence whichthrills the heart of the high-born lady in her boudoir, and makes thepoor girl, with her basket on her arm, turn round in the street, and thelanguorous charm of his eyes, with their whites faintly tinged withblue, gave importance to his least word and made people believe in theprofoundness of his thought. A thick, silky beard hid a jaw which was alittle heavy. 

After mutual compliments he said good-bye to the ladies; and two daysafterwards made his first call at the château. 

He arrived just as they were looking at a rustic-seat, placed only thatmorning under the big plane-tree opposite the drawing-room windows. Thebaron wanted to have another one under the linden to make a pair, butthe baroness, who disliked things to be exactly symmetrical, said no. The vicomte, on being asked his opinion, sided with the baroness. 

Then he talked about the surrounding country, which he thought very"picturesque, " and about the charming "bits" he had come across in hissolitary walks. From time to time his eyes met Jeanne's, as though bychance; and she felt a strange sensation at these sudden looks whichwere quickly turned away and which expressed a lively admiration andsympathy. 

M. De Lamare's father, who had died the year before, had known anintimate friend of M. Des Cultaux, the baroness's father, and thediscovery of this mutual acquaintance gave rise to endless conversationabout marriages, births, and relationships. The baroness, withprodigious feats of memory, talked about the ancestors and descendantsof numerous families, and traversed the complicated labyrinths ofdifferent genealogies without ever losing herself. 

"Tell me, vicomte, have you ever heard of the Saunoys de Varfleur?Gontran, the elder son, married Mademoiselle de Coursil, one of theCoursil-Courvilles; and the younger married a cousin of mine, Mademoiselle de la Roche-Aubert, who was related to the Crisanges. Now, M. De Crisange was an intimate friend of my father, and no doubt knewyours also. "

"Yes, madame; was it not the M. De Crisange who emigrated, and whose sonruined himself?"

"That is the very man. He had proposed for my aunt after the death ofher husband, the Comte d'Eretry, but she would not accept him because hetook snuff. By the way, do you know what has become of the Viloises?They left Touraine about 1813, after a reverse of fortune, to go andlive in Auvergne; and I have never heard anything of them since. "

"I believe, madame, that the old marquis was killed by a fall from ahorse, leaving one daughter married to an Englishman, and the other to arich merchant who had seduced her. "

Names they had heard their parents mention when they were childrenreturned to their minds, and the marriages of these people seemed asimportant to them as great public events. They talked about men andwomen they had never seen as if they knew them well, and these people, living so far away, talked about them in the same manner, and they feltas though they were acquainted with each other, almost as if they werefriends, or relations, simply because they belonged to the same classand were of equal rank. 

The baron was rather unsociable, his philosophic views disagreeing withthe beliefs and prejudices of the people of his own rank, did not knowany of the families living near, and asked the vicomte about them. 

"Oh, there are very good families around here, " answered M. De Lamare, in the same tone as he would have said that there were not many rabbitson the hills, and he entered into details about them. 

There were only three families of rank in the neighborhood; the Marquisde Coutelier, the head of the Normandy aristocracy; the Vicomte andVicomtesse de Briseville, people who were very well-born but heldthemselves rather aloof; and lastly, the Comte de Fourville, a sort offire-eater who was said to be worrying his wife to death, and who livedin the Château de la Vrillette, which was built on a lake, passing histime in hunting and shooting. A few parvenus had bought property in theneighborhood, but the vicomte did not know them. 

He rose to go, and his last look was for Jeanne as though he would havemade his adieu to her specially friendly and tender. 

The baroness thought him charming and very _comme il faut_, and thebaron remarked that he was a very well-educated man. He was asked todinner the following week, and after that he visited the châteauregularly. 

Generally he came about four o'clock, joined the baroness in "heravenue, " and insisted on her leaning on his arm to take "her exercise. "When Jeanne was at home she supported her mother on the other side andall three walked slowly up and down the long path. He did not talk tothe young girl but often his dark, velvety eyes met Jeanne's, which werelike blue agate. 

Sometimes they walked down to Yport with the baron, and one evening, asthey were standing on the beach, old Lastique came up to them, and, without taking his pipe from his mouth, for it would have been strangerto see him without his pipe than without his nose, said:

"With this wind, M'sieu l'baron, you'd be able to go to Etretat and backto-morrow quite easily. "

Jeanne clasped her hands together; "Oh, papa! If only you would!"

The baron turned to M. De Lamare. 

"Will you go, vicomte? We could have lunch over there. " And theexcursion was planned for the following day. 

The next morning Jeanne was up at daybreak. She waited for her father, who took longer to dress, and then they walked over the dewy plain andthrough the wood filled with the sweet song of the birds, down to Yport, where they found the vicomte and old Lastique sitting on the capstan oftheir little vessel. 

Two sailors helped to start the boat, by putting their shoulders to thesides and pushing with all their might. It was hard to move over thelevel part of the beach, and Lastique slipped rollers of greased woodunder the keel, then went back to his place and drawled out his long"Heave oh!" which was the signal for them all to push together, and whenthey came to the slant of the beach, the boat set off all at once, sliding over the round pebbles, and making a grating noise like thetearing of linen. It stopped short at the edge of the waves and they allgot in, except the two sailors, who pushed the boat off. 

A light, steady breeze blowing towards the land just ruffled the surfaceof the water. The sail was hoisted, filled out a little, and the boatmoved gently along hardly rocked by the waves. 

At first they sailed straight out to sea. At the horizon the sky couldnot be distinguished from the ocean; on land the high steep cliff had adeep shadow at its foot. Behind could be seen the brown sails of theboats leaving the white pier of Fécamp, and before lay a rounded rockwith a hole right through it, looking like an elephant thrusting itstrunk into the water. 

Jeanne, feeling a little dizzied by the rocking of the boat, sat holdingone side with her hand, and looking out to sea; light, space and theocean seemed to her to be the only really beautiful things in creation. No one spoke. From time to time old Lastique, who was steering, dranksomething out of a bottle placed within his reach under the seat. Hesmoked his stump of a pipe which seemed unextinguishable, and a smallcloud of blue smoke went up from it while another issued from the cornerof his mouth; he was never seen to relight the clay bowl, which wascolored blacker than ebony, or to refill it with tobacco, and he onlyremoved the pipe from his mouth to eject the brown saliva. 

The baron sat in the bows and managed the sail, performing the duties ofa sailor, and Jeanne and the vicomte were side by side, both feeling alittle agitated. Their glances were continually meeting, a hiddensympathy making them raise their eyes at the same moment, for there wasalready that vague, subtle fondness between them which springs up soquickly between two young people when the youth is good-looking and thegirl is pretty. They felt happy at being close together, perhaps becauseeach was thinking of the other. 

The sun rose higher in the sky as if to consider from a better vantagepoint the vast sea stretched out beneath him, while the latter, like acoquette, enveloped herself in a light mist which veiled her from hisrays. It was a transparent golden haze which hid nothing but softenedeverything. It gradually melted away before the sun's flaming darts, andwhen the full heat of the day began it disappeared entirely, and thesea, smooth as glass, lay glittering in the sun. 

Jeanne murmured enthusiastically, "How lovely it is!"

The vicomte answered "Yes, it is indeed beautiful. " And their heartsfelt as bright as the clear morning itself. 

Suddenly, looking as if the cliff bestrode part of the sea, appeared thegreat arcades of Etretat, high enough for a ship to pass underneath himwithout the point of a sharp white rock rising out of the water beforethe first one. 

When they reached the shore, the vicomte lifted Jeanne out that sheshould not wet her feet in landing, while the baron held the boat closeto the beach with a rope; then they went up the steep, shingly beachside by side, both agitated by this short embrace, and they heard oldLastique say to the baron:

"In my opinion they'd make a very handsome couple. "

They had lunch in a little inn near the beach. On the sea they had beenquiet, but at the table they had as much to say as children let out ofschool. 

The most simple things gave rise to endless laughter. Old Lastiquecarefully put his pipe, which was still alight, into his cap before hesat down to table; and everyone laughed. A fly, attracted, no doubt, bythe sailor's red nose, persisted on settling on it, and when moving tooslowly to catch it he knocked it away, it went over to a veryfly-spotted curtain whence it seemed to eagerly watch the sailor'shighly-colored nasal organ, for it soon flew back and settled on itagain. 

Each time the insect returned a loud laugh burst out, and when the oldman, annoyed by its tickling, murmured: "What a confoundly obstinatefly!" Jeanne and the vicomte laughed till they cried, holding theirserviettes to their mouths to prevent themselves shrieking out loud. 

When the coffee had been served Jeanne said:

"Suppose we go for a walk?"

The vicomte got up to go with her, but the baron preferred going out onthe beach to take his nap. 

"You two go, " he said. "You will find me here in an hour's time. "

They walked straight along the road, passed a few cottages and a littlechâteau which looked more like a big farm, and then found themselves inan open valley. Jeanne had a singing in her ears, and was thrilled by astrange sensation which she had never before experienced. Overhead was ablazing sun, and on each side of the road lay fields of ripe corndrooping under the heat. The feeble, continuous chirp of the swarms ofgrasshoppers in the corn and hedges was the only sound to be heard, andthe sky of dazzling blue, slightly tinged with yellow, looked as thoughit would suddenly turn red, like brass when it is put into a furnace. 

They entered a little wood where the trees were so thick that nosunbeams could penetrate their foliage; the grass had died from want oflight and fresh air, but the ground was covered with moss, and allaround was a cool dampness which chilled them after the heat of the sun. 

"See, we could sit down over there, " said Jeanne, looking around her asthey walked on. 

Two trees had died, and through the break in the foliage fell a flood oflight, warming the earth, calling to life the grass and dandelion seeds, and expanding the delicate flowers of the anemone and digitalis. Athousand winged insects--butterflies, bees, hornets, big gnats lookinglike skeleton-flies, ladybirds with red spots on them, beetles withgreenish reflections on their wings, others which were black andhorned--peopled this one warm and luminous spot in the midst of the coolshadow of the trees. 

Jeanne and the vicomte sat down with their heads in the shadow and theirfeet in the light. They watched these tiny moving insects that a sunbeamhad called forth, and Jeanne said softly:

"How lovely the country is! Sometimes I wish I were a bee or a butterflythat I might bury myself in the flowers. "

They began talking about their own habits and tastes in a low, confidential tone. He declared himself tired of his useless life, disgusted with society; it was always the same, one never found anytruth, any sincerity. She would have liked to know what town-life waslike but she was convinced beforehand that society would never be sopleasant as a country-life. 

The nearer their hearts drew to one another the more studiously did theyaddress each other as "monsieur" and "mademoiselle"; but they could nothelp their eyes smiling and their glances meeting, and it seemed to themthat new and better feelings were entering their hearts, making themready to love and take an interest in things they had before carednothing about. 

When they returned from their walk they found that the baron had gone toa cave formed in the cliff, called the Chambre aux Desmoiselles, so theywaited for him at the inn, where he did not appear till five o'clock, and then they started to go home. The boat glided along so smoothly thatit hardly seemed to be moving; the wind came in gentle puffs filling thesail one second only to let it flap loosely against the mast the next, and the tired sun was slowly approaching the sea. The stillness aroundmade them all silent for a long while, but at last Jeanne said:

"How I should like to travel!"

"Yes, but it would be rather dull traveling alone, " said the vicomte. "You want a companion to whom you could confide your impressions. "

"That is true, " she answered thoughtfully; "still, I like to go for longwalks alone. When there is no one with me I build such castles in theair. "

"But two people can better still plan out a happy future, " he said, looking her full in the face. 

Her eyes fell; did he mean anything? She gazed at the horizon as thoughshe would look beyond it; then she said slowly:

"I should like to go to Italy--and to Greece--and to Corsica, it mustbe so wild and so beautiful there. "

He preferred the chalets and lakes of Switzerland. 

She said: "No, I should like to go either to a country with little or nohistory like Corsica, or else to one with very old associations likeGreece. It must be so interesting to find the traces of those nationswhose history one has known from childhood, and to see the places wheresuch great and noble deeds were done. "

"Well, for my part, I should like to go to England; it is such aninstructive country, " said the vicomte, who was more practical thanJeanne. 

Then they discussed the beauties of every country from the poles to theequator, and went into raptures over the unconventional customs of suchnations as the Chinese or the Laplanders; but they came to theconclusion that the most beautiful land in the world is France, with hertemperate climate--cool in summer and warm in winter--her fertilefields, her green forests, her great, calm rivers, and her culture inthe fine arts which has existed nowhere else since the palmy days ofAthens. 

Silence again fell over the little party. The blood-red sun was sinking, and a broad pathway of light lay in the wake of the boat leading rightup to the dazzling globe. The wind died out, there was not a ripple onthe water, and the motionless sail was reddened by the rays of thesetting sun. The air seemed to possess some soothing influence whichsilenced everything around this meeting of the elements. The sea, likesome huge bird, awaited the fiery lover who was approaching her shining, liquid bosom, and the sun hastened his descent, empurpled by the desireof their embrace. At length he joined her, and gradually disappeared. Then a freshness came from the horizon, and a breath of air rippled thesurface of the water as if the vanished sun had given a sigh ofsatisfaction. 

The twilight was very short, and the sky soon became came dark andstudded with stars. Lastique got out the oars, and Jeanne and thevicomte sat side by side watching the trembling, phosphorescent glimmerbehind the boat and feeling a keen enjoyment even in breathing the coolnight air. The vicomte's fingers were resting against Jeanne's handwhich was lying on the seat, and she did not draw it away, the slightcontact making her feel happy and yet confused. 

When she went to her room that evening Jeanne felt so moved that theleast thing would have made her cry. She looked at the clock and fanciedthat the little bee throbbed like a friendly heart; she thought of howit would be the silent witness of her whole life, how it would accompanyall her joys and sorrows with its quick, regular beat, and she stoppedthe gilded insect to drop a kiss upon its wings. She could have kissedanything, no matter what, and suddenly remembering an old doll she hadhidden away in the bottom of a drawer, she got it out and found as muchjoy in seeing it again as if it had been an old well-loved friend. Pressing it to her bosom she covered its painted cheeks and flaxen hairwith warm kisses, then, still holding it in her arms, she began tothink. 

Was HE the husband referred to by so many inward voices, and was it by asupremely-kind Providence that he was thus sent into her life? Was hereally the being created for her, to whom her whole existence would bedevoted? Were he and she really predestined to unite their hearts and sobeget Love? She did not yet experience those tumultuous feelings, thosewild raptures, that profound stirring of her whole soul, which shebelieved to be love; still she thought she was beginning to love him, for sometimes she felt her senses fail her when she thought of him andshe always was thinking of him. Her heart throbbed in his presence, hercolor came and went when she met his glance, and the sound of his voicesent a thrill through her. That night she hardly slept at all. 

Each day her longing for love became greater. She was always consultingthe marguerites, or the clouds, or tossing a coin in the air to seewhether she was loved or not. 

One evening her father said to her:

"Make yourself look very pretty to-morrow morning, Jeanne. "

"Why, papa?" she asked. 

"That's a secret, " replied the baron. 

When she came down the next morning, looking fresh and bright in a lightsummer dress, she found the drawing-room table covered with bon-bonboxes, and an enormous bouquet on a chair. 

A cart turned in at the gateway with "Lérat, Confectioner, Contractorfor Wedding-breakfasts" on it, and Ludivine, with the aid of ascullery-maid, took from it a great many flat baskets from which issuedan appetizing odor. 

The vicomte came in soon after; his trousers were fastened tightly underthe varnished boots which showed off his small feet to perfection. Histightly-fitting coat was closely fastened, except on the chest, where itopened to show the lace shirt-frill; and a fine cravat, twisted severaltimes round his neck, forced him to hold up his handsome dark head. Hiscareful toilet made him look different from usual, and Jeanne stared athim as though she had never seen him before; she thought he looked aperfect gentleman from head to foot. 

He bowed, and asked with a smile:

"Well, godmother, are you ready?"

"What do you mean?" stammered out Jeanne. "What is it all about?"

"Oh, you shall know just now, " answered the baron. 

The carriage drew up before the door and Madame Adélaïde, in a handsomedress, came downstairs leaning on Rosalie, who was struck with suchadmiration at the sight of M. De Lamare's elegant appearance, that thebaron murmured:

"I say, vicomte, I think our maid likes the look of you. "

The vicomte blushed up to the roots of his hair, pretended not to hearwhat the baron said, and, taking up the big bouquet, presented it toJeanne. She took it, feeling still more astonished, and all four gotinto the carriage. 

"Really, madame, it looks like a wedding!" exclaimed the cook, Ludivine, who had brought some cold broth for the baroness to have before shestarted. 

When they reached Yport they got out, and, as they walked through thevillage, the sailors in new clothes which still showed where the clothhad been folded, came out of the houses, touched their hats, shook thebaron by the hand, and followed behind them, forming a procession, atthe head of which walked the vicomte with Jeanne on his arm. 

On arriving at the church a halt was made. A choir-boy came out carryinga great silver cross, followed by another pink and white urchincarrying the holy water with the brush in it; behind them came three oldchoristers, one of whom limped, then the serpent-player, then the curéin a stole with a gold cross embroidered on it. He saluted the baron'sparty with a smile and a nod, then, with half-closed eyes, his lipsmoving in prayer, his miter pushed down over his eyes, he followed hissurpliced subordinates down to the sea. 

On the beach a crowd was waiting round a new boat decorated all overwith garlands; its mast, sail, and ropes were covered with long ribbonswhich fluttered in the breeze, and its name, "Jeanne, " was on the sternin gilt letters. Old Lastique was the master of this boat that the baronhad had built, and he advanced to meet the procession. 

At the sight of the cross all the men took off their caps, and a line ofnuns, enveloped in their long, straight, black mantles, knelt down. Thecuré went to one end of the boat with the two choir-boys, while at theother the three old choristers, with their dirty faces and hairy chinsshown up by their white surplices, sang at the top of their voices. Eachtime they paused to take breath, the serpent-player continued his musicalone, and he blew out his cheeks till his little gray eyes could not beseen and the very skin of his forehead and neck looked as if it wasseparated from the flesh. 

The calm, transparent sea, its ripples breaking on the shore with afaint, grating noise, seemed to be watching the christening of the tinyboat. Great, white sea-gulls flew by with outstretched wings, and thenreturned over the heads of the kneeling crowd with a sweeping flight asthough they wanted to see what was going on. 

The chanting stopped after an "Amen" which was repeated and sustainedfor five minutes, and the priest gabbled some Latin words of which onlythe sonorous terminations could be made out. Then he walked all roundthe boat sprinkling it with holy water, and commenced to murmur theoremus, stopping opposite the two sponsors, who were standing hand inhand. 

The young man's handsome face was quite calm, but the young girl, almostsuffocated by the palpitation of her heart, felt as though she shouldfaint, and she trembled so violently that her teeth chattered. The dreamthat had haunted her for so long seemed all at once to have become areality. She had heard this ceremony compared to a wedding, the priestwas there uttering blessings, and surpliced men were chanting prayers;surely she was being married!

Did the vicomte feel the nervous trembling of her fingers? Did his heartsympathize with hers? Did he understand? did he guess? was he also underthe influence of an all-absorbing love-dream? Or was it only theknowledge that women found him irresistible that made him press herhand, gently at first, then harder and harder till he hurt her? Then, without changing the expression of his face, that no one might noticehim, he said very distinctly: "Oh, Jeanne, if you liked, this might beour betrothal!"

She slowly bent her head with a movement which perhaps meant "yes"; andsome drops of holy water fell on their hands. 

The ceremony was over; the women rose from their knees, and everyonebegan to hurry back. The choir-boy let the cross swing from side toside, or tilt forward till it nearly fell; the curé, no longer praying, hurried behind him; the choristers and the serpent-player disappeareddown a narrow turning to get back and undress quickly, the sailorshastened past in twos and threes; a good lunch was waiting for them atLes Peuples and the very thought of it quickened their pace and madetheir mouths water. 

Sixty sailors and peasants sat down to the long table laid in thecourtyard under the apple trees. The baroness sat at the middle of thetable with the curé from Yport on one side of her and the Abbé Picot onthe other; opposite her was the baron between the mayor and his wife. The mayoress was a thin, elderly country woman with a nod for everyone;her big Normandy cap fitted close round her thin face, making her head, with its round, astonished-looking eyes, look like a white-tuftedfowl's, and she ate in little jerks as if she were pecking at her plate. 

Jeanne was silent, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, her head turned withjoy. At last she asked the vicomte, who was sitting beside her:

"What is your Christian name?"

"Julien, " he replied; "did you not know?"

She did not answer him, for she was thinking: "How often I shall repeatthat name to myself. "

When lunch was over, the courtyard was left to the sailors. The baronessbegan to take her exercise, leaning on the baron and accompanied by thetwo priests, and Jeanne and Julien walked down to the wood, and wanderedalong its little winding paths. All at once he took her hands in his. 

"Tell me, " he said, "will you be my wife?"

She hung her head, and he pleaded:

"Do not keep me in suspense, I implore you. "

Then she slowly raised her eyes to his, and in that look he read heranswer. 

 * * * * *

IV

The baron went into Jeanne's room before she was up one morning soonafter the christening of the boat, and sat down at the foot of the bed. 

"M. Le Vicomte de Lamare has proposed for you, " he said. 

Jeanne would have liked to hide her head under the bed-clothes. 

"We told him we must think over his proposal before we could give him ananswer, " continued the baron, who was smiling. "We did not wish toarrange anything without first consulting you; your mother and I made noobjection to the marriage, but at the same time we did not make anypromise. You are a great deal richer than he is, but when the happinessof a life is at stake the question of money ought not to be considered. He has no relations, so if you married him we should gain a son, whereasif you married anyone else you would have to go among strangers, and weshould lose our daughter. We like the young fellow, but the question is, do you like him?"

"I am quite willing to marry him, papa, " she stammered out, blushing tothe roots of her hair. 

The baron looked into her eyes, and said with a smile: "I thought asmuch, mademoiselle. "

Until that evening Jeanne hardly knew what she was doing. She wentthrough everything mechanically, feeling thoroughly worn out withfatigue, although she had done nothing to tire her. The vicomte cameabout six o'clock and found her sitting with her mother under theplane-tree, and Jeanne's heart beat wildly as the young man came calmlytowards them. He kissed the baroness's fingers, then, raising the younggirl's trembling hand to his lips, he imprinted on it a long, tenderkiss of gratitude. 

The happy betrothal time began. The young couple spent their dayssitting on the slope leading to the waste land beyond the wood, orwalking up and down the baroness's avenue, she with her eyes fixed onthe dusty track her mother's foot had made, he talking of the future. Once the marriage agreed to, they wanted it to take place as soon aspossible, so it was decided that they should be married in six weeks'time, on the 15th of August, and that they should start on their weddingtour almost immediately afterwards. When Jeanne was asked to whatcountry she should like to go, she chose Corsica, where they would bemore alone than in Italy. 

They awaited the time of their union without very much impatience, vaguely desiring more passionate embraces, and yet satisfied with aslight caress, a pressure of the hand, a gaze so long that each seemedto read the other's heart through their eyes. 

No one was to be asked to the wedding besides Aunt Lison, the baroness'ssister, who was a lady-boarder in a convent at Versailles. 

After their father's death the baroness wanted her sister to live withher, but the old maid was convinced that she was a nuisance toeverybody, and always in the way, and she took apartments in one of theconvents which open their doors to the solitary and unhappy, though sheoccasionally spent a month or two with her relations. She was a smallwoman with very little to say, and always kept in the background; whenshe stayed with the baroness she was only seen at meal times, the restof the day she spent shut up in her room. She had a kind, ratherold-looking face, although she was only forty-two, with sad, meek eyes. Her wishes had always been sacrificed to those of everyone else. As achild she had always sat quietly in some corner, never kissed becauseshe was neither pretty nor noisy, and as a young girl no one had evertroubled about her. Her sister, following the example of her parents, always thought of her as of someone of no importance, almost like someobject of furniture which she was accustomed to see every day but whichnever occupied her thoughts. 

She seemed ashamed of her name, Lise, because it was so girlish andpretty, and when there seemed no likelihood of her marrying, "Lise" hadgradually changed to "Lison. " Since the birth of Jeanne she had become"Aunt Lison, " a sort of poor relation whom everyone treated with acareless familiarity which hid a good-natured contempt. She was prim andvery timid even with her sister and brother-in-law, who liked her asthey liked everyone, but whose affection was formed of an indifferentkindness, and an unconscious compassion. 

Sometimes when the baroness was speaking of the far-away time of herchildhood she would say to fix a date: "It was about the time of Lison'smad attempt. " She never said anything more, and there was a certainmystery about this "mad attempt. "

One evening, when she was about nineteen years old, Lise had tried todrown herself. No one could understand the reason of this act of folly;there was nothing in her life or habits to at all account for it. Shehad been rescued half-dead, and her parents, shocked at the deed, hadnot attempted to discover its cause, but had only talked about her "madattempt, " in the same way as they had spoken of the accident to thehorse Coco, when he had broken his leg in a ditch and had to be killed. Since then Lise had been thought very weak-minded, and everyone aroundher gradually came to look upon her with the mild contempt with whichher relations regarded her; even little Jeanne, perceiving with thequickness of a child how her parents treated her aunt, never ran to kissher or thought of performing any little services for her. No one everwent to her room, and Rosalie, the maid, alone seemed to know where itwas situated. If anyone wanted to speak to her a servant was sent tofind her, and if she could not be found no one troubled about her, noone thought of her, no one would ever have dreamt of saying:

"Dear me! I have not seen Lison this morning. "

When she came down to breakfast of a morning, little Jeanne went andheld up her face for a kiss, and that was the only greeting shereceived. She had no position in the house and seemed destined never tobe understood even by her relations, never able to gain their love orconfidence, and when she died she would leave no empty chair, no senseof loss behind her. 

When anyone said "Aunt Lison" the words caused no more feeling ofaffection in anyone's heart than if the coffee pot or sugar basin hadbeen mentioned. She always walked with little, quick, noiseless steps, never making any noise, never stumbling against anything, and her handsseemed to be made of velvet, so light and delicate was their handlingof anything she touched. 

Lison arrived at the château about the middle of July, quite upset bythe idea of the marriage; she brought a great many presents which didnot receive much attention as she was the giver, and the day after herarrival no one noticed she was there. She could not take her eyes offthe sweethearts, and busied herself about the trousseau with a strangeenergy, a feverish excitement, working in her room, where no one came tosee her, like a common seamstress. She was always showing the baronesssome handkerchiefs she had hemmed, or some towels on which she hadembroidered the monogram, and asking:

"Do you like that, Adélaïde?"

The baroness would carelessly look at the work and answer:

"Don't take so much trouble over it, my dear Lison. "

About the end of the month, after a day of sultry heat, the moon rose inone of those warm, clear nights which seem to draw forth all the hiddenpoetry of the soul. The soft breeze fluttered the hangings of the quietdrawing-room, and the shaded lamp cast a ring of soft light on the tablewhere the baroness and her husband were playing cards. Aunt Lison wassitting by them knitting, and the young people were leaning against theopen window, looking out at the garden as it lay bathed in light. 

The shadows of the linden and the plane tree fell on the moonlit grasswhich stretched away to the shadows of the wood. 

Irresistibly attracted by the beauty of the sight, Jeanne turned andsaid:

"Papa, we are going for a walk on the grass. "

"Very well, my dear, " answered the baron, without looking up from his game. 

Jeanne and the vicomte went out and walked slowly down the grass tillthey reached the little wood at the bottom. They stayed out so long thatat last the baroness, feeling tired and wanting to go to her room, said:

"We must call in the lovers. "

The baron glanced at the moonlit garden, where the two figures could beseen walking slowly about. 

"Leave them alone, " he answered, "it is so pleasant out of doors; Lisonwill wait up for them; won't you, Lison?"

The old maid looked up, and answered in her timid voice: "Oh, yes, certainly. "

The baron helped his wife to rise, and, tired himself by the heat of theday, "I will go to bed, too, " he said. And he went upstairs with thebaroness. 

Then Aunt Lison got up, and, leaving her work on the arm of the easychair, leant out of the window and looked at the glorious night. The twosweethearts were walking backwards and forwards across the grass, silently pressing each other's hands, as they felt the sweet influenceof the visible poetry that surrounded them. 

Jeanne saw the old maid's profile in the window, with the lighted lampbehind. 

"Look, " she said, "Aunt Lison is watching us. "

"Yes, so she is, " answered the vicomte in the tone of one who speakswithout thinking of what he is saying; and they continued their slowwalk and their dreams of love. But the dew was falling, and they beganto feel chilled. 

"We had better go in now, " said Jeanne. 

They went into the drawing-room, and found Aunt Lison bending over theknitting she had taken up again; her thin fingers were trembling as ifthey were very tired. Jeanne went up to her. 

"Aunt, we will go to bed now, " she said. 

The old maid raised her eyes; they were red as if she had been crying, but neither of the lovers noticed it. Suddenly the young man saw thatJeanne's thin slippers were quite wet, and fearing she would catch cold:

"Are not your dear little feet cold?" he asked affectionately. 

Aunt Lison's fingers trembled so they could no longer hold the work; herball of wool rolled across the floor, and, hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob convulsively. For a moment Jeanne and the vicomte stoodlooking at her in mute surprise, then Jeanne, feeling frightened, kneltdown beside her, drew away her hands from her face, and asked in dismay:

"What is it, Aunt Lison? What is the matter with you?"

The poor, old maid, trembling all over, stammered out in a broken voice:

"When he asked you--'Are--are not your dear little feet--cold?'--I--Ithought how no one had--had ever said anything like that to me. "

Jeanne felt full of pity for her aunt, but it seemed very funny to thinkof anyone making love to Lison, and the vicomte turned his head away tohide his laughter. Lison started up, left her wool on the ground and herknitting on the armchair, and abruptly leaving the room, groped her wayup the dark staircase to her bedroom. 

The two young people looked at one another, feeling sorry for her, andyet rather amused. 

"Poor auntie, " murmured Jeanne. 

"She must be a little mad this evening, " replied Julien. 

They were holding each other's hands as if they could not make up theirminds to say good-night, and very gently they exchanged their first kissbefore Aunt Lison's empty chair. The next day they had forgotten allabout the old maid's tears. 

The fortnight before her marriage, Jeanne passed calmly and peacefully, as if she were almost exhausted by the number of pleasant hours she hadlately had. The morning of the eventful day she had no time to think;she was only conscious of a great sense of nothingness within her, as ifbeneath her skin, her flesh, and blood, and bones had vanished, and shenoticed how her fingers trembled when she touched anything. 

She did not regain her self-possession till she was going through themarriage service. Married! She was married! Everything which hadhappened since dawn seemed a dream, and all around her seemed changed;people's gestures had a new meaning; even the hours of the day did notseem to be in their right places. She felt stunned at the change. Theday before nothing had been altered in her life; her dearest hope hadonly become nearer--almost within her grasp. She had fallen asleep agirl, now she was a woman. She had crossed the barrier which hides thefuture with all its expected joys and fancied happiness, and she sawbefore her an open door; she was at last going to realize her dreams. 

After the ceremony they went into the vestry, which was nearly empty, for there were no wedding guests; but when they appeared at the door ofthe church a loud noise made the bride start and the baroness shriek; itwas a salvo fired by the peasants, who had arranged to salute the bride, and the shots could be heard all the way to Les Peuples. 

Breakfast was served for the family, the curé from Yport, the AbbéPicot, and the witnesses. Then everyone went to walk in the garden tilldinner was ready. The baron and the baroness, Aunt Lison, the mayor, andthe abbé walked up and down the baroness's path, and the priest fromYport strode along the other avenue reading his breviary. 

From the other side of the château came the noisy laughter of thepeasants drinking cider under the apple-trees. The whole countryside inits Sunday garb was in the court, and the girls and young men wereplaying games and chasing each other. 

Jeanne and Julien went across the wood, and at the top of the slopestood silently looking at the sea. It was rather chilly, although it wasthe middle of August; there was a north wind, and the sun was shining inthe midst of a cloudless sky, so the young couple crossed the plain tofind shelter in the wooded valley leading to Yport. In the coppice nowind could be felt, and they left the straight road and turned into anarrow path running under the trees. 

They could hardly walk abreast, and he gently put his arm round herwaist; she did not say anything, but her heart throbbed, and her breathcame quickly; the branches almost touched their heads, and they oftenhad to bend low to pass under them. She broke off a leaf; underneath itlay two lady-birds looking like delicate, red shells. 

"Look, it's a husband and wife, " she said, innocently, feeling a littlemore at ease. 

Julien's mouth brushed her ear. 

"To-night you will be my little wife, " he said. 

Although she had learnt a great deal since she had been living among thefields, as yet only the poetical side of love had presented itself toher mind, and she did not understand him. Was she not already his wife?

Then he began to drop little kisses on her forehead, and on her neckjust where some soft, stray hairs curled; instinctively she drew herhead away from him, startled and yet enraptured by these kisses to whichshe was not accustomed. Looking up they found they had reached the endof the wood. She stopped, a little confused at finding herself so farfrom home; what would everyone think?

"Let us go back, " she said. 

He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned round they cameface to face, so close together that she felt his breath on her cheek. They looked into each other's eyes, each seeking to read the other'ssoul, and trying to learn its secrets by a determined, penetrating gaze. What would each be like? What would be the life they were commencingtogether? What joys, what disillusions did married life reserve forthem? Suddenly Julien placed his hands on his wife's shoulders, andpressed on her lips such a kiss as she had never before received, a kisswhich thrilled her whole being, a kiss which gave her such a strangeshock that she almost fell to the ground. She wildly pushed him fromher. 

"Let us go back. Let us go back, " she stammered out. 

He did not make any answer, but took both her hands and held them in hisown, and they walked back to the house in silence. 

At dusk a simple dinner was served, but there was a restraint upon theconversation. The two priests, the mayor, and the four farmers, who hadbeen invited as witnesses, alone indulged in a little coarse gayetywhich generally accompanies a wedding, and when the laughter died awaythe mayor would try to revive it with a jest. It was about nine o'clockwhen the coffee was served. Out of doors, under the apple-trees, theopen-air ball had just commenced; the tapers which had been hung on thebranches made the leaves look the color of verdigris, and through theopen windows of the dining-room all the revelry could be seen. Therustics skipped round, howling a dance-tune, accompanied by two violinsand a clarionet, the musicians being perched upon a kitchen table. Thenoisy voices of the peasants sometimes entirely drowned the sound of theinstruments, and the thin music sounded as if it was dropping from thesky in little bits, a few notes being scattered every now and then. 

Two big barrels, surrounded by flaming torches, provided drink for thecrowd, and two servants did nothing but rinse glasses and bowls in atub, and then hold them, dripping wet, under the taps whence flowed acrimson stream of wine, or a golden stream of cider. The thirsty dancerscrowded round, stretched out their hands to get hold of any drinkingvessel, and poured the liquid down their dust-filled throats. Bread, butter, cheese, and sausages were laid on a table, and everyoneswallowed a mouthful from time to time. As they watched this healthy, noisy fête, the melancholy guests in the dining-room felt that they toowould have liked to join the dance, to drink from the great casks, andeat a slice of bread-and-butter and a raw onion. 

"By Jove! they are enjoying themselves!" said the mayor, beating time tothe music with his knife. "It makes one think of the wedding feast atGanache. "

There was a murmur of suppressed laughter. 

"You mean at Cana, " replied the Abbé Picot, the natural enemy of everycivil authority. 

But the mayor held his ground. 

"No, M. Le curé, I know quite well what I am saying; when I say Ganache, I mean Ganache. "

After dinner they went among the peasants for a little while, and thenthe guests took their leave. The baron and his wife had a little quarrelin a low voice. Madame Adélaïde, more out of breath than ever, seemed tobe refusing something her husband was asking her to do; and at last shesaid almost out loud: "No, my dear, I cannot. I shouldn't know how tobegin. " The baron abruptly left her, and went up to Jeanne. 

"Will you come for a walk with me, my child?" he said. 

"If you like, papa, " she answered, feeling a little uneasy. 

As soon as they were outside the door they felt the wind in theirfaces--a cold, dry wind which drove the clouds across the sky, and madethe summer night feel like autumn. The baron pressed his daughter's armclosely to him, and affectionately pressed her hand. For some minutesthey walked on in silence; he could not make up his mind to begin, but, at last, he said:

"My pet, I have to perform a very difficult duty which really belongs toyour mother; as she refuses to do what she ought, I am obliged to takeher place. I do not know how much you already know of the laws ofexistence; there are some things which are carefully hidden fromchildren, from girls especially, for girls ought to remain pure-mindedand perfectly innocent until the hour their parents place them in thearms of the man who, henceforth, has the care of their happiness; it ishis duty to raise the veil drawn over the sweet secret of life. But, ifno suspicion of the truth has crossed their minds, girls are oftenshocked by the somewhat brutal reality which their dreams have notrevealed to them. Wounded in mind, and even in body, they refuse totheir husband what is accorded to him as an absolute right by both humanand natural laws. I cannot tell you any more, my darling; but rememberthis, only this, that you belong entirely to your husband. "

What did she know in reality? What did she guess? She began to tremble, and she felt low-spirited, and overcome by a presentiment of somethingterrible. When she and her father went in again they stopped in surpriseat the drawing-room door. Madame Adélaïde was sobbing on Julien'sshoulder. Her noisy tears seemed to be forced from her, and issued atthe same time from her nose, mouth and eyes, and the amazed vicomte wasawkwardly supporting the huge woman, who had thrown herself in his armsto ask him to be gentle with her darling, her pet, her dear child. Thebaron hurried forward. 

"Oh, pray do not make a scene, do not let us have any tears, " he said, taking hold of his wife, and seating her in an armchair while she wipedher face. Then turning towards Jeanne:

"Now then, my dear, kiss your mother and go to bed, " he said. 

Ready to cry herself, Jeanne quickly kissed her parents and ran away. Aunt Lison had already gone to her room, so the baron and his wife wereleft alone with Julien. They all three felt very awkward, and couldthink of nothing to say; the two men, in their evening-dress, remainedstanding, looking into space, and Madame Adélaïde leant back in herarmchair, her breast still heaved by an occasional sob. At last thesilence became unbearable, and the baron began to talk about the journeythe young couple were going to take in a few days. 

Jeanne, in her room, was being undressed by Rosalie, whose tears felllike rain; her trembling hands could not find the strings and pins, andshe certainly seemed a great deal more affected than her mistress. ButJeanne did not notice her maid's tears; she felt as though she hadentered another world, and was separated from all she had known andloved. Everything in her life seemed turned upside down; the strangeidea came to her: "Did she really love her husband?" He suddenly seemedsome stranger she hardly knew. Three months before she had not even beenaware of his existence, and now she was his wife. How had it happened?Did people always plunge into marriage as they might into some uncoveredhole lying in their path? When she was in her night-dress she slippedinto bed, and the cold sheets made her shiver, and increased thesensation of cold, and sadness and loneliness which had weighed on hermind for two hours. Rosalie went away still sobbing, and Jeanne laystill, anxiously awaiting the revelation she had partly guessed, andthat her father had hinted at in confused words--awaiting the unveilingof love's great secret. 

There came three soft knocks at the door, though she had heard no onecome upstairs. She started violently, and made no answer; there wasanother knock, and then the door-handle was turned. She hid her headunder the clothes as if a thief had got into her room, and then came anoise of boots on the boards, and all at once some one touched the bed. She started again, and gave a little cry; then, uncovering her head, shesaw Julien standing beside the bed, looking at her with a smile. 

"Oh, how you frightened me!" she said. 

"Did you not expect me, then?" he asked. 

She made no answer, feeling horribly ashamed of being seen in bed bythis man, who looked so grave and correct in his evening-dress. They didnot know what to say or do next; they hardly dared to look at oneanother, in this decisive hour, on which the intimate happiness of theirlife depended. Perhaps he vaguely felt what perfect self-possession, what affectionate stratagems are needed not to hurt the modesty, theextreme delicacy of a maiden's heart. He gently took her hand and kissedit; then, kneeling by the bed as he would before an altar, he murmured, in a voice soft as a sigh:

"Will you love me?"

She felt a little reassured, and raised her head, which was covered witha cloud of lace. 

"I love you already, dear, " she said, with a smile. 

He took his wife's little slender fingers in his mouth, and, his voicechanged by this living gag, he asked:

"Will you give me a proof of your love?"

The question frightened her again, and, only remembering her father'swords, and not quite understanding what she said:

"I am yours, dear, " she answered. 

He covered her hand with humid kisses, and, slowly rising, he benttowards her face, which she again began to hide. Suddenly he threw onearm across the bed, winding it around his wife over the clothes, andslipped his other arm under the bolster, which he raised with her headupon it; then he asked, in a low whisper:

"Then you will make room for me beside you?"

She had an instinctive fear, and stammered out: "Oh, not yet, I entreatyou. "

He seemed disappointed and a little hurt; then he went on in a voicethat was still pleading, but a little more abrupt:

"Why not now, since we have got to come to it sooner or later?"

She did not like him for saying that, but, perfectly resigned andsubmissive, she said, for the second time:

"I am yours, dear. "

Then he went quickly into his dressing-room, and she could distinctlyhear the rustling of his clothes as he took them off, the jingling ofthe money in his pockets, the noise his boots made as he let them dropon the floor. All at once he ran across the room in his drawers andsocks to put his watch on the mantelpiece; then he returned to the otherroom, where he moved about a little while longer. Jeanne turned quicklyover to the other side and shut her eyes when she heard him coming. Shenearly started out of bed when she felt a cold, hairy leg slide againsthers, and, distractedly hiding her face in her hands, she moved right tothe edge of the bed, almost crying with fear and horror. He took her inhis arms, although her back was turned to him, and eagerly kissed herneck, the lace of her nightcap, and the embroidered collar of hernight-dress. Filled with a horrible dread, she did not move, and thenshe felt his strong hands caressing her. She gasped for breath at thisbrutal touch, and felt an intense longing to escape and hide herselfsomewhere out of this man's reach. Soon he lay still, and she could feelthe warmth of his body against her back. She did not feel so frightenedthen, and all at once the thought flashed across her mind that she hadonly to turn round and her lips would touch his. 

At last he seemed to get impatient, and, in a sorrowful voice, he said:

"Then you will not be my little wife?"

"Am I not your wife already?" she said, through her hands. 

"Come now, my dear, don't try to make a fool of me, " he answered, with atouch of bad temper in his voice. 

She felt very sorry when she heard him speak like that, and with asudden movement she turned towards him to ask his pardon. Hepassionately seized her in his arms and imprinted burning kisses allover her face and neck. She had taken her hands from her face and laystill, making no response to his efforts, her thoughts so confused thatshe could understand nothing, until suddenly she felt a sharp pain, andthen she began to moan and writhe in his arms. 

What happened next? She did not know, for her head was in a whirl. Shewas conscious of nothing more until she felt him raining grateful kisseson her lips. Then he spoke to her and she had to answer; then he madeother attempts, which she repelled with horror, and as she struggled shefelt against her chest the thick hair she had already felt against herleg, and she drew back in dismay. Tired at last of entreating herwithout effect, he lay still on his back; then she could think. She hadexpected something so different, and this destruction of her hopes, thisshattering of her expectations of delight, filled her with despair, andshe could only say to herself: "That, then, is what he calls being hiswife; that is it, that is it. "

For a long time she lay thus, feeling very miserable, her eyes wanderingover the tapestry on the walls, with its tale of love. As Julien did notspeak or move, she slowly turned her head towards him, and then she sawthat he was asleep, with his mouth half opened and his face quite calm. Asleep! she could hardly believe it, and it made her feel moreindignant, more outraged than his brutal passion had done. How could hesleep on such a night? There was no novelty for him, then, in what hadpassed between them? She would rather he had struck her, or bruised herwith his odious caresses till she had lost consciousness, than that heshould have slept. She leant on her elbow, and bent towards him tolisten to the breath which sometimes sounded like a snore as it passedthrough his lips. 

Daylight came, dim at first, then brighter, then pink, then radiant. Julien opened his eyes, yawned, stretched his arms, looked at his wife, smiled, and asked:

"Have you slept well, dear?"

She noticed with great surprise that he said "thou" to her now, and shereplied:

"Oh, yes; have you?"

"I? Oh, very well indeed, " he answered, turning and kissing her. Then hebegan to talk, telling her his plans, and using the word "economy" sooften that Jeanne wondered. She listened to him without very wellunderstanding what he said, and, as she looked at him, a thousandthoughts passed rapidly through her mind. 

Eight o'clock struck. 

"We must get up, " he said; "we shall look stupid if we stay in bed lateto-day;" and he got up first. 

When he had finished dressing, he helped his wife in all the littledetails of her toilet, and would not hear of her calling Rosalie. As hewas going out of the room, he stopped to say:

"You know, when we are by ourselves, we can call each other 'thee' and'thou, ' but we had better wait a little while before we talk like thatbefore your parents. It will sound quite natural when we come back afterour honeymoon. " And then he went downstairs. 

Jeanne did not go down till lunch-time; and the day passed exactly thesame as usual, without anything extraordinary happening. There was onlyan extra man in the house. 

 * * * * *

V

Four days after the wedding, the berlin in which they were to travel toMarseilles arrived. After the anguish of that first night, Jeanne soonbecame accustomed to Julien's kisses and affectionate caresses, thoughtheir more intimate relations still revolted her. When they went awayshe had quite regained her gayety of heart, and the baroness was theonly one who showed any emotion at the parting. Just as the carriage wasgoing off, she put a heavy purse in her daughter's hand. 

"That is for any little thing you may want to buy, " she said. 

Jeanne dropped it into her pocket and the carriage started. 

"How much did your mother give you in that purse?" asked Julien in theevening. 

Jeanne had forgotten all about it, so she turned it out on her knees, and found there were two thousand francs in gold. 

"What a lot of things I shall be able to buy!" she cried, clapping herhands. 

At the end of a week they arrived at Marseilles, where the heat wasterrible, and the next day they embarked on the _Roi Louis_, the littlepacket-boat which calls at Ajaccio on its way to Naples, and started forCorsica. It seemed to Jeanne as if she were in a trance which yet lefther the full possession of all her senses, and she could hardly believeshe was really going to Corsica, the birthplace of Napoleon, with itswild undergrowth, its bandits, and its mountains. She and her husbandstood side by side on the deck of the boat watching the cliffs ofProvence fly past. Overhead was a bright blue sky, and the waves seemedto be getting thicker and firmer under the burning heat of the sun. 

"Do you remember when we went to Etretat in old Lastique's boat?" askedJeanne; and, instead of answering her, Julien dropped a kiss right onher ear. 

The steamer's paddles churned up the sea, and behind the boat, as far asthe eye could reach, lay a long foaming track where the troubled wavesfrothed like champagne. All at once an immense dolphin leapt out of thewater a few fathoms ahead, and then dived in again head foremost. Itstartled Jeanne, and she threw herself in Julien's arms with a littlecry of fear; then she laughed at her terror, and watched for thereappearance of the enormous fish. In a few seconds up it came again, like a huge mechanical toy; then it dived again, and again disappeared;then came two more, then three, then six, which gamboled round the boat, and seemed to be escorting their large wooden brother with the ironfins. Sometimes they were on the left of the boat, sometimes on theright, and, one following the other in a kind of game, they would leapinto the air, describe a curve, and replunge into the sea one after theother. Jeanne clapped her hands, delighted at each reappearance of thebig, pliant fish, and felt a childish enjoyment in watching them. Suddenly they disappeared, rose to the surface a long way out to sea, then disappeared for good, and Jeanne felt quite sorry when they wentaway. 

The calm, mild, radiant evening drew on; there was not a breath of airto cause the smallest ripple on the sea; the sun was slowly sinkingtowards that part of the horizon beyond which lay the land of burningheat, Africa, whose glow could almost be felt across the ocean; then, when the sun had quite disappeared, a cool breath of wind, so faint thatit could not be called a breeze, came over the sea. There were all thehorrible smells of a packet-boat in their cabin, so Jeanne and Julienwrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down side by side on deck. Julien went to sleep directly, but Jeanne lay looking up at the host ofstars which sparkled with so bright and clear a light in this softSouthern sky; then the monotonous noise of the engines made her drowsy, and at last she fell asleep. In the morning she was awakened by thevoices of the sailors cleaning the boat, and she aroused her husband andgot up. The sea was still all around them, but straight ahead somethinggray could be faintly seen in the dawn; it looked like a bank ofstrange-shaped clouds, pointed and jagged, lying on the waves. Thisvague outline gradually became more distinct, until, standing outagainst the brightening sky, a long line of mountain-peaks could beseen. It was Corsica, hidden behind a light veil of mist. 

The sun rose, throwing black shadows around and below every prominence, and each peak had a crown of light, while all the rest of the islandremained enveloped in mist. 

The captain, a little elderly man, bronzed, withered, and toughened bythe rough salt winds, came up on deck. 

"Can you smell my lady over there?" he asked Jeanne, in a voice thatthirty years of command, and shouting above the noise of the wind, hadmade hoarse. 

She had indeed noticed a strong, peculiar odor of herbs and aromaticplants. 

"It's Corsica that smells like that, madame, " went on the captain. "Shehas a perfumed breath, just like a pretty woman. I am a Corsican, and Ishould know that smell five miles off, if I'd been away twenty years. Over there, at St. Helena, I hear he is always speaking of the perfumeof his country; he belongs to my family. "

And the captain took off his hat and saluted Corsica, and then, lookingacross the ocean, he saluted the great emperor who was a prisoner onthat far-away isle, and Jeanne's heart was touched by this simpleaction. Then the sailor pointed towards the horizon. 

"There are the Sanguinaires, " he said. 

Julien had his arm round his wife's waist, and they both strained theireyes to see what the captain was pointing out. As last they saw somepointed rocks that the boat rounded before entering a large, calm bay, surrounded by high mountains, whose steep sides looked as though theywere covered with moss. 

"That is the undergrowth, " said the captain, pointing out this verdure. 

The circle of mountains seemed to close in behind the boat as she slowlysteamed across the azure water which was so transparent that in placesthe bottom could be seen. Ajaccio came in sight; it was a white town atthe foot of the mountains, with a few small Italian boats lying atanchor in the harbor, and four or five row-boats came beside the _RoiLouis_ to take off the passengers. Julien, who was looking after theluggage, asked his wife in a low tone:

"A franc is enough, isn't it, to give the steward?"

The whole week he had been constantly asking her this question which shehated. 

"When you don't know what is enough, give too much, " she answered, alittle impatiently. 

He haggled with every one, landlords and hotel-waiters, cabmen andshopmen, and when he had obtained the reduction he wanted, he would rubhis hands, and say to Jeanne: "I don't like to be robbed. " She trembledwhen the bills were brought, for she knew beforehand the remarks hewould make on each item, and felt ashamed of his bargaining; and whenshe saw the scornful look of the servants as her husband left his smallfee in their hands, she blushed to the roots of her hair. Of course hehad a discussion with the boatmen who took them ashore. 

The first tree she saw on landing was a palm, which delighted her. Theywent to a big empty hotel standing at the corner of a vast square, andordered lunch. When they had finished dessert, Jeanne got up to go andwander about the town, but Julien, taking her in his arms, whisperedtenderly in her ear:

"Shall we go upstairs for a little while, my pet?"

"Go upstairs?" she said, with surprise; "but I am not at all tired. "

He pressed her to him: "Don't you understand? For two days--"

She blushed crimson. 

"Oh, what would everyone say? what would they think? You could not askfor a bedroom in the middle of the day. Oh, Julien, don't say anythingabout it now, please don't. "

"Do you think I care what the hotel-people say or think?" heinterrupted. "You'll see what difference they make to me. " And he rangthe bell. 

She did not say anything more, but sat with downcast eyes, disgusted ather husband's desires, to which she always submitted with a feeling ofshame and degradation; her senses were not yet aroused, and her husbandtreated her as if she shared all his ardors. When the waiter answeredthe bell, Julien asked him to show them to their room; the waiter, a manof true Corsican type, bearded to the eyes, did not understand, and keptsaying that the room would be quite ready by the evening. Julien got outof patience. 

"Get it ready at once, " he said. "The journey has tired us and we wantto rest. "

A slight smile crept over the waiter's face, and Jeanne would have likedto run away; when they came downstairs again, an hour later, she hardlydared pass the servants, feeling sure that they would whisper and laughbehind her back. She felt vexed with Julien for not understanding herfeelings, and wondering at his want of delicacy; it raised a sort ofbarrier between them, and, for the first time, she understood that twopeople can never be in perfect sympathy; they may pass through life sideby side, seemingly in perfect union, but neither quite understands theother, and every soul must of necessity be for ever lonely. 

They stayed three days in the little town which was like a furnace, forevery breath of wind was shut out by the mountains. Then they made out aplan of the places they should visit, and decided to hire some horses. They started one morning at daybreak on the two wiry little Corsicanhorses they had obtained, and accompanied by a guide mounted on a mulewhich also carried some provisions, for inns are unknown in this wildcountry. At first the road ran along the bay, but soon it turned into ashallow valley leading to the mountains. The uncultivated country seemedperfectly bare, and the sides of the hills were covered with tall weeds, turned sere and yellow by the burning heat; they often crossed ravineswhere only a narrow stream still ran with a gurgling sound, andoccasionally they met a mountaineer, sometimes on foot, sometimes ridinghis little horse, or bestriding a donkey no bigger than a dog; thesemountaineers always carried a loaded gun which might be old and rusty, but which became a very formidable weapon in their hands. The air wasfilled with the pungent smell of the aromatic plants with which the isleis covered, and the road sloped gradually upwards, winding round themountains. 

The peaks of blue and pink granite made the island look like a fairypalace, and, from the heights, the forests of immense chestnut trees onthe lower parts of the hills looked like green thickets. Sometimes theguide would point to some steep height, and mention a name; Jeanne andJulien would look, at first seeing nothing, but at last discovering thesummit of the mountain. It was a village, a little granite hamlet, hanging and clinging like a bird's nest to the vast mountain. Jeanne gottired of going at a walking pace for so long. 

"Let us gallop a little, " she said, whipping up her horse. 

She could not hear her husband behind her, and, turning round to seewhere he was, she burst out laughing. Pale with fright, he was holdingonto his horse's mane, almost jolted out of the saddle by the animal'smotion. His awkwardness and fear were all the more funny, because he wassuch a grave, handsome man. Then they trotted gently along the roadbetween two thickets formed of juniper trees, green oaks, arbutus trees, heaths, bay trees, myrtles, and box trees, whose branches were formedinto a network by the climbing clematis, and between and around whichgrew big ferns, honeysuckles, rosemary, lavender, and briars, forming aperfectly impassable thicket, which covered the hill like a cloak. Thetravelers began to get hungry, and the guide rejoined them and took themto one of those springs so often met with in a mountainous country, withthe icy water flowing from a little hole in the rock where somepasser-by has left the big chestnut leaf which conveyed the water to hismouth. Jeanne felt so happy that she could hardly help shouting aloud;and they again remounted and began to descend, winding round the Gulf ofSagone. 

As evening was drawing on they went through Cargése, the Greek villagefounded so long ago by fugitives driven from their country. Round afountain was a group of tall, handsome and particularly graceful girls, with well formed hips, long hands, and slender waists; Julien cried"Good-night" to them, and they answered him in the musical tongue oftheir ancestors. When they got to Piana they had to ask for hospitalityquite in the way of the middle ages, and Jeanne trembled with joy asthey waited for the door to open in answer to Julien's knock. Oh, thatwas a journey! There they did indeed meet with adventures!

They had happened to appeal to a young couple who received them as thepatriarch received the messenger of God, and they slept on a strawmattress in an old house whose woodwork was so full of worms that itseemed alive. At sunrise they started off again, and soon they stoppedopposite a regular forest of crimson rocks; there were peaks, columns, and steeples, all marvelously sculptured by time and the sea. Thin, round, twisted, crooked, and fantastic, these wonderful rocks ninehundred feet high, looked like trees, plants, animals, monuments, men, monks in their cassocks, horned demons and huge birds, such as one seesin a nightmare, the whole forming a monstrous tribe which seemed to havebeen petrified by some eccentric god. 

Jeanne could not speak, her heart was too full, but she took Julien'shand and pressed it, feeling that she must love something or some onebefore all this beauty; and then, leaving this confusion of forms, theycame upon another bay surrounded by a wall of blood-red granite, whichcast crimson reflections into the blue sea. Jeanne exclaimed, "Oh, Julien!" and that was all she could say; a great lump came in her throatand two tears ran down her cheeks. Julien looked at her in astonishment. 

"What is it, my pet?" he asked. 

She dried her eyes, smiled, and said in a voice that still trembled alittle. "Oh, it's nothing, I suppose I am nervous. I am so happy thatthe least thing upsets me. "

He could not understand this nervousness; he despised the hystericalexcitement to which women give way and the joy or despair into whichthey are cast by a mere sensation, and he thought her tears absurd. Heglanced at the bad road. 

"You had better look after your horse, " he said. 

They went down by a nearly impassable road, then turning to the right, proceeded along the gloomy valley of Ota. The path looked verydangerous, and Julien proposed that they should go up on foot. Jeannewas only too delighted to be alone with him after the emotion she hadfelt, so the guide went on with the mule and horses, and they walkedslowly after him. The mountain seemed cleft from top to bottom, and thepath ran between two tremendous walls of rock which looked nearly black. The air was icy cold, and the little bit of sky that could be seenlooked quite strange, it seemed so far away. A sudden noise made Jeannelook up. A large bird flew out of a hole in the rock; it was an eagle, and its open wings seemed to touch the two sides of the chasm as itmounted towards the sky. Farther on, the mountain again divided, and thepath wound between the two ravines, taking abrupt turns. Jeanne wentfirst, walking lightly and easily, sending the pebbles rolling fromunder her feet and fearlessly looking down the precipices. Julienfollowed her, a little out of breath, and keeping his eyes on the groundso that he should not feel giddy and it seemed like coming out of Hadeswhen they suddenly came into the full sunlight. 

They were very thirsty, and, seeing a damp track, they followed it tillthey came to a tiny spring flowing into a hollow stick which somegoat-herd had put there; all around the spring the ground was carpetedwith moss, and Jeanne knelt down to drink. Julien followed her example, and as she was slowly enjoying the cool water, he put his arm around herand tried to take her place at the end of the wooden pipe. In thestruggle between their lips they would in turns seize the small end ofthe tube and hold it in their mouths for a few seconds; then, as theyleft it, the stream flowed on again and splashed their faces and necks, their clothes and their hands. A few drops shone in their hair likepearls, and with the water flowed their kisses. 

Then Jeanne had an inspiration of love. She filled her mouth with theclear liquid, and, her cheeks puffed out like bladders, she made Julienunderstand that he was to quench his thirst at her lips. He stretchedhis throat, his head thrown backwards and his arms open, and the deepdraught he drank at this living spring enflamed him with desire. Jeanneleant on his shoulder with unusual affection, her heart throbbed, herbosom heaved, her eyes, filled with tears, looked softer, and shewhispered:

"Julien, I love you!"

Then, drawing him to her, she threw herself down and hid hershame-stricken face in her hands. He threw himself down beside her, andpressed her passionately to him; she gasped for breath as she laynervously waiting, and all at once she gave a loud cry as thoughthunderstruck by the sensation she had invited. It was a long timebefore they reached the top of the mountain, so fluttered and exhaustedwas Jeanne, and it was evening when they got to Evisa, and went to thehouse of Paoli Palabretti, a relation of the guide's. Paoli was a tallman with a slight cough, and the melancholy look of a consumptive; heshowed them their room, a miserable-looking chamber built of stone, butwhich was handsome for this country, where no refinement is known. Hewas expressing in his Corsican patois (a mixture of French and Italian)his pleasure at receiving them, when a clear voice interrupted him, anda dark little woman, with big black eyes, a sun-kissed skin, and aslender waist, hurried forward, kissed Jeanne, shook Julien by the handand said: "Good-day, madame; good-day, monsieur; are you quite well?"She took their hats and shawls and arranged everything with one hand, for her other arm was in a sling; then she turned them all out, sayingto her husband: "Take them for a walk till dinner is ready. "

M. Palabretti obeyed at once, and, walking between Jeanne and herhusband, he took them round the village. His steps and his words bothdrawled, and he coughed frequently, saying at each fit, "The cold airhas got on my lungs. " He led them under some immense chestnut-trees, and, suddenly stopping, he said in his monotonous voice:

"It was here that Mathieu Lori killed my cousin Jean Rinaldi. I wasstanding near Jean, just there, when we saw Mathieu about three yardsoff. 'Jean, ' he cried; 'don't go to Albertacce; don't you go, Jean, orI'll kill you:' I took Jean's arm. 'Don't go Jean, ' I said, 'or he'll doit. ' It was about a girl, Paulina Sinacoupi, that they were both after. Then Jean cried out, 'I shall go, Mathieu; and you won't stop me, either. ' Then Mathieu raised his gun, and, before I could take aim, hefired. Jean leaped two feet from the ground, monsieur, and then fellright on me, and my gun dropped and rolled down to that chestnut there. Jean's mouth was wide open, but he didn't say a word; he was dead. "

The young couple stared in astonishment at this calm witness of such acrime. 

"What became of the murderer?" asked Jeanne. 

Paoli coughed for some time, then he went on:

"He gained the mountain, and my brother killed him the next year. Mybrother, Philippi Palabretti, the bandit, you know. "

Jeanne shuddered. "Is your brother a bandit?" she asked. 

The placid Corsican's eye flashed proudly. 

"Yes, madame, he was a celebrated bandit, he was; he put an end to sixgendarmes. He died with Nicolas Morali after they had been surroundedfor six days, and were almost starved to death. "

Then they went in to dinner, and the little woman treated them as if shehad known them twenty years. Jeanne was haunted by the fear that shewould not again experience the strange shock she had felt in Julien'sarms beside the fountain, and when they were alone in their room she wasstill afraid his kisses would again leave her insensible, but she wassoon reassured, and that was her first night of love. The next day shecould hardly bear to leave this humble abode, where a new happiness hadcome to her; she drew her host's little wife into her bedroom, and toldher she did not mean it as a present in return for their hospitality, but she must absolutely insist on sending her a souvenir from Paris, andto this souvenir she seemed to attach a superstitious importance. For along time the young Corsican woman refused to accept anything at all, but at last she said:

"Well, send me a little pistol, a very little one. "

Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment, and the woman added in her ear, as though she were confiding some sweet and tender secret to her:

"It's to kill my brother-in-law with. "

And with a smile on her face, she quickly unbandaged the arm she couldnot use, and showed Jeanne the soft, white flesh which had been piercedright through with a stiletto, though the wound had nearly healed. 

"If I had not been as strong as he is, " she said, "he would have killedme. My husband is not jealous, for he understands me, and then he isill, you see, so he is not so hot-blooded; besides, I am an honestwoman, madame. But my brother-in-law believes everything that is toldhim about me, and he is jealous for my husband. I am sure he will makeanother attempt upon my life, but if I have a little pistol I shall feelsafe, and I shall be sure of having my revenge. "

Jeanne promised to send the weapon, affectionately kissed her new friendand said good-bye. The rest of her journey was a dream, an endlessembrace, an intoxication of caresses; she no longer saw country orpeople or the places where they stopped, she had eyes only for Julien. When they got to Bastia the guide had to be paid; Julien felt in hispockets, and not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne:

"Since you don't use the two thousand francs your mother gave you, Imight as well carry them; they will be safer in my pocket, and, besides, then I shan't have to change any notes. "

They went to Leghorn, Florence, and Genoa, and, one windy morning, theyfound themselves again at Marseilles. It was then the fifteenth ofOctober, and they had been away from Les Peuples two months. The coldwind, which seemed to blow from Normandy, chilled Jeanne and made herfeel miserable. There had lately been a change in Julien's behaviortowards her, he seemed tired, and indifferent, and she had a vaguepresentiment of evil. She persuaded him to stay at Marseilles four dayslonger, for she could not bear to leave these warm, sunny lands whereshe had been so happy, but at last they had to go. They intended to buyall the things they wanted for their housekeeping at Paris, and Jeannewas looking forward to buying all sorts of things for Les Peuples, thanks to her mother's present; but the very first thing she meant topurchase was the pistol she had promised to the young Corsican woman atEvisa. 

The day after they reached Paris, she said to Julien:

"Will you give me mamma's money, dear? I want to buy some things. "

He looked rather cross. 

"How much do you want?" he asked. 

"Oh--what you like, " she answered in surprise. 

"I will give you a hundred francs, " he answered; "and whatever you do, don't waste it. "

She did not know what to say, she felt so amazed and confused, but atlast she said in a hesitating way:

"But--I gave you that money to--"

He interrupted her. 

"Yes, exactly. What does it matter whether it's in your pocket or minenow that we share everything? I am not refusing you the money, am I? Iam going to give you a hundred francs. "

She took the five pieces of gold without another word; she did not dareask for more, so she bought nothing but the pistol. 

A week later they started for Les Peuples. 

 * * * * *

VI

When the post-chaise drove up, the baron and baroness and all theservants were standing outside the white railings to give the travelersa hearty welcome home. The baroness cried, Jeanne quietly wiped away twotears, and her father walked backwards and forwards nervously. Then, while the luggage was being brought in, the whole journey was gone overagain before the drawing-room fire. The eager words flowed fromJeanne's lips, and in half-an-hour she had related everything, except afew little details she forgot in her haste. Then she went to unpack, with Rosalie, who was in a state of great excitement, to help her; whenshe had finished and everything had been put away in its proper placeRosalie left her mistress, and Jeanne sat down, feeling a little tired. She wondered what she could do next, and she tried to think of someoccupation for her mind, some task for her fingers. She did not want togo down to the drawing-room again to sit by her mother who was dozing, and she thought of going for a walk, but it was so miserable out ofdoors that only to glance out of the window made her feel melancholy. 

Then the thought flashed across her mind that now there never would beanything for her to do. At the convent the future had always given hersomething to think about, and her dreams had filled the hours, so thattheir flight had passed unnoticed; but she had hardly left the conventwhen her love-dreams had been realized. In a few weeks she had met, loved, and married a man who had borne her away in his arms withoutgiving her time to think of anything. But now the sweet reality of thefirst few weeks of married life was going to become a daily monotony, barring the way to all the hopes and delicious fears of an unknownfuture. There was nothing more to which she could look forward, nothingmore for her to do, to-day, to-morrow, or ever. She felt all that with avague sensation of disillusion and melancholy. She rose and went to leanher forehead against the cold window-pane, and, after looking for sometime at the dull sky and heavy clouds, she made up her mind to go out. 

Could it really be the same country, the same grass, the same trees asshe had seen with such joy in May? What had become of the sun-bathedleaves, and the flaming dandelions, the blood-red poppies, the puremarguerites that had reared their heads amidst the green grass abovewhich had fluttered innumerable yellow butterflies? They were all gone, and the very air seemed changed, for now it was no longer full of life, and fertilizing germs and intoxicating perfumes. The avenues were soakedby the autumn rains and covered with a thick carpet of dead leaves, andthe thin branches of the poplars trembled in the wind which was shakingoff the few leaves that still hung on them. All day long these last, golden leaves hovered and whirled in the air for a few seconds and thenfell, in an incessant, melancholy rain. 

Jeanne walked on down to the wood. It gave her the sad impression ofbeing in the room of a dying man. The leafy walls which had separatedthe pretty winding paths no longer existed, the branches of the shrubsblew mournfully one against the other, the rustling of the fallenleaves, that the wind was blowing about and piling into heaps, soundedlike a dying sigh, and the birds hopped from tree to tree with shiveringlittle chirps, vainly seeking a shelter from the cold. Shielded by theelms which formed a sort of vanguard against the sea-wind, the lindenand the plane-tree were still covered with leaves, and the one wasclothed in a mantle of scarlet velvet, the other in a cloak of orangesilk. Jeanne walked slowly along the baroness's avenue, by the side ofCouillard's farm, beginning to realize what a dull, monotonous life laybefore her; then she sat down on the slope where Julien had first toldhis love, too sad even to think and only feeling that she would like togo to bed and sleep, so that she might escape from this melancholy day. Looking up she saw a seagull blown along by a gust of wind, and shesuddenly thought of the eagle she had seen in Corsica in the sombervalley of Ota. As she sat there she could see again the island with itssun-ripened oranges, its strong perfumes, its pink-topped mountains, itsazure bays, its ravines, with their rushing torrents, and it gave her asharp pain to think of that happy time that was past and gone; and thedamp, rugged country by which she was now surrounded, the mournful fallof the leaves, the gray clouds hurrying before the wind, made her feelso miserable that she went indoors, feeling that she should cry if shestayed out any longer. She found her mother, who was accustomed to thesedull days, dozing over the fire. The baron and Julien had gone for awalk, and the night was drawing on filling the vast drawing-room withdark shadows which were sometimes dispersed by the fitful gleams of thefire; out of doors the gray sky and muddy fields could just be seen inthe fading light. 

The baron and Julien came in soon after Jeanne. As soon as he came intothe gloomy room the baron rang the bell, exclaiming:

"How miserable you look in here! Let us have some lights. "

He sat down before the fire, putting his feet near the flame, which madethe mud drop off his steaming boots. 

"I think it is going to freeze, " he said, rubbing his hands togethercheerfully. "The sky is clearing towards the north, and it's a full moonthis evening. We shall have a hard frost to-night. "

Then, turning towards his daughter:

"Well, my dear, " he asked, "are you glad to get back to your own houseand see the old people at home again?"

This simple question quite upset Jeanne. Her eyes filled with tears, andshe threw herself into her father's arms, covering his face with kissesas though she would ask him to forgive her discontent. She had thoughtshe should be so pleased to see her parents again, and now, instead ofjoy, she felt a coldness around her heart, and it seemed as if she couldnot regain all her former love for them until they had all dropped backinto their ordinary ways again. 

Dinner seemed very long that evening; no one spoke, and Julien did notpay the least attention to his wife. In the drawing-room after dinner, Jeanne dozed over the fire opposite the baroness who was quite asleep, and, when she was aroused for a moment by the voices of the two men, raised in argument over something, she wondered if she would ever becomequite content with a pleasureless, listless life like her mother. Thecrackling fire burnt clear and bright, and threw sudden gleams on thefaded tapestry chairs, on the fox and the stork, on themelancholy-looking heron, on the ant and the grasshopper. The baron cameover to the fireplace, and held his hands to the blaze. 

"The fire burns well to-night, " he said; "there is a frost, I am sure. "

He put his hands on Jeanne's shoulder, and, pointing to the fire:

"My child, " he said, "the hearth with all one's family around it is thehappiest spot on earth; there is no place like it. But don't you thinkwe had better go to bed? You must both be quite worn out with fatigue. "

Up in her bedroom Jeanne wondered how this second return to the placeshe loved so well could be so different from the first. "Why did shefeel so miserable?" she asked herself; "why did the château, the fields, everything she had so loved, seem to-day so desolate?" Her eyes fell onthe clock. The little bee was swinging from left to right and from rightto left over the gilded flowers, with the same quick even movement as ofold. She suddenly felt a glow of affection for this little piece ofmechanism, which told her the hour in its silvery tones, and beat like ahuman heart, and the tears came into her eyes as she looked at it; shehad not felt so moved when she had kissed her father and mother on herreturn, but the heart has no rules or logic, to guide it. 

Julien had made his fatigue the pretext for not sharing his wife'schamber that night, so, for the first time since her marriage, she sleptalone. It had been agreed that henceforth they should have separaterooms, but she was not yet accustomed to sleep alone, and, for a longtime she lay awake while the moaning wind swept round the house. In themorning she was aroused by the blood-red light falling on her bed. Through the frozen window-panes it looked as if the whole sky were onfire. Throwing a big dressing-gown round her, Jeanne ran to the windowand opened it, and in rushed an icy wind, stinging her skin and bringingthe water to her eyes. In the midst of a crimson sky, the great red sunwas rising behind the trees, and the white frost had made the ground sohard that it rang under the farm-servant's feet. In this one night allthe branches of the poplars had been entirely stripped of their fewremaining leaves, and, through the bare trees, beyond the plain, appeared the long, green line of the sea, covered with white-crestedwaves. The plane-tree and the linden were being rapidly stripped oftheir bright coverings by the cold wind, and showers of leaves fell tothe ground as each gust swept by. 

Jeanne dressed herself, and for want of something better to do, went tosee the farmers. The Martins were very surprised to see her. MadameMartin kissed her on both cheeks, and she had to drink a little glass ofnoyau; then she went over to the other farm. The Couillards were alsovery surprised when she came in; the farmer's wife gave two pecks at herears and insisted on her drinking a little glass of cassis; then shewent in to breakfast. And that day passed like the previous one, only itwas cold instead of damp, and the other days of the week were like thefirst two, and all the weeks of the month were like the first one. 

Little by little, Jeanne's regrets for those happy, distant landsvanished; she began to get resigned to her life, to feel an interest inthe many unimportant details of the days, and to perform her simple, regular occupations with care. A disenchantment of life, a sort ofsettled melancholy gradually took possession of her. What did she want?She did not know herself. She had no desire for society, no thirst forthe excitement of the world, the pleasures she might have had possessedno attraction for her, but all her dreams and illusions had faded away, leaving her life as colorless as the old tapestry chairs in the châteaudrawing-room. 

Her relations with Julien had completely changed, for he became quite adifferent man when they settled down after their wedding tour, like anactor who becomes himself again as soon as he has finished playing hispart. He hardly ever took any notice of his wife, or even spoke to her;all his love seemed to have suddenly disappeared, and it was very seldomthat he accompanied her to her room of a night. He had taken themanagement of the estate and the household into his own hands, and helooked into all the accounts, saw that the peasants paid their arrearsof rent, and cut down every expense. No longer the polished, elegant manwho had won Jeanne's heart, he looked and dressed like a well-to-dofarmer, neglecting his personal appearance with the carelessness of aman who no longer strives to fascinate. He always wore an old velvetshooting-jacket, covered all over with stains, which he had found oneday as he was looking over his old clothes; then he left off shaving, and his long, untrimmed beard made him look quite plain, while his handsnever received any attention. 

After each meal, he drank four or five small glasses of brandy, and whenJeanne affectionately reproached him, he answered so roughly: "Leave mealone, can't you?" that she never tried to reason with him again. 

She accepted all this in a calm way that astonished herself, but shelooked upon him now as a stranger who was nothing whatever to her. Sheoften thought of it all, and wondered how it was that after having lovedand married each other in a delicious passion of affection they shouldsuddenly awake from their dream of love as utter strangers, as if theyhad never lain in each other's arms. How was it his indifference did nothurt her more? Had they been mistaken in each other? Would she have beenmore pained if Julien had still been handsome, elegant and attractive?

 * * * * *

It was understood that at the new year the baron and baroness were tospend a few months in their Rouen house, leaving Les Peuples to theyoung people who would become settled that winter, and so get accustomedto the place where they were to pass their lives. Julien wanted topresent his wife to the Brisevilles, the Couteliers and the Fourvilles, but they could not pay these visits yet because they had not been ableto get the painter to change the coat-of-arms on the carriage; fornothing in the world would have persuaded Julien to go to theneighboring château in the old family carriage, which the baron hadgiven up to him, until the arms of the De Lamares had been quartered onit with those of the Leperthius des Vauds. Now there was only one man inthe whole province who made a speciality of coats-of-arms, a painterfrom Bolbec, named Bataille, who was naturally in great request amongall the Normandy aristocracy; so Julien had to wait for some time beforehe could secure his services. 

At last, one December morning just as they were finishing lunch at LesPeuples, they saw a man, with a box on his back, open the gate and comeup the path; it was Bataille. He was shown into the dining-room, andlunch was served to him just as if he had been a gentleman, for hisconstant intercourse with the provincial aristocracy, his knowledge ofthe coats-of-arms, their mottoes and signification, made him a sort ofherald with whom no gentleman need be ashamed to shake hands. 

Pencils and paper were brought, and while Bataille ate his lunch, thebaron and Julien made sketches of their escutcheons with all thequarters. The baroness, always delighted when anything of this sort wasdiscussed, gave her advice, and even Jeanne took part in theconversation, as if it aroused some interest in her. Bataille, withoutinterrupting his lunch, occasionally gave an opinion, took the pencil tomake a sketch of his idea, quoted examples, described all thearistocratic carriages in Normandy, and seemed to scatter an atmosphereof nobility all around him. He was a little man with thin gray hair andpaint-daubed hands which smelt of oil. It was said that he had oncecommitted a grave offense against public morality, but the esteem inwhich he was held by all the titled families had long ago effaced thisstain on his character. 

As soon as the painter had finished his coffee, he was taken to thecoach-house and the carriage was uncovered. Bataille looked at it, gavean idea of the size he thought the shield ought to be, and then, afterthe others had again given their opinions, he began his work. In spiteof the cold the baroness ordered a chair and a foot-warmer to be broughtout for her that she might sit and watch the painter. Soon she began totalk to him, asking him about the marriages and births and deaths ofwhich she had not yet heard, and adding these fresh details to thegenealogical trees which she already knew by heart. Beside her, astridea chair, sat Julien, smoking a pipe and occasionally spitting on theground as he watched the growth of the colored certificate of hisnobility. Soon old Simon on his way to the kitchen garden stopped, withhis spade on his shoulder, to look at the painting, and the news ofBataille's arrival having reached the two farms the farmers' wives camehurrying up also. Standing on either side of the baroness, they wentinto ecstasies over the drawing and kept repeating: "He must be cleverto paint like that. "

The shields on both carriage-doors were finished the next morning abouteleven o'clock. Everyone came to look at the work now it was done, andthe carriage was drawn out of the coach-house that they might the betterjudge of the effect. The design was pronounced perfect, and Bataillereceived a great many compliments before he strapped his box on his backand went off again; the baron, his wife, Jeanne and Julien all agreedthat the painter was a man of great talent, and would, no doubt, havebecome an artist, if circumstances had permitted. 

For the sake of economy, Julien had accomplished some reforms whichbrought with them the need of fresh arrangements. The old coachman nowperformed the duties of gardener, the vicomte himself undertaking todrive, and as he was obliged to have someone to hold the horses when thefamily went to make a visit, he had made a groom of a young cowherdnamed Marius. The horses had been sold to do away with the expense oftheir keep, so he had introduced a clause in Couillard's and Martin'sleases by which the two farmers bound themselves to each provide a horseonce a month, on whatever day the vicomte chose. 

When the day came the Couillards produced a big, raw-boned, yellowishhorse, and the Martins a little, white, long-haired nag; the two horseswere harnessed, and Marius, buried in an old livery of Simon's, broughtthe carriage round to the door. Julien, who was in his best clothes, would have looked a little like his old, elegant self, if his long beardhad not made him look common. He inspected the horses, the carriage, andthe little groom, and thought they looked very well, the only thing ofany importance in his eyes being the new coat-of-arms. The baroness camedownstairs on her husband's arm, got in, and had some cushions putbehind her back; then came Jeanne. She laughed first at the strange pairof horses, and her laughter increased when she saw Marius with his faceburied under his cockaded hat (which his nose alone prevented fromslipping down to his chin), and his hands lost in his ample sleeves, andthe skirts of his coat coming right down to his feet, which were encasedin enormous boots; but when she saw him obliged to throw his head rightback before he could see anything, and raise his knee at each step asthough he were going to take a river in his stride, and move like ablind man when he had an order given him, she gave a shout of laughter. The baron turned round, looked for a moment at the little fellow whostood looking so confused in his big clothes, and then he too wasovercome with laughter, and, hardly able to speak, called out to hiswife:

"Lo-lo-look at Ma-Marius! Does-doesn't he look fun-funny?"

The baroness leaned out of the carriage-window, and, catching sight ofMarius, she was shaken by such a fit of laughter that the carriage movedup and down on its springs as if it were jolting over some deep ruts. 

"What on earth is there to laugh at like that?" said Julien, his facepale with anger. "You must be perfect idiots, all of you. "

Jeanne sat down on the steps, holding her sides and quite unable tocontain herself; the baron followed her example, and, inside thecarriage, convulsive sneezes and a sort of continual clucking intimatedthat the baroness was suffocating with laughter. At last Marius' coatbegan to shake; no doubt, he understood the cause of all this mirth, andhe giggled himself, beneath his big hat. Julien rushed towards him in arage; he gave him a box on the ear which knocked the boy's hat off andsent it rolling onto the grass; then, turning to the baron, he said, ina voice that trembled with anger:

"I think you ought to be the last one to laugh. Whose fault is it thatyou are ruined? We should not be like this if you had not squanderedyour fortune and thrown away your money right and left. "

All the laughter stopped abruptly, but no one spoke. Jeanne, ready tocry now, quietly took her place beside her mother. The baron, without aword, sat down opposite, and Julien got up on the box, after lifting upthe crying boy whose cheek was beginning to swell. The long drive wasperformed in silence, for they all felt awkward and unable to converseon ordinary topics. They could only think of the incident that had justhappened, and, rather than broach such a painful subject, they preferredto sit in dull silence. 

They went past a great many farm-houses startling the black fowls andsending them to the hedges for refuge, and sometimes a yelping dogfollowed for a little while and then ran back to his kennel withbristling hair, turning round every now and then to send another barkafter the carriage. A lad in muddy sabots, was slouching along with hishands in his pockets, his blouse blown out by the wind and his long lazylegs dragging one after the other, and as he stood on one side for thecarriage to pass, he awkwardly pulled off his cap. Between each farm laymeadows with other farms dotted here and there in the distance, and itseemed a long while before they turned up an avenue of firs whichbordered the road. Here the carriage leant on one side as it passed overthe deep ruts, and the baroness felt frightened and began to give littlescreams. At the end of the avenue there was a white gate which Mariusjumped down to open, and then they drove round an immense lawn and drewup before a high, gloomy-looking house which had all its shuttersclosed. 

The hall-door opened, and an old, semi-paralyzed servant (in a red andblack striped waistcoat, over which was tied an apron) limped sidewaysdown the steps; after asking the visitors' names he showed them into alarge drawing-room, and drew up the closed Venetian blinds. Thefurniture was all covered up, and the clock and candelabra wereenveloped in white cloths; the room smelt moldy, and its damp, coldatmosphere seemed to chill one to the very heart. The visitors sat downand waited. Footsteps could be heard on the floor above, hurrying alongin an unusual bustle, for the lady of the house had been taken unawaresand was changing her dress as quickly as possible; a bell rang severaltimes and then they could hear more footsteps on the stairs. Thebaroness, feeling thoroughly cold, began to sneeze frequently; Julienwalked up and down the room, Jeanne sat by her mother, and the baronstood with his back against the marble mantelpiece. 

At last a door opened, and the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Brisevilleappeared. They were a little, thin couple of an uncertain age, both veryformal and rather embarrassed. The vicomtesse wore a flowered silk gownand a cap trimmed with ribbons, and when she spoke it was in a sharp, quick voice. Her husband was in a tight frock-coat; his hair looked asif it had been waxed, and his nose, his eyes, his long teeth and hiscoat, which was evidently his best one, all shone as if they had beenpolished with the greatest care. He returned his visitors' bow with abend of the knees. 

When the ordinary complimentary phrases had been exchanged no one knewwhat to say next, so they all politely expressed their pleasure atmaking this new acquaintance and hoped it would be a lasting one; for, living as they did in the country all the year round, an occasionalvisit made an agreable change. The icy air of the drawing-room froze thevery marrow of their bones, and the baroness was seized by a fit ofcoughing, interrupted at intervals by a sneeze. The baron rose to go. 

"You are not going to leave us already? Pray, stay a little longer, "said the Brisevilles. 

But Jeanne followed her father's example in spite of all the signs madeher by Julien, who thought they were leaving too soon. The vicomtessewould have rung to order the baron's carriage, but the bell was out oforder, so the vicomte went to find a servant. He soon returned, to saythat the horses had been taken out, and the carriage would not be readyfor some minutes. Everyone tried to find some subject of conversation;the rainy winter was discussed, and Jeanne, who could not preventherself shivering, try as she would, asked if their hosts did not findit very dull living alone all the year round. Such a question astoundedthe Brisevilles. Their time was always fully occupied, what with writinglong letters to their numerous aristocratic relations and pompouslydiscussing the most trivial matters, for in all their useless, pettyoccupations, they were as formally polite to each other as they wouldhave been to utter strangers. At last the carriage, with its twoill-matched steeds, drew up before the door, but Marius was nowhere tobe seen; he had gone for a walk in the fields, thinking he would not bewanted again until the evening. Julien, in a great rage, left word forhim to be sent after them on foot, and, after a great many bows andcompliments, they started for Les Peuples again. 

As soon as they were fairly off, Jeanne and the baron, in spite of theuncomfortable feeling that Julien's ill-temper had caused, began tolaugh and joke about the Brisevilles' ways and tones. The baron imitatedthe husband and Jeanne the wife, and the baroness, feeling a little hurtin her reverence for the aristocracy, said to them:

"You should not joke in that way. I'm sure the Brisevilles are verywell-bred people, and they belong to excellent families. "

They stopped laughing for a time, out of respect for the baroness'sfeelings, but every now and then Jeanne would catch her father's eye, and then they began again. The baron would make a very stiff bow, andsay in a solemn voice:

"Your château at Les Peuples must be very cold, madame, with thesea-breeze blowing on it all day long. "

Then Jeanne put on a very prim look, and said with a smirk, moving herhead all the time like a duck on the water:

"Oh, monsieur, I have plenty to fill up my time. You see we have so manyrelations to whom letters must be written, and M. De Briseville leavesall correspondence to me, as his time is taken up with the religioushistory of Normandy that he is writing in collaboration with the AbbéPelle. "

The baroness could not help smiling, but she repeated, in a half-vexed, half-amused tone:

"It isn't right to laugh at people of our own rank like that. "

All at once the carriage came to a standstill, and Julien called out tosomeone on the road behind; Jeanne and the baron leant out of thewindows, and saw some singular creature rolling, rather than running, towards them. Hindered by the floating skirts of his coat, unable to seefor his hat, which kept slipping over his eyes, his sleeves waving likethe sails of a windmill, splashing through the puddles, stumbling overevery large stone in his way, hastening, jumping, covered with mud, Marius was running after the carriage as fast as his legs could carryhim. As soon as he came up Julien leant down, caught hold of him by thecoat collar, and lifted him up on the box seat; then, dropping thereins, he began to pommel the boy's hat, which at once slipped down tohis shoulders. Inside the hat, which sounded as if it had been a drum, Marius yelled at the top of his voice, but it was in vain that hestruggled and tried to jump down, for his master held him firmly withone hand while he beat him with the other. 

"Papa! oh, papa!" gasped Jeanne; and the baroness, filled withindignation, seized her husband's arm, and exclaimed: "Stop him, Jacques, stop him!" The baron suddenly let down the front window, and, catching hold of the vicomte's sleeve:

"Are you going to stop beating that child?" he said in a voice thattrembled with anger. 

Julien turned round in astonishment. 

"But don't you see what a state the little wretch has got his liveryinto?"

"What does that matter to me?" exclaimed the baron, with his headbetween the two. "You sha'n't be so rough with him. "

Julien got angry. 

"Kindly leave me alone, " he said; "it's nothing to do with you;" and heraised his hand to strike the lad again. The baron caught hold of hisson-in-law's wrist, and flung his uplifted hand heavily down against thewoodwork of the seat, crying:

"If you don't stop that, I'll get out and soon make you. "

He spoke in so determined a tone that the vicomte's rage suddenlyvanished, and, shrugging his shoulders, he whipped up the horses, andthe carriage moved on again. All this time Jeanne and her mother had satstill, pale with fright, and the beating of the baroness's heart couldbe distinctly heard. At dinner that evening Julien was more agreeablethan usual, and behaved as if nothing had happened. Jeanne, her father, and Madame Adélaïde easily forgave, and, touched by his good temper, they joined in his gayety with a feeling of relief. When Jeannementioned the Brisevilles, her husband even made a joke about them, though he quickly added:

"But one can see directly that they are gentlepeople. "

No more visits were paid, as everyone dreaded any reference to Marius, but they were going to send cards to their neighbors on New Year's day, and then wait to call on them until spring came, and the weather waswarmer. 

On Christmas day and New Year's day, the curé, the mayor, and his wifedined at Les Peuples, and their two visits formed the only break in themonotonous days. The baron and baroness were to leave the château on theninth of January; Jeanne wanted them to stay longer, but Julien did notsecond her invitation, so the baron ordered the post-chaise to be sentfrom Rouen. The evening before they went away was clear and frosty, soJeanne and her father walked down to Yport, for they had not been theresince Jeanne's return from Corsica. 

They went across the wood where she had walked on her wedding-day withhim whose companion she was henceforth to be, where she had received hisfirst kiss, and had caught her first glimpse of that sensual love whichwas not fully revealed to her till that day in the valley of Ota whenshe had drunk her husband's kisses with the water. 

There were no leaves, no climbing plants, in the copse now, only therustling of the branches, and that dry, crackling noise that seems tofill every wood in winter. 

They reached the little village and went along the empty, silentstreets, which smelt of fish and of seaweed. The big brown nets werehanging before the doors, or stretched out on the beach as of old;towards Fécamp the green rocks at the foot of the cliff could be seen, for the tide was going out, and all along the beach the big boats lay ontheir sides looking like huge fish. 

As night drew on, the fishermen, walking heavily in their big sea-boots, began to come down on the shingle in groups, their necks well wrapped upwith woolen scarfs, and carrying a liter of brandy in one hand, and theboat-lantern in the other. They busied themselves round the boats, putting on board, with true Normandy slowness, their nets, their buoys, a big loaf, a jar of butter, and the bottle of brandy and a glass. Thenthey pushed off the boats, which went down the beach with a harsh noise, then rushed through the surf, balanced themselves on the crest of a wavefor a few seconds, and spread their brown wings and disappeared into thenight, with their little lights shining at the bottom of the masts. Thesailors' wives, their big, bony frames shown off by their thin dresses, stayed until the last fisherman had gone off, and then went back to thehushed village, where their noisy voices roused the sleeping echoes ofthe gloomy streets. 

The baron and Jeanne stood watching these men go off into the darkness, as they went off every night, risking their lives to keep themselvesfrom starving, and yet gaining so little that they could never afford toeat meat. 

"What a terrible, beautiful thing is the ocean!" said the baron. "Howmany lives are at this very moment in danger on it, and yet howexquisite it looks now, with the shadows falling over it! Doesn't it, Jeannette?"

"This is not so pretty as the Mediterranean, " she answered with a waterysmile. 

"The Mediterranean!" exclaimed the baron scornfully. "Why, theMediterranean's nothing but oil or sugared water, while this sea isterrific with its crests of foam and its wild waves. And think of thosemen who have just gone off on it, and who are already out of sight. "

Jeanne gave in. 

"Yes, perhaps you are right, " she said with a sigh, for the word"Mediterranean" had sent a pang through her heart, and turned herthoughts to those far-away countries where all her dreams lay buried. 

They did not go back through the wood, but walked along the road; theywalked in silence, for both were saddened by the thought of the morrow'sparting. As they passed the farmhouses, they could smell the crushedapples--that scent of new cider which pervades all Normandy at this timeof the year--or the strong odor of cows and the healthy, warm smell of adunghill. The dwelling houses could be distinguished by their littlelighted windows, and these tiny lights, scattered over the country, madeJeanne think of the loneliness of human creatures, and how everythingtends to separate and tear them away from those they love, and her heartseemed to grow bigger and more capable of understanding the mysteries ofexistence. 

"Life is not always gay, " she said in tones of resignation. 

The baron sighed. 

"That is true, my child, " he replied; "but we cannot help it. "

The next day the baron and baroness went away, leaving Jeanne and Julienalone. 

 * * * * *

VII

The young couple got into the habit of playing cards; every day afterlunch Jeanne played several games of bezique with her husband, while hesmoked his pipe and drank six or eight glasses of brandy. When they hadfinished playing, Jeanne went upstairs to her bedroom, and, sitting bythe window, worked at a petticoat flounce she was embroidering, whilethe wind and rain beat against the panes. When her eyes ached she lookedout at the foamy, restless sea, gazed at it for a few minutes, and thentook up her work again. 

She had nothing else to do, for Julien had taken the entire managementof the house into his hands, that he might thoroughly satisfy hislonging for authority and his mania for economy. He was exceedinglystingy; he never gave the servants anything beyond their exact wages, never allowed any food that was not strictly necessary. Every morning, ever since she had been at Les Peuples, the baker had made Jeanne alittle Normandy cake, but Julien cut off this expense, and Jeanne had tocontent herself with toast. 

Wishing to avoid all arguments and quarrels, she never made any remark, but each fresh proof of her husband's avarice hurt her like the prick ofa needle. It seemed so petty, so odious to her, brought up as she hadbeen in a family where money was never thought of any importance. Howoften she had heard her mother say: "Money is made to be spent"; but nowJulien kept saying to her: "Will you never be cured of throwing moneyaway?" Whenever he could manage to reduce a salary or a bill by a fewpence he would slip the money into his pocket, saying, with a pleasedsmile:

"Little streams make big rivers. "

Jeanne would sometimes find herself dreaming as she used to do beforeshe was married. She would gradually stop working, and with her handslying idle in her lap and her eyes fixed on space, she built castles inthe air as if she were a young girl again. But the voice of Julien, giving an order to old Simon, would call her back to the realities oflife, and she would take up her work, thinking, "Ah, that is all overand done with now, " and a tear would fall on her fingers as they pushedthe needle through the stuff. 

Rosalie, who used to be so gay and lively, always singing snatches ofsongs as she went about her work, gradually changed also. Her plumpround cheeks had fallen in and lost their brightened color, and her skinwas muddy and dark. Jeanne often asked her if she were ill, but thelittle maid always answered with a faint blush, "No, madame, " and gotaway as quickly as she could. Instead of tripping along as she hadalways done, she now dragged herself painfully from room to room, andseemed not even to care how she looked, for the peddlers in vain spreadout their ribbons and corsets and bottles of scent before her; she neverbought anything from them now. 

At the end of January, the heavy clouds came across the sea from thenorth, and there was a heavy fall of snow. In one night the whole plainwas whitened, and, in the morning the trees looked as if a mantle offrozen foam had been cast over them. 

Julien put on his high boots, and passed his time in the ditch betweenthe wood and the plain, watching for the migrating birds. Every now andthen his shots would break the frozen silence of the fields, and hordesof black crows flew from the trees in terror. Jeanne, tired of stayingindoors, would go out on the steps of the house, where, in the stillnessof this snow-covered world, she could hear the bustle of the farms, orthe far-away murmur of the waves and the soft continual rustle of thefalling snow. 

On one of these cold, white mornings she was sitting by her bedroomfire, while Rosalie, who looked worse and worse every day, was slowlymaking the bed. All at once Jeanne heard a sigh of pain behind her. Without turning her head, she asked:

"What is the matter with you, Rosalie?"

The maid answered as she always did:

"Nothing, madame, " but her voice seemed to die away as she spoke. 

Jeanne had left off thinking about her, when she suddenly noticed thatshe could not hear the girl moving. She called: "Rosalie. "

There was no answer. Then she thought that the maid must have gonequietly out of the room without her hearing her, and she cried in alouder tone: "Rosalie!" Again she received no answer, and she was juststretching out her hand to ring the bell, when she heard a low moanclose beside her. She started up in terror. 

Rosalie was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, her legsstretched stiffly out, her face livid, and her eyes staring straightbefore her. Jeanne rushed to her side. 

"Oh, Rosalie! What is the matter? what is it?" she asked in affright. 

The maid did not answer a word, but fixed her wild eyes on her mistressand gasped for breath, as if tortured by some excruciating pain. Then, stiffening every muscle in her body, and stifling a cry of anguishbetween her clenched teeth, she slipped down on her back, and all atonce, something stirred underneath her dress, which clung tightly roundher legs. Jeanne heard a strange, gushing noise, something like thedeath-rattle of someone who is suffocating, and then came a long lowwail of pain; it was the first cry of suffering of a child entering theworld. 

The sound came as a revelation to her, and, suddenly losing her head, she rushed to the top of the stairs, crying:

"Julien! Julien!"

"What do you want?" he answered, from below. 

She gasped out, "It's Rosalie who--who--" but before she could say anymore Julien was rushing up the stairs two at a time; he dashed into thebedroom, raised the girl's clothes, and there lay a creased, shriveled, hideous, little atom of humanity, feebly whining and trying to move itslimbs. He got up with an evil look on his face, and pushed hisdistracted wife out of the room, saying:

"This is no place for you. Go away and send me Ludivine and old Simon. "

Jeanne went down to the kitchen trembling all over, to deliver herhusband's message, and then afraid to go upstairs again, she went intothe drawing-room, where a fire was never lighted, now her parents wereaway. Soon she saw Simon run out of the house, and come back fiveminutes after with Widow Dentu, the village midwife. Next she heard anoise on the stairs which sounded as if they were carrying a body, thenJulien came to tell her that she could go back to her room. She wentupstairs and sat down again before her bedroom fire, trembling as if shehad just witnessed some terrible accident. 

"How is she?" she asked. 

Julien, apparently in a great rage, was walking about the room in apreoccupied, nervous way. He did not answer his wife for some moments, but at last he asked, stopping in his walk:

"Well, what do you mean to do with this girl?"

Jeanne looked at her husband as if she did not understand his question. 

"What do you mean?" she said. "I don't know; how should I?"

"Well, anyhow, we can't keep that child in the house, " he cried, angrily. 

Jeanne looked very perplexed, and sat in silence for some time. At lastshe said:

"But, my dear, we could put it out to nurse somewhere?"

He hardly let her finish her sentence. 

"And who'll pay for it? Will you?"

"But surely the father will take care of it, " she said, after anotherlong silence. "And if he marries Rosalie, everything will be all right. "

"The father!" answered Julien, roughly; "the father! Do you know who isthe father? Of course you don't. Very well, then!"

Jeanne began to get troubled: "But he certainly will not forsake thegirl; it would be such a cowardly thing to do. We will ask her his name, and go and see him and force him to give some account of himself. "

Julien had become calmer, and was again walking about the room. 

"My dear girl, " he replied, "I don't believe she will tell you the man'sname, or me either. Besides, suppose he wouldn't marry her? You must seethat we can't keep a girl and her illegitimate child in our house. "

But Jeanne would only repeat, doggedly:

"Then the man must be a villain; but we will find out who he is, andthen he will have us to deal with instead of that poor girl. "

Julien got very red. 

"But until we know who he is?" he asked. 

She did not know what to propose, so she asked Julien what he thoughtwas the best thing to do. He gave his opinion very promptly. 

"Oh, I should give her some money, and let her and her brat go to thedevil. "

That made Jeanne very indignant. 

"That shall never be done, " she declared; "Rosalie is my foster-sister, and we have grown up together. She has erred, it is true, but I willnever turn her out-of-doors for that, and, if there is no other way outof the difficulty, I will bring up the child myself. "

"And we should have a nice reputation, shouldn't we, with our name andconnections?" burst out Julien. "People would say that we encouragedvice, and sheltered prostitutes, and respectable people would never comenear us. Why, what can you be thinking of? You must be mad!"

"I will never have Rosalie turned out, " she repeated, quietly. "If youwill not keep her here, my mother will take her back again. But we aresure to find out the name of the father. "

At that, he went out of the room, too angry to talk to her any longer, and as he banged the door after him he cried:

"Women are fools with their absurd notions!"

In the afternoon Jeanne went up to see the invalid. She was lying inbed, wide awake, and the Widow Dentu was rocking the child in her arms. As soon as she saw her mistress Rosalie began to sob violently, and whenJeanne wanted to kiss her, she turned away and hid her face under thebed-clothes. The nurse interfered and drew down the sheet, and thenRosalie made no further resistance, though the tears still ran down hercheeks. 

The room was very cold, for there was only a small fire in the grate, and the child was crying. Jeanne did not dare make any reference to thelittle one, for fear of causing another burst of tears, but she heldRosalie's hand and kept repeating mechanically:

"It won't matter; it won't matter. "

The poor girl glanced shyly at the nurse from time to time; the child'scries seemed to pierce her heart, and sobs still escaped from heroccasionally, though she forced herself to swallow her tears. Jeannekissed her again, and whispered in her ear: "We'll take good care of it, you may be sure of that, " and then ran quickly out of the room, forRosalie's tears were beginning to flow again. 

After that, Jeanne went up every day to see the invalid, and every dayRosalie burst into tears when her mistress came into the room. The childwas put out to nurse, and Julien would hardly speak to his wife, for hecould not forgive her for refusing to dismiss the maid. One day hereturned to the subject, but Jeanne drew out a letter from her motherin which the baroness said that if they would not keep Rosalie at LesPeuples she was to be sent on to Rouen directly. 

"Your mother's as great a fool as you are, " cried Julien; but he did notsay anything more about sending Rosalie away, and a fortnight later themaid was able to get up and perform her duties again. 

One morning Jeanne made her sit down, and holding both her hands inhers;

"Now, then, Rosalie, tell me all about it, " she said, looking herstraight in the face. 

Rosalie began to tremble. 

"All about what, madame?" she said, timidly. 

"Who is the father of your child?" asked Jeanne. 

A look of despair came over the maid's face, and she struggled todisengage her hands from her mistress's grasp, but Jeanne kissed her, inspite of her struggles, and tried to console her. 

"It is true you have been weak, " she said, "but you are not the first towhom such a misfortune has happened, and, if only the father of thechild marries you, no one will think anything more about it; we wouldemploy him, and he could live here with you. "

Rosalie moaned as if she were being tortured, and tried to get her handsfree that she might run away. 

"I can quite understand how ashamed you feel, " went on Jeanne, "but yousee that I am not angry, and that I speak kindly to you. I wish to knowthis man's name for your own good, for I fear, from your grief, that hemeans to abandon you, and I want to prevent that. Julien will see him, and we will make him marry you, and we shall employ you both; we willsee that he makes you happy. "

This time Rosalie made so vigorous an effort that she succeeded inwrenching her hands away from her mistress, and she rushed from the roomas if she were mad. 

"I have tried to make Rosalie tell me her seducer's name, " said Jeanneto her husband at dinner that evening, "but I did not succeed in doingso. Try and see if she will tell you, that we may force the wretch tomarry her. "

"There, don't let me hear any more about all that, " he said, angrily. "You wanted to keep this girl, and you have done so, but don't bother meabout her. "

He seemed still more irritable since Rosalie's confinement than he hadbeen before. He had got into the habit of shouting at his wife, wheneverhe spoke to her, as if he were always angry, while she, on the contrary, spoke softly, and did everything to avoid a quarrel; but she often criedwhen she was alone in her room at night. In spite of his bad temper, Julien had resumed the marital duties he had so neglected since hiswedding tour, and it was seldom now that he let three nights passwithout accompanying his wife to her room. 

Rosalie soon got quite well again, and with better health came betterspirits, but she always seemed frightened and haunted by some strangedread. Jeanne tried twice more to make her name her seducer, but eachtime she ran away, without saying anything. Julien suddenly becamebetter tempered, and his young wife began to cherish vague hopes, and toregain a little of her former gayety; but she often felt very unwell, though she never said anything about it. 

For five weeks the crisp, shining snow had lain on the frozen ground; inthe daytime there was not a cloud to be seen, and at night the sky wasstrewn with stars. Standing alone in their square courtyards, behind thegreat frosted trees, the farms seemed dead beneath their snowy shrouds. Neither men nor cattle could go out, and the only sign of life about thehomesteads and cottages was the smoke that went straight up from thechimneys into the frosty air. 

The grass, the hedges and the wall of elms seemed killed by the cold. From time to time the trees cracked, as if the fibers of their brancheswere separating beneath the bark, and sometimes a big branch would breakoff and fall to the ground, its sap frozen and dried up by the intensecold. 

Jeanne thought the severe weather was the cause of her ill-health, andshe longed for the warm spring breezes. Sometimes the very idea of fooddisgusted her, and she could eat nothing; at other times she vomitedafter every meal, unable to digest the little she did eat. She hadviolent palpitations of the heart, and she lived in a constant andintolerable state of nervous excitement. 

One evening, when the thermometer was sinking still lower, Julienshivered as he left the dinner table (for the dining-room was neversufficiently heated, so careful was he over the wood), and rubbing hishands together:

"It's too cold to sleep alone to-night, isn't it, darling?" he whisperedto his wife, with one of his old good-tempered laughs. 

Jeanne threw her arms round his neck, but she felt so ill, so nervous, and she had such aching pains that evening, that, with her lips close tohis, she begged him to let her sleep alone. 

"I feel so ill to-night, " she said, "but I am sure to be betterto-morrow. "

"Just as you please, my dear, " he answered. "If you are ill, you musttake care of yourself. " And he began to talk of something else. 

Jeanne went to bed early. Julien, for a wonder, ordered a fire to belighted in his own room; and when the servant came to tell him that "thefire had burnt up, " he kissed his wife on the forehead and saidgood-night. 

The very walls seemed to feel the cold, and made little cracking noisesas if they were shivering. Jeanne lay shaking with cold; twice she gotup to put more logs on the fire, and to pile her petticoats and dresseson the bed, but nothing seemed to make her any warmer. There werenervous twitchings in her legs, which made her toss and turn restlesslyfrom side to side. Her feet were numbed, her teeth chattered, her handstrembled, her heart beat so slowly that sometimes it seemed to stopaltogether; and she gasped for breath as if she could not draw the airinto her lungs. 

As the cold crept higher and higher up her limbs, she was seized with aterrible fear. She had never felt like this before; life seemed to begradually slipping away from her, and she thought each breath she drewwould be her last. 

"I am going to die! I am going to die!" she thought; and, in her terror, she jumped out of bed, and rang for Rosalie. 

No one came; she rang again, and again waited for an answer, shudderingand half-frozen; but she waited in vain. Perhaps the maid was sleepingtoo heavily for the bell to arouse her, and, almost beside herself withfear, Jeanne rushed out onto the landing without putting anything aroundher, and with bare feet. She went noiselessly up the dark stairs, feltfor Rosalie's door, opened it, and called "Rosalie!" then went into theroom, stumbled against the bed, passed her hands over it, and found itempty and quite cold, as if no one had slept in it that night. 

"Surely she cannot have gone out in such weather as this, " she thought. 

Her heart began to beat so violently that it almost suffocated her, andshe went downstairs to rouse Julien, her legs giving way under her asshe walked. She burst open her husband's door, and hurried across theroom, spurred on by the idea that she was going to die and the fear thatshe would become unconscious before she could see him again. 

Suddenly she stopped with a shriek, for by the light of the dying fireshe saw Rosalie's head on the pillow beside her husband's. At her crythey both started up, but she had already recovered from the first shockof her discovery, and fled to her room, while Julien called after her, "Jeanne! Jeanne!" She felt she could not see him or listen to hisexcuses and his lies, and again rushing out of her room she randownstairs. The staircase was in total darkness, but filled with thedesire of flight, of getting away without seeing or hearing any more, she never stayed to think that she might fall and break her limbs on thestone stairs. 

On the last step she sat down, unable to think, unable to reason, herhead in a whirl. Julien had jumped out of bed, and was hastily dressinghimself. She heard him moving about, and she started up to escape fromhim. He came downstairs, crying: "Jeanne, do listen to me!"

No, she would not listen; he should not degrade her by his touch. Shedashed into the dining-room as if a murderer were pursuing her, lookedround for a hiding-place or some dark corner where she might concealherself, and then crouched down under the table. The door opened, andJulien came in with a light in his hand, still calling, "Jeanne!Jeanne!" She started off again like a hunted hare, tore into thekitchen, round which she ran twice like some wild animal at bay, then, as he was getting nearer and nearer to her, she suddenly flung open thegarden door, and rushed out into the night. 

Her bare legs sank into the snow up to her knees, and this icy contactgave her new strength. Although she had nothing on but her chemise shedid not feel the bitter cold; her mental anguish was too great for theconsciousness of any mere bodily pain to reach her brain, and she ran onand on, looking as white as the snow-covered earth. She did not stoponce to take breath, but rushed on across wood and plain without knowingor thinking of what she was doing. Suddenly she found herself at theedge of the cliff. She instinctively stopped short, and then croucheddown in the snow and lay there with her mind as powerless to think asher body to move. 

All at once she began to tremble, as does a sail when caught by thewind. Her arms, her hands, her feet, shook and twitched convulsively, and consciousness returned to her. Things that had happened a long timebefore came back to her memory; the sail in Lastique's boat with _him_, their conversation, the dawn of their love; the christening of the boat;then her thoughts went still farther back till they reached the night ofher arrival from the convent--the night she had spent in happy dreams. And now, now! Her life was ruined; she had had all her pleasure; therewere no joys, no happiness, in store for her; and she could see theterrible future with all its tortures, its deceptions, and despair. Surely it would be better to die now, at once. 

She heard a voice in the distance crying:

"This way! this way! Here are her footmarks!" It was Julien looking forher. 

Oh! she could not, she would not, see him again! Never again! From theabyss before her came the faint sound of the waves as they broke on therocks. She stood up to throw herself over the cliff, and in a despairingfarewell to life, she moaned out that last cry of the dying--the wordthat the soldier gasps out as he lies wounded to death on thebattlefield--"Mother!"

Then the thought of how her mother would sob when she heard of herdaughter's death, and how her father would kneel in agony beside hermangled corpse, flashed across her mind, and in that one second sherealized all the bitterness of their grief. She fell feebly back on thesnow, and Julien and old Simon came up, with Marius behind them holdinga lantern. They drew her back before they dared attempt to raise her, sonear the edge of the cliff was she; and they did with her what theyliked, for she could not move a muscle. She knew that they carried herindoors, that she was put to bed, and rubbed with hot flannels, andthen she was conscious of nothing more. 

A nightmare--but was it a nightmare?--haunted her. She thought she wasin bed in her own room; it was broad daylight, but she could not get up, though she did not know why she could not. She heard a noise on theboards--a scratching, rustling noise--and all at once a little graymouse ran over the sheet. Then another one appeared, and another whichcame running towards her chest. Jeanne was not frightened; she wanted totake hold of the little animal, and put out her hand towards it, but shecould not catch it. 

Then came more mice--ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, sprang up on allsides. They ran up the bed-posts, and along the tapestry, and coveredthe whole bed. They got under the clothes, and Jeanne could feel themgliding over her skin, tickling her legs, running up and down her body. She could see them coming from the foot of the bed to get inside andcreep close to her breast, but when she struggled and stretched out herhands to catch one, she always clutched the air. Then she got angry, andcried out, and wanted to run away; she fancied someone held her down, and that strong arms were thrown around her to prevent her moving, butshe could not see anyone. She had no idea of the time that all thislasted; she only knew that it seemed a very long while. 

At last she became conscious again--conscious that she was tired andaching, and yet better than she had been. She felt very, very weak. Shelooked round, and did not feel at all surprised to see her mothersitting by her bedside with a stout man whom she did not know. She hadforgotten how old she was, and thought she was a little child again, forher memory was entirely gone. 

"See, she is conscious, " said the stout man. 

The baroness began to cry, and the big man said:

"Come, come, madame le baronne; I assure you there is no longer anydanger, but you must not talk to her; just let her sleep. "

It seemed to Jeanne that she lay for a long time in a doze, which becamea heavy sleep if she tried to think of anything. She had a vague ideathat the past contained something dreadful, and she was content to liestill without trying to recall anything to her memory. But one day, whenshe opened her eyes, she saw Julien standing beside the bed, and thecurtain which hid everything from her was suddenly drawn aside, and sheremembered what had happened. 

She threw back the clothes and sprang out of bed to escape from herhusband; but as soon as her feet touched the floor she fell to theground, for she was too weak to stand. Julien hastened to herassistance, but when he attempted to raise her, she shrieked and rolledfrom side to side to avoid the contact of his hands. The door opened, and Aunt Lison and the Widow Dentu hurried in, closely followed by thebaron and his wife, the latter gasping for breath. 

They put Jeanne to bed again, and she closed her eyes and pretended tobe asleep that she might think undisturbed. Her mother and aunt busiedthemselves around her, saying from time to time:

"Do you know us now, Jeanne, dear?"

She pretended not to hear them, and made no answer; and in the eveningthey went away, leaving her to the care of the nurse. She could notsleep all that night, for she was painfully trying to connect theincidents she could remember, one with the other; but there seemed to begaps in her memory which she could not bridge over. Little by little, however, all the facts came back to her, and then she tried to decidewhat she had better do. She must have been very ill, or her mother andAunt Lison and the baron would not have been sent for; but what hadJulien said? Did her parents know everything? And where was Rosalie?

The only thing she could do was to go back to Rouen with her father andmother; they could all live there together as they used to do, and itwould be just the same as if she had not been married. 

The next day she noticed and listened to all that went on around her, but she did not let anyone see that she understood everything and hadrecovered her full senses. Towards evening, when no one but the baronesswas in her room, Jeanne whispered softly:

"Mother, dear!"

She was surprised to hear how changed her own voice was, but thebaroness took her hands, exclaiming:

"My child! my dear little Jeanne! Do you know me, my pet?"

"Yes, mother. But you mustn't cry; I want to talk to you seriously. DidJulien tell you why I ran out into the snow?"

"Yes, my darling. You have had a very dangerous fever. "

"That was not the reason, mamma; I had the fever afterwards. Hasn't hetold you why I tried to run away, and what was the cause of the fever?"

"No, dear. "

"It was because I found Rosalie in his bed. "

The baroness thought she was still delirious, and tried to soothe her. 

"There, there, my darling; lie down and try to go to sleep. "

But Jeanne would not be quieted. 

"I am not talking nonsense now, mamma dear, though I dare say I havebeen lately, " she said. "I felt very ill one night, and I got up andwent to Julien's room; there I saw Rosalie lying beside him. My griefnearly drove me mad, and I ran out into the snow, meaning to throwmyself over the cliff. "

"Yes, darling, you have been ill; very ill indeed, " answered thebaroness. 

"It wasn't that, mamma. I found Rosalie in Julien's bed, and I will notstay with him any longer. You shall take me back to Rouen with you. "

The doctor had told the baroness to let Jeanne have her own way ineverything, so she answered:

"Very well, my pet. "

Jeanne began to lose patience. 

"I see you don't believe me, " she said pettishly. "Go and find papa;perhaps he'll manage to understand that I am speaking the truth. "

The baroness rose slowly to her feet, dragged herself out of the roomwith the aid of two sticks, and came back in a few minutes with thebaron. They sat down by the bedside, and Jeanne began to speak in herweak voice. She spoke quite coherently, and she told them all aboutJulien's odd ways, his harshness, his avarice, and, lastly, hisinfidelity. 

The baron could see that her mind was not wandering, but he hardly knewwhat to say or think. He affectionately took her hand, like he used todo when she was a child and he told her fairy tales to send her tosleep. 

"Listen, my dear, " he said. "We must not do anything rashly. Don't letus say anything till we have thought it well over. Will you promise meto try and bear with your husband until we have decided what is best tobe done?"

"Very well, " she answered; "but I will not stay here after I get well. "

Then she added, in a whisper: "Where is Rosalie now?"

"You shall not see her any more, " replied the baron. 

But she persisted: "Where is she? I want to know. "

He owned that she was still in the house, but he declared she should goat once. 

Directly he left Jeanne's room, his heart full of pity for his child andindignation against her husband, the baron went to find Julien, and saidto him sternly:

"Monsieur, I have come to ask for an explanation of your behavior to mydaughter. You have not only been false to her, but you have deceived herwith your servant, which makes your conduct doubly infamous. "

Julien swore he was innocent of such a thing, and called heaven towitness his denial. What proof was there? Jeanne was just recoveringfrom brain fever, and of course her thoughts were still confused. Shehad rushed out in the snow one night at the beginning of her illness, ina fit of delirium, and how could her statement be believed when, on thevery night that she said she had surprised her maid in her husband'sbed, she was dashing over the house nearly naked, and quite unconsciousof what she was doing!

Julien got very angry, and threatened the baron with an action if he didnot withdraw his accusation; and the baron, confused by this indignantdenial, began to make excuses and to beg his son-in-law's pardon; butJulien refused to take his outstretched hand. 

Jeanne did not seem vexed when she heard what her husband had said. 

"He is telling a lie, papa, " she said, quietly; "but we will force himto own the truth. "

For two days she lay silent, turning over all sorts of things in hermind; on the third morning she asked for Rosalie. The baron refused tolet the maid go up and told Jeanne that she had left. But Jeanneinsisted on seeing her, and said:

"Send someone to fetch her, then. "

When the doctor came she was very excited because they would not let hersee the maid, and they told him what was the matter. Jeanne burst intotears and almost shrieked: "I will see her! I will see her!"

The doctor took her hand and said in a low voice:

"Calm yourself, madame. Any violent emotion might have very seriousresults just now, for you are _enceinte_. "

Jeanne's tears ceased directly; even as the doctor spoke she fancied shecould feel a movement within her, and she lay still, paying no attentionto what was being said or done around her. She could not sleep thatnight; it seemed so strange to think that within her was another life, and she felt sorry because it was Julien's child, and full of fears incase it should resemble its father. 

The next morning she sent for the baron. 

"Papa, dear, " she said, "I have made up my mind to know the whole truth;especially now. You hear, I _will_ know it, and you know, you must letme do as I like, because of my condition. Now listen; go and fetch M. Lecuré; he must be here to make Rosalie tell the truth. Then, as soon ashe is here, you must send her up to me, and you and mamma must come too;but, whatever you do, don't let Julien know what is going on. "

The priest came about an hour afterwards. He was fatter than ever, andpanted quite as much as the baroness. He sat down in an armchair andbegan joking, while he wiped his forehead with his checked handkerchieffrom sheer habit. 

"Well, Madame la baronne, I don't think we are either of us gettingthinner; in my opinion we make a very handsome pair. " Then turning tothe invalid, he said: "Ah, ah! my young lady, I hear we're soon to havea christening, and that it won't be the christening of a boat either, this time, ha, ha, ha!" Then he went on in a grave voice, "It will beone more defender for the country, or, " after a short silence, "anothergood wife and mother like you, madame, " with a bow to the baroness. 

The door flew open and there stood Rosalie, crying, struggling, andrefusing to move, while the baron tried to push her in. At last he gaveher a sudden shake, and threw her into the room with a jerk, and shestood in the middle of the floor, with her face in her hands, sobbingviolently. Jeanne started up as white as a sheet, and her heart could beseen beating under her thin nightdress. It was some time before shecould speak, but at last she gasped out:

"There--there--is no--need for me to--question you. Your confusion in mypresence--is--is quite sufficient--proof--of your guilt. "

She stopped for a few moments for want of breath, and then went onagain:

"But I wish to know all. You see that M. Le curé is here, so youunderstand you will have to answer as if you were at confession. "

Rosalie had not moved from where the baron had pushed her; she made noanswer, but her sobs became almost shrieks. The baron, losing allpatience with her, seized her hands, drew them roughly from her face andthrew her on her knees beside the bed, saying:

"Why don't you say something? Answer your mistress. "

She crouched down on the ground in the position in which Mary Magdaleneis generally depicted; her cap was on one side, her apron on the floor, and as soon as her hands were free she again buried her face in them. 

"Come, come, my girl, " said the curé, "we don't want to do you any harm, but we must know exactly what has happened. Now listen to what is askedyou and answer truthfully. "

Jeanne was leaning over the side of the bed, looking at the girl. 

"Is it not true that I found you in Julien's bed?" she asked. 

"Yes, madame, " moaned out Rosalie through her fingers. 

At that the baroness burst into tears also, and the sound of her sobsmingled with the maid's. 

"How long had that gone on?" asked Jeanne, her eyes fixed on the maid. 

"Ever since he came here, " stammered Rosalie. 

"Since he came here, " repeated Jeanne, hardly understanding what thewords meant. "Do you mean since--since the spring?"

"Yes, madame. "

"Since he first came to the house?"

"Yes, madame. "

"But how did it happen? How did he come to say anything to you aboutit?" burst out Jeanne, as if she could keep back the questions nolonger. "Did he force you, or did you give yourself to him? How couldyou do such a thing?"

"I don't know, " answered Rosalie, taking her hands from her face andspeaking as if the words were forced from her by an irresistible desireto talk and to tell all. "The day he dined 'ere for the first time, 'ecame up to my room. He 'ad 'idden in the garret and I dursn't cry outfor fear of what everyone would say. He got into my bed, and I dunno'how it was or what I did, but he did just as 'e liked with me. I neversaid nothin' about it because I thought he was nice. "

"But your--your child? Is it his?" cried Jeanne. 

"Yes, madame, " answered Rosalie, between her sobs. Then neither saidanything more, and the silence was only broken by the baroness's andRosalie's sobs. 

The tears rose to Jeanne's eyes, and flowed noiselessly down her cheeks. So her maid's child had the same father as her own! All her anger hadevaporated and in its place was a dull, gloomy, deep despair. After ashort silence she said in a softer, tearful voice. 

"After we returned from--from our wedding tour--when did he beginagain?"

"The--the night you came back, " answered the maid, who was now almostlying on the floor. 

Each word rung Jeanne's heart. He had actually left her for this girlthe very night of their return to Les Peuples! That, then, was why hehad let her sleep alone. She had heard enough now; she did not want toknow anything more, and she cried to the girl:

"Go away! go away!"

As Rosalie, overcome by her emotion, did not move, she called to herfather:

"Take her away! Carry her out of the room!"

But the curé, who had said nothing up to now, thought the time had comefor a little discourse. 

"You have behaved very wickedly, " he said to Rosalie, "very wickedlyindeed, and the good God will not easily forgive you. Think of thepunishment which awaits you if you do not live a better life henceforth. Now you are young is the time to train yourself in good ways. No doubtMadame la baronne will do something for you, and we shall be able tofind you a husband--"

He would have gone on like this for a long time had not the baron seizedRosalie by the shoulders, dragged her to the door and thrown her intothe passage like a bundle of clothes. 

When he came back, looking whiter even than his daughter, the curé beganagain:

"Well, you know, all the girls round here are the same. It is a very badstate of things, but it can't be helped, and we must make a littleallowance for the weakness of human nature. They never marry until theyare _enceintes_; never, madame. One might almost call it a localcustom, " he added, with a smile. Then he went on indignantly: "Even thechildren are the same. Only last year I found a little boy and girl frommy class in the cemetery together. I told their parents, and what do youthink they replied: 'Well, M'sieu l'curé, we didn't teach it them; wecan't help it. ' So you see, monsieur, your maid has only done like theothers--"

"The maid!" interrupted the baron, trembling with excitement. "The maid!What do I care about her? It's Julien's conduct which I think soabominable, and I shall certainly take my daughter away with me. " Hewalked up and down the room, getting more and more angry with every stephe took. "It is infamous the way he has deceived my daughter, infamous!He's a wretch, a villain, and I will tell him so to his face. I'llhorsewhip him within an inch of his life. "

The curé was slowly enjoying a pinch of snuff as he sat beside thebaroness, and thinking how he could make peace. "Come now, M. Le baron, between ourselves he has only done like everyone else. I am quite sureyou don't know many husbands who are faithful to their wives, do younow?" And he added in a sly, good-natured way: "I bet you, yourself, have played your little games; you can't say conscientiously that youhaven't, I know. Why, of course you have! And who knows but what youhave made the acquaintance of some little maid just like Rosalie. I tellyou every man is the same. And your escapades didn't make your wifeunhappy, or lessen your affection for her; did they?"

The baron stood still in confusion. It was true that he had done thesame himself, and not only once or twice, but as often as he had got thechance; his wife's presence in the house had never made any difference, when the servants were pretty. And was he a villain because of that?Then why should he judge Julien's conduct so severely when he had neverthought that any fault could be found with his own?

Though her tears were hardly dried, the idea of her husband's pranksbrought a slight smile to the baroness's lip, for she was one of thosegood-natured, tender-hearted, sentimental women to whom love adventuresare an essential part of existence. 

Jeanne lay back exhausted, thinking, with open unseeing eyes, of allthis painful episode. The expression that had wounded her most inRosalie's confession was: "I never said anything about it because Ithought he was nice. " She, his wife, had also thought him "nice, " andthat was the sole reason why she had united herself to him for life, hadgiven up every other hope, every other project to join her destiny tohis. She had plunged into marriage, into this pit from which there wasno escape, into all this misery, this grief, this despair, simplybecause, like Rosalie, she had thought him "nice. "

The door was flung violently open and Julien came in, looking perfectlywild with rage. He had seen Rosalie moaning on the landing, and guessingthat she had been forced to speak, he had come to see what was going on;but at the sight of the priest he was taken thoroughly aback. 

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked, in a voice which trembledin spite of his efforts to make it sound calm. 

The baron, who had been so violent just before, dared say nothing afterthe curé's argument, in case his son-in-law should quote his ownexample; the baroness only wept more bitterly than before, and Jeanneraised herself on her hands and looked steadily at this man who wascausing her so much sorrow. Her breath came and went quickly, but shemanaged to answer:

"The matter is that we know all about your shameful conductever since--ever since the day you first came here; we knowthat--that--Rosalie's child is yours--like--like mine, and that theywill be--brothers. "

Her grief became so poignant at this thought that she hid herself underthe bedclothes and sobbed bitterly. Julien stood open-mouthed, notknowing what to say or do. The curé again interposed. 

"Come, come, my dear young lady, " he said, "you mustn't give way likethat. See now, be reasonable. "

He rose, went to the bedside, and laid his cool hand on this despairingwoman's forehead. His simple touch seemed to soothe her wonderfully; shefelt calmer at once, as if the large hand of this country priest, accustomed to gestures of absolution and sympathy, had borne with itsome strange, peace-giving power. 

"Madame, we must always forgive, " said the good-natured priest. "You areborne down by a great grief, but God, in His mercy, has also sent you agreat joy, since He has permitted you to have hopes of becoming amother. This child will console you for all your trouble and it is inits name that I implore, that I adjure, you to forgive M. Julien. Itwill be a fresh tie between you, a pledge of your husband's futurefidelity. Can you steel your heart against the father of your unbornchild?"

Too weak to feel either anger or resentment, and only conscious of acrushed, aching, exhausted sensation, she made no answer. Her nerveswere thoroughly unstrung, and she clung to life but by a very slenderthread. 

The baroness, to whom resentment seemed utterly impossible and whosemind was simply incapable of bearing any prolonged strain, said in a lowtone:

"Come, Jeanne!"

The curé drew Julien close to the bed and placed his hand in his wife's, giving it a little tap as if to make the union more complete. Then, dropping his professional pulpit tone, he said, with a satisfied air:

"There! that's done. Believe me, it is better so. "

The two hands, united thus for an instant, loosed their clasp directly. Julien, not daring to embrace Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law, thenturned on his heel, took the baron (who, in his heart, was not sorrythat everything had finished so quietly) by the arm, and drew him fromthe room to go and smoke a cigar. 

Then the tired invalid went to sleep and the baroness and the priestbegan to chat in low tones. The abbé talked of what had just occurredand proceeded to explain his ideas on the subject, while the baronessassented to everything he said with a nod. 

"Very well, then, it's understood, " he said, in conclusion. "You givethe girl the farm at Barville and I will undertake to find her a good, honest husband. Oh, you may be sure that with twenty thousand francs weshall not want candidates for her hand. We shall have an _embarras dechoix_. "

The baroness was smiling happily now, though two tears still lingered onher cheeks. 

"Barville is worth twenty thousand francs, at the very least, " she said;"and you understand that it is to be settled on the child though theparents will have it as long as they live. "

Then the curé shook hands with the baroness, and rose to go. 

"Don't get up, Madame la baronne, don't get up, " he exclaimed. "I knowthe value of a step too well myself. "

As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. She did notnotice that anything extraordinary had happened. No one had told heranything, and, as usual, she had not the slightest idea of what wasgoing on. 

 * * * * *

VIII

Rosalie had left the house and the time of Jeanne's confinement wasdrawing near. The sorrow she had gone through had taken away allpleasure from the thought of becoming a mother, and she waited for thechild's birth without any impatience or curiosity, her mind entirelyfilled with her presentiment of coming evils. 

Spring was close at hand. The bare trees still trembled in the coldwind, but, in the damp ditches, the yellow primroses were alreadyblossoming among the decaying autumn leaves. The rain-soaked fields, thefarm-yards and the commons exhaled a damp odor, as of fermentingliquor, and little green leaves peeped out of the brown earth andglistened in the sun. 

A big, strongly-built woman had been engaged in Rosalie's place, and shenow supported the baroness in her dreary walks along the avenue, wherethe track made by her foot was always damp and muddy. 

Jeanne, low-spirited and in constant pain, leant on her father's armwhen she went out, while on her other side walked Aunt Lison, holdingher niece's hand, and thinking nervously, of this mysterious sufferingthat she would never know. They would all three walk for hours withoutspeaking a word, and, while they were out, Julien went all over thecountry on horseback, for he had suddenly become very fond of riding. 

The baron, his wife, and the vicomte, paid a visit to the Fourvilles(whom Julien seemed to know very well, though no one at the château knewexactly how the acquaintance had begun), and another duty call was paidto the Brisevilles, and those two visits were the only break in theirdull, monotonous life. 

One afternoon, about four o'clock, two people on horseback trotted up tothe château. Julien rushed into his wife's room in great excitement:

"Make haste and go down, " he exclaimed. "Here are the Fourvilles. Theyhave come simply to make a neighborly call as they know the conditionyou are in. Say I am out but that I shall be in soon. I am just going tochange my coat. "

Jeanne went downstairs and found in the drawing-room a gigantic man withbig, red moustaches, and a pale, pretty woman with a sad-looking face, sentimental eyes and hair of a dead gold that looked as if the sun hadnever caressed it. When the fair-haired woman had introduced the big manas her husband, she said:

"M. De Lamare, whom we have met several times, has told us how unwellyou are, so we thought we would not put off coming to see you anylonger. You see we have come on horseback, so you must look upon thissimply as a neighborly call; besides, I have already had the pleasure ofreceiving a visit from your mother and the baron. "

She spoke easily in a refined, familiar way, and Jeanne fell in lovewith her at once. "In her I might, indeed, find a friend, " she thought. 

The Comte de Fourville, unlike his wife, seemed as much out of place ina drawing-room as a bull in a china shop. When he sat down he put hishat on a chair close by him, and then the problem of what he should dowith his hands presented itself to him. First he rested them on hisknees, then on the arms of his chair, and finally joined them as if inprayer. 

Julien came in so changed in appearance that Jeanne stared at him inmute surprise. He had shaved himself and looked as handsome and charmingas when he was wooing her. His hair, just now so coarse and dull, hadbeen brushed and sprinkled with perfumed oil till it had recovered itssoft shining waves, and his large eyes, which seemed made to expressnothing but love, had their old winning look in them. He made himself asamiable and fascinating as he had been before his marriage. He pressedthe hairy paw of the comte, who seemed much relieved by his presence, and kissed the hand of the comtesse, whose ivory cheek became justtinged with pink. 

When the Fourvilles were going away the comtesse said:

"Will you come for a ride on Thursday, vicomte?" And as Julien bowed andreplied, "I shall be very pleased, madame, " she turned and took Jeanne'shand, saying to her, affectionately:

"When you are well again we must all three go for long rides together. We could make such delightful excursions if you would. "

Then she gracefully caught up the skirt of her riding-habit and spranginto the saddle as lightly as a bird, and her husband, after awkwardlyraising his hat, leapt on his huge horse, feeling and looking at hisease as soon as he was mounted. 

"What charming people!" cried Julien, as soon as they were out of sight. "We may, indeed, think ourselves lucky to have made their acquaintance. "

"The little comtesse is delightful, " answered Jeanne, feeling pleasedherself though she hardly knew why. "I am sure I shall like her; but thehusband seems a bear. How did you get to know them?"

"I met them one day at the Brisevilles, " he replied, rubbing his handstogether cheerfully. "The husband certainly is a little rough, but he isa true gentleman. He is passionately fond of shooting. "

Nothing else happened until the end of July. Then, one Tuesday evening, as they were all sitting under the plane-tree beside a little table, onwhich stood two liqueur glasses and a decanter of brandy, Jeannesuddenly turned very white and put both her hands to her side with acry. A sharp pain had shot through her and at once died away. In aboutten minutes came another one, hardly so severe but of longer durationthan the first. Her father and husband almost carried her indoors, forthe short distance between the plane-tree and her room seemed miles toher; she could not stifle her moans, and, overpowered by an intolerablesense of heaviness and weight, she implored them to let her sit down andrest. 

The child was not expected until September but, in case of accident, ahorse was harnessed and old Simon galloped off after the doctor. He cameabout midnight and at once recognized the signs of a prematureconfinement. The actual pain had a little diminished, but Jeanne felt anawful deathly faintness, and she thought she was going to die, for Deathis sometimes so close that his icy breath can almost be felt. 

The room was full of people. The baroness lay back in an armchairgasping for breath; the baron ran hither and thither, bringing allmanner of things and completely losing his head; Julien walked up anddown looking very troubled, but really feeling quite calm, and the WidowDentu, whom nothing could surprise or startle, stood at the foot of thebed with an expression suited to the occasion on her face. 

Nurse, mid-wife and watcher of the dead, equally ready to welcome thenew-born infant, to receive its first cry, to immerse it in its firstbath and to wrap it in its first covering, or to hear the last word, thelast death-rattle, the last moan of the dying, to clothe them in theirlast garment, to sponge their wasted bodies, to draw the sheet abouttheir still faces, the Widow Dentu had become utterly indifferent to anyof the chances accompanying a birth or a death. 

Every now and then Jeanne gave a low moan. For two hours it seemed as ifthe child would not be born yet, after all; but about daybreak thepains recommenced and soon became almost intolerable. As the involuntarycries of anguish burst through her clenched teeth, Jeanne thought ofRosalie who had hardly even moaned, and whose bastard child had beenborn without any of the torture such as she was suffering. In herwretched, troubled mind she drew comparisons between her maid andherself, and she cursed God Whom, until now, she had believed just. Shethought in angry astonishment of how fate favors the wicked, and of theunpardonable lies of those who hold forth inducements to be upright andgood. 

Sometimes the agony was so great that she could think of nothing else, her suffering absorbing all her strength, her reason, her consciousness. In the intervals of relief her eyes were fixed on Julien, and then shewas filled with a mental anguish as she thought of the day her maid hadfallen at the foot of this very bed with her new-born child--the brotherof the infant that was now causing her such terrible pain. Sheremembered perfectly every gesture, every look, every word of herhusband as he stood beside the maid, and now she could see in hismovements the same _ennui_, the same indifference for her suffering ashe had felt for Rosalie's; it was the selfish carelessness of a man whomthe idea of paternity irritates. 

She was seized by an excruciating pain, a spasm so agonizing that shethought, "I am going to die! I am dying!" And her soul was filled with afurious hatred; she felt she must curse this man who was the cause ofall her agony, and this child which was killing her. She strained everymuscle in a supreme effort to rid herself of this awful burden, and thenit felt as if her whole inside were pouring away from her, and hersuffering suddenly became less. 

The nurse and the doctor bent over her and took something away; and sheheard the choking noise she had heard once before, and then the low cryof pain, the feeble whine of the new-born child filled her ears andseemed to enter her poor, exhausted body till it reached her very soul;and, in an unconsciousness movement she tried to hold out her arms. 

With the child was born a new joy, a fresh rapture. In one second shehad been delivered from that terrible pain and made happier than she hadever been before, and she revived in mind and body as she realized, forthe first time, the pleasure of being a mother. 

She wanted to see her child. It had not any hair or nails, for it hadcome before its time, but when she saw this human larva move its limbsand open its mouth, and when she touched its wrinkled little face, herheart overflowed with happiness, and she knew that she would never feelweary of life again, for her love for the atom she held in her armswould be so absorbing that it would make her indifferent to everythingelse. 

From that time her child was her chief, her only care, and she idolizedit more, perhaps, because she had been so deceived in her love anddisappointed in her hopes. She insisted on having the cot close to herbed, and, when she could get up, she sat by the window the whole dayrocking the cradle with her foot. She was even jealous of the wet-nurse, and when the hungry baby held out its arms and mouth towards the bigblue-veined breast, she felt as if she would like to tear her son fromthis strong, quiet peasant woman's arms, and strike and scratch thebosom to which he clung so eagerly. 

She embroidered his fine robes herself, putting into them the mostelaborate work; he was always surrounded by a cloud of lace and wore thehandsomest caps. The only thing she could talk about was the baby'sclothes, and she was always interrupting a conversation to hold up aband, or bib, or some especially pretty ribbon for admiration, for shetook no notice of what was being said around her as she turned andtwisted some tiny garment about in her hands, and held it up to thelight to see better how it looked. 

"Don't you think he will look lovely in that?" she was always asking, and her mother and the baron smiled at this all-absorbing affection; butJulien would exclaim, impatiently, "What a nuisance she is with thatbrat!" for his habits had been upset and his overweening importancediminished by the arrival of this noisy, imperious tyrant, and he washalf-jealous of the scrap of humanity who now held the first place inthe house. Jeanne could hardly bear to be away from her baby for aninstant, and she even sat watching him all night through as he laysleeping in his cradle. These vigils and this continual anxiety began totell upon her health. The want of sleep weakened her and she grewthinner and thinner, until, at last, the doctor ordered the child to beseparated from her. 

It was in vain that she employed tears, commands and entreaties. Eachnight the baby slept with his nurse, and each night his mother rose fromher bed and went, barefooted, to put her ear to the keyhole and listenif he was sleeping quietly. Julien found her there one night as he wascoming in late from dining at the Fourvilles, and after that she waslocked into her room every evening to compel her to stay in bed. 

The child was to be named Pierre Simon Paul (they were going to call himPaul) and at the end of August he was christened, the baron beinggodfather, and Aunt Lison godmother. At the beginning of September AuntLison went away, and her absence was as unnoticed as her presence hadbeen. 

One evening, after dinner, the curé called at the château. There seemedan air of mystery about him, and, after a few commonplace remarks, heasked the baron and baroness if he could speak to them in private for afew moments. They all three walked slowly down the avenue talkingeagerly as they went, while Julien, feeling uneasy and irritated at thissecrecy, was left behind with Jeanne. He offered to accompany the priestwhen he went away, and they walked off towards the church where theangelus was ringing. It was a cool, almost cold, evening, and the otherssoon went into the house. They were all beginning to feel a littledrowsy when the drawing-room door was suddenly thrown open and Juliencame in looking very vexed. Without stopping to see whether Jeanne wasthere or not, he cried to the baron, as soon as he entered the room:

"Upon my soul you must be mad to go and give twenty thousand francs tothat girl!"

They were all taken too much by surprise to make any answer, and he wenton, too angry to speak distinctly: "I can't understand how you can besuch fools! But there I suppose you will keep on till we haven't a souleft!"

The baron, recovering himself, a little, tried to check his son-in-law:

"Be quiet!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see that your wife is in the room?"

"I don't care if she is, " answered Julien, stamping his foot. "Besides, she ought to know about it. It is depriving her of her rightfulinheritance. "

Jeanne had listened to her husband in amazement, utterly at a loss toknow what it was all about:

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked. 

Then Julien turned to her, expecting her to side with him, as the lossof the money would affect her also. He told her in a few words how herparents were trying to arrange a marriage for Rosalie, and how themaid's child was to have the farm at Barville, which was worth twentythousand francs at the very least. And he kept on repeating:

"Your parents must be mad, my dear, raving mad! Twenty thousand francs!Twenty thousand francs! They can't be in their right senses! Twentythousand francs for a bastard!"

Jeanne listened to him quite calmly, astonished herself to find that shefelt neither anger nor sorrow at his meanness, but she was perfectlyindifferent now to everything which did not concern her child. The baronwas choking with anger, and at last he burst out, with a stamp of thefoot:

"Really, this is too much! Whose fault is it that this girl has to havea dowry? You seem to forget who is her child's father; but, no doubt, you would abandon her altogether if you had your way!"

Julien gazed at the baron for a few moments in silent surprise. Then hewent on more quietly:

"But fifteen hundred francs would have been ample to give her. All thepeasant-girls about here have children before they marry, so what doesit matter who they have them by? And then, setting aside the injusticeyou will be doing Jeanne and me, you forget that if you give Rosalie afarm worth twenty thousand francs everybody will see at once that theremust be a reason for such a gift. You should think a little of what isdue to our name and position. "

He spoke in a calm, cool way as if he were sure of his logic and thestrength of his argument. The baron, disconcerted by this fresh view ofthe matter, could find nothing to say in reply, and Julien, feeling hisadvantage, added:

"But fortunately, nothing is settled. I know the man who is going tomarry her and he is an honest fellow with whom everything can yet besatisfactorily arranged. I will see to the matter myself. "

With that he went out of the room, wishing to avoid any furtherdiscussion, and taking the silence with which his words were received tomean acquiescence. 

As soon as the door had closed after his son-in-law, the baronexclaimed:

"Oh, this is more than I can stand!"

Jeanne, catching sight of her father's horrified expression, burst intoa clear laugh which rang out as it used to do whenever she had seensomething very funny:

"Papa, papa!" she cried. "Did you hear the tone in which he said 'twentythousand francs!'"

The baroness, whose smiles lay as near the surface as her tears, quivered with laughter as she saw Jeanne's gayety, and thought of herson-in-law's furious face, and his indignant exclamations and determinedattempt to prevent this money, which was not his, being given to thegirl he had seduced. Finally the baron caught the contagion and they allthree laughed till they ached as in the happy days of old. When theywere a little calmer, Jeanne said:

"It is very funny, but really I don't seem to mind in the least what hesays or does now. I look upon him quite as a stranger, and I can hardlybelieve I am his wife. You see I am able to laugh at his--his want ofdelicacy. "

And the parents and child involuntarily kissed each other, with smileson their lips, though the tears were not very far from their eyes. 

Two days after this scene, when Julien had gone out for a ride, a tall, young fellow of about four or five-and-twenty, dressed in a brand-newblue blouse, which hung in stiff folds, climbed stealthily over thefence, as if he had been hiding there all the morning, crept along theCouillards' ditch, and went round to the other side of the château whereJeanne and her father and mother were sitting under the plane-tree. Hetook off his cap and awkwardly bowed as he came towards them, and, whenhe was within speaking distance, mumbled:

"Your servant, monsieur le baron, madame and company. " Then, as no onesaid anything to him he introduced himself as "Desiré Lecoq. "

This name failing to explain his presence at the château, the baronasked:

"What do you want?"

The peasant was very disconcerted when he found he had to state hisbusiness. He hesitated, stammered, cast his eyes from the cap he held inhis hands to the château roof and back again, and at last began:

"M'sieu l'curé has said somethin' to me about this business--" then, fearing to say too much and thus injure his own interests, he stoppedshort. 

"What business?" asked the baron. "I don't know what you mean. "

"About your maid--what's her name--Rosalie, " said the man in a lowvoice. 

Jeanne, guessing what he had come about, got up and went away with herchild in her arms. 

"Sit down, " said the baron, pointing to the chair his daughter had justleft. 

The peasant took the seat with a "Thank you, kindly, " and then waited asif he had nothing whatever to say. After a few moments, during which noone spoke, he thought he had better say something, so he looked up tothe blue sky and remarked:

"What fine weather for this time of year to be sure. It'll help on thecrops finely. " And then he again relapsed into silence. 

The baron began to get impatient. 

"Then you are going to marry Rosalie?" he said in a dry tone, goingstraight to the point. 

At that all the crafty suspicious nature of the Normandy peasant was onthe alert. 

"That depends, " he answered quickly. "Perhaps I am and perhaps I ain't, that depends. "

All this beating about the bush irritated the baron. 

"Can't you give a straightforward answer?" he exclaimed. "Have you cometo say you will marry the girl or not?"

The man looked at his feet as though he expected to find advice there:

"If it's as M'sieu l'curé says, " he replied, "I'll have her; but if it'sas M'sieu Julien says, I won't. "

"What did M. Julien tell you?"

"M'sieu Julien told me as how I should have fifteen hundred francs; butM'sieu l'curé told me as how I should 'ave twenty thousand. I'll haveher for twenty thousand, but I won't for fifteen hundred. "

The baroness was tickled by the perplexed look on the yokel's face andbegan to shake with laughter as she sat in her armchair. Her gayetysurprised the peasant, who looked at her suspiciously out of the cornerof his eye as he waited for an answer. 

The baron cut short all this haggling. 

"I have told M. Le curé that you shall have the farm at Barville, whichis worth twenty thousand francs, for life, and then it is to become thechild's. That is all I have to say on the matter, and I always keep myword. Now is your answer yes or no?"

A satisfied smile broke over the man's face, and, with a suddenloquacity:

"Oh, then, I don't say no, " he replied. "That was the only thing thatpulled me up. When M'sieu l'curé said somethin' to me about it in thefirst place, I said yes at once, 'specially as it was to oblige M'sieul'baron who'd be sure to pay me back for it, as I says to myself. Ain'tit always the way, and doesn't one good turn always deserve another? ButM'sieu Julien comes up and then it was only fifteen 'undred francs. ThenI says to myself, 'I must find out the rights o' this and so I came'ere. In coorse I b'lieved your word, M'sieu l'baron, but I wanted tofind out the rights o' the case. Short reck'nings make long friends, don't they, M'sieu l'baron?"

He would have gone on like this till dinner-time if no one hadinterrupted him, so the baron broke in with:

"When will you marry her?"

The question aroused the peasant's suspicions again directly. 

"Couldn't I have it put down in writin' first?" he asked in a haltingway. 

"Why bless my soul, isn't the marriage-contract good enough for you?"exclaimed the baron, angered by the man's suspicious nature. 

"But until I get that I should like it wrote down on paper, " persistedthe peasant. "Havin' it down on paper never does no harm. "

"Give a plain answer, now at once, " said the baron, rising to put an endto the interview. "If you don't choose to marry the girl, say so. I knowsomeone else who would be glad of the chance. "

The idea of twenty thousand francs slipping from his hands into someoneelse's, startled the peasant out of his cautiousness, and he at oncedecided to say "yes":

"Agreed, M'sieu l'baron!" he said, holding out his hand as if he wereconcluding the purchase of a cow. "It's done, and there's no going backfrom the bargain. "

The baron took his hand and cried to the cook:

"Ludivine! Bring a bottle of wine. "

The wine was drunk and then the peasant went away, feeling a great deallighter-hearted than when he had come. 

Nothing was said about this visit to Julien. The drawing up of themarriage-contract was kept a great secret; then the banns werepublished and Rosalie was married on the Monday morning. At the church aneighbor stood behind the bride and bridegroom with a child in her armsas an omen of good luck, and everyone thought Desiré Lecoq veryfortunate. "He was born with a caul, " said the peasants with a smile. 

When Julien heard of the marriage he had a violent quarrel with thebaron and baroness and they decided to shorten their visit at LesPeuples. Jeanne was sorry but she did not grieve as before when herparents went away, for now all her hopes and thoughts were centered onher son. 

 * * * * *

IX

Now Jeanne was quite well again she thought she would like to return theFourville's visit, and also to call on the Couteliers. Julien had justbought another carriage at a sale, a phaeton. It only needed one horse, so they could go out twice a month, now, instead of once, and they usedit for the first time one bright December morning. 

After driving for two hours across the Normandy plains they began to godown to a little valley, whose sloping sides were covered with trees, while the level ground at the bottom was cultivated. The ploughed fieldswere followed by meadows, the meadows by a fen covered with tall reeds, which waved in the wind like yellow ribbons, and then the road took asharp turn and the Château de la Vrillette came in sight. It was builtbetween a wooded slope on the one side and a large lake on the other, the water stretching from the château wall to the tall fir-trees whichcovered the opposite acclivity. 

The carriage had to pass over an old draw-bridge and under a vast LouisXIII. Archway before it drew up in front of a handsome building of thesame period as the archway, with brick frames round the windows andslated turrets. Julien pointed out all the different beauties of themansion to Jeanne as if he were thoroughly acquainted with every nookand corner of it. 

"Isn't it a superb place?" he exclaimed. "Just look at that archway! Onthe other side of the house, which looks on to the lake, there is amagnificent flight of steps leading right down to the water. Four boatsare moored at the bottom of the steps, two for the comte and two for thecomtesse. The lake ends down there, on the right, where you can see thatrow of poplars, and there the river, which runs to Fécamp, rises. Theplace abounds in wild-fowl, and the comte passes all his time shooting. Ah! it is indeed a lordly residence. "

The hall door opened and the fair-haired comtesse came to meet hervisitors with a smile on her face. She wore a trailing dress like achâtelaine of the middle ages, and, exactly suited to the place in whichshe lived, she looked like some beautiful Lady of the Lake. 

Four out of the eight drawing-room windows looked on to the lake, andthe water looked dull and dismal, overshadowed as it was by the gloomyfir-trees which covered the opposite slope. 

The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands in hers as if she had known herfor ages, placed her in a seat and then drew a low chair beside her forherself, while Julien, who had regained all his old refinement duringthe last five months, smiled and chatted in an easy, familiar way. Thecomtesse and he talked about the rides they had had together. Shelaughed a little at his bad horsemanship, and called him "The TotteringKnight, " and he too laughed, calling her in return "The Amazon Queen. "

A gun went off just under the window, and Jeanne gave a little cry. Itwas the comte shooting teal, and his wife called him in. There was thesplash of oars, the grating of a boat against the stone steps and thenthe comte came in, followed by two dogs of a reddish hue, which lay downon the carpet before the door, while the water dripped from their shaggycoats. 

The comte seemed more at his ease in his own house, and was delighted tosee the vicomte and Jeanne. He ordered the fire to be made up, andMadeira and biscuits to be brought. 

"Of course you will dine with us, " he exclaimed. 

Jeanne refused the invitation, thinking of Paul; and as he pressed herto stay and she still persisted in her refusal, Julien made a movementof impatience. Then afraid of arousing her husband's quarrelsome temper, she consented to stay, though the idea of not seeing Paul till the nextday was torture to her. 

They spent a delightful afternoon. First of all the visitors were takento see the springs which flowed from the foot of a moss-covered rockinto a crystal basin of water which bubbled as if it were boiling, andthen they went in a boat among the dry reeds, where paths of water hadbeen formed by cutting down the rushes. 

The comte rowed (his two dogs sitting each side of him with their nosesin the air) and each vigorous stroke of the oars lifted the boat halfout of the water and sent it rapidly on its way. Jeanne let her handtrail in the water, enjoying the icy coolness, which seemed to sootheher, and Julien and the comtesse, well wrapped up in rugs, sat insmiling silence in the stern of the boat, as if they were too happy totalk. 

The evening drew on, and with it the icy, northerly wind came over thewithered reeds. The sun had disappeared behind the firs, and it made onecold only to look at the crimson sky, covered with tiny, redfantastically-shaped clouds. 

They all went in to the big drawing-room where an enormous fire wasblazing. The room seemed to be filled with an atmosphere of warmth andcomfort, and the comte gayly took up his wife in his strong arms like achild, and gave her two hearty kisses on her cheeks. 

Jeanne could not help smiling at this good-natured giant to whom hismoustaches gave the appearance of an ogre. "What wrong impressions ofpeople one forms every day, " she thought; and, almost involuntarily, sheglanced at Julien. He was standing in the doorway his eyes fixed on thecomte and his face very pale. His expression frightened her and, goingup to him, she asked:

"What is the matter? are you ill?"

"There's nothing the matter with me, " he answered, churlishly. "Leave mealone. I only feel cold. "

Dinner was announced and the comte begged permission for his dogs tocome into the dining-room. They came and sat one on each side of theirmaster, who every minute threw them some scrap of food. The animalsstretched out their heads, and wagged their tails, quivering withpleasure as he drew their long silky ears through his fingers. 

After dinner, when Jeanne and Julien began to say good-bye, the comteinsisted on their staying to see some fishing by torchlight. They andthe comtesse stood on the steps leading down to the lake, while thecomte got into his boat with a servant carrying a lighted torch and anet. The torch cast strange trembling reflections over the water, itsdancing glimmers even lighting up the firs beyond the reeds; andsuddenly, as the boat turned round, an enormous fantastic shadow wasthrown on the background of the illumined wood. It was the shadow of aman, but the head rose above the trees and was lost against the darksky, while the feet seemed to be down in the lake. This huge creatureraised its arms as if it would grasp the stars; the movement was a rapidone, and the spectators on the steps heard a little splash. 

The boat tacked a little, and the gigantic shadow seemed to run alongthe wood, which was lighted up as the torch moved with the boat; then itwas lost in the darkness, then reappeared on the château wall, smaller, but more distinct; and the loud voice of the comte was heard exclaiming:

"Gilberte, I have caught eight!"

The oars splashed, and the enormous shadow remained standing in the sameplace on the wall, but gradually it became thinner and shorter; the headseemed to sink lower and the body to get narrower, and when M. DeFourville came up the steps, followed by the servant carrying the torch, it was reduced to his exact proportions, and faithfully copied all hismovements. In the net he had eight big fish which were still quivering. 

As Jeanne and Julien were driving home, well wrapped up in cloaks andrugs which the Fourvilles had lent them, "What a good-hearted man that giant is, " said Jeanne, almost to herself. 

"Yes, " answered Julien; "but he makes too much show of his affection, sometimes, before people. "

A week after their visit to the Fourvilles, they called on theCouteliers, who were supposed to be the highest family in the province, and whose estate lay near Cany. The new château, built in the reign ofLouis XIV, lay in a magnificent park, entirely surrounded by walls, andthe ruins of the old château could be seen from the higher parts of thegrounds. 

A liveried servant showed the visitors into a large, handsome room. Inthe middle of the floor an enormous Sèvres vase stood on a pedestal, into which a crystal case had been let containing the king's autographletter, offering this gift to the Marquis Léopold Hervé Joseph Germer deVarneville, de Rollebosc de Coutelier. Jeanne and Julien were looking atthis royal present when the marquis and marquise came in, the latterwearing her hair powdered. 

The marquise thought her rank constrained her to be amiable, and herdesire to appear condescending made her affected. Her husband was a bigman, with white hair brushed straight up all over his head, and ahaughtiness in his voice, in all his movements, in his every attitudewhich plainly showed the esteem in which he held himself. They werepeople who had a strict etiquette for everything, and whose feelingsseemed always stilted, like their words. 

They both talked on without waiting for an answer, smiled with an air ofindifference, and behaved as if they were accomplishing a duty imposedupon them by their superior birth, in receiving the smaller nobles ofthe province with such politeness. Jeanne and Julien tried to makethemselves agreeable, though they felt ill at ease, and when the timecame to conclude their visit they hardly knew how to retire, though theydid not want to stay any longer. However, the marquise, herself, endedthe visit naturally and simply by stopping short the conversation, likea queen ending an audience. 

"I don't think we will call on anyone else, unless you want to, " saidJulien, as they were going back. "The Fourvilles are quite as manyfriends as I want. "

And Jeanne agreed with him. 

Dark, dreary December passed slowly away. Everyone stayed at home likethe winter before, but Jeanne's thoughts were too full of Paul for herever to feel dull. She would hold him in her arms covering him withthose passionate kisses which mothers lavish on their children, thenoffering the baby's face to his father:

"Why don't you kiss him?" she would say. "You hardly seem to love him. "

Julien would just touch the infant's smooth forehead with his lips, holding his body as far away as possible, as if he were afraid of thelittle hands touching him in their aimless movements. Then he would goquickly out of the room, almost as though the child disgusted him. 

The mayor, the doctor, and the curé came to dinner occasionally, andsometimes the Fourvilles, who had become very intimate with Jeanne andher husband. The comte seemed to worship Paul. He nursed the child onhis knees from the time he entered Les Peuples to the time he left, sometimes holding him the whole afternoon, and it was marvelous to seehow delicately and tenderly he touched him with his huge hands. He wouldtickle the child's nose with the ends of his long moustaches, and thensuddenly cover his face with kisses almost as passionate as Jeanne's. Itwas the great trouble of his life that he had no children. 

March was bright, dry, and almost mild. The Comtesse Gilberte againproposed that they should all four go for some rides together, andJeanne, a little tired of the long weary evenings and the dull, monotonous days, was only too pleased at the idea and agreed to it atonce. It took her a week to make her riding-habit, and then theycommenced their rides. 

They always rode two and two, the comtesse and Julien leading the way, and the comte and Jeanne about a hundred feet behind. The latter coupletalked easily and quietly as they rode along, for, each attracted by theother's straightforward ways and kindly heart, they had become fastfriends. Julien and the comtesse talked in whispers alternated by noisybursts of laughter, and looked in each other's eyes to read there thethings their lips did not utter, and often they would break into agallop, as if impelled by a desire to escape alone to some country faraway. 

Sometimes it seemed as if something irritated Gilberte. Her sharp toneswould be borne on the breeze to the ears of the couple loitering behind, and the comte would say to Jeanne, with a smile:

"I don't think my wife got out of bed the right side this morning. "

One evening, as they were returning home, the comtesse began to spur hermare, and then pull her in with sudden jerks on the rein. 

"Take care, or she'll run away with you, " said Julien two or threetimes. 

"So much the worse for me; it's nothing to do with you, " she replied, insuch cold, hard tones that the clear words rang out over the fields asif they were actually floating in the air. 

The mare reared, kicked, and foamed at the mouth and the comte cried outanxiously:

"Do take care what you are doing, Gilberte!"

Then, in a fit of defiance, for she was in one of those obstinate moodsthat will brook no word of advice, she brought her whip heavily downbetween the animal's ears. The mare reared, beat the air with her forelegs for a moment, then, with a tremendous bound, set off over the plainat the top of her speed. First she crossed a meadow, then some ploughedfields, kicking up the wet heavy soil behind her, and going at such aspeed that in a few moments the others could hardly distinguish thecomtesse from her horse. 

Julien stood stock still, crying: "Madame! Madame!" The comte gave agroan, and, bending down over his powerful steed, galloped after hiswife. He encouraged his steed with voice and hand, urged it on with whipand spur, and it seemed as though he carried the big animal between hislegs, and raised it from the ground at every leap it took. The horsewent at an inconceivable speed, keeping a straight line regardless ofall obstacles; and Jeanne could see the two outlines of the husband andwife diminish and fade in the distance, till they vanished altogether, like two birds chasing each other till they are lost to sight beyond thehorizon. 

Julien walked his horse up to his wife, murmuring angrily: "She is madto-day. " And they both went off after their friends, who were hidden ina dip in the plain. In about a quarter of an hour they saw them comingback, and soon they came up to them. 

The comte, looking red, hot and triumphant, was leading his wife'shorse. The comtesse was very pale; her features looked drawn andcontracted, and she leant on her husband's shoulder as if she were goingto faint. That day Jeanne understood, for the first time, how madly thecomte loved his wife. 

All through the following month the comtesse was merrier than she hadever been before. She came to Les Peuples as often as she could, and wasalways laughing and jumping up to kiss Jeanne. She seemed to have foundsome unknown source of happiness, and her husband simply worshiped hernow, following her about with his eyes and seeking every pretext fortouching her hand or her dress. 

"We are happier now than we have ever been before, " he said, oneevening, to Jeanne. "Gilberte has never been so affectionate as she isnow; nothing seems to vex her or make her angry. Until lately I wasnever quite sure that she loved me, but now I know she does. "

Julien had changed for the better also; he had become gay andgood-tempered, and their friendship seemed to have brought peace andhappiness to both families. 

The spring was exceptionally warm and forward. The sun cast his warmrays upon the budding trees and flowers from early morn until the sweet, soft evening. It was one of those favored years when the world seems tohave grown young again, and nature to delight in bringing everything tolife once more. 

Jeanne felt a vague excitement in the presence of this reawakening ofthe fields and woods. She gave way to a sweet melancholy and spent hourslanguidly dreaming. All the tender incidents of her first hours of lovecame back to her, not that any renewal of affection for her husbandstirred her heart; _that_ had been completely destroyed; but the softbreeze which fanned her cheek and the sweet perfume which filled the airseemed to breathe forth a tender sigh of love which made her pulse beatquicker. She liked to be alone, and in the warm sunshine, to enjoy thesevague, peaceful sensations which aroused no thoughts. 

One morning she was lying thus half-dormant, when suddenly she saw inher mind that sunlit space in the little wood near Etretat where for thefirst time she had felt thrilled by the presence of the man who lovedher then, where he had for the first time timidly hinted at his hopes, and where she had believed that she was going to realize the radiantfuture of her dreams. She thought she should like to make a romantic, superstitious pilgrimage to the wood, and she felt as if a visit to thatsunny spot would in some way alter the course of her life. 

Julien had gone out at daybreak, she did not know whither, so sheordered the Martins' little white horse, which she sometimes rode, to besaddled, and set off. 

It was one of those calm days when there is not a leaf nor a blade ofgrass stirring. The wind seemed dead, and everything looked as thoughit would remain motionless until the end of time; even the insects haddisappeared. A burning, steady heat descended from the sun in a goldenmist, and Jeanne walked her horse along, enjoying the stillness, andevery now and then looking up at a tiny white cloud which hung like asnowy fleece in the midst of the bright blue sky. She went down into thevalley leading to the sea, between the two great arches which are calledthe gates of Etretat, and went slowly towards the wood. 

The sunlight poured down through the foliage which, as yet, was not verythick, and Jeanne wandered along the little paths unable to find thespot where she had sat with Julien. She turned into a long alley and, atthe other end of it, saw two saddle-horses fastened to a tree; sherecognized them at once; they were Gilberte's and Julien's. Tired ofbeing alone and pleased at this unexpected meeting, she trotted quicklyup to them, and when she reached the two animals, which were waitingquietly as if accustomed to stand like this, she called aloud. There wasno answer. 

On the grass, which looked as if someone had rested there, lay a woman'sglove and two whips. Julien and Gilberte had evidently sat down and thengone farther on, leaving the horses tied to the tree. Jeanne wonderedwhat they could be doing, and getting off her horse, she leant againstthe trunk of a tree and waited for a quarter of an hour or twentyminutes. She stood quite motionless, and two little birds flew down ontothe grass close by her. One of them hopped round the other, flutteringhis outstretched wings, and chirping and nodding his little head; all atonce they coupled. Jeanne watched them, as surprised as if she hadnever known of such a thing before; then she thought: "Oh, of course!It is springtime. "

Then came another thought--a suspicion. She looked again at the glove, the whips and the two horses standing riderless; then she sprang on herhorse with an intense longing to leave this place. She started back toLes Peuples at a gallop. Her brain was busy reasoning, connectingdifferent incidents and thinking it all out. 

How was it that she had never noticed anything, had never guessed thisbefore? How was it that Julien's frequent absence from home, his renewedattention to his toilet, his better temper had told her nothing? Now sheunderstood Gilberte's nervous irritability, her exaggerated affectionfor herself and the bliss in which she had appeared to be living lately, and which had so pleased the comte. 

She pulled up her horse for she wanted to think calmly, and the quickmovement confused her ideas. After the first shock she became almostindifferent; she felt neither jealousy nor hatred, only contempt. Shedid not think about Julien at all, for nothing that he could do wouldhave astonished her, but the twofold treachery of the comtesse, who haddeceived her friend as well as her husband, hurt her deeply. So everyonewas treacherous, and untrue and faithless! Her eyes filled with tears, for sometimes it is as bitter to see an illusion destroyed as to witnessthe death of a friend. She resolved to say nothing more about herdiscovery. Her heart would be dead to everyone but Paul and her parents, but she would bear a smiling face. 

When she reached home she caught up her son in her arms, carried him toher room and pressed her lips to his face again and again, and for awhole hour she played with and caressed him. 

Julien came in to dinner in a very good temper and full of plans for hiswife's pleasure. 

"Won't your father and mother come and stay with us this year?" he said. 

Jeanne almost forgave him his infidelity, so grateful was she to him formaking this proposal. She longed to see the two people she loved bestafter Paul, and she passed the whole evening in writing to them, andurging them to come as soon as possible. 

They wrote to say they would come on the twentieth of May; it was thenthe seventh, and Jeanne awaited their arrival with intense impatience. Besides her natural desire to see her parents, she felt it would be sucha relief to have near her two honest hearts, two simple-minded beingswhose life and every action, thought and desire had always been uprightand pure. She felt she stood alone in her honesty among all this guilt. She had learnt to dissimulate her feelings, to meet the comtesse with anoutstretched hand and a smiling face, but her sense of desolationincreased with her contempt for her fellow-men. 

Every day some village scandal reached her ears which filled her withstill greater disgust and scorn for human frailty. The Couillards'daughter had just had a child and was therefore going to be married. TheMartins' servant, who was an orphan, a little girl only fifteen yearsold, who lived near, and a widow, a lame, poverty-stricken woman who wasso horribly dirty that she had been nicknamed La Crotte, were allpregnant; and Jeanne was continually hearing of the misconduct of somegirl, some married woman with a family, or of some rich farmer who hadbeen held in general respect. 

This warm spring seemed to revive the passions of mankind as it revivedthe plants and the flowers; but to Jeanne, whose senses were dead, andwhose wounded heart and romantic soul were alone stirred by the warmspringtide breezes, and who only dreamed of the poetic side of love, these bestial desires were revolting and hateful. She was angry withGilberte, not for having robbed her of her husband, but for havingbespattered herself with this filth. The comtesse was not of the sameclass as the peasants, who could not resist their brutal desires; thenhow could she have fallen into the same abomination?

The very day that her parents were to arrive, Julien increased hiswife's disgust by telling her laughingly, as though it were somethingquite natural and very funny, that the baker having heard a noise in hisoven the day before, which was not baking day, had gone to see what itwas, and instead of finding the stray cat he expected to see, hadsurprised his wife, "who was certainly not putting bread into the oven. ""The baker closed the mouth of the oven, " went on Julien, "and theywould have been suffocated if the baker's little boy, who had seen hismother go into the oven with the blacksmith, had not told the neighborswhat was going on. " He laughed as he added, "That will give a niceflavor to the bread. It is just like a tale of La Fontaine's. "

For some time after that Jeanne could not touch bread. 

When the post-chaise drew up before the door with the baron's smilingface looking out of the window, Jeanne felt fonder of her parents andmore pleased to see them than she had ever been before; but when she sawher mother she was overcome with surprise and grief. The baroness lookedten years older than when she had left Les Peuples six months before. Her huge, flabby cheeks were suffused with blood, her eyes had a glazedlook, and she could not move a step unless she was supported on eitherside; she drew her breath with so much difficulty that only to hear hermade everyone around her draw theirs painfully also. 

The baron, who had lived with her and seen her every day, had notnoticed the gradual change in his wife, and if she had complained orsaid her breathing and the heavy feeling about her heart were gettingworse, he had answered:

"Oh, no, my dear. You have always been like this. "

Jeanne went to her own room and cried bitterly when she had taken herparents upstairs. Then she went to her father and, throwing herself inhis arms, said, with her eyes still full of tears:

"Oh, how changed mother is! What is the matter with her? Do tell me whatis the matter with her?"

"Do you think she is changed?" asked the baron in surprise. "It must beyour fancy. You know I have been with her all this time, and to me sheseems just the same as she has always been; she is not any worse. "

"Your mother is in a bad way, " said Julien to his wife that evening. "Idon't think she's good for much now. "

Jeanne burst into tears. 

"Oh, good gracious!" went on Julien irritably. "I don't say that she isdangerously ill. You always see so much more than is meant. She ischanged, that's all; it's only natural she should begin to break up ather age. "

In a week Jeanne had got accustomed to her mother's altered appearanceand thought no more about it, thrusting her fears from her, as peoplealways do put aside their fears and cares, with an instinctive andnatural, though selfish dislike of anything unpleasant. 

The baroness, unable to walk, only went out for about half an hour everyday. When she had gone once up and down "her" avenue, she could not moveanother step and asked to sit down on "her" seat. Some days she couldnot walk even to the end of the avenue, and would say:

"Let us stop; my hypertrophy is too much for me to-day. "

She never laughed as she used to; things which, the year before, wouldhave sent her into fits of laughter, only brought a faint smile to herlips now. Her eyesight was still excellent, and she passed her time inreading _Corinne_ and Lamartine's _Meditations_ over again, and in goingthrough her "Souvenir-drawer. " She would empty on her knees the oldletters, which were so dear to her heart, place the drawer on a chairbeside her, look slowly over each "relic, " and then put it back in itsplace. When she was quite alone she kissed some of the letters as shemight have kissed the hair of some loved one who was dead. 

Jeanne, coming into the room suddenly, sometimes found her in tears. 

"What is the matter, mamma, dear?" she would ask. 

"My souvenirs have upset me, " the baroness would answer, with along-drawn sigh. "They bring to my mind so vividly the happy times whichare all over now, and make me think of people whom I had almostforgotten. I seem to see them, to hear their voices, and it makes mesad. You will feel the same, later on. "

If the baron came in and found them talking like this, he would say:

"Jeanne, my dear, if you take my advice, you will burn all yourletters--those from your mother, mine, everyone's. There is nothing morepainful than to stir up the memories of one's youth when one is old. "

But Jeanne, who had inherited her mother's sentimental instincts, thoughshe differed from her in nearly everything else, carefully kept all herold letters to form a "souvenir-box" for her old age, also. 

A few days after his arrival, business called the baron away again. Thebaroness soon began to get better, and Jeanne, forgetting Julien'sinfidelity and Gilberte's treachery, was almost perfectly happy. Theweather was splendid. Mild, starlit nights followed the soft evenings, and dazzling sunrises commenced the glorious days. The fields werecovered with bright, sweet-smelling flowers, and the vast calm seaglittered in the sun from morning till night. 

One afternoon Jeanne went into the fields with Paul in her arms. Shefelt an exquisite gladness as she looked now at her son, now at theflowery hedgerows, and every minute she pressed her baby closely to herand kissed him. The earth exhaled a faint perfume, and, as she walkedalong, she felt as though her happiness were too great for her. Then shethought of her child's future. What would he be? Sometimes she hoped hewould become a great and famous man. Sometimes she felt she wouldrather he remained with her, passing his life in tender devotion to hismother and unknown to the world. When she listened to the promptings ofher mother's heart, she wished him to remain simply her adored son; butwhen she listened to her reason and her pride she hoped he would make aname and become something of importance in the world. 

She sat down at the edge of a ditch and studied the child's face as ifshe had never really looked at it before. It seemed so strange to thinkthat this little baby would grow up, and walk with manly strides, thatthese soft cheeks would become bearded, and the feeble murmur change toa deep-toned voice. 

Someone called her, and, looking up, she saw Marius running towards her. Thinking he had come to announce some visitor, she got up, feeling vexedat being disturbed. The boy was running as fast as his legs could carryhim. 

"Madame!" he cried, when he was near enough to be heard. "Madame labaronne is very ill. "

Jeanne ran quickly towards the house, feeling as if a douche of coldwater had been poured down her spine. There was quite a little crowdstanding under the plane tree, which opened to let her through as sherushed forward. There, in the midst, lay the baroness on the ground, herhead supported by two pillows, her face black, her eyes closed, and herchest, which for the last twenty years had heaved so tumultuously, motionless. The child's nurse was standing there; she took him from hismother's arms, and carried him away. 

"How did it happen? What made her fall?" asked Jeanne, looking up withhaggard eyes. "Send for the doctor immediately. "

As she turned she saw the curé; he at once offered his services, and, turning up his sleeves, began to rub the baroness with Eau de Cologneand vinegar; but she showed no signs of returning consciousness. 

"She ought to be undressed and put to bed, " said the priest; and, withhis aid, Joseph Couillard, old Simon and Ludivine tried to raise thebaroness. 

As they lifted her, her head fell backwards, and her dress, which theywere grasping, gave way under the dead weight of her huge body. Theywere obliged to lay her down again, and Jeanne shrieked with horror. 

At last an armchair was brought from the drawing-room; the baroness wasplaced in it, carried slowly indoors, then upstairs, and laid on thebed. The cook was undressing her as best she could when the Widow Dentucame in, as if, like the priest, she had "smelt death, " as the servantssaid. Joseph Couillard hurried off for the doctor, and the priest wasgoing to fetch the holy oil, when the nurse whispered in his ear:

"You needn't trouble to go, Monsieur le curé. I have seen too much ofdeath not to know that she is gone. "

Jeanne, in desperation, begged them to tell her what she could do, whatremedies they had better apply. The curé thought that anyhow he mightpronounce an absolution, and for two hours they watched beside thelifeless, livid body, Jeanne, unable to contain her grief, sobbing aloudas she knelt beside the bed. When the door opened to admit the doctor, she thought that with him came safety and consolation and hope, and sherushed to meet him, trying to tell him, in a voice broken with sobs, allthe details of the catastrophe. 

"She was walking--like she does every day--and she seemed quite well, better even--than usual. She had eaten some soup and two eggs for lunch, and--quite suddenly, without any warning she fell--and turned black, like she is now; she has not moved since, and we have--tried everythingto restore her to consciousness--everything--"

She stopped abruptly for she saw the nurse making a sign to the doctorto intimate that it was all over. Then she refused to understand thegesture, and went on anxiously:

"Is it anything serious? Do you think there is any danger?"

He answered at last:

"I very much fear that--that life is extinct. Be brave and try to bearup. "

For an answer Jeanne opened her arms, and threw herself on her mother'sbody. Julien came in. He made no sign of grief or pity, but stoodlooking simply vexed; he had been taken too much by surprise to at onceassume an expression of sorrow. 

"I expected it, " he whispered. "I knew she could not live long. "

He drew out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down and crossedhimself as he mumbled something, then rose and attempted to raise hiswife. She was clinging to the corpse, almost lying on it as shepassionately kissed it; they had to drag her away for she was nearly madwith grief, and she was not allowed to go back for an hour. 

Then every shadow of hope had vanished, and the room had been arrangedfittingly for its dead occupant. The day was drawing to a close, andJulien and the priest were standing near one of the windows, talking inwhispers. The Widow Dentu, thoroughly accustomed to death, was alreadycomfortably dozing in an armchair. The curé went to meet Jeanne as shecame into the room, and taking both her hands in his, he exhorted her tobe brave under this sorrow, and attempted to comfort her with theconsolation of religion. Then he spoke of her dead mother's good life, and offered to pass the night in prayers beside the body. 

But Jeanne refused this offer as well as she could for her tears. Shewanted to be alone, quite alone, with her mother this last night. 

"That cannot be, " interposed Julien; "we will watch beside hertogether. "

She shook her head, unable to speak for some moments; then she said:

"She was my mother, and I want to watch beside her alone. "

"Let her do as she wants, " whispered the doctor; "the nurse can stay inthe next room, " and Julien and the priest, thinking of their night'srest, gave in. 

The Abbé Picot knelt down, prayed for a few moments, then rose and wentout of the room, saying, "She was a saintly woman, " in the same tone ashe always said, "Dominus vobiscum. "

"Won't you have some dinner?" asked the vicomte in a perfectly ordinaryvoice. 

Jeanne, not thinking he was speaking to her, made no answer. 

"You would feel much better if you would eat something, " he went onagain. 

"Let someone go for papa, directly, " she said as if she had not heardwhat he said; and he went out of the room to dispatch a mountedmessenger to Rouen. 

Jeanne sank into a sort of stupor, as if she were waiting to give way toher passion of regret until she should be alone with her mother. Theroom became filled with shadows. The Widow Dentu moved noiselesslyabout, arranging everything for the night, and at last lighted twocandles which she placed at the head of the bed on a small table coveredwith a white cloth. Jeanne seemed unconscious of everything; she waswaiting until she should be alone. 

When he had dined, Julien came upstairs again and asked for the secondtime:

"Won't you have something to eat?"

His wife shook her head, and he sat down looking more resigned than sad, and did not say anything more. They all three sat apart from oneanother; the nurse dropped off to sleep every now and then, snored for alittle while, then awoke with a start. After some time Julien rose andwent over to his wife. 

"Do you still want to be left alone?" he asked. 

She eagerly took his hand in hers: "Oh, yes; do leave me, " she answered. 

He kissed her on the forehead, whispered, "I shall come and see youduring the night, " then went away with the Widow Dentu, who wheeled herarmchair into the next room. 

Jeanne closed the door and put both windows wide open. A warm breeze, laden with the sweet smell of the hay, blew into the room, and on thelawn, which had been mown the day before, she could see the heaps of drygrass lying in the moonlight. She turned away from the window and wentback to the bed, for the soft, beautiful night seemed to mock her grief. 

Her mother was no longer swollen as she had been when she died; shelooked simply asleep, only her sleep was more peaceful than it had everbeen before; the wind made the candles flicker, and the changing shadowsmade the dead face look as though it moved and lived again. As Jeannegazed at it the memories of her early childhood came crowding into hermind. She could see again her mother sitting in the convent parlor, holding out the bag of cakes she had brought for her little girl; shethought of all her little ways, her affectionate words, the way she usedto move, the wrinkles that came round her eyes when she laughed, thedeep sigh she always heaved when she sat down, and all her little, dailyhabits, and as she stood gazing at the dead body she kept repeating, almost mechanically: "She is dead; she is dead;" until at last sherealized all the horror of that word. 

The woman who was lying there--mamma--little mother--Madame Adélaïde, was dead! She would never move, never speak, never laugh, never say, "Good morning, Jeannette"; never sit opposite her husband at the dinnertable again. She was dead. She would be enclosed in a coffin, placedbeneath the ground, and that would be the end; they would never see heragain. It could not be possible! What! She, her daughter, had now nomother! Had she indeed lost for ever this dear face, the first she hadever looked upon, the first she had ever loved, this kindly lovingmother, whose place in her heart could never be filled? And in a fewhours even this still, unconscious face would have vanished, and thenthere would be nothing left her but a memory. She fell on her knees indespair, wringing her hands and pressing her lips to the bed. 

"Oh, mother, mother! My darling mother!" she cried, in a broken voicewhich was stifled by the bed-covering. 

She felt she was going mad; mad, like the night she had fled into thesnow. She rushed to the window to breathe the fresh air which had notpassed over the corpse or the bed on which it lay. The new-mown hay, thetrees, the waste land and the distant sea lay peacefully sleeping in themoonlight, and the tears welled up into Jeanne's eyes as she looked outinto the clear, calm night. She went back to her seat by the bedside andheld her mother's dead hand in hers, as if she were lying ill instead ofdead. Attracted by the lighted candles, a big, winged insect had enteredthrough the open window and was flying about the room, dashing againstthe wall at every moment with a faint thud. It disturbed Jeanne, and shelooked up to see where it was, but she could only see its shadow movingover the white ceiling. 

Its buzzing suddenly ceased, and then, besides the regular ticking ofthe clock, Jeanne noticed another fainter rustling noise. It was theticking of her mother's watch, which had been forgotten when her dresshad been taken off and thrown at the foot of the bed, and the idea ofthis little piece of mechanism still moving while her mother lay dead, sent a fresh pang of anguish through her heart. She looked at the time. It was hardly half-past ten, and as she thought of the long night tocome, she was seized with a horrible dread. 

She began to think of her own life--of Rosalie, of Gilberte--of all herillusions which had been, one by one, so cruelly destroyed. Lifecontained nothing but misery and pain, misfortune and death; there wasnothing true, nothing honest, nothing but what gave rise to sufferingand tears. Repose and happiness could only be expected in anotherexistence, when the soul had been delivered from its early trials. Herthoughts turned to the unfathomable mystery of the soul, but, as shereasoned about it, her poetic theories were invariably upset by others, just as poetic and just as unreal. Where was now her mother's soul, thesoul which had forsaken this still, cold body? Perhaps it was far away, floating in space. But had it entirely vanished like the perfume from awithered flower, or was it wandering like some invisible bird freed fromits cage? Had it returned to God, or was it scattered among the newgerms of creation? It might be very near; perhaps in this very room, hovering around the inanimate body it had left, and at this thoughtJeanne fancied she felt a breath, as if a spirit had passed by her. Herblood ran cold with terror; she did not dare turn round to look behindher, and she sat motionless, her heart beating wildly. 

At that moment the invisible insect again commenced its buzzing, noisyflight, and Jeanne trembled from head to foot at the sound. Then, as sherecognized the noise, she felt a little reassured, and rose and lookedaround. Her eyes fell on the escritoire with the sphinxes' heads, theguardian of the "souvenirs. " As she looked at it she thought it would befulfilling a sacred, filial duty, which would please her mother as shelooked down on her from another world, to read these letters, as shemight have done a holy book during this last watch. 

She knew it was the correspondence of her grandfather and grandmother, whom she had never known; and it seemed as if her hands would jointheirs across her mother's corpse, and so a sacred chain of affectionwould be formed between those who had died so long ago, their daughterwho had but just joined them, and her child who was still on earth. 

She opened the escritoire and took out the letters; they had beencarefully tied into ten little packets, which were laid side by side inthe lowest drawer. A refinement of sentimentality prompted her to placethem all on the bed in the baroness's arms; then she began to read. 

They were old-fashioned letters with the perfume of another centuryabout them, such as are treasured up in every family. The firstcommenced "My dearie"; another "My little darling"; then came somebeginning "My pet"--"My beloved daughter, " then "My dear child"--"Mydear Adélaïde"--"My dear daughter, " the commencements varying as theletters had been addressed to the child, the young girl, and, later on, to the young wife. They were all full of foolish, loving phrases, andnews about a thousand insignificant, homely events, which, to astranger, would have seemed too trivial to mention: "Father has aninfluenza; Hortense has burnt her finger; Croquerat, the cat, is dead;the fir tree which stood on the right-hand side of the gate has been cutdown; mother lost her mass book as she was coming home from church, shethinks someone must have stolen it, " and they talked about people whomJeanne had never known, but whose names were vaguely familiar to her. 

She was touched by these simple details which seemed to reveal all hermother's life and inmost thoughts to her. She looked at the corpse as itlay there, and suddenly she began to read the letters aloud, as thoughto console and gladden the dead heart once more; and a smile ofhappiness seemed to light up the face. As she finished reading them, Jeanne threw the letters on the foot of the bed, resolving to place themall in her mother's coffin. 

She untied another packet. These were in another handwriting, and thefirst ran thus:

 "I cannot live without your kisses. I love you madly. "

There was nothing more, not even a signature. Jeanne turned the paperover, unable to understand it. It was addressed clearly enough to"Madame la baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds. "

She opened the next:

 "Come to-night as soon as he has gone out. We shall have at least one hour together. I adore you. "

A third:

 "I have passed a night of longing and anguish. I fancied you in my arms, your mouth quivering beneath mine, your eyes looking into my eyes. And then I could have dashed myself from the window, as I thought that, at that very moment, you were sleeping beside him, at the mercy of his caresses. "

Jeanne stopped in amazement. What did it all mean? To whom were thesewords of love addressed? She read on, finding in every letter the samedistracted phrases, the same assignations, the same cautions, and, atthe end, always the five words: "Above all, burn this letter. " At lastshe came to an ordinary note, merely accepting an invitation to dinner;it was signed "Paul d'Ennemare. " Why, that was the man of whom the baronstill spoke as "Poor old Paul, " and whose wife had been the baroness'sdearest friend!

Then into Jeanne's mind came a suspicion which at once changed to acertainty--he had been her mother's lover! With a sudden gesture ofloathing, she threw from her all these odious letters, as she would haveshaken off some venomous reptile, and, running to the window, she weptbitterly. All her strength seemed to have left her; she sank on theground, and, hiding her face in the curtains to stifle her moans, shesobbed in an agony of despair. She would have crouched there the wholenight if the sound of someone moving in the next room had not made herstart to her feet. Perhaps it was her father! And all these letters werelying on the bed and on the floor! He had only to come in and open one, and he would know all!

She seized all the old, yellow papers--her grandparents' epistles, thelove letters, those she had not unfolded, those that were still lying inthe drawer--and threw them all into the fireplace. Then she took one ofthe candles which were burning on the little table, and set fire to thisheap of paper. A bright flame sprang up at once, lighting up the room, the bed and the corpse with a bright, flickering light, and casting onthe white bed-curtain a dark, trembling shadow of the rigid face andhuge body. 

When there was nothing left but a heap of ashes in the bottom of thegrate, Jeanne went and sat by the window, as though now she dare not sitby the corpse. The tears streamed from her eyes, and, hiding her facein her hands, she moaned out in heartbroken tones: "Oh, poor mamma! Poormamma!"

Then a terrible thought came to her: Suppose her mother, by some strangechance, was not dead; suppose she was only in a trance-like sleep andshould suddenly rise and speak! Would not the knowledge of this horriblesecret lessen her, Jeanne's, love for her mother? Should she be able tokiss her with the same respect, and regard her with the same esteem asbefore? No! She knew it would be impossible; and the thought almostbroke her heart. 

The night wore on; the stars were fading, and a cool breeze sprang up. The moon was slowly sinking towards the sea over which she was sheddingher silver light, and the memory of that other night she had passed atthe window, the night of her return from the convent, came back toJeanne. Ah! how far away was that happy time! How changed everythingwas, and what a different future lay before her from what she hadpictured then! Over the sky crept a faint, tender tinge of pink, and thebrilliant dawn seemed strange and unnatural to her, as she wondered howsuch glorious sunrises could illumine a world in which there was no joyor happiness. 

A slight sound startled her, and looking round she saw Julien. 

"Well, are you not very tired?" he said. 

"No, " she answered, feeling glad that her lonely vigil had come to anend. 

"Now go and rest, " said her husband. 

She pressed a long sorrowful kiss on her mother's face; then left theroom. 

That day passed in attending to those melancholy duties that alwayssurround a death; the baron came in the evening, and cried a great dealover his wife. The next day the funeral took place; Jeanne pressed herlips to the clammy forehead for the last time, drew the sheet once moreover the still face, saw the coffin fastened down, and then went toawait the people who were to attend the funeral. 

Gilberte arrived first, and threw herself into Jeanne's arms, sobbingviolently. The carriages began to drive up, and voices were heard in thehall. The room gradually filled with women with whom Jeanne was notacquainted; then the Marquise de Coutelier and the Vicomtesse deBriseville arrived, and went up to her and kissed her. She suddenlyperceived that Aunt Lison was in the room, and she gave her such anaffectionate embrace, that the old maid was nearly overcome. Julien camein dressed in deep mourning; he seemed very busy, and very pleased thatall these people had come. He whispered some question to his wife aboutthe arrangements, and added in a low tone:

"It will be a very grand funeral; all the best families are here. "

Then he went away again, bowing to the ladies as he passed down theroom. 

Aunt Lison and the Comtesse Gilberte stayed with Jeanne while the burialwas taking place. The comtesse repeatedly kissed her, murmuring: "Poordarling, poor darling, " and when the Comte de Fourville came to take hiswife home, he wept as if he had lost his own mother. 

 * * * * *

X

The next few days were very sad, as they always must be directly after adeath. The absence of the familiar face from its accustomed place makesthe house seem empty, and each time the eye falls on anything the dear, dead one has had in constant use, a fresh pang of sorrow darts throughthe heart. There is the empty chair, the umbrella still standing in thehall, the glass which the maid has not yet washed. In every room thereis something lying just as it was left for the last time; the scissors, an odd glove, the fingered book, the numberless other objects, which, insignificant in themselves, become a source of sharp pain because theyrecall so vividly the loved one who has passed away. And the voice ringsin one's ears till it seems almost a reality, but there is no escapefrom the house haunted by this presence, for others are suffering also, and all must stay and suffer with each other. 

In addition to her natural grief, Jeanne had to bear the pain of herdiscovery. She was always thinking of it, and the terrible secretincreased her former sense of desolation tenfold, for now she felt thatshe could never put her trust or confidence in anyone again. 

The baron soon went away, thinking to find relief from the grief whichwas deadening all his faculties in change of air and change of scene, and the household at Les Peuples resumed its quiet regular life again. 

Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne passed twelve days in an agony of fear, unable to sleep and scarcely touching food. The boy got well, but thereremained the thought that he might die. What should she do if he did?What would become of her? Gradually there came a vague longing foranother child, and soon she could think of nothing else; she had alwaysfancied she should like two children, a boy and a girl, and the idea ofhaving a daughter haunted her. But since Rosalie had been sent away, shehad lived quite apart from her husband, and at the present moment itseemed utterly impossible to renew their former relations. Julien'saffections were centered elsewhere; she knew that; and, on her side, themere thought of having to submit to his caresses again, made her shudderwith disgust. 

Still, she would have overcome her repugnance (so tormented was she bythe desire of another child) if she could have seen any way to bringabout the intimacy she desired; but she would have died rather than lether husband guess what was in her thoughts, and he never seemed to dreamof approaching her now. Perhaps she would have given up the idea had noteach night the vision of a daughter playing with Paul under the planetree appeared to her. Sometimes she felt she _must_ get up and join herhusband in his room; twice, in fact, she did glide to his door, but eachtime she came back, without having turned the handle, her face burningwith shame. 

The baron was away, her mother was dead, and she had no one to whom shecould confide this delicate secret. She made up her mind, at last, totell the Abbé Picot her difficulty, under the seal of confession. Shewent to him one day and found him in his little garden, reading hisbreviary among the fruit trees. She talked to him for a few minutesabout one thing and another, then, "Monsieur l'abbé, I want to confess, "she said, with a deep blush. 

He put on his spectacles to look at her better, for the requestastonished him. "I don't think you can have any very heavy sins on yourconscience, " he said, with a smile. 

"No, but I want to ask your advice on a subject so--so painful to enterupon, that I dare not talk about it in an ordinary way, " she replied, feeling very confused. 

He put on his priestly air immediately. 

"Very well, my daughter, come to the confessional, and I will hear youthere. "

But she suddenly felt a scruple at talking of such things in thequietness of an empty church. 

"No, Monsieur le curé--after all--if you will let me--I can tell youhere what I want to say. See, we will go and sit in your little arborover there. "

As they walked slowly over to the arbor she tried to find the words inwhich she could best begin her confidence. They sat down, and shecommenced, as if she were confessing, "My father, " then hesitated, saidagain, "My father, " then stopped altogether, too ashamed to continue. 

The priest crossed his hands over his stomach and waited for her to goon. "Well, my daughter, " he said, perceiving her embarrassment, "youseem afraid to say what it is; come now, be brave. "

"My father, I want to have another child, " she said abruptly, like acoward throwing himself headlong into the danger he dreads. 

The priest, hardly understanding what she meant, made no answer, and shetried to explain herself, but, in her confusion, her words became moreand more difficult to understand. 

"I am quite alone in life now; my father and my husband do not agree; mymother is dead, and--and--the other day I almost lost my son, " shewhispered with a shudder. "What would have become of me if he had died?"

The priest looked at her in bewilderment. "There, there; come to thepoint, " he said. 

"I want to have another child, " she repeated. 

The abbé was used to the coarse pleasantries of the peasants, who didnot mind what they said before him, and he answered, with a sly smileand a knowing shake of the head: "Well, I don't think there need be muchdifficulty about that. "

She raised her clear eyes to his and said, hesitatingly:

"But--but--don't you understand that since--since that troublewith--the--maid--my husband and I live--quite apart. "

These words came as a revelation to the priest, accustomed as he was tothe promiscuity and easy morals of the peasants. Then he thought hecould guess what the young wife really wanted, and he looked at her outof the corner of his eye, pitying her, and sympathizing with herdistress. 

"Yes, yes, I know exactly what you mean. I can quite understand that youshould find your--your widowhood hard to bear. You are young, healthy, and it is only natural; very natural. " He began to smile, his livelynature getting the better of him. "Besides, the Church allows thesefeelings, sometimes, " he went on, gently tapping Jeanne's hands. "Whatare we told? That carnal desires may be satisfied lawfully in wedlockonly. Well, you are married, are you not?"

She, in her turn, had not at first understood what his words implied, but when his meaning dawned on her, her face became crimson, and hereyes filled with tears. 

"Oh! Monsieur le curé, what do you mean? What do you think? I assureyou--I assure--" and she could not continue for her sobs. 

Her emotion surprised the abbé, and he tried to console her. 

"There, there, " he said; "I did not mean to pain you. I was only joking, and there's no harm in a joke between honest people. But leave it all inmy hands, and I will speak to M. Julien. "

She did not know what to say. She wished, now, that she could refuse hishelp, for she feared his want of tact would only increase herdifficulties, but she did not dare say anything. 

"Thank you, Monsieur le curé, " she stammered; and then hurried away. 

The next week was passed by Jeanne in an agony of doubts and fears. Thenone evening, Julien watched her all through dinner with an amused smileon his lips, and evinced towards her a gallantry which was faintlytinged with irony. After dinner they walked up and down the baroness'savenue, and he whispered in her ear:

"Then we are going to be friends again?"

She made no answer, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground, where therewas a straight line, hardly so thickly covered with grass as the rest ofthe path. It was the line traced by the baroness's foot, which wasgradually being effaced, just as her memory was fading, and, as shelooked at it, Jeanne's heart felt bursting with grief; she seemed solonely, so separated from everybody. 

"For my part, I am only too pleased, " continued Julien. "I should haveproposed it before, but I was afraid of displeasing you. "

The sun was setting; it was a mild, soft evening, and Jeanne longed torest her head on some loving heart, and there sob out her sorrows. Shethrew herself into Julien's arms, her breast heaving, and the tearsstreaming from her eyes. He looked at her in surprise, thinking thisoutburst was occasioned by the love she still felt for him, and, unableto see her face, he dropped a condescending kiss upon her hair. Thenthey went indoors in silence and he followed her to her room. 

To him this renewal of their former relations was a duty, though hardlyan unpleasant one, while she submitted to his embraces as a disgusting, painful necessity, and resolved to put an end to them for ever, as soonas her object was accomplished. Soon, however, she found that herhusband's caresses were not like they used to be; they may have beenmore refined, they certainly were not so complete. He treated her like acareful lover, instead of being an easy husband. 

"Why do you not give yourself up to me as you used to do?" she whisperedone night, her lips close to his. 

"To keep you out of the family way, of course, " he answered, with achuckle. 

She started. 

"Don't you wish for any more children, then?" she asked. 

His amazement was so great, that, for a moment, he was silent; then:

"Eh? What do you say?" he exclaimed. "Are you in your right senses?Another child? I should think not, indeed! We've already got one toomany, squalling and costing money, and bothering everybody. Anotherchild! No, thank you!"

She clasped him in her arms, pressed her lips to his and murmured:

"Oh! I entreat you, make me a mother once more. "

"Don't be so foolish, " he replied, angrily. "Pray don't let me hear anymore of this nonsense. "

She said no more, but she resolved to trick him into giving her thehappiness she desired. She tried to prolong her kisses, and threw herarms passionately around him, pressing him to her, and pretending adelirium of love she was very far from feeling. She tried every means tomake him lose control over himself, but she never once succeeded. 

Tormented more and more by her desire, driven to extremities, and readyto do or dare anything to gain her ends, she went again to the AbbéPicot. She found him just finishing lunch, with his face crimson fromindigestion. He looked up as she came in, and, anxious to hear theresult of his mediation:

"Well?" he exclaimed. 

"My husband does not want any more children, " she answered at oncewithout any of the hesitation or shame-faced timidity she had shownbefore. 

The abbé got very interested, and turned towards her, ready to hear oncemore of those secrets of wedded life, the revelation of which made thetask of confessing so pleasant to him. 

"How is that?" he asked. 

In spite of her determination to tell him all, Jeanne hardly knew how toexplain herself. 

"He--he refuses--to make me a mother. "

The priest understood at once; it was not the first time he had heardof such things, but he asked for all the details, and enjoyed them as ahungry man would a feast. When he had heard all, he reflected for a fewmoments, then said in the calm, matter-of-fact tone he might have usedif he had been speaking of the best way to insure a good harvest. 

"My dear child, the only thing you can do is to make your husbandbelieve you are pregnant; then he will cease his precautions, and youwill become so in reality. "

Jeanne blushed to the roots of her hair, but, determined to be ready forevery emergency, she argued:

"But--but suppose he should not believe me?"

The curé knew too well the ins and outs of human nature not to have ananswer for that. 

"Tell everybody you are _enceinte_. When he sees that everyone elsebelieves it, he will soon believe it himself. You will be doing nowrong, " he added, to quiet his conscience for advising this deception;"the Church does not permit any connection between man and woman, exceptfor the purpose of procreation. "

Jeanne followed the priest's artful device, and, a fortnight later, toldJulien she thought she was _enceinte_. He started up. 

"It isn't possible! You can't be!"

She gave him her reasons for thinking so. 

"Bah!" he answered. "You wait a little while. "

Every morning he asked, "Well?" but she always replied: "No, not yet; Iam very much mistaken if I am not _enceinte_. "

He also began to think so, and his surprise was only equaled by hisannoyance. 

"Well, I can't understand it, " was all he could say. "I'll be hanged ifI know how it can have happened. "

At the end of a month she began to tell people the news, but she saidnothing about it to the Comtesse Gilberte, for she felt an old feelingof delicacy in mentioning it to her. At the very first suspicion of hiswife's pregnancy, Julien had ceased to touch her, then, angrilythinking, "Well, at any rate, this brat wasn't wanted, " he made up hismind to make the best of it, and recommenced his visits to his wife'sroom. Everything happened as the priest had predicted, and Jeanne foundshe would a second time become a mother. Then, in a transport of joy, she took a vow of eternal chastity as a token of her rapturous gratitudeto the distant divinity she adored, and thenceforth closed her door toher husband. 

She again felt almost happy. She could hardly believe that it was barelytwo months since her mother had died, and that only such a short timebefore she had thought herself inconsolable. Now her wounded heart wasnearly healed, and her grief had disappeared, while in its place wasmerely a vague melancholy, like the shadow of a great sorrow restingover her life. It seemed impossible that any other catastrophe couldhappen now; her children would grow up and surround her old age withtheir affection, and her husband could go his way while she went hers. 

Towards the end of September the Abbé Picot came to the château, in anew cassock which had only one week's stains upon it, to introduce hissuccessor, the Abbé Tolbiac. The latter was small, thin, and very young, with hollow, black-encircled eyes which betokened the depth and violenceof his feelings, and a decisive way of speaking as if there could be noappeal from his opinion. The Abbé Picot had been appointed _doyen_ ofGoderville. Jeanne felt very sad at the thought of his departure; he wasconnected, in her thoughts, with all the chief events of her life, forhe had married her, christened Paul, and buried the baroness. She likedhim because he was always good-tempered and unaffected, and she couldnot imagine Etouvent without the Abbé Picot's fat figure trotting pastthe farms. He himself did not seem very rejoiced at his advancement. 

"I have been here eighteen years, Madame la Comtesse, " he said, "and itgrieves me to go to another place. Oh! this living is not worth much, Iknow, and as for the people--well, the men have no more religion thanthey ought to have, the women are not so moral as they might be, and thegirls never dream of being married until it is too late for them to weara wreath of orange blossoms; still, I love the place. "

The new curé had been fidgeting impatiently during this speech, and hisface had turned very red. 

"I shall soon have all that changed, " he said, abruptly, as soon as theother priest had finished speaking; and he looked like an angry child inhis worn but spotless cassock, so thin and small was he. 

The Abbé Picot looked at him sideways, as he always did when anythingamused him. 

"Listen, l'abbé, " he said. "You will have to chain up your parishionersif you want to prevent that sort of thing; and I don't believe even thatwould be any good. "

"We shall see, " answered the little priest in a cutting tone. 

The old curé smiled and slowly took a pinch of snuff. 

"Age and experience will alter your views, l'abbé; if they don't youwill only estrange the few good Churchmen you have. When I see a girlcome to mass with a waist bigger than it ought to be, I say tomyself--'Well, she is going to give me another soul to look after;'--andI try to marry her. You can't prevent them going wrong, but you can findout the father of the child and prevent him forsaking the mother. Marrythem, l'abbé, marry them, and don't trouble yourself about anythingelse. "

"We will not argue on this point, for we should never agree, " answeredthe new curé, a little roughly; and the Abbé Picot again began toexpress his regret at leaving the village, and the sea which he couldsee from the vicarage windows, and the little funnel-shaped valleys, where he went to read his breviary and where he could see the boats inthe distance. Then the two priests rose to go, and the Abbé Picot kissedJeanne, who nearly cried when she said good-bye. 

A week afterwards, the Abbé Tolbiac called again. He spoke of thereforms he was bringing about as if he were a prince taking possessionof his kingdom. He begged the vicomtesse to communicate on all the daysappointed by the Church, and to attend mass regularly on Sundays. 

"You and I are at the head of the parish, " he said, "and we ought torule it, and always set it a good example; but, if we wish to have anyinfluence, we must be united. If the Church and the château support eachother, the cottage will fear and obey us. "

Jeanne's religion was simply a matter of sentiment; she had merely thedreamy faith that a woman never quite loses, and if she performed anyreligious duties at all it was only because she had been so used tothem at the convent, for the baron's carping philosophy had long agooverthrown all her convictions. The Abbé Picot had always been contentedwith the little she did do, and never chid her for not confessing orattending mass oftener; but when the Abbé Tolbiac did not see her atchurch on the Sunday, he hastened to the château to question andreprimand her. She did not wish to quarrel with the curé, so shepromised to be more attentive to the services, inwardly resolving to goregularly only for a few weeks, out of good nature. 

Little by little, however, she fell into the habit of frequenting thechurch, and, in a short time, she was entirely under the influence ofthe delicate-looking, strong-willed priest. His zeal and enthusiasmappealed to her love of everything pertaining to mysticism, and heseemed to make the chord of religious poetry, which she possessed incommon with every woman, vibrate within her. His austerity, his contemptfor every luxury and sensuality, his disdain for the things that usuallyoccupy the thoughts of men, his love of God, his youthful, intolerantinexperience, his scathing words, his inflexible will made Jeannecompare him, in her mind, to the early martyrs; and she, who had alreadysuffered so much, whose eyes had been so rudely opened to the deceptionsof life, let herself be completely ruled by the rigid fanaticism of thisboy who was the minister of Heaven. He led her to the feet of Christ theConsoler, teaching her how the holy joys of religion could alleviate allher sorrows, and, as she knelt in the confessional she humbled herselfand felt little and weak before this priest, who looked about fifteenyears old. 

Soon he was detested by the whole country-side. With no pity for hisown weaknesses, he showed a violent intolerance for those of others. Thething above all others that roused his anger and indignation was--love. He denounced it from the pulpit in crude, ecclesiastical terms, thundering out terrible judgments against concupiscence over the headsof his rustic audience; and, as the pictures he portrayed in his furypersistently haunted his mind, he trembled with rage and stamped hisfoot in anger. The grown-up girls and the young fellows cast side-longglances at each other across the aisle; and the old peasants, who likedto joke about such matters, expressed their disapproval of the littlecuré's intolerance as they walked back to their farms after service withtheir wives and sons. 

The whole country was in an uproar. The priest's severity and the harshpenances he inflicted at confession were rumored about, and, as heobstinately refused to grant absolution to the girls whose chastity wasnot immaculate, smiles accompanied the whispers. When, at the holyfestivals, several of the youths and girls stayed in their seats insteadof going to communicate with the others, most of the congregationlaughed outright as they looked at them. He began to watch for loverslike a keeper on the look-out for poachers, and on moonlight nights hehunted up the couples along the ditches, behind the barns and among thelong grass on the hill-sides. One night he came upon two who did notcease their love-making even before him; they were strolling along aditch filled with stones, with their arms round one another, kissingeach other as they walked. 

"Will you stop that, you vagabonds?" cried the abbé. 

"You mind yer own bus'ness, M'sieu l'curé, " replied the lad, turninground. "This ain't nothin' to do with you. "

The abbé picked up some stones and threw them at the couple as he mighthave done at stray dogs, and they both ran off, laughing. The nextSunday the priest mentioned them by name before the whole congregation. All the young fellows soon ceased to attend mass. 

The curé dined at the château every Thursday, but he very often wentthere on other days to talk to his _penitente_. Jeanne became as ardentand as enthusiastic as he as she discussed the mysteries of a futureexistence, and grew familiar with all the old and complicated argumentsemployed in religious controversy. They would both walk along thebaroness's avenue talking of Christ and the Apostles, of the Virgin Maryand of the Fathers of the Church as if they had really known them. Sometimes they stopped their walk to ask each other profound questions, and then Jeanne would wander off into sentimental arguments, and thecuré would reason like a lawyer possessed with the mania of proving thepossibility of squaring the circle. 

Julien treated the new curé with great respect. "That's the sort of apriest I like, " he was continually saying. "Half-measures don't do forhim, " and he zealously set a good example by frequently confessing andcommunicating. Hardly a day passed now without the vicomte going to theFourvilles, either to shoot with the comte, who could not do withouthim, or to ride with the comtesse regardless of rain and bad weather. 

"They are riding-mad, " remarked the comte; "but the exercise does mywife good. "

The baron returned to Les Peuples about the middle of November. Heseemed a different man, he had aged so much and was so low-spirited; hewas fonder than ever of his daughter, as if the last few months ofmelancholy solitude had caused in him an imperative need of affectionand tenderness. Jeanne told him nothing about her new ideas, herintimacy with the Abbé Tolbiac, or her religious enthusiasm, but thefirst time he saw the priest, he felt an invincible dislike for him, andwhen his daughter asked him in the evening: "Well, what do you think ofhim?"

"He is like an inquisitor!" he answered. "He seems to me a verydangerous man. "

When the peasants told him about the young priest's harshness andbigotry and the sort of war of persecution he waged against natural lawsand instincts, his dislike changed to a violent hatred. He, the baron, belonged to the school of philosophers who worship nature; to him itseemed something touching, when he saw two animals unite, and he wasalways ready to fall on his knees before the sort of pantheistic God heworshiped; but he hated the catholic conception of a God, Who has pettyschemes, and gives way to tyrannical anger and indulges in mean revenge;a God, in fact, Who seemed less to him than that boundless omnipotentnature, which is at once life, light, earth, thought, plant, rock, man, air, animal, planet, god and insect, that nature which produces allthings in such bountiful profusion, fitting each atom to the place it isto occupy in space, be that position close to or far from the suns whichheat the worlds. Nature contained the germ of everything, and shebrought forth life and thought, as trees bear flowers and fruit. 

To the baron, therefore, reproduction was a great law of Nature, and tobe respected as the sacred and divine act which accomplished theconstant, though unexpressed will of this Universal Being; and he atonce began a campaign against this priest who opposed the laws ofcreation. It grieved Jeanne to the heart, and she prayed to the Lord, and implored her father not to run counter to the curé, but the baronalways answered:

"It is everyone's right and duty to fight against such men, for they arenot like human creatures. They are not human, " he repeated, shaking hislong white hair. "They understand nothing of life, and their conduct isentirely influenced by their harmful dreams, which are contrary toNature. " And he pronounced "contrary to Nature" as if he were uttering acurse. 

The priest had at once recognized in him an enemy, and, as he wished toremain master of the château and its young mistress, he temporized, feeling sure of victory in the end. By chance he had discovered the_liaison_ between Julien and Gilberte, and his one idea was to break itoff by no matter what means. He came to see Jeanne one day towards theend of the wet, mild winter, and, after a long talk on the mystery oflife, he asked her to unite with him in fighting against and destroyingthe wickedness which was in her own family, and so save two souls whichwere in danger. She asked him what he meant. 

"The hour has not come for me to reveal all to you, " he replied; "but Iwill see you again soon, " and with that he abruptly left her. 

He came again in a few days, and spoke in vague terms of a disgracefulconnection between people whose conduct ought to be irreproachable. Itwas the duty, he said, of those who were aware of what was going on, touse every means to put an end to it. He used all sorts of loftyarguments, and then, taking Jeanne's hand, adjured her to open her eyes, to understand and to help him. 

This time Jeanne saw what he meant, but terrified at the thought of allthe trouble that might be brought to her home, which was now sopeaceful, she pretended not to know to what he was alluding. Then hehesitated no longer, but spoke in terms there could be nomisunderstanding. 

"I am going to perform a very painful duty, Madame la comtesse, but Icannot leave it undone. The position I hold forbids me to leave you inignorance of the sin you can prevent. Learn that your husband cherishesa criminal affection for Madame de Fourville. "

Jeanne only bent her head in feeble resignation. 

"What do you intend to do?" asked the priest. 

"What do you wish me to do, Monsieur l'abbé?" she murmured. 

"Throw yourself in the way as an obstacle to this guilty love, " heanswered, violently. 

She began to cry, and said in a broken voice:

"But he has deceived me before with a servant; he wouldn't listen to me;he doesn't love me now; he ill-treats me if I manifest any desire thatdoes not please him, so what can I do?"

The curé did not make any direct answer to this appeal. 

"Then you bow before this sin! You submit to it!" he exclaimed. "Youconsent to and tolerate adultery under your own roof! The crime is beingperpetrated before your eyes, and you refuse to see it! Are you aChristian woman? Are you a wife and a mother?"

"What would you have me do?" she sobbed. 

"Anything rather than allow this sin to continue, " he replied. "Anything, I tell you. Leave him. Flee from this house which has beendefiled. "

"But I have no money, Monsieur l'abbé, " she replied. "And I am not bravenow like I used to be. Besides, how can I leave without any proofs ofwhat you are saying? I have not the right to do so. "

The priest rose to his feet, quivering with indignation. 

"You are listening to the dictates of your cowardice, madame. I thoughtyou were a different woman, but you are unworthy of God's mercy. "

She fell on her knees:

"Oh! Do not abandon me, I implore you. Advise me what to do. "

"Open M. De Fourville's eyes, " he said, shortly. "It is his duty to endthis _liaison_. "

She was seized with terror at this advice. 

"But he would kill them, Monsieur l'abbé! And should I be the one totell him? Oh, not that! Never, never!"

He raised his hand as if to curse her, his whole soul stirred withanger. 

"Live on in your shame and in your wickedness, for you are more guiltythan they are. You are the wife who condones her husband's sin! My placeis no longer here. "

He turned to go, trembling all over with wrath. She followed himdistractedly, ready to give in, and beginning to promise; but he wouldnot listen to her and strode rapidly along, furiously shaking his bigblue umbrella which was nearly as high as himself. He saw Julienstanding near the gate superintending the pruning of some trees, so heturned off to the left to reach the road by way of the Couillards' farm, and as he walked he kept saying to Jeanne:

"Leave me, madame. I have nothing further to say to you. "

In the middle of the yard, and right in his path, some children werestanding around the kennel of the dog Mirza, their attentionconcentrated on something which the baron was also carefully consideringas he stood in their midst with his hands behind his back, looking likea schoolmaster. 

"Do come and see me again, Monsieur l'abbé, " pleaded Jeanne. "If youwill return in a few days, I shall be able to tell you then what I thinkis the best course to take, and we can talk it over together. "

By that time they had almost reached the group of children (which thebaron had left, to avoid meeting and speaking to his enemy, the priest)and the curé went to see what it was that was interesting them sodeeply. It was the dog whelping; five little pups were already crawlinground the mother, who gently licked them as she lay on her side beforethe kennel, and just as the curé looked over the children's heads, asixth appeared. When they saw it, all the boys and girls clapped theirhands, crying:

"There's another! There's another!"

To them it was simply a perfectly pure and natural amusement, and theywatched these pups being born as they might have watched the applesfalling from a tree. 

The Abbé Tolbiac stood still for a moment in horrified surprise, then, giving way to his passion, he raised his umbrella and began to rain downblows on the children's heads. The startled urchins ran off as fast asthey could go, and the abbé found himself left alone with the dog, whichwas painfully trying to rise. Before she could stand up, he knocked herback again, and began to hit her with all his strength. The animalmoaned pitifully as she writhed under these blows from which there wasno escape (for she was chained up) and at last the priest's umbrellabroke. Then, unable to beat the dog any longer, he jumped on her, andstamped and crushed her under-foot in a perfect frenzy of anger. Anotherpup was born beneath his feet before he dispatched the mother with alast furious kick, and then the mangled body lay quivering in the midstof the whining pups, which were awkwardly groping for their mother'steats. Jeanne had escaped, but the baron returned and, almost as enragedas the priest, suddenly seized the abbé by the throat, and giving him ablow which knocked his hat off, carried him to the fence and threw himout into the road. 

When he turned round, M. Le Perthuis saw his daughter kneeling in themidst of the pups, sobbing as she picked them up and put them in herskirt. He strode up to her gesticulating wildly. 

"There!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of that surpliced wretch, now?"

The noise had brought the farmpeople to the spot, and they all stoodround, gazing at the remains of the dog. 

"Could one have believed that a man would be so cruel as that!" saidCouillard's wife. 

Jeanne picked up the pups, saying she would bring them up by hand; shetried to give them some milk, but three out of seven died the next day. Then old Simon went all over the neighborhood trying to find afoster-mother for the others; he could not get a dog, but he broughtback a cat, asserting that she would do as well. Three more pups werekilled, and the seventh was given to the cat, who took to it directly, and lay down on her side to suckle it. That it might not exhaust itsfoster-mother the pup was weaned a fortnight later, and Jeanne undertookto feed it herself with a feeding-bottle; she had named it Toto, but thebaron rechristened it, and called it Massacre. 

The priest did not go to see Jeanne again. The next Sunday he hurledcurses and threats against the château, denouncing it as a plague-spotwhich ought to be removed, and going on to anathematize the baron (wholaughed at him) and to make veiled, half-timid allusions to Julien'slatest amour. The vicomte was very vexed at this, but he did not daresay anything for fear of giving rise to a scandal; and the priestcontinued to call down vengeance on their heads, and to foretell thedownfall of God's enemies in every sermon. At last, Julien wrote adecided, though respectful, letter to the archbishop, and the AbbéTolbiac, finding himself threatened with disgrace, ceased hisdenunciations. He began to take long solitary walks; often he was to bemet striding along the roads with an ardent, excited look on his face. Gilberte and Julien were always seeing him when they were out riding, sometimes in the distance, on the other side of a common, or on the edgeof the cliff, sometimes close at hand, reading his breviary in a narrowvalley they were just about to pass through; they always turned anotherway to avoid passing him. Spring had come, enflaming their hearts withfresh desires, and urging them to seek each other's embraces in anysecluded spot to which their rides might lead them; but the leaves wereonly budding, the grass was still damp from the rains of winter, andthey could not, as in the height of summer, hide themselves amidst theundergrowth of the woods. Lately, they had generally sheltered theircaresses within a movable shepherd's hut which had been left sinceautumn, on the very top of the Vaucotte hill. It stood all alone on theedge of the precipitous descent to the valley, five hundred yards abovethe cliff. There they felt quite secure, for they overlooked the wholeof the surrounding country, and they fastened their horses to the shaftsto wait until their masters were satiated with love. 

One evening as they were leaving the hut, they saw the Abbé Tolbiacsitting on the hill-side, nearly hidden by the rushes. 

"We must leave our horses in that ravine, another time, " said Julien;"in case they should tell our whereabouts, " and thenceforth they alwaystied their horses up in a kind of recess in the valley, which was hiddenby bushes. 

Another evening, they were both returning to La Vrillette where thecomte was expecting Julien to dinner, when they met the curé coming outof the château. He bowed, without looking them in the face, and stood onone side to let them pass. For the moment his visit made them uneasy, but their anxiety was soon dispelled. 

 * * * * *

Jeanne was sitting by the fire reading, one windy afternoon at thebeginning of May, when she suddenly saw the Comte de Fourville runningtowards the château at such a rate as to make her fear he was thebearer of bad news. She hastened downstairs to meet him, and when shesaw him close, she thought he must have gone mad. He had on hisshooting-jacket and a big fur cap, that he generally only wore on hisown grounds, and he was so pale that his red moustaches (which, as arule, hardly showed against his ruddy face) looked the color of flame. His eyes were haggard and stared vacantly or rolled from side to side. 

"My wife is here, isn't she?" he gasped. 

"No, " answered Jeanne, too frightened to think of what she was saying;"I have not seen her at all to-day. "

The comte dropped into a chair, as if his legs had no longer strength tosupport him, and, taking off his cap, he mechanically passed hishandkerchief several times across his forehead; then he started to hisfeet, and went towards Jeanne with outstretched hands, and mouth openedto speak and tell her of his terrible grief. But suddenly he stoppedshort, and fixing his eyes on her, murmured, as if he were delirious:"But it is your husband--you also--" and breaking off abruptly, herushed out towards the sea. 

Jeanne ran after him, calling him and imploring him to stop. "He knowsall!" she thought, in terror. "What will he do? Oh, pray heaven he maynot find them. "

He did not listen to her, and evidently knowing whither to direct hissteps, ran straight on without any hesitation as to the path he shouldtake. Already he had leapt across the ditch, and was rapidly stridingacross the reeds towards the cliff. Finding she could not catch him up, Jeanne stood on the slope beyond the wood, and watched him as long ashe was in sight; then, when she could see him no longer, she wentindoors again, tortured with fear and anxiety. 

When he reached the edge of the cliff, the comte turned to the right, and again began to run. The sea was very rough, and one after the otherthe heavy clouds came up and poured their contents on the land. Awhistling moaning wind swept over the grass, laying low the youngbarley, and carrying the great, white seagulls inland like sprays offoam. The rain, which came in gusts, beat in the comte's face anddrenched his cheeks and moustaches, and the tumult of the elementsseemed to fill his heart as well as his ears. There, straight before himin the distance, lay the Vaucotte valley, and between it and him stood asolitary shepherd's hut, with two horses tied to the shafts. (What fearcould there be of anyone seeing them on such a day as this?)

As soon as he caught sight of the animals, the comte threw himself flaton the ground, and dragged himself along on his hands and knees, hishairy cap and mud-stained clothes making him look like some monstrousanimal. He crawled to the lonely hut, and, in case its occupants shouldsee him through the cracks in the planks he hid himself beneath it. Thehorses had seen him and were pawing the ground. He slowly cut the reinsby which they were fastened with a knife that he held open in his hand, and, as a fresh gust of wind swept by, the two animals cantered off, their backs stung by the hail which lashed against the sloping roof ofthe shepherd's cot, and made the frail abode tremble on its wheels. 

Then the comte rose to his knees, put his eye to the slit at the bottomof the door, and remained perfectly motionless while he watched andwaited. Some time passed thus, and then he suddenly leapt to his feet, covered with mire from head to foot. Furiously he fastened the bolt, which secured the shelter on the outside, and seizing the shafts, heshook the hut as if he would have broken it to atoms. After a moment hebegan to drag it along--exerting the strength of a bull, and bendingnearly double in his tremendous effort--and it was towards the almostperpendicular slope to the valley that he hurried the cottage and itshuman occupants who were desperately shouting and trying to burst openthe door, in their ignorance of what had happened. 

At the extreme edge of the slope, the comte let go of the hut, and it atonce begun to run down towards the valley. At first it moved but slowly, but, its speed increasing as it went, it moved quicker and quicker, until soon it was rushing down the hill at a tremendous rate. Its shaftsbumped along the ground and it leaped over and dashed against theobstacles in its path, as if it had been endowed with life; it boundedover the head of an old beggar who was crouching in a ditch, and, as itpassed, the man heard frightful cries issuing from within it. All atonce one of the wheels was torn off, and the hut turned over on itsside. That however, did not stop it, and now it rolled over and overlike a ball, or like some house uprooted from its foundations and hurledfrom the summit of a mountain. It rolled on and on until it reached theedge of the last ravine; there it took a final leap, and afterdescribing a curve, fell to the earth, and smashed like an egg-shell. 

Directly it had dashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the valley, theold beggar, who had seen it falling, began to make his way down throughthe brambles. He did not go straight to the shattered hut, but, like thecautious rustic that he was, went to announce the accident at thenearest farm-house. The farm people ran to the spot the beggar pointedout, and beneath the fragments of the hut, found two bruised and mangledcorpses. The man's forehead was split open, and his face crushed; thewoman's jaw was almost separated from her head, and their broken limbswere as soft as if there had not been a bone beneath the flesh. Stillthe farmers could recognize them, and they began to make all sorts ofconjectures as to the cause of the accident. 

"What could they have been doin' in the cabin?" said a woman. 

The old beggar replied that apparently they had taken refuge from theweather, and that the high wind had overturned the hut, and blown itdown the precipice. He added that he himself was going to take shelterin it when he saw the horses fastened to the shafts and concluded thatthe place was already occupied. 

"If it hadn't been for that I should have been where they are now, " hesaid with an air of self-congratulation. 

"Perhaps it would have been all the better if you had been, " said someone. 

"Why would it have been better?" exclaimed the beggar in a great rage. "'Cause I'm poor and they're rich? Look at them now!" he said, pointingto the two corpses with his hooked stick, as he stood trembling andragged, with the water dripping from him, and his battered hat, hismatted beard, his long unkempt hair, making him look terribly dirty andmiserable. "We're all equal when we're dead. "

The group had grown bigger, and the peasants stood round with afrightened, cowardly look on their faces. After a discussion as to whatthey had better do, it was finally decided to carry the bodies back totheir homes, in the hope of getting a reward. Two carts were got ready, and then a fresh difficulty arose; some thought it would be quite enoughto place straw at the bottom of the carts, and others thought it wouldlook better to put mattresses. 

"But the mattresses would be soaked with blood, " cried the woman who hadspoken before. "They'd have to be washed with _eau de javelle_. "

"The château people'll pay for that, " said a jolly-faced farmer. "Theycan't expect to get things for nothing. "

That decided the matter, and the two carts set off, one to the right, the other to the left, jolting and shaking the remains of these twobeings who had so often been clasped in each other's arms, but who wouldnever meet again. 

When the comte had seen the hut set off on its terrible journey, he hadfled away through the rain and the wind, and had run on and on acrossthe country like a madman. He ran for several hours, heedless of whichway his steps were taking him, and, at nightfall, he found himself athis own château. The servants were anxiously awaiting his return, andhastened to tell him that the two horses had just returned riderless, for Julien's had followed the other one. 

M. De Fourville staggered back. "Some accident must have happened to mywife and the vicomte, " he said in broken tones. "Let everyone go andlook for them. "

He started off again, himself, as though he were going to seek them, but, as soon as he was out of sight, he hid behind a bush, and watchedthe road along which the woman he still loved so dearly would be broughtdead or dying, or perhaps maimed and disfigured for life. In a littlewhile a cart passed by, bearing a strange load; it drew up before thechâteau-gates, then passed through them. Yes, he knew it was she; butthe dread of hearing the horrible truth forced him to stay in hishiding-place, and he crouched down like a hare, trembling at thefaintest rustle. 

He waited for an hour--perhaps two--and yet the cart did not come backagain. He was persuaded that his wife was dying, and the thought ofseeing her, of meeting her eyes was such a torture to him, that, seizedwith a sudden fear of being discovered and compelled to witness herdeath, he again set off running, and did not stop till he was hidden inthe midst of a wood. Then he thought that perhaps she needed help andthat there was no one to take care of her as he could, and he sped backin mad haste. 

As he was going into the house, he met his gardener. 

"Well?" he cried, excitedly. 

The man dared not answer the truth. 

"Is she dead?" almost yelled M. De Fourville. 

"Yes, Monsieur le comte, " stammered the servant. 

The comte experienced an intense relief at the answer; all his agitationleft him, and he went quietly and firmly up the steps. 

In the meantime, the other cart had arrived at Les Peuples. Jeanne sawit in the distance, and guessing that a corpse lay upon the mattress, understood at once what had happened; the shock was so great that shefell to the ground unconscious. When she came to herself again she foundher father supporting her head, and bathing her forehead with vinegar. 

"Do you know--?" he asked hesitatingly. 

"Yes, father, " she whispered, trying to rise; but she was in such painthat she was forced to sink back again. 

That evening she gave birth to a dead child--a girl. 

She did not see or hear anything of Julien's funeral, for she wasdelirious when he was buried. In a few days she was conscious of AuntLison's presence in her room, and, in the midst of the feverishnightmares by which she was haunted, she strove to recall when, andunder what circumstances, the old maid had last left Les Peuples. Buteven in her lucid moments she could not remember, and she could onlyfeel sure she had seen her since the baroness's death. 

 * * * * *

XI

Jeanne was confined to her room for three months and everyone despairedof her life, but very, very gradually health and strength returned toher. Her father and Aunt Lison had come to live at the château, and theynursed her day and night. The shock she had sustained had entirely upsether nervous system; she started at the least noise, and the slightestemotion caused her to go off into long swoons. She had never asked thedetails of Julien's death. Why should she? Did she not already knowenough? Everyone except herself thought it had been an accident, andshe never revealed to anyone the terrible secret of her husband'sadultery, and of the comte's sudden, fearful visit the day of thecatastrophe. 

Her soul was filled with the sweet, tender memories of the few, shorthours of bliss she owed to her husband, and she always pictured him toherself as he had been when they were betrothed, and when she had adoredhim in the only moments of sensual passion of her life. She forgot allhis faults and harshness; even his infidelity seemed more pardonable nowthat death stood between him and her. She felt a sort of vague gratitudeto this man who had clasped her in his arms, and she forgave him thesorrows he had caused her, and dwelt only on the happy moments they hadpassed together. 

As time wore on and month followed month, covering her grief andmemories with the dust of forgetfulness, Jeanne devoted herself entirelyto her son. The child became the idol, the one engrossing thought, ofthe three beings over whom he ruled like any despot; there was even asort of jealousy between his three slaves, for Jeanne grudged the heartykisses he gave the baron when the latter rode him on his knees, and AuntLison, who was neglected by this baby, as she had always been byeveryone, and was regarded as a servant by this master who could nottalk yet, would go to her room and cry as she compared the few kisses, which she had so much difficulty in obtaining, with the embraces thechild so freely lavished on his mother and grandfather. 

Two peaceful, uneventful years were passed thus in devoted attention tothe child; then, at the beginning of the third winter, it was arrangedthat they should all go to Rouen until the spring. But they had hardlyarrived at the damp, old house before Paul had such a severe attack ofbronchitis, that pleurisy was feared. His distracted mother wasconvinced that no other air but that of Les Peuples agreed with him, andthey all went back there as soon as he was well. 

Then came a series of quiet, monotonous years. Jeanne, her father, andAunt Lison spent all their time with the child, and were continuallygoing into raptures over the way he lisped, or with his funny sayingsand doings. Jeanne lovingly called him "Paulet, " and, when he tried torepeat the word, he made them all laugh by pronouncing it "Poulet, " forhe could not speak plainly. The nickname "Poulet" clung to him, andhenceforth he was never called anything else. He grew very quickly, andone of the chief amusements of his "three mothers, " as the baron calledthem, was to measure his height. On the wainscoting, by the drawing-roomdoor, was a series of marks made with a penknife, showing how much theboy had grown every month, and these marks, which were called "Poulet'sladder, " were of great importance in everyone's eyes. 

Then there came a very unexpected addition to the important personagesof the household--the dog Massacre, which Jeanne had neglected since allher attention had been centered in her son. Ludivine fed him, and helived quite alone, and always on the chain, in an old barrel in front ofthe stables. Paul noticed him one morning, and at once wanted to go andkiss him. The dog made a great fuss over the child, who cried when hewas taken away, so Massacre was unchained, and henceforth lived in thehouse. He became Paul's inseparable friend and companion; they playedtogether, and lay down side by side on the carpet to go to sleep, andsoon Massacre shared the bed of his playfellow, who would not let thedog leave him. Jeanne lamented sometimes over the fleas, and Aunt Lisonfelt angry with the dog for absorbing so much of the child's affection, affection for which she longed, and which, it seemed to her, this animalhad stolen. 

At long intervals visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and theCouteliers, but the mayor and the doctor were the only regular visitorsat the château. 

The brutal way in which the priest had killed the dog, and thesuspicions he had instilled into her mind about the time of Julien's andGilberte's horrible death, had roused Jeanne's indignation against theGod who could have such ministers, and she had entirely ceased to attendchurch. From time to time the abbé inveighed in outspoken terms againstthe château, which, he said, was inhabited by the Spirit of Evil, theSpirit of Everlasting Rebellion, the Spirit of Errors and of Lies, theSpirit of Iniquity, the Spirit of Corruption and Impurity; it was by allthese names that he alluded to the baron. 

The church was deserted, and when the curé happened to walk past anyfields in which the ploughmen were at work, the men never ceased theirtask to speak to him, or turned to touch their hats. He acquired thereputation of being a wizard because he cast out the devil from a womanwho was possessed, and the peasants believed he knew words to dispelcharms. He laid his hands on cows that gave thin milk, discovered thewhereabouts of things which had been lost by means of a mysteriousincantation, and devoted his narrow mind to the study of all theecclesiastical books in which he could find accounts of the devil'sapparitions upon earth, or descriptions of his resources and stratagems, and the various ways in which he manifested his power and exercised hisinfluence. 

Believing himself specially called to combat this invisible, harmfulPower, the priest had learnt all the forms given in religious manuals toexorcise the devil. He fancied Satan lurked in every shadow, and thephrase _Sieut leo rugiens circuit, quærens quem devoret_ was continuallyon his lips. People began to be afraid of his strange power; even hisfellow-clergy (ignorant country priests to whom Beelzebub was an articleof their faith, and who, perplexed by the minute directions for therites to be observed in case of any manifestations of the Evil One'spower, at last confounded religion with magic) regarded the Abbé Tolbiacas somewhat of a wizard, and respected him as much for the supernaturalpower he was supposed to possess as for the irreproachable austerity ofhis life. 

The curé never bowed to Jeanne if he chanced to meet her, and such astate of things worried and grieved Aunt Lison, who could not understandhow anyone could systematically stay away from church. Everyone took itfor granted that she was religious and confessed and communicated atproper intervals, and no one ever tried to find out what her views onreligion really were. Whenever she was quite alone with Paul, Lisontalked to him, in whispers, about the good God. The child listened toher with a faint degree of interest when she related the miracles whichhad been performed in the old times, and, when she told him he must lovethe good God, very, very dearly, he sometimes asked:

"Where is he, auntie?"

She would point upwards and answer: "Up there, above the sky, Poulet;but you must not say anything about it, " for she feared the baron wouldbe angry if he knew what she was teaching the boy. One day, however, Poulet startled her by asserting: "The good God is everywhere except inchurch, " and she found he had been talking to his grandfather about whatshe had told him. 

Paul was now ten years old; his mother looked forty. He was strong, noisy, and boldly climbed the trees, but his education had, so far, beenvery neglected. He disliked lessons, would never settle down to them, and, if ever the baron managed to keep him reading a little longer thanusual, Jeanne would interfere, saying:

"Let him go and play, now. He is so young to be tired with books. "

In her eyes he was still an infant, and she hardly noticed that hewalked, ran, and talked like a man in miniature. She lived in constantanxiety lest he should fall down, or get too cold or too hot, oroverload his stomach, or not eat as much as his growth demanded. 

When the boy was twelve years old a great difficulty arose about hisfirst communion. Lise went to Jeanne's room one morning, and pointed outto her that the child could not be permitted to go any longer withoutreligious instruction, and without performing the simplest sacredduties. She called every argument to her aid, and gave a thousandreasons for the necessity of what she was urging, dwelling chiefly uponthe danger of scandal. The idea worried Jeanne, and, unable to give adecided answer, she replied that Paul could very well go on as he wasfor a little longer. A month after this discussion with Lise, Jeannecalled on the Vicomtesse de Briseville. 

"I suppose it will be Paul's first communion this year, " said thevicomtesse, in the course of conversation. 

"Yes, madame, " answered Jeanne, taken unawares. 

These few words had the effect of deciding her, and, without sayinganything about it to her father, she asked Lise to take the child to thecatechism class. Everything went on smoothly for a month; then Pouletcame back, one evening, with a sore throat, and the next day he began tocough. His frightened mother questioned him as to the cause of his coldand he told her that he had not behaved very well in class, so the curéhad sent him to wait at the door of the church, where there was adraught from the porch, until the end of the lesson. After that Jeannekept him at home, and taught him his catechism herself; but the AbbéTolbiac refused to admit him to communion, in spite of all Lison'sentreaties, alleging, as his reason, that the boy had not been properlyprepared. 

The following year he refused him again, and the baron was soexasperated that he said plainly there was no need for Paul to believein such foolery as this absurd symbol of transubstantiation, to become agood and honest man. So it was resolved to bring the boy up in theChristian faith, but not in the Catholic Church, and that he shoulddecide his religion for himself when he reached his majority. 

A short time afterwards, Jeanne called on the Brisevilles and receivedno visit in return. Knowing how punctilious they were in all matters ofetiquette, she felt very much surprised at the omission, until theMarquise de Coutelier haughtily told her the reason of this neglect. Aware that her husband's rank and wealth made her the queen of theNormandy aristocracy, the marquise ruled in queen-like fashion, showingherself gracious or severe as occasions demanded. She never hesitated tospeak as she thought, and reproved, or congratulated, or correctedwhenever she thought fit. When Jeanne called on her she addressed a fewicy words to her visitor, then said in a cold tone: "Society dividesitself naturally into two classes: those who believe in God, and thosewho do not. The former, however lowly they may be, are our friends andequals; with the latter we can have nothing to do. "

Jeanne felt that she was being attacked, and replied:

"But cannot one believe in God without constantly attending church?"

"No, madame. Believers go to pray to God in his church, as they would goto visit their friends at their houses. "

"God is everywhere, madame, and not only in the churches, " answeredJeanne, feeling very hurt. "I believe in his goodness and mercy from thebottom of my heart, but when there are certain priests between him andme, I can no longer realize his presence. "

"The priest is the standard-bearer of the church, madame, " said themarquise, rising, "and, whoever does not follow that flag is as much ourenemy as the church's. "

Jeanne had risen also. "You believe in the God of a sect, madame, " shereplied, quivering with indignation. "_I_ believe in the God whom everyupright man reveres, " and, with a bow, she left the marquise. 

Among themselves the peasants also blamed Jeanne for not sending Pouletto his first communion. They themselves did not go to mass, and nevertook the sacrament, or at least, only at Easter when the Church formallycommanded it; but when it came to the children, that was a differentmatter, and not one of them would have dared to bring a child up outsidethe common faith, for, after all, "Religion is Religion. "

Jeanne was quite conscious of the disapproval with which everyoneregarded her conduct, but such inconsistency only roused herindignation, and she scorned the people who could thus quiet theirconsciences so easily, and hide the cowardly fears which lurked at thebottom of their hearts under the mask of righteousness. 

The baron undertook to direct Paul's studies, and began to instruct himin Latin. The boy's mother had but one word to say on the subject, "Whatever you do, don't tire him, " and, while lessons were going on, shewould anxiously hang round the door of the school-room, which her fatherhad forbidden her to enter, because, at every moment, she interruptedhis teaching to ask: "You're sure your feet are not cold, Poulet?" or"Your head does not ache, does it, Poulet?" or to admonish the masterwith: "Don't make him talk so much, he will have a sore throat. "

As soon as lessons were over the boy went into the garden with hismother and aunt. They were all three very fond of gardening, and tookgreat pleasure and interest in planting and pruning, in watching theseeds they had sown come up and blossom, and in cutting flowers fornosegays. Paul devoted himself chiefly to raising salad plants. He hadthe entire care of four big beds in the kitchen garden, and there hecultivated lettuce, endive, cos-lettuce, mustardcress, and every otherknown kind of salad. He dug, watered, weeded, and planted, and made histwo mothers work like day laborers, and for hours together they knelt onthe borders, soiling their hands and dresses as they planted theseedlings in the holes they made with their forefingers in the mold. 

Poulet was almost fifteen; he had grown wonderfully, and the highestmark on the drawing-room wall was over five feet from the ground, but inmind he was still an ignorant, foolish child, for he had no opportunityof expanding his intellect, confined as he was to the society of thesetwo women and the good-tempered old man who was so far behind the times. At last one evening the baron said it was time for the boy to go tocollege. Aunt Lison withdrew into a dark corner in horror at the idea, and Jeanne began to sob. 

"Why does he want to know so much?" she replied. "We will bring him upto be a gentleman farmer, to devote himself to the cultivation of hisproperty, as so many noblemen do, and he will pass his life happily inthis house, where we have lived before him and where we shall die. Whatmore can he want?"

The baron shook his head. 

"What answer will you make if he comes to you a few years hence, andsays: 'I am nothing, and I know nothing through your selfish love. Ifeel incapable of working or of becoming anyone now, and yet I know Iwas not intended to lead the dull, pleasureless life to which yourshort-sighted affection has condemned me. '"

Jeanne turned to her son with the tears rolling down her cheeks. 

"Oh, Poulet, you will never reproach me for having loved you too much, will you?"

"No, mamma, " promised the boy in surprise. 

"You swear you will not?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"You want to stay here, don't you?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"Jeanne, you have no right to dispose of his life in that way, " said thebaron, sternly. "Such conduct is cowardly--almost criminal. You aresacrificing your child to your own personal happiness. "

Jeanne hid her face in her hands, while her sobs came in quicksuccession. 

"I have been so unhappy--so unhappy, " she murmured, through her tears. "And now my son has brought peace and rest into my life, you want totake him from me. What will become of me--if I am left--all alone now?"

Her father went and sat down by her side. "And am I no one, Jeanne?" heasked, taking her in his arms. She threw her arms round his neck, andkissed him fondly. Then in a voice still choked with tears and sobs:

"Yes, perhaps you are right papa, dear, " she answered; "and I wasfoolish; but I have had so much sorrow. I am quite willing for him to goto college now. "

Then Poulet, who hardly understood what was going to be done with him, began to cry too, and his three mothers kissed and coaxed him and toldhim to be brave. They all went up to bed with heavy hearts, and even thebaron wept when he was alone in his own room, though he had controlledhis emotion downstairs. It was resolved to send Paul to the college atHavre at the beginning of the next term, and during the summer he wasmore spoilt than ever. His mother moaned as she thought of theapproaching separation and she got ready as many clothes for the boy asif he had been about to start on a ten years' journey. 

One October morning, after a sleepless night, the baron, Jeanne, andAunt Lison went away with Poulet in the landau. They had already paid avisit to fix upon the bed he was to have in the dormitory and the seathe was to occupy in class, and this time Jeanne and Aunt Lison passedthe whole day in unpacking his things and arranging them in the littlechest of drawers. As the latter would not contain the quarter of whatshe had brought, Jeanne went to the head master to ask if the boy couldnot have another. The steward was sent for, and he said that so muchlinen and so many clothes were simply in the way, instead of being ofany use, and that the rules of the house forbade him to allow anotherchest of drawers, so Jeanne made up her mind to hire a room in a littlehotel close by, and to ask the landlord himself to take Poulet all hewanted, directly the child found himself in need of anything. 

They all went on the pier for the rest of the afternoon and watched theships entering and leaving the harbor; then, at nightfall, they went toa restaurant for dinner. But they were too unhappy to eat, and thedishes were placed before them and removed almost untouched as they satlooking at each other with tearful eyes. After dinner they walked slowlyback to the college. Boys of all ages were arriving on every side, someaccompanied by their parents, others by servants. A great many werecrying, and the big, dim courtyard was filled with the sound of tears. 

When the time came to say good-bye, Jeanne and Poulet clung to eachother as if they could not part, while Aunt Lison stood, quiteforgotten, in the background, with her face buried in her handkerchief. The baron felt he too was giving way, so he hastened the farewells, andtook his daughter from the college. The landau was waiting at the door, and they drove back to Les Peuples in a silence that was only broken byan occasional sob. 

Jeanne wept the whole of the following day, and the next she ordered thephaeton and drove over to Havre. Poulet seemed to have got over theseparation already; It was the first time he had ever had any companionsof his own age, and, as he sat beside his mother, he fidgeted on hischair and longed to run out and play. Every other day Jeanne went to seehim, and on Sundays took him out. She felt as though she had not energyenough to leave the college between the recreation hours, so she waitedin the _parloir_ while the classes were going on until Poulet could cometo her again. At last the head master asked her to go up and see him, and begged her not to come so often. She did not take any notice of hisrequest, and he warned her that if she still persisted in preventing herson from enjoying his play hours, and in interrupting his work, he wouldbe obliged to dismiss him from the college. He also sent a note to thebaron, to the same effect, and thenceforth Jeanne was always kept insight at Les Peuples, like a prisoner. She lived in a constant state ofnervous anxiety, and looked forward to the holidays with more impatiencethan her son. She began to take long walks about the country, withMassacre as her only companion, and would stay out of doors all daylong, dreamily musing. Sometimes she sat on the cliff the wholeafternoon watching the sea; sometimes she walked, across the wood, toYport, thinking, as she went, of how she had walked there when she wasyoung, and of the long, long years which had elapsed since she hadbounded along these very paths, a hopeful, happy girl. 

Every time she saw her son, it seemed to Jeanne as if ten years hadpassed since she had seen him last; for every month he became more of aman, and every month she became more aged. Her father looked like herbrother, and Aunt Lison (who had been quite faded when she wastwenty-five, and had never seemed to get older since) might have beentaken for her elder sister. 

Poulet did not study very hard; he spent two years in the fourth form, managed to get through the third in one twelvemonth, then spent two morein the second, and was nearly twenty when he reached the rhetoric class. He had grown into a tall, fair youth, with whiskered cheeks and abudding moustache. He came over to Les Peuples every Sunday now, insteadof his mother going to see him; and as he had been taking riding lessonsfor some time past, he hired a horse and accomplished the journey fromHavre in two hours. 

Every Sunday Jeanne started out early in the morning to go and meet himon the road, and with her went Aunt Lison and the baron, who wasbeginning to stoop, and who walked like a little old man, with his handsclasped behind his back as if to prevent himself from pitching forwardon his face. The three walked slowly along, sometimes sitting down bythe wayside to rest, and all the while straining their eyes to catch thefirst glimpse of the rider. As soon as he appeared, looking like a blackspeck on the white road, they waved their handkerchiefs, and he at onceput his horse at a gallop, and came up like a whirlwind, frighteninghis mother and Aunt Lison, and making his grandfather exclaim, "Bravo!"in the admiration of impotent old age. 

Although Paul was a head taller than his mother, she always treated himas if he were a child and still asked him, as in former years, "Yourfeet are not cold, are they, Poulet?" If he went out of doors, afterlunch, to smoke a cigarette, she opened the window to cry: "Oh, don't goout without a hat, you will catch cold in your head"; and when, atnight, he mounted his horse to return, she could hardly contain herselffor nervousness, and entreated her son not to be reckless. 

"Do not ride too quickly, Poulet, dear, " she would say. "Think of yourpoor mother, who would go mad if anything happened to you, and becareful. "

One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul to say he shouldnot come to Les Peuples as usual, the following day, as he had beeninvited to a party some of his college friends had got up. The whole ofSunday Jeanne was tortured by a presentiment of evil, and when Thursdaycame, she was unable to bear her suspense any longer, and went over toHavre. 

Paul seemed changed, though she could hardly tell in what way. He seemedmore spirited, and his words and tones were more manly. 

"By the way, mamma, we are going on another excursion and I sha'n't cometo Les Peuples next Sunday, as you have come to see me to-day, " he said, all at once, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Jeanne felt as much surprised and stunned as if he had told her he wasgoing to America; then, when she was again able to speak:

"Oh, Poulet, " she exclaimed, "what is the matter with you? Tell me whatis going on. "

He laughed and gave her a kiss. 

"Why, nothing at all, mamma. I am only going to enjoy myself with somefriends, as everyone does at my age. "

She made no reply, but when she was alone in the carriage, her head wasfilled with new and strange ideas. She had not recognized her Poulet, her little Poulet, as of old; she perceived for the first time that hewas grown up, that he was no longer hers, that henceforth he was goingto live his own life, independently of the old people. To her he seemedto have changed entirely in a day. What! Was this strong, bearded, firm-willed lad her son, her little child who used to make her help himplant his lettuces?

Paul only came to Les Peuples at very long intervals for the next threemonths, and even when he was there, it was only too plain that he longedto get away again as soon as possible, and that, each evening, he triedto leave an hour earlier. Jeanne imagined all sorts of things, while thebaron tried to console her by saying: "There, let him alone, the boy istwenty years old, you know. "

One morning, a shabbily dressed old man who spoke with a German accentasked for "Matame la vicomtesse. " He was shown in, and, after a greatmany ceremonious bows, pulled out a dirty pocketbook, saying:

"I have a leetle paper for you, " and then unfolded, and held out agreasy scrap of paper. 

Jeanne read it over twice, looked at the Jew, read it over again, thenasked:

"What does it mean?"

"I vill tell you, " replied the man obsequiously. "Your son wanted aleetle money, and, as I know what a goot mother you are, I lent himjoost a leetle to go on vith. "

Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not come to me for it?"

The Jew entered into a long explanation about a gambling debt which hadhad to be paid on a certain morning before midday, that no one wouldlend Paul anything as he was not yet of age, and that his "honor wouldhave been compromised, " if he, the Jew, had not "rendered this littleservice" to the young man. Jeanne wanted to send for the baron, but heremotion seemed to have taken all the strength from her limbs, and shecould not rise from her seat. 

"Would you be kind enough to ring?" she said to the money-lender, atlast. 

He feared some trick, and hesitated for a moment. 

"If I inconvenience you, I vill call again, " he stammered. 

She answered him by a shake of the head, and when he had rung theywaited in silence for the baron. The latter at once understood it all. The bill was for fifteen hundred francs. He paid the Jew a thousand, saying to him:

"Don't let me see you here again, " and the man thanked him, bowed, andwent away. 

Jeanne and the baron at once went over to Havre, but when they arrivedat the college they learnt that Paul had not been there for a month. Theprincipal had received four letters, apparently from Jeanne, the firsttelling him that his pupil was ill, the others to say how he was gettingon, and each letter was accompanied by a doctor's certificate; ofcourse they were all forged. Jeanne and her father looked at each otherin dismay when they heard this news, and the principal feeling verysorry for them took them to a magistrate that the police might be set tofind the young man. 

Jeanne and the baron slept at an hotel that night, and the next day Paulwas discovered at the house of a fast woman. His mother and grandfathertook him back with them to Les Peuples and the whole of the way not aword was exchanged. Jeanne hid her face in her handkerchief and cried, and Paul looked out of the window with an air of indifference. 

Before the end of the week they found out that, during the last threemonths, Paul had contracted debts to the amount of fifteen thousandfrancs, but the creditors had not gone to his relations about the money, because they knew the boy would soon be of age. Poulet was asked for noexplanation and received no reproof, as his relations hoped to reformhim by kindness. He was pampered and caressed in every way; the choicestdishes were prepared for him, and, as it was springtime, a boat washired for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne's nervousness, that he mightgo sailing whenever he liked; the only thing that was denied him was ahorse, for fear he should ride to Havre. He became very irritable andpassionate and lived a perfectly aimless life. The baron grieved overhis neglected studies, and even Jeanne, much as she dreaded to be partedfrom him again, began to wonder what was to be done with him. 

One evening he did not come home. It was found, on inquiry, that he hadgone out in a boat with two sailors, and his distracted mother hurrieddown to Yport, without stopping even to put anything over her head. Onthe beach she found a few men awaiting the return of the boat, and outon the sea was a little swaying light, which was drawing nearer andnearer to the shore. The boat came in, but Paul was not on board; he hadordered the men to take him to Havre, and had landed there. 

The police sought him in vain; he was nowhere to be found, and the womanwho had hidden him once before had sold all her furniture, paid herrent, and disappeared also, without leaving any trace behind her. InPaul's room at Les Peuples two letters were found from this creature(who seemed madly in love with him) saying that she had obtained thenecessary money for a journey to England. The three inmates of thechâteau lived on, gloomy and despairing, through all this mentaltorture. Jeanne's hair, which had been gray before, was now quite white, and she sometimes asked herself what she could have done, that Fateshould so mercilessly pursue her. One day she received the followingletter from the Abbé Tolbiac:

 "Madame: The hand of God has been laid heavily upon you. You refused to give your son to him, and he has delivered him over to a prostitute; will you not profit by this lesson from heaven? God's mercy is infinite, and perhaps he will pardon you if you throw yourself at his feet. I am his humble servant, and I will open his door to you when you come and knock. "

Jeanne sat for a long time with this letter lying open on her knees. Perhaps, after all, the priest's words were true; and all her religiousdoubts and uncertainties returned to harass her mind. Was it possiblethat God could be vindictive and jealous like men? But if he was notjealous, he would no longer be feared and loved, and, no doubt, it wasthat we might the better know him, that he manifested himself to men, asinfluenced by the same feeling as themselves. Then she felt the fear, the cowardly dread, which urges those who hesitate and doubt to seek thesafety of the Church, and one evening, when it was dark, she stealthilyran to the vicarage, and knelt at the foot of the fragile-looking priestto solicit absolution. He only promised her a semi-pardon, as God couldnot shower all his favors on a house which sheltered such a man as thebaron. "Still, you will soon receive a proof of the divine mercy, " saidthe priest. 

Two days later, Jeanne did indeed receive a letter from her son, and inthe excess of her grief, she looked upon it as the forerunner of theconsolation promised by the abbé. The letter ran thus:

 "My Dear Mother: Do not be uneasy about me. I am at London, and in good health, but in great need of money. We have not a sou, and some days we have to go without anything to eat. She who is with me, and whom I love with all my heart, has spent all she had (some five thousand francs) that she might remain with me, and you will, of course, understand that I am bound in honor to discharge my debt to her at the very first opportunity. I shall soon be of age, but it would be very good of you if you would advance me fifteen thousand francs of what I inherit from papa; it would relieve me from great embarrassments. 

 "Good-bye, mother dear; I hope soon to see you again, but in the meantime, I send much love to grandfather, Aunt Lison and yourself. Your son, "Vicomte Paul de Lamare. "

Then he had not forgotten her, for he had written to her! She did notstop to think that it was simply to ask her for money; he had not anyand some should be sent him; what did money matter? He had written toher!

She ran to show the letter to the baron, the tears streaming from hereyes. Aunt Lison was called, and, word by word, they read over thisletter which spoke of their loved one, and lingered over every sentence. Jeanne, transported from the deepest despair to a kind of intoxicationof joy, began to take Paul's part. 

"Now he has written, he will come back, " she said. "I am sure he willcome back. "

"Still he left us for this creature, " said the baron, who was calmenough to reason; "and he must love her better than he does us, since hedid not hesitate in his choice between her and his home. "

The words sent a pang of anguish through Jeanne's heart, and within hersprang up the fierce, deadly hatred of a jealous mother against thewoman who had robbed her of her son. Until then her every thought hadbeen, for Paul, and she had hardly realized that this creature was thecause of all his errors; but the baron's argument had suddenly broughtthis rival who possessed such fatal influence vividly to her mind, andshe felt that between this woman and herself there must be a determined, bitter warfare. With that thought came another one as terrible--thatshe would rather lose her son than share him with this other; and allher joy and delight vanished. 

The fifteen thousand francs were sent, and for five months nothing morewas heard of Paul. At the end of that time a lawyer came to the châteauto see about his inheritance. Jeanne and the baron acceded to all hisdemands without any dispute, even giving up the money to which themother had a right for her lifetime, and when he returned to Paris, Paulfound himself the possessor of a hundred and twenty thousand francs. During the next six months only four short letters were received fromhim, giving news of his doings in a few, concise sentences, and endingwith formal protestations of affection. 

"I am not idle, " he said. "I have obtained a post in connection with theStock Exchange, and I hope some day to see my dear relations at LesPeuples. "

He never mentioned his mistress, but his silence was more significantthan if he had written four pages about her; and, in these icy letters, Jeanne could perceive the influence of this unknown woman who was, byinstinct, the implacable enemy of every mother. 

Ponder as they would, the three lonely beings at the château could thinkof no means by which they might rescue Paul from his present life. Theywould have gone to Paris, but they knew that would be no good. 

"We must let his passion wear itself out, " said the baron; "sooner orlater he will return to us of his own accord. " And the mournful daysdragged on. 

Jeanne and Lison got into the habit of going to church together withoutletting the baron know; and a long time passed without any news fromPaul. Then, one morning they received a desperate letter whichterrified them. 

 "My Dear Mother: I am lost; I shall have no resource left but to blow out my brains if you do not help me. A speculation which held out every hope of success has turned the wrong way, and I owe eighty-five thousand francs. It means dishonor, ruin, the destruction of all my future if I do not pay, and, I say again, rather than survive the disgrace, I will blow my brains out. I should, perhaps, have done so already, had it not been for the brave and hopeful words of a woman, whose name I never mention to you, but who is the good genius of my life. 

 "I send you my very best love, dear mother. Goodbye, perhaps for ever. 

 "Paul. "

Enclosed in the letter was a bundle of business papers giving thedetails of this unfortunate speculation. The baron answered by returnpost that they would help as much as they could. Then he went to Havreto get legal advice, mortgaged some property and forwarded the money toPaul. The young man wrote back three letters full of hearty thanks, andsaid they might expect him almost immediately. But he did not come, andanother year passed away. 

Jeanne and the baron were on the point of starting for Paris, to findhim and make one last effort to persuade him to return, when theyreceived a few lines saying he was again in London, starting a steamboatcompany which was to trade under the name of "Paul Delamare & Co. " "I amsure to get a living out of it, " he wrote, "and perhaps it will make myfortune, At any rate I risk nothing, and you must at once see theadvantages of the scheme. When I see you again, I shall be well up inthe world; there is nothing like trade for making money, nowadays. "

Three months later, the company went into liquidation, and the managerwas prosecuted for falsifying the books. When the news reached LesPeuples, Jeanne had a hysterical fit which lasted several hours. Thebaron went to Havre, made every inquiry, saw lawyers and attorneys, andfound that the Delamare Company had failed for two hundred and fiftythousand francs. He again mortgaged his property, and borrowed a largesum on Les Peuples and the two adjoining farms. One evening he was goingthrough some final formalities in a lawyer's office, when he suddenlyfell to the ground in an apoplectic fit. A mounted messenger was at oncedispatched to Jeanne, but her father died before she could arrive. Theshock was so great that it seemed to stun Jeanne and she could notrealize her loss. The body was taken back to Les Peuples, but the AbbéTolbiac refused to allow it to be interred with any sacred rites, inspite of all the entreaties of the two women, so the burial took placeat night without any ceremony whatever. Then Jeanne fell into a state ofsuch utter depression that she took no interest in anything, and seemedunable to comprehend the simplest things. 

Paul, who was still in hiding in England, heard of his grandfather'sdeath through the liquidators of the company, and wrote to say he shouldhave come before, but he had only just heard the sad news. He concluded:"Now you have rescued me from my difficulties, mother dear, I shallreturn to France, and shall at once, come to see you. "

Towards the end of that winter Aunt Lison, who was now sixty-eight, hada severe attack of bronchitis. It turned to inflammation of the lungs, and the old maid quietly expired. 

"I will ask the good God to take pity on you, my poor little Jeanne, "were the last words she uttered. 

Jeanne followed her to the grave, saw the earth fall on the coffin, andthen sank to the ground, longing for death to take her also that shemight cease to think and to suffer. As she fell a big, strong peasantwoman caught her in her arms and carried her away as if she had been achild; she took her back to the château, and Jeanne let herself be putto bed by this stranger, who handled her so tenderly and firmly, and atonce fell asleep, for she had spent the last five nights watching besidethe old maid, and she was thoroughly exhausted by sorrow and fatigue. Itwas the middle of the night when she again opened her eyes. A night-lampwas burning on the mantelpiece, and, in the armchair, lay a womanasleep. Jeanne did not know who it was, and, leaning over the side ofthe bed, she tried to make out her features by the glimmering light ofthe night-lamp. She fancied she had seen this face before, but she couldnot remember when or where. 

The woman was quietly sleeping, her head drooping on one shoulder, hercap lying on the ground and her big hands hanging on each side of thearmchair. She was a strong, square-built peasant of about forty orforty-five, with a red face and hair that was turning gray. Jeanne wassure she had seen her before, but she had not the least idea whether itwas a long time ago or quite recently, and it worried her to find shecould not remember. She softly got out of bed, and went on tiptoe to seethe sleeping woman nearer. She recognized her as the peasant who hadcaught her in her arms in the cemetery, and had afterwards put her tobed; but surely she had known her in former times, under othercircumstances. And yet perhaps the face was only familiar to her becauseshe had seen it that day in the cemetery. Still how was it that thewoman was sleeping here?

Just then the stranger opened her eyes and saw Jeanne standing besideher. She started up, and they stood face to face, so close together thatthey touched each other. 

"How is it that you're out of bed?" said the peasant; "you'll makeyourself ill, getting up at this time of night. Go back to bed again. "

"Who are you?" asked Jeanne. 

The woman made no answer, but picked Jeanne up and carried her back tobed as easily as if she had been a baby. She gently laid her down, and, as she bent over her, she suddenly began to cover her cheeks, her hair, her eyes with violent kisses, while the tears streamed from her eyes. 

"My poor mistress! Mam'zelle Jeanne, my poor mistress! Don't you knowme?" she sobbed. 

"Rosalie, my lass!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms round the woman'sneck and kissing her; and, clasped in each other's arms they mingledtheir tears and sobs together. 

Rosalie dried her eyes the first. "Come now, " she said, "you must begood and not catch cold. "

She picked up the clothes, tucked up the bed and put the pillow backunder the head of her former mistress, who lay choking with emotion asthe memories of days that were past and gone rushed back to her mind. 

"How is it you have come back, my poor girl?" she asked. 

"Do you think I was going to leave you to live all alone now?" answeredRosalie. 

"Light a candle and let me look at you, " went on Jeanne. 

Rosalie placed a light on the table by the bedside, and for a long timethey gazed at each other in silence. 

"I should never have known you again, " murmured Jeanne, holding out herhand to her old servant. "You have altered very much, though not so muchas I have. "

"Yes, you have changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you ought to havedone, " answered Rosalie, as she looked at this thin, faded, white-hairedwoman, whom she had left young and beautiful; "but you must rememberit's twenty-four years since we have seen one another. "

"Well, have you been happy?" asked Jeanne after a long pause. 

"Oh, yes--yes, madame. I haven't had much to grumble at; I've beenhappier than you--that's certain. The only thing that I've alwaysregretted is that I didn't stop here--" She broke off abruptly, findingshe had unthinkingly touched upon the very subject she wished to avoid. 

"Well, you know, Rosalie, one cannot have everything one wants, " repliedJeanne gently; "and now you too are a widow, are you not?" Then hervoice trembled, as she went on, "Have you any--any other children?"

"No, madame. "

"And what is your--your son? Are you satisfied with him?"

"Yes, madame; he's a good lad, and a hard-working one. He married aboutsix months ago, and he is going to have the farm now I have come back toyou. "

"Then you will not leave me again?" murmured Jeanne. 

"No fear, madame, " answered Rosalie in a rough tone. "I've arranged allabout that. "

And for some time nothing more was said. 

Jeanne could not help comparing Rosalie's life with her own, but she hadbecome quite resigned to the cruelty and injustice of Fate, and she feltno bitterness as she thought of the difference between her maid'speaceful existence and her own. 

"Was your husband kind to you?"

"Oh, yes, madame; he was a good, industrious fellow, and managed to putby a good deal. He died of consumption. "

Jeanne sat up in bed. "Tell me all about your life, and everything thathas happened to you, " she said. "I feel as if it would do me good tohear it. "

Rosalie drew up a chair, sat down, and began to talk about herself, herhouse, her friends, entering into all the little details in whichcountry people delight, laughing sometimes over things which made herthink of the happy times that were over, and gradually raising her voiceas she went on, like a woman accustomed to command, she wound up bysaying:

"Oh, I'm well off now; I needn't be afraid of anything. But I owe itall to you, " she added in a lower, faltering voice; "and now I've comeback I'm not going to take any wages. No! I won't! So, if you don'tchoose to have me on those terms, I shall go away again. "

"But you do not mean to serve me for nothing?" said Jeanne. 

"Yes, I do, madame. Money! You give me money! Why, I've almost as muchas you have yourself. Do you know how much you will have after all theseloans and mortgages have been cleared off, and you have paid all theinterest you have let run on and increase? You don't know, do you? Well, then, let me tell you that you haven't ten thousand livres a year; notten thousand. But I'm going to put everything straight, and pretty soon, too. "

She had again raised her voice, for the thought of the ruin which hungover the house, and the way in which the interest money had beenneglected and allowed to accumulate roused her anger and indignation. Afaint, sad smile which passed over her mistress's face angered her stillmore, and she cried:

"You ought not to laugh at it, madame. People are good for nothingwithout money. "

Jeanne took both the servant's hands in hers. 

"I have never had any luck, " she said slowly, as if she could think ofnothing else. "Everything has gone the wrong way with me. My whole lifehas been ruined by a cruel Fate. "

"You must not talk like that, madame, " said Rosalie, shaking her head. "You made an unhappy marriage, that's all. But people oughtn't to marrybefore they know anything about their future husbands. "

They went on talking about themselves and their past loves like two oldfriends, and when the day dawned they had not yet told all they had tosay. 

 * * * * *

XII

In less than a week Rosalie had everything and everybody in the châteauunder her control, and even Jeanne yielded a passive obedience to theservant, who scolded her or soothed her as if she had been a sick child. She was very weak now, and her legs dragged along as the baroness's usedto do; the maid supported her when she went out and their conversationwas always about bygone times, of which Jeanne talked with tears in hereyes, and Rosalie in the calm quiet way of an impassive peasant. 

The old servant returned several times to the question of the interestthat was owing, and demanded the papers which Jeanne, ignorant of allbusiness matters, had hidden away that Rosalie might not know of Paul'smisdoings. Next Rosalie went over to Fécamp each day for a week to geteverything explained to her by a lawyer whom she knew; then one eveningafter she had put her mistress to bed she sat down beside her and saidabruptly:

"Now you're in bed, madame, we will have a little talk. "

She told Jeanne exactly how matters stood, and that when every claim hadbeen settled she, Jeanne, would have about seven or eight thousandfrancs a year; not a penny more. 

"Well, Rosalie, " answered Jeanne, "I know I shall not live to be veryold, and I shall have enough until I die. "

"Very likely you will, madame, " replied Rosalie, getting angry; "but howabout M. Paul? Don't you mean to leave him anything?"

Jeanne shuddered. "Pray, don't ever speak to me about him; I cannot bearto think of him. "

"Yes, but I want to talk to you about him, because you don't look atthings in the right light, Madame Jeanne. He may be doing all sorts offoolish things now, but he won't always behave the same. He'll marry andthen he'll want money to educate his children and to bring them upproperly. Now listen to what I am going to say; you must sell LesPeuples--"

But Jeanne started up in bed. 

"Sell Les Peuples! How can you think of such a thing? No! I will neversell the château!"

Rosalie was not in the least put out. 

"But I say you will, madame, simply because you must. "

Then she explained her plans and her calculations. She had already founda purchaser for Les Peuples and the two adjoining farms, and when theyhad been sold Jeanne would still have four farms at Saint Léonard, which, freed from the mortgages, would bring in about eight thousandthree hundred francs a year. Out of this income thirteen hundred francswould have to go for the keeping up and repairing of the property; twothousand would be put by for unforeseen expenses, and Jeanne would havefive thousand francs to live upon. 

"Everything else is gone, so there's an end of it, " said Rosalie. "But, in future, I shall keep the money and M. Paul sha'n't have anotherpenny off you. He'd take your last farthing. "

"But if he has not anything to eat?" murmured Jeanne, who was quietlyweeping. 

"He can come to us if he's hungry; there'll always be victuals and a bedfor him. He'd never have got into trouble if you hadn't given him anymoney the first time he asked for some. "

"But he was in debt; he would have been dishonored. "

"And don't you think he'll get into debt just the same when you've nomore money to give him? You have paid his debts up to now, so well andgood; but you won't pay any more, I can tell you. And now, good-night, madame. "

And away she went. 

The idea of selling Les Peuples and leaving the house where she hadpassed all her life threw Jeanne into a state of extreme agitation, andshe lay awake the whole night. "I shall never be able to go away fromhere, " she said, when Rosalie came into the room next morning. 

"You'll have to, all the same, madame, " answered the maid with risingtemper. "The lawyer is coming presently with the man who wants to buythe château, and, if you don't sell it, you won't have a blade of grassto call your own in four years' time. "

"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" moaned Jeanne. 

But an hour afterwards came a letter from Paul asking for ten thousandfrancs. What was to be done? Jeanne did not know, and, in her distress, she consulted Rosalie, who shrugged her shoulders, and observed:

"What did I tell you, madame? Oh, you'd both of you have been in a nicemuddle if I hadn't come back. "

Then, by her advice, Jeanne wrote back:

 "My Dear Son: I cannot help you any more; you have ruined me, and I am even obliged to sell Les Peuples. But I shall always have a home for you whenever you choose to return to your poor old mother, who has suffered so cruelly through you. 

 Jeanne. "

The lawyer came with M. Jeoffrin, who was a retired sugar baker, andJeanne herself received them, and invited them to go all over the houseand grounds. Then a month after this visit, she signed the deed of sale, and bought, at the same time, a little villa in the hamlet ofBatteville, standing on the Montivilliers high-road, near Goderville. 

After she had signed the deeds she went out to the baroness's avenue, and walked up and down, heart-broken and miserable while she badetearful, despairing farewells to the trees, the worm-eaten bench underthe plane tree, the wood, the old elm trunk, against which she had leantso many times, and the hillock, where she had so often sat, and whenceshe had watched the Comte de Fourville running towards the sea on theawful day of Julien's death. She stayed out until the evening, and atlast Rosalie went to look for her and brought her in. A tall peasant ofabout twenty-five was waiting at the door. He greeted Jeanne in afriendly way, as if he had known her a long while:

"Good-day, Madame Jeanne, how are you? Mother told me I was to come andhelp with the moving, and I wanted to know what you meant to take withyou, so that I could move it a little at a time without it hindering thefarm work. "

He was Rosalie's son--Julien's son and Paul's brother. Jeanne's heartalmost stood still as she looked at him, and yet she would have liked tokiss the young fellow. She gazed at him, trying to find any likeness toher husband or her son. He was robust and ruddy-cheeked and had hismother's fair hair and blue eyes, but there was something in his facewhich reminded Jeanne of Julien, though she could not discover where theresemblance lay. 

"I should be very much obliged if you could show me the things now, "continued the lad. 

But she did not know herself yet what she should be able to take, hernew house was so small, and she asked him to come again in a week'stime. 

For some time the removal occupied Jeanne's thoughts, and made a change, though a sad one, in her dull, hopeless life. She went from room toroom, seeking the pieces of furniture which were associated in her mindwith various events in her life, for the furniture among which we livebecomes, in time, part of our lives--almost of ourselves--and, as itgets old, and we look at its faded colors, its frayed coverings, itstattered linings, we are reminded of the prominent dates and events ofour existence by these time-worn objects which have been the mutecompanions of our happy and of our sad moments alike. 

As agitated as if the decisions she were making had been of the lastimportance, Jeanne chose, one by one, the things she should take withher, often hesitating and altering her mind at every moment, as shestood unable to decide the respective merits of two armchairs, or ofsome old escritoire and a still older worktable. She opened and searchedevery drawer, and tried to connect every object with something that hadhappened in bygone days, and when at last she made up her mind and said:"Yes, I shall take this, " the article she had decided upon was takendownstairs and put into the dining-room. She wished to keep the whole ofher bedroom furniture, the bed, the tapestry, the clock--everything, andshe also took a few of the drawing-room chairs, choosing those with thedesigns she had always liked ever since she could remember--the fox andthe stork, the fox and the crow, the ant and the grasshopper, and thesolitary heron. 

One day, as she was wandering all over this house she should so soonhave to leave, Jeanne went up into the garret. She was amazed when sheopened the door; there lay articles of furniture of every description, some broken, others only soiled, others again stored away simply becausefresh things had been bought and put in their places. She recognized ahundred little odds and ends which used to be downstairs and haddisappeared without her noticing their absence--things of no value whichshe had often used, insignificant little articles, which had stoodfifteen years beneath her eyes and had never attracted her attention, but which now--suddenly discovered in the lumber-room, lying side byside with other things older still and which she could quite distinctlyremember seeing when she first returned from the convent--became asprecious in her eyes as if they had been valued friends that had been along time absent from her. They appeared to her under a new light, andas she looked at them she felt as she might have done if any veryreserved acquaintances had suddenly begun to talk and to reveal thoughtsand feelings she had never dreamed they possessed. 

As she went from one thing to another, and remembered little incidentsin connection with them, her heart felt as if it would break. "Why, thisis the china cup I cracked a few days before I was married, and here ismamma's little lantern, and the cane papa broke trying to open thewooden gate the rain had swollen. "

Besides all these familiar objects there were a great many things shehad never seen before, which had belonged to her grandparents or hergreat-grandparents. Covered with dust they looked like sad, forsakenexiles from another century, their history and adventures for ever lost, for there was no one living now who had known those who had chosen, bought and treasured them, or who had seen the hands which had so oftentouched them or the eyes which had found such pleasure in looking atthem. Jeanne touched them, and turned them about, her fingers leavingtheir traces on the thick dust; and she stayed for a long, long timeamidst these old things, in the garret which was dimly lighted by alittle skylight. 

She tried to find other things with associations to them, and verycarefully she examined some three-legged chairs, a copper warming-pan, adented foot-warmer (which she thought she remembered) and all the otherworn-out household utensils. Then she put all the things she thought sheshould like to take away together, and going downstairs, sent Rosalie upto fetch them. The latter indignantly refused to bring down "suchrubbish, " but Jeanne, though she hardly ever showed any will of her own, now would have her own way this time, and the servant had to obey. 

One morning young Denis Lecoq (Julien's son) came, with his cart, totake way the first lot of things, and Rosalie went off with him to lookafter the unloading, and to see that the furniture was put into theright rooms. 

When she was alone Jeanne began to visit every room in the château, andto kiss in a transport of passionate sorrow and regret everything thatshe was forced to leave behind her--the big white birds in thedrawing-room tapestry, the old candlesticks, anything and everythingthat came in her way. She went from room to room, half mad with grief, and the tears streaming from her eyes, and, when she had gone all overthe house, she went out to "say good-bye" to the sea. It was the end ofSeptember, and the dull yellowish waves stretched away as far as the eyecould reach, under the lowering gray sky which hung over the world. Fora long, long while, Jeanne stood on the cliff, her thoughts running onall her sorrows and troubles, and it was not till night drew on that shewent indoors. In that day she had gone through as much suffering as shehad ever passed through in her greatest griefs. 

Rosalie had returned enchanted with the new house, "which was muchlivelier than this big barn of a place that was not even on a mainroad, " but her mistress wept the whole evening. 

Now they knew the château was sold the farmers showed Jeanne barely therespect that was due to her, and, though they hardly knew why, amongthemselves they always spoke of her as "that lunatic. " Perhaps, withtheir brute-like instinct, they perceived her unhealthy and increasingsentimentality, her morbid reveries, and the disordered and pitifulstate of her mind which so much sorrow and affliction had unhinged. 

Happening to go through the stables the day before she was to leave LesPeuples, Jeanne came upon Massacre, whose existence she had entirelyforgotten. Long past the age at which dogs generally die, he had becomeblind and paralyzed, and dragged out his life on a bed of straw, whitherLudivine, who never forgot him, brought him his food. Jeanne took him upin her arms, kissed him and carried him into the house; he could hardlycreep along, his legs were so stiff, and he barked like a child's woodentoy-dog. 

At length the last day dawned. Jeanne had passed the night in Julien'sold room, as all the furniture had been moved out of hers, and when sherose she felt as tired and exhausted as if she had just been running along distance. 

In the court-yard stood the gig in which Rosalie and her mistress wereto go, and a cart on which the remainder of the furniture and the trunkswere already loaded. Ludivine and old Simon were to stay at the châteauuntil its new owner arrived, and then, too old to stay in service anylonger, they were going to their friends to live on their savings andthe pensions Jeanne had given them. Marius had married and left thechâteau long ago. 

About eight o'clock a fine, cold rain, which the wind drove in slantinglines, began to fall, and the furniture on the cart had to be coveredover with tarpaulins. Some steaming cups of coffee stood on thekitchen-table, and Jeanne sat down and slowly drank hers up; thenrising:

"Let us go, " she said. 

She began to put on her hat and shawl, while Rosalie put on hergoloshes. A great lump rose in her throat, and she whispered:

"Rosalie, do you remember how it rained the day we left Rouen to comehere?"

She broke off abruptly, pressed her hands to her heart, and fellbackwards in a sort of fit. For more than an hour she lay as if she weredead, then, when she at length recovered consciousness, she went intoviolent hysterics. Gradually she became calmer, but this attack had lefther so weak that she could not rise to her feet. Rosalie, fearinganother attack if they did not get her away at once, went for her son, and between them, they carried her to the gig, and placed her on theleather-covered seat. Rosalie got up beside her, wrapped up her legs, threw a thick cloak over her shoulders, then, opening an umbrella overher head, cried:

"Make haste, and let's get off, Denis. "

The young man climbed up by his mother, sat down with one leg rightoutside the gig, for want of room, and started off his horse at a quickjerky trot, which shook the two women from side to side. As they turnedthe corner of the village, they saw someone walking up and down theroad; it was the Abbé Tolbiac, apparently waiting to see theirdeparture. He was holding up his cassock with one hand to keep it out ofthe wet, regardless of showing his thin legs which were encased in blackstockings, and his huge, muddy boots. When he saw the carriage coming hestopped, and stood on one side to let it pass. Jeanne looked down toavoid meeting his eyes, while Rosalie, who had heard all about him, furiously muttered: "You brute, you brute!" and seizing her son's hand, "Give him a cut with the whip!" she exclaimed. The young man did not dothat, but he urged on his horse and then, just as they were passing theAbbé, suddenly let the wheel of the gig drop into a deep rut. There wasa splash, and, in an instant, the priest was covered with mud from headto foot. Rosalie laughed all over her face, and turning round, she shookher fist at the abbé as he stood wiping himself down with his bighandkerchief. 

"Oh, we have forgotten Massacre!" suddenly cried Jeanne. Denis pulledup, gave Rosalie the reins to hold, and jumped down to run and fetch thedog. Then in a few minutes he came back with the big, shapeless animalin his arms and placed him in the gig between the two women. 

 * * * * *

XIII

After a two hours' drive the gig drew up before a little brick house, standing by the high road in the middle of an orchard planted withpear-trees. Four lattice-work arbors covered with honeysuckle andclematis stood at the four corners of the garden, which was planted withvegetables, and laid out in little beds with narrow paths bordered withfruit-trees running between them, and both garden and orchard wereentirely surrounded by a thickset hedge which divided them from a fieldbelonging to the next farm. About thirty yards lower down the road was aforge, and that was the only dwelling within a mile. All around layfields and plains with farms scattered here and there, half-hidden bythe four double rows of big trees which surrounded them. 

Jeanne wanted to rest as soon as they arrived, but Rosalie, wishing tokeep her from thinking, would not let her do so. The carpenter fromGoderville had come to help them put the place in order, and they allbegan to arrange the furniture which was already there without waitingfor the last cart-load which was coming on. The arrangement of the roomstook a long time, for everyone's ideas and opinions had to be consulted, and then the cart from Les Peuples arrived, and had to be unloaded inthe rain. When night fell the house was in a state of utter disorder, and all the rooms were full of things piled anyhow one on top of theother. Jeanne was tired out and fell asleep as soon as her head touchedthe pillow. 

The next few days there was so much to do that she had no time to fret;in fact, she even found a certain pleasure in making her new homepretty, for all the time she was working she thought that her son wouldone day come and live there. The tapestry from her bedroom at LesPeuples was hung in the dining-room, which was also to serve asdrawing-room, and Jeanne took especial pains over the arrangement of oneof the rooms on the first floor, which in her own mind she had alreadynamed "Poulet's room;" she was to have the other one on that floor, andRosalie was to sleep upstairs next to the box-room. The little housethus tastefully arranged, looked pretty when it was all finished, and atfirst Jeanne was pleased with it though she was haunted by the feelingthat there was something missing though she could not tell what. 

One morning a clerk came over from the attorney at Fécamp with the threethousand six hundred francs, the price at which an upholsterer hadvalued the furniture left at Les Peuples. Jeanne felt a thrill ofpleasure as she took the money, for she had not expected to get somuch, and as soon as the man had gone she put on her hat and hurried offto Goderville to send Paul this unlooked-for sum as quickly as possible. But as she was hastening along the road she met Rosalie coming back frommarket; the maid suspected that something had happened though she didnot at once guess the truth. She soon found it out, however, for Jeannecould not hide anything from her, and placing her basket on the groundto give way to her wrath at her ease, she put her hands on her hips andscolded Jeanne at the top of her voice; then she took hold of hermistress with her right hand and her basket with her left and walked onagain towards the house in a great passion. As soon as they were indoorsRosalie ordered the money to be given into her care, and Jeanne gave ither with the exception of the six hundred francs which she said nothingabout; but this trick was soon detected and Jeanne had to give it allup. However, Rosalie consented to these odd hundreds being sent to theyoung man, who in a few days wrote to thank his mother for the money. "It was a most welcome present, mother dear, " he said, "for we werereduced to utter want. "

Time went on but Jeanne could not get accustomed to her new home. Itseemed as if she could not breathe freely at Batteville, and she feltmore alone and forsaken than ever. She would often walk as far as thevillage of Verneuil and come back through Trois-Mares, but as soon asshe was home she started up to go out again as if she had forgotten togo to the very place to which she had meant to walk. The same thinghappened time after time and she could not understand where it was shelonged to go; one evening, however, she unconsciously uttered a sentencewhich at once revealed to her the secret of her restlessness. "Oh! howI long to see the ocean, " she said as she sat down to dinner. 

The sea! That was what she missed. The sea with its salt breezes, itsnever-ceasing roar, its tempests, its strong odors; the sea, near whichshe had lived for five and twenty years, which had always felt near herand which, unconsciously, she had come to love like a human being. 

Massacre, too, was very uneasy. The very evening of his arrival at thenew house he had installed himself under the kitchen-dresser and no onecould get him to move out. There he lay all day long, never stirring, except to turn himself over with a smothered grunt, until it was dark;then he got up and dragged himself towards the garden door, grazinghimself against the wall as he went. After he had stayed out of doors afew minutes he came in again and sat down before the stove which wasstill warm, and as soon as Jeanne and Rosalie had gone to bed he beganto howl. The whole night long he howled, in a pitiful, deplorable way, sometimes ceasing for an hour only to recommence in a still more dolefultone. A barrel was put outside the house and he was tied up to it, buthe howled just the same out of doors as in, and as he was old and almostdying, he was brought back to the kitchen again. 

It was impossible for Jeanne to sleep, for the whole night she couldhear the old dog moaning and scratching as he tried to get used to thisnew house which he found so different from his old home. Nothing wouldquiet him; his eyes were dim and it seemed as if the knowledge of hisinfirmity made him keep still while everyone else was awake anddownstairs, and at night he wandered restlessly about until daybreak, asif he only dared to move in the darkness which makes all beingssightless for the time. It was an intense relief to everyone when onemorning he was found dead. 

Winter wore on, and Jeanne gave way more and more to an insuperablehopelessness; it was no longer a keen, heartrending grief that she felt, but a dull, gloomy melancholy. There was nothing to rouse her from it, no one came to see her, and the road which passed before her door wasalmost deserted. Sometimes a gig passed by driven by a red-faced manwhose blouse, blown out by the wind, looked like a blue balloon, andsometimes a cart crawled past, or a peasant and his wife could be seencoming from the distance, growing larger and larger as they approachedthe house and then diminishing again when they had passed it, till theylooked like two insects at the end of the long white line whichstretched as far as the eye could reach, rising and falling with theundulation of the earth. When the grass again sprang up a little girlpassed the gate every morning with two thin cows which browsed along theside of the road, and in the evening she returned, taking, as in themorning, one step every ten minutes as she followed the animals. 

Every night Jeanne dreamt that she was again at Les Peuples. She thoughtshe was there with her father and mother and Aunt Lison as in the oldtimes. Again she accomplished the old, forgotten duties and supportedMadame Adélaïde as she walked in her avenue; and each time she awoke sheburst into tears. 

Paul was continually in her thoughts and she wondered what he was doing, if he were well and if he ever thought of her. She revolved all thesepainful thoughts in her mind as she walked along the low-lying roadsbetween the farms, and what was more torture to her than anything elsewas the fierce jealousy of the woman who had deprived her of her son. Itwas this hatred alone which restrained her from taking any steps towardsfinding Paul and trying to see him. She could imagine her son's mistressconfronting her at the door and asking, "What is your business here, madame?" and her self-respect would not permit her to run the risk ofsuch an encounter. In the haughty pride of a chaste and spotless woman, who had never stooped to listen to temptation, she became still morebitter against the base and cowardly actions to which sensual love willdrive a man who is not strong enough to throw off its degrading chains. The whole of humanity seemed to her unclean as she thought of theobscene secrets of the senses, of the caresses which debase as they aregiven and received, and of all the mysteries which surround theattraction of the sexes. 

Another spring and summer passed away, and when the autumn came againwith its rainy days, its dull, gray skies, its heavy clouds, Jeanne feltso weary of the life she was leading that she determined to make asupreme attempt to regain possession of her Poulet. Surely the youngman's passion must have cooled by this time, and she wrote him atouching, pitiful letter:

 "My Dear Child--I am coming to entreat you to return to me. Think how I am left, lonely, aged and ill, the whole year with only a servant. I am living now in a little house by the roadside and it is very miserable for me, but if you were here everything would seem different. You are all I have in the world, and I have not seen you for seven years. You will never know how unhappy I have been and how my every thought was centered in you. You were my life, my soul, my only hope, my only love, and you are away from me, you have forsaken me. 

 "Oh! come back, my darling Poulet, come back, and let me hold you in my arms again; come back to your old mother who so longs to see you. 

 JEANNE. "

A few days later came the following reply:

 "My Dear Mother--I should only be too glad to come and see you, but I have not a penny; send me some money and I will come. I had myself been thinking of coming to speak to you about a plan which, if carried out, would permit me to do as you desire. 

 "I shall never be able to repay the disinterested affection of the woman who has shared all my troubles, but I can at least make a public recognition of her faithful love and devotion. Her behavior is all you could desire; she is well-educated and well-read and you cannot imagine what a comfort she has been to me. I should be a brute if I did not make her some recompense, and I ask your permission to marry her. Then we could all live together in your new house, and you would forgive my follies. I am convinced that you would give your consent at once, if you knew her; I assure you she is very lady-like and quiet, and I know you would like her. As for me, I could not live without her. 

 "I shall await your reply with every impatience, dear mother. We both send you much love. --Your son, "Vicomte Paul de Lamare. "

Jeanne was thunderstruck. As she sat with the letter on her knees, shecould see so plainly through the designs of this woman who had not oncelet Paul return to his friends, but had always kept him at her sidewhile she patiently waited until his mother should give in and consentto anything and everything in the irresistible desire of having her sonwith her again; and it was with bitter pain that she thought of how Paulobstinately persisted in preferring this creature to herself. "He doesnot love me, he does not love me, " she murmured over and over again. 

"He wants to marry her now, " she said, when Rosalie came in. 

The servant started. 

"Oh! madame, you surely will not consent to it. M. Paul can't bring thathussy here. "

All the pride in Jeanne's nature rose in revolt at the thought, andthough she was bowed down with grief, she replied decidedly:

"No, Rosalie, never. But since he won't come here I will go to him, andwe will see which of us two will have the greater influence over him. "

She wrote to Paul at once, telling him that she was coming to Paris, andwould see him anywhere but at the house where he was living with thatwretch. Then while she awaited his reply, she began to make all herpreparations for the journey, and Rosalie commenced to pack hermistress's linen and clothes in an old trunk. 

"You haven't a single thing to put on, " exclaimed the servant, as shewas folding up an old, badly-made dress. "I won't have you go with suchclothes; you'd be a disgrace to everyone, and the Paris ladies wouldthink you were a servant. "

Jeanne let her have her own way, and they both went to Goderville andchose some green, checked stuff, which they left with the dressmaker tobe made up. Then they went to see Me. Roussel the lawyer, who went toParis for a fortnight every year, to obtain a few directions, for it wastwenty-eight years since Jeanne had been to the capital. He gave them agreat deal of advice about crossing the roads and the way to avoid beingrobbed, saying that the safest plan was to carry only just as much moneyas was necessary in the pockets and to sew the rest in the lining of thedress; then he talked for a long time about the restaurants where thecharges were moderate, and mentioned two or three to which ladies couldgo, and he recommended Jeanne to stay at the Hôtel de Normandie, whichwas near the railway station. He always stayed there himself, and shecould say he had sent her. There had been a railway between Paris andHavre for the last six years, but Jeanne had never seen one of thesesteam-engines of which everyone was talking, and which wererevolutionizing the whole country. 

The day passed on, but still there came no answer from Paul. Everymorning, for a fortnight, Jeanne had gone along the road to meet thepostman, and had asked, in a voice which she could not keep steady:

"You have nothing for me to-day, Père Malandain?" And the answer wasalways the same: "No nothing yet, _ma bonne dame_. "

Fully persuaded that it was that woman who was preventing Paul fromanswering, Jeanne determined not to wait any longer, but to start atonce. She wanted to take Rosalie with her, but the maid would not gobecause of increasing the expense of the journey, and she only allowedher mistress to take three hundred francs with her. 

"If you want any more money, " she said, "write to me, and I'll tell thelawyer to forward you some; but if I give you any more now, MonsieurPaul will have it all. "

Then one December morning, Denis Lecoq's gig came to take them both tothe railway station, for Rosalie was going to accompany her mistress asfar as that. When they reached the station, they found out first howmuch the tickets were, then, when the trunk had been labeled and theticket bought, they stood watching the rails, both too much occupied inwondering what the train would be like to think of the sad cause of thisjourney. At last a distant whistle made them look round, and they saw alarge, black machine approaching, which came up with a terrible noise, dragging after it a long chain of little rolling houses. A porter openedthe door of one of these little huts, and Jeanne kissed Rosalie and gotin. 

"_Au revoir_, madame. I hope you will have a pleasant journey, and willsoon be back again. "

"_Au revoir_, Rosalie. "

There was another whistle, and the string of carriages moved slowly off, gradually going faster and faster, till they reached a terrific speed. In Jeanne's compartment there were only two other passengers, who wereboth asleep, and she sat and watched the fields and farms and villagesrush past. She was frightened at the speed at which she was going, andthe feeling came over her that she was entering a new phase of life, and was being hurried towards a very different world from that in whichshe had spent her peaceful girlhood and her monotonous life. 

It was evening when she reached Paris. A porter took her trunk, and shefollowed closely at his heels, sometimes almost running for fear oflosing sight of him, and feeling frightened as she was pushed about bythe swaying crowd through which she did not know how to pass. 

"I was recommended here by Me. Roussel, " she hastened to say when shewas in the hôtel office. 

The landlady, a big, stolid-looking woman, was sitting at the desk. 

"Who is Me. Roussel?" she asked. 

"The lawyer from Goderville, who stays here every year, " replied Jeanne, in surprise. 

"Very likely he does, " responded the big woman, "but I don't know him. Do you want a room?"

"Yes, madame. "

A waiter shouldered the luggage and led the way upstairs. 

Jeanne followed, feeling very low-spirited and depressed, and sittingdown at a little table, she ordered some soup and the wing of a chickento be sent up to her, for she had had nothing to eat since day-break. She thought of how she had passed through this same town on her returnfrom her wedding tour, as she ate her supper by the miserable light ofone candle, and of how Julien had then first shown himself in his truecharacter. But then she was young and brave and hopeful; now she feltold and timid; and the least thing worried and frightened her. 

When she had finished her supper, she went to the window and watchedthe crowded street. She would have liked to go out if she had dared, butshe thought she should be sure to lose herself, so she went to bed. Butshe had hardly yet got over the bustle of the journey, and that, and thenoise and the sensation of being in a strange place, kept her awake. Thehours passed on, and the noises outside gradually ceased, but still shecould not sleep, for she was accustomed to the sound, peaceful sleep ofthe country, which is so different from the semi-repose of a great city. Here she was conscious of a sort of restlessness all around her; themurmur of voices reached her ears, and every now and then a boardcreaked, a door shut, or a bell rang. She was just dozing off, about twoo'clock in the morning, when a woman suddenly began to scream in aneighboring room. Jeanne started up in bed, and next she thought sheheard a man laughing. As dawn approached she became more and moreanxious to see Paul, and as soon as it was light, she got up anddressed. 

He lived in the Rue du Sauvage, and she meant to follow Rosalie's adviceabout spending as little as possible, and walk there. It was a fine day, though the wind was keen, and there were a great many people hurryingalong the pavements. Jeanne walked along the street as quickly as shecould. When she reached the other end, she was to turn to the right, then to the left; then she would come to a square, where she was to askagain. She could not find the square, and a baker from whom she inquiredthe way gave her different directions altogether. She started on again, missed the way, wandered about, and in trying to follow otherdirections, lost herself entirely. She walked on and on, and was justgoing to hail a cab when she saw the Seine. Then she decided to walkalong the quays, and in about an hour she reached the dark, dirty lanecalled Rue du Sauvage. 

When she came to the number she was seeking, she was so excited that shestood before the door unable to move another step. Poulet was there, inthat house! Her hands and knees trembled violently, and it was somemoments before she could enter and walk along the passage to thedoorkeeper's box. 

"Will you go and tell M. Paul de Lamare that an old lady friend of hismother's, is waiting to see him?" she said, slipping a piece of moneyinto the man's hand. 

"He does not live here now, madame, " answered the doorkeeper. 

She started. 

"Ah! Where--where is he living now?" she gasped. 

"I do not know. "

She felt stunned, and it was some time before she could speak again. 

"When did he leave?" she asked at last, controlling herself by a violenteffort. 

The man was quite ready to tell her all he knew. 

"About a fortnight ago, " he replied. "They just walked out of the houseone evening and didn't come back. They owed all over the neighborhood, so you may guess they didn't leave any address. "

Tongues of flame were dancing before Jeanne's eyes, as if a gun werebeing fired off close to her face; but she wanted to find Poulet, andthat kept her up and made her stand opposite the doorkeeper, as if shewere calmly thinking. 

"Then he did not say anything when he left?"

"No, nothing at all; they went away to get out of paying their debts. "

"But he will have to send for his letters. "

"He'll send a good many times before he gets them, then; besides, theydidn't have ten in a twelvemonth, though I took them up one two daysbefore they left. "

That must have been the one she sent. 

"Listen, " she said, hastily. "I am his mother, and I have come to lookfor him. Here are ten francs for yourself. If you hear anything from orabout him, let me know at once at the Hôtel de Normandie, Rue du Havre, and you shall be well paid for your trouble. "

"You may depend upon me, madame, " answered the doorkeeper; and Jeannewent away. 

She hastened along the streets as if she were bent on an importantmission, but she was not looking or caring whither she was going. Shewalked close to the walls, pushed and buffeted by errand boys andporters; crossed the roads, regardless of the vehicles and the shouts ofthe drivers; stumbled against the curbstones, which she did not see; andhurried on and on, unconscious of everything and everyone. At last shefound herself in some gardens, and, feeling too weary to walk anyfurther, she dropped on a seat. She sat there a long while, apparentlyunaware that the tears were running down her cheeks, and that passersbystopped to look at her. At last the bitter cold made her rise to go, buther legs would hardly carry her, so weak and exhausted was she. Shewould have liked some soup, but she dared not go into a restaurant, forshe knew people could see she was in trouble, and it made her feel timidand ashamed. When she passed an eating-place she would stop a moment atthe door, look inside, and see all the people sitting at the tableseating, and then go on again, saying to herself: "I will go into thenext one"; but when she came to the next her courage always failed heragain. In the end she went into a baker's shop, and bought a littlecrescent-shaped roll, which she ate as she went along. She was verythirsty, but she did not know where to go to get anything to drink, soshe went without. 

She passed under an arch, and found herself in some more gardens witharcades running all round them, and she recognized the Palais Royal. Herwalk in the sun had made her warm again, so she sat down for anotherhour or two. A crowd of people flowed into the gardens--an elegant crowdcomposed of beautiful women and wealthy men, who only lived for dressand pleasure, and who chatted and smiled and bowed as they saunteredalong. Feeling ill at ease amidst this brilliant throng, Jeanne rose togo away; but suddenly the thought struck her that perhaps she might meetPaul here, and she began to walk from end to end of the gardens, withhasty, furtive steps, carefully scanning every face she met. 

Soon she saw that people turned to look and laugh at her, and shehurried away, thinking it was her odd appearance and her green-checkeddress, which Rosalie had chosen and had made up, that attractedeveryone's attention and smiles. She hardly dared ask her way, but shedid at last venture, and when she had reached her hotel, she passed therest of the day sitting on a chair at the foot of the bed. In theevening she dined off some soup and a little meat, like the day before, and then undressed and went to bed, performing all the duties of hertoilet quite mechanically, from sheer habit. 

The next morning she went to the police office to see if she could getany help there towards the discovery of her son's whereabouts. They toldher they could not promise her anything, but that they would attend tothe matter. After she had left the police office, she wandered about thestreets, in the hopes of meeting her child, and she felt more friendlessand forsaken among the busy crowds than she did in the midst of thelovely fields. 

When she returned to the hotel in the evening, she was told that a manfrom M. Paul had asked for her, and was coming again the next day. Allthe blood in her body seemed to suddenly rush to her heart and she couldnot close her eyes all night. Perhaps it was Paul himself! Yes, it mustbe so, although his appearance did not tally with the description thehotel people had given of the man who had called, and when, about nineo'clock in the morning, there came a knock at her door, she cried, "Comein!" expecting her son to rush into her arms held open to receive him. 

But it was a stranger who entered--a stranger who began to apologize fordisturbing her and to explain that he had come about some money Paulowed him. As he spoke she felt herself beginning to cry, and she triedto hide her tears from the man by wiping them away with the end of herfinger as soon as they reached the corners of her eyes. The man hadheard of her arrival from the concierge at the Rue du Sauvage, and as hecould not find Paul he had come to his mother. He held out a paper whichJeanne mechanically took; she saw "90 francs" written on it, and shedrew out the money and paid the man. She did not go out at all that day, and the next morning more creditors appeared. She gave them all themoney she had left, except twenty francs, and wrote and told Rosalie howshe was placed. 

Until her servant's answer came she passed the days in wanderingaimlessly about the streets. She did not know what to do or how to killthe long, miserable hours; there was no one who knew of her troubles, orto whom she could go for sympathy, and her one desire was to get awayfrom this city and to return to her little house beside the lonely road, where, a few days before, she had felt she could not bear to livebecause it was so dull and lonely. Now she was sure she could livenowhere else but in that little home where all her mournful habits hadtaken root. 

At last, one evening, she found a letter from Rosalie awaiting her withtwo hundred francs enclosed. 

 "Come back as soon as possible, Madame Jeanne, " wrote the maid, "for I shall send you nothing more. As for M. Paul, I will go and fetch him myself the next time we hear anything from him. --With best respects, your servant, ROSALIE. "

And Jeanne started back to Batteville one bitterly cold, snowy morning. 

 * * * * *

XIV

After her return from Paris, Jeanne would not go out or take anyinterest in anything. She rose at the same hour every morning, lookedout of the window to see what sort of day it was, then went downstairsand sat before the fire in the dining-room. She stayed there the wholeday, sitting perfectly still with her eyes fixed on the flames whileshe thought of all the sorrows she had passed through. The little roomgrew darker and darker, but she never moved, except to put more wood onthe fire, and when Rosalie brought in the lamp she cried:

"Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about a bit, or you won't be able toeat any dinner again this evening. "

Often she was worried by thoughts which she could not dismiss from hermind, and she allowed herself to be tormented by the veriest trifles, for the most insignificant matters appeared of the greatest importanceto her diseased mind. She lived in the memories of the past, and shewould think for hours together of her girlhood and her wedding tour inCorsica. The wild scenery that she had long forgotten suddenly appearedbefore her in the fire, and she could recall every detail, every event, every face connected with the island. She could always see the featuresof Jean Ravoli, the guide, and sometimes she fancied she could even hearhis voice. 

At other times she thought of the peaceful years of Paul's childhood--ofhow he used to make her tend the salad plants, and of how she and AuntLison used to kneel on the ground, each trying to outdo the other ingiving pleasure to the boy, and in rearing the greater number of plants. 

Her lips would form the words, "Poulet, my little Poulet, " as if shewere talking to him, and she would cease to muse, and try for hours towrite in the air the letters which formed her son's name, with heroutstretched finger. Slowly she traced them before the fire, fancyingshe could see them, and, thinking she had made a mistake, she began theword over and over again, forcing herself to write the whole namethough her arm trembled with fatigue. At last she would become sonervous that she mixed up the letters, and formed other words, and hadto give it up. 

She had all the manias and fancies which beset those who lead a solitarylife, and it irritated her to the last degree to see the slightestchange in the arrangement of the furniture. Rosalie often made her goout with her along the road, but after twenty minutes or so Jeanne wouldsay: "I cannot walk any further, Rosalie, " and would sit down by theroadside. Soon movement of any kind became distasteful to her, and shestayed in bed as late as she could. Ever since a child she had alwaysbeen in the habit of jumping out of bed as soon as she had drunk her_cafe au lait_. She was particularly fond of her morning coffee, and shewould have missed it more than anything. She always waited for Rosalieto bring it with an impatience that had a touch of sensuality in it, andas soon as the cup was placed on the bedside table she sat up, andemptied it, somewhat greedily. Then she at once drew back the bedclothesand began to dress. But gradually she fell into the habit of dreamingfor a few moments after she had placed the empty cup back in the saucer, and from that she soon began to lie down again, and at last she stayedin bed every day until Rosalie came back in a temper and dressed heralmost by force. 

She had no longer the slightest will of her own. Whenever her servantasked her advice, or put any question to her, or wanted to know heropinion, she always answered: "Do as you like, Rosalie. " So firmly didshe believe herself pursued by a persistent ill luck that she became asgreat a fatalist as an Oriental, and she was so accustomed to seeingher dreams unfulfilled, and her hopes disappointed, that she did notdare undertake anything fresh, and hesitated for days before shecommenced the simplest task, so persuaded was she that whatever shetouched would be sure to go wrong. 

"I don't think anyone could have had more misfortune than I have had allmy life, " she was always saying. 

"How would it be if you had to work for your bread, and if you wereobliged to get up every morning at six o'clock to go and do a hard day'swork?" Rosalie would exclaim. "That's what a great many people have todo, and then when they get too old to work, they die of want. "

"But my son has forsaken me, and I am all alone, " Jeanne would reply. 

That enraged Rosalie. 

"And what if he has? How about those whose children enlist, or settle inAmerica?" (America, in her eyes, was a shadowy country whither peoplewent to make their fortune, and whence they never returned). "Childrenalways leave their parents sooner or later; old and young people aren'tmeant to stay together. And then, what if he were dead?" she wouldfinish up with savagely, and her mistress could say nothing after that. 

Jeanne got a little stronger when the first warm days of spring came, but she only took advantage of her better health to bury herself stilldeeper in her gloomy thoughts. 

She went up to the garret one morning to look for something, and, whileshe was there, happened to open a box full of old almanacs. It seemed asif she had found the past years themselves, and she was filled withemotion as she looked at the pile of cards. They were of all sizes, bigand little, and she took them every one down to the dining-room andbegan to lay them out on the table in the right order of years. Suddenlyshe picked up the very first one--the one she had taken with her fromthe convent to Les Peuples. For a long time she gazed at it with itsdates which she had crossed out the day she had left Rouen, and shebegan to shed slow, bitter tears--the weak, pitiful tears of an agedwoman--as she looked at these cards spread out before her on the table, and which represented all her wretched life. 

Then the thought struck her that by means of these almanacs she couldrecall all that she had ever done, and giving way to the idea, she atonce devoted herself to the task of retracing the past. She pinned allthe cards, which had grown yellow with age, up on the tapestry, and thenpassed hours before one or other of them, thinking, "What did I do inthat month?"

She had put a mark beside all the important dates in her life, andsometimes, by means of linking together and adding one to the other, allthe little circumstances which had preceded and followed a great event, she succeeded in remembering a whole month. By dint of concentratedattention, and efforts of will and of memory, she retraced nearly thewhole of her first two years at Les Peuples, recalling without muchdifficulty this far-away period of her life, for it seemed to stand outin relief. But the following years were shrouded in a sort of mist andseemed to run one into the other, and sometimes she pored over analmanac for hours without being able to remember whether it was even inthat year that such and such a thing had happened. She would go slowlyround the dining-room looking at these images of past years, which, toher, were as pictures of an ascent to Calvary, until one of themarrested her attention and then she would sit gazing at it all the restof the day, absorbed in her recollections. 

Soon the sap began to rise in the trees; the seeds were springing up, the leaves were budding and the air was filled with the faint, sweetsmell of the apple blossoms which made the orchards a glowing mass ofpink. As summer approached Jeanne became very restless. She could notkeep still; she went in and out twenty times a day, and, as she rambledalong past the farms, she worked herself into a perfect state of fever. 

A daisy half hidden in the grass, a sunbeam falling through the leaves, or the reflection of the sky in a splash of water in a rut was enough toagitate and affect her, for their sight brought back a kind of echo ofthe emotions she had felt when, as a young girl, she had wandereddreamily through the fields; and though now there was nothing to whichshe could look forward, the soft yet exhilarating air sent the samethrill through her as when all her life had lain before her. But thispleasure was not unalloyed with pain, and it seemed as if the universaljoy of the awakening world could now only impart a delight which washalf sorrow to her grief-crushed soul and withered heart. Everythingaround her seemed to have changed. Surely the sun was hardly so warm asin her youth, the sky so deep a blue, the grass so fresh a green, andthe flowers, paler and less sweet, could no longer arouse within her theexquisite ecstasies of delight as of old. Still she could enjoy thebeauty around her, so much that sometimes she found herself dreamingand hoping again; for, however cruel Fate may be, is it possible to giveway to utter despair when the sun shines and the sky is blue?

She went for long walks, urged on and on by her inward excitement, andsometimes she would suddenly stop and sit down by the roadside to thinkof her troubles. Why had she not been loved like other women? Why hadeven the simple pleasure of an uneventful existence been refused her?

Sometimes, again forgetting for a moment that she was old, that therewas no longer any pleasure in store for her, and that, with theexception of a few more lonely years, her life was over and done, shewould build all sorts of castles in the air and make plans for such ahappy future, just as she had done when she was sixteen. Then suddenlyremembering the bitter reality she would get up again, feeling as if aheavy load had fallen upon her, and return home, murmuring:

"Oh, you old fool! You old fool!"

Now Rosalie was always saying to her:

"Do keep still, madame. What on earth makes you want to run about so?"

"I can't help it, " Jeanne would reply sadly. "I am like Massacre wasbefore he died. "

One morning Rosalie went into her mistress's room earlier than usual. 

"Make haste and drink up your coffee, " she said as she placed the cup onthe table. "Denis is waiting to take us to Les Peuples. I have to goover there on business. "

Jeanne was so excited that she thought she would have fainted, and, asshe dressed herself with trembling fingers, she could hardly believeshe was going to see her dear home once more. 

Overhead was a bright, blue sky, and, as they went along, Denis's ponywould every now and then break into a gallop. When they reachedEtouvent, Jeanne could hardly breathe, her heart beat so quickly, andwhen she saw the brick pillars beside the château gate, she exclaimed, "Oh, " two or three times in a low voice, as if she were in the presenceof something which stirred her very soul, and she could not helpherself. 

They put up the horse at the Couillards' farm, and, when Rosalie and herson went to attend to their business, the farmer asked Jeanne if shewould like to go over the château, as the owner was away, and gave herthe key. 

She went off alone, and when she found herself opposite the old manorshe stood still to look at it. The outside had not been touched sinceshe had left. All the shutters were closed, and the sunbeams weredancing on the gray walls of the big, weather-beaten building. A littlepiece of wood fell on her dress, she looked up and saw that it hadfallen from the plane tree, and she went up to the big tree and strokedits pale, smooth bark as if it had been alive. Her foot touched a pieceof rotten wood lying in the grass; it was the last fragment of the seaton which she had so often sat with her loved ones--the seat which hadbeen put up the very day of Julien's first visit to the château. 

Then she went to the hall-door. She had some difficulty in opening it asthe key was rusty and would not turn, but at last the lock gave way, andthe door itself only required a slight push before it swung back. Thefirst thing Jeanne did was to run up to her own room. It had been hungwith a light paper and she hardly knew it again, but when she opened oneof the windows and looked out, she was moved almost to tears as she sawagain the scene she loved so well--the thicket, the elms, the common, and the sea covered with brown sails which, at this distance, looked asif they were motionless. 

Then she went all over the big, empty house. She stopped to look at alittle hole in the plaster which the baron had made with his cane, forhe used to make a few thrusts at the wall whenever he passed this spot, in memory of the fencing bouts he had had in his youth. In her mother'sbedroom she found a small gold-headed pin stuck in the wall behind thedoor, in a dark corner near the bed. She had stuck it there a long whileago (she remembered it now), and had looked everywhere for it since, butit had never been found; and she kissed it and took it with her as apriceless relic. 

She went into every room, recognizing the almost invisible spots andmarks on the hangings which had not been changed and again noting theodd forms and faces which the imagination so often traces in the designsof the furniture coverings, the carvings of mantelpieces and the shadowson soiled ceilings. She walked through the vast, silent château asnoiselessly as if she were in a cemetery; all her life was interredthere. 

She went down to the drawing-room. The closed shutters made it verydark, and it was a few moments before she could distinguish anything;then, as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she gradually madeout the tapestry with the big, white birds on it. Two armchairs stoodbefore the fireplace, looking as if they had just been vacated, and thevery smell of the room--a smell that had always been peculiar to it, aseach human being has his, a smell which could be perceived at once, andyet was vague like all the faint perfumes of old rooms--brought thememories crowding to Jeanne's mind. 

Her breath came quickly as she stood with her eyes fixed on the twochairs, inhaling this perfume of the past; and, all at once, in a suddenhallucination occasioned by her thoughts, she fancied she saw--she didsee--her father and mother with their feet on the fender as she had sooften seen them before. She drew back in terror, stumbling against thedoor-frame, and clung to it for support, still keeping her eyes fixed onthe armchairs. The vision disappeared and for some minutes she stoodhorror-stricken; then she slowly regained possession of herself andturned to fly, afraid that she was going mad. Her eyes fell on thewainscoting against which she was leaning and she saw Poulet's ladder. There were all the faint marks traced on the wall at unequal intervalsand the figures which had been cut with a penknife to indicate themonth, and the child's age and growth. In some places there was thebaron's big writing, in others her own, in others again Aunt Lison's, which was a little shaky. She could see the boy standing there now, withhis fair hair, and his little forehead pressed against the wall to havehis height measured, while the baron exclaimed: "Jeanne, he has grownhalf an inch in six weeks, " and she began to kiss the wainscoting in afrenzy of love for the very wood. 

Then she heard Rosalie's voice outside, calling: "Madame Jeanne! MadameJeanne! lunch is waiting, " and she went out with her head in a whirl. She felt unable to understand anything that was said to her. She atewhat was placed before her, listened to what was being said withoutrealizing the sense of the words, answered the farmers' wives when theyinquired after her health, passively received their kisses and kissedthe cheeks which were offered to her, and then got into the chaiseagain. 

When she could no longer see the high roof of the château through thetrees, something within her seemed to break, and she felt that she hadjust said good-bye to her old home for ever. 

They went straight back to Batteville, and as she was going indoorsJeanne saw something white under the door; it was a letter which thepostman had slipped there during their absence. She at once recognizedPaul's handwriting and tore open the envelope in an agony of anxiety. Hewrote:

 "My Dear Mother: I have not written before because I did not want to bring you to Paris on a fruitless errand, for I have always been meaning to come and see you myself. At the present moment I am in great trouble and difficulty. My wife gave birth to a little girl three days ago, and now she is dying and I have not a penny. I do not know what to do with the child; the doorkeeper is trying to nourish it with a feeding-bottle as best she can, but I fear I shall lose it. Could not you take it? I cannot send it to a wet nurse as I have not any money, and I do not know which way to turn. Pray answer by return post. 

 "Your loving son, "Paul. "

Jeanne dropped on a chair with hardly enough strength left to callRosalie. The maid came and they read the letter over again together, andthen sat looking at each other in silence. 

"I'll go and fetch the child myself, madame, " said Rosalie at last. "Wecan't leave it to die. "

"Very well, my girl, go, " answered Jeanne. 

"Put on your hat, madame, " said the maid, after a pause, "and we will goand see the lawyer at Goderville. If that woman is going to die, M. Paulmust marry her for the sake of the child. "

Jeanne put on her hat without a word. Her heart was overflowing withjoy, but she would not have allowed anyone to see it for the world, forit was one of those detestable joys in which people can revel in theirhearts, but of which they are all the same ashamed; her son's mistresswas going to die. 

The lawyer gave Rosalie detailed instructions which the servant made himrepeat two or three times; then, when she was sure she knew exactly whatto do, she said:

"Don't you fear; I'll see it's all right now. " And she started for Paristhat very night. 

Jeanne passed two days in such an agony of mind that she could fix herthoughts on nothing. The third morning she received a line from Rosaliemerely saying she was coming back by that evening's train; nothing more;and in the afternoon, about three o'clock, Jeanne sent round to aneighbor to ask him if he would drive her to the Beuzeville railwaystation to meet her servant. 

She stood on the platform looking down the rails (which seemed to getcloser together right away as far off as she could see), and turningevery now and then to look at the clock. Ten minutes more--fiveminutes--two--and at last the train was due, though as yet she could seeno signs of it. Then, all at once, she saw a cloud of white smoke, andunderneath it a black speck which got rapidly larger and larger. The bigengine came into the station, snorting and slackening its speed, andJeanne looked eagerly into every window as the carriages went past her. 

The doors opened and several people got out--peasants in blouses, farmers' wives with baskets on their arms, a few _bourgeois_ in softhats--and at last Rosalie appeared, carrying what looked like a bundleof linen in her arms. Jeanne would have stepped forward to meet her, butall strength seemed to have left her legs and she feared she would fallif she moved. The maid saw her and came up in her ordinary, calm way. 

"Good-day, madame; here I am again, though I've had some bother to getalong. "

"Well?" gasped Jeanne. 

"Well, " answered Rosalie, "she died last night. They were married andhere's the baby, " and she held out the child which could not be seen forits wraps. Jeanne mechanically took it, and they left the station andgot into the carriage which was waiting. 

"M. Paul is coming directly after the funeral. I suppose he'll be hereto-morrow, by this train. "

"Paul--" murmured Jeanne, and then stopped without saying anything more. 

The sun was sinking towards the horizon, bathing in a glow of light thegreen fields which were flecked here and there with golden colewortflowers or blood-red poppies, and over the quiet country fell aninfinite peace. 

The peasant who was driving the chaise kept clicking his tongue to urgeon his horse which trotted swiftly along, and Jeanne looked straight upinto the sky which the circling flight of the swallows seemed to cutasunder. 

All at once she became conscious of a soft warmth which was makingitself felt through her skirts; it was the heat from the tiny beingsleeping on her knees, and it moved her strangely. She suddenly drewback the covering from the child she had not yet seen, that she mightlook at her son's daughter; as the light fell on its face the littlecreature opened its blue eyes, and moved its lips, and then Jeannehugged it closely to her, and, raising it in her arms, began to cover itwith passionate kisses. 

"Come, come, Madame Jeanne, have done, " said Rosalie, in sharp, thoughgood-tempered tones; "you'll make the child cry. "

Then she added, as if in reply to her own thoughts:

"After all, life is never so jolly or so miserable as people seem tothink. "

 * * * * *

HAUTOT SENIOR

AND

HAUTOT JUNIOR

PART I

In front of the building, half farm-house, half manor-house, one ofthose rural habitations of a mixed character which were all butseigneurial, and which are at the present time occupied by largecultivators, the dogs lashed beside the apple-trees in the orchard nearthe house, kept barking and howling at the sight of the shooting-bagscarried by the gamekeepers and the boys. In the spacious dining-roomkitchen, Hautot Senior and Hautot Junior, M. Bermont, the tax-collector, and M. Mondaru, the notary were taking a pick and drinking a glassbefore going out to shoot, for it was the opening day. 

Hautot Senior, proud of all his possessions, talked boastfullybeforehand of the game which his guests were going to find on his lands. He was a big Norman, one of those powerful, sanguineous, bony men, wholift wagon-loads of apples on their shoulders. Half-peasant, half-gentleman, rich, respected, influential, invested with authority hemade his son César go as far as the third form at school, so that hemight be an educated man, and there he had brought his studies to a stopfor fear of his becoming a fine gentleman and paying no attention to theland. 

César Hautot, almost as tall as his father, but thinner, was a goodson, docile, content with everything, full of admiration, respect, anddeference, for the wishes and opinions of his sire. 

M. Bermont, the tax-collector, a stout little man, who showed on his redcheeks a thin network of violet veins resembling the tributaries and thewinding courses of rivers on maps, asked:

"And hares--are there any hares on it?"

Hautot Senior answered:

"As much as you like, especially in the Puysatier lands. "

"Which direction are we to begin at?" asked the notary, a jolly notaryfat and pale, big paunched too, and strapped up in an entirely newhunting-costume bought at Rouen. 

"Well, that way, through these grounds. We will drive the partridgesinto the plain, and we will beat there again. "

And Hautot Senior rose up. They all followed his example, took theirguns out of the corners, examined the locks, stamped with their feet inorder to feel themselves firmer in their boots which were rather hard, not having as yet been rendered flexible by the heat of the blood. Thenthey went out; and the dogs, standing erect at the ends of their lashes, gave vent to piercing howls while beating the air with their paws. 

They set forth for the lands referred to. They consisted of a littleglen, or rather a long undulating stretch of inferior soil, which had onthat account remained uncultivated, furrowed with mountain-torrents, covered with ferns, an excellent preserve for game. 

The sportsmen took up their positions at some distance from each other, Hautot Senior posting himself at the right, Hautot Junior at the left, and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and those who carried thegame-bags followed. It was the solemn moment when the first shot itawaited, when the heart beats a little, while the nervous finger keepsfeeling at the gun-lock every second. 

Suddenly the shot went off. Hautot Senior had fired. They all stopped, and saw a partridge breaking off from a covey which was rushing along ata single flight to fall down into a ravine under a thick growth ofbrushwood. The sportsman, becoming excited, rushed forward with rapidstrides, thrusting aside the briers which stood in his path, and hedisappeared in his turn into the thicket, in quest of his game. 

Almost at the same instant, a second shot was heard. 

"Ha! ha! the rascal!" exclaimed M. Bermont, "he will unearth a hare downthere. "

They all waited, with their eyes riveted on the heap of branches throughwhich their gaze failed to penetrate. 

The notary, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, shouted:

"Have you got them?"

Hautot Senior made no response. 

Then César, turning towards the keeper, said to him:

"Just go, and assist him, Joseph. We must keep walking in a straightline. We'll wait. "

And Joseph, an old stump of a man, lean and knotty, all whose jointsformed protuberances, proceeded at an easy pace down the ravine, searching at every opening through which a passage could be effectedwith the cautiousness of a fox. Then, suddenly, he cried:

"Oh! come! come! an unfortunate thing has occurred. "

They all hurried forward, plunging through the briers. 

The elder Hautot, who had fallen on his side, in a fainting condition, kept both his hands over his stomach, from which flowed down upon thegrass through the linen vest torn by the lead, long streamlets of blood. As he was laying down his gun, in order to seize the partridge, withinreach of him, he had let the firearm fall, and the second dischargegoing off with the shock, had torn open his entrails. They drew him outof the trench; they removed his clothes, and they saw a frightful wound, through which the intestines came out. Then, after having bandaged himthe best way they could, they brought him back to his own house, andthey awaited the doctor, who had been sent for, as well as a priest. 

When the doctor arrived, he gravely shook his head, and, turning towardsyoung Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair:

"My poor boy, " said he, "this has not a good look. "

But, when the dressing was finished, the wounded man moved his fingers, opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around his troubled, haggardglances, then appeared to search about in his memory, to recollect, tounderstand, and he murmured:

"Ah! good God! this has done for me!"

The doctor held his hand. 

"Why no, why no, some days of rest merely--it will be nothing. "

Hautot returned:

"It has done for me! My stomach is split! I know it well. "

Then, all of a sudden:

"I want to talk to the son, if I have the time. "

Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating likea little boy. 

"P'pa, p'pa, poor p'ps!"

But the father, in a firmer tone:

"Come! stop crying--this is not the time for it. I have to talk to you. Sit down there quite close to me. It will be quickly done, and I will bemore calm. As for the rest of you, kindly give me one minute. "

They all went out, leaving the father and son face to face. 

As soon as they were alone:

"Listen, son! you are twenty-four years; one can say things like this toyou. And then there is not such mystery about these matters as we importinto them. You know well that your mother is seven years dead, isn'tthat so? and that I am not more than forty-five years myself, seeingthat I got married at nineteen. Is not that true?"

The son faltered:

"Yes, it is true. "

"So then your mother is seven years dead, and I have remained a widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain without a wife at thirty-seven isn'tthat true?"

The son replied:

"Yes, it is true. "

The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted withsuffering, went on:

"God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to livealone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother, since Ipromised her not to do so. Then--you understand?"

"Yes, father. "

"So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Reu de l'Eperlan 18, in the thirdstory, the second door--I tell you all this, don't forget--but a younggirl, who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true woman, eh?You comprehend, my lad?"

"Yes, father. "

"So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, but somethingsubstantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?"

"Yes, father. "

"I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and theremembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which wethree lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, forcertain--listen--listen, my lad. I might have made a will--I haven'tdone so. I did not wish to do so--for it is not necessary to write downthings--things of this sort--it is too hurtful to the legitimatechildren--and then it embroils everything--it ruins everyone! Look you, the stamped paper, there's no need of it--never make use of it. If I amrich, it is because I have not made use of what I have during my ownlife. You understand, my son?"

"Yes, father. "

"Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I didnot desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a goodheart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way, I said to myselfthat when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that Iwould beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When Iam gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangementsthat she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave itto you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every dayin the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Gothere on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my dayfor the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say allthis to you, because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tellthese things in public either to the notary or to the priest. Theyhappen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in caseof necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except thefamily, because the family consists of one person alone. Youunderstand?"

"Yes, father. "

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, father. "

"Do you swear it?"

"Yes, father. "

"I beg of you, I implore of you, son do not forget. I bind you to it. "

"No, father. "

"You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything. "

"Yes, father. "

"And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. Asfor me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it. "

"Yes, father. "

"That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'msure. Tell them they may come in. "

Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, alwaysdocile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, carrying the holy oils. 

But the dying man had closed his eyes, and he refused to open themagain, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that heunderstood. 

He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he nowfelt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to makea confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son, who constituted his own family?

He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst ofhis friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movementof his face indicating that he still lived. 

He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, whichshowed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments. 

 * * * * *

PART II

It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him, the shootingopened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied hisfather to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad onawakening that he asked himself how he could go on living. 

However, he kept thinking until evening that, in order to obey the lastwish of his father, he ought to repair to Rouen next day, and see thisgirl Catholine Donet, who resided in the Rue d'Eperlan in the thirdstory, second door. He had repeated to himself in a whisper, just as alittle boy repeats a prayer, this name and address, a countless numberof times, so that he might not forget them, and he ended by lisping themcontinually, without being able to stop or to think of what it was, somuch were his tongue and his mind possessed by the appellation. 

According, on the following day, about eight o'clock, he orderedGraindorge to be yoked to the tilbury, and set forth, at the quicktrotting pace of the heavy Norman horse, along the high road from theAinville to Rouen. He wore his black frock coat drawn over hisshoulders, a tall silk hat on his head, and on his legs his breecheswith straps; and he did not wish, on account of the occasion, todispense with the handsome costume, the blue overall which swelled inthe wind, protected the cloth from dust and from stains, and which wasto be removed quickly on reaching his destination the moment he hadjumped out of the coach. 

He entered Rouen accordingly just as it was striking ten o'clock, drewup, as he had usually done at the Hotel des Bon-Enfants, in the Rue desTrois-Mares, submitted to the hugs of the landlord and his wife andtheir five children, for they had heard the melancholy news; after that, he had to tell them all the particulars about the accident, which causedhim to shed tears, to repel all the proffered attentions which theysought to thrust upon him merely because he was wealthy, and to declineeven the breakfast they wanted him to partake of, thus wounding theirsensibilities. 

Then, having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and removedthe mud stains from his boots, he set forth in search of the Rue del'Eperlan, without venturing to make inquiries from anyone, for fear ofbeing recognized and arousing suspicions. 

At length, being unable to find the place, he saw a priest passing by, and, trusting to the professional discretion which churchmen possess, hequestioned the ecclesiastic. 

He had only a hundred steps farther to go; it was exactly the secondstreet to the right. 

Then he hesitated. Up to that moment, he had obeyed, like a mere animal, the expressed wish of the deceased. Now he felt quite agitated, confused, humiliated, at the idea of finding himself--the son--in thepresence of this woman who had been his father's mistress. All themorality which lies buried in our breasts, heaped up at the bottom ofour sensuous emotions by centuries of hereditary instruction, all thathe had been taught since he had learned his catechism about creatures ofevil life, to instinctive contempt which every man entertains towardsthem, even though he may marry one of them, all the narrow honesty ofthe peasant in his character, was stirred up within him, and held himback, making him grow red with shame. 

But he said to himself:

"I promised the father, I must not break my promise. "

Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18, which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended threeflights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of abell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartmentbefore which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door wasopened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, abrunette with a fresh complexion who gazed at him with eyes ofastonishment. 

He did not know what to say to her, and she who suspected nothing, andwho was waiting for the other, did not invite him to come in. They stoodlooking thus at one another for nearly half-a-minute, at the end ofwhich she said in a questioning tone:

"You have something to tell me Monsieur?" He falteringly replied:

"I am M. Hautot's son. "

She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as If she had known himfor a long time:

"Monsieur César?"

"Yes. "

"And what next?"

"I have come to speak to you on the part of my father. "

She articulated:

"Oh my God!"

She then drew back so that he might enter. He shut the door and followedher into the interior. Then he saw a little boy of four or five yearsplaying with a cat, seated on a floor in front of a stove, from whichrose the steam of dishes which were being kept hot. 

"Take a seat, " she said. 

He sat down. 

She asked:

"Well?"

He no longer ventured to speak, keeping his eyes fixed on the tablewhich stood in the center of the room, with three covers laid on it, one of which was for a child. He glanced at the chair which had its backturned to the fire. They had been expecting him. That was his breadwhich he saw, and which he recognized near the fork, for the crust hadbeen removed on account of Hautot's bad teeth. Then, raising his eyes, he noticed on the wall his father's portrait, the large photograph takenat Paris the year of the exhibition, the same as that which hung abovethe bed in the sleeping apartment at Ainville. 

The young woman again asked:

"Well, Monsieur César?"

He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she waited, her hands trembling with fear. 

Then he took courage. 

"Well, Mam'zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened theshooting. "

She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence of afew seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone:

"Oh! it is not possible!"

Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering herface with her hands, she burst out sobbing. 

At that point the little boy turned round, and, seeing his motherweeping, began to howl. Then, realizing that this sudden trouble wasbrought about by the stranger, he rushed at César, caught hold of hisbreeches with one hand, and with the other hit him with all his strengthon the thigh. And César remained agitated, deeply affected, with thiswoman mourning for his father at one side of him, and the little boydefending his mother at the other. He felt their emotion takingpossession of himself, and his eyes were beginning to brim over with thesame sorrow; so, to recover her self-command, he began to talk:

"Yes, " he said, "the accident occurred on Sunday, at eight o'clock--. "

And he told, as if she were listening to him, all the facts withoutforgetting a single detail, mentioning the most trivial matters with theminuteness of a countryman. And the child still kept assailing him, making kicks at his ankles. 

When he came to the time at which his father had spoken about her, herattention was caught by hearing her own name, and, uncovering her faceshe said:

"Pardon me! I was not following you; I would like to know--If you didnot mind beginning over again. "

He related everything at great length, with stoppages, breaks andreflections of his own from time to time. She listened to him eagerlynow perceiving with a woman's keen sensibility all the sudden changes offortune which his narrative indicated, and trembling with horror, everynow and then, exclaiming:

"Oh, my God!"

The little fellow, believing that she had calmed down, ceased beatingCésar, in order to catch his mother's hand, and he listened, too, as ifhe understood. 

When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued:

"Now we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes. "

"Listen: I am well off he has left me plenty of means. I don't want youto have anything to complain about--"

But she quickly interrupted him. 

"Oh, Monsieur César, Monsieur César, not to-day. I am cut to theheart--another time--another day. No, not to-day. If I accept, listen!'Tis not for myself--no, no, no, I swear to you. 'Tis for the child. Besides this provision will be put to his account. "

Thereupon, César scared, divined the truth, and stammering:

"So then--'tis his--the child?"

"Why, yes, " she said. 

And Hautot, Junior, gazed at his brother with a confused emotion, intense and painful. 

After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, César, quite embarrassed, went on:

"Well, then, Mam'zelle Donet I am going. When would you wish to talkthis over with me?"

She exclaimed:

"Oh! no, don't go! don't go. Don't leave me all alone with Emile. Iwould die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh!what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Mousieur César! Stop! Sit downagain. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he wasdoing over there all the week. "

And César resumed his seat, accustomed to obey. 

She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where thedishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, andasked César a thousand questions about his father with reference tomatters of an intimate nature, which made him feel without reasoning onthe subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of herfrail woman's heart. 

And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas--which were ratherlimited in number--he recurred once more to the accident, and set abouttelling the story over again with all the same details. 

When he said:

"He had a hole in his stomach--you could put your two fists into it. "

She gave vent to a sort of shriek, and the tears gushed forth again fromher eyes. 

Then seized by the contagion of her grief, César began to weep, too, andas tears always soften the fibers of the heart, he bent over Emile whoseforehead was close to his own mouth, and kissed him. 

The mother, recovering her breath, murmured:

"Poor lad, he is an orphan now!"

"And so am I, " said César. 

And they ceased to talk. 

But suddenly the practical instinct of the housewife, accustomed to bethoughtful about many things, revived in the young woman's breast. 

"You have perhaps taken nothing all the morning, Monsieur César. "

"No, Mam'zelle. "

"Oh! you must be hungry. You will eat a morsel. "

"Thanks, " he said, "I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble. "

She replied:

"In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me getsomething for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When youare gone, I don't know what will become of me. "

He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with hisback to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had beenbubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would notallow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times wipedthe mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with sauce. 

As he was rising up to go, he asked:

"When would you like me to come back to speak about this business toyou, Mam'zelle Donet?"

"If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur César. Inthat way, I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdaysfree. "

"That will suit me--next Thursday. "

"You will come to lunch. Won't you?"

"Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise. "

"The reason I suggested is that people can chat better when they areeating. One has more time too. "

"Well, be it so. About twelve o'clock, then. "

And he took his departure, after he had again kissed little Emile, andpressed Mademoiselle Donet's hand. 

 * * * * *

PART III

The week appeared long to César Hautot. He had never before foundhimself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now, he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed himinto the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, whenthey had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They hadspent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another, chatting about horses, cows or sheep, and the grip of their hands whenthey rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestationof deep family affection on both sides. 

Now César was alone, he went vacantly through the process of dressingthe soil of autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall gesticulatingsilhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain. To kill time, he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the accident to allwho had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to the others. Then, after he had finished his occupations and his reflections, he would sitdown at the side of a road, asking himself whether this kind of life wasgoing to last for ever. 

He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He consideredher thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman, as hisfather had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He resolved toact handsomely towards her, and to give her two thousand francs a year, settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a certainpleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the followingThursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the notion of thisbrother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plaguedhim, annoyed him a little, and, at the same time, exhibited him. He had, as it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance, who would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take orleave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father. 

And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday morning, carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering foot-beats, he felthis heart lighter, more at peace than he had hitherto felt it since hisbereavement. 

On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as onthe previous Thursday with the sole difference that the crust had notbeen removed from the bread. He pressed the young woman's hand, kissedEmile on the cheeks, and sat down, more at ease than if he were in hisown house, his heart swelling in the same way. Mademoiselle Donet seemedto him a little thinner and paler. She must have grieved sorely. Shewore now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood whatshe had not felt the week before under the first blow of her misfortune, and she exhibited an excessive deference towards him, a mournfulhumility, and made touching efforts to please him, as if to pay him backby her attentions for the kindness he had manifested towards her. Theywere a long time at lunch talking over the business, which had broughthim there. She did not want so much money. It was too much. She earnedenough to live on herself, but she only wished that Emile might find afew sous awaiting him when he grew big. César held out, however, andeven added a gift of a thousand francs for herself for the expense ofmourning. 

When he had taken his coffee, she asked:

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes--I have my pipe. "

He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was becomingquite woebegone about it when she offered him a pipe of his father thathad been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it up in his hand, recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a tone of emotion, filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then, he set Emile astride onhis knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she removed thetablecloth, and put the soiled plates at one end of the sideboard inorder to wash them as soon as he was gone. 

About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at thethought of having to go. 

"Well! Mademoiselle Donet, " he said, "I wish you good evening, and amdelighted to have found you like this. "

She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed athim while she thought of the other. 

"Shall we not see one another again?" she said. 

He replied simply:

"Why, yes, mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure. "

"Certainly, Monsieur César. Will next Thursday suit you then?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Donet. "

"You will come to lunch, of course?"

"Well--if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse. "

"It is understood, then, Monsieur César--next Thursday at twelve, thesame as to-day. "

"Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!"

 * * * * *

LITTLE LOUISE ROQUÉ

Mederic Rompel, the postman, who was familiarly called by the countrypeople Mederi, started at the usual hour from the posthouse atRouy-le-Tors. Having passed through the little town with his big stridesof an old trooper, he first cut across the meadows of Villaumes in orderto reach the bank of the Brindelle, which led him along the water's edgeto the village of Carvelin, where his distribution commenced. He wentquickly, following the course of the narrow river, which frothed, murmured, and boiled along its bed of grass, under an arch ofwillow-trees. The big stones, impeding the flow, had around them acushion of water, a sort of cravat ending in a knot of foam. In someplaces, there were cascades, a foot wide, often invisible, which madeunder the leaves, under the tendrils, under a roof of verdure, a bignoise at once angry and gentle; then, further on, the banks widened out, and you saw a small, placid lake where trouts were swimming in the midstof all that green vegetation which keeps undulating in the depths oftranquil streams. 

Mederic went on without a halt, seeing nothing, and with only thisthought in his mind: "My first letter is for the Poivron family, then Ihave one for M. Renardet; so I must cross the wood. "

His blue blouse, fastened round his waist by a black leathern belt movedin a quick, regular fashion above the green hedge of the willow-trees;and his stick of stout holly kept time with the steady movement of hislegs. 

Then, he crossed the Brindelle over a bridge formed of a single treethrown lengthwise, with a rope attached to two stakes driven into theriver's banks as its only balustrade. 

The wood, which belonged to M. Renardet, the Mayor of Carvelin, and thelargest landowner in the district, consisted of a number of huge oldtrees, straight as pillars, and extending for about half a league alongthe left-bank of the stream which served as a boundary for this immensearch of foliage. Alongside the water there were large shrubs warmed bythe sun; but under the trees you found nothing but moss, thick, soft, plastic moss, which exhaled into the stagnant air a light odor of loamwith withered branches. 

Mederic slackened his pace, took off his black cap adorned with redlace, and wiped his forehead, for it was by this time hot in themeadows, though it was not yet eight o'clock in the morning. 

He had just recovered from the effects of the heat, and resumed hisaccelerated pace when he noticed at the foot of a tree a knife, achild's small knife. When he picked it up, he discovered a thimble andalso a needle-case not far away. 

Having taken up these objects, he thought: "I'll intrust them to theMayor, " and he resumed his journey, but now he kept his eyes openexpecting to find something else. 

All of a sudden, he drew up stiffly as if he had knocked himself againsta wooden bar; for, ten paces in front of him, lay stretched on her backa little girl, quite naked, on the moss. She was about twelve years old. Her arms were hanging down, her legs parted, and her face covered witha handkerchief. There were little spots of blood on her thighs. 

Mederic advanced now on tiptoe, as if he were afraid to make a noise, apprehended some danger, and he glanced towards the spot uneasily. 

What was this? No doubt, she was asleep. Then, he reflected that aperson does not go to sleep thus naked, at half-past seven in themorning under cool trees. So then she must be dead; and he must be faceto face with a crime. At this thought, a cold shiver ran through hisframe, although he was an old soldier. And then a murder was such a rarething in the country, and above all the murder of a child, that he couldnot believe his eyes. But she had no wound--nothing save this bloodstuck on her leg. How, then, had she been killed?

He stopped quite near her; and he stared at her, while he leaned on hisstick. Certainly, he knew her, as he knew all the inhabitants of thedistrict; but, not being able to get a look at her face, he could notguess her name. He stooped forward in order to take off the handkerchiefwhich covered her face, then paused with outstretched hand, restrainedby an idea that occurred to him. 

Had he the right to disarrange anything in the condition of the corpsebefore the magisterial investigation? He pictured justice to himself asa kind of general whom nothing escapes, and who attaches as muchimportance to a lost button as to a stab of a knife in the stomach. Perhaps under this handkerchief evidence to support a capital chargecould be found; in fact if there were sufficient proof there to secure aconviction, it might lost its value, if touched by an awkward hand. 

Then, he raised himself with the intention of hastening towards theMayor's residence, but again another thought held him back. If thelittle girl was still alive, by any chance, he could not leave her lyingthere in this way. He sank on his knees very gently, a little bit awayfrom her through precaution, and extended his hand towards her feet. Itwas icy cold, with the terrible coldness which makes the dead fleshfrightful, and which leaves us no longer in doubt. The letter-carrier, as he touched her, felt his heart in his mouth, as he said to himselfafterwards and his lips were parched with dry spittle. Rising upabruptly he rushed off under the trees towards M. Renardet's house. 

He walked on in double-quick time, with his stick under his arm, hishands clenched, and his head thrust forward, and his leathern bag, filled with letters and newspapers, kept regularly flapping at his side. 

The Mayor's residence was at the end of the wood which he used as apark, and one side of it was washed by a little pool formed at this spotby the Brindelle. 

It was a big, square house of gray stone, very old, which had stood manya siege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twentymeters high, built in the water. 

From the top of this fortress the entire country around it could be seenin olden times. It was called the Fox's tower, without anyone knowingexactly why; and from this appellation, no doubt, had come the nameRenardet, borne by the owners of this fief, which had remained in thesame family, it was said, for more than two hundred years. For theRenardets formed part of the upper middle class all but noble to be metwith so often in the provinces before the Revolution. 

The postman dashed into the kitchen where the servants were takingbreakfast, and exclaimed:

"Is the Mayor up? I want to speak to him at once. "

Mederic was recognized as a man of weight and authority, and it was soonunderstood that something serious had happened. 

As soon as word was brought to M. Renardet, he ordered the postman to besent up to him. Pale and out of breath, with his cap in his hand, Mederic found the Mayor seated in front of a long table covered withscattered papers. 

He was a big, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox and wasgreatly liked in the district, though of an excessively violentdisposition. Very nearly forty years old, and a widower for the past sixmonths, he lived on his estate like a country gentleman. His cholerictemperament had often brought him into trouble, from which themagistrates of Rouy-le-Tors, like indulgent and prudent friends, hadextricated him. Had he not one day thrown the conductor of the diligencefrom the top of his seat because he was near crushing his retriever, Micmac? Had he not broken the ribs of a gamekeeper, who abused him forhaving, with a gun in his hand, passed through a neighbor's property?Had he not even caught by the collar the sub-prefect, who stopped in thevillage in the course of an administrative round described by M. Renardet as an electioneering round; for he was against the government, according to his family tradition. 

The Mayor asked:

"What's the matter now, Mederic?"

"I found a little girl dead in your wood. "

Renardet rose up, with his face the color of brick. 

"Do you say--a little girl?"

"Yes, m'sieur, a little girl, quite naked, on her back, with blood onher, dead--quite dead!"

The Mayor gave vent to an oath:

"My God, I'd make a bet 'tis little Louise Roqué! I have just learnedthat she did not go home to her mother last night. Where did you findher?"

The postman pointed out where the place was, gave full details, andoffered to conduct the Mayor to the spot. 

But Renardet became brusque:

"No, I don't need you. Send the steward, the Mayor's secretary, and thedoctor immediately to me, and resume your rounds. Quick, quick, go andtell them to meet me in the woods. "

The letter-carrier, a man used to discipline, obeyed and withdrew, angryand grieved at not being able to be present at the investigation. 

The Mayor, in his turn, prepared to go out, took his hat, a big softhat, and paused for a few seconds on the threshold of his abode. Infront of him stretched a wide sward, in which three large patches wereconspicuous--three large beds of flowers in full bloom, one facing thehouse and the others at either side of it. Further on, rose skyward theprincipal trees in the wood, while at the left, above the Brindellewidened into a pool, could be seen long meadows, an entirely green flatsweep of the country, cut by dikes and willow edges like monsters, twisted dwarf-trees, always cut short, and having on their thick squattrunks a quivering tuft of thick branches. 

At the right, behind the stables, the outhouses, all the buildingsconnected with the property, might be seen the village, which waswealthy, being mainly inhabited by rearers of oxen. 

Renardet slowly descended the steps in front of his house, and turningto the left, gained the water's edge, which he followed at a slow pace, his hand behind his back. He went on with bent head, and from time totime he glanced round in search of the persons for whom he had sent. 

When he stood beneath the trees, he stopped, took off his hat, and wipedhis forehead as Mederic had done; for the burning sun was falling infiery rain upon the ground. Then the Mayor resumed his journey, stoppedonce more, and retraced his steps. Suddenly, stooping down, he steepedhis handkerchief in the stream that glided at his feet, and stretched itround his head, under his hat. Drops of water flowed along his templesover his ears always purple over his strong red neck, and made theirway, one after the other, under his white shirt-collar. 

As nobody yet appeared he began tapping with his foot, then he calledout--

"Hallo! Hallo!"

A voice at his right, answered:

"Hallo! Hallo!"

And the doctor appeared under the trees. He was a thin little man, anex-military surgeon, who passed in the neighborhood for a very skillfulpractitioner. He limped, having been wounded while in the service, andhad to use a stick to assist him in walking. 

Next came the steward and the Mayor's secretary, who, having been sentfor at the same time, arrived together. They looked scared, and hurriedforward out of breath, walking and trotting in turn in order to hastentheir progress, and moving their arms up and down so vigorously thatthey seemed to do more work with them than with their legs. 

Renardet said to the doctor:

"You know what the trouble is about?"

"Yes, a child found dead in the wood by Mederic. "

"That's quite correct. Come on. "

They walked on side by side, followed by the two men. 

Their steps made no noise on the moss, their eyes were gazing downwardright in front of them. 

The doctor hastened his steps, interested by the discovery. As soon asthey were near the corpse, he bent down to examine it without touchingit. He had put on a pair of glasses, as when one is looking at somecurious object, and turned round very quietly. 

He said without rising up:

"Violated and assassinated, as we are going to prove presently. Thislittle girl moreover, is almost a woman--look at her throat. "

Her two breasts, already nearly full-developed, fell over her chest, relaxed by death. 

The doctor lightly drew away the handkerchief which covered her face. Itlooked black, frightful, the tongue protruding, the eyes bloodshot. Hewent on:

"Faith, she was strangled the moment the deed was done. "

He felt her neck:

"Strangled with the hands without leaving any special trace, neither themark of the nails nor the imprint of the fingers. Quite right. It islittle Louise Roqué, sure enough!"

He delicately replaced the handkerchief:

"There's nothing for me to do--She's been dead for the last hour atleast. We must give notice of the matter to the authorities. "

Renardet, standing up, with his hands behind his back, kept staring witha stony look at the little body exposed to view on the grass. Hemurmured:

"What a wretch! We must find the clothes. "

The doctor felt the hands, the arms, the legs. He said:

"She must have been bathing, no doubt. They ought to be at the water'sedge. "

The Mayor thereupon gave directions:

"Do you, Princépe" (this was his secretary), "go and look for thoseclothes for me along the river. Do you, Maxime" (this was the steward), "hurry on towards Roug-le-Tors, and bring on here to me the examiningmagistrate with the gendarmes. They must be here within an hour. Youunderstand. "

The two men quickly departed, and Renardet said to the doctor:

"What miscreant has been able to do such a deed in this part of thecountry. "

The doctor murmured:

"Who knows? Everyone is capable of that? Everyone in particular andnobody in general. No matter, it must be some prowler, some workman outof employment. As we live under a Republic, we must expect to meet onlythis kind of person along the roads. "

Both of them were Bonapartists. 

The Mayor went on:

"Yes, it can only be a stranger, a passer-by, a vagabond without heartor home. "

The doctor added with the shadow of a smile on his face:

"And without a wife. Having neither a good supper nor a good bed, heprocured the rest for himself. You can't tell how many men there may bein the world capable of a crime at a given moment. Did you know thatthis little girl had disappeared?"

And with the end of his stick he touched one after the other thestiffened fingers of the corpse, resting on them as on the keys of apiano. 

"Yes, the mother came last night to look for me about nine o'clock, thechild not having come home from supper up to seven. We went to try andfind her along the roads up to midnight, but we did not think of thewood. However, we needed daylight to carry out a search with a practicalresult. "

"Will you have a cigar?" said the doctor. 

"Thanks, I don't care to smoke. It gives me a turn to look at this. "

They both remained standing in front of this corpse of a young girl, sopale, on the dark moss. A big fly with a blue belly that was walkingalong one of the thighs, stopped at the bloodstains, went on again, always rising higher, ran along the side with his lively, jerkymovements, climbed up one of the breasts, then came back again toexplore the other, looking out for something to drink on this dead girl. The two men kept watching this wandering black speck. 

The doctor said:

"How pretty it is, a fly on the skin! The ladies of the last centuryhad good reason to paste them on their faces. Why has this fashion goneout?"

The Mayor seemed not to hear, plunged as he was in deep thought. 

But, all of a sudden, he turned round, for he was surprised by a shrillnoise. A woman in a cap and a blue apron rushed up under the trees. Itwas the mother, La Roqué. As soon as she saw Renardet she began toshriek:

"My little girl, where's my little girl?" in such a distracted mannerthat she did not glance down at the ground. Suddenly, she saw thecorpse, stopped short, clasped her hands, and raised both her arms whileshe uttered a sharp, heartrending cry--the cry of a mutilated animal. Then she rushed towards the body, fell on her knees, and took off, as ifshe would have snatched it away, the handkerchief that covered the face. When she saw that frightful countenance, black and convulsed, she roseup with a shudder, then pressed her face against the ground, giving ventto terrible and continuous screams with her mouth close to the thickmoss. 

Her tall, thin frame, to which her clothes were clinging tightly, waspalpitating, shaken with convulsions. They could see her bony ankles andher dried up calves covered with thick blue stockings, shiveringhorribly; and she went digging the soil with her crooked fingers as ifin order to make a hole there to hide herself in it. 

The doctor moved, said in a low tone:

"Poor old woman!"

Renardet felt a strange rumbling in his stomach; then he gave vent to asort of loud sneeze that issued at the same time through his nose andthrough his mouth; and, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, hebegan to weep internally, coughing, sobbing, and wiping his facenoisily. 

He stammered--

"Damn--damn--damned pig to do this! I would like to see himguillotined. "

But Princépe reappeared, with his hands empty. He murmured--

"I have found nothing, M'sieu le Maire, nothing at all anywhere. "

The doctor, scared, replied in a thick voice, drowned in tears:

"What is that you could not find?"

"The little girl's clothes. "

"Well--well--look again, and find them--or you'll have to answer to me. "

The man, knowing that the Mayor would not brook opposition, set forthagain with hesitating steps, casting on the corpse indirect and timidglances. 

Distant voices arose under the trees, a confused sound, the noise of anapproaching crowd; for Mederic had, in the course of his rounds carriedthe news from door to door. The people of the neighborhood, stupefied atfirst, had gone chatting from their own firesides into the street, fromone threshold to another. Then they gathered together. They talked over, discussed, and commented on the event for some minutes, and they had nowcome to see it for themselves. 

They arrived in groups a little faltering and uneasy through fear of thefirst impression of such a scene on their minds. When they saw the bodythey stopped, not daring to advance, and speaking low. They grew bold, went on a few steps, stopped again, advanced once more, and soon theyformed around the dead girl, her mother, the doctor, and Renardet, athick circle, agitated and noisy, which crushed forward under the suddenpushes of the last comers. And now they touched the corpse. Some of themeven bent down to feel it with their fingers. The doctor kept them back. But the mayor, waking abruptly out of his torpor, broke into a rage, and, seizing Dr. Labarbe's stick, flung himself on his townspeople, stammering:

"Clear out--clear out--you pack of brutes--clear out!"

And in a second, the crowd of sightseers had fallen back two hundredmeters. 

La Roqué was lifted up, turned round, and placed in a sitting posture, and she now remained weeping with her hands clasped over her face. 

The occurrence was discussed among the crowd; and young lads' eager eyescuriously scrutinized this naked body of a girl. Renardet perceivedthis, and abruptly taking off his vest, he flung it over the littlegirl, who was entirely lost to view under the wide garment. 

The spectators drew near quietly. The wood was filled with people, and acontinuous hum of voices rose up under the tangled foliage of the talltrees. 

The Mayor, in his shirt sleeves, remained standing, with his stick inhis hands, in a fighting attitude. He seemed exasperated by thiscuriosity on the part of the people, and kept repeating:

"If one of you come nearer, I'll break his head just as I would adog's. "

The peasants were greatly afraid of him. They held back. Dr. Labarbe, who was smoking, sat down beside La Roqué, and spoke to her in order todistract her attention. The old woman soon removed her hands from herface, and she replied with a flood of tearful words, emptying her griefin copious talk. She told the whole story of her life, her marriage, thedeath of her man, a bullsticker, who had been gored to death, theinfancy of her daughter, her wretched existence as a widow withoutresources and with a child to support. She had only this one, her littleLouise, and the child had been killed--killed in this wood. All of asudden, she felt anxious to see it again, and dragging herself on herknees towards the corpse, she raised up one corner of the garment thatcovered her; then she let it fall again, and began wailing once more. The crowd remained silent, eagerly watching all the mother's gestures. 

But all of a sudden, a great swaying movement took place, and there wasa cry of "the gendarmes! the gendarmes!"

The gendarmes appeared in the distance, coming on at a rapid trot, escorting their captain and a little gentleman with red whiskers, whowas bobbing up and down like a monkey on a big white mare. 

The steward had just found M. Putoin, the examining magistrate, at themoment when he was mounting his horse to take his daily ride, for heposed as a good horseman to the great amusement of the officers. 

He alighted along with the captain, and passed the hands of the Mayorand the Doctor, casting a ferret-like glance on the linen vest whichswelled above the body lying underneath. 

When he was thoroughly acquainted with the facts, he first gave ordersto get rid of the public, whom the gendarmes drove out of the wood, butwho soon reappeared in the meadow, and formed a hedge, a big hedge ofexcited and moving heads all along the Brindelle, on the other side ofthe stream. 

The doctor in his turn, gave explanations, of which Renardet took a notein his memorandum book. All the evidence was given, taken down, andcommented on without leading to any discovery. Maxime, too, came backwithout having found any trace of the clothes. 

This disappearance surprised everybody; no one could explain it on thetheory of theft, and as these rags were not worth twenty sous, even thistheory was inadmissible. 

The examining magistrate, the mayor, the captain, and the doctor, set towork by searching in pairs, putting aside the smallest branches alongthe water. 

Renardet said to the judge:

"How does it happen that this wretch has concealed or carried away theclothes, and has thus left the body exposed in the open air and visibleto everyone?"

The other, sly and knowing, answered:

"Ha! Ha! Perhaps a dodge? This crime has been committed either by abrute or by a crafty blackguard. In any case we'll easily succeed infinding him. "

The rolling of a vehicle made them turn their heads round. It was thedeputy magistrate, the doctor and the registrar of the court who hadarrived in their turn. They resumed their searches, all chatting in ananimated fashion. 

Renardet said suddenly:

"Do you know that I am keeping you to lunch with me?"

Everyone smilingly accepted the invitation, and the examiningmagistrate, finding that the case of little Louise Roqué was quiteenough to bother about for one day, turned towards the Mayor:

"I can have the body brought to your house, can I not? You have a roomin which you can keep it for me till this evening. "

The other got confused, and stammered:

"Yes--no--no. To tell the truth, I prefer that it should not come intomy house on account of--on account of my servants who are alreadytalking about ghosts in--in my tower, in the Fox's tower. You know--Icould no longer keep a single one. No--I prefer not to have it in myhouse. "

The magistrate began to smile:

"Good! I am going to get it carried off at once to Roug, for the legalexamination. "

Turning towards the door:

"I can make use of your trap can I not?"

"Yes, certainly. "

Everybody came back to the place where the corpse lay. La Roqué now, seated beside her daughter, had caught hold of her head, and was staringright before her, with a wandering listless eye. 

The two doctors endeavored to lead her away, so that she might notwitness the dead girl's removal; but she understood at once what theywanted to do, and, flinging herself on the body, she seized it in botharms. Lying on top of the corpse, she exclaimed:

"You shall not have it--'tis mine--'tis mine now. They have killed heron me, and I want to keep her--you shall not have her--!"

All the men, affected and not knowing how to act, remained standingaround her. Renardet fell on his knees, and said to her:

"Listen, La Roqué, it is necessary in order to find out who killed her. Without this, it could not be found out. We must make a search for himin order to punish him. When we have found him, we'll give her up toyou. I promise you this. "

This explanation shook the woman's mind, and a feeling of hatredmanifested itself in her distracted glance. 

"So then they'll take him?"

"Yes, I promise you that. "

She rose up, deciding to let them do as they liked; but, when thecaptain remarked:

"'Tis surprising that her clothes were not found. "

A new idea, which she had not previously thought of, abruptly found anentrance into her brain, and she asked:

"Where are her clothes. They're mine. I want them. Where have they beenput?"

They explained to her that they had not been found. Then she called outfor them with desperate obstinacy and with repeated moans. 

"They're mine--I want them. Where are they? I want them!"

The more they tried to calm her the more she sobbed, and persisted inher demands. She no longer wanted the body, she insisted on having theclothes, as much perhaps through the unconscious cupidity of a wretchedbeing to whom a piece of silver represents a fortune, as throughmaternal tenderness. 

And when the little body rolled up in blankets which had been broughtout from Renardet's house, had disappeared in the vehicle, the old womanstanding under the trees, held up by the Mayor and the Captain, exclaimed:

"I have nothing, nothing, nothing in the world, not even her littlecap--her little cap. "

The curé had just arrived, a young priest already growing stout. He tookit on himself to carry off La Roqué, and they went away together towardsthe village. The mother's grief was modified under the sugary words ofthe clergyman, who promised her a thousand compensations. But sheincessantly kept repeating:

"If I had only her little cap. "

Sticking to this idea which now dominated every other. 

Renardet exclaimed some distance away:

"You lunch with us, Monsieur l'Abbé--in an hour's time. "

The priest turned his head round, and replied:

"With pleasure, Monsieur le Maire. I'll be with you at twelve. "

And they all directed their steps towards the house whose gray front andlarge tower built on the edge of the Brindelle, could be seen throughthe branches. 

The meal lasted a long time. They talked about the crime. Everybody wasof the same opinion. It had been committed by some tramp passing thereby mere chance while the little girl was bathing. 

Then the magistrates returned to Roug, announcing that they would returnnext day at an early hour. The doctor and the curé went to theirrespective homes, while Renardet, after a long walk through the meadows, returned to the wood where he remained walking till nightfall with slowsteps, his hands behind his back. 

He went to bed early, and was still asleep next morning when theexamining magistrate entered his room. He rubbed his hands together witha self-satisfied air. He said:

"Ha! ha! You're still sleeping. Well, my dear fellow, we have news thismorning. "

The Mayor sat up on his bed. 

"What, pray?"

"Oh! Something strange. You remember well how the mother yesterdayclamored for some memento of her daughter, especially her little cap?Well, on opening her door this morning, she found on the threshold, herchild's two little wooden shoes. This proves that the crime wasperpetrated by some one from the district, some one who felt pity forher. Besides, the postman, Mederic comes and brings the thimble, theknife and the needle case of the dead girl. So then the man in carryingoff the clothes in order to hide them, must have let fall the articleswhich were in the pocket. As for me, I attach special importance aboutthe wooden shoes, as they indicate a certain moral culture and a facultyfor tenderness on the part of the assassin. We will therefore, if I haveno objection, pass in review together the principal inhabitants of yourdistrict. "

The Mayor got up. He rang for hot water to shave with, and said:

"With pleasure, but it will take rather a long time, and we may begin atonce. "

M. Putoin had sat astride on a chair, thus pursuing even in a room, hismania for horsemanship. 

Renardet now covered his chin with a white lather while he looked athimself in the glass; then he sharpened his razor on the strop and wenton:

"The principal inhabitant of Carvelin bears the name of Joseph Renardet, Mayor, a rich landowner, a rough man who beats guards and coachmen--"

The examining magistrate burst out laughing:

"That's enough; let us pass on to the next. "

"The second in importance is ill. Pelledent, his deputy, a rearer ofoxen, an equally rich landowner, a crafty peasant, very sly, veryclose-fisted on every question of money, but incapable in my opinion, ofhaving perpetrated such a crime. "

M. Putoin said:

"Let us pass on. "

Then, while continuing to shave and wash himself, Renardet went on withthe moral inspection of all the inhabitants of Carvelin. After twohours' discussion, their suspicions were fixed on three individuals whohad hitherto borne a shady reputation--a poacher named Cavalle, a fisherfor trails and crayfish named Paquet, and a bullsticker named Clovis. 

 * * * * *

PART II

The search for the perpetrator of the crime lasted all the summer, buthe was not discovered. Those who were suspected and those who werearrested easily proved their innocence, and the authorities werecompelled to abandon the attempt to capture the criminal. 

But this murder seemed to have moved the entire country in a singularfashion. There redisquietude, a vague fear, a sensation of mysteriousterror, springing not merely from the impossibility of discovering anytrace of the assassin, but also and above all from that strange findingof the wooden shoes in front of La Roqué's door on the day after thecrime. The certainty that the murderer had assisted at theinvestigation, that he was still living in the village without doubt, left a gloomy impression on people's minds, and appeared to brood overthe neighborhood like an incessant menace. 

The wood besides, had become a dreaded spot, a place to be avoided, andsupposed to be haunted. 

Formerly, the inhabitants used to come and sit down on the moss at thefeet of the huge tall trees, or walk along the water's edge watching thetrouts gliding under the green undergrowth. The boys used to play bowls, hide-and-seek and other games in certain places where they had upturned, smoothed out, and leveled the soil, and the girls, in rows of four orfive, used to trip along holding one another by the arms, and screamingout with their shrill voices ballads which grated on the ear, and whosefalse notes disturbed the tranquil air and set the teeth on edge likedrops of vinegar. Now nobody went any longer under the wide lofty vault, as if people were afraid of always finding there some corpse lying onthe ground. 

Autumn arrived, the leaves began to fall. They fell down day and night, descended from the tall trees, round and round whirling to the ground;and the sky could be seen through the bare branches. Sometimes when agust of wind swept over the tree-tops, the slow, continuous rainsuddenly grew heavier, and became a storm with a hoarse roar, whichcovered the moss with a thick carpet of yellow water that made rather asquashing sound under the feet. And the almost imperceptible murmur, thefloating, ceaseless murmur gentle and sad, of this rainfall seemed likea low wail, and those leaves continually falling, seemed like tears, big tears shed by the tall mournful trees which were weeping, as itwere, day and night over the close of the year, over the ending of warmdawns and soft twilights, over the ending of hot breezes and brightsuns, and also perhaps over the crime which they had seen committedunder the shade of their branches, over the girl violated and killed attheir feet. They wept in the silence of the desolate empty wood, theabandoned, dreaded wood, where the soul, the childish soul of the deadlittle girl must be wandering all alone. 

The Brindelle, swollen by the storms, rushed on more quickly, yellow andangry, between its dry banks, between two thin, bare willow-hedges. 

And here was Renardet suddenly resuming his walks under the trees. Everyday, at sunset, he came out of his house decended the front stepsslowly, and entered the wood, in a dreamy fashion with his hands in hispockets. For a long time he paced over the damp soft moss, while alegion of rooks, rushing to the spot from all the neighboring haunts inorder to rest in the tall summits, unrolled themselves through space, like an immense mourning veil floating in the wind, uttering violent andsinister screams. Sometimes, they rested, dotting with black spots thetangled branches against the red sky, the sky crimsoned with autumntwilights. Then, all of a sudden, they set again, croaking frightfullyand trailing once more above the wood the long dark festoon of theirflight. 

They swooped down at last, on the highest treetops, and gradually theircawings died away while the advancing night mingled their black plumeswith the blackness of space. 

Renardet was still strolling slowly under the trees; then, when thethick darkness prevented him from walking any longer, he went back tothe house, sank all of a heap into his armchair in front of the glowinghearth, stretching towards the fire his damp feet from which for sometime under the flames vapor emanated. 

Now, one morning, an important bit of news was circulated around thedistrict; the Mayor was getting his wood cut down. 

Twenty woodcutters were already at work. They had commenced at thecorner nearest to the house, and they worked rapidly in the master'spresence. 

At first, the loppers climbed up the trunk. Tied to it by a rope collar, they cling round in the beginning with both arms, then, lifting one leg, they strike it hard with a blow of the edge of a steel instrumentattached to each foot. The edge penetrates the wood, and remains stuckin it; and the man rises up as if on a step in order to strike with thesteel attached to the other foot, and once more supports himself till helifts his first foot again. 

And with every upward movement he raises higher the rope collar whichfastens him to the tree. Over his loins, hangs and glitters the steelhatchet. He keeps continually clinging on in an easy fashion like aparasitic creature attacking a giant; he mounts slowly up the immensetrunk, embracing it and spurring it in order to decapitate it. 

As soon as he reaches the first branches, he stops, detaches from hisside the sharp ax, and strikes. He strikes slowly, methodically, cuttingthe limb close to the trunk, and, all of a sudden, the branch cracks, gives away, bends, tears itself off, and falls down grazing theneighboring trees in its fall. Then, it crashes down on the ground witha great sound of broken wood, and its slighter branches keep quiveringfor a long time. 

The soil was covered with fragments which other men cut in their turn, bound in bundles, and piled in heaps, while the trees which were stillleft standing seemed like enormous posts, gigantic forms amputated andshorn by the keen steel of the cutting instruments. 

And when the lopper had finished his task, he left at the top of thestraight slender shaft of the tree the rope collar which he had broughtup with him, and afterwards descends again with spurlike prods along thediscrowned trunk, which the woodcutters thereupon attacked at the base, striking it with great blows which resounded through all the rest of thewood. 

When the foot seemed pierced deeply enough, some men commenced draggingto the accompaniment of a cry in which they joined harmoniously, at therope attached to the top; and, all of a sudden, the immense mast crackedand tumbled to the earth with the dull sound and shock of a distantcannon-shot. 

And each day the wood grew thinner, losing its trees which fell down oneby one, as an army loses its soldiers. 

Renardet no longer walked up and down. He remained from morning tillnight, contemplating, motionless, and with his hands behind his back theslow death of his wood. When a tree fell, he placed his foot on it as ifit were a corpse. Then he raised his eyes to the next with a kind ofsecret, calm impatience, as if he had expected, hoped for, something atthe end of this massacre. 

Meanwhile, they were approaching the place where little Louise Roqué hadbeen found. At length, they came to it one evening, at the hour oftwilight. 

As it was dark, the sky being overcast, the woodcutters wanted to stoptheir work, putting off till next day the fall of an enormousbeech-tree, but the master objected to this, and insisted that even atthis hour they should lop and cut down this giant, which hadovershadowed the crime. 

When the lopper had laid it bare, had finished its toilets for theguillotine, when the woodcutters were about to sap its base, five mencommenced hauling at the rope attached to the top. 

The tree resisted; its powerful trunk, although notched up to the middlewas as rigid as iron. The workmen, altogether, with a sort of regularjump, strained at the rope, stooping down to the ground, and they gavevent to a cry with throats out of breath, so as to indicate and directtheir efforts. 

Two woodcutters standing close to the giant, remained with axes in theirgrip, like two executioners ready to strike once more, and Renardet, motionless, with his hand on the bark, awaited the fall with an uneasy, nervous feeling. 

One of the men said to him:

"You're too near, Monsieur le Maire. When it falls, it may hurt you. "

He did not reply and did not recoil. He seemed ready himself to catchthe beech-tree in his open arms in order to cast it on the ground like awrestler. 

All at once, at the foot of the tall column of wood there was a rentwhich seemed to run to the top, like a painful shake; and it bentslightly, ready to fall, but still resisting. The men, in a state ofexcitement, stiffened their arms, renewed their efforts with greatervigor, and, just as the tree, breaking, came crashing down, Renardetsuddenly made forward step, then stopped, his shoulders raised toreceive the irresistible shock, the mortal shock which would crush himon the earth. 

But the beech-tree, having deviated a little, only rubbed against hisloins, throwing him on his face five meters away. 

The workmen dashed forward to lift him up. He had already risen to hisknees, stupefied, with wandering eyes, and passing his hand across hisforehead, as if he were awaking out of an attack of madness. 

When he had got to his feet once more, the men, astonished, questionedhim, not being able to understand what he had done. He replied, infaltering tones, that he had had for a moment a fit of abstraction, orrather a return to the days of his childhood, that he imagined he had topass his time under a tree, just as street-boys rush in front ofvehicles driving rapidly past, that he had played at danger, that, forthe past eight days, he felt this desire growing stronger within him, asking himself whether, every time one was cracking, so as to be on thepoint of falling, he could pass beneath it without being touched. It wasa piece of stupidity he confessed; but everyone has these moments ofinsanity, and these temptations towards boyish folly. 

He made this explanation in a slow tone, searching for his words, andspeaking in a stupefied fashion. 

Then, he went off, saying:

"Till to-morrow, my friends--till to-morrow. "

As soon as he had got back to his room, he sat down before his table, which his lamp, covered with a shade, lighted up brightly, and, claspinghis hands over his forehead, he began to cry. 

He remained crying for a long time, then wiped his eyes, raised hishead, and looked at the clock. It was not yet six o'clock. 

He thought:

"I have time before dinner. "

And he went to the door and locked it. He then came back, and sat downbefore his table. He pulled out a drawer in the middle of it, and takingfrom it a revolver, laid it down over his papers, under the glare of thesun. The barrel of the fire-arm glittered and cast reflections whichresembled flames. 

Renardet gazed at it for some time with the uneasy glance of a drunkenman; then he rose by, and began to pace up and down the room. 

He walked from one end of the apartment to the other, and stopped fromtime to time, and started to pace up and down again a moment afterwards. Suddenly, he opened the door of his dressing room, steeped a napkin in awater-jug and moistened his forehead, as he had done on the morning ofthe crime. 

Then he went walking up and down once more. Each time he passed thetable the gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand; buthe kept watching the clock, and reflected:

"I have still time. "

It struck half-past six. Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouthwide with a frightful grimace, and stuck the barrel into it, as if hewanted to swallow it. He remained in this position for some secondswithout moving, his finger on the lock, then, suddenly, seized with ashudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet. 

And he fell back on his arm-chair, sobbing:

"I can't. I dare not! My God! My God! How can I have the courage to killmyself?"

There was a knock at the door. He rose up in a stupefied condition. Aservant said:

"Monsieur's dinner is ready. "

He replied:

"All right. I'm going down. "

Then he picked up the revolver, locked it up again in the drawer, thenhe looked at himself in the glass over the mantelpiece to see whetherhis face did not look too much convulsed. It was as red as usual, alittle redder perhaps. That was all. He went down, and seated himselfbefore the table. 

He ate slowly, like a man who wants to drag on the meal, who does notwant to be alone with himself. 

Then he smoked several pipes in the hall while the plates were beingremoved. After that, he went back to his room. 

As soon as he was shut up in it, he looked under his bed, opened all hiscupboards, explored every corner, rummaged through all the furniture. Then he lighted the tapers over the mantelpiece, and, turning roundseveral times, ran his eye all over the apartment with an anguish ofterror that made his face lose its color, for he knew well that he wasgoing to see her, as on every night--Little Louise Roqué, the littlegirl he had violated and afterwards strangled. 

Every night the odious vision came back again. First, it sounded in hisears like a kind of snorting such as is made by a threshing machine orthe distant passage of a train over a bridge. Then he commenced to pant, to feel suffocated, and he had to unbutton his shirt-collar and hisbelt. He moved about to make his blood circulate, he tried to read, heattempted to sing. It was in vain. His thoughts, in spite of himself, went back to the day of the murder, and made him begin it all over againin all its most secret details, with all the violent emotions he hadexperienced from the first minute to the last. 

He had felt on rising up that morning, the morning of the horrible day, a little stupefaction and dizziness which he attributed to the heat, sothat he remained in his room till the time came for breakfast. 

After the meal he had taken a siesta, then, towards the close of theafternoon, he had gone out to breathe the fresh, soothing breeze underthe trees in the wood. 

But, as soon as they were outside, the heavy, scorching air of the plainoppressed him more. The sun, still high in the heavens, poured out onthe parched soil, dry and thirsty, floods of ardent light. Not a breathof wind stirred the leaves. Every beast and bird, even the grasshoppers, were silent. Renardet reached the tall trees, and began to walk over themoss where the Brindelle sent forth a slight, cool vapor under theimmense roof of trees. But he felt ill at ease. It seemed to him that anunknown, invisible hand, was squeezing his neck, and he scarcely thoughtof anything, having usually few ideas in his head. For the last threemonths, only one thought haunted him, the thought of marrying again. Hesuffered from living alone, suffered from it morally and physically. Accustomed for ten years past to feeling a woman near him, habituatedto her presence every moment, to her embrace each successive day, he hadneed, an imperious and perplexing need of incessant contact with her andthe regular touch of her lips. Since Madame Renardet's death, he hadsuffered continually without knowing why, he had suffered from notfeeling her dress brush against his legs every day, and, above all, fromno longer being able to grow calm and languid between her arms. He hadbeen scarcely six months a widower, and he had already been looking outthrough the district for some young girl or some widow he might marrywhen his period of marrying was at an end. 

He had a chaste soul, but it was lodged in a powerful Herculean body, and carnal images began to disturb his sleep and his vigils. He drovethem away; they came back again; and he murmured from time to time, smiling at himself:

"Here I am, like St. Antony. "

Having had this morning several besetting visions, the desire suddenlycame into his breast to bathe in the Brindelle in order to refreshhimself and appease the ardor of his heat. 

He knew, a little further on, a large deep spot where the people of theneighborhood came sometimes to take a dip in summer. He went there. 

Thick willow trees hid this clear volume of water where the currentrested and went to sleep for a little while before starting its wayagain. Renardet, as he appeared, thought he heard a light sound, a faintsmell which was not that of the stream on the banks. He softly put asidethe leaves and looked. A little girl, quite naked in the transparentwater, was beating the waves with both hands, dancing about in them alittle and dipping herself with pretty movements. She was not a childnor was she yet a woman. She was plump and formed, while preserving anair of youthful precocity, as of one who had grown rapidly, and who wasnow almost ripe. He no longer moved, overcome with surprise, with a pangof desire, holding his breath with a strange poignant emotion. Heremained there, his heart beating as if one of his sensual dreams hadjust been realized, as if an impure fairy had conjured up before himthis creature so disturbing to his blood, so very young this littlerustic Venus, was born in the waves of the sea. 

Suddenly the little girl came out of the water, and without seeing cameover to where he stood looking for her clothes in order to dressherself. While she was gradually approaching with little hesitatingsteps, through fear of the sharp pointed stones, he felt himself pushedtowards her by an irresistible force, by a bestial transport of passion, which stirred up all his flesh, stupefied his soul, and made him tremblefrom head to foot. 

She remained standing some seconds behind the willow tree whichconcealed him from view. Then, losing his reason entirely, he opened thebranches, rushed on her, and seized her in his arms. She fell, tooscared to offer any resistance, too much terror-stricken to cry out, andhe possessed her without understanding what he was doing. 

He woke up from his crime, as one wakes out of a nightmare. The childburst out weeping. 

He said:

"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! I'll give you money. "

But she did not hear him, she went on sobbing. 

He went on:

"Come now, hold your tongue! Do hold your tongue. Keep quiet. "

She still kept shrieking, writhing in the effort to get away from him. He suddenly realized that he was ruined, and he caught her by the neckto stop her mouth from uttering these heartrending, dreadful screams. Asshe continued to struggle with the desperate strength of a being who isseeking to fly from death, he pressed his enormous hands on the littlethroat swollen with cries, and in a few seconds he had strangled her sofuriously did he grip her, without intending to kill her but only tomake her keep silent. 

Then he rose up overwhelmed with horror. 

She lay before him with her face bleeding and blackened. He was going torush away when there sprang up in his agitated soul the mysterious andundefined instinct that guides all beings in the hour of danger. 

It was necessary to throw the body into the water; but another impulsedrove him towards the clothes, of which he made a thin parcel. Then ashe had a piece of twine in his pocket, he tied it up and hid it in adeep portion of the stream, under the trunk of a tree, the foot of whichwas steeped in the Brindelle. 

Then he went off at a rapid pace, reached the meadows, took a wide turnin order to show himself to some peasants who dwelt some distance awayat the opposite side of the district, and he came back to dine at theusual hour, and told his servants all that was supposed to have happenedduring his walk. 

He slept, however, that night; he slept with a heavy brutish sleep, suchas the sleep of persons condemned to death must be occasionally. Heonly opened his eyes at the first glimmer of dawn, and he waited, tortured by the fear of having his crime discovered, for his usualwaking hour. 

Then he would have to be present at all the stages of the inquiry as tothe cause of death. He did so after the fashion of a somnambulist, in ahallucination which showed him things and human beings in a sort ofdream, in a cloud of intoxication, in that dubious sense of unrealitywhich perplexes the mind at the time of the greatest catastrophe. 

The only thing that pierced his heart was La Roqué's cry of anguish. Atthat moment he felt inclined to cast himself at the old woman's feet, and to exclaim--

"'Tis I. "

But he restrained himself. He went back, however, during the night, tofish up the dead girl's wooden shoes, in order to carry them to hermother's threshold. 

As long as the inquiry lasted, as long as it was necessary to guide andaid justice, he was calm, master of himself, sly and smiling. Hediscussed quietly with the magistrates all the suppositions that passedthrough their minds, combated their opinions, and demolished theirarguments. He even took a keen and mournful pleasure in disturbing theirinvestigations, in embroiling their ideas in showing the innocence ofthose whom they suspected. 

But from the day when the inquiry came to a close he became graduallynervous, more excitable still than he had been before, although hemastered his irritability. Sudden noises made him jump up with fear; heshuddered at the slightest thing, trembled sometimes from head to footwhen a fly alighted on his forehead. Then he was seized with animperious desire for movement, which compelled him to keep continuallyon foot, and made him remain up whole nights walking to and fro in hisown room. 

It was not that he was goaded by remorse. His brutality did not lenditself to any shade of sentiment or of moral terror. A man of energy andeven of violence, born to make war, to ravage conquered countries and tomassacre the vanquished, full of the savage instincts of the hunter andthe fighter, he scarcely took count of human life. Though he respectedthe church through policy, he believed neither in God nor in the devil, expecting consequently in another life neither chastisement norrecompense for his acts. As his sole belief, he retained a vaguephilosophy composed of all the ideas of the encyclopedists of the lastcentury; and he regarded religion as a moral sanction of the law, theone and the other having been invented by men to regulate socialrelations. To kill anyone in a duel, or in war, or in a quarrel, or byaccident, or for the sake of revenge, or even through bravado, wouldhave seemed to him an amusing and clever thing, and would not have leftmore impression on his mind than a shot fired at a hare; but he hadexperienced a profound emotion at the murder of this child. He had, inthe first place, perpetrated it in the distraction of an irresistiblegust of passion, in a sort of spiritual tempest that had overpowered hisreason. And he had cherished in his heart, cherished in his flesh, cherished on his lips, cherished even to the very tips of his murderousfingers, a kind of bestial love, as well as a feeling of crushinghorror, towards this little girl surprised by him and basely killed. Every moment his thoughts returned to that horrible scene, and, thoughhe endeavored to drive away this picture from his mind, though he put itaside with terror, with disgust, he felt it surging through his soul, moving about in him, waiting incessantly for the moment to reappear. 

Then, in the night, he was afraid, afraid of the shadow falling aroundhim. He did not yet know why the darkness seemed to seem frightful tohim; but he instinctively feared it, he felt that it was peopled withterrors. The bright daylight did not lend itself to fears. Things andbeings were seen there, and so there were only to be met there naturalthings and beings which could exhibit themselves in the light of day. But the night, the unpenetrable night, thicker than walls, and empty, the infinite night, so black, so vast, in which one might brush againstfrightful things, the night when one feels that mysterious terror iswandering, prowling about, appeared to him to conceal an unknown danger, close and menacing. 

What was it?

He knew it ere long. As he sat in his armchair, rather late one eveningwhen he could not sleep, he thought he saw the curtain of his windowmove. He waited, in an uneasy state of mind, with beating heart. Thedrapery did not stir; then, all of a sudden it moved once more. He didnot venture to rise up; he no longer ventured to breathe, and yet he wasbrave. He had often fought, and he would have liked to catch thieves inhis house. 

Was it true that this curtain did move? he asked himself, fearing thathis eyes had deceived him. It was, moreover, such a slight thing, agentle flutter of lace, a kind of trembling in its folds, less than anundulation such as is caused by the wind. 

Renardet sat still, with staring eyes, and outstretched neck; and hesprang to his feet abruptly ashamed of his fear, took four steps, seizedthe drapery with both hands, and pulled it wide apart. At first, he sawnothing but darkened glass, resembling plates of glittering ink. Thenight, the vast, impenetrable sketched behind as far as the invisiblehorizon. He remained standing in front of this illimitable shadow, andsuddenly he perceived a light, a moving light, which seemed somedistance away. 

Then he put his face close to the window-pane, thinking that a personlooking for crayfish might be poaching in the Brindelle, for it was pastmidnight, and this light rose up at the edge of the stream, under thetrees. As he was not yet able to see clearly, Renardet placed his handsover his eyes; and suddenly this light became an illumination, and hebeheld little Louise Roqué naked and bleeding on the moss. He recoiledfrozen with horror, sank into his chair, and fell backward. He remainedthere some minutes, his soul in distress, then he sat up and began toreflect. He had had a hallucination--that was all; a hallucination dueto the fact that a marauder of the night was walking with a lantern inhis hand near the water's edge. What was there astonishing, besides, inthe circumstance that the recollection of his crime should sometimesbring before him the vision of the dead girl?

He rose up, swallowed a glass of wine and sat down again. 

He thought. 

"What am I to do if this come back?"

And it did come back; he felt it; he was sure of it. Already his glancewas drawn towards the window; it called him; it attracted him. In orderto avoid looking at it, he turned aside his chair. Then he took a bookand tried to read; but it seemed to him that he presently heardsomething stirring behind him, and he swung round his armchair on onefoot. 

The curtain still moved--unquestionably, it did move this time; he couldno longer have any doubt about it. 

He rushed forward and seized it in his grasp so violently that heknocked it down with its fastener. Then, he eagerly pasted his faceagainst the glass. He saw nothing. All was black without; and hebreathed with the delight of a man whose life has just been saved. 

Then, he went back to his chair, and sat down again; but almostimmediately he felt a longing once more to look out through the window. Since the curtain had fallen the space in front of him made a sort ofdark patch fascinating and terrible on the obscure landscape. In ordernot to yield to this dangerous temptation, he took off his clothes, blewout the light, went to bed, and shut his eyes. 

Lying on his back motionless, his skin hot and moist, he awaited sleep. Suddenly a great gleam of light flashed across his eyelids. He openedthem, believing that his dwelling was on fire. All was black as before, and he leaned on his elbow in order to try to distinguish his windowwhich had still for him an unconquerable attraction. By dint ofstraining his eyes, he could perceive some stars, and he arose, gropedhis way across the room, discovered the panes with his outstretchedhands, and placed his forehead close to them. There below, under thetrees, the body of the little girl glittered like phosphorus, lightingup the surrounding darkness. 

Renardet uttered a cry and rushed towards his bed, where he lay tillmorning, his head hidden under the pillow. 

From that moment, his life became intolerable. He passed his days inapprehension of each succeeding night; and each night the vision cameback again. As soon as he had locked himself up in his room, he stroveto struggle; but in vain. An irresistible force lifted him up and pushedhim against the glass, as if to call the phantom, and ere long he saw itlying at first in the spot where the crime was committed, lying witharms and legs outspread, just in the way the body had been found. 

Then the dead girl rose up and came towards him with little steps justas the child had done when she came out of the river. She advancedquietly, passing straight across the grass, and over the border ofwithered flowers. Then she rose up into the air towards Renardet'swindow. She came towards him, as she had come on the day of the crimetowards the murderer. And the man recoiled before the apparition--heretreated to his bed and sank down upon it, knowing well that the littleone had entered the room, and that she now was standing behind thecurtain which presently moved. And until daybreak, he kept staring atthis curtain, with a fixed glance, ever waiting to see his victimdepart. 

But she did not show herself any more; she remained there behind thecurtain which quivered tremulously now and then. 

And Renardet, his fingers clinging to the bedclothes, squeezed them ashe had squeezed the throat of little Louise Roqué. 

He heard the clock striking the hours; and in the stillness the pendulumkept ticking in time with the loud beatings of his heart. And hesuffered, the wretched man, more than any man had ever suffered before. 

Then, as soon as a white streak of light on the ceiling announced theapproaching day, he felt himself free, alone, at last, alone in hisroom; and at last he went to sleep. He slept then some hours--arestless, feverish sleep in which he retraced in dreams the horriblevision of the night just past. 

When, later on, he went down to breakfast, he felt doubled up as ifafter prodigious fatigues; and he scarcely ate anything, still hauntedas he was by the fear of what he had seen the night before. 

He knew well, however, that it was not an apparition, that the dead donot come back, and that his sick soul, his soul possessed by one thoughtalone, by an indelible remembrance, was the only cause of hispunishment, the only evoker of the dead girl brought back by it to life, called up by it and raised by it before his eyes in which theineffaceable image remained imprinted. But he knew, too, that he couldnot cure it, that he would never escape from the savage persecution ofhis memory; and he resolved to die, rather than to endure these torturesany longer. 

Then, he thought of how he would kill himself. He wished for somethingsimple and natural, which would preclude the idea of suicide. For heclung to his reputation, to the names bequeathed to him by hisancestors; and if there were any suspicion as the cause of his death, people's thoughts might be perhaps directed towards the mysteriouscrime, towards the murderer who could not be found, and they would nothesitate to accuse him of the crime. 

A strange idea came into his head, that of getting himself crushed bythe tree at the foot of which he had assassinated little Louise Roqué. So he determined to have his wood cut down, and to simulate an accident. But the beech-tree refused to smash his ribs. 

Returning to his house, a prey to utter despair he had snatched up hisrevolver, and then he did not dare to fire it. 

The dinner bell summoned him. He could eat nothing, and then he wentup-stairs again. And he did not know what he was going to do. Now thathe had escaped the first time, he felt himself a coward. Presently, hewould be ready, fortified, decided, master of his courage and of hisresolution; now, he was weak and feared death as much as he did the deadgirl. 

He faltered:

"I will not venture it again--I will not venture it. "

Then he glanced with terror, first at the revolver on the table, andnext at the curtain which hid his window. It seemed to him, moreoverthat something horrible would occur as soon as his life was ended. Something? What? A meeting with her perhaps. She was watching for him;she was waiting for him; she was calling him; and her object was toseize him in her turn, to draw him towards the doom that would avengeher, and to lead him to die so that she might exhibit herself thus everynight. 

He began to cry like a child, repeating:

"I will not venture it again--I will not venture it. " Then, he fell onhis knees, and murmured:

"My God! my God!" without believing, nevertheless, in God. And he nolonger dared, in fact, to look out through his window where he knew theapparition was visible nor at his table where his revolver gleamed. 

When he had risen up, he said:

"This cannot last; there must be an end of it. "

The sound of his voice in the silent room made a shiver of fear passthrough his limbs, but, as he could not bring himself to come to adetermination as he felt certain that his finger would always refuse topull the trigger of his revolver, he turned round to hide his head underthe bedclothes, and plunged into reflection. 

He would have to find some way in which he could force himself to die, to invent some device against himself, which would not permit of anyhesitation on his part, any delay, any possible regrets. He enviedcondemned criminals who are led to the scaffold surrounded by soldiers. Oh! if he could only beg of some one to shoot him; if he could, confessing the state of his soul, confessing his crime to a sure friendwho would never divulge it, obtain from him death. 

But from whom could he ask this terrible service? From whom? He castabout in his thoughts among his friends whom he knew intimately. Thedoctor? No, he would talk about it afterwards, most certainly. Andsuddenly a fantastic idea entered his mind. He would write to theexamining magistrate, who was on terms of close friendship with him andwould denounce himself as the perpetrator of the crime. He would in thisletter confess everything, revealing how his soul had been tortured, howhe had resolved to die, how he had hesitated about carrying out hisresolution, and what means he had employed to strengthen his failingcourage. And in the name of their old friendship he would implore of theother to destroy the letter as soon as he had ascertained that theculprit had inflicted justice on himself. Renardet might rely on thismagistrate, he knew him to be sure, discreet, incapable of even an idleword. He was one of those men who have an inflexible consciencegoverned, directed, regulated by their reason alone. 

Scarcely had he formed this project when a strange feeling of joy tookpossession of his heart. He was calm now. He would write his letterslowly, then at daybreak he would deposit it in the box nailed to thewall in his office, then he would ascend his tower to watch for thepostman's arrival, and when the man in the blue blouse showed himself, he would cast himself head foremost on the rocks on which thefoundations rested. He would take care to be seen first by the workmenwho had cut down his wood. He could then climb to the step some distanceup which bore the flag staff displayed on fête days. He would smash thispole with a shake and precipitate it along with him. 

Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killedcompletely, having regard to his weight and the height of the tower. 

Presently he got out of bed, went over to the table, and began to write. He omitted nothing, not a single detail of the crime, not a singledetail of the torments of his heart, and he ended by announcing that hehad passed sentence on himself, that he was going to execute thecriminal, and begging of his friend, his old friend, to be careful thatthere should never be any stain on his memory. 

When he had finished his letter, he saw that the day had dawned. 

He closed and sealed it, wrote the address; then he descended with lightsteps, hurried towards the little white box fastened to the wall in thecorner of the farm-house, and when he had thrown into it the paper whichmade his hand tremble, he came back quickly, shut the bolts of the greatdoor, and climbed up to his tower to wait for the passing of thepostman, who would convey his death sentence. 

He felt self-possessed, now. Liberated! Saved!

A cold dry wind, an icy wind, passed across his face. He inhaled iteagerly, with open mouth, drinking in its chilling kiss. The sky wasred, with a burning red, the red of winter, and all the plain whitenedwith frost glistened under the first rays of the sun, as if it had beenpowdered with bruised glass. 

Renardet, standing up, with his head bare, gazed at the vast tract ofcountry before him, the meadow to the left, and to the right the villagewhose chimneys were beginning to smoke with the preparations for themorning meal. At his feet he saw the Brindelle flowing towards therocks, where he would soon be crushed to death. He felt himself rebornon that beautiful frosty morning, full of strength, full of life. Thelight bathed him, penetrated him like a new-born hope. A thousandrecollections assailed him, recollections of similar mornings, of rapidwalks on the hard earth which rang under his footsteps, of happy chaseson the edges of pools where wild ducks sleep. All the good things thathe loved, the good things of existence rushed into memory, penetratedhim with fresh desires, awakened all the vigorous appetites of hisactive, powerful body. 

And he was about to die? Why? He was going to kill himself stupidly, because he was afraid of a shadow--afraid of nothing? He was still richand in the prime of life! What folly! But all he wanted was distraction, absence, a voyage in order to forget. 

This night even he had not seen the little girl because his mind waspreoccupied, and so had wandered towards some other subject. Perhaps hewould not see her any more? And even if she still haunted him in thishouse, certainly she would not follow him elsewhere! The earth was wide, the future was long. 

Why die?

His glance traveled across the meadows, and he perceived a blue spot inthe path which wound alongside the Brindelle. It was Mederic coming tobring letters from the town and to carry away those of the village. 

Renardet got a start, a sensation of pain shot through his breast, andhe rushed towards the winding staircase to get back his letter, todemand it back from the postman. Little did it matter to him now whetherhe was seen. He hurried across the grass moistened by the light frost ofthe previous night, and he arrived in front of the box in the corner ofthe farm-house exactly at the same time as the letter carrier. 

The latter had opened the little wooden door, and drew forth the fourpapers deposited there by the inhabitants of the locality. 

Renardet said to him:

"Good morrow, Mederic. "

"Good morrow, M'sieu le Maire. "

"I say, Mederic, I threw a letter into the box that I want back again. Icame to ask you to give it back to me. "

"That's all right, M'sieur le Maire--you'll get it. "

And the postman raised his eyes. He stood petrified at the sight ofRenardet's face. The Mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were glaringwith black circles round them as if they were sunk in his head, his hairwas all tangled, his beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It wasevident that he had not gone to bed. 

The postman asked:

"Are you ill, M'sieur le Maire?"

The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual, lost countenance, and faltered--

"Oh! no--oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter. Iwas asleep. You understand?"

He said in reply:

"What letter?"

"The one you are going to give back to me. "

Mederic now began to hesitate. The Mayor's attitude did not strike himas natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a politicalsecret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all thetricks and chicaneries employed at elections. 

He asked:

"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?"

"To M. Putoin, the examining magistrate--you know my friend, M. Putoin, well!"

The postman searched through the papers, and found the one asked for. Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between hisfingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of committing agrave offense or of making an enemy for himself of the Mayor. 

Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose ofseizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt actionconvinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made himresolve to do his duty, cost what it may. 

So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:

"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire. From the moment it goes to themagistrate, I can't. "

A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart, and he murmured:

"Why, you know me well. You are even able to recognize my handwriting. Itell you I want that paper. "

"I can't. "

"Look here, Mederic, you know that I'm incapable of deceiving you--Itell you I want it. "

"No, I can't. "

A tremor of rage passed through Renardet's soul. 

"Damn it all, take care! You know that I don't go in for chaffing, andthat I could get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without muchdelay either. And then, I am the Mayor of the district, after all; and Inow order you to give me back that paper. "

The postman answered firmly:

"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire. "

Thereupon, Renardet, losing his head, caught hold of the postman's armsin order to take away his bag; but, freeing himself by a strong effort, and springing backwards, the letter carrier raised his big holly stick. Without losing his temper, he said emphatically:

"Don't touch me, M'sieur le Maire, or I'll strike. Take care, I'm onlydoing my duty!"

Feeling that he was lost, Renardet suddenly became humble, gentle, appealing to him like a crying child:

"Look here, look here, my friend, give me back that letter, and I'llrecompense you--I'll give you money. Stop! Stop! I'll give you a hundredfrancs, you understand--a hundred francs!"

The postman turned on his heel and started on his journey. 

Renardet followed him, out of breath, faltering:

"Mederic, Mederic, listen! I'll give you a thousand francs, youunderstand--a thousand francs. "

The postman still went on without giving any answer. 

Renardet went on:

"I'll make your fortune, you understand--whatever you wish--fiftythousand francs--fifty thousand francs for that letter! What does itmatter to you? You won't? Well, a hundred thousand--I say--a hundredthousand francs. Do you understand? A hundred thousand francs--a hundredthousand francs. "

The postman turned back, his face hard, his eye severe:

"Enough of this, or else I'll repeat to the magistrate everything youhave just said to me. "

Renardet stopped abruptly. It was all over. He turned back and rushedtowards his house, running like a hunted animal. 

Then, in his turn, Mederic stopped, and watched this flight withstupefaction. He saw the Mayor re-entering his own house, and he waitedstill as if something astonishing was about to happen. 

In fact, presently the tall form of Renardet appeared on the summit ofthe Fox's tower. He ran round the platform, like a madman. Then heseized the flagstaff and shook it furiously without succeeding inbreaking it, then, all of a sudden, like a swimmer taking a plunge, hedashed into the air with his two hands in front of him. 

Mederic rushed forward to give succor. As he crossed the park, he sawthe woodcutters going to work. He called out to them telling them anaccident had occurred, and at the foot of the walls they found ableeding body the head of which was crushed on a rock. The Brindellesurrounded this rock, and over its clear, calm waters, swollen at thispoint, could be seen a long red stream of mingled brains and blood. 

 * * * * *

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

"The Comtesse Samoris. "

"That lady in black over there?"

"The very one. She's wearing mourning for her daughter, whom shekilled. "

"Come now! You don't mean that seriously?"

"Oh! it is a very simple story, without any crime in it, any violence. "

"Then what really happened?"

"Almost nothing. Many courtesans were born to be virtuous women, theysay; and many women called virtuous were born to be courtesans--is thatnot so? Now, Madame Samoris, who was born a courtesan, had a daughterborn a virtuous woman, that's all. "

"I don't quite understand you. "

"I'll explain what I mean. The Comtesse Samoris is one of those tinselforeign women hundreds of whom are rained down every year on Paris. AHungarian or Wallachian countess, or I know not what, she appeared onewinter in apartments she had taken in the Champs Elysees, that quarterfor adventurers and adventuresses, and opened her drawing-room to thefirst comer or to anyone that turned up. 

"I went there. Why? you will say. I really can't tell you. I went there, as everyone goes to such places because the women are facile and the menare dishonest. You know that set composed of filibusters with varieddecorations, all noble, all titled, all unknown at the embassies, withthe exception of those who are spies. All talk of their honor withoutthe slightest occasion for doing so, boast of their ancestors, tell youabout their lives, braggarts, liars, sharpers, as dangerous as the falsecards they have up their sleeves, as delusive as their name--in short, the aristocracy of the bagnio. 

"I adore these people. They are interesting to study, interesting toknow, amusing to understand, often clever, never commonplace like publicfunctionaries. Their wives are always pretty, with a slight flavor offoreign roguery, with the mystery of their existence, half of it perhapsspent in a house of correction. They have, as a rule, magnificent eyesand incredible hair. I adore them also. 

"Madame Samoris is the type of these adventuresses, elegant, mature, andstill beautiful. Charming feline creatures, you feel that they arevicious to the marrow of their bones. You find them very amusing whenyou visit them; they give card-parties; they have dances and suppers; inshort, they offer you all the pleasures of social life. 

"And she had a daughter--a tall, fine-looking girl, always ready forentertainments, always full of laughter and reckless gayety--a trueadventuress's daughter--but, at the same time, an innocent, unsophisticated, artless girl, who saw nothing, knew nothing, understoodnothing of all the things that happened in her father's house. "

"How do you know about him?"

"How do I know? That's the funniest part of the business! One morning, there was a ring at my door, and my valet came up to tell me that M. Joseph Bonenthal wanted to speak to me. I said directly: 'And who isthis gentleman?' My valet replied: 'I don't know, monsieur; perhaps'tis someone that wants employment. ' And so it was. The man wanted me totake him as a servant. I asked him where he had been last. He answered:'With the Comtesse Samoris. ' 'Ah!' said I, 'but my house is not a bitlike hers. ' 'I know that well, monsieur, ' he said, 'and that's the veryreason I want to take service with monsieur. I've had enough of thesepeople: a man may stay a little while with them, but he won't remainlong with them. ' I required an additional man servant at the time, andso I took him. 

"A month later, Mademoiselle Yveline Samoris died mysteriously, and hereare all the details of her death I could gather from Joseph, who gotthem from his sweetheart, the Comtesse's chambermaid:

"It was a ball-night, and two newly-arrived guests were chatting behinda door. Mademoiselle Yveline, who had just been dancing, leaned againstthis door to get a little air. 

"They did not see her approaching; but she heard what they were saying. And this was what they said:

"'But who is the father of the girl?'

"'A Russian, it appears, Count Rouvaloff. He never comes near the mothernow. '

"'And who is the reigning prince to-day?'

"'That English prince standing near the window; Madame Samoris adoreshim. But her adoration of anyone never lasts longer than a month or sixweeks. Nevertheless, as you see, she has a large circle of admirers. Allare called--and nearly all are chosen. That kind of thing costs a gooddeal, but--hang it, what can you expect?'

"'And where did she get this name of Samoris?'

"'From the only man perhaps that she ever loved--a Jewish banker fromBerlin who goes by the name of Samuel Morris. '

"'Good. Thanks. Now that I know all about her, and see her sort, I'moff!'

"What a start there was in the brain of the young girl endowed with allthe instincts of a virtuous woman! What despair overwhelmed that simplesoul! What mental tortures quenched her endless gayety, her delightfullaughter, her exulting satisfaction with life! What a conflict tookplace in that youthful heart up to the moment when the last guest hadleft! Those were things that Joseph could not tell me. But, the samenight, Yveline abruptly entered her mother's room just as the Comtessewas getting into bed, sent out the waiting-maid, who was close to thedoor, and, standing erect and pale, and with great staring eyes, shesaid:

"'Mamma, listen to what I heard a little while ago during the ball. '

"And she repeated word for word the conversation just as I told it toyou. 

"The Comtesse was so stupefied that she did not know what to say inreply, at first. When she recovered her self-possession, she deniedeverything, and called God to witness that there was no truth in thestory. 

"The young girl went away, distracted but not convinced. And she watchedher mother. 

"I remember distinctly the strange alteration that then took place inher. She was always grave and melancholy. She used to fix on us hergreat earnest eyes as if she wanted to read what was at the bottom ofour hearts. We did not know what to think of her, and we used tomaintain that she was looking out for a husband. 

"One evening her doubts were dispelled. She caught her mother with alover. Thereupon she said coldly, like a man of business laying down theterms of an agreement:

"'Here is what I have determined to do, mamma: We will both go away tosome little town--or rather into the country. We will live there quietlyas well as we can. Your jewelry alone may be called a fortune. If youwish to marry some honest man, so much the better; still better will itbe if I can find one. If you don't consent to do this, I will killmyself. '

"This time, the Comtesse ordered her daughter to go to bed, and never toadminister again this lecture so unbecoming in the mouth of a childtowards her mother. 

"Yveline's answer to this was: 'I give you a month to reflect. If, atthe end of that month, we have not changed our way of living, I willkill myself, since there is no other honorable issue left to my life. '

"Then she took herself off. 

"At the end of a month, the Comtesse Samoris was giving balls andsuppers just the same as ever. Yveline then, under the pretext that shehad a bad toothache purchased a few drops of chloroform from aneighboring chemist. The next day she purchased more; and, every timeshe went out, she managed to procure small doses of the narcotic. Shefilled a bottle with it. 

"One morning she was found in bed, lifeless, and already quite cold, with a cotton mask over her face. 

"Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white. There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony. 

"Ah! well, if I had known--but you never can know--I would have marriedthat girl, for she was infernally pretty. "

"And what became of the mother?"

"Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it. She has only begun to receivevisits again for the past week. "

"And what explanation is given of the girl's death?"

"Oh! 'tis pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, themechanism of which got out of order. As a good many such accidents havehappened, the thing looks probable enough. "

 * * * * *

A PASSION

The sea was brilliant and unruffled, scarcely stirred, and on the pierthe entire town of Havre watched the ships as they came on. 

They could be seen at a distance, in great numbers; some of them, thesteamers, with plumes of smoke; the others, the sailing vessels, drawnby almost invisible tugs, lifting towards the sky their bare masts, likeleafless trees. 

They hurried from every end of the horizon towards the narrow mouth ofthe jetty which devoured these monsters; and they groaned, theyshrieked, they hissed while they spat out puffs of steam like animalspanting for breath. 

Two young officers were walking on the landing-stage, where a number ofpeople were waiting, saluting or returning salutes, and sometimesstopping to chat. 

Suddenly, one of them, the taller, Paul d'Henricol, pressed the arm ofhis comrade, Jean Renoldi, then, in a whisper, said:

"Hallo, here's Madame Poincot; give a good look at her. I assure youthat she's making eyes at you. "

She was moving along on the arm of her husband. She was a woman of aboutforty, very handsome still, slightly stout, but, owing to her gracefulfullness of figure, as fresh as she was at twenty. Among her friends shewas known as the Goddess on account of her proud gait, her large blackeyes, and the entire air of nobility of her person. She remainedirreproachable; never had the least suspicion cast a breath on herlife's purity. She was regarded as the very type of a virtuous, uncorrupted woman. So upright that no man had ever dared to think ofher. 

And yet for the last month Paul d'Henricol had been assuring his friendRenoldi that Madame Poincot was in love with him, and he maintained thatthere was no doubt of it. 

"Be sure I don't deceive myself. I see it clearly. She loves you--sheloves you passionately, like a chaste woman who had never loved. Fortyyears is a terrible age for virtuous women when they possess senses;they become foolish, and commit utter follies. She is hit, my dearfellow; she is falling like a wounded bird, and is ready to drop intoyour arms. I say--just look at her!"

The tall woman, preceded by her two daughters, aged twelve and fifteenyears, suddenly turned pale, on her approach, as her eyes lighted on theofficer's face. She gave him an ardent glance, concentrating her gazeupon him, and no longer seemed to have any eyes for her children, herhusband, or any other person around her. She returned the salutation ofthe two young men without lowering her eyes, glowing with such a flamethat a doubt, at last, forced its way into Lieutenant Renoldi's mind. 

His friend said, in the same hushed voice: "I was sure of it. Did younot notice her this time? By Jove, she is a nice tit-bit!"

 * * * * *

But Jean Renoldi had no desire for a society intrigue. Caring little forlove, he longed, above all, for a quiet life, and contented himself withoccasional amours such as a young man can always have. All thesentimentality, the attentions, and the tenderness which a well-bredwoman exacts bored him. The chain, however slight it might be, which isalways formed by an adventure of this sort, filled him with fear. Hesaid: "At the end of a month I'll have had enough of it, and I'll beforced to wait patiently for six months through politeness. "

Then, a rupture exasperated him, with the scenes, the allusions, theclinging attachment, of the abandoned woman. 

He avoided meeting Madame Poincot. 

But, one evening he found himself by her side at a dinner-party, and hefelt on his skin, in his eyes, and even in his heart, the burning glanceof his fair neighbor. Their hands met, and almost involuntarily werepressed together in a warm clasp. Already the intrigue was almost begun. 

He saw her again, always in spite of himself. He realized that he wasloved. He felt himself moved by a kind of pitying vanity when he sawwhat a violent passion for him swayed this woman's breast. So he allowedhimself to be adored, and merely displayed gallantry, hoping that theaffair would be only sentimental. 

But, one day, she made an appointment with him for the ostensiblepurpose of seeing him and talking freely to him. She fell, swooning, into his arms; and he had no alternative but to be her lover. 

And this lasted six months. She loved him with an unbridled, pantinglove. Absorbed in this frenzied passion, she no longer bestowed athought on anything else. She surrendered herself to it utterly--herbody, her soul, her reputation, her position, her happiness--all shehad cast into that fire of her heart, as one casts, as a sacrifice, every precious object into a funeral pier. 

He had for some time grown tired of her, and deeply regretted his easyconquest as a fascinating officer; but he was bound, held prisoner. Atevery moment she said to him: "I have given you everything. What morewould you have?" He felt a desire to answer:

"But I have asked nothing from you, and I beg of you to take back whatyou gave me. "

Without caring about being seen, compromised, ruined, she came to seehim every evening, her passion becoming more inflamed each time theymet. She flung herself into his arms, strained him in a fierce embrace, fainted under the force of rapturous kisses which to him were nowterribly wearisome. 

He said in a languid tone: "Look here! be reasonable!"

She replied:

"I love you, " and sank on her knees gazing at him for a long time in anattitude of admiration. At length, exasperated by her persistent gaze, he tried to make her rise. 

"I say! Sit down. Let us talk. "

She murmured:

"No, leave me;" and remained there, her soul in a state of ecstasy. 

He said to his friend d'Henricol:

"You know, 'twill end by my beating her. I won't have any more of it! Itmust end, and that without further delay!" Then he went on:

"What do you advise me to do?"

The other replied:

"Break it off. "

And Renoldi added, shrugging his shoulders:

"You speak indifferently about the matter; you believe that it is easyto break with a woman who tortures you with attention, who annoys youwith kindnesses, who persecutes you with her affection, whose only careis to please you, and whose only wrong is that she gave herself to youin spite of you. "

But suddenly, one morning the news came that the regiment was about tobe removed from the garrison; Renoldi began to dance with joy. He wassaved! Saved without scenes, without cries! Saved! All he had to do nowwas to wait patiently for two months more. Saved!

In the evening she came to him more excited than she had ever beenbefore. She had heard the dreadful news, and, without taking off her hatshe caught his hands and pressed them nervously, with her eyes fixed onhis, and her voice vibrating and resolute. 

"You are leaving, " she said; "I know it. At first, I felt heart-broken;then, I understood what I had to do. I don't hesitate about doing it. Ihave come to give you the greatest proof of love that a woman can offer. I follow you. For you I am abandoning my husband, my children, myfamily. I am ruining myself, but I am happy. It seems to me that I amgiving myself to you over again. It is the last and the greatestsacrifice. I am yours for ever!"

He felt a cold sweat down his back, and was seized with a dull andviolent rage, the anger of weakness. However, he became calm, and, in adisinterested tone, with a show of kindness, he refused to accept hersacrifice, tried to appease her, to bring her to reason, to make her seeher own folly! She listened to him, staring at him with her great blackeyes and with a smile of disdain on her lips, and said not a word inreply. He went on talking to her, and when, at length, he stopped, shesaid merely:

"Can you really be a coward? Can you be one of those who seduce a woman, and then throw her over, through sheer caprice?"

He became pale, and renewed his arguments; he pointed out to her theinevitable consequences of such an action to both of them as long asthey lived--how their lives would be shattered and how the world wouldshut its doors against them. She replied obstinately: "What does itmatter when we love each other?" Then, all of a sudden, he burst outfuriously:

"Well, then, I will not. No--do you understand? I will not do it, and Iforbid you to do it. " Then, carried away by the rancorous feeling whichhad seethed within him so long, he relieved his heart:

"Ah, damn it all, you have now been sticking on to me for a long time inspite of myself, and the best thing for you now is to take yourself off. I'll be much obliged if you do so, upon my honor!"

She did not answer him, but her livid countenance began to lookshriveled up, as if all her nerves and muscles had been twisted out ofshape. And she went away without saying good-bye. 

The same night she poisoned herself. 

For a week she was believed to be in a hopeless condition. And in thecity people gossiped about the case, and pitied her, excusing her sin onaccount of the violence of her passion, for overstrained emotions, becoming heroic through their intensity, always obtain forgiveness forwhatever is blameworthy in them. A woman who kills herself is, so tospeak, not an adulteress. And ere long there was a feeling of generalreprobation against Lieutenant Renoldi for refusing to see her again--aunanimous sentiment of blame. 

It was a matter of common talk that he had deserted her, betrayed her, ill-treated her. The Colonel, overcome by compassion, brought hisofficer to book in a quiet way. Paul d'Henricol called on his friend:

"Deuce take it, Renoldi, it's not good enough to let a woman die; it'snot the right thing anyhow. "

The other, enraged, told him to hold his tongue, whereupon d'Henricolmade use of the word "infamy. " The result was a duel, Renoldi waswounded, to the satisfaction of everybody, and was for some timeconfined to his bed. 

She heard about it, and only loved him the more for it, believing thatit was on her account he had fought the duel; but, as she was too ill tomove, she was unable to see him again before the departure of theregiment. 

He had been three months in Lille when he received one morning, a visitfrom the sister of his former mistress. 

After long suffering and a feeling of dejection, which she could notconquer, Madame Poincot's life was now despaired of, and she merelyasked to see him for a minute, only for a minute, before closing hereyes for ever. 

Absence and time had appeased the young man's satiety and anger; he wastouched, moved to tears, and he started at once for Havre. 

She seemed to be in the agonies of death. They were left alone together;and by the bedside of this woman whom he now believed to be dying, andwhom he blamed himself for killing, though it was not by his own hand, he was fairly crushed with grief. He burst out sobbing, embraced herwith tender, passionate kisses, more lovingly than he had ever done inthe past. He murmured in a broken voice:

"No, no, you shall not die! You shall get better! We shall love eachother for ever--for ever!"

She said in faint tones:

"Then it is true. You do love me, after all?"

And he, in his sorrow for her misfortunes, swore, promised to wait tillshe had recovered, and full of loving pity, kissed again and again theemaciated hands of the poor woman whose heart was panting with feverish, irregular pulsations. 

The next day he returned to the garrison. 

Six weeks later she went to meet him, quite old-looking, unrecognizable, and more enamored than ever. 

In his condition of mental prostration, he consented to live with her. Then, when they remained together as if they had been legally united, the same colonel who had displayed indignation with him for abandoningher, objected to this irregular connection as being incompatible withthe good example officers ought to give in a regiment. He warned thelieutenant on the subject, and then furiously denounced his conduct, soRenoldi retired from the army. 

He went to live in a village on the shore of the Mediterranean, theclassic sea of lovers. 

And three years passed. Renoldi, bent under the yoke, was vanquished, and became accustomed to the woman's persevering devotion. His hair hadnow turned white. 

He looked upon himself as a man done for, gone under. Henceforth, he hadno hope, no ambition, no satisfaction in life, and he looked forward tono pleasure in existence. 

But one morning a card was placed in his hand, with the name--"JosephPoincot, Shipowner, Havre. "

The husband! The husband, who had said nothing, realizing that there wasno use in struggling against the desperate obstinacy of women. What didhe want?

He was waiting in the garden, having refused to come into the house. Hebowed politely, but would not sit down, even on a bench in agravel-path, and he commenced talking clearly and slowly. 

"Monsieur, I did not come here to address reproaches to you. I know toowell how things happened. I have been the victim of--we have been thevictims of--a kind of fatality. I would never have disturbed you in yourretreat if the situation had not changed. I have two daughters, Monsieur. One of them, the elder, loves a young man, and is loved byhim. But the family of this young man is opposed to the marriage, basingtheir objection on the situation of--my daughter's mother. I have nofeeling of either anger or spite, but I love my children, Monsieur. Ihave, therefore, come to ask my wife to return home. I hope that to-dayshe will consent to go back to my house--to her own house. As for me, Iwill make a show of having forgotten, for--for the sake of mydaughters. "

Renoldi felt a wild movement in his heart, and he was inundated with adelirium of joy like a condemned man who receives a pardon. 

He stammered: "Why, yes--certainly, Monsieur--I myself--be assured ofit--no doubt--it is right, it is only quite right. "

This time M. Poincot no longer declined to sit down. 

Renoldi then rushed up the stairs, and pausing at the door of hismistress's room, to collect his senses, entered gravely. 

"There is somebody below waiting to see you, " he said. "'Tis to tell yousomething about your daughters. "

She rose up. "My daughters? What about them? They are not dead?"

He replied: "No; but a serious situation has arisen, which you alone cansettle. "

She did not wait to hear more, but rapidly descended the stairs. 

Then, he sank down on a chair, greatly moved, and waited. 

He waited a long long time. Then he heard angry voices below stairs, andmade up his mind to go down. 

Madame Poincot was standing up exasperated, just on the point of goingaway, while her husband had seized hold of her dress, exclaiming: "Butremember that you are destroying our daughters, your daughters, ourchildren!"

She answered stubbornly:

"I will not go back to you!"

Renoldi understood everything, came over to them in a state of greatagitation, and gasped:

"What, does she refuse to go?"

She turned towards him, and, with a kind of shame-facedness, addressedhim without any familiarity of tone, in the presence of her legitimatehusband, said:

"Do you know what he asks me to do? He wants me to go back, and liveunder one roof with him!"

And she tittered with a profound disdain for this man, who was appealingto her almost on his knees. 

Then Renoldi, with the determination of a desperate man playing his lastcard, began talking to her in his turn, and pleaded the cause of thepoor girls, the cause of the husband, his own cause. And when hestopped, trying to find some fresh argument, M. Poincot, at his wits'end, murmured, in the affectionate style in which he used to speak toher in days gone by:

"Look here, Delphine! Think of your daughters!"

Then she turned on both of them a glance of sovereign contempt, and, after that, flying with a bound towards the staircase, she flung at themthese scornful words:

"You are a pair of wretches!"

Left alone, they gazed at each other for a moment, both equallycrestfallen, equally crushed. M. Poincot picked up his hat, which hadfallen down near where he sat, dusted off his knees the signs ofkneeling on the floor, then raising both hands sorrowfully, whileRenoldi was seeing him to the door, remarked with a parting bow:

"We are very unfortunate, Monsieur. "

Then he walked away from the house with a heavy step. 

 * * * * *

NO QUARTER

The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under thisshower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth. As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue tothe verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plainseemed at a distance like little doors enclosed each in a circle of thinbeech trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fanciedthat he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted asthe peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked, twisted, ranged along the enclosure, displayed beneath the sky theirglittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossomsmingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes ofthe steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It wasmidday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree plantedbefore the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the twomaid-servants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered aword. Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoesmashed up in lard. 

From time to time one of the maid-servants rose up and went to thecellar to fetch a pitcher of cider. 

The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quiteexposed to view, which stood close to the farm-house twining like aserpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall. 

He said, after a long silence:

"The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it willbear good fruit. "

The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree withoutspeaking. 

This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of thepeasant had been shot. 

 * * * * *

It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of theentire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was attheir head. 

Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farm-house. Theold peasant who owned it, Pere Milon Pierre, received them, and gavethem the best treatment he could. 

For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the look-out in thevillage. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving; and yeteach night, some of the Uhlans disappeared. 

All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, wheneverthey started in groups of two or three, never came back. 

They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farm-yard, ina ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with theirthroats cut by a saber-stroke. These murders seemed to have beenaccomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered. 

The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information, women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations fromchildren by fear. 

But, one morning, Pere Milon was found stretched in his stable, with agash across his face. 

Two Uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from thefarm-house. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stainedweapon. He had fought and defended himself. 

A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air, in front of the farm-house, the old man was brought before it. 

He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, withlong hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty andslight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainlyseen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins whichsank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded inthe district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions. 

He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchentable, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Fiveofficers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first tospeak. 

"Pere Milon, " he said, in French, "since we came here, we have hadnothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, andeven considerate towards us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests onyou, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound onyour face?"

The peasant gave no reply. 

The Colonel went on:

"Your silence condemns you, Pere Milon. But I want you to answer me, doyou understand. Do you know who has killed the two Uhlans who were foundthis morning near the cross-roads?"

The old man said in a clear voice:

"It was I!"

The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, lookingsteadfastly at the prisoner. Pere Milon maintained his impassivedemeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he weretalking to his curé. There was only one thing that could reveal hisinternal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva witha visible effort, as if he were choking. 

The old peasant's family--his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and twolittle children stood ten paces behind scared and dismayed. 

The Colonel continued:

"Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our Army, whom we havefound every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in thefields?"

The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness:

"It was I!"

"It is you, then, that killed them all?"

"All of them--yes, it was I. "

"You alone?"

"I alone. "

"Tell me the way you managed to do it?"

This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speakingat some length incommoded him. 

"I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest. "

The Colonel proceeded:

"I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore, to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?"

The peasant cast an uneasy glance towards his family, who remained in alistening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so, then all of a sudden, he came to a resolution on the matter. 

"I came home one night about ten o'clock and the next day you were here. You and your soldiers gave me fifty crowns for forage with a cow and twosheep. Said I to myself: 'As long as I get twenty crowns out of them, I'll sell them the value of it. ' But then I had other things in myheart, which I'll tell you about now. I came across one of yourcavalrymen smoking his pipe near my dike, just behind my barn. I wentand took my scythe off the hook, and I came back with short steps frombehind, while he lay there without hearing anything. And I cut off hishead with one stroke, like a feather, while he only said 'Oof!' You haveonly to look at the bottom of the pond; you'll find him there in acoal-bag, with a big stone tied to it. 

"I got an idea into my head. I took all he had on him from his boots tohis cap, and I hid them in the bake-house in the Martin wood behind thefarm-yard. "

The old man stopped. The officers, speechless, looked at one another. The examination was resumed, and this is what they were told. 

 * * * * *

Once he had accomplished this murder, the peasant lived with only onethought: "To kill the Prussians!" He hated them with the sly andferocious hatred of a countryman who was at the same time covetous andpatriotic. He had got an idea into his head, as he put it. He waited fora few days. 

He was allowed to go and come freely, to go out and return just as hepleased, as long as he displayed humility, submissiveness, andcomplaisance towards the conquerors. 

Now, every evening he saw the cavalrymen bearing dispatches leaving thefarmhouse; and he went out one night after discovering the name of thevillage to which they were going, and after picking up by associatingwith the soldiers the few words of German he needed. 

He made his way through his farm-yard slipped into the wood, reached thebake-house, penetrated to the end of the long passage, and having foundthe clothes of the soldier which he had hidden there, he put them on. Then, he went prowling about the fields, creeping along, keeping to theslopes so as to avoid observation, listening to the least sounds, restless as a poacher. 

When he believed the time had arrived he took up his position at theroadside, and hid himself in a clump of brushwood. He still waited. Atlength, near midnight, he heard the galloping of a horse's hoofs on thehard soil of the road. The old man put his ear to the ground to makesure that only one cavalryman was approaching; then he got ready. 

The Uhlan came on at a very quick pace, carrying some dispatches. Herode forward with watchful eyes and strained ears. As soon as he was nomore than ten paces away, Pere Milon dragged himself across the road, groaning: "Hilfe! Hilfe!" ("Help! help!")

The cavalryman drew up, recognized a German soldier dismounted, believedthat he was wounded, leaped down from his horse, drew near the prostrateman, never suspecting anything, and, as he stooped over the stranger, hereceived in the middle of the stomach the long curved blade of thesaber. He sank down without any death throes, merely quivering with afew last shudders. 

Then, the Norman radiant with the mute joy of an old peasant, rose up, and merely to please himself, cut the dead soldier's throat. After that, he dragged the corpse to the dike and threw it in. 

The horse was quietly waiting for its rider. Pere Milon got on thesaddle, and started across the plain at the gallop. 

At the end of an hour, he perceived two more Uhlans approaching thestaff-quarters side by side. He rode straight towards them, crying, "Hilfe! hilfe!" The Prussians let him come on, recognizing the uniformwithout any distrust. 

And like a cannon-ball, the old man shot between the two, bringing bothof them to the ground with his saber and a revolver. The next thing hedid was to cut the throats of the horses--the German horses! Then, softly he re-entered the bake-house, and hid the horse he had riddenhimself in the dark passage. There he took off the uniform, put on oncemore his own old clothes, and going to his bed, slept till morning. 

For four days he did not stir out, awaiting the close of the openinquiry as to the cause of the soldiers' deaths; but, on the fifth day, he started out again, and by a similar stratagem killed two moresoldiers. 

Thenceforth he never stopped. Each night he wandered about, prowledthrough the country at random, cutting down some Prussians, sometimeshere, sometimes there, galloping through the deserted fields under themoonlight, a lost Uhlan, a hunter of men. Then when he had finished histask, leaving behind the corpses lying along the roads, the old horsemanwent to the bake-house, where he concealed both the animal and theuniform. About midday he calmly returned to the spot to give the horse afeed of oats and some water, and he took every care of the animal, exacting therefore the hardest work. 

But, the night before his arrest, one of the soldiers he attacked puthimself on his guard, and cut the old peasant's face with a slash of asaber. 

He had, however, killed both of them. He had even managed to go back andhide his horse and put on his everyday garb, but, when he reached thestable, he was overcome by weakness, and was not able to make his wayinto the house. 

He had been found lying on the straw, his face covered with blood. 

 * * * * *

When he had finished his story, he suddenly lifted his head, and glancedproudly at the Prussian officers. 

The Colonel, tugging at his moustache, asked:

"Have you anything more to say?"

"No, nothing more; we are quits. I killed sixteen, not one more, not oneless. "

"You know you have to die?"

"I ask for no quarter!"

"Have you been a soldier?"

"Yes, I served at one time. And 'tis you killed my father, who was asoldier of the first Emperor, not to speak of my youngest son, Francois, whom you killed last month near Exreux. I owed this to you, and I'vepaid you back. 'Tis tit for tat!"

The officers stared at one another. 

The old man went on:

"Eight for my father, eight for my son--that pays it off! I sought forno quarrel with you. I don't know you! I only know where you came from. You came to my house here, and ordered me about as if the house wasyours. I have had my revenge, and I'm glad of it!"

And stiffening up his old frame, he folded his arms in the attitude of ahumble hero. 

The Prussians held a long conference. A captain, who had also lost a sonthe month before, defended the brave old scoundrel. 

Then the Colonel rose up, and, advancing towards Pere Milon, he said, lowering his voice:

"Listen, old man! There is perhaps one way of saving your life--it is--"

But the old peasant was not listening to him, and fixing his eyesdirectly on the German officer, while the wind made the scanty hair moveto and fro on his skull, he made a frightful grimace, which shriveled uphis pinched countenance scarred by the saber-stroke, and, puffing outhis chest, he spat, with all his strength, right into the Prussian'sface. 

The Colonel, stupefied, raised his hand, and for the second time thepeasant spat in his face. 

All the officers sprang to their feet and yelled out orders at the sametime. 

In less than a minute, the old man, still as impassive as ever, wasstuck up against the wall, and shot while he cast a smile at Jean, hiseldest son, and then at his daughter-in-law and the two children, whowere staring with terror at the scene. 

 * * * * *

THE IMPOLITE SEX

Madame de X. To Madame de L. 

 Etretat, Friday. 

My dear Aunt, --I am going to pay you a visit without making much fussabout it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the 2nd of September, the daybefore the hunting season opens, as I do not want to miss it, so that Imay tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, aunt, and I would likeyou to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when there are nostrange guests, without dressing or shaving for the occasion, on theground that they are fatigued. 

They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall bethere, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour;and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matterhow little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the servant-maids. 

The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so littlegood manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed inan age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they attack oneanother with insults worthy of street-porters, and, in our presence, they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants. It is atthe seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be found therein battalions, and you can judge them in the lump. 

Oh! what coarse beings they are!

Just imagine in a train, one of them, a gentleman who looked well, as Ithought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough to takeoff his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an oldman, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the mostill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place histwo feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact. 

At the water-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring ofunmannerliness. I must here make one admission--that my indignation isperhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate, as arule, with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should beless shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing themoftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel, I was nearly thrown down bya young man who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked againstme so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, comingaway from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. Itis the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on theterrace; they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to theirhead-gear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is theirbest plan. 

But what exasperates and disgusts me specially is the liberty they takeof talking publicly without any precaution whatsoever about the mostrevolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to eachother, in the broadest language and with the most abominable commentsreally horrible stories without caring in the slightest degree whether awoman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach Iwas forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be anylonger the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in suchimmodest language that I felt just as much humiliated as indignant athaving heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have taughtthem to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near athand. Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From fiveto seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of nastystories about others which they retail from group to group. As youremarked to me, my dear aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of pettyindividuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who areno longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe thewomen who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quiteright. 

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given bya remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightfulmanner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, aswell as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M---- and Meillet. Iwas able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected togetherthis year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction amongthem. 

Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard whowas coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, JeanPaul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning thesubjects of his pictures he insists on imprisoning himself. 

Then, I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses. But heread them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that hedid not even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished, and Iasked the conductor of the baths without appearing to be much concerned, the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at this readerof rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought, must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about thisstranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round tolook at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the twoqualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, Iwas able to hear his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He wouldcertainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public, or knock againstladies without apologizing. He is sure to be a man of refinement, buthis refinement is of an almost morbid, vibrating character. I will trythis winter to get an introduction to him. 

I have no more news to tell you, my dear aunt, and I must interrupt thisletter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and yourcheeks. --Your devoted niece, Berthe De X. 

P. S. --I should add, however, by way of justification of Frenchpoliteness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models ofgood manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to havebeen brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not toincommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode theirneighbors. 

 * * * * *

 Madame de L. To Madame de X. 

 Les Fresnes, Saturday. 

My Dear Child, --Many of the things you have said to me are veryreasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, Iused formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, asI supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older andreflected on everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing thingswithout taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much--that ifmen are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude. 

We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, andat the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of thatelementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion. 

I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration, ascompared with our bearing towards them. Besides, darling, men must needsbe, and are, what we make them. In a state of society, where women areall true gentlewomen, all men would become gentlemen. 

Mark my words; just observe and reflect. 

Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumestowards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw intoeach glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other tofind something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you thinkone woman would make room for another, or will beg pardon as she sweepsby? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrowlane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other'sway, while we women press against each other stomach to stomach, face toface, insolently staring each other out of countenance. 

Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a stair case beforethe drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just paid avisit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin to talkto each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to be comingup behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will putthemselves half-an-inch out of their way? Never! never!

I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter, ata certain drawing-room door. And behind two gentlemen were also waitingwithout showing any readiness to lose their temper, like me. The reasonwas that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable insolence. 

The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less aperson than your husband in the Champs Elysees in order to enjoy theopen air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, andthere would soon be a vacant table. 

At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, havingpaid the amount of her docket, seemed on the point of going away. Shesaw me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than afull quarter-of-an-hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two youngmen who were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn, quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they owed, and atonce offered me their seats, even insisting on standing while waitingfor their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longerpretty, like you, but old and white-haired. 

It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness, and the taskwould be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equalto it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulgedin "tittle-tattle" along the beach of that delightful watering-place. Itis a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found muchamusement there in days gone by. 

There were only a few of us, people in good society, really goodsociety, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid littleattention to gossip in those days. 

Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for show, where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where theysucceed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way ofpassing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the headof one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each night inone of the farm-houses in the neighborhood. 

We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by LePoittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two mencarried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chatteringlike a pack of fools. 

We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We gotthem to make onion-soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees, to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow inthe darkness of the out-houses; the horses began prancing on the strawof their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks withthe smell of grass and of new-mown hay. 

How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since then!

I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the huntingseason. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on themfashionable toilets on this day of vigorous exercise in the country?This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you. --Your oldaunt

 Genevieve De Z. 

 * * * * *

WOMAN'S WILES

"Women?"

"Well, what do you say about women?"

"Well, there are no conjurors more subtle in taking us in at everyavailable opportunity with or without reason, often for the solepleasure of playing tricks on us. And they play these tricks withincredible simplicity, astonishing audacity, unparalleled ingenuity. They play tricks from morning till night, and they all do it--the mostvirtuous, the most upright, the most sensible of them. You may add thatsometimes they are to some extent driven to do these things. Man hasalways idiotic fits of obstinacy and tyrannical desires. A husband iscontinually giving ridiculous orders in his own house. He is full ofcaprices; his wife plays on them even while she makes use of them forthe purpose of deception. She persuades him that a thing costs so muchbecause he would kick up a row if its price were higher. And she alwaysextricates herself from the difficulty cunningly by a means so simpleand so sly that we gape with amazement when by chance we discover them. We say to ourselves in a stupefied state of mind 'How is it we did notsee this till now?'"

 * * * * *

The man who uttered the words was an ex-Minister of the Empire, theComte de L----, a thorough profligate, it was said, and a veryaccomplished gentleman. A group of young men were listening to him. 

He went on:

"I was outwitted by an ordinary uneducated woman in a comic andthorough-going fashion. I will tell you about it for your instruction. 

"I was at the time Minister for Foreign Affairs, and I was in the habitof taking a long walk every morning in the Champs Elysees. It was themonth of May; I walked along, sniffing in eagerly that sweet odor ofbudding leaves. 

"Ere long, I noticed, that I used to meet every day a charming littlewoman, one of those marvelous, graceful creatures, who bear thetrade-mark of Paris. Pretty? Well, yes and no. Well-made? No, betterthan that: her waist was too slight, her shoulders too narrow, herbreast too full, no doubt; but I prefer those exquisite human dolls tothat great statuesque corpse, the Venus of Milo. 

"And then this sort of woman trots along in an incomparable fashion, andthe very rustle of her skirt fills the marrow of your bones with desire. She seemed to give me a side-glance as she passed me. But these womengive you all sorts of looks--you never can tell.... 

"One morning, I saw her sitting on a bench with an open book between herhands. I came across, and sat down beside her. Five minutes later, wewere friends. Then, each day, after the smiling salutation 'Good day, Madame, ' 'Good day, Monsieur, ' we began to chat. She told me that shewas the wife of a Government clerk, that her life was a sad one, that init pleasures were few and cares numerous, and a thousand other things. 

"I told her who I was, partly through thoughtlessness, and partlyperhaps through vanity. She pretended to be much astonished. 

"Next day, she called at the Ministry to see me; and she came againthere so often that the ushers, having their attention drawn to herappearance, used to whisper to one another, as soon as they saw her, thename with which they had christened her 'Madame Leon' that is myChristian name. 

"For three months I saw her every morning without growing tired of herfor a second, so well was she able incessantly to give variety andpiquancy to her physical attractiveness. But one day I saw that her eyeswere bloodshot and glowing with suppressed tears, that she couldscarcely speak, so much was she preoccupied with secret troubles. 

"I begged of her, I implored of her, to tell me what was the cause ofher agitation. 

"She faltered out at length with a shudder: 'I am--I am pregnant!'

"And she burst out sobbing. Oh! I made a dreadful grimace, and I have nodoubt I turned pale, as men generally do at hearing such a piece ofnews. You cannot conceive what an unpleasant stab you feel in yourbreast at the announcement of an unexpected paternity of this kind. Butyou are sure to know it sooner or later. So, in my turn, I gasped:'But--but--you are married, are you not?'

"She answered: 'Yes, but my husband has been away in Italy for the lasttwo months, and he will not be back for some time. '

"I was determined at any cost to get out of my responsibility. 

"I said: 'You must go and join him immediately. '

"She reddened to her very temples, and with downcast eyes, murmured:'Yes--but--' She either dared not or would not finish the sentence. 

"I understood, and I prudently enclosed her in an envelope the expensesof the journey. 

 * * * * *

"Eight days later, she sent me a letter from Genoa. The following week, I received one from Florence. Then letters reached me from Leghorn, Rome, and Naples. 

"She said to me: 'I am in good health, my dear love, but I am lookingfrightful. I would not care to have you see me till it is all over; youwould not love me. My husband suspects nothing. As his business in thiscountry will require him to stay there much longer, I will not return toFrance till after my confinement. '

"And, at the end of about eight months, I received from Venice these fewwords: 'It is a boy. '

"Some time after, she suddenly entered my study one morning, fresher andprettier than ever, and flung herself into my arms. 

"And our former connection was renewed. 

"I left the Ministry, and she came to live in my house in the Rue deGrenelle. She often spoke to me about the child, but I scarcely listenedto what she said about it; it did not concern me. Now and then I placeda rather large sum of money in her hand, saying: 'Put that by for him. '

"Two more years glided by; and she was more eager to tell me some newsabout the youngster--'about Leon. '

"Sometimes she would say in the midst of tears: 'You don't care abouthim; you don't even wish to see him. If you know what grief you causeme!'

"At last I was so much harassed by her that I promised, one day, to go, next morning, to the Champs Elysees, when she took the child there foran airing. 

"But at the moment when I was leaving the house, I was stopped by asudden apprehension. Man is weak and foolish. What if I were to get fondof this tiny being of whom I was the father--my son?

"I had my hat on my head, my gloves in my hands. I flung down the gloveson my desk, and my hat on a chair:

"No. Decidedly I will not go; it is wiser not to go. '

"My door flew open. My brother entered the room. He handed me ananonymous letter he had received that morning:

"'Warn the Comte de L----, your brother, that the little woman of theRue Casette is impudently laughing at him. Let him make some inquiriesabout her. '

"I had never told anybody about this intrigue, and I now told my brotherthe history of it from the beginning to the end. I added:

"For my part, I don't want to trouble myself any further about thematter; but will you, like a good fellow, go and find out what you canabout her?

"When my brother had left me, I said to myself: 'In what way can shehave deceived me? She has other lovers? What does it matter to me? Sheis young, fresh, and pretty; I ask nothing more from her. She seems tolove me, and as a matter of fact, she does not cost me much. Really, Idon't understand this business. '

"My brother speedily returned. He had learned from the police all thatwas to be known about her husband: 'A clerk in the Home Department, ofregular habits and good repute, and, moreover, a thinking man, butmarried to a very pretty woman, whose expenses seemed somewhatextravagant for her modest position. ' That was all. 

"Now, my brother having sought for her at her residence, and findingthat she was gone out, succeeded, with the assistance of a little gold, in making the doorkeeper chatter: 'Madame D----, a very worthy woman, and her husband a very worthy man, not proud, not rich, but generous. '

"My brother asked for the sake of saying something:

"'How old is her little boy now?'

"'Why, she has not got any little boy, monsieur. '

"'What? Little Leon?'

"'No, monsieur, you are making a mistake. '

"'I mean the child she had while she was in Italy, two years ago?'

"'She has never been in Italy, monsieur; she has not quitted the houseshe is living in for the last five years. '

"My brother, in astonishment, questioned the doorkeeper anew, and thenhe pushed his investigation of the matter further. No child, no journey. 

"I was prodigiously astonished, but without clearly understanding thefinal meaning of this comedy. 

"'I want, ' said I to him, 'to have my mind perfectly clear about theaffair. I will ask her to come here to-morrow. You shall receive herinstead of me. If she has deceived me, you will hand her these tenthousand francs, and I will never see her again. In fact, I am beginningto find I have had enough of her. '

"Would you believe it? I had been grieved the night before because I hada child by this woman; and I was now irritated, ashamed, wounded athaving no more of her. I found myself free, released from allresponsibility, from all anxiety, and yet I felt myself raging at theposition in which I was placed. 

"Next morning my brother awaited her in my study. She came in as quicklyas usual, rushing towards him with outstretched arms, but when she sawwho it was she at once drew back. 

"He bowed, and excused himself. 

"'I beg your pardon, madame, for being here instead of my brother, buthe has authorized me to ask you for some explanations which he wouldfind it painful to seek from you himself. '

"Then, fixing on her face a searching glance, he said abruptly:

"'We know you have not a child by him. '

"After the first moment of stupor, she regained her composure, took aseat, and gazed with a smile at this man who was sitting in judgment onher. 

"She answered simply:

"'No; I have no child. '

"'We know also that you have never been in Italy. '

"This time she burst out laughing in earnest. 

"'No, I have never been in Italy. '

"My brother, quite stunned, went on:

"'The Comte has requested me to give you this money, and tell you thatit is all broken off. '

"She became serious again, calmly putting the money into her pocket, and, in an ingenuous tone asked:

"'And I am not, then, to see the Comte any more?'

"'No, madame. '

"She appeared to be annoyed, and in a passionless voice she said:

"'So much the worse; I was very fond of him. '

"Seeing that she had made up her mind on the subject so resolutely, mybrother, smiling in his turn, said to her:

"'Look here, now, tell me why you invented all this tricky yarn, complicating it by bringing in the sham journey to Italy and the child?'"

She gazed at my brother in amazement, as if he had asked her a stupidquestion, and replied:

"'I say! How spiteful you are! Do you believe a poor little woman of thepeople such as I am--nothing at all--could have for three years kept onmy hands the Comte de L----, Minister, a great personage, a man offashion, wealthy and seductive, if she had not taken a little troubleabout it? Now it is all over. So much the worse. It couldn't last forever. None the less I succeeded in doing it for three years. You willsay many things to him on my behalf. '

"She rose up. My brother continued questioning her:

"'But--the child? You had one to show him?'

"'Certainly--my sister's child. She lent it to me. I'd bet it was shegave you the information. '

"'Good! And all those letters from Italy?'

"She sat down again so as to laugh at her ease. 

"'Oh! those letters--well, they were a bit of poetry. The Comte was nota Minister of Foreign Affairs for nothing. '

"'But--another thing?'

"Oh! the other thing is my secret. I don't want to compromise anyone. '

"And bowing to him with a rather mocking smile, she left the roomwithout any emotion, an actress who had played her part to the end. "

And the Comte de L---- added by way of moral:

"So take care about putting your trust in that sort of turtle dove!"

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been maintained. 

Page 13, "pentrating" changed to "penetrating". 

Page 25, "parishoner" changed to "parishioner". 

Page 130, "consiousness" changed to "consciousness". 

Page 133, "dinning" changed to "dining". 

Page 178, "inns" changed to "ins". 

Page 193, "delirous" changed to "delirious". 

Page 218, Parenthesis added after "five thousand francs. "

Page 283, Double quote added after "You will come to lunch. Won't you?"

Page 374, "moveover" changed to "moreover". 

Ligatures removed in ASCII Version: S[oe]urs to Soeurs, C[oe]ur to Coeur.