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Title: Adieu

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<p>ADIEU</p>

<p>by HONORE DE BALZAC</p>

<p>Translated By<br>
 Katharine Prescott Wormeley</p>

<p>DEDICATION</p>

<p>To Prince Frederic Schwartzenburg.</p>

<h1>ADIEU</h1>

<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>

<h3>AN OLD MONASTERY</h3>

<p>"Come, deputy of the Centre, forward! Quick step! march! if we
want to<br>
 be in time to dine with the others. Jump, marquis! there,
that's<br>
 right! why, you can skip across a stubble-field like a
deer!"</p>

<p>These words were said by a huntsman peacefully seated at the
edge of<br>
 the forest of Ile-Adam, who was finishing an Havana cigar
while<br>
 waiting for his companion, who had lost his way in the
tangled<br>
 underbrush of the wood. At his side four panting dogs were
watching,<br>
 as he did, the personage he addressed. To understand how
sarcastic<br>
 were these exhortations, repeated at intervals, we should state
that<br>
 the approaching huntsman was a stout little man whose
protuberant<br>
 stomach was the evidence of a truly ministerial "embonpoint." He
was<br>
 struggling painfully across the furrows of a vast wheat-field
recently<br>
 harvested, the stubble of which considerably impeded him; while
to add<br>
 to his other miseries the sun's rays, striking obliquely on his
face,<br>
 collected an abundance of drops of perspiration. Absorbed in
the<br>
 effort to maintain his equilibrium, he leaned, now forward, now
back,<br>
 in close imitation of the pitching of a carriage when
violently<br>
 jolted. The weather looked threatening. Though several spaces of
blue<br>
 sky still parted the thick black clouds toward the horizon, a
flock of<br>
 fleecy vapors were advancing with great rapidity and drawing a
light<br>
 gray curtain from east to west. As the wind was acting only on
the<br>
 upper region of the air, the atmosphere below it pressed down
the hot<br>
 vapors of the earth. Surrounded by masses of tall trees, the
valley<br>
 through which the hunter struggled felt like a furnace. Parched
and<br>
 silent, the forest seemed thirsty. The birds, even the insects,
were<br>
 voiceless; the tree-tops scarcely waved. Those persons who may
still<br>
 remember the summer of 1819 can imagine the woes of the poor
deputy,<br>
 who was struggling along, drenched in sweat, to regain his
mocking<br>
 friend. The latter, while smoking his cigar, had calculated from
the<br>
 position of the sun that it must be about five in the
afternoon.</p>

<p><br>
 "Where the devil are we?" said the stout huntsman, mopping
his<br>
 forehead and leaning against the trunk of a tree nearly opposite
to<br>
 his companion, for he felt unequal to the effort of leaping the
ditch<br>
 between them.</p>

<p>"That's for me to ask you," said the other, laughing, as he
lay among<br>
 the tall brown brake which crowned the bank. Then, throwing the
end of<br>
 his cigar into the ditch, he cried out vehemently: "I swear by
Saint<br>
 Hubert that never again will I trust myself in unknown territory
with<br>
 a statesman, though he be, like you, my dear d'Albon, a college
mate."</p>

<p>"But, Philippe, have you forgotten your French? Or have you
left your<br>
 wits in Siberia?" replied the stout man, casting a sorrowfully
comic<br>
 look at a sign-post about a hundred feet away.</p>

<p>"True, true," cried Philippe, seizing his gun and springing
with a<br>
 bound into the field and thence to the post. "This way, d'Albon,
this<br>
 way," he called back to his friend, pointing to a broad paved
path and<br>
 reading aloud the sign: "'From Baillet to Ile-Adam.' We
shall<br>
 certainly find the path to Cassan, which must branch from this
one<br>
 between here and Ile-Adam."</p>

<p>"You are right, colonel," said Monsieur d'Albon, replacing
upon his<br>
 head the cap with which he had been fanning himself.</p>

<p>"Forward then, my respectable privy councillor," replied
Colonel<br>
 Philippe, whistling to the dogs, who seemed more willing to obey
him<br>
 than the public functionary to whom they belonged.</p>

<p>"Are you aware, marquis," said the jeering soldier, "that we
still<br>
 have six miles to go? That village over there must be
Baillet."</p>

<p>"Good heavens!" cried the marquis, "go to Cassan if you must,
but<br>
 you'll go alone. I prefer to stay here, in spite of the coming
storm,<br>
 and wait for the horse you can send me from the chateau. You've
played<br>
 me a trick, Sucy. We were to have had a nice little hunt not far
from<br>
 Cassan, and beaten the coverts I know. Instead of that, you have
kept<br>
 me running like a hare since four o'clock this morning, and all
I've<br>
 had for breakfast is a cup of milk. Now, if you ever have a
petition<br>
 before the Court, I'll make you lose it, however just your
claim."</p>

<p>The poor discouraged huntsman sat down on a stone that
supported the<br>
 signpost, relieved himself of his gun and his gamebag, and
heaved a<br>
 long sigh.</p>

<p>"France! such are thy deputies!" exclaimed Colonel de Sucy,
laughing.<br>
 "Ah! my poor d'Albon, if you had been like me six years in the
wilds<br>
 of Siberia--"</p>

<p>He said no more, but he raised his eyes to heaven as if that
anguish<br>
 were between himself and God.</p>

<p>"Come, march on!" he added. "If you sit still you are
lost."</p>

<p>"How can I, Philippe? It is an old magisterial habit to sit
still. On<br>
 my honor! I'm tired out-- If I had only killed a hare!"</p>

<p>The two men presented a rather rare contrast: the public
functionary<br>
 was forty-two years of age and seemed no more than thirty,
whereas the<br>
 soldier was thirty, and seemed forty at the least. Both wore the
red<br>
 rosette of the officers of the Legion of honor. A few spare
locks of<br>
 black hair mixed with white, like the wing of a magpie, escaped
from<br>
 the colonel's cap, while handsome brown curls adorned the brow
of the<br>
 statesman. One was tall, gallant, high-strung, and the lines of
his<br>
 pallid face showed terrible passions or frightful griefs. The
other<br>
 had a face that was brilliant with health, and jovially worth of
an<br>
 epicurean. Both were deeply sun-burned, and their high gaiters
of<br>
 tanned leather showed signs of the bogs and the thickets they
had just<br>
 come through.</p>

<p>"Come," said Monsieur de Sucy, "let us get on. A short hour's
march,<br>
 and we shall reach Cassan in time for a good dinner."</p>

<p>"It is easy to see you have never loved," replied the
councillor, with<br>
 a look that was pitifully comic; "you are as relentless as
article 304<br>
 of the penal code."</p>

<p>Philippe de Sucy quivered; his broad brow contracted; his face
became<br>
 as sombre as the skies above them. Some memory of awful
bitterness<br>
 distorted for a moment his features, but he said nothing. Like
all<br>
 strong men, he drove down his emotions to the depths of his
heart;<br>
 thinking perhaps, as simple characters are apt to think, that
there<br>
 was something immodest in unveiling griefs when human language
cannot<br>
 render their depths and may only rouse the mockery of those who
do not<br>
 comprehend them. Monsieur d'Albon had one of those delicate
natures<br>
 which divine sorrows, and are instantly sympathetic to the
emotion<br>
 they have involuntarily aroused. He respected his friend's
silence,<br>
 rose, forgot his fatigue, and followed him silently, grieved to
have<br>
 touched a wound that was evidently not healed.</p>

<p>"Some day, my friend," said Philippe, pressing his hand, and
thanking<br>
 him for his mute repentance by a heart-rending look, "I will
relate to<br>
 you my life. To-day I cannot."</p>

<p>They continued their way in silence. When the colonel's pain
seemed<br>
 soothed, the marquis resumed his fatigue; and with the instinct,
or<br>
 rather the will, of a wearied man his eye took in the very
depths of<br>
 the forest; he questioned the tree-tops and examined the
branching<br>
 paths, hoping to discover some dwelling where he could ask<br>
 hospitality. Arriving at a cross-ways, he thought he noticed a
slight<br>
 smoke rising among the trees; he stopped, looked more
attentively, and<br>
 saw, in the midst of a vast copse, the dark-green branches of
several<br>
 pine-trees.</p>

<p>"A house! a house!" he cried, with the joy the sailor feels in
crying<br>
 "Land!"</p>

<p>Then he sprang quickly into the copse, and the colonel, who
had fallen<br>
 into a deep reverie, followed him mechanically.</p>

<p>"I'd rather get an omelet, some cottage bread, and a chair
here," he<br>
 said, "than go to Cassan for sofas, truffles, and Bordeaux."</p>

<p>These words were an exclamation of enthusiasm, elicited from
the<br>
 councillor on catching sight of a wall, the white towers of
which<br>
 glimmered in the distance through the brown masses of the tree
trunks.</p>

<p>"Ha! ha! this looks to me as if it had once been a priory,"
cried the<br>
 marquis, as they reached a very old and blackened gate, through
which<br>
 they could see, in the midst of a large park, a building
constructed<br>
 in the style of the monasteries of old. "How those rascals the
monks<br>
 knew how to choose their sites!"</p>

<p>This last exclamation was an expression of surprise and
pleasure at<br>
 the poetical hermitage which met his eyes. The house stood on
the<br>
 slope of the mountain, at the summit of which is the village
of<br>
 Nerville. The great centennial oaks of the forest which
encircled the<br>
 dwelling made the place an absolute solitude. The main
building,<br>
 formerly occupied by the monks, faced south. The park seemed to
have<br>
 about forty acres. Near the house lay a succession of green
meadows,<br>
 charmingly crossed by several clear rivulets, with here and
there a<br>
 piece of water naturally placed without the least apparent
artifice.<br>
 Trees of elegant shape and varied foliage were distributed
about.<br>
 Grottos, cleverly managed, and massive terraces with dilapidated
steps<br>
 and rusty railings, gave a peculiar character to this lone
retreat.<br>
 Art had harmonized her constructions with the picturesque
effects of<br>
 nature. Human passions seemed to die at the feet of those great
trees,<br>
 which guarded this asylum from the tumult of the world as they
shaded<br>
 it from the fires of the sun.</p>

<p><br>
 "How desolate!" thought Monsieur d'Albon, observing the
sombre<br>
 expression which the ancient building gave to the landscape,
gloomy as<br>
 though a curse were on it. It seemed a fatal spot deserted by
man. Ivy<br>
 had stretched its tortuous muscles, covered by its rich green
mantle,<br>
 everywhere. Brown or green, red or yellow mosses and lichen
spread<br>
 their romantic tints on trees and seats and roofs and stones.
The<br>
 crumbling window-casings were hollowed by rain, defaced by time;
the<br>
 balconies were broken, the terraces demolished. Some of the
outside<br>
 shutters hung from a single hinge. The rotten doors seemed
quite<br>
 unable to resist an assailant. Covered with shining tufts of<br>
 mistletoe, the branches of the neglected fruit-trees gave no
sign of<br>
 fruit. Grass grew in the paths. Such ruin and desolation cast a
weird<br>
 poesy on the scene, filling the souls of the spectators with
dreamy<br>
 thoughts. A poet would have stood there long, plunged in a
melancholy<br>
 reverie, admiring this disorder so full of harmony, this
destruction<br>
 which was not without its grace. Suddenly, the brown tiles
shone, the<br>
 mosses glittered, fantastic shadows danced upon the meadows
and<br>
 beneath the trees; fading colors revived; striking contrasts<br>
 developed, the foliage of the trees and shrubs defined itself
more<br>
 clearly in the light. Then--the light went out. The landscape
seemed<br>
 to have spoken, and now was silent, returning to its gloom, or
rather<br>
 to the soft sad tones of an autumnal twilight.</p>

<p>"It is the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," said the marquis,
beginning<br>
 to view the house with the eyes of a land owner. "I wonder to
whom it<br>
 belongs! He must be a stupid fellow not to live in such an
exquisite<br>
 spot."</p>

<p>At that instant a woman sprang from beneath a chestnut-tree
standing<br>
 to the right of the gate, and, without making any noise, passed
before<br>
 the marquis as rapidly as the shadow of a cloud. This vision
made him<br>
 mute with surprise.</p>

<p>"Why, Albon, what's the matter?" asked the colonel.</p>

<p>"I am rubbing my eyes to know if I am asleep or awake,"
replied the<br>
 marquis, with his face close to the iron rails as he tried to
get<br>
 another sight of the phantom.</p>

<p>"She must be beneath that fig-tree," he said, pointing to the
foliage<br>
 of a tree which rose above the wall to the left of the gate.</p>

<p>"She! who?"</p>

<p>"How can I tell?" replied Monsieur d'Albon. "A strange woman
rose up<br>
 there, just before me," he said in a low voice; "she seemed to
come<br>
 from the world of shades rather than from the land of the
living. She<br>
 is so slender, so light, so filmy, she must be diaphanous. Her
face<br>
 was as white as milk; her eyes, her clothes, her hair jet black.
She<br>
 looked at me as she flitted by, and though I may say I'm no
coward,<br>
 that cold immovable look froze the blood in my veins."</p>

<p>"Is she pretty?" asked Philippe.</p>

<p>"I don't know. I could see nothing but the eyes in that
face."</p>

<p>"Well, let the dinner at Cassan go to the devil!" cried the
colonel.<br>
 "Suppose we stay here. I have a sudden childish desire to enter
that<br>
 singular house. Do you see those window-frames painted red, and
the<br>
 red lines on the doors and shutters? Doesn't the place look to
you as<br>
 if it belonged to the devil?--perhaps he inherited it from the
monks.<br>
 Come, let us pursue the black and white lady--forward, march!"
cried<br>
 Philippe, with forced gaiety.</p>

<p>At that instant the two huntsmen heard a cry that was
something like<br>
 that of a mouse caught in a trap. They listened. The rustle of a
few<br>
 shrubs sounded in the silence like the murmur of a breaking
wave. In<br>
 vain they listened for other sounds; the earth was dumb, and
kept the<br>
 secret of those light steps, if, indeed, the unknown woman moved
at<br>
 all.</p>

<p>"It is very singular!" said Philippe, as they skirted the park
wall.</p>

<p>The two friends presently reached a path in the forest which
led to<br>
 the village of Chauvry. After following this path some way
toward the<br>
 main road to Paris, they came to another iron gate which led to
the<br>
 principal facade of the mysterious dwelling. On this side
the<br>
 dilapidation and disorder of the premises had reached their
height.<br>
 Immense cracks furrowed the walls of the house, which was built
on<br>
 three sides of a square. Fragments of tiles and slates lying on
the<br>
 ground, and the dilapidated condition of the roofs, were
evidence of a<br>
 total want of care on the part of the owners. The fruit had
fallen<br>
 from the trees and lay rotting on the ground; a cow was feeding
on the<br>
 lawn and treading down the flowers in the borders, while a
goat<br>
 browsed on the shoots of the vines and munched the unripe
grapes.</p>

<p>"Here all is harmony; the devastation seems organized," said
the<br>
 colonel, pulling the chain of a bell; but the bell was without
a<br>
 clapper.</p>

<p>The huntsmen heard nothing but the curiously sharp noise of a
rusty<br>
 spring. Though very dilapidated, a little door made in the wall
beside<br>
 the iron gates resisted all their efforts to open it.</p>

<p>"Well, well, this is getting to be exciting," said de Sucy to
his<br>
 companion.</p>

<p>"If I were not a magistrate," replied Monsieur d'Albon, "I
should<br>
 think that woman was a witch."</p>

<p>As he said the words, the cow came to the iron gate and pushed
her<br>
 warm muzzle towards them, as if she felt the need of seeing
human<br>
 beings. Then a woman, if that name could be applied to the
indefinable<br>
 being who suddenly issued from a clump of bushes, pulled away
the cow<br>
 by its rope. This woman wore on her head a red handkerchief,
beneath<br>
 which trailed long locks of hair in color and shape like the
flax on a<br>
 distaff. She wore no fichu. A coarse woollen petticoat in black
and<br>
 gray stripes, too short by several inches, exposed her legs. She
might<br>
 have belonged to some tribe of Red-Skins described by Cooper,
for her<br>
 legs, neck, and arms were the color of brick. No ray of
intelligence<br>
 enlivened her vacant face. A few whitish hairs served her
for<br>
 eyebrows; the eyes themselves, of a dull blue, were cold and
wan; and<br>
 her mouth was so formed as to show the teeth, which were
crooked, but<br>
 as white as those of a dog.</p>

<p>"Here, my good woman!" called Monsieur de Sucy.</p>

<p>She came very slowly to the gate, looking with a silly
expression at<br>
 the two huntsmen, the sight of whom brought a forced and painful
smile<br>
 to her face.</p>

<p>"Where are we? Whose house is this? Who are you? Do you belong
here?"</p>

<p>To these questions and several others which the two
friends<br>
 alternately addressed to her, she answered only with guttural
sounds<br>
 that seemed more like the growl of an animal than the voice of a
human<br>
 being.</p>

<p>"She must be deaf and dumb," said the marquis.</p>

<p>"Bons-Hommes!" cried the peasant woman.</p>

<p>"Ah! I see. This is, no doubt, the old monastery of the
Bons-Hommes,"<br>
 said the marquis.</p>

<p>He renewed his questions. But, like a capricious child, the
peasant<br>
 woman colored, played with her wooden shoe, twisted the rope of
the<br>
 cow, which was now feeding peaceably, and looked at the two
hunters,<br>
 examining every part of their clothing; then she yelped,
growled, and<br>
 clucked, but did not speak.</p>

<p>"What is your name?" said Philippe, looking at her fixedly, as
if he<br>
 meant to mesmerize her.</p>

<p>"Genevieve," she said, laughing with a silly air.</p>

<p>"The cow is the most intelligent being we have seen so far,"
said the<br>
 marquis. "I shall fire my gun and see if that will being some
one."</p>

<p>Just as d'Albon raised his gun, the colonel stopped him with
a<br>
 gesture, and pointed to the form of a woman, probably the one
who had<br>
 so keenly piqued his curiosity. At this moment she seemed lost
in the<br>
 deepest meditation, and was coming with slow steps along a
distant<br>
 pathway, so that the two friends had ample time to examine
her.</p>

<p>She was dressed in a ragged gown of black satin. Her long hair
fell in<br>
 masses of curls over her forehead, around her shoulders, and
below her<br>
 waist, serving her for a shawl. Accustomed no doubt to this
disorder,<br>
 she seldom pushed her hair from her forehead; and when she did
so, it<br>
 was with a sudden toss of her head which only for a moment
cleared her<br>
 forehead and eyes from the thick veil. Her gesture, like that of
an<br>
 animal, had a remarkable mechanical precision, the quickness of
which<br>
 seemed wonderful in a woman. The huntsmen were amazed to see
her<br>
 suddenly leap up on the branch of an apple-tree, and sit there
with<br>
 the ease of a bird. She gathered an apple and ate it; then she
dropped<br>
 to the ground with the graceful ease we admire in a squirrel.
Her<br>
 limbs possessed an elasticity which took from every movement
the<br>
 slightest appearance of effort or constraint. She played upon
the<br>
 turf, rolling herself about like a child; then, suddenly, she
flung<br>
 her feet and hands forward, and lay at full length on the grass,
with<br>
 the grace and natural ease of a young cat asleep in the sun.
Thunder<br>
 sounded in the distance, and she turned suddenly, rising on her
hands<br>
 and knees with the rapidity of a dog which hears a coming
footstep.</p>

<p>The effects of this singular attitude was to separate into two
heavy<br>
 masses the volume of her black hair, which now fell on either
side of<br>
 her head, and allowed the two spectators to admire the white
shoulders<br>
 glistening like daisies in a field, and the throat, the
perfection of<br>
 which allowed them to judge of the other beauties of her
figure.</p>

<p>Suddenly she uttered a distressful cry and rose to her feet.
Her<br>
 movements succeeded each other with such airiness and grace that
she<br>
 seemed not a creature of this world but a daughter of the
atmosphere,<br>
 as sung in the poems of Ossian. She ran toward a piece of water,
shook<br>
 one of her legs lightly to cast off her shoe, and began to
dabble her<br>
 foot, white as alabaster, in the current, admiring, perhaps,
the<br>
 undulations she thus produced upon the surface of the water.
Then she<br>
 knelt down at the edge of the stream and amused herself, like a
child,<br>
 in casting in her long tresses and pulling them abruptly out, to
watch<br>
 the shower of drops that glittered down, looking, as the
sunlight<br>
 struck athwart them, like a chaplet of pearls.</p>

<p>"That woman is mad!" cried the marquis.</p>

<p>A hoarse cry, uttered by Genevieve, seemed uttered as a
warning to the<br>
 unknown woman, who turned suddenly, throwing back her hair from
either<br>
 side of her face. At this instant the colonel and Monsieur
d'Albon<br>
 could distinctly see her features; she, herself, perceiving the
two<br>
 friends, sprang to the iron railing with the lightness and
rapidity of<br>
 a deer.</p>

<p>"Adieu!" she said, in a soft, harmonious voice, the melody of
which<br>
 did not convey the slightest feeling or the slightest
thought.</p>

<p>Monsieur d'Albon admired the long lashes of her eyelids, the
blackness<br>
 of her eyebrows, and the dazzling whiteness of a skin devoid of
even<br>
 the faintest tinge of color. Tiny blue veins alone broke the<br>
 uniformity of its pure white tones. When the marquis turned to
his<br>
 friend as if to share with him his amazement at the sight of
this<br>
 singular creature, he found him stretched on the ground as if
dead.<br>
 D'Albon fired his gun in the air to summon assistance, crying
out<br>
 "Help! help!" and then endeavored to revive the colonel. At the
sound<br>
 of the shot, the unknown woman, who had hitherto stood
motionless,<br>
 fled away with the rapidity of an arrow, uttering cries of fear
like a<br>
 wounded animal, and running hither and thither about the meadow
with<br>
 every sign of the greatest terror.</p>

<p>Monsieur d'Albon, hearing the rumbling of a carriage on the
high-road<br>
 to Ile-Adam, waved his handkerchief and shouted to its occupants
for<br>
 assistance. The carriage was immediately driven up to the
old<br>
 monastery, and the marquis recognized his neighbors, Monsieur
and<br>
 Madame de Granville, who at once gave up their carriage to the
service<br>
 of the two gentlemen. Madame de Granville had with her, by
chance, a<br>
 bottle of salts, which revived the colonel for a moment. When
he<br>
 opened his eyes he turned them to the meadow, where the unknown
woman<br>
 was still running and uttering her distressing cries. A
smothered<br>
 exclamation escaped him, which seemed to express a sense of
horror;<br>
 then he closed his eyes again, and made a gesture as if to
implore his<br>
 friend to remove him from that sight.</p>

<p>Monsieur and Madame de Granville placed their carriage
entirely at the<br>
 disposal of the marquis, assuring him courteously that they
would like<br>
 to continue their way on foot.</p>

<p>"Who is that lady?" asked the marquis, signing toward the
unknown<br>
 woman.</p>

<p>"I believe she comes from Moulins," replied Monsieur de
Granville.<br>
 "She is the Comtesse de Vandieres, and they say she is mad; but
as she<br>
 has only been here two months I will not vouch for the truth of
these<br>
 hearsays."</p>

<p>Monsieur d'Albon thanked his friends, and placing the colonel
in the<br>
 carriage, started with him for Cassan.</p>

<p>"It is she!" cried Philippe, recovering his senses.</p>

<p>"Who is she?" asked d'Albon.</p>

<p>"Stephanie. Ah, dead and living, living and mad! I fancied I
was<br>
 dying."</p>

<p>The prudent marquis, appreciating the gravity of the crisis
through<br>
 which his friend was passing, was careful not to question or
excite<br>
 him; he was only anxious to reach the chateau, for the change
which<br>
 had taken place in the colonel's features, in fact in his
whole<br>
 person, made him fear for his friend's reason. As soon,
therefore, as<br>
 the carriage had reached the main street of Ile-Adam, he
dispatched<br>
 the footman to the village doctor, so that the colonel was no
sooner<br>
 fairly in his bed at the chateau than the physician was beside
him.</p>

<p>"If monsieur had not been many hours without food the shock
would have<br>
 killed him," said the doctor.</p>

<p>After naming the first precautions, the doctor left the room,
to<br>
 prepare, himself, a calming potion. The next day, Monsieur de
Sucy was<br>
 better, but the doctor still watched him carefully.</p>

<p>"I will admit to you, monsieur le marquis," he said, "that I
have<br>
 feared some affection of the brain. Monsieur de Sucy has
received a<br>
 violent shock; his passions are strong; but, in him, the first
blow<br>
 decides all. To-morrow he may be entirely out of danger."</p>

<p>The doctor was not mistaken; and the following day he allowed
the<br>
 marquis to see his friend.</p>

<p>"My dear d'Albon," said Philippe, pressing his hand, "I am
going to<br>
 ask a kindness of you. Go to the Bons-Hommes, and find out all
you can<br>
 of the lady we saw there; and return to me as quickly as you
can; I<br>
 shall count the minutes."</p>

<p>Monsieur d'Albon mounted his horse at once, and galloped to
the old<br>
 abbey. When he arrived there, he saw before the iron gate a
tall,<br>
 spare man with a very kindly face, who answered in the
affirmative<br>
 when asked if he lived there. Monsieur d'Albon then informed him
of<br>
 the reasons for his visit.</p>

<p>"What! monsieur," said the other, "was it you who fired that
fatal<br>
 shot? You very nearly killed my poor patient."</p>

<p>"But, monsieur, I fired in the air."</p>

<p>"You would have done the countess less harm had you fired at
her."</p>

<p>"Then we must not reproach each other, monsieur, for the sight
of the<br>
 countess has almost killed my friend, Monsieur de Sucy."</p>

<p>"Heavens! can you mean Baron Philippe de Sucy?" cried the
doctor,<br>
 clasping his hands. "Did he go to Russia; was he at the passage
of the<br>
 Beresina?"</p>

<p>"Yes," replied d'Albon, "he was captured by the Cossacks and
kept for<br>
 five years in Siberia; he recovered his liberty a few months
ago."</p>

<p>"Come in, monsieur," said the master of the house, leading the
marquis<br>
 into a room on the lower floor where everything bore the marks
of<br>
 capricious destruction. The silken curtains beside the windows
were<br>
 torn, while those of muslin remained intact.</p>

<p>"You see," said the tall old man, as they entered, "the
ravages<br>
 committed by that dear creature, to whom I devote myself. She is
my<br>
 niece; in spite of the impotence of my art, I hope some day to
restore<br>
 her reason by attempting a method which can only be
employed,<br>
 unfortunately, by very rich people."</p>

<p>Then, like all persons living in solitude who are afflicted
with an<br>
 ever present and ever renewed grief, he related to the marquis
at<br>
 length the following narrative, which is here condensed, and
relieved<br>
 of the many digressions made by both the narrator and the
listener.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>

<h3>THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA</h3>

<p>Marechal Victor, when he started, about nine at night, from
the<br>
 heights of Studzianka, which he had defended, as the rear-guard
of the<br>
 retreating army, during the whole day of November 28th, 1812,
left a<br>
 thousand men behind him, with orders to protect to the last
possible<br>
 moment whichever of the two bridges across the Beresina might
still<br>
 exist. This rear-guard had devoted itself to the task of saving
a<br>
 frightful multitude of stragglers overcome by the cold, who<br>
 obstinately refused to leave the bivouacs of the army. The
heroism of<br>
 this generous troop proved useless. The stragglers who flocked
in<br>
 masses to the banks of the Beresina found there, unhappily, an
immense<br>
 number of carriages, caissons, and articles of all kinds which
the<br>
 army had been forced to abandon when effecting its passage of
the<br>
 river on the 27th and 28th of November. Heirs to such
unlooked-for<br>
 riches, the unfortunate men, stupid with cold, took up their
abode in<br>
 the deserted bivouacs, broke up the material which they found
there to<br>
 build themselves cabins, made fuel of everything that came to
hand,<br>
 cut up the frozen carcasses of the horses for food, tore the
cloth and<br>
 the curtains from the carriages for coverlets, and went to
sleep,<br>
 instead of continuing their way and crossing quietly during the
night<br>
 that cruel Beresina, which an incredible fatality had already
made so<br>
 destructive to the army.</p>

<p><br>
 The apathy of these poor soldiers can only be conceived by those
who<br>
 remember to have crossed vast deserts of snow without other<br>
 perspective than a snow horizon, without other drink than
snow,<br>
 without other bed than snow, without other food than snow or a
few<br>
 frozen beet-roots, a few handfuls of flour, or a little
horseflesh.<br>
 Dying of hunger, thirst, fatigue, and want of sleep, these<br>
 unfortunates reached a shore where they saw before them
wood,<br>
 provisions, innumerable camp equipages, and carriages,--in short
a<br>
 whole town at their service. The village of Studzianka had been
wholly<br>
 taken to pieces and conveyed from the heights on which it stood
to the<br>
 plain. However forlorn and dangerous that refuge might be,
its<br>
 miseries and its perils only courted men who had lately seen
nothing<br>
 before them but the awful deserts of Russia. It was, in fact, a
vast<br>
 asylum which had an existence of twenty-four hours only.</p>

<p>Utter lassitude, and the sense of unexpected comfort, made
that mass<br>
 of men inaccessible to every thought but that of rest. Though
the<br>
 artillery of the left wing of the Russians kept up a steady fire
on<br>
 this mass,--visible like a stain now black, now flaming, in the
midst<br>
 of the trackless snow,--this shot and shell seemed to the
torpid<br>
 creatures only one inconvenience the more. It was like a
thunderstorm,<br>
 despised by all because the lightning strikes so few; the balls
struck<br>
 only here and there, the dying, the sick, the dead
sometimes!<br>
 Stragglers arrived in groups continually; but once here
those<br>
 perambulating corpses separated; each begged for himself a place
near<br>
 a fire; repulsed repeatedly, they met again, to obtain by force
the<br>
 hospitality already refused to them. Deaf to the voice of some
of<br>
 their officers, who warned them of probable destruction on the
morrow,<br>
 they spent the amount of courage necessary to cross the river
in<br>
 building that asylum of a night, in making one meal that
they<br>
 themselves doomed to be their last. The death that awaited them
they<br>
 considered no evil, provided they could have that one night's
sleep.<br>
 They thought nothing evil but hunger, thirst, and cold. When
there was<br>
 no more wood or food or fire, horrible struggles took place
between<br>
 fresh-comers and the rich who possessed a shelter. The
weakest<br>
 succumbed.</p>

<p>At last there came a moment when a number, pursued by the
Russians,<br>
 found only snow on which to bivouac, and these lay down to rise
no<br>
 more. Insensibly this mass of almost annihilated beings became
so<br>
 compact, so deaf, so torpid, so happy perhaps, that Marechal
Victor,<br>
 who had been their heroic defender by holding twenty thousand
Russians<br>
 under Wittgenstein at bay, was forced to open a passage by main
force<br>
 through this forest of men in order to cross the Beresina with
five<br>
 thousand gallant fellows whom he was taking to the emperor.
The<br>
 unfortunate malingerers allowed themselves to be crushed rather
than<br>
 stir; they perished in silence, smiling at their extinguished
fires,<br>
 without a thought of France.</p>

<p>It was not until ten o'clock that night that Marechal Victor
reached<br>
 the bank of the river. Before crossing the bridge which led to
Zembin,<br>
 he confided the fate of his own rear-guard now left in
Studzianka to<br>
 Eble, the savior of all those who survived the calamities of
the<br>
 Beresina. It was towards midnight when this great general,
followed by<br>
 one brave officer, left the cabin he occupied near the bridge,
and<br>
 studied the spectacle of that improvised camp placed between the
bank<br>
 of the river and Studzianka. The Russian cannon had ceased to
thunder.<br>
 Innumerable fires, which, amid that trackless waste of snow,
burned<br>
 pale and scarcely sent out any gleams, illumined here and there
by<br>
 sudden flashes forms and faces that were barely human. Thirty
thousand<br>
 poor wretches, belonging to all nations, from whom Napoleon
had<br>
 recruited his Russian army, were trifling away their lives
with<br>
 brutish indifference.</p>

<p>"Let us save them!" said General Eble to the officer who
accompanied<br>
 him. "To-morrow morning the Russians will be masters of
Studzianka. We<br>
 must burn the bridge the moment they appear. Therefore, my
friend,<br>
 take your courage in your hand! Go to the heights. Tell
General<br>
 Fournier he has barely time to evacuate his position, force a
way<br>
 through this crowd, and cross the bridge. When you have seen him
in<br>
 motion follow him. Find men you can trust, and the moment
Fournier had<br>
 crossed the bridge, burn, without pity, huts, equipages,
caissons,<br>
 carriages,--EVERYTHING! Drive that mass of men to the bridge.
Compel<br>
 all that has two legs to get to the other side of the river.
The<br>
 burning of everything--EVERYTHING--is now our last resource.
If<br>
 Berthier had let me destroy those damned camp equipages, this
river<br>
 would swallow only my poor pontoniers, those fifty heroes who
will<br>
 save the army, but who themselves will be forgotten."</p>

<p>The general laid his hand on his forehead and was silent. He
felt that<br>
 Poland would be his grave, and that no voice would rise to do
justice<br>
 to those noble men who stood in the water, the icy water of
Beresina,<br>
 to destroy the buttresses of the bridges. One alone of those
heroes<br>
 still lives--or, to speak more correctly, suffers--in a
village,<br>
 totally ignored.</p>

<p>The aide-de-camp started. Hardly had this generous officer
gone a<br>
 hundred yards towards Studzianka than General Eble wakened a
number of<br>
 his weary pontoniers, and began the work,--the charitable work
of<br>
 burning the bivouacs set up about the bridge, and forcing
the<br>
 sleepers, thus dislodged, to cross the river.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the young aide-de-camp reached, not without
difficulty, the<br>
 only wooden house still left standing in Studzianka.</p>

<p>"This barrack seems pretty full, comrade," he said to a man
whom he<br>
 saw by the doorway.</p>

<p>"If you can get in you'll be a clever trooper," replied the
officer,<br>
 without turning his head or ceasing to slice off with his sabre
the<br>
 bark of the logs of which the house was built.</p>

<p>"Is that you, Philippe?" said the aide-de-camp, recognizing a
friend<br>
 by the tones of his voice.</p>

<p>"Yes. Ha, ha! is it you, old fellow?" replied Monsieur de
Sucy,<br>
 looking at the aide-de-camp, who, like himself, was only
twenty-three<br>
 years of age. "I thought you were the other side of that cursed
river.<br>
 What are you here for? Have you brought cakes and wine for
our<br>
 dessert? You'll be welcome," and he went on slicing off the
bark,<br>
 which he gave as a sort of provender to his horse.</p>

<p>"I am looking for your commander to tell him, from General
Eble, to<br>
 make for Zembin. You'll have barely enough time to get through
that<br>
 crowd of men below. I am going presently to set fire to their
camp and<br>
 force them to march."</p>

<p>"You warm me up--almost! That news makes me perspire. I have
two<br>
 friends I MUST save. Ah! without those two to cling to me, I
should be<br>
 dead already. It is for them that I feed my horse and don't
eat<br>
 myself. Have you any food,--a mere crust? It is thirty hours
since<br>
 anything has gone into my stomach, and yet I have fought like a
madman<br>
 --just to keep a little warmth and courage in me."</p>

<p>"Poor Philippe, I have nothing--nothing! But where's your
general,--in<br>
 this house?"</p>

<p>"No, don't go there; the place is full of wounded. Go up the
street;<br>
 you'll find on your left a sort of pig-pen; the general is
there.<br>
 Good-bye, old fellow. If we ever dance a trenis on a Paris
floor--"</p>

<p>He did not end his sentence; the north wind blew at that
moment with<br>
 such ferocity that the aide-de-camp hurried on to escape being
frozen,<br>
 and the lips of Major de Sucy stiffened. Silence reigned, broken
only<br>
 by the moans which came from the house, and the dull sound made
by the<br>
 major's horse as it chewed in a fury of hunger the icy bark of
the<br>
 trees with which the house was built. Monsieur de Sucy replaced
his<br>
 sabre in its scabbard, took the bridle of the precious horse he
had<br>
 hitherto been able to preserve, and led it, in spite of the
animal's<br>
 resistance, from the wretched fodder it appeared to think
excellent.</p>

<p>"We'll start, Bichette, we'll start! There's none but you, my
beauty,<br>
 who can save Stephanie. Ha! by and bye you and I may be able to
rest--<br>
 and die," he added.</p>

<p>Philippe, wrapped in a fur pelisse, to which he owed his
preservation<br>
 and his energy, began to run, striking his feet hard upon the
frozen<br>
 snow to keep them warm. Scarcely had he gone a few hundred yards
from<br>
 the village than he saw a blaze in the direction of the place
where,<br>
 since morning, he had left his carriage in charge of his
former<br>
 orderly, an old soldier. Horrible anxiety laid hold of him. Like
all<br>
 others who were controlled during this fatal retreat by some
powerful<br>
 sentiment, he found a strength to save his friends which he
could not<br>
 have put forth to save himself.</p>

<p>Presently he reached a slight declivity at the foot of which,
in a<br>
 spot sheltered from the enemy's balls, he had stationed the
carriage,<br>
 containing a young woman, the companion of his childhood, the
being<br>
 most dear to him on earth. At a few steps distant from the
vehicle he<br>
 now found a company of some thirty stragglers collected around
an<br>
 immense fire, which they were feeding with planks, caisson
covers,<br>
 wheels, and broken carriages. These soldiers were, no doubt, the
last<br>
 comers of that crowd who, from the base of the hill of
Studzianka to<br>
 the fatal river, formed an ocean of heads intermingled with
fires and<br>
 huts,--a living sea, swayed by motions that were almost
imperceptible,<br>
 and giving forth a murmuring sound that rose at times to
frightful<br>
 outbursts. Driven by famine and despair, these poor wretches
must have<br>
 rifled the carriage before de Sucy reached it. The old general
and his<br>
 young wife, whom he had left lying in piles of clothes and
wrapped in<br>
 mantles and pelisses, were now on the snow, crouching before the
fire.<br>
 One door of the carriage was already torn off.</p>

<p>No sooner did the men about the fire hear the tread of the
major's<br>
 horse than a hoarse cry, the cry of famine, arose,--</p>

<p>"A horse! a horse!"</p>

<p>Those voices formed but one voice.</p>

<p>"Back! back! look out for yourself!" cried two or three
soldiers,<br>
 aiming at the mare. Philippe threw himself before his animal,
crying<br>
 out,--</p>

<p>"You villains! I'll throw you into your own fire. There are
plenty of<br>
 dead horses up there. Go and fetch them."</p>

<p>"Isn't he a joker, that officer! One, two--get out of the
way," cried<br>
 a colossal grenadier. "No, you won't, hey! Well, as you please,
then."</p>

<p>A woman's cry rose higher than the report of the musket.
Philippe<br>
 fortunately was not touched, but Bichette, mortally wounded,
was<br>
 struggling in the throes of death. Three men darted forward
and<br>
 dispatched her with their bayonets.</p>

<p>"Cannibals!" cried Philippe, "let me at any rate take the
horse-cloth<br>
 and my pistols."</p>

<p>"Pistols, yes," replied the grenadier. "But as for that
horse-cloth,<br>
 no! here's a poor fellow afoot, with nothing in his stomach for
two<br>
 days, and shivering in his rags. It is our general."</p>

<p>Philippe kept silence as he looked at the man, whose boots
were worn<br>
 out, his trousers torn in a dozen places, while nothing but a
ragged<br>
 fatigue-cap covered with ice was on his head. He hastened,
however, to<br>
 take his pistols. Five men dragged the mare to the fire, and cut
her<br>
 up with the dexterity of a Parisian butcher. The pieces were
instantly<br>
 seized and flung upon the embers.</p>

<p>The major went up to the young woman, who had uttered a cry
on<br>
 recognizing him. He found her motionless, seated on a cushion
beside<br>
 the fire. She looked at him silently, without smiling. Philippe
then<br>
 saw the soldier to whom he had confided the carriage; the man
was<br>
 wounded. Overcome by numbers, he had been forced to yield to
the<br>
 malingerers who attacked him; and, like the dog who defended to
the<br>
 last possible moment his master's dinner, he had taken his share
of<br>
 the booty, and was now sitting beside the fire, wrapped in a
white<br>
 sheet by way of cloak, and turning carefully on the embers a
slice of<br>
 the mare. Philippe saw upon his face the joy these preparations
gave<br>
 him. The Comte de Vandieres, who, for the last few days, had
fallen<br>
 into a state of second childhood, was seated on a cushion beside
his<br>
 wife, looking fixedly at the fire, which was beginning to thaw
his<br>
 torpid limbs. He had shown no emotion of any kind, either at<br>
 Philippe's danger, or at the fight which ended in the pillage of
the<br>
 carriage and their expulsion from it.</p>

<p>At first de Sucy took the hand of the young countess, as if to
show<br>
 her his affection, and the grief he felt at seeing her reduced
to such<br>
 utter misery; then he grew silent; seated beside her on a heap
of snow<br>
 which was turning into a rivulet as it melted, he yielded
himself up<br>
 to the happiness of being warm, forgetting their peril,
forgetting all<br>
 things. His face assumed, in spite of himself, an expression of
almost<br>
 stupid joy, and he waited with impatience until the fragment of
the<br>
 mare given to his orderly was cooked. The smell of the roasting
flesh<br>
 increased his hunger, and his hunger silenced his heart, his
courage,<br>
 and his love. He looked, without anger, at the results of the
pillage<br>
 of his carriage. All the men seated around the fire had shared
his<br>
 blankets, cushions, pelisses, robes, also the clothing of the
Comte<br>
 and Comtesse de Vandieres and his own. Philippe looked about him
to<br>
 see if there was anything left in or near the vehicle that was
worth<br>
 saving. By the light of the flames he saw gold and diamonds and
plate<br>
 scattered everywhere, no one having thought it worth his while
to take<br>
 any.</p>

<p>Each of the individuals collected by chance around this
fire<br>
 maintained a silence that was almost horrible, and did nothing
but<br>
 what he judged necessary for his own welfare. Their misery was
even<br>
 grotesque. Faces, discolored by cold, were covered with a layer
of<br>
 mud, on which tears had made a furrow from the eyes to the
beard,<br>
 showing the thickness of that miry mask. The filth of their
long<br>
 beards made these men still more repulsive. Some were wrapped in
the<br>
 countess's shawls, others wore the trappings of horses and
muddy<br>
 saddlecloths, or masses of rags from which the hoar-frost hung;
some<br>
 had a boot on one leg and a shoe on the other; in fact, there
were<br>
 none whose costume did not present some laughable singularity.
But in<br>
 presence of such amusing sights the men themselves were grave
and<br>
 gloomy. The silence was broken only by the snapping of the wood,
the<br>
 crackling of the flames, the distant murmur of the camps, and
the<br>
 blows of the sabre given to what remained of Bichette in search
of her<br>
 tenderest morsels. A few miserable creatures, perhaps more weary
than<br>
 the rest, were sleeping; when one of their number rolled into
the fire<br>
 no one attempted to help him out. These stern logicians argued
that if<br>
 he were not dead his burns would warn him to find a safer place.
If<br>
 the poor wretch waked in the flames and perished, no one cared.
Two or<br>
 three soldiers looked at each other to justify their own
indifference<br>
 by that of others. Twice this scene had taken place before the
eyes of<br>
 the countess, who said nothing. When the various pieces of
Bichette,<br>
 placed here and there upon the embers, were sufficiently
broiled, each<br>
 man satisfied his hunger with the gluttony that disgusts us when
we<br>
 see it in animals.</p>

<p>"This is the first time I ever saw thirty infantrymen on one
horse,"<br>
 cried the grenadier who had shot the mare.</p>

<p>It was the only jest made that night which proved the
national<br>
 character.</p>

<p>Soon the great number of these poor soldiers wrapped
themselves in<br>
 what they could find and lay down on planks, or whatever would
keep<br>
 them from contact with the snow, and slept, heedless of the
morrow.<br>
 When the major was warm, and his hunger appeased, an invincible
desire<br>
 to sleep weighed down his eyelids. During the short moment of
his<br>
 struggle against that desire he looked at the young woman, who
had<br>
 turned her face to the fire and was now asleep, leaving her
closed<br>
 eyes and a portion of her forehead exposed to sight. She was
wrapped<br>
 in a furred pelisse and a heavy dragoon's cloak; her head rested
on a<br>
 pillow stained with blood; an astrakhan hood, kept in place by
a<br>
 handkerchief knotted round her neck, preserved her face from the
cold<br>
 as much as possible. Her feet were wrapped in the cloak. Thus
rolled<br>
 into a bundle, as it were, she looked like nothing at all. Was
she the<br>
 last of the "vivandieres"? Was she a charming woman, the glory
of a<br>
 lover, the queen of Parisian salons? Alas! even the eye of her
most<br>
 devoted friend could trace no sign of anything feminine in that
mass<br>
 of rags and tatters. Love had succumbed to cold in the heart of
a<br>
 woman!</p>

<p>Through the thick veils of irresistible sleep, the major soon
saw the<br>
 husband and wife as mere points or formless objects. The flames
of the<br>
 fire, those outstretched figures, the relentless cold, waiting,
not<br>
 three feet distant from that fugitive heat, became all a dream.
One<br>
 importunate thought terrified Philippe:</p>

<p>"If I sleep, we shall all die; I will not sleep," he said to
himself.</p>

<p>And yet he slept.</p>

<p>A terrible clamor and an explosion awoke him an hour later.
The sense<br>
 of his duty, the peril of his friend, fell suddenly on his
heart. He<br>
 uttered a cry that was like a roar. He and his orderly were
alone<br>
 afoot. A sea of fire lay before them in the darkness of the
night,<br>
 licking up the cabins and the bivouacs; cries of despair, howls,
and<br>
 imprecations reached their ears; they saw against the flames
thousands<br>
 of human beings with agonized or furious faces. In the midst of
that<br>
 hell, a column of soldiers was forcing its way to the bridge,
between<br>
 two hedges of dead bodies.</p>

<p>"It is the retreat of the rear-guard!" cried the major. "All
hope is<br>
 gone!"</p>

<p>"I have saved your carriage, Philippe," said a friendly
voice.</p>

<p>Turning round, de Sucy recognized the young aide-de-camp in
the<br>
 flaring of the flames.</p>

<p>"Ah! all is lost!" replied the major, "they have eaten my
horse; and<br>
 how can I make this stupid general and his wife walk?"</p>

<p>"Take a brand from the fire and threaten them."</p>

<p>"Threaten the countess!"</p>

<p>"Good-bye," said the aide-de-camp, "I have scarcely time to
get across<br>
 that fatal river--and I MUST; I have a mother in France. What a
night!<br>
 These poor wretches prefer to lie here in the snow; half will
allow<br>
 themselves to perish in those flames rather than rise and move
on. It<br>
 is four o'clock, Philippe! In two hours the Russians will begin
to<br>
 move. I assure you you will again see the Beresina choked
with<br>
 corpses. Philippe! think of yourself! You have no horses, you
cannot<br>
 carry the countess in your arms. Come--come with me!" he
said<br>
 urgently, pulling de Sucy by the arm.</p>

<p>"My friend! abandon Stephanie!"</p>

<p>De Sucy seized the countess, made her stand upright, shook her
with<br>
 the roughness of a despairing man, and compelled her to wake up.
She<br>
 looked at him with fixed, dead eyes.</p>

<p>"You must walk, Stephanie, or we shall all die here."</p>

<p>For all answer the countess tried to drop again upon the snow
and<br>
 sleep. The aide-de-camp seized a brand from the fire and waved
it in<br>
 her face.</p>

<p>"We will save her in spite of herself!" cried Philippe,
lifting the<br>
 countess and placing her in the carriage.</p>

<p>He returned to implore the help of his friend. Together they
lifted<br>
 the old general, without knowing whether he were dead or alive,
and<br>
 put him beside his wife. The major then rolled over the men who
were<br>
 sleeping on his blankets, which he tossed into the carriage,
together<br>
 with some roasted fragments of his mare.</p>

<p>"What do you mean to do?" asked the aide-de-camp.</p>

<p>"Drag them."</p>

<p>"You are crazy."</p>

<p>"True," said Philippe, crossing his arms in despair.</p>

<p>Suddenly, he was seized by a last despairing thought.</p>

<p>"To you," he said, grasping the sound arm of his orderly, "I
confide<br>
 her for one hour. Remember that you must die sooner than let any
one<br>
 approach her."</p>

<p>The major then snatched up the countess's diamonds, held them
in one<br>
 hand, drew his sabre with the other, and began to strike with
the flat<br>
 of its blade such of the sleepers as he thought the most
intrepid. He<br>
 succeeded in awaking the colossal grenadier, and two other men
whose<br>
 rank it was impossible to tell.</p>

<p>"We are done for!" he said.</p>

<p>"I know it," said the grenadier, "but I don't care."</p>

<p>"Well, death for death, wouldn't you rather sell your life for
a<br>
 pretty woman, and take your chances of seeing France?"</p>

<p>"I'd rather sleep," said a man, rolling over on the snow, "and
if you<br>
 trouble me again, I'll stick my bayonet into your stomach."</p>

<p>"What is the business, my colonel?" said the grenadier. "That
man is<br>
 drunk; he's a Parisian; he likes his ease."</p>

<p>"That is yours, my brave grenadier," cried the major, offering
him a<br>
 string of diamonds, "if you will follow me and fight like a
madman.<br>
 The Russians are ten minutes' march from here; they have horses;
we<br>
 are going up to their first battery for a pair."</p>

<p>"But the sentinels?"</p>

<p>"One of us three--" he interrupted himself, and turned to the
aide-de-<br>
 camp. "You will come, Hippolyte, won't you?"</p>

<p>Hippolyte nodded.</p>

<p>"One of us," continued the major, "will take care of the
sentinel.<br>
 Besides, perhaps they are asleep too, those cursed
Russians."</p>

<p>"Forward! major, you're a brave one! But you'll give me a lift
on your<br>
 carriage?" said the grenadier.</p>

<p>"Yes, if you don't leave your skin up there-- If I fall,
Hippolyte,<br>
 and you, grenadier, promise me to do your utmost to save the<br>
 countess."</p>

<p>"Agreed!" cried the grenadier.</p>

<p>They started for the Russian lines, toward one of the
batteries which<br>
 had so decimated the hapless wretches lying on the banks of the
river.<br>
 A few moments later, the gallop of two horses echoed over the
snow,<br>
 and the wakened artillery men poured out a volley which ranged
above<br>
 the heads of the sleeping men. The pace of the horses was so
fleet<br>
 that their steps resounded like the blows of a blacksmith on
his<br>
 anvil. The generous aide-de-camp was killed. The athletic
grenadier<br>
 was safe and sound. Philippe in defending Hippolyte had received
a<br>
 bayonet in his shoulder; but he clung to his horse's mane, and
clasped<br>
 him so tightly with his knees that the animal was held as in a
vice.</p>

<p>"God be praised!" cried the major, finding his orderly
untouched, and<br>
 the carriage in its place.</p>

<p>"If you are just, my officer, you will get me the cross for
this,"<br>
 said the man. "We've played a fine game of guns and sabres here,
I can<br>
 tell you."</p>

<p>"We have done nothing yet-- Harness the horses. Take these
ropes."</p>

<p>"They are not long enough."</p>

<p>"Grenadier, turn over those sleepers, and take their shawls
and linen,<br>
 to eke out."</p>

<p>"Tiens! that's one dead," said the grenadier, stripping the
first man<br>
 he came to. "Bless me! what a joke, they are all dead!"</p>

<p>"All?"</p>

<p>"Yes, all; seems as if horse-meat must be indigestible if
eaten with<br>
 snow."</p>

<p>The words made Philippe tremble. The cold was increasing.</p>

<p>"My God! to lose the woman I have saved a dozen times!"</p>

<p>The major shook the countess.</p>

<p>"Stephanie! Stephanie!"</p>

<p>The young woman opened her eyes.</p>

<p>"Madame! we are saved."</p>

<p>"Saved!" she repeated, sinking down again.</p>

<p>The horses were harnessed as best they could. The major,
holding his<br>
 sabre in his well hand, with his pistols in his belt, gathered
up the<br>
 reins with the other hand and mounted one horse while the
grenadier<br>
 mounted the other. The orderly, whose feet were frozen, was
thrown<br>
 inside the carriage, across the general and the countess.
Excited by<br>
 pricks from a sabre, the horses drew the carriage rapidly, with
a sort<br>
 of fury, to the plain, where innumerable obstacles awaited it.
It was<br>
 impossible to force a way without danger of crushing the
sleeping men,<br>
 women, and even children, who refused to move when the grenadier
awoke<br>
 them. In vain did Monsieur de Sucy endeavor to find the swathe
cut by<br>
 the rear-guard through the mass of human beings; it was
already<br>
 obliterated, like the wake of a vessel through the sea. They
could<br>
 only creep along, being often stopped by soldiers who threatened
to<br>
 kill their horses.</p>

<p><br>
 "Do you want to reach the bridge?" said the grenadier.</p>

<p>"At the cost of my life--at the cost of the whole world!"</p>

<p>"Then forward, march! you can't make omelets without breaking
eggs."</p>

<p>And the grenadier of the guard urged the horses over men and
bivouacs<br>
 with bloody wheels and a double line of corpses on either side
of<br>
 them. We must do him the justice to say that he never spared
his<br>
 breath in shouting in stentorian tones,--</p>

<p>"Look out there, carrion!"</p>

<p>"Poor wretches!" cried the major.</p>

<p>"Pooh! that or the cold, that or the cannon," said the
grenadier,<br>
 prodding the horses, and urging them on.</p>

<p>A catastrophe, which might well have happened to them much
sooner, put<br>
 a stop to their advance. The carriage was overturned.</p>

<p>"I expected it," cried the imperturbable grenadier. "Ho! ho!
your man<br>
 is dead."</p>

<p>"Poor Laurent!" said the major.</p>

<p>"Laurent? Was he in the 5th chasseurs?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Then he was my cousin. Oh, well, this dog's life isn't happy
enough<br>
 to waste any joy in grieving for him."</p>

<p>The carriage could not be raised; the horses were taken out
with<br>
 serious and, as it proved, irreparable loss of time. The shock
of the<br>
 overturn was so violent that the young countess, roused from
her<br>
 lethargy, threw off her coverings and rose.</p>

<p>"Philippe, where are we?" she cried in a gentle voice, looking
about<br>
 her.</p>

<p>"Only five hundred feet from the bridge. We are now going to
cross the<br>
 Beresina, Stephanie, and once across I will not torment you any
more;<br>
 you shall sleep; we shall be in safety, and can reach Wilna
easily.--<br>
 God grant that she may never know what her life has cost!" he
thought.</p>

<p>"Philippe! you are wounded!"</p>

<p>"That is nothing."</p>

<p>Too late! the fatal hour had come. The Russian cannon sounded
the<br>
 reveille. Masters of Studzianka, they could sweep the plain, and
by<br>
 daylight the major could see two of their columns moving and
forming<br>
 on the heights. A cry of alarm arose from the multitude, who
started<br>
 to their feet in an instant. Every man now understood his
danger<br>
 instinctively, and the whole mass rushed to gain the bridge with
the<br>
 motion of a wave.</p>

<p>The Russians came down with the rapidity of a conflagration.
Men,<br>
 women, children, horses,--all rushed tumultuously to the
bridge.<br>
 Fortunately the major, who was carrying the countess, was still
some<br>
 distance from it. General Eble had just set fire to the supports
on<br>
 the other bank. In spite of the warnings shouted to those who
were<br>
 rushing upon the bridge, not a soul went back. Not only did the
bridge<br>
 go down crowded with human beings, but the impetuosity of that
flood<br>
 of men toward the fatal bank was so furious that a mass of
humanity<br>
 poured itself violently into the river like an avalanche. Not a
cry<br>
 was heard; the only sound was like the dropping of monstrous
stones<br>
 into the water. Then the Beresina was a mass of floating
corpses.</p>

<p>The retrograde movement of those who now fell back into the
plain to<br>
 escape the death before them was so violent, and their
concussion<br>
 against those who were advancing from the rear so terrible,
that<br>
 numbers were smothered or trampled to death. The Comte and
Comtesse de<br>
 Vandieres owed their lives to their carriage, behind which
Philippe<br>
 forced them, using it as a breastwork. As for the major and
the<br>
 grenadier, they found their safety in their strength. They
killed to<br>
 escape being killed.</p>

<p>This hurricane of human beings, the flux and reflux of living
bodies,<br>
 had the effect of leaving for a few short moments the whole bank
of<br>
 the Beresina deserted. The multitude were surging to the plain.
If a<br>
 few men rushed to the river, it was less in the hope of reaching
the<br>
 other bank, which to them was France, than to rush from the
horrors of<br>
 Siberia. Despair proved an aegis to some bold hearts. One
officer<br>
 sprang from ice-cake to ice-cake, and reached the opposite
shore. A<br>
 soldier clambered miraculously over mounds of dead bodies and
heaps of<br>
 ice. The multitude finally comprehended that the Russians would
not<br>
 put to death a body of twenty thousand men, without arms,
torpid,<br>
 stupid, unable to defend themselves; and each man awaited his
fate<br>
 with horrible resignation. Then the major and the grenadier,
the<br>
 general and his wife, remained almost alone on the river bank, a
few<br>
 steps from the spot where the bridge had been. They stood there,
with<br>
 dry eyes, silent, surrounded by heaps of dead. A few sound
soldiers, a<br>
 few officers to whom the emergency had restored their natural
energy,<br>
 were near them. This group consisted of some fifty men in all.
The<br>
 major noticed at a distance of some two hundred yards the
remains of<br>
 another bridge intended for carriages and destroyed the day
before.</p>

<p>"Let us make a raft!" he cried.</p>

<p>He had hardly uttered the words before the whole group rushed
to the<br>
 ruins, and began to pick up iron bolts, and screws, and pieces
of wood<br>
 and ropes, whatever materials they could find that were suitable
for<br>
 the construction of a raft. A score of soldiers and officers,
who were<br>
 armed, formed a guard, commanded by the major, to protect the
workers<br>
 against the desperate attacks which might be expected from the
crowd,<br>
 if their scheme was discovered. The instinct of freedom, strong
in all<br>
 prisoners, inspiring them to miraculous acts, can only be
compared<br>
 with that which now drove to action these unfortunate
Frenchmen.</p>

<p>"The Russians! the Russians are coming!" cried the defenders
to the<br>
 workers; and the work went on, the raft increased in length
and<br>
 breadth and depth. Generals, soldiers, colonel, all put
their<br>
 shoulders to the wheel; it was a true image of the building of
Noah's<br>
 ark. The young countess, seated beside her husband, watched
the<br>
 progress of the work with regret that she could not help it; and
yet<br>
 she did assist in making knots to secure the cordage.</p>

<p>At last the raft was finished. Forty men launched it on the
river, a<br>
 dozen others holding the cords which moored it to the shore. But
no<br>
 sooner had the builders seen their handiwork afloat, than they
sprang<br>
 from the bank with odious selfishness. The major, fearing the
fury of<br>
 this first rush, held back the countess and the general, but too
late<br>
 he saw the whole raft covered, men pressing together like crowds
at a<br>
 theatre.</p>

<p>"Savages!" he cried, "it was I who gave you the idea of that
raft. I<br>
 have saved you, and you deny me a place."</p>

<p>A confused murmur answered him. The men at the edge of the
raft, armed<br>
 with long sticks, pressed with violence against the shore to
send off<br>
 the frail construction with sufficient impetus to force its
way<br>
 through corpses and ice-floes to the other shore.</p>

<p>"Thunder of heaven! I'll sweep you into the water if you don't
take<br>
 the major and his two companions," cried the stalwart grenadier,
who<br>
 swung his sabre, stopped the departure, and forced the men to
stand<br>
 closer in spite of furious outcries.</p>

<p>"I shall fall,"--"I am falling,"--"Push off! push
off!--Forward!"<br>
 resounded on all sides.</p>

<p>The major looked with haggard eyes at Stephanie, who lifted
hers to<br>
 heaven with a feeling of sublime resignation.</p>

<p>"To die with thee!" she said.</p>

<p>There was something even comical in the position of the men
in<br>
 possession of the raft. Though they were uttering awful groans
and<br>
 imprecations, they dared not resist the grenadier, for in truth
they<br>
 were so closely packed together, that a push to one man might
send<br>
 half of them overboard. This danger was so pressing that a
cavalry<br>
 captain endeavored to get rid of the grenadier; but the latter,
seeing<br>
 the hostile movement of the officer, seized him round the waist
and<br>
 flung him into the water, crying out,--</p>

<p>"Ha! ha! my duck, do you want to drink? Well, then, drink!--
Here are<br>
 two places," he cried. "Come, major, toss me the little woman
and<br>
 follow yourself. Leave that old fossil, who'll be dead by
to-morrow."</p>

<p>"Make haste!" cried the voice of all, as one man.</p>

<p>"Come, major, they are grumbling, and they have a right to do
so."</p>

<p>The Comte de Vandieres threw off his wrappings and showed
himself in<br>
 his general's uniform.</p>

<p>"Let us save the count," said Philippe.</p>

<p>Stephanie pressed his hand, and throwing herself on his
breast, she<br>
 clasped him tightly.</p>

<p>"Adieu!" she said.</p>

<p>They had understood each other.</p>

<p>The Comte de Vandieres recovered sufficient strength and
presence of<br>
 mind to spring upon the raft, whither Stephanie followed him,
after<br>
 turning a last look to Philippe.</p>

<p>"Major! will you take my place? I don't care a fig for life,"
cried<br>
 the grenadier. "I've neither wife nor child nor mother."</p>

<p>"I confide them to your care," said the major, pointing to the
count<br>
 and his wife.</p>

<p>"Then be easy; I'll care for them, as though they were my very
eyes."</p>

<p>The raft was now sent off with so much violence toward the
opposite<br>
 side of the river, that as it touched ground, the shock was felt
by<br>
 all. The count, who was at the edge of it, lost his balance and
fell<br>
 into the river; as he fell, a cake of sharp ice caught him, and
cut<br>
 off his head, flinging it to a great distance.</p>

<p>"See there! major!" cried the grenadier.</p>

<p>"Adieu!" said a woman's voice.</p>

<p>Philippe de Sucy fell to the ground, overcome with horror and
fatigue.</p>

<p> </p>

<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>

<h3>THE CURE</h3>

<p>"My poor niece became insane," continued the physician, after
a few<br>
 moment's silence. "Ah! monsieur," he said, seizing the marquis's
hand,<br>
 "life has been awful indeed for that poor little woman, so
young, so<br>
 delicate! After being, by dreadful fatality, separated from
the<br>
 grenadier, whose name was Fleuriot, she was dragged about for
two<br>
 years at the heels of the army, the plaything of a crowd of
wretches.<br>
 She was often, they tell me, barefooted, and scarcely clothed;
for<br>
 months together, she had no care, no food but what she could
pick up;<br>
 sometimes kept in hospitals, sometimes driven away like an
animal, God<br>
 alone knows the horrors that poor unfortunate creature has
survived.<br>
 She was locked up in a madhouse, in a little town in Germany, at
the<br>
 time her relatives, thinking her dead, divided her property. In
1816,<br>
 the grenadier Fleuriot was at an inn in Strasburg, where she
went<br>
 after making her escape from the madhouse. Several peasants told
the<br>
 grenadier that she had lived for a whole month in the forest,
where<br>
 they had tracked her in vain, trying to catch her, but she had
always<br>
 escaped them. I was then staying a few miles from Strasburg.
Hearing<br>
 much talk of a wild woman caught in the woods, I felt a desire
to<br>
 ascertain the truth of the ridiculous stories which were current
about<br>
 her. What were my feelings on beholding my own niece! Fleuriot
told me<br>
 all he knew of her dreadful history. I took the poor man with my
niece<br>
 back to my home in Auvergne, where, unfortunately, I lost him
some<br>
 months later. He had some slight control over Madame de
Vandieres; he<br>
 alone could induce her to wear clothing. 'Adieu,' that word,
which is<br>
 her only language, she seldom uttered at that time. Fleuriot
had<br>
 endeavored to awaken in her a few ideas, a few memories of the
past;<br>
 but he failed; all that he gained was to make her say that
melancholy<br>
 word a little oftener. Still, the grenadier knew how to amuse
her and<br>
 play with her; my hope was in him, but--"</p>

<p><br>
 He was silent for a moment.</p>

<p>"Here," he continued, "she has found another creature, with
whom she<br>
 seems to have some strange understanding. It is a poor
idiotic<br>
 peasant-girl, who, in spite of her ugliness and stupidity, loved
a<br>
 man, a mason. The mason was willing to marry her, as she had
some<br>
 property. Poor Genevieve was happy for a year; she dressed in
her best<br>
 to dance with her lover on Sunday; she comprehended love; in her
heart<br>
 and soul there was room for that one sentiment. But the mason,
Dallot,<br>
 reflected. He found a girl with all her senses, and more land
than<br>
 Genevieve, and he deserted the poor creature. Since then she has
lost<br>
 the little intellect that love developed in her; she can do
nothing<br>
 but watch the cows, or help at harvesting. My niece and this
poor girl<br>
 are friends, apparently by some invisible chain of their
common<br>
 destiny, by the sentiment in each which has caused their
madness.<br>
 See!" added Stephanie's uncle, leading the marquis to a
window.</p>

<p>The latter then saw the countess seated on the ground
between<br>
 Genevieve's legs. The peasant-girl, armed with a huge horn comb,
was<br>
 giving her whole attention to the work of disentangling the long
black<br>
 hair of the poor countess, who was uttering little stifled
cries,<br>
 expressive of some instinctive sense of pleasure. Monsieur
d'Albon<br>
 shuddered as he saw the utter abandonment of the body, the
careless<br>
 animal ease which revealed in the hapless woman a total absence
of<br>
 soul.</p>

<p>"Philippe, Philippe!" he muttered, "the past horrors are
nothing!--Is<br>
 there no hope?" he asked.</p>

<p>The old physician raised his eyes to heaven.</p>

<p>"Adieu, monsieur," said the marquis, pressing his hand. "My
friend is<br>
 expecting me. He will soon come to you."</p>

<p>"Then it was really she!" cried de Sucy at d'Albon's first
words. "Ah!<br>
 I still doubted it," he added, a few tears falling from his
eyes,<br>
 which were habitually stern.</p>

<p>"Yes, it is the Comtesse de Vandieres," replied the
marquis.</p>

<p>The colonel rose abruptly from his bed and began to dress.</p>

<p>"Philippe!" cried his friend, "are you mad?"</p>

<p>"I am no longer ill," replied the colonel, simply. "This news
has<br>
 quieted my suffering. What pain can I feel when I think of
Stephanie?<br>
 I am going to the Bons-Hommes, to see her, speak to her, cure
her. She<br>
 is free. Well, happiness will smile upon us--or Providence is
not in<br>
 this world. Think you that that poor woman could hear my voice
and not<br>
 recover reason?"</p>

<p>"She has already seen you and not recognized you," said his
friend,<br>
 gently, for he felt the danger of Philippe's excited hopes, and
tried<br>
 to cast a salutary doubt upon them.</p>

<p>The colonel quivered; then he smiled, and made a motion of<br>
 incredulity. No one dared to oppose his wish, and within a very
short<br>
 time he reached the old priory.</p>

<p>"Where is she?" he cried, on arriving.</p>

<p>"Hush!" said her uncle, "she is sleeping. See, here she
is."</p>

<p>Philippe then saw the poor insane creature lying on a bench in
the<br>
 sun. Her head was protected from the heat by a forest of hair
which<br>
 fell in tangled locks over her face. Her arms hung gracefully to
the<br>
 ground; her body lay easily posed like that of a doe; her feet
were<br>
 folded under her without effort; her bosom rose and fell at
regular<br>
 intervals; her skin, her complexion, had that porcelain
whiteness,<br>
 which we admire so much in the clear transparent faces of
children.<br>
 Standing motionless beside her, Genevieve held in her hand a
branch<br>
 which Stephanie had doubtless climbed a tall poplar to obtain,
and the<br>
 poor idiot was gently waving it above her sleeping companion, to
chase<br>
 away the flies and cool the atmosphere.</p>

<p>The peasant-woman gazed at Monsieur Fanjat and the colonel;
then, like<br>
 an animal which recognizes its master, she turned her head
slowly to<br>
 the countess, and continued to watch her, without giving any
sign of<br>
 surprise or intelligence. The air was stifling; the stone
bench<br>
 glittered in the sunlight; the meadow exhaled to heaven those
impish<br>
 vapors which dance and dart above the herbage like silvery dust;
but<br>
 Genevieve seemed not to feel this all-consuming heat.</p>

<p>The colonel pressed the hand of the doctor violently in his
own. Tears<br>
 rolled from his eyes along his manly cheeks, and fell to the
earth at<br>
 the feet of his Stephanie.</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said the uncle, "for two years past, my heart is
broken<br>
 day by day. Soon you will be like me. You may not always weep,
but you<br>
 will always feel your sorrow."</p>

<p>The two men understood each other; and again, pressing each
other's<br>
 hands, they remained motionless, contemplating the exquisite
calmness<br>
 which sleep had cast upon that graceful creature. From time to
time<br>
 she gave a sigh, and that sigh, which had all the semblance
of<br>
 sensibilities, made the unhappy colonel tremble with hope.</p>

<p>"Alas!" said Monsieur Fanjat, "do not deceive yourself,
monsieur;<br>
 there is no meaning in her sigh."</p>

<p>Those who have ever watched for hours with delight the sleep
of one<br>
 who is tenderly beloved, whose eyes will smile to them at
waking, can<br>
 understand the sweet yet terrible emotion that shook the
colonel's<br>
 soul. To him, this sleep was an illusion; the waking might be
death,<br>
 death in its most awful form. Suddenly, a little goat jumped in
three<br>
 bounds to the bench, and smelt at Stephanie, who waked at the
sound.<br>
 She sprang to her feet, but so lightly that the movement did
not<br>
 frighten the freakish animal; then she caught sight of Philippe,
and<br>
 darted away, followed by her four-footed friend, to a hedge of
elders;<br>
 there she uttered the same little cry like a frightened bird,
which<br>
 the two men had heard near the other gate. Then she climbed an
acacia,<br>
 and nestling into its tufted top, she watched the stranger with
the<br>
 inquisitive attention of the forest birds.</p>

<p>"Adieu, adieu, adieu," she said, without the soul
communicating one<br>
 single intelligent inflexion to the word.</p>

<p>It was uttered impassively, as the bird sings his note.</p>

<p>"She does not recognize me!" cried the colonel, in
despair.<br>
 "Stephanie! it is Philippe, thy Philippe, PHILIPPE!"</p>

<p>And the poor soldier went to the acacia; but when he was a few
steps<br>
 from it, the countess looked at him, as if defying him, although
a<br>
 slight expression of fear seemed to flicker in her eye; then,
with a<br>
 single bound she sprang from the acacia to a laburnum, and
thence to a<br>
 Norway fir, where she darted from branch to branch with
extraordinary<br>
 agility.</p>

<p>"Do not pursue her," said Monsieur Fanjat to the colonel, "or
you will<br>
 arouse an aversion which might become insurmountable. I will
help you<br>
 to tame her and make her come to you. Let us sit on this bench.
If you<br>
 pay no attention to her, she will come of her own accord to
examine<br>
 you."</p>

<p>"SHE! not to know me! to flee me!" repeated the colonel,
seating<br>
 himself on a bench with his back to a tree that shaded it, and
letting<br>
 his head fall upon his breast.</p>

<p>The doctor said nothing. Presently, the countess came gently
down the<br>
 fir-tree, letting herself swing easily on the branches, as the
wind<br>
 swayed them. At each branch she stopped to examine the stranger;
but<br>
 seeing him motionless, she at last sprang to the ground and
came<br>
 slowly towards him across the grass. When she reached a tree
about ten<br>
 feet distant, against which she leaned, Monsieur Fanjat said to
the<br>
 colonel in a low voice,--</p>

<p>"Take out, adroitly, from my right hand pocket some lumps of
sugar you<br>
 will feel there. Show them to her, and she will come to us. I
will<br>
 renounce in your favor my sole means of giving her pleasure.
With<br>
 sugar, which she passionately loves, you will accustom her to
approach<br>
 you, and to know you again."</p>

<p>"When she was a woman," said Philippe, sadly, "she had no
taste for<br>
 sweet things."</p>

<p>When the colonel showed her the lump of sugar, holding it
between the<br>
 thumb and forefinger of his right hand, she again uttered her
little<br>
 wild cry, and sprang toward him; then she stopped, struggling
against<br>
 the instinctive fear he caused her; she looked at the sugar and
turned<br>
 away her head alternately, precisely like a dog whose master
forbids<br>
 him to touch his food until he has said a letter of the alphabet
which<br>
 he slowly repeats. At last the animal desire triumphed over
fear.<br>
 Stephanie darted to Philippe, cautiously putting out her little
brown<br>
 hand to seize the prize, touched the fingers of her poor lover
as she<br>
 snatched the sugar, and fled away among the trees. This dreadful
scene<br>
 overcame the colonel; he burst into tears and rushed into the
house.</p>

<p>"Has love less courage than friendship?" Monsieur Fanjat said
to him.<br>
 "I have some hope, Monsieur le baron. My poor niece was in a far
worse<br>
 state than that in which you now find her."</p>

<p>"How was that possible?" cried Philippe.</p>

<p>"She went naked," replied the doctor.</p>

<p>The colonel made a gesture of horror and turned pale. The
doctor saw<br>
 in that sudden pallor alarming symptoms; he felt the colonel's
pulse,<br>
 found him in a violent fever, and half persuaded, half compelled
him<br>
 to go to bed. Then he gave him a dose of opium to ensure a calm
sleep.</p>

<p>Eight days elapsed, during which Colonel de Sucy struggled
against<br>
 mortal agony; tears no longer came to his eyes. His soul,
often<br>
 lacerated, could not harden itself to the sight of
Stephanie's<br>
 insanity; but he covenanted, so to speak, with his cruel
situation,<br>
 and found some assuaging of his sorrow. He had the courage to
slowly<br>
 tame the countess by bringing her sweetmeats; he took such pains
in<br>
 choosing them, and he learned so well how to keep the little
conquests<br>
 he sought to make upon her instincts--that last shred of her
intellect<br>
 --that he ended by making her much TAMER than she had ever
been.</p>

<p>Every morning he went into the park, and if, after searching
for her<br>
 long, he could not discover on what tree she was swaying, nor
the<br>
 covert in which she crouched to play with a bird, nor the roof
on<br>
 which she might have clambered, he would whistle the well-known
air of<br>
 "Partant pour la Syrie," to which some tender memory of their
love<br>
 attached. Instantly, Stephanie would run to him with the
lightness of<br>
 a fawn. She was now so accustomed to see him, that he frightened
her<br>
 no longer. Soon she was willing to sit upon his knee, and clasp
him<br>
 closely with her thin and agile arm. In that attitude--so dear
to<br>
 lovers!--Philippe would feed her with sugarplums. Then, having
eaten<br>
 those that he gave her, she would often search his pockets
with<br>
 gestures that had all the mechanical velocity of a monkey's
motions.<br>
 When she was very sure there was nothing more, she looked at
Philippe<br>
 with clear eyes, without ideas, with recognition. Then she would
play<br>
 with him, trying at times to take off his boots to see his
feet,<br>
 tearing his gloves, putting on his hat; she would even let him
pass<br>
 his hands through her hair, and take her in his arms; she
accepted,<br>
 but without pleasure, his ardent kisses. She would look at
him<br>
 silently, without emotion, when his tears flowed; but she
always<br>
 understood his "Partant pour la Syrie," when he whistled it,
though he<br>
 never succeeded in teaching her to say her own name
Stephanie.</p>

<p>Philippe was sustained in his agonizing enterprise by hope,
which<br>
 never abandoned him. When, on fine autumn mornings, he found
the<br>
 countess sitting peacefully on a bench, beneath a poplar now<br>
 yellowing, the poor lover would sit at her feet, looking into
her eyes<br>
 as long as she would let him, hoping ever that the light that
was in<br>
 them would become intelligent. Sometimes the thought deluded him
that<br>
 he saw those hard immovable rays softening, vibrating, living,
and he<br>
 cried out,--</p>

<p>"Stephanie! Stephanie! thou hearest me, thou seest me!"</p>

<p>But she listened to that cry as to a noise, the soughing of
the wind<br>
 in the tree-tops, or the lowing of the cow on the back of which
she<br>
 climbed. Then the colonel would wring his hands in
despair,--despair<br>
 that was new each day.</p>

<p>One evening, under a calm sky, amid the silence and peace of
that<br>
 rural haven, the doctor saw, from a distance, that the colonel
was<br>
 loading his pistols. The old man felt then that the young man
had<br>
 ceased to hope; he felt the blood rushing to his heart, and if
he<br>
 conquered the vertigo that threatened him, it was because he
would<br>
 rather see his niece living and mad than dead. He hastened
up.</p>

<p>"What are you doing?" he said.</p>

<p>"That is for me," replied the colonel, pointing to a pistol
already<br>
 loaded, which was lying on the bench; "and this is for her," he
added,<br>
 as he forced the wad into the weapon he held.</p>

<p>The countess was lying on the ground beside him, playing with
the<br>
 balls.</p>

<p>"Then you do not know," said the doctor, coldly, concealing
his<br>
 terror, "that in her sleep last night she called you:
Philippe!"</p>

<p>"She called me!" cried the baron, dropping his pistol, which
Stephanie<br>
 picked up. He took it from her hastily, caught up the one that
was on<br>
 the bench, and rushed away.</p>

<p>"Poor darling!" said the doctor, happy in the success of his
lie. He<br>
 pressed the poor creature to his breast, and continued speaking
to<br>
 himself: "He would have killed thee, selfish man! because he
suffers.<br>
 He does not love thee for thyself, my child! But we forgive, do
we<br>
 not? He is mad, out of his senses, but thou art only senseless.
No,<br>
 God alone should call thee to Him. We think thee unhappy, we
pity thee<br>
 because thou canst not share our sorrows, fools that we
are!--But," he<br>
 said, sitting down and taking her on his knee, "nothing troubles
thee;<br>
 thy life is like that of a bird, of a fawn--"</p>

<p>As he spoke she darted upon a young blackbird which was
hopping near<br>
 them, caught it with a little note of satisfaction, strangled
it,<br>
 looked at it, dead in her hand, and flung it down at the foot of
a<br>
 tree without a thought.</p>

<p>The next day, as soon as it was light, the colonel came down
into the<br>
 gardens, and looked about for Stephanie,--he believed in the
coming<br>
 happiness. Not finding her he whistled. When his darling came to
him,<br>
 he took her on his arm; they walked together thus for the first
time,<br>
 and he led her within a group of trees, the autumn foliage of
which<br>
 was dropping to the breeze. The colonel sat down. Of her own
accord<br>
 Stephanie placed herself on his knee. Philippe trembled with
joy.</p>

<p>"Love," he said, kissing her hands passionately, "I am
Philippe."</p>

<p>She looked at him with curiosity.</p>

<p>"Come," he said, pressing her to him, "dost thou feel my
heart? It has<br>
 beaten for thee alone. I love thee ever. Philippe is not dead;
he is<br>
 not dead, thou art on him, in his arms. Thou art MY Stephanie; I
am<br>
 thy Philippe."</p>

<p>"Adieu," she said, "adieu."</p>

<p>The colonel quivered, for he fancied he saw his own
excitement<br>
 communicated to his mistress. His heart-rending cry, drawn from
him by<br>
 despair, that last effort of an eternal love, of a delirious
passion,<br>
 was successful, the mind of his darling was awaking.</p>

<p>"Ah! Stephanie! Stephanie! we shall yet be happy."</p>

<p>She gave a cry of satisfaction, and her eyes brightened with a
flash<br>
 of vague intelligence.</p>

<p>"She knows me!--Stephanie!"</p>

<p>His heart swelled; his eyelids were wet with tears. Then,
suddenly,<br>
 the countess showed him a bit of sugar she had found in his
pocket<br>
 while he was speaking to her. He had mistaken for human thought
the<br>
 amount of reason required for a monkey's trick. Philippe dropped
to<br>
 the ground unconscious. Monsieur Fanjat found the countess
sitting on<br>
 the colonel's body. She was biting her sugar, and testifying
her<br>
 pleasure by pretty gestures and affectations with which, had she
her<br>
 reason, she might have imitated her parrot or her cat.</p>

<p>"Ah! my friend," said Philippe, when he came to his senses, "I
die<br>
 every day, every moment! I love too well! I could still bear
all, if,<br>
 in her madness, she had kept her woman's nature. But to see her
always<br>
 a savage, devoid even of modesty, to see her--"</p>

<p>"You want opera madness, do you? something picturesque and
pleasing,"<br>
 said the doctor, bitterly. "Your love and your devotion yield
before a<br>
 prejudice. Monsieur, I have deprived myself for your sake of the
sad<br>
 happiness of watching over my niece; I have left to you the
pleasure<br>
 of playing with her; I have kept for myself the heaviest cares.
While<br>
 you have slept, I have watched, I have-- Go, monsieur, go!
abandon<br>
 her! leave this sad refuge. I know how to live with that dear
darling<br>
 creature; I comprehend her madness, I watch her gestures, I know
her<br>
 secrets. Some day you will thank me for thus sending you
away."</p>

<p>The colonel left the old monastery, never to return but once.
The<br>
 doctor was horrified when he saw the effect he had produced upon
his<br>
 guest, whom he now began to love when he saw him thus. Surely,
if<br>
 either of the two lovers were worthy of pity, it was Philippe;
did he<br>
 not bear alone the burden of their dreadful sorrow?</p>

<p>After the colonel's departure the doctor kept himself informed
about<br>
 him; he learned that the miserable man was living on an estate
near<br>
 Saint-Germain. In truth, the baron, on the faith of a dream,
had<br>
 formed a project which he believed would yet restore the mind of
his<br>
 darling. Unknown to the doctor, he spent the rest of the autumn
in<br>
 preparing for his enterprise. A little river flowed through his
park<br>
 and inundated during the winter the marshes on either side of
it,<br>
 giving it some resemblance to the Beresina. The village of
Satout, on<br>
 the heights above, closed in, like Studzianka, the scene of
horror.<br>
 The colonel collected workmen to deepen the banks, and by the
help of<br>
 his memory, he copied in his park the shore where General
Eble<br>
 destroyed the bridge. He planted piles, and made buttresses and
burned<br>
 them, leaving their charred and blackened ruins, standing in the
water<br>
 from shore to shore. Then he gathered fragments of all kinds,
like<br>
 those of which the raft was built. He ordered dilapidated
uniforms and<br>
 clothing of every grade, and hired hundreds of peasants to wear
them;<br>
 he erected huts and cabins for the purpose of burning them. In
short,<br>
 he forgot nothing that might recall that most awful of all
scenes, and<br>
 he succeeded.</p>

<p>Toward the last of December, when the snow had covered with
its thick,<br>
 white mantle all his imitative preparations, he recognized
the<br>
 Beresina. This false Russia was so terribly truthful, that
several of<br>
 his army comrades recognized the scene of their past misery at
once.<br>
 Monsieur de Sucy took care to keep secret the motive for this
tragic<br>
 imitation, which was talked of in several Parisian circles as a
proof<br>
 of insanity.</p>

<p>Early in January, 1820, the colonel drove in a carriage, the
very<br>
 counterpart of the one in which he had driven the Comte and
Comtesse<br>
 de Vandieres from Moscow to Studzianka. The horses, too, were
like<br>
 those he had gone, at the peril of his life, to fetch from the
Russian<br>
 outposts. He himself wore the soiled fantastic clothing, the
same<br>
 weapons, as on the 29th of November, 1812. He had let his beard
grow,<br>
 also his hair, which was tangled and matted, and his face
was<br>
 neglected, so that nothing might be wanting to represent the
awful<br>
 truth.</p>

<p>"I can guess your purpose," cried Monsieur Fanjat, when he saw
the<br>
 colonel getting out of the carriage. "If you want to succeed, do
not<br>
 let my niece see you in that equipage. To-night I will give her
opium.<br>
 During her sleep, we will dress her as she was at Studzianka,
and<br>
 place her in the carriage. I will follow you in another
vehicle."</p>

<p>About two in the morning, the sleeping countess was placed in
the<br>
 carriage and wrapped in heavy coverings. A few peasants with
torches<br>
 lighted up this strange abduction. Suddenly, a piercing cry
broke the<br>
 silence of the night. Philippe and the doctor turned, and
saw<br>
 Genevieve coming half-naked from the ground-floor room in which
she<br>
 slept.</p>

<p>"Adieu, adieu! all is over, adieu!" she cried, weeping hot
tears.</p>

<p>"Genevieve, what troubles you?" asked the doctor.</p>

<p>Genevieve shook her head with a motion of despair, raised her
arm to<br>
 heaven, looked at the carriage, uttering a long-drawn moan with
every<br>
 sign of the utmost terror; then she returned to her room
silently.</p>

<p>"That is a good omen!" cried the colonel. "She feels she is to
lose<br>
 her companion. Perhaps she SEES that Stephanie will recover
her<br>
 reason."</p>

<p>"God grant it!" said Monsieur Fanjat, who himself was affected
by the<br>
 incident.</p>

<p>Ever since he had made a close study of insanity, the good man
had met<br>
 with many examples of the prophetic faculty and the gift of
second<br>
 sight, proofs of which are frequently given by alienated minds,
and<br>
 which may also be found, so travellers say, among certain tribes
of<br>
 savages.</p>

<p>As the colonel had calculated, Stephanie crossed the
fictitious plain<br>
 of the Beresina at nine o'clock in the morning, when she was
awakened<br>
 by a cannon shot not a hundred yards from the spot where the<br>
 experiment was to be tried. This was a signal. Hundreds of
peasants<br>
 made a frightful clamor like that on the shore of the river
that<br>
 memorable night, when twenty thousand stragglers were doomed to
death<br>
 or slavery by their own folly.</p>

<p>At the cry, at the shot, the countess sprang from the
carriage, and<br>
 ran, with delirious emotion, over the snow to the banks of the
river;<br>
 she saw the burned bivouacs and the charred remains of the
bridge, and<br>
 the fatal raft, which the men were launching into the icy waters
of<br>
 the Beresina. The major, Philippe, was there, striking back the
crowd<br>
 with his sabre. Madame de Vandieres gave a cry, which went to
all<br>
 hearts, and threw herself before the colonel, whose heart beat
wildly.<br>
 She seemed to gather herself together, and, at first, looked
vaguely<br>
 at the singular scene. For an instant, as rapid as the
lightning's<br>
 flash, her eyes had that lucidity, devoid of mind, which we
admire in<br>
 the eye of birds; then passing her hand across her brow with the
keen<br>
 expression of one who meditates, she contemplated the living
memory of<br>
 a past scene spread before her, and, turning quickly to
Philippe, she<br>
 SAW HIM. An awful silence reigned in the crowd. The colonel
gasped,<br>
 but dared not speak; the doctor wept. Stephanie's sweet face
colored<br>
 faintly; then, from tint to tint, it returned to the brightness
of<br>
 youth, till it glowed with a beautiful crimson. Life and
happiness,<br>
 lighted by intelligence, came nearer and nearer like a
conflagration.<br>
 Convulsive trembling rose from her feet to her heart. Then
these<br>
 phenomena seemed to blend in one as Stephanie's eyes cast forth
a<br>
 celestial ray, the flame of a living soul. She lived, she
thought! She<br>
 shuddered, with fear perhaps, for God himself unloosed that
silent<br>
 tongue, and cast anew His fires into that long-extinguished
soul.<br>
 Human will came with its full electric torrent, and vivified the
body<br>
 from which it had been driven.</p>

<p>"Stephanie!" cried the colonel.</p>

<p>"Oh! it is Philippe," said the poor countess.</p>

<p>She threw herself into the trembling arms that the colonel
held out to<br>
 her, and the clasp of the lovers frightened the spectators.
Stephanie<br>
 burst into tears. Suddenly her tears stopped, she stiffened as
though<br>
 the lightning had touched her, and said in a feeble voice,--</p>

<p>"Adieu, Philippe; I love thee, adieu!"</p>

<p>"Oh! she is dead," cried the colonel, opening his arms.</p>

<p>The old doctor received the inanimate body of his niece,
kissed it as<br>
 though he were a young man, and carrying it aside, sat down with
it<br>
 still in his arms on a pile of wood. He looked at the countess
and<br>
 placed his feeble trembling hand upon her heart. That heart no
longer<br>
 beat.</p>

<p>"It is true," he said, looking up at the colonel, who
stood<br>
 motionless, and then at Stephanie, on whom death was placing
that<br>
 resplendent beauty, that fugitive halo, which is, perhaps, a
pledge of<br>
 the glorious future--"Yes, she is dead."</p>

<p>"Ah! that smile," cried Philippe, "do you see that smile? Can
it be<br>
 true?"</p>

<p>"She is turning cold," replied Monsieur Fanjat.</p>

<p>Monsieur de Sucy made a few steps to tear himself away from
the sight;<br>
 but he stopped, whistled the air that Stephanie had known, and
when<br>
 she did not come to him, went on with staggering steps like a
drunken<br>
 man, still whistling, but never turning back.</p>

<p>General Philippe de Sucy was thought in the social world to be
a very<br>
 agreeable man, and above all a very gay one. A few days ago, a
lady<br>
 complimented him on his good humor, and the charming equability
of his<br>
 nature.</p>

<p>"Ah! madame," he said, "I pay dear for my liveliness in my
lonely<br>
 evenings."</p>

<p>"Are you ever alone?" she said.</p>

<p>"No," he replied smiling.</p>

<p>If a judicious observer of human nature could have seen at
that moment<br>
 the expression on the Comte de Sucy's face, he would perhaps
have<br>
 shuddered.</p>

<p>"Why don't you marry?" said the lady, who had several
daughters at<br>
 school. "You are rich, titled, and of ancient lineage; you
have<br>
 talents, and a great future before you; all things smile upon
you."</p>

<p>"Yes," he said, "but a smile kills me."</p>

<p>The next day the lady heard with great astonishment that
Monsieur de<br>
 Sucy had blown his brains out during the night. The upper ranks
of<br>
 society talked in various ways over this extraordinary event,
and each<br>
 person looked for the cause of it. According to the proclivities
of<br>
 each reasoner, play, love, ambition, hidden disorders, and
vices,<br>
 explained the catastrophe, the last scene of a drama begun in
1812.<br>
 Two men alone, a marquis and former deputy, and an aged
physician,<br>
 knew that Philippe de Sucy was one of those strong men to whom
God has<br>
 given the unhappy power of issuing daily in triumph from awful
combats<br>
 which they fight with an unseen monster. If, for a moment,
God<br>
 withdraws from such men His all-powerful hand, they succumb.</p>

<h3><br>
 ADDENDUM</h3>

<p>The following personage appears in other stories of the Human
Comedy.</p>

<p>Note: Adieu is also entitled Farewell.</p>

<p>Granville, Vicomte de<br>
 The Gondreville Mystery<br>
 A Second Home<br>
 Farewell (Adieu)<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>











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