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diff --git a/1649-h/1649-h.htm b/1649-h/1649-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afb9081 --- /dev/null +++ b/1649-h/1649-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5924 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Ferragus, Chief of the Devorants, by Honore de Balzac + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ferragus, by Honore de Balzac + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ferragus + +Author: Honore de Balzac + +Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley + +Release Date: February 27, 2010 [EBook #1649] +Last Updated: November 22, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FERRAGUS *** + + + + +Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + FERRAGUS,<br />CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Honore De Balzac + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div class="mynote"> + <p> + PREPARER’S NOTE: Ferragus is the first part of a trilogy. Part two is + entitled The Duchesse de Langeais and part three is The Girl with the + Golden Eyes. The three stories are frequently combined under the title + The Thirteen. + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + DEDICATION<br /><br /> To Hector Berlioz.<br /> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <h3> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> + <b>FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS</b> </a> + </h3> + <h3> + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </td> + <td> + MADAME JULES + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </td> + <td> + FERRAGUS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE WIFE ACCUSED + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </td> + <td> + WHERE GO TO DIE? + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </td> + <td> + CONCLUSION + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <h3> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ADDENDUM </a> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + Thirteen men were banded together in Paris under the Empire, all imbued + with one and the same sentiment, all gifted with sufficient energy to be + faithful to the same thought, with sufficient honor among themselves never + to betray one another even if their interests clashed; and sufficiently + wily and politic to conceal the sacred ties that united them, sufficiently + strong to maintain themselves above the law, bold enough to undertake all + things, and fortunate enough to succeed, nearly always, in their + undertakings; having run the greatest dangers, but keeping silence if + defeated; inaccessible to fear; trembling neither before princes, nor + executioners, not even before innocence; accepting each other for such as + they were, without social prejudices,—criminals, no doubt, but + certainly remarkable through certain of the qualities that make great men, + and recruiting their number only among men of mark. That nothing might be + lacking to the sombre and mysterious poesy of their history, these + Thirteen men have remained to this day unknown; though all have realized + the most chimerical ideas that the fantastic power falsely attributed to + the Manfreds, the Fausts, and the Melmoths can suggest to the imagination. + To-day, they are broken up, or, at least, dispersed; they have peaceably + put their necks once more under the yoke of civil law, just as Morgan, + that Achilles among pirates, transformed himself from a buccaneering + scourge to a quiet colonist, and spent, without remorse, around his + domestic hearth the millions gathered in blood by the lurid light of + flames and slaughter. + </p> + <p> + Since the death of Napoleon, circumstances, about which the author must + keep silence, have still farther dissolved the original bond of this + secret society, always extraordinary, sometimes sinister, as though it + lived in the blackest pages of Mrs. Radcliffe. A somewhat strange + permission to relate in his own way a few of the adventures of these men + (while respecting certain susceptibilities) has only recently been given + to him by one of those anonymous heroes to whom all society was once + occultly subjected. In this permission the writer fancied he detected a + vague desire for personal celebrity. + </p> + <p> + This man, apparently still young, with fair hair and blue eyes, whose + sweet, clear voice seemed to denote a feminine soul, was pale of face and + mysterious in manner; he conversed affably, declared himself not more than + forty years of age, and apparently belonged to the very highest social + classes. The name which he assumed must have been fictitious; his person + was unknown in society. Who was he? That, no one has ever known. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, in confiding to the author the extraordinary matters which he + related to him, this mysterious person may have wished to see them in a + manner reproduced, and thus enjoy the emotions they were certain to bring + to the hearts of the masses,—a feeling analogous to that of + Macpherson when the name of his creation Ossian was transcribed into all + languages. That was certainly, for the Scotch lawyer, one of the keenest, + or at any rate the rarest, sensations a man could give himself. Is it not + the incognito of genius? To write the “Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem” + is to take a share in the human glory of a single epoch; but to endow his + native land with another Homer, was not that usurping the work of God? + </p> + <p> + The author knows too well the laws of narration to be ignorant of the + pledges this short preface is contracting for him; but he also knows + enough of the history of the <i>Thirteen</i> to be certain that his + present tale will never be thought below the interest inspired by this + programme. Dramas steeped in blood, comedies filled with terror, romantic + tales through which rolled heads mysteriously decapitated, have been + confided to him. If readers were not surfeited with horrors served up to + them of late in cold blood, he might reveal the calm atrocities, the + surpassing tragedies concealed under family life. But he chooses in + preference gentler events,—those where scenes of purity succeed the + tempests of passion; where woman is radiant with virtue and beauty. To the + honor of the <i>Thirteen</i> be it said that there are such scenes in + their history, which may have the honor of being some day published as a + foil of tales to listeners,—that race apart from others, so + curiously energetic, and so interesting in spite of its crimes. + </p> + <p> + An author ought to be above converting his tale, when the tale is true, + into a species of surprise-game, and of taking his readers, as certain + novellists do, through many volumes and from cellar to cellar, to show + them the dry bones of a dead body, and tell them, by way of conclusion, + that <i>that</i> is what has frightened them behind doors, hidden in the + arras, or in cellars where the dead man was buried and forgotten. In spite + of his aversion for prefaces, the author feels bound to place the + following statement at the head of this narrative. Ferragus is a first + episode which clings by invisible links to the “History of the <i>Thirteen</i>,” + whose power, naturally acquired, can alone explain certain acts and + agencies which would otherwise seem supernatural. Although it is + permissible in tellers of tales to have a sort of literary coquetry in + becoming historians, they ought to renounce the benefit that may accrue + from an odd or fantastic title—on which certain slight successes + have been won in the present day. Consequently, the author will now + explain, succinctly, the reasons that obliged him to select a title to his + book which seems at first sight unnatural. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ferragus</i> is, according to ancient custom, a name taken by the chief + or Grand Master of the Devorants. On the day of their election these + chiefs continue whichever of the dynasties of their Order they are most in + sympathy with, precisely as the Popes do, on their accession, in + connection with pontifical dynasties. Thus the Devorants have “Trempe-la + Soupe IX.,” “Ferragus XXII.,” “Tutanus XIII.,” “Masche-Fer IV.,” just as + the Church has Clement XIV., Gregory VII., Julius II., Alexander VI., etc. + </p> + <p> + Now, then, who are the Devorants? “Devorant” is the name of one of those + tribes of “Companions” that issued in ancient times from the great + mystical association formed among the workers of Christianity to rebuild + the temple at Jerusalem. Companionism (to coin a word) still exists in + France among the people. Its traditions, powerful over minds that are not + enlightened, and over men not educated enough to cast aside an oath, might + serve the ends of formidable enterprises if some rough-hewn genius were to + seize hold of these diverse associations. All the instruments of this + Companionism are well-nigh blind. From town to town there has existed from + time immemorial, for the use of Companions, an “Obade,”—a sort of + halting-place, kept by a “Mother,” an old woman, half-gypsy, with nothing + to lose, knowing everything that happens in her neighborhood, and devoted, + either from fear or habit, to the tribe, whose straggling members she + feeds and lodges. This people, ever moving and changing, though controlled + by immutable customs, has its eyes everywhere, executes, without judging + it, a WILL,—for the oldest Companion still belongs to an era when + men had faith. Moreover, the whole body professes doctrines that are + sufficiently true and sufficiently mysterious to electrify into a sort of + tribal loyalty all adepts whenever they obtain even a slight development. + The attachment of the Companions to their laws is so passionate that the + diverse tribes will fight sanguinary battles with each other in defence of + some question of principle. + </p> + <p> + Happily for our present public safety, when a Devorant is ambitious, he + builds houses, lays by his money, and leaves the Order. There is many a + curious thing to tell about the “Compagnons du Devoir” [Companions of the + Duty], the rivals of the Devorants, and about the different sects of + working-men, their usages, their fraternity, and the bond existing between + them and the free-masons. But such details would be out of place here. The + author must, however, add that under the old monarchy it was not an + unknown thing to find a “Trempe-la-Soupe” enslaved to the king sentenced + for a hundred and one years to the galleys, but ruling his tribe from + there, religiously consulted by it, and when he escaped from his galley, + certain of help, succor, and respect, wherever he might be. To see its + grand master at the galleys is, to the faithful tribe, only one of those + misfortunes for which providence is responsible, and which does not + release the Devorants from obeying a power created by them to be above + them. It is but the passing exile of their legitimate king, always a king + for them. Thus we see the romantic prestige attaching to the name of + Ferragus and to that of the Devorants completely dissipated. + </p> + <p> + As for the <i>Thirteen</i>, they were all men of the stamp of Trelawney, + Lord Byron’s friend, who was, they say, the original of his “Corsair.” + They were all fatalists, men of nerve and poesy, weary of leading flat and + empty lives, driven toward Asiatic enjoyments by forces all the more + excessive because, long dormant, they awoke furious. One of them, after + re-reading “Venice Preserved,” and admiring the sublime union of Pierre + and Jaffier, began to reflect on the virtues shown by men who are outlawed + by society, on the honesty of galley-slaves, the faithfulness of thieves + among each other, the privileges of exorbitant power which such men know + how to win by concentrating all ideas into a single will. He saw that Man + is greater than men. He concluded that society ought to belong wholly to + those distinguished beings who, to natural intelligence, acquired wisdom, + and fortune, add a fanaticism hot enough to fuse into one casting these + different forces. That done, their occult power, vast in action and in + intensity, against which the social order would be helpless, would cast + down all obstacles, blast all other wills, and give to each the devilish + power of all. This world apart within the world, hostile to the world, + admitting none of the world’s ideas, not recognizing any law, not + submitting to any conscience but that of necessity, obedient to a devotion + only, acting with every faculty for a single associate when one of their + number asked for the assistance of all,—this life of filibusters in + lemon kid gloves and cabriolets; this intimate union of superior beings, + cold and sarcastic, smiling and cursing in the midst of a false and + puerile society; this certainty of forcing all things to serve an end, of + plotting a vengeance that could not fail of living in thirteen hearts; + this happiness of nurturing a secret hatred in the face of men, and of + being always in arms against this; this ability to withdraw to the + sanctuary of self with one idea more than even the most remarkable of men + could have,—this religion of pleasure and egotism cast so strong a + spell over Thirteen men that they revived the society of Jesuits to the + profit of the devil. + </p> + <p> + It was horrible and stupendous; but the compact was made, and it lasted + precisely because it appeared to be so impossible. + </p> + <p> + There was, therefore, in Paris a brotherhood of <i>Thirteen</i>, who + belonged to each other absolutely, but ignored themselves as absolutely + before the world. At night they met, like conspirators, hiding no thought, + disposing each and all of a common fortune, like that of the Old Man of + the Mountain; having their feet in all salons, their hands in all + money-boxes, and making all things serve their purpose or their fancy + without scruple. No chief commanded them; no one member could arrogate to + himself that power. The most eager passion, the most exacting + circumstance, alone had the right to pass first. They were Thirteen + unknown kings,—but true kings, more than ordinary kings and judges + and executioners,—men who, having made themselves wings to roam + through society from depth to height, disdained to be anything in the + social sphere because they could be all. If the present writer ever learns + the reasons of their abdication of this power, he will take occasion to + tell them.[*] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*] See Theophile Gautier’s account of the society of the + “Cheval Rouge.” Memoir of Balzac. Roberts Brothers, Boston. +</pre> + <p> + Now, with this brief explanation, he may be allowed to begin the tale of + certain episodes in the history of the <i>Thirteen</i>, which have more + particularly attracted him by the Parisian flavor of their details and the + whimsicality of their contrasts. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. MADAME JULES + </h2> + <p> + Certain streets in Paris are as degraded as a man covered with infamy; + also, there are noble streets, streets simply respectable, young streets + on the morality of which the public has not yet formed an opinion; also + cut-throat streets, streets older than the age of the oldest dowagers, + estimable streets, streets always clean, streets always dirty, working, + laboring, and mercantile streets. In short, the streets of Paris have + every human quality, and impress us, by what we must call their + physiognomy, with certain ideas against which we are defenceless. There + are, for instance, streets of a bad neighborhood in which you could not be + induced to live, and streets where you would willingly take up your abode. + Some streets, like the rue Montmartre, have a charming head, and end in a + fish’s tail. The rue de la Paix is a wide street, a fine street, yet it + wakens none of those gracefully noble thoughts which come to an + impressible mind in the middle of the rue Royale, and it certainly lacks + the majesty which reigns in the Place Vendome. + </p> + <p> + If you walk the streets of the Ile Saint-Louis, do not seek the reason of + the nervous sadness that lays hold upon you save in the solitude of the + spot, the gloomy look of the houses, and the great deserted mansions. This + island, the ghost of <i>fermiers-generaux</i>, is the Venice of Paris. The + Place de la Bourse is voluble, busy, degraded; it is never fine except by + moonlight at two in the morning. By day it is Paris epitomized; by night + it is a dream of Greece. The rue Traversiere-Saint-Honore—is not + that a villainous street? Look at the wretched little houses with two + windows on a floor, where vice, crime, and misery abound. The narrow + streets exposed to the north, where the sun never comes more than three or + four times a year, are the cut-throat streets which murder with impunity; + the authorities of the present day do not meddle with them; but in former + times the Parliament might perhaps have summoned the lieutenant of police + and reprimanded him for the state of things; and it would, at least, have + issued some decree against such streets, as it once did against the wigs + of the Chapter of Beauvais. And yet Monsieur Benoiston de Chateauneuf has + proved that the mortality of these streets is double that of others! To + sum up such theories by a single example: is not the rue Fromentin both + murderous and profligate! + </p> + <p> + These observations, incomprehensible out of Paris, will doubtless be + understood by musing men of thought and poesy and pleasure, who know, + while rambling about Paris, how to harvest the mass of floating interests + which may be gathered at all hours within her walls; to them Paris is the + most delightful and varied of monsters: here, a pretty woman; farther on, + a haggard pauper; here, new as the coinage of a new reign; there, in this + corner, elegant as a fashionable woman. A monster, moreover, complete! Its + garrets, as it were, a head full of knowledge and genius; its first + storeys stomachs repleted; its shops, actual feet, where the busy + ambulating crowds are moving. Ah! what an ever-active life the monster + leads! Hardly has the last vibration of the last carriage coming from a + ball ceased at its heart before its arms are moving at the barriers and it + shakes itself slowly into motion. Doors open; turning on their hinges like + the membrane of some huge lobster, invisibly manipulated by thirty + thousand men or women, of whom each individual occupies a space of six + square feet, but has a kitchen, a workshop, a bed, children, a garden, + little light to see by, but must see all. Imperceptibly, the articulations + begin to crack; motion communicates itself; the street speaks. By mid-day, + all is alive; the chimneys smoke, the monster eats; then he roars, and his + thousand paws begin to ramp. Splendid spectacle! But, O Paris! he who has + not admired your gloomy passages, your gleams and flashes of light, your + deep and silent <i>cul-de-sacs</i>, who has not listened to your + murmurings between midnight and two in the morning, knows nothing as yet + of your true poesy, nor of your broad and fantastic contrasts. + </p> + <p> + There are a few amateurs who never go their way heedlessly; who savor + their Paris, so to speak; who know its physiognomy so well that they see + every wart, and pimple, and redness. To others, Paris is always that + monstrous marvel, that amazing assemblage of activities, of schemes, of + thoughts; the city of a hundred thousand tales, the head of the universe. + But to those few, Paris is sad or gay, ugly or beautiful, living or dead; + to them Paris is a creature; every man, every fraction of a house is a + lobe of the cellular tissue of that great courtesan whose head and heart + and fantastic customs they know so well. These men are lovers of Paris; + they lift their noses at such or such a corner of a street, certain that + they can see the face of a clock; they tell a friend whose tobacco-pouch + is empty, “Go down that passage and turn to the left; there’s a + tobacconist next door to a confectioner, where there’s a pretty girl.” + Rambling about Paris is, to these poets, a costly luxury. How can they + help spending precious minutes before the dramas, disasters, faces, and + picturesque events which meet us everywhere amid this heaving queen of + cities, clothed in posters,—who has, nevertheless, not a single + clean corner, so complying is she to the vices of the French nation! Who + has not chanced to leave his home early in the morning, intending to go to + some extremity of Paris, and found himself unable to get away from the + centre of it by the dinner-hour? Such a man will know how to excuse this + vagabondizing start upon our tale; which, however, we here sum up in an + observation both useful and novel, as far as any observation can be novel + in Paris, where there is nothing new,—not even the statue erected + yesterday, on which some young gamin has already scribbled his name. + </p> + <p> + Well, then! there are streets, or ends of streets, there are houses, + unknown for the most part to persons of social distinction, to which a + woman of that class cannot go without causing cruel and very wounding + things to be thought of her. Whether the woman be rich and has a carriage, + whether she is on foot, or is disguised, if she enters one of these + Parisian defiles at any hour of the day, she compromises her reputation as + a virtuous woman. If, by chance, she is there at nine in the evening the + conjectures that an observer permits himself to make upon her may prove + fearful in their consequences. But if the woman is young and pretty, if + she enters a house in one of those streets, if the house has a long, dark, + damp, and evil-smelling passage-way, at the end of which flickers the + pallid gleam of an oil lamp, and if beneath that gleam appears the horrid + face of a withered old woman with fleshless fingers, ah, then! and we say + it in the interests of young and pretty women, that woman is lost. She is + at the mercy of the first man of her acquaintance who sees her in that + Parisian slough. There is more than one street in Paris where such a + meeting may lead to a frightful drama, a bloody drama of death and love, a + drama of the modern school. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily, this scene, this modern drama itself, will be comprehended by + only a small number of persons; and it is a pity to tell the tale to a + public which cannot enter into its local merit. But who can flatter + himself that he will ever be understood? We all die unknown—‘tis the + saying of women and of authors. + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight o’clock one evening, in the rue Pagevin, in the days + when that street had no wall which did not echo some infamous word, and + was, in the direction of the rue Soly, the narrowest and most impassable + street in Paris (not excepting the least frequented corner of the most + deserted street),—at the beginning of the month of February about + thirteen years ago, a young man, by one of those chances which come but + once in life, turned the corner of the rue Pagevin to enter the rue des + Vieux-Augustins, close to the rue Soly. There, this young man, who lived + himself in the rue de Bourbon, saw in a woman near whom he had been + unconsciously walking, a vague resemblance to the prettiest woman in + Paris; a chaste and delightful person, with whom he was secretly and + passionately in love,—a love without hope; she was married. In a + moment his heart leaped, an intolerable heat surged from his centre and + flowed through all his veins; his back turned cold, the skin of his head + crept. He loved, he was young, he knew Paris; and his knowledge did not + permit him to be ignorant of all there was of possible infamy in an + elegant, rich, young, and beautiful woman walking there, alone, with a + furtively criminal step. <i>She</i> in that mud! at that hour! + </p> + <p> + The love that this young man felt for that woman may seem romantic, and + all the more so because he was an officer in the Royal Guard. If he had + been in the infantry, the affair might have seemed more likely; but, as an + officer of rank in the cavalry, he belonged to that French arm which + demands rapidity in its conquests and derives as much vanity from its + amorous exploits as from its dashing uniform. But the passion of this + officer was a true love, and many young hearts will think it noble. He + loved this woman because she was virtuous; he loved her virtue, her modest + grace, her imposing saintliness, as the dearest treasures of his hidden + passion. This woman was indeed worthy to inspire one of those platonic + loves which are found, like flowers amid bloody ruins, in the history of + the middle-ages; worthy to be the hidden principle of all the actions of a + young man’s life; a love as high, as pure as the skies when blue; a love + without hope and to which men bind themselves because it can never + deceive; a love that is prodigal of unchecked enjoyment, especially at an + age when the heart is ardent, the imagination keen, and the eyes of a man + see very clearly. + </p> + <p> + Strange, weird, inconceivable effects may be met with at night in Paris. + Only those who have amused themselves by watching those effects have any + idea how fantastic a woman may appear there at dusk. At times the creature + whom you are following, by accident or design, seems to you light and + slender; the stockings, if they are white, make you fancy that the legs + must be slim and elegant; the figure though wrapped in a shawl, or + concealed by a pelisse, defines itself gracefully and seductively among + the shadows; anon, the uncertain gleam thrown from a shop-window or a + street lamp bestows a fleeting lustre, nearly always deceptive, on the + unknown woman, and fires the imagination, carrying it far beyond the + truth. The senses then bestir themselves; everything takes color and + animation; the woman appears in an altogether novel aspect; her person + becomes beautiful. Behold! she is not a woman, she is a demon, a siren, + who is drawing you by magnetic attraction to some respectable house, where + the worthy <i>bourgeoise</i>, frightened by your threatening step and the + clack of your boots, shuts the door in your face without looking at you. + </p> + <p> + A vacillating gleam, thrown from the shop-window of a shoemaker, suddenly + illuminated from the waist down the figure of the woman who was before the + young man. Ah! surely, <i>she</i> alone had that swaying figure; she alone + knew the secret of that chaste gait which innocently set into relief the + many beauties of that attractive form. Yes, that was the shawl, and that + the velvet bonnet which she wore in the mornings. On her gray silk + stockings not a spot, on her shoes not a splash. The shawl held tightly + round the bust disclosed, vaguely, its charming lines; and the young man, + who had often seen those shoulders at a ball, knew well the treasures that + the shawl concealed. By the way a Parisian woman wraps a shawl around her, + and the way she lifts her feet in the street, a man of intelligence in + such studies can divine the secret of her mysterious errand. There is + something, I know not what, of quivering buoyancy in the person, in the + gait; the woman seems to weigh less; she steps, or rather, she glides like + a star, and floats onward led by a thought which exhales from the folds + and motion of her dress. The young man hastened his step, passed the + woman, and then turned back to look at her. Pst! she had disappeared into + a passage-way, the grated door of which and its bell still rattled and + sounded. The young man walked back to the alley and saw the woman reach + the farther end, where she began to mount—not without receiving the + obsequious bow of an old portress—a winding staircase, the lower + steps of which were strongly lighted; she went up buoyantly, eagerly, as + though impatient. + </p> + <p> + “Impatient for what?” said the young man to himself, drawing back to lean + against a wooden railing on the other side of the street. He gazed, + unhappy man, at the different storeys of the house, with the keen + attention of a detective searching for a conspirator. + </p> + <p> + It was one of those houses of which there are thousands in Paris, ignoble, + vulgar, narrow, yellowish in tone, with four storeys and three windows on + each floor. The outer blinds of the first floor were closed. Where was she + going? The young man fancied he heard the tinkle of a bell on the second + floor. As if in answer to it, a light began to move in a room with two + windows strongly illuminated, which presently lit up the third window, + evidently that of a first room, either the salon or the dining-room of the + apartment. Instantly the outline of a woman’s bonnet showed vaguely on the + window, and a door between the two rooms must have closed, for the first + was dark again, while the two other windows resumed their ruddy glow. At + this moment a voice said, “Hi, there!” and the young man was conscious of + a blow on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you pay attention?” said the rough voice of a workman, carrying + a plank on his shoulder. The man passed on. He was the voice of Providence + saying to the watcher: “What are you meddling with? Think of your own + duty; and leave these Parisians to their own affairs.” + </p> + <p> + The young man crossed his arms; then, as no one beheld him, he suffered + tears of rage to flow down his cheeks unchecked. At last the sight of the + shadows moving behind the lighted windows gave him such pain that he + looked elsewhere and noticed a hackney-coach, standing against a wall in + the upper part of the rue des Vieux-Augustins, at a place where there was + neither the door of a house, nor the light of a shop-window. + </p> + <p> + Was it she? Was it not she? Life or death to a lover! This lover waited. + He stood there during a century of twenty minutes. After that the woman + came down, and he then recognized her as the one whom he secretly loved. + Nevertheless, he wanted still to doubt. She went to the hackney-coach, and + got into it. + </p> + <p> + “The house will always be there and I can search it later,” thought the + young man, following the carriage at a run, to solve his last doubts; and + soon he did so. + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped in the rue de Richelieu before a shop for artificial + flowers, close to the rue de Menars. The lady got out, entered the shop, + sent out the money to pay the coachman, and presently left the shop + herself, on foot, after buying a bunch of marabouts. Marabouts for her + black hair! The officer beheld her, through the window-panes, placing the + feathers to her head to see the effect, and he fancied he could hear the + conversation between herself and the shop-woman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! madame, nothing is more suitable for brunettes: brunettes have + something a little too strongly marked in their lines, and marabouts give + them just that <i>flow</i> which they lack. Madame la Duchesse de Langeais + says they give a woman something vague, Ossianic, and very high-bred.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good; send them to me at once.” + </p> + <p> + Then the lady turned quickly toward the rue de Menars, and entered her own + house. When the door closed on her, the young lover, having lost his + hopes, and worse, far worse, his dearest beliefs, walked through the + streets like a drunken man, and presently found himself in his own room + without knowing how he came there. He flung himself into an arm-chair, put + his head in his hands and his feet on the andirons, drying his boots until + he burned them. It was an awful moment,—one of those moments in + human life when the character is moulded, and the future conduct of the + best of men depends on the good or evil fortune of his first action. + Providence or fatality?—choose which you will. + </p> + <p> + This young man belonged to a good family, whose nobility was not very + ancient; but there are so few really old families in these days, that all + men of rank are ancient without dispute. His grandfather had bought the + office of counsellor to the Parliament of Paris, where he afterwards + became president. His sons, each provided with a handsome fortune, entered + the army, and through their marriages became attached to the court. The + Revolution swept the family away; but one old dowager, too obstinate to + emigrate, was left; she was put in prison, threatened with death, but was + saved by the 9th Thermidor and recovered her property. When the proper + time came, about the year 1804, she recalled her grandson to France. + Auguste de Maulincour, the only scion of the Carbonnon de Maulincour, was + brought up by the good dowager with the triple care of a mother, a woman + of rank, and an obstinate dowager. When the Restoration came, the young + man, then eighteen years of age, entered the Maison-Rouge, followed the + princes to Ghent, was made an officer in the body-guard, left it to serve + in the line, but was recalled later to the Royal Guard, where, at + twenty-three years of age, he found himself major of a cavalry regiment,—a + splendid position, due to his grandmother, who had played her cards well + to obtain it, in spite of his youth. This double biography is a compendium + of the general and special history, barring variations, of all the noble + families who emigrated having debts and property, dowagers and tact. + </p> + <p> + Madame la Baronne de Maulincour had a friend in the old Vidame de Pamiers, + formerly a commander of the Knights of Malta. This was one of those + undying friendships founded on sexagenary ties which nothing can weaken, + because at the bottom of such intimacies there are certain secrets of the + human heart, delightful to guess at when we have the time, insipid to + explain in twenty words, and which might make the text of a work in four + volumes as amusing as the Doyen de Killerine,—a work about which + young men talk and judge without having read it. + </p> + <p> + Auguste de Maulincour belonged therefore to the faubourg Saint-Germain + through his grandmother and the vidame, and it sufficed him to date back + two centuries to take the tone and opinions of those who assume to go back + to Clovis. This young man, pale, slender, and delicate in appearance, a + man of honor and true courage, who would fight a duel for a yes or a no, + had never yet fought upon a battle-field, though he wore in his + button-hole the cross of the Legion of honor. He was, as you perceive, one + of the blunders of the Restoration, perhaps the most excusable of them. + The youth of those days was the youth of no epoch. It came between the + memories of the Empire and those of the Emigration, between the old + traditions of the court and the conscientious education of the <i>bourgeoisie</i>; + between religion and fancy-balls; between two political faiths, between + Louis XVIII., who saw only the present, and Charles X., who looked too far + into the future; it was moreover bound to accept the will of the king, + though the king was deceiving and tricking it. This unfortunate youth, + blind and yet clear-sighted, was counted as nothing by old men jealously + keeping the reins of the State in their feeble hands, while the monarchy + could have been saved by their retirement and the accession of this Young + France, which the old doctrinaires, the <i>emigres</i> of the Restoration, + still speak of slightingly. Auguste de Maulincour was a victim to the + ideas which weighed in those days upon French youth, and we must here + explain why. + </p> + <p> + The Vidame de Pamiers was still, at sixty-seven years of age, a very + brilliant man, having seen much and lived much; a good talker, a man of + honor and a gallant man, but who held as to women the most detestable + opinions; he loved them, and he despised them. <i>Their</i> honor! <i>their</i> + feelings! Ta-ra-ra, rubbish and shams! When he was with them, he believed + in them, the ci-devant “monstre”; he never contradicted them, and he made + them shine. But among his male friends, when the topic of the sex came up, + he laid down the principle that to deceive women, and to carry on several + intrigues at once, should be the occupation of those young men who were so + misguided as to wish to meddle in the affairs of the State. It is sad to + have to sketch so hackneyed a portrait, for has it not figured everywhere + and become, literally, as threadbare as that of a grenadier of the Empire? + But the vidame had an influence on Monsieur de Maulincour’s destiny which + obliges us to preserve his portrait; he lectured the young man after his + fashion, and did his best to convert him to the doctrines of the great age + of gallantry. + </p> + <p> + The dowager, a tender-hearted, pious woman, sitting between God and her + vidame, a model of grace and sweetness, but gifted with that well-bred + persistency which triumphs in the long run, had longed to preserve for her + grandson the beautiful illusions of life, and had therefore brought him up + in the highest principles; she instilled into him her own delicacy of + feeling and made him, to outward appearance, a timid man, if not a fool. + The sensibilities of the young fellow, preserved pure, were not worn by + contact without; he remained so chaste, so scrupulous, that he was keenly + offended by actions and maxims to which the world attached no consequence. + Ashamed of this susceptibility, he forced himself to conceal it under a + false hardihood; but he suffered in secret, all the while scoffing with + others at the things he reverenced. + </p> + <p> + It came to pass that he was deceived; because, in accordance with a not + uncommon whim of destiny, he, a man of gentle melancholy, and spiritual in + love, encountered in the object of his first passion a woman who held in + horror all German sentimentalism. The young man, in consequence, + distrusted himself, became dreamy, absorbed in his griefs, complaining of + not being understood. Then, as we desire all the more violently the things + we find difficult to obtain, he continued to adore women with that + ingenuous tenderness and feline delicacy the secret of which belongs to + women themselves, who may, perhaps, prefer to keep the monopoly of it. In + point of fact, though women of the world complain of the way men love + them, they have little liking themselves for those whose soul is half + feminine. Their own superiority consists in making men believe they are + their inferiors in love; therefore they will readily leave a lover if he + is inexperienced enough to rob them of those fears with which they seek to + deck themselves, those delightful tortures of feigned jealousy, those + troubles of hope betrayed, those futile expectations,—in short, the + whole procession of their feminine miseries. They hold Sir Charles + Grandison in horror. What can be more contrary to their nature than a + tranquil, perfect love? They want emotions; happiness without storms is + not happiness to them. Women with souls that are strong enough to bring + infinitude into love are angelic exceptions; they are among women what + noble geniuses are among men. Their great passions are rare as + masterpieces. Below the level of such love come compromises, conventions, + passing and contemptible irritations, as in all things petty and + perishable. + </p> + <p> + Amid the hidden disasters of his heart, and while he was still seeking the + woman who could comprehend him (a search which, let us remark in passing, + is one of the amorous follies of our epoch), Auguste met, in the rank of + society that was farthest from his own, in the secondary sphere of money, + where banking holds the first place, a perfect being, one of those women + who have I know not what about them that is saintly and sacred,—women + who inspire such reverence that love has need of the help of a long + familiarity to declare itself. + </p> + <p> + Auguste then gave himself up wholly to the delights of the deepest and + most moving of passions, to a love that was purely adoring. Innumerable + repressed desires there were, shadows of passion so vague yet so profound, + so fugitive and yet so actual, that one scarcely knows to what we may + compare them. They are like perfumes, or clouds, or rays of the sun, or + shadows, or whatever there is in nature that shines for a moment and + disappears, that springs to life and dies, leaving in the heart long + echoes of emotion. When the soul is young enough to nurture melancholy and + far-off hope, to find in woman more than a woman, is it not the greatest + happiness that can befall a man when he loves enough to feel more joy in + touching a gloved hand, or a lock of hair, in listening to a word, in + casting a single look, than in all the ardor of possession given by happy + love? Thus it is that rejected persons, those rebuffed by fate, the ugly + and unfortunate, lovers unrevealed, women and timid men, alone know the + treasures contained in the voice of the beloved. Taking their source and + their element from the soul itself, the vibrations of the air, charged + with passion, put our hearts so powerfully into communion, carrying + thought between them so lucidly, and being, above all, so incapable of + falsehood, that a single inflection of a voice is often a revelation. What + enchantments the intonations of a tender voice can bestow upon the heart + of a poet! What ideas they awaken! What freshness they shed there! Love is + in the voice before the glance avows it. Auguste, poet after the manner of + lovers (there are poets who feel, and poets who express; the first are the + happiest), Auguste had tasted all these early joys, so vast, so fecund. + SHE possessed the most winning organ that the most artful woman of the + world could have desired in order to deceive at her ease; <i>she</i> had + that silvery voice which is soft to the ear, and ringing only for the + heart which it stirs and troubles, caresses and subjugates. + </p> + <p> + And this woman went by night to the rue Soly through the rue Pagevin! and + her furtive apparition in an infamous house had just destroyed the + grandest of passions! The vidame’s logic triumphed. + </p> + <p> + “If she is betraying her husband we will avenge ourselves,” said Auguste. + </p> + <p> + There was still faith in that “if.” The philosophic doubt of Descartes is + a politeness with which we should always honor virtue. Ten o’clock + sounded. The Baron de Maulincour remembered that this woman was going to a + ball that evening at a house to which he had access. He dressed, went + there, and searched for her through all the salons. The mistress of the + house, Madame de Nucingen, seeing him thus occupied, said:— + </p> + <p> + “You are looking for Madame Jules; but she has not yet come.” + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, dear,” said a voice. + </p> + <p> + Auguste and Madame de Nucingen turned round. Madame Jules had arrived, + dressed in white, looking simple and noble, wearing in her hair the + marabouts the young baron had seen her choose in the flower-shop. That + voice of love now pierced his heart. Had he won the slightest right to be + jealous of her he would have petrified her then and there by saying the + words, “Rue Soly!” But if he, an alien to her life, had said those words + in her ear a thousand times, Madame Jules would have asked him in + astonishment what he meant. He looked at her stupidly. + </p> + <p> + For those sarcastic persons who scoff at all things it may be a great + amusement to detect the secret of a woman, to know that her chastity is a + lie, that her calm face hides some anxious thought, that under that pure + brow is a dreadful drama. But there are other souls to whom the sight is + saddening; and many of those who laugh in public, when withdrawn into + themselves and alone with their conscience, curse the world while they + despise the woman. Such was the case with Auguste de Maulincour, as he + stood there in presence of Madame Jules. Singular situation! There was no + other relation between them than that which social life establishes + between persons who exchange a few words seven or eight times in the + course of a winter, and yet he was calling her to account on behalf of a + happiness unknown to her; he was judging her, without letting her know of + his accusation. + </p> + <p> + Many young men find themselves thus in despair at having broken forever + with a woman adored in secret, condemned and despised in secret. There are + many hidden monologues told to the walls of some solitary lodging; storms + roused and calmed without ever leaving the depths of hearts; amazing + scenes of the moral world, for which a painter is wanted. Madame Jules sat + down, leaving her husband to make a turn around the salon. After she was + seated she seemed uneasy, and, while talking with her neighbor, she kept a + furtive eye on Monsieur Jules Desmarets, her husband, a broker chiefly + employed by the Baron de Nucingen. The following is the history of their + home life. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Desmarets was, five years before his marriage, in a broker’s + office, with no other means than the meagre salary of a clerk. But he was + a man to whom misfortune had early taught the truths of life, and he + followed the strait path with the tenacity of an insect making for its + nest; he was one of those dogged young men who feign death before an + obstacle and wear out everybody’s patience with their own beetle-like + perseverance. Thus, young as he was, he had all the republican virtue of + poor peoples; he was sober, saving of his time, an enemy to pleasure. He + waited. Nature had given him the immense advantage of an agreeable + exterior. His calm, pure brow, the shape of his placid, but expressive + face, his simple manners,—all revealed in him a laborious and + resigned existence, that lofty personal dignity which is imposing to + others, and the secret nobility of heart which can meet all events. His + modesty inspired a sort of respect in those who knew him. Solitary in the + midst of Paris, he knew the social world only by glimpses during the brief + moments which he spent in his patron’s salon on holidays. + </p> + <p> + There were passions in this young man, as in most of the men who live in + that way, of amazing profundity,—passions too vast to be drawn into + petty incidents. His want of means compelled him to lead an ascetic life, + and he conquered his fancies by hard work. After paling all day over + figures, he found his recreation in striving obstinately to acquire that + wide general knowledge so necessary in these days to every man who wants + to make his mark, whether in society, or in commerce, at the bar, or in + politics or literature. The only peril these fine souls have to fear comes + from their own uprightness. They see some poor girl; they love her; they + marry her, and wear out their lives in a struggle between poverty and + love. The noblest ambition is quenched perforce by the household + account-book. Jules Desmarets went headlong into this peril. + </p> + <p> + He met one evening at his patron’s house a girl of the rarest beauty. + Unfortunate men who are deprived of affection, and who consume the finest + hours of youth in work and study, alone know the rapid ravages that + passion makes in their lonely, misconceived hearts. They are so certain of + loving truly, all their forces are concentrated so quickly on the object + of their love, that they receive, while beside her, the most delightful + sensations, when, as often happens, they inspire none at all. Nothing is + more flattering to a woman’s egotism than to divine this passion, + apparently immovable, and these emotions so deep that they have needed a + great length of time to reach the human surface. These poor men, + anchorites in the midst of Paris, have all the enjoyments of anchorites; + and may sometimes succumb to temptations. But, more often deceived, + betrayed, and misunderstood, they are rarely able to gather the sweet + fruits of a love which, to them, is like a flower dropped from heaven. + </p> + <p> + One smile from his wife, a single inflection of her voice sufficed to make + Jules Desmarets conceive a passion which was boundless. Happily, the + concentrated fire of that secret passion revealed itself artlessly to the + woman who inspired it. These two beings then loved each other religiously. + To express all in a word, they clasped hands without shame before the eyes + of the world and went their way like two children, brother and sister, + passing serenely through a crowd where all made way for them and admired + them. + </p> + <p> + The young girl was in one of those unfortunate positions which human + selfishness entails upon children. She had no civil status; her name of + “Clemence” and her age were recorded only by a notary public. As for her + fortune, that was small indeed. Jules Desmarets was a happy man on hearing + these particulars. If Clemence had belonged to an opulent family, he might + have despaired of obtaining her; but she was only the poor child of love, + the fruit of some terrible adulterous passion; and they were married. Then + began for Jules Desmarets a series of fortunate events. Every one envied + his happiness; and henceforth talked only of his luck, without recalling + either his virtues or his courage. + </p> + <p> + Some days after their marriage, the mother of Clemence, who passed in + society for her godmother, told Jules Desmarets to buy the office and + good-will of a broker, promising to provide him with the necessary + capital. In those days, such offices could still be bought at a modest + price. That evening, in the salon as it happened of his patron, a wealthy + capitalist proposed, on the recommendation of the mother, a very + advantageous transaction for Jules Desmarets, and the next day the happy + clerk was able to buy out his patron. In four years Desmarets became one + of the most prosperous men in his business; new clients increased the + number his predecessor had left to him; he inspired confidence in all; and + it was impossible for him not to feel, by the way business came to him, + that some hidden influence, due to his mother-in-law, or to Providence, + was secretly protecting him. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the third year Clemence lost her godmother. By that time + Monsieur Jules (so called to distinguish him from an elder brother, whom + he had set up as a notary in Paris) possessed an income from invested + property of two hundred thousand francs. There was not in all Paris + another instance of the domestic happiness enjoyed by this couple. For + five years their exceptional love had been troubled by only one event,—a + calumny for which Monsieur Jules exacted vengeance. One of his former + comrades attributed to Madame Jules the fortune of her husband, explaining + that it came from a high protection dearly paid for. The man who uttered + the calumny was killed in the duel that followed it. + </p> + <p> + The profound passion of this couple, which survived marriage, obtained a + great success in society, though some women were annoyed by it. The + charming household was respected; everybody feted it. Monsieur and Madame + Jules were sincerely liked, perhaps because there is nothing more + delightful to see than happy people; but they never stayed long at any + festivity. They slipped away early, as impatient to regain their nest as + wandering pigeons. This nest was a large and beautiful mansion in the rue + de Menars, where a true feeling for art tempered the luxury which the + financial world continues, traditionally, to display. Here the happy pair + received their society magnificently, although the obligations of social + life suited them but little. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, Jules submitted to the demands of the world, knowing that, + sooner or later, a family has need of it; but he and his wife felt + themselves, in its midst, like green-house plants in a tempest. With a + delicacy that was very natural, Jules had concealed from his wife the + calumny and the death of the calumniator. Madame Jules, herself, was + inclined, through her sensitive and artistic nature, to desire luxury. In + spite of the terrible lesson of the duel, some imprudent women whispered + to each other that Madame Jules must sometimes be pressed for money. They + often found her more elegantly dressed in her own home than when she went + into society. She loved to adorn herself to please her husband, wishing to + show him that to her he was more than any social life. A true love, a pure + love, above all, a happy love! Jules, always a lover, and more in love as + time went by, was happy in all things beside his wife, even in her + caprices; in fact, he would have been uneasy if she had none, thinking it + a symptom of some illness. + </p> + <p> + Auguste de Maulincour had the personal misfortune of running against this + passion, and falling in love with the wife beyond recovery. Nevertheless, + though he carried in his heart so intense a love, he was not ridiculous; + he complied with all the demands of society, and of military manners and + customs. And yet his face wore constantly, even though he might be + drinking a glass of champagne, that dreamy look, that air of silently + despising life, that nebulous expression which belongs, though for other + reasons, to <i>blases</i> men,—men dissatisfied with hollow lives. + To love without hope, to be disgusted with life, constitute, in these + days, a social position. The enterprise of winning the heart of a + sovereign might give, perhaps, more hope than a love rashly conceived for + a happy woman. Therefore Maulincour had sufficient reason to be grave and + gloomy. A queen has the vanity of her power; the height of her elevation + protects her. But a pious <i>bourgeoise</i> is like a hedgehog, or an + oyster, in its rough wrappings. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the young officer was beside his unconscious mistress, who + certainly was unaware that she was doubly faithless. Madame Jules was + seated, in a naive attitude, like the least artful woman in existence, + soft and gentle, full of a majestic serenity. What an abyss is human + nature! Before beginning a conversation, the baron looked alternately at + the wife and at the husband. How many were the reflections he made! He + recomposed the “Night Thoughts” of Young in a second. And yet the music + was sounding through the salons, the light was pouring from a thousand + candles. It was a banker’s ball,—one of those insolent festivals by + means of which the world of solid gold endeavored to sneer at the + gold-embossed salons where the faubourg Saint-Germain met and laughed, not + foreseeing the day when the bank would invade the Luxembourg and take its + seat upon the throne. The conspirators were now dancing, indifferent to + coming bankruptcies, whether of Power or of the Bank. The gilded salons of + the Baron de Nucingen were gay with that peculiar animation that the world + of Paris, apparently joyous at any rate, gives to its fetes. There, men of + talent communicate their wit to fools, and fools communicate that air of + enjoyment that characterizes them. By means of this exchange all is + liveliness. But a ball in Paris always resembles fireworks to a certain + extent; wit, coquetry, and pleasure sparkle and go out like rockets. The + next day all present have forgotten their wit, their coquetry, their + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” thought Auguste, by way of conclusion, “women are what the vidame + says they are. Certainly all those dancing here are less irreproachable + actually than Madame Jules appears to be, and yet Madame Jules went to the + rue Soly!” + </p> + <p> + The rue Soly was like an illness to him; the very word shrivelled his + heart. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, do you ever dance?” he said to her. + </p> + <p> + “This is the third time you have asked me that question this winter,” she + answered, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps you have never answered it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew very well that you were false, like other women.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Jules continued to smile. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, monsieur,” she said; “if I told you the real reason, you would + think it ridiculous. I do not think it false to abstain from telling + things that the world would laugh at.” + </p> + <p> + “All secrets demand, in order to be told, a friendship of which I am no + doubt unworthy, madame. But you cannot have any but noble secrets; do you + think me capable of jesting on noble things?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, “you, like all the rest, laugh at our purest sentiments; + you calumniate them. Besides, I have no secrets. I have the right to love + my husband in the face of all the world, and I say so,—I am proud of + it; and if you laugh at me when I tell you that I dance only with him, I + shall have a bad opinion of your heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you never danced since your marriage with any one but your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Never. His arm is the only one on which I have leaned; I have never felt + the touch of another man.” + </p> + <p> + “Has your physician never felt your pulse?” + </p> + <p> + “Now you are laughing at me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, madame, I admire you, because I comprehend you. But you let a man + hear your voice, you let yourself be seen, you—in short, you permit + our eyes to admire you—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said, interrupting him, “that is one of my griefs. Yes, I wish + it were possible for a married woman to live secluded with her husband, as + a mistress lives with her lover, for then—” + </p> + <p> + “Then why were you, two hours ago, on foot, disguised, in the rue Soly?” + </p> + <p> + “The rue Soly, where is that?” + </p> + <p> + And her pure voice gave no sign of any emotion; no feature of her face + quivered; she did not blush; she remained calm. + </p> + <p> + “What! you did not go up to the second floor of a house in the rue des + Vieux-Augustins at the corner of the rue Soly? You did not have a + hackney-coach waiting near by? You did not return in it to the flower-shop + in the rue Richelieu, where you bought the feathers that are now in your + hair?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not leave my house this evening.” + </p> + <p> + As she uttered that lie she was smiling and imperturbable; she played with + her fan; but if any one had passed a hand down her back they would, + perhaps, have found it moist. At that instant Auguste remembered the + instructions of the vidame. + </p> + <p> + “Then it was some one who strangely resembled you,” he said, with a + credulous air. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she replied, “if you are capable of following a woman and + detecting her secrets, you will allow me to say that it is a wrong, a very + wrong thing, and I do you the honor to say that I disbelieve you.” + </p> + <p> + The baron turned away, placed himself before the fireplace and seemed + thoughtful. He bent his head; but his eyes were covertly fixed on Madame + Jules, who, not remembering the reflections in the mirror, cast two or + three glances at him that were full of terror. Presently she made a sign + to her husband and rising took his arm to walk about the salon. As she + passed before Monsieur de Maulincour, who at that moment was speaking to a + friend, he said in a loud voice, as if in reply to a remark: “That woman + will certainly not sleep quietly this night.” Madame Jules stopped, gave + him an imposing look which expressed contempt, and continued her way, + unaware that another look, if surprised by her husband, might endanger not + only her happiness but the lives of two men. Auguste, frantic with anger, + which he tried to smother in the depths of his soul, presently left the + house, swearing to penetrate to the heart of the mystery. Before leaving, + he sought Madame Jules, to look at her again; but she had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + What a drama cast into that young head so eminently romantic, like all who + have not known love in the wide extent which they give to it. He adored + Madame Jules under a new aspect; he loved her now with the fury of + jealousy and the frenzied anguish of hope. Unfaithful to her husband, the + woman became common. Auguste could now give himself up to the joys of + successful love, and his imagination opened to him a career of pleasures. + Yes, he had lost the angel, but he had found the most delightful of + demons. He went to bed, building castles in the air, excusing Madame Jules + by some romantic fiction in which he did not believe. He resolved to + devote himself wholly, from that day forth, to a search for the causes, + motives, and keynote of this mystery. It was a tale to read, or better + still, a drama to be played, in which he had a part. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. FERRAGUS + </h2> + <p> + A fine thing is the task of a spy, when performed for one’s own benefit + and in the interests of a passion. Is it not giving ourselves the pleasure + of a thief and a rascal while continuing honest men? But there is another + side to it; we must resign ourselves to boil with anger, to roar with + impatience, to freeze our feet in the mud, to be numbed, and roasted, and + torn by false hopes. We must go, on the faith of a mere indication, to a + vague object, miss our end, curse our luck, improvise to ourselves + elegies, dithyrambics, exclaim idiotically before inoffensive pedestrians + who observe us, knock over old apple-women and their baskets, run hither + and thither, stand on guard beneath a window, make a thousand + suppositions. But, after all, it is a chase, a hunt; a hunt in Paris, a + hunt with all its chances, minus dogs and guns and the tally-ho! Nothing + compares with it but the life of gamblers. But it needs a heart big with + love and vengeance to ambush itself in Paris, like a tiger waiting to + spring upon its prey, and to enjoy the chances and contingencies of Paris, + by adding one special interest to the many that abound there. But for this + we need a many-sided soul—for must we not live in a thousand + passions, a thousand sentiments? + </p> + <p> + Auguste de Maulincour flung himself into this ardent existence + passionately, for he felt all its pleasures and all its misery. He went + disguised about Paris, watching at the corners of the rue Pagevin and the + rue des Vieux-Augustins. He hurried like a hunter from the rue de Menars + to the rue Soly, and back from the rue Soly to the rue de Menars, without + obtaining either the vengeance or the knowledge which would punish or + reward such cares, such efforts, such wiles. But he had not yet reached + that impatience which wrings our very entrails and makes us sweat; he + roamed in hope, believing that Madame Jules would only refrain for a few + days from revisiting the place where she knew she had been detected. He + devoted the first days therefore, to a careful study of the secrets of the + street. A novice at such work, he dared not question either the porter or + the shoemaker of the house to which Madame Jules had gone; but he managed + to obtain a post of observation in a house directly opposite to the + mysterious apartment. He studied the ground, trying to reconcile the + conflicting demands of prudence, impatience, love, and secrecy. + </p> + <p> + Early in the month of March, while busy with plans by which he expected to + strike a decisive blow, he left his post about four in the afternoon, + after one of those patient watches from which he had learned nothing. He + was on his way to his own house whither a matter relating to his military + service called him, when he was overtaken in the rue Coquilliere by one of + those heavy showers which instantly flood the gutters, while each drop of + rain rings loudly in the puddles of the roadway. A pedestrian under these + circumstances is forced to stop short and take refuge in a shop or cafe if + he is rich enough to pay for the forced hospitality, or, if in poorer + circumstances, under a <i>porte-cochere</i>, that haven of paupers or + shabbily dressed persons. Why have none of our painters ever attempted to + reproduce the physiognomies of a swarm of Parisians, grouped, under stress + of weather, in the damp <i>porte-cochere</i> of a building? First, there’s + the musing philosophical pedestrian, who observes with interest all he + sees,—whether it be the stripes made by the rain on the gray + background of the atmosphere (a species of chasing not unlike the + capricious threads of spun glass), or the whirl of white water which the + wind is driving like a luminous dust along the roofs, or the fitful + disgorgements of the gutter-pipes, sparkling and foaming; in short, the + thousand nothings to be admired and studied with delight by loungers, in + spite of the porter’s broom which pretends to be sweeping out the gateway. + Then there’s the talkative refugee, who complains and converses with the + porter while he rests on his broom like a grenadier on his musket; or the + pauper wayfarer, curled against the wall indifferent to the condition of + his rags, long used, alas, to contact with the streets; or the learned + pedestrian who studies, spells, and reads the posters on the walls without + finishing them; or the smiling pedestrian who makes fun of others to whom + some street fatality has happened, who laughs at the muddy women, and + makes grimaces at those of either sex who are looking from the windows; + and the silent being who gazes from floor to floor; and the working-man, + armed with a satchel or a paper bundle, who is estimating the rain as a + profit or loss; and the good-natured fugitive, who arrives like a shot + exclaiming, “Ah! what weather, messieurs, what weather!” and bows to every + one; and, finally, the true <i>bourgeois</i> of Paris, with his unfailing + umbrella, an expert in showers, who foresaw this particular one, but would + come out in spite of his wife; this one takes a seat in the porter’s + chair. According to individual character, each member of this fortuitous + society contemplates the skies, and departs, skipping to avoid the mud,—because + he is in a hurry, or because he sees other citizens walking along in spite + of wind and slush, or because, the archway being damp and mortally + catarrhal, the bed’s edge, as the proverb says, is better than the sheets. + Each one has his motive. No one is left but the prudent pedestrian, the + man who, before he sets forth, makes sure of a scrap of blue sky through + the rifting clouds. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour took refuge, as we have said, with a whole family + of fugitives, under the porch of an old house, the court-yard of which + looked like the flue of a chimney. The sides of its plastered, nitrified, + and mouldy walls were so covered with pipes and conduits from all the many + floors of its four elevations, that it might have been said to resemble at + that moment the <i>cascatelles</i> of Saint-Cloud. Water flowed + everywhere; it boiled, it leaped, it murmured; it was black, white, blue, + and green; it shrieked, it bubbled under the broom of the portress, a + toothless old woman used to storms, who seemed to bless them as she swept + into the street a mass of scraps an intelligent inventory of which would + have revealed the lives and habits of every dweller in the house,—bits + of printed cottons, tea-leaves, artificial flower-petals faded and + worthless, vegetable parings, papers, scraps of metal. At every sweep of + her broom the old woman bared the soul of the gutter, that black fissure + on which a porter’s mind is ever bent. The poor lover examined this scene, + like a thousand others which our heaving Paris presents daily; but he + examined it mechanically, as a man absorbed in thought, when, happening to + look up, he found himself all but nose to nose with a man who had just + entered the gateway. + </p> + <p> + In appearance this man was a beggar, but not the Parisian beggar,—that + creation without a name in human language; no, this man formed another + type, while presenting on the outside all the ideas suggested by the word + “beggar.” He was not marked by those original Parisian characteristics + which strike us so forcibly in the paupers whom Charlet was fond of + representing, with his rare luck in observation,—coarse faces + reeking of mud, hoarse voices, reddened and bulbous noses, mouths devoid + of teeth but menacing; humble yet terrible beings, in whom a profound + intelligence shining in their eyes seems like a contradiction. Some of + these bold vagabonds have blotched, cracked, veiny skins; their foreheads + are covered with wrinkles, their hair scanty and dirty, like a wig thrown + on a dust-heap. All are gay in their degradation, and degraded in their + joys; all are marked with the stamp of debauchery, casting their silence + as a reproach; their very attitude revealing fearful thoughts. Placed + between crime and beggary they have no compunctions, and circle prudently + around the scaffold without mounting it, innocent in the midst of crime, + and vicious in their innocence. They often cause a laugh, but they always + cause reflection. One represents to you civilization stunted, repressed; + he comprehends everything, the honor of the galleys, patriotism, virtue, + the malice of a vulgar crime, or the fine astuteness of elegant + wickedness. Another is resigned, a perfect mimer, but stupid. All have + slight yearnings after order and work, but they are pushed back into their + mire by society, which makes no inquiry as to what there may be of great + men, poets, intrepid souls, and splendid organizations among these + vagrants, these gypsies of Paris; a people eminently good and eminently + evil—like all the masses who suffer—accustomed to endure + unspeakable woes, and whom a fatal power holds ever down to the level of + the mire. They all have a dream, a hope, a happiness,—cards, + lottery, or wine. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing of all this in the personage who now leaned carelessly + against the wall in front of Monsieur de Maulincour, like some fantastic + idea drawn by an artist on the back of a canvas the front of which is + turned to the wall. This tall, spare man, whose leaden visage expressed + some deep but chilling thought, dried up all pity in the hearts of those + who looked at him by the scowling look and the sarcastic attitude which + announced an intention of treating every man as an equal. His face was of + a dirty white, and his wrinkled skull, denuded of hair, bore a vague + resemblance to a block of granite. A few gray locks on either side of his + head fell straight to the collar of his greasy coat, which was buttoned to + the chin. He resembled both Voltaire and Don Quixote; he was, apparently, + scoffing but melancholy, full of disdain and philosophy, but half-crazy. + He seemed to have no shirt. His beard was long. A rusty black cravat, much + worn and ragged, exposed a protuberant neck deeply furrowed, with veins as + thick as cords. A large brown circle like a bruise was strongly marked + beneath his eyes, He seemed to be at least sixty years old. His hands were + white and clean. His boots were trodden down at the heels, and full of + holes. A pair of blue trousers, mended in various places, were covered + with a species of fluff which made them offensive to the eye. Whether it + was that his damp clothes exhaled a fetid odor, or that he had in his + normal condition the “poor smell” which belongs to Parisian tenements, + just as offices, sacristies, and hospitals have their own peculiar and + rancid fetidness, of which no words can give the least idea, or whether + some other reason affected them, those in the vicinity of this man + immediately moved away and left him alone. He cast upon them and also upon + the officer a calm, expressionless look, the celebrated look of Monsieur + de Talleyrand, a dull, wan glance, without warmth, a species of + impenetrable veil, beneath which a strong soul hides profound emotions and + close estimation of men and things and events. Not a fold of his face + quivered. His mouth and forehead were impassible; but his eyes moved and + lowered themselves with a noble, almost tragic slowness. There was, in + fact, a whole drama in the motion of those withered eyelids. + </p> + <p> + The aspect of this stoical figure gave rise in Monsieur de Maulincour to + one of those vagabond reveries which begin with a common question and end + by comprising a world of thought. The storm was past. Monsieur de + Maulincour presently saw no more of the man than the tail of his coat as + it brushed the gate-post, but as he turned to leave his own place he + noticed at his feet a letter which must have fallen from the unknown + beggar when he took, as the baron had seen him take, a handkerchief from + his pocket. The young man picked it up, and read, involuntarily, the + address: “To Monsieur Ferragusse, Rue des Grands-Augustains, corner of rue + Soly.” + </p> + <p> + The letter bore no postmark, and the address prevented Monsieur de + Maulincour from following the beggar and returning it; for there are few + passions that will not fail in rectitude in the long run. The baron had a + presentiment of the opportunity afforded by this windfall. He determined + to keep the letter, which would give him the right to enter the mysterious + house to return it to the strange man, not doubting that he lived there. + Suspicions, vague as the first faint gleams of daylight, made him fancy + relations between this man and Madame Jules. A jealous lover supposes + everything; and it is by supposing everything and selecting the most + probable of their conjectures that judges, spies, lovers, and observers + get at the truth they are looking for. + </p> + <p> + “Is the letter for him? Is it from Madame Jules?” + </p> + <p> + His restless imagination tossed a thousand such questions to him; but when + he read the first words of the letter he smiled. Here it is, textually, in + all the simplicity of its artless phrases and its miserable orthography,—a + letter to which it would be impossible to add anything, or to take + anything away, unless it were the letter itself. But we have yielded to + the necessity of punctuating it. In the original there were neither commas + nor stops of any kind, not even notes of exclamation,—a fact which + tends to undervalue the system of notes and dashes by which modern authors + have endeavored to depict the great disasters of all the passions:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Henry,—Among the manny sacrifisis I imposed upon myself for your + sake was that of not giving you anny news of me; but an + iresistible voise now compells me to let you know the wrong you + have done me. I know beforehand that your soul hardened in vise + will not pitty me. Your heart is deaf to feeling. Is it deaf to + the cries of nature? But what matter? I must tell you to what a + dredful point you are gilty, and the horror of the position to + which you have brought me. Henry, you knew what I sufered from my + first wrong-doing, and yet you plunged me into the same misery, + and then abbandoned me to my dispair and sufering. Yes, I will say + it, the belif I had that you loved me and esteemed me gave me + corage to bare my fate. But now, what have I left? Have you not + made me loose all that was dear to me, all that held me to life; + parents, frends, onor, reputation,—all, I have sacrifised all to + you, and nothing is left me but shame, oprobrum, and—I say this + without blushing—poverty. Nothing was wanting to my misfortunes + but the sertainty of your contempt and hatred; and now I have them + I find the corage that my project requires. My decision is made; + the onor of my famly commands it. I must put an end to my + suferins. Make no remarks upon my conduct, Henry; it is orful, I + know, but my condition obliges me. Without help, without suport, + without one frend to comfort me, can I live? No. Fate has desided + for me. So in two days, Henry, two days, Ida will have seased to + be worthy of your regard. Oh, Henry! oh, my frend! for I can never + change to you, promise me to forgive me for what I am going to do. + Do not forget that you have driven me to it; it is your work, and + you must judge it. May heven not punish you for all your crimes. I + ask your pardon on my knees, for I feel nothing is wanting to my + misery but the sorow of knowing you unhappy. In spite of the + poverty I am in I shall refuse all help from you. If you had loved + me I would have taken all from your friendship; but a benfit given + by pitty <i>my soul refussis</i>. I would be baser to take it than he + who offered it. I have one favor to ask of you. I don’t know how + long I must stay at Madame Meynardie’s; be genrous enough not to + come there. Your last two vissits did me a harm I cannot get ofer. + I cannot enter into particlers about that conduct of yours. You + hate me,—you said so; that word is writen on my heart, and + freeses it with fear. Alas! it is now, when I need all my corage, + all my strength, that my faculties abandon me. Henry, my frend, + before I put a barrier forever between us, give me a last pruf of + your esteem. Write me, answer me, say you respect me still, though + you have seased to love me. My eyes are worthy still to look into + yours, but I do not ask an interfew; I fear my weakness and my + love. But for pitty’s sake write me a line at once; it will give + me the corage I need to meet my trubbles. Farewell, orther of all + my woes, but the only frend my heart has chosen and will never + forget. +</pre> + <p> + Ida. + </p> + <p> + This life of a young girl, with its love betrayed, its fatal joys, its + pangs, its miseries, and its horrible resignation, summed up in a few + words, this humble poem, essentially Parisian, written on dirty paper, + influenced for a passing moment Monsieur de Maulincour. He asked himself + whether this Ida might not be some poor relation of Madame Jules, and that + strange rendezvous, which he had witnessed by chance, the mere necessity + of a charitable effort. But could that old pauper have seduced this Ida? + There was something impossible in the very idea. Wandering in this + labyrinth of reflections, which crossed, recrossed, and obliterated one + another, the baron reached the rue Pagevin, and saw a hackney-coach + standing at the end of the rue des Vieux-Augustins where it enters the rue + Montmartre. All waiting hackney-coaches now had an interest for him. + </p> + <p> + “Can she be there?” he thought to himself, and his heart beat fast with a + hot and feverish throbbing. + </p> + <p> + He pushed the little door with the bell, but he lowered his head as he did + so, obeying a sense of shame, for a voice said to him secretly:— + </p> + <p> + “Why are you putting your foot into this mystery?” + </p> + <p> + He went up a few steps, and found himself face to face with the old + portress. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Ferragus?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t Monsieur Ferragus live here?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t such a name in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my good woman—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not your good woman, monsieur, I’m the portress.” + </p> + <p> + “But, madame,” persisted the baron, “I have a letter for Monsieur + Ferragus.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! if monsieur has a letter,” she said, changing her tone, “that’s + another matter. Will you let me see it—that letter?” + </p> + <p> + Auguste showed the folded letter. The old woman shook her head with a + doubtful air, hesitated, seemed to wish to leave the lodge and inform the + mysterious Ferragus of his unexpected visitor, but finally said:— + </p> + <p> + “Very good; go up, monsieur. I suppose you know the way?” + </p> + <p> + Without replying to this remark, which he thought might be a trap, the + young officer ran lightly up the stairway, and rang loudly at the door of + the second floor. His lover’s instinct told him, “She is there.” + </p> + <p> + The beggar of the porch, Ferragus, the “orther” of Ida’s woes, opened the + door himself. He appeared in a flowered dressing-gown, white flannel + trousers, his feet in embroidered slippers, and his face washed clean of + stains. Madame Jules, whose head projected beyond the casing of the door + in the next room, turned pale and dropped into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, madame?” cried the officer, springing toward her. + </p> + <p> + But Ferragus stretched forth an arm and flung the intruder back with so + sharp a thrust that Auguste fancied he had received a blow with an iron + bar full on his chest. + </p> + <p> + “Back! monsieur,” said the man. “What do you want there? For five or six + days you have been roaming about the neighborhood. Are you a spy?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you Monsieur Ferragus?” said the baron. + </p> + <p> + “No, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless,” continued Auguste, “it is to you that I must return this + paper which you dropped in the gateway beneath which we both took refuge + from the rain.” + </p> + <p> + While speaking and offering the letter to the man, Auguste did not refrain + from casting an eye around the room where Ferragus received him. It was + very well arranged, though simply. A fire burned on the hearth; and near + it was a table with food upon it, which was served more sumptuously than + agreed with the apparent conditions of the man and the poorness of his + lodging. On a sofa in the next room, which he could see through the + doorway, lay a heap of gold, and he heard a sound which could be no other + than that of a woman weeping. + </p> + <p> + “The paper belongs to me; I am much obliged to you,” said the mysterious + man, turning away as if to make the baron understand that he must go. + </p> + <p> + Too curious himself to take much note of the deep examination of which he + was himself the object, Auguste did not see the half-magnetic glance with + which this strange being seemed to pierce him; had he encountered that + basilisk eye he might have felt the danger that encompassed him. Too + passionately excited to think of himself, Auguste bowed, went down the + stairs, and returned home, striving to find a meaning in the connection of + these three persons,—Ida, Ferragus, and Madame Jules; an occupation + equivalent to that of trying to arrange the many-cornered bits of a + Chinese puzzle without possessing the key to the game. But Madame Jules + had seen him, Madame Jules went there, Madame Jules had lied to him. + Maulincour determined to go and see her the next day. She could not refuse + his visit, for he was now her accomplice; he was hands and feet in the + mysterious affair, and she knew it. Already he felt himself a sultan, and + thought of demanding from Madame Jules, imperiously, all her secrets. + </p> + <p> + In those days Paris was seized with a building-fever. If Paris is a + monster, it is certainly a most mania-ridden monster. It becomes enamored + of a thousand fancies: sometimes it has a mania for building, like a great + seigneur who loves a trowel; soon it abandons the trowel and becomes all + military; it arrays itself from head to foot as a national guard, and + drills and smokes; suddenly, it abandons military manoeuvres and flings + away cigars; it is commercial, care-worn, falls into bankruptcy, sells its + furniture on the place de Chatelet, files its schedule; but a few days + later, lo! it has arranged its affairs and is giving fetes and dances. One + day it eats barley-sugar by the mouthful, by the handful; yesterday it + bought “papier Weymen”; to-day the monster’s teeth ache, and it applies to + its walls an alexipharmatic to mitigate their dampness; to-morrow it will + lay in a provision of pectoral paste. It has its manias for the month, for + the season, for the year, like its manias of a day. + </p> + <p> + So, at the moment of which we speak, all the world was building or pulling + down something,—people hardly knew what as yet. There were very few + streets in which high scaffoldings on long poles could not be seen, + fastened from floor to floor with transverse blocks inserted into holes in + the walls on which the planks were laid,—a frail construction, + shaken by the brick-layers, but held together by ropes, white with + plaster, and insecurely protected from the wheels of carriages by the + breastwork of planks which the law requires round all such buildings. + There is something maritime in these masts, and ladders, and cordage, even + in the shouts of the masons. About a dozen yards from the hotel + Maulincour, one of these ephemeral barriers was erected before a house + which was then being built of blocks of free-stone. The day after the + event we have just related, at the moment when the Baron de Maulincour was + passing this scaffolding in his cabriolet on his way to see Madame Jules, + a stone, two feet square, which was being raised to the upper storey of + this building, got loose from the ropes and fell, crushing the baron’s + servant who was behind the cabriolet. A cry of horror shook both the + scaffold and the masons; one of them, apparently unable to keep his grasp + on a pole, was in danger of death, and seemed to have been touched by the + stone as it passed him. + </p> + <p> + A crowd collected rapidly; the masons came down the ladders swearing and + insisting that Monsieur de Maulincour’s cabriolet had been driven against + the boarding and so had shaken their crane. Two inches more and the stone + would have fallen on the baron’s head. The groom was dead, the carriage + shattered. ‘Twas an event for the whole neighborhood, the newspapers told + of it. Monsieur de Maulincour, certain that he had not touched the + boarding, complained; the case went to court. Inquiry being made, it was + shown that a small boy, armed with a lath, had mounted guard and called to + all foot-passengers to keep away. The affair ended there. Monsieur de + Maulincour obtained no redress. He had lost his servant, and was confined + to his bed for some days, for the back of the carriage when shattered had + bruised him severely, and the nervous shock of the sudden surprise gave + him a fever. He did not, therefore, go to see Madame Jules. + </p> + <p> + Ten days after this event, he left the house for the first time, in his + repaired cabriolet, when, as he drove down the rue de Bourgogne and was + close to the sewer opposite to the Chamber of Deputies, the axle-tree + broke in two, and the baron was driving so rapidly that the breakage would + have caused the two wheels to come together with force enough to break his + head, had it not been for the resistance of the leather hood. + Nevertheless, he was badly wounded in the side. For the second time in ten + days he was carried home in a fainting condition to his terrified + grandmother. This second accident gave him a feeling of distrust; he + thought, though vaguely, of Ferragus and Madame Jules. To throw light on + these suspicions he had the broken axle brought to his room and sent for + his carriage-maker. The man examined the axle and the fracture, and proved + two things: First, the axle was not made in his workshop; he furnished + none that did not bear the initials of his name on the iron. But he could + not explain by what means this axle had been substituted for the other. + Secondly, the breakage of the suspicious axle was caused by a hollow space + having been blown in it and a straw very cleverly inserted. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! Monsieur le baron, whoever did that was malicious!” he said; “any one + would swear, to look at it, that the axle was sound.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour begged the carriage-maker to say nothing of the + affair; but he felt himself warned. These two attempts at murder were + planned with an ability which denoted the enmity of intelligent minds. + </p> + <p> + “It is war to the death,” he said to himself, as he tossed in his bed,—“a + war of savages, skulking in ambush, of trickery and treachery, declared in + the name of Madame Jules. What sort of man is this to whom she belongs? + What species of power does this Ferragus wield?” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour, though a soldier and brave man, could not repress + a shudder. In the midst of many thoughts that now assailed him, there was + one against which he felt he had neither defence nor courage: might not + poison be employed ere long by his secret enemies? Under the influence of + fears, which his momentary weakness and fever and low diet increased, he + sent for an old woman long attached to the service of his grandmother, + whose affection for himself was one of those semi-maternal sentiments + which are the sublime of the commonplace. Without confiding in her wholly, + he charged her to buy secretly and daily, in different localities, the + food he needed; telling her to keep it under lock and key and bring it to + him herself, not allowing any one, no matter who, to approach her while + preparing it. He took the most minute precautions to protect himself + against that form of death. He was ill in his bed and alone, and he had + therefore the leisure to think of his own security,—the one + necessity clear-sighted enough to enable human egotism to forget nothing! + </p> + <p> + But the unfortunate man had poisoned his own life by this dread, and, in + spite of himself, suspicion dyed all his hours with its gloomy tints. + These two lessons of attempted assassination did teach him, however, the + value of one of the virtues most necessary to a public man; he saw the + wise dissimulation that must be practised in dealing with the great + interests of life. To be silent about our own secret is nothing; but to be + silent from the start, to forget a fact as Ali Pacha did for thirty years + in order to be sure of a vengeance waited for for thirty years, is a fine + study in a land where there are few men who can keep their own counsel for + thirty days. Monsieur de Maulincour literally lived only through Madame + Jules. He was perpetually absorbed in a sober examination into the means + he ought to employ to triumph in this mysterious struggle with these + mysterious persons. His secret passion for that woman grew by reason of + all these obstacles. Madame Jules was ever there, erect, in the midst of + his thoughts, in the centre of his heart, more seductive by her presumable + vices than by the positive virtues for which he had made her his idol. + </p> + <p> + At last, anxious to reconnoitre the position of the enemy, he thought he + might without danger initiate the vidame into the secrets of his + situation. The old commander loved Auguste as a father loves his wife’s + children; he was shrewd, dexterous, and very diplomatic. He listened to + the baron, shook his head, and they both held counsel. The worthy vidame + did not share his young friend’s confidence when Auguste declared that in + the time in which they now lived, the police and the government were able + to lay bare all mysteries, and that if it were absolutely necessary to + have recourse to those powers, he should find them most powerful + auxiliaries. + </p> + <p> + The old man replied, gravely: “The police, my dear boy, is the most + incompetent thing on this earth, and government the feeblest in all + matters concerning individuals. Neither the police nor the government can + read hearts. What we might reasonably ask of them is to search for the + causes of an act. But the police and the government are both eminently + unfitted for that; they lack, essentially, the personal interest which + reveals all to him who wants to know all. No human power can prevent an + assassin or a poisoner from reaching the heart of a prince or the stomach + of an honest man. Passions are the best police.” + </p> + <p> + The vidame strongly advised the baron to go to Italy, and from Italy to + Greece, from Greece to Syria, from Syria to Asia, and not to return until + his secret enemies were convinced of his repentance, and would so make + tacit peace with him. But if he did not take that course, then the vidame + advised him to stay in the house, and even in his own room, where he would + be safe from the attempts of this man Ferragus, and not to leave it until + he could be certain of crushing him. + </p> + <p> + “We should never touch an enemy until we can be sure of taking his head + off,” he said, gravely. + </p> + <p> + The old man, however, promised his favorite to employ all the astuteness + with which Heaven had provided him (without compromising any one) in + reconnoitring the enemy’s ground, and laying his plans for future victory. + The Commander had in his service a retired Figaro, the wiliest monkey that + ever walked in human form; in earlier days as clever as a devil, working + his body like a galley-slave, alert as a thief, sly as a woman, but now + fallen into the decadence of genius for want of practice since the new + constitution of Parisian society, which has reformed even the valets of + comedy. This Scapin emeritus was attached to his master as to a superior + being; but the shrewd old vidame added a good round sum yearly to the + wages of his former provost of gallantry, which strengthened the ties of + natural affection by the bonds of self-interest, and obtained for the old + gentleman as much care as the most loving mistress could bestow on a sick + friend. It was this pearl of the old-fashioned comedy-valets, relic of the + last century, auxiliary incorruptible from lack of passions to satisfy, on + whom the old vidame and Monsieur de Maulincour now relied. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur le baron will spoil all,” said the great man in livery, when + called into counsel. “Monsieur should eat, drink, and sleep in peace. I + take the whole matter upon myself.” + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, eight days after the conference, when Monsieur de Maulincour, + perfectly restored to health, was breakfasting with his grandmother and + the vidame, Justin entered to make his report. As soon as the dowager had + returned to her own apartments he said, with that mock modesty which men + of talent are so apt to affect:— + </p> + <p> + “Ferragus is not the name of the enemy who is pursuing Monsieur le baron. + This man—this devil, rather—is called Gratien, Henri, Victor, + Jean-Joseph Bourignard. The Sieur Gratien Bourignard is a former + ship-builder, once very rich, and, above all, one of the handsomest men of + his day in Paris,—a Lovelace, capable of seducing Grandison. My + information stops short there. He has been a simple workman; and the + Companions of the Order of the Devorants did, at one time, elect him as + their chief, under the title of Ferragus XXIII. The police ought to know + that, if the police were instituted to know anything. The man has moved + from the rue des Vieux-Augustins, and now roosts rue Joquelet, where + Madame Jules Desmarets goes frequently to see him; sometimes her husband, + on his way to the Bourse, drives her as far as the rue Vivienne, or she + drives her husband to the Bourse. Monsieur le vidame knows about these + things too well to want me to tell him if it is the husband who takes the + wife, or the wife who takes the husband; but Madame Jules is so pretty, + I’d bet on her. All that I have told you is positive. Bourignard often + plays at number 129. Saving your presence, monsieur, he’s a rogue who + loves women, and he has his little ways like a man of condition. As for + the rest, he wins sometimes, disguises himself like an actor, paints his + face to look like anything he chooses, and lives, I may say, the most + original life in the world. I don’t doubt he has a good many lodgings, for + most of the time he manages to evade what Monsieur le vidame calls + ‘parliamentary investigations.’ If monsieur wishes, he could be disposed + of honorably, seeing what his habits are. It is always easy to get rid of + a man who loves women. However, this capitalist talks about moving again. + Have Monsieur le vidame and Monsieur le baron any other commands to give + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Justin, I am satisfied with you; don’t go any farther in the matter + without my orders, but keep a close watch here, so that Monsieur le baron + may have nothing to fear.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy,” continued the vidame, when they were alone, “go back to + your old life, and forget Madame Jules.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Auguste; “I will never yield to Gratien Bourignard. I will + have him bound hand and foot, and Madame Jules also.” + </p> + <p> + That evening the Baron Auguste de Maulincour, recently promoted to higher + rank in the company of the Body-Guard of the king, went to a ball given by + Madame la Duchesse de Berry at the Elysee-Bourbon. There, certainly, no + danger could lurk for him; and yet, before he left the palace, he had an + affair of honor on his hands,—an affair it was impossible to settle + except by a duel. + </p> + <p> + His adversary, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, considered that he had strong + reasons to complain of Monsieur de Maulincour, who had given some ground + for it during his former intimacy with Monsieur de Ronquerolles’ sister, + the Comtesse de Serizy. That lady, the one who detested German + sentimentality, was all the more exacting in the matter of prudery. By one + of those inexplicable fatalities, Auguste now uttered a harmless jest + which Madame de Serizy took amiss, and her brother resented it. The + discussion took place in the corner of a room, in a low voice. In good + society, adversaries never raise their voices. The next day the faubourg + Saint-Germain and the Chateau talked over the affair. Madame de Serizy was + warmly defended, and all the blame was laid on Maulincour. August + personages interfered. Seconds of the highest distinction were imposed on + Messieurs de Maulincour and de Ronquerolles and every precaution was taken + on the ground that no one should be killed. + </p> + <p> + When Auguste found himself face to face with his antagonist, a man of + pleasure, to whom no one could possibly deny sentiments of the highest + honor, he felt it was impossible to believe him the instrument of + Ferragus, chief of the Devorants; and yet he was compelled, as it were, by + an inexplicable presentiment, to question the marquis. + </p> + <p> + “Messieurs,” he said to the seconds, “I certainly do not refuse to meet + the fire of Monsieur de Ronquerolles; but before doing so, I here declare + that I was to blame, and I offer him whatever excuses he may desire, and + publicly if he wishes it; because when the matter concerns a woman, + nothing, I think, can degrade a man of honor. I therefore appeal to his + generosity and good sense; is there not something rather silly in fighting + without a cause?” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Ronquerolles would not allow of this way of ending the affair, + and then the baron, his suspicions revived, walked up to him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then! Monsieur le marquis,” he said, “pledge me, in presence of + these gentlemen, your word as a gentleman that you have no other reason + for vengeance than that you have chosen to put forward.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, that is a question you have no right to ask.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Monsieur de Ronquerolles took his place. It was agreed, in + advance, that the adversaries were to be satisfied with one exchange of + shots. Monsieur de Ronquerolles, in spite of the great distance determined + by the seconds, which seemed to make the death of either party + problematical, if not impossible, brought down the baron. The ball went + through the latter’s body just below the heart, but fortunately without + doing vital injury. + </p> + <p> + “You aimed too well, monsieur,” said the baron, “to be avenging only a + paltry quarrel.” + </p> + <p> + And he fainted. Monsieur de Ronquerolles, who believed him to be a dead + man, smiled sardonically as he heard those words. + </p> + <p> + After a fortnight, during which time the dowager and the vidame gave him + those cares of old age the secret of which is in the hands of long + experience only, the baron began to return to life. But one morning his + grandmother dealt him a crushing blow, by revealing anxieties to which, in + her last days, she was now subjected. She showed him a letter signed F, in + which the history of her grandson’s secret espionage was recounted step by + step. The letter accused Monsieur de Maulincour of actions that were + unworthy of a man of honor. He had, it said, placed an old woman at the + stand of hackney-coaches in the rue de Menars; an old spy, who pretended + to sell water from her cask to the coachmen, but who was really there to + watch the actions of Madame Jules Desmarets. He had spied upon the daily + life of a most inoffensive man, in order to detect his secrets,—secrets + on which depended the lives of three persons. He had brought upon himself + a relentless struggle, in which, although he had escaped with life three + times, he must inevitably succumb, because his death had been sworn and + would be compassed if all human means were employed upon it. Monsieur de + Maulincour could no longer escape his fate by even promising to respect + the mysterious life of these three persons, because it was impossible to + believe the word of a gentleman who had fallen to the level of a + police-spy; and for what reason? Merely to trouble the respectable life of + an innocent woman and a harmless old man. + </p> + <p> + The letter itself was nothing to Auguste in comparison to the tender + reproaches of his grandmother. To lack respect to a woman! to spy upon her + actions without a right to do so! Ought a man ever to spy upon a woman + whom he loved?—in short, she poured out a torrent of those excellent + reasons which prove nothing; and they put the young baron, for the first + time in his life, into one of those great human furies in which are born, + and from which issue the most vital actions of a man’s life. + </p> + <p> + “Since it is war to the knife,” he said in conclusion, “I shall kill my + enemy by any means that I can lay hold of.” + </p> + <p> + The vidame went immediately, at Auguste’s request, to the chief of the + private police of Paris, and without bringing Madame Jules’ name or person + into the narrative, although they were really the gist of it, he made the + official aware of the fears of the family of Maulincour about this + mysterious person who was bold enough to swear the death of an officer of + the Guards, in defiance of the law and the police. The chief pushed up his + green spectacles in amazement, blew his nose several times, and offered + snuff to the vidame, who, to save his dignity, pretended not to use + tobacco, although his own nose was discolored with it. Then the chief took + notes and promised, Vidocq and his spies aiding, to send in a report + within a few days to the Maulincour family, assuring them meantime that + there were no secrets for the police of Paris. + </p> + <p> + A few days after this the police official called to see the vidame at the + Hotel de Maulincour, where he found the young baron quite recovered from + his last wound. He gave them in bureaucratic style his thanks for the + indications they had afforded him, and told them that Bourignard was a + convict, condemned to twenty years’ hard labor, who had miraculously + escaped from a gang which was being transported from Bicetre to Toulon. + For thirteen years the police had been endeavoring to recapture him, + knowing that he had boldly returned to Paris; but so far this convict had + escaped the most active search, although he was known to be mixed up in + many nefarious deeds. However, the man, whose life was full of very + curious incidents, would certainly be captured now in one or other of his + several domiciles and delivered up to justice. The bureaucrat ended his + report by saying to Monsieur de Maulincour that if he attached enough + importance to the matter to wish to witness the capture of Bourignard, he + might come the next day at eight in the morning to a house in the rue + Sainte-Foi, of which he gave him the number. Monsieur de Maulincour + excused himself from going personally in search of certainty,—trusting, + with the sacred respect inspired by the police of Paris, in the capability + of the authorities. + </p> + <p> + Three days later, hearing nothing, and seeing nothing in the newspapers + about the projected arrest, which was certainly of enough importance to + have furnished an article, Monsieur de Maulincour was beginning to feel + anxieties which were presently allayed by the following letter:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Monsieur le Baron,—I have the honor to announce to you that you + need have no further uneasiness touching the affair in question. + The man named Gratien Bourignard, otherwise called Ferragus, died + yesterday, at his lodgings, rue Joquelet No. 7. The suspicions we + naturally conceived as to the identity of the dead body have been + completely set at rest by the facts. The physician of the + Prefecture of police was despatched by us to assist the physician + of the arrondissement, and the chief of the detective police made + all the necessary verifications to obtain absolute certainty. + Moreover, the character of the persons who signed the certificate + of death, and the affidavits of those who took care of the said + Bourignard in his last illness, among others that of the worthy + vicar of the church of the Bonne-Nouvelle (to whom he made his + last confession, for he died a Christian), do not permit us to + entertain any sort of doubt. +</pre> + <p> + Accept, Monsieur le baron, etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour, the dowager, and the vidame breathed again with + joy unspeakable. The good old woman kissed her grandson leaving a tear + upon his cheek, and went away to thank God in prayer. The dear soul, who + was making a novena for Auguste’s safety, believed her prayers were + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the vidame, “now you had better show yourself at the ball you + were speaking of. I oppose no further objections.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE WIFE ACCUSED + </h2> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour was all the more anxious to go to this ball because + he knew that Madame Jules would be present. The fete was given by the + Prefect of the Seine, in whose salons the two social worlds of Paris met + as on neutral ground. Auguste passed through the rooms without finding the + woman who now exercised so mighty an influence on his fate. He entered an + empty boudoir where card-tables were placed awaiting players; and sitting + down on a divan he gave himself up to the most contradictory thoughts + about her. A man presently took the young officer by the arm, and looking + up the baron was stupefied to behold the pauper of the rue Coquilliere, + the Ferragus of Ida, the lodger in the rue Soly, the Bourignard of Justin, + the convict of the police, and the dead man of the day before. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, not a sound, not a word,” said Bourignard, whose voice he + recognized. The man was elegantly dressed; he wore the order of the + Golden-Fleece, and a medal on his coat. “Monsieur,” he continued, and his + voice was sibilant like that of a hyena, “you increase my efforts against + you by having recourse to the police. You will perish, monsieur; it has + now become necessary. Do you love Madame Jules? Are you beloved by her? By + what right do you trouble her peaceful life, and blacken her virtue?” + </p> + <p> + Some one entered the card-room. Ferragus rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know this man?” asked Monsieur de Maulincour of the new-comer, + seizing Ferragus by the collar. But Ferragus quickly disengaged himself, + took Monsieur de Maulincour by the hair, and shook his head rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Must you have lead in it to make it steady?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know him personally,” replied Henri de Marsay, the spectator of + this scene, “but I know that he is Monsieur de Funcal, a rich Portuguese.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Funcal had disappeared. The baron followed but without being + able to overtake him until he reached the peristyle, where he saw + Ferragus, who looked at him with a jeering laugh from a brilliant equipage + which was driven away at high speed. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Auguste, re-entering the salon and addressing de Marsay, + whom he knew, “I entreat you to tell me where Monsieur de Funcal lives.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know; but some one here can no doubt tell you.” + </p> + <p> + The baron, having questioned the prefect, ascertained that the Comte de + Funcal lived at the Portuguese embassy. At this moment, while he still + felt the icy fingers of that strange man in his hair, he saw Madame Jules + in all her dazzling beauty, fresh, gracious, artless, resplendent with the + sanctity of womanhood which had won his love. This creature, now infernal + to him, excited no emotion in his soul but that of hatred; and this hatred + shone in a savage, terrible look from his eyes. He watched for a moment + when he could speak to her unheard, and then he said:— + </p> + <p> + “Madame, your <i>bravi</i> have missed me three times.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, monsieur?” she said, flushing. “I know that you have + had several unfortunate accidents lately, which I have greatly regretted; + but how could I have had anything to do with them?” + </p> + <p> + “You knew that <i>bravi</i> were employed against me by that man of the + rue Soly?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I now call you to account, not for my happiness only, but for my + blood—” + </p> + <p> + At this instant Jules Desmarets approached them. + </p> + <p> + “What are you saying to my wife, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Make that inquiry at my own house, monsieur, if you are curious,” said + Maulincour, moving away, and leaving Madame Jules in an almost fainting + condition. + </p> + <p> + There are few women who have not found themselves, once at least in their + lives, <i>a propos</i> of some undeniable fact, confronted with a direct, + sharp, uncompromising question,—one of those questions pitilessly + asked by husbands, the mere apprehension of which gives a chill, while the + actual words enter the heart like the blade of a dagger. It is from such + crises that the maxim has come, “All women lie.” Falsehood, kindly + falsehood, venial falsehood, sublime falsehood, horrible falsehood,—but + always the necessity to lie. This necessity admitted, ought they not to + know how to lie well? French women do it admirably. Our manners and + customs teach them deception! Besides, women are so naively saucy, so + pretty, graceful, and withal so true in lying,—they recognize so + fully the utility of doing so in order to avoid in social life the violent + shocks which happiness might not resist,—that lying is seen to be as + necessary to their lives as the cotton-wool in which they put away their + jewels. Falsehood becomes to them the foundation of speech; truth is + exceptional; they tell it, if they are virtuous, by caprice or by + calculation. According to individual character, some women laugh when they + lie; others weep; others are grave; some grow angry. After beginning life + by feigning indifference to the homage that deeply flatters them, they + often end by lying to themselves. Who has not admired their apparent + superiority to everything at the very moment when they are trembling for + the secret treasures of their love? Who has never studied their ease, + their readiness, their freedom of mind in the greatest embarrassments of + life? In them, nothing is put on. Deception comes as the snow from heaven. + And then, with what art they discover the truth in others! With what + shrewdness they employ a direct logic in answer to some passionate + question which has revealed to them the secret of the heart of a man who + was guileless enough to proceed by questioning! To question a woman! why, + that is delivering one’s self up to her; does she not learn in that way + all that we seek to hide from her? Does she not know also how to be dumb, + through speaking? What men are daring enough to struggle with the Parisian + woman?—a woman who knows how to hold herself above all dagger + thrusts, saying: “You are very inquisitive; what is it to you? Why do you + wish to know? Ah! you are jealous! And suppose I do not choose to answer + you?”—in short, a woman who possesses the hundred and thirty-seven + methods of saying <i>No</i>, and incommensurable variations of the word <i>Yes</i>. + Is not a treatise on the words <i>yes</i> and <i>no</i>, a fine + diplomatic, philosophic, logographic, and moral work, still waiting to be + written? But to accomplish this work, which we may also call diabolic, + isn’t an androgynous genius necessary? For that reason, probably, it will + never be attempted. And besides, of all unpublished works isn’t it the + best known and the best practised among women? Have you studied the + behavior, the pose, the <i>disinvoltura</i> of a falsehood? Examine it. + </p> + <p> + Madame Desmarets was seated in the right-hand corner of her carriage, her + husband in the left. Having forced herself to recover from her emotion in + the ballroom, she now affected a calm demeanor. Her husband had then said + nothing to her, and he still said nothing. Jules looked out of the + carriage window at the black walls of the silent houses before which they + passed; but suddenly, as if driven by a determining thought, when turning + the corner of a street he examined his wife, who appeared to be cold in + spite of the fur-lined pelisse in which she was wrapped. He thought she + seemed pensive, and perhaps she really was so. Of all communicable things, + reflection and gravity are the most contagious. + </p> + <p> + “What could Monsieur de Maulincour have said to affect you so keenly?” + said Jules; “and why does he wish me to go to his house and find out?” + </p> + <p> + “He can tell you nothing in his house that I cannot tell you here,” she + replied. + </p> + <p> + Then, with that feminine craft which always slightly degrades virtue, + Madame Jules waited for another question. Her husband turned his face back + to the houses, and continued his study of their walls. Another question + would imply suspicion, distrust. To suspect a woman is a crime in love. + Jules had already killed a man for doubting his wife. Clemence did not + know all there was of true passion, of loyal reflection, in her husband’s + silence; just as Jules was ignorant of the generous drama that was + wringing the heart of his Clemence. + </p> + <p> + The carriage rolled on through a silent Paris, bearing the couple,—two + lovers who adored each other, and who, gently leaning on the same silken + cushion, were being parted by an abyss. In these elegant coupes returning + from a ball between midnight and two in the morning, how many curious and + singular scenes must pass,—meaning those coupes with lanterns, which + light both the street and the carriage, those with their windows unshaded; + in short, legitimate coupes, in which couples can quarrel without caring + for the eyes of pedestrians, because the civil code gives a right to + provoke, or beat, or kiss, a wife in a carriage or elsewhere, anywhere, + everywhere! How many secrets must be revealed in this way to nocturnal + pedestrians,—to those young fellows who have gone to a ball in a + carriage, but are obliged, for whatever cause it may be, to return on + foot. It was the first time that Jules and Clemence had been together + thus,—each in a corner; usually the husband pressed close to his + wife. + </p> + <p> + “It is very cold,” remarked Madame Jules. + </p> + <p> + But her husband did not hear her; he was studying the signs above the shop + windows. + </p> + <p> + “Clemence,” he said at last, “forgive me the question I am about to ask + you.” + </p> + <p> + He came closer, took her by the waist, and drew her to him. + </p> + <p> + “My God, it is coming!” thought the poor woman. “Well,” she said aloud, + anticipating the question, “you want to know what Monsieur de Maulincour + said to me. I will tell you, Jules; but not without fear. Good God! how is + it possible that you and I should have secrets from one another? For the + last few moments I have seen you struggling between a conviction of our + love and vague fears. But that conviction is clear within us, is it not? + And these doubts and fears, do they not seem to you dark and unnatural? + Why not stay in that clear light of love you cannot doubt? When I have + told you all, you will still desire to know more; and yet I myself do not + know what the extraordinary words of that man meant. What I fear is that + this may lead to some fatal affair between you. I would rather that we + both forget this unpleasant moment. But, in any case, swear to me that you + will let this singular adventure explain itself naturally. Here are the + facts. Monsieur de Maulincour declared to me that the three accidents you + have heard mentioned—the falling of a stone on his servant, the + breaking down of his cabriolet, and his duel about Madame de Serizy—were + the result of some plot I had laid against him. He also threatened to + reveal to you the cause of my desire to destroy him. Can you imagine what + all this means? My emotion came from the sight of his face convulsed with + madness, his haggard eyes, and also his words, broken by some violent + inward emotion. I thought him mad. That is all that took place. Now, I + should be less than a woman if I had not perceived that for over a year I + have become, as they call it, the passion of Monsieur de Maulincour. He + has never seen me except at a ball; and our intercourse has been most + insignificant,—merely that which every one shares at a ball. Perhaps + he wants to disunite us, so that he may find me at some future time alone + and unprotected. There, see! already you are frowning! Oh, how cordially I + hate society! We were so happy without him; why take any notice of him? + Jules, I entreat you, forget all this! To-morrow we shall, no doubt, hear + that Monsieur de Maulincour has gone mad.” + </p> + <p> + “What a singular affair!” thought Jules, as the carriage stopped under the + peristyle of their house. He gave his arm to his wife and together they + went up to their apartments. + </p> + <p> + To develop this history in all its truth of detail, and to follow its + course through many windings, it is necessary here to divulge some of + love’s secrets, to glide beneath the ceilings of a marriage chamber, not + shamelessly, but like Trilby, frightening neither Dougal nor Jeannie, + alarming no one,—being as chaste as our noble French language + requires, and as bold as the pencil of Gerard in his picture of Daphnis + and Chloe. + </p> + <p> + The bedroom of Madame Jules was a sacred plot. Herself, her husband, and + her maid alone entered it. Opulence has glorious privileges, and the most + enviable are those which enable the development of sentiments to their + fullest extent,—fertilizing them by the accomplishment of even their + caprices, and surrounding them with a brilliancy that enlarges them, with + refinements that purify them, with a thousand delicacies that make them + still more alluring. If you hate dinners on the grass, and meals + ill-served, if you feel a pleasure in seeing a damask cloth that is + dazzlingly white, a silver-gilt dinner service, and porcelain of exquisite + purity, lighted by transparent candles, where miracles of cookery are + served under silver covers bearing coats of arms, you must, to be + consistent, leave the garrets at the tops of the houses, and the grisettes + in the streets, abandon garrets, grisettes, umbrellas, and overshoes to + men who pay for their dinners with tickets; and you must also comprehend + Love to be a principle which develops in all its grace only on Savonnerie + carpets, beneath the opal gleams of an alabaster lamp, between guarded + walls silk-hung, before gilded hearths in chambers deadened to all outward + sounds by shutters and billowy curtains. Mirrors must be there to show the + play of form and repeat the woman we would multiply as love itself + multiplies and magnifies her; next low divans, and a bed which, like a + secret, is divined, not shown. In this coquettish chamber are fur-lined + slippers for pretty feet, wax-candles under glass with muslin draperies, + by which to read at all hours of the night, and flowers, not those + oppressive to the head, and linen, the fineness of which might have + satisfied Anne of Austria. + </p> + <p> + Madame Jules had realized this charming programme, but that was nothing. + All women of taste can do as much, though there is always in the + arrangement of these details a stamp of personality which gives to this + decoration or that detail a character that cannot be imitated. To-day, + more than ever, reigns the fanaticism of individuality. The more our laws + tend to an impossible equality, the more we shall get away from it in our + manners and customs. Thus, rich people are beginning, in France, to become + more exclusive in their tastes and their belongings, than they have been + for the last thirty years. Madame Jules knew very well how to carry out + this programme; and everything about her was arranged in harmony with a + luxury that suits so well with love. Love in a cottage, or “Fifteen + hundred francs and my Sophy,” is the dream of starvelings to whom black + bread suffices in their present state; but when love really comes, they + grow fastidious and end by craving the luxuries of gastronomy. Love holds + toil and poverty in horror. It would rather die than merely live on from + hand to mouth. + </p> + <p> + Many women, returning from a ball, impatient for their beds, throw off + their gowns, their faded flowers, their bouquets, the fragrance of which + has now departed. They leave their little shoes beneath a chair, the white + strings trailing; they take out their combs and let their hair roll down + as it will. Little they care if their husbands see the puffs, the + hairpins, the artful props which supported the elegant edifices of the + hair, and the garlands or the jewels that adorned it. No more mysteries! + all is over for the husband; no more painting or decoration for him. The + corset—half the time it is a corset of a reparative kind—lies + where it is thrown, if the maid is too sleepy to take it away with her. + The whalebone bustle, the oiled-silk protections round the sleeves, the + pads, the hair bought from a coiffeur, all the false woman is there, + scattered about in open sight. <i>Disjecta membra poetae</i>, the + artificial poesy, so much admired by those for whom it is conceived and + elaborated, the fragments of a pretty woman, litter every corner of the + room. To the love of a yawning husband, the actual presents herself, also + yawning, in a dishabille without elegance, and a tumbled night-cap, that + of last night and that of to-morrow night also,—“For really, + monsieur, if you want a pretty cap to rumple every night, increase my + pin-money.” + </p> + <p> + There’s life as it is! A woman makes herself old and unpleasing to her + husband; but dainty and elegant and adorned for others, for the rival of + all husbands,—for that world which calumniates and tears to shreds + her sex. + </p> + <p> + Inspired by true love, for Love has, like other creations, its instinct of + preservation, Madame Jules did very differently; she found in the constant + blessing of her love the necessary impulse to fulfil all those minute + personal cares which ought never to be relaxed, because they perpetuate + love. Besides, such personal cares and duties proceed from a personal + dignity which becomes all women, and are among the sweetest of flatteries, + for is it not respecting in themselves the man they love? + </p> + <p> + So Madame Jules denied to her husband all access to her dressing-room, + where she left the accessories of her toilet, and whence she issued + mysteriously adorned for the mysterious fetes of her heart. Entering their + chamber, which was always graceful and elegant, Jules found a woman + coquettishly wrapped in a charming <i>peignoir</i>, her hair simply wound + in heavy coils around her head; a woman always more simple, more beautiful + there than she was before the world; a woman just refreshed in water, + whose only artifice consisted in being whiter than her muslins, sweeter + than all perfumes, more seductive than any siren, always loving and + therefore always loved. This admirable understanding of a wife’s business + was the secret of Josephine’s charm for Napoleon, as in former times it + was that of Caesonia for Caius Caligula, of Diane de Poitiers for Henri + II. If it was largely productive to women of seven or eight lustres what a + weapon is it in the hands of young women! A husband gathers with delight + the rewards of his fidelity. + </p> + <p> + Returning home after the conversation which had chilled her with fear, and + still gave her the keenest anxiety, Madame Jules took particular pains + with her toilet for the night. She wanted to make herself, and she did + make herself enchanting. She belted the cambric of her dressing-gown round + her waist, defining the lines of her bust; she allowed her hair to fall + upon her beautifully modelled shoulders. A perfumed bath had given her a + delightful fragrance, and her little bare feet were in velvet slippers. + Strong in a sense of her advantages she came in stepping softly, and put + her hands over her husband’s eyes. She thought him pensive; he was + standing in his dressing-gown before the fire, his elbow on the mantel and + one foot on the fender. She said in his ear, warming it with her breath, + and nibbling the tip of it with her teeth:— + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking about, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + Then she pressed him in her arms as if to tear him away from all evil + thoughts. The woman who loves has a full knowledge of her power; the more + virtuous she is, the more effectual her coquetry. + </p> + <p> + “About you,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Only about me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that’s a very doubtful ‘yes.’” + </p> + <p> + They went to bed. As she fell asleep, Madame Jules said to herself:— + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Maulincour will certainly cause some evil. Jules’ mind is + preoccupied, disturbed; he is nursing thoughts he does not tell me.” + </p> + <p> + It was three in the morning when Madame Jules was awakened by a + presentiment which struck her heart as she slept. She had a sense both + physical and moral of her husband’s absence. She did not feel the arm + Jules passed beneath her head,—that arm in which she had slept, + peacefully and happy, for five years; an arm she had never wearied. A + voice said to her, “Jules suffers, Jules is weeping.” She raised her head, + and then sat up; felt that her husband’s place was cold, and saw him + sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, his head resting against + the back of an arm-chair. Tears were on his cheeks. The poor woman threw + herself hastily from her bed and sprang at a bound to her husband’s knees. + </p> + <p> + “Jules! what is it? Are you ill? Speak, tell me! Speak to me, if you love + me!” and she poured out a hundred words expressing the deepest tenderness. + </p> + <p> + Jules knelt at her feet, kissed her hands and knees, and answered with + fresh tears:— + </p> + <p> + “Dear Clemence, I am most unhappy! It is not loving to distrust the one we + love. I adore you and suspect you. The words that man said to me to-night + have struck to my heart; they stay there in spite of myself, and confound + me. There is some mystery here. In short, and I blush to say it, your + explanations do not satisfy me. My reason casts gleams into my soul which + my love rejects. It is an awful combat. Could I stay there, holding your + head, and suspecting thoughts within it to me unknown? Oh! I believe in + you, I believe in you!” he cried, seeing her smile sadly and open her + mouth as if to speak. “Say nothing; do not reproach me. Besides, could you + say anything I have not said myself for the last three hours? Yes, for + three hours, I have been here, watching you as you slept, so beautiful! + admiring that pure, peaceful brow. Yes, yes! you have always told me your + thoughts, have you not? I alone am in that soul. While I look at you, + while my eyes can plunge into yours I see all plainly. Your life is as + pure as your glance is clear. No, there is no secret behind those + transparent eyes.” He rose and kissed their lids. “Let me avow to you, + dearest soul,” he said, “that for the last five years each day has + increased my happiness, through the knowledge that you are all mine, and + that no natural affection even can take any of your love. Having no + sister, no father, no mother, no companion, I am neither above nor below + any living being in your heart; I am alone there. Clemence, repeat to me + those sweet things of the spirit you have so often said to me; do not + blame me; comfort me, I am so unhappy. I have an odious suspicion on my + conscience, and you have nothing in your heart to sear it. My beloved, + tell me, could I stay there beside you? Could two heads united as ours + have been lie on the same pillow when one was suffering and the other + tranquil? What are you thinking of?” he cried abruptly, observing that + Clemence was anxious, confused, and seemed unable to restrain her tears. + </p> + <p> + “I am thinking of my mother,” she answered, in a grave voice. “You will + never know, Jules, what I suffer in remembering my mother’s dying + farewell, said in a voice sweeter than all music, and in feeling the + solemn touch of her icy hand at a moment when you overwhelm me with those + assurances of your precious love.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her husband, strained him to her with a nervous force greater + than that of men, and kissed his hair, covering it with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I would be hacked in pieces for you! Tell me that I make you happy; + that I am to you the most beautiful of women—a thousand women to + you. Oh! you are loved as no other man ever was or will be. I don’t know + the meaning of those words ‘duty,’ ‘virtue.’ Jules, I love you for + yourself; I am happy in loving you; I shall love you more and more to my + dying day. I have pride in my love; I feel it is my destiny to have one + sole emotion in my life. What I shall tell you now is dreadful, I know—but + I am glad to have no child; I do not wish for any. I feel I am more wife + than mother. Well, then, can you fear? Listen to me, my own beloved, + promise to forget, not this hour of mingled tenderness and doubt, but the + words of that madman. Jules, you <i>must</i>. Promise me not to see him, + not to go to him. I have a deep conviction that if you set one foot in + that maze we shall both roll down a precipice where I shall perish—but + with your name upon my lips, your heart in my heart. Why hold me so high + in that heart and yet so low in reality? What! you who give credit to so + many as to money, can you not give me the charity of faith? And on the + first occasion in our lives when you might prove to me your boundless + trust, do you cast me from my throne in your heart? Between a madman and + me, it is the madman whom you choose to believe? oh, Jules!” She stopped, + threw back the hair that fell about her brow and neck, and then, in a + heart-rending tone, she added: “I have said too much; one word should + suffice. If your soul and your forehead still keep this cloud, however + light it be, I tell you now that I shall die of it.” + </p> + <p> + She could not repress a shudder, and turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I will kill that man,” thought Jules, as he lifted his wife in his + arms and carried her to her bed. + </p> + <p> + “Let us sleep in peace, my angel,” he said. “I have forgotten all, I swear + it!” + </p> + <p> + Clemence fell asleep to the music of those sweet words, softly repeated. + Jules, as he watched her sleeping, said in his heart:— + </p> + <p> + “She is right; when love is so pure, suspicion blights it. To that young + soul, that tender flower, a blight—yes, a blight means death.” + </p> + <p> + When a cloud comes between two beings filled with affection for each other + and whose lives are in absolute unison, that cloud, though it may + disperse, leaves in those souls a trace of its passage. Either love gains + a stronger life, as the earth after rain, or the shock still echoes like + distant thunder through a cloudless sky. It is impossible to recover + absolutely the former life; love will either increase or diminish. + </p> + <p> + At breakfast, Monsieur and Madame Jules showed to each other those + particular attentions in which there is always something of affectation. + There were glances of forced gaiety, which seemed the efforts of persons + endeavoring to deceive themselves. Jules had involuntary doubts, his wife + had positive fears. Still, sure of each other, they had slept. Was this + strained condition the effect of a want of faith, or was it only a memory + of their nocturnal scene? They did not know themselves. But they loved + each other so purely that the impression of that scene, both cruel and + beneficent, could not fail to leave its traces in their souls; both were + eager to make those traces disappear, each striving to be the first to + return to the other, and thus they could not fail to think of the cause of + their first variance. To loving souls, this is not grief; pain is still + far-off; but it is a sort of mourning, which is difficult to depict. If + there are, indeed, relations between colors and the emotions of the soul, + if, as Locke’s blind man said, scarlet produces on the sight the effect + produced upon the hearing by a blast of trumpets, it is permissible to + compare this reaction of melancholy to mourning tones of gray. + </p> + <p> + But even so, love saddened, love in which remains a true sentiment of its + happiness, momentarily troubled though it be, gives enjoyments derived + from pain and pleasure both, which are all novel. Jules studied his wife’s + voice; he watched her glances with the freshness of feeling that inspired + him in the earliest days of his passion for her. The memory of five + absolutely happy years, her beauty, the candor of her love, quickly + effaced in her husband’s mind the last vestiges of an intolerable pain. + </p> + <p> + The day was Sunday,—a day on which there was no Bourse and no + business to be done. The reunited pair passed the whole day together, + getting farther into each other’s hearts than they ever yet had done, like + two children who in a moment of fear, hold each other closely and cling + together, united by an instinct. There are in this life of two-in-one + completely happy days, the gift of chance, ephemeral flowers, born neither + of yesterday nor belonging to the morrow. Jules and Clemence now enjoyed + this day as though they forboded it to be the last of their loving life. + What name shall we give to that mysterious power which hastens the steps + of travellers before the storm is visible; which makes the life and beauty + of the dying so resplendent, and fills the parting soul with joyous + projects for days before death comes; which tells the midnight student to + fill his lamp when it shines brightest; and makes the mother fear the + thoughtful look cast upon her infant by an observing man? We all are + affected by this influence in the great catastrophes of life; but it has + never yet been named or studied; it is something more than presentiment, + but not as yet clear vision. + </p> + <p> + All went well till the following day. On Monday, Jules Desmarets, obliged + to go to the Bourse on his usual business, asked his wife, as usual, if + she would take advantage of his carriage and let him drive her anywhere. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “the day is too unpleasant to go out.” + </p> + <p> + It was raining in torrents. At half-past two o’clock Monsieur Desmarets + reached the Treasury. At four o’clock, as he left the Bourse, he came face + to face with Monsieur de Maulincour, who was waiting for him with the + nervous pertinacity of hatred and vengeance. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” he said, taking Monsieur Desmarets by the arm, “I have + important information to give you. Listen to me. I am too loyal a man to + have recourse to anonymous letters with which to trouble your peace of + mind; I prefer to speak to you in person. Believe me, if my very life were + not concerned, I should not meddle with the private affairs of any + household, even if I thought I had the right to do so.” + </p> + <p> + “If what you have to say to me concerns Madame Desmarets,” replied Jules, + “I request you to be silent, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “If I am silent, monsieur, you may before long see Madame Jules on the + prisoner’s bench at the court of assizes beside a convict. Now, do you + wish me to be silent?” + </p> + <p> + Jules turned pale; but his noble face instantly resumed its calmness, + though it was now a false calmness. Drawing the baron under one of the + temporary sheds of the Bourse, near which they were standing, he said to + him in a voice which concealed his intense inward emotion:— + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, I will listen to you; but there will be a duel to the death + between us if—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, to that I consent!” cried Monsieur de Maulincour. “I have the + greatest esteem for your character. You speak of death. You are unaware + that your wife may have assisted in poisoning me last Saturday night. Yes, + monsieur, since then some extraordinary evil has developed in me. My hair + appears to distil an inward fever and a deadly languor through my skull; I + know who clutched my hair at that ball.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Maulincour then related, without omitting a single fact, his + platonic love for Madame Jules, and the details of the affair in the rue + Soly which began this narrative. Any one would have listened to him with + attention; but Madame Jules’ husband had good reason to be more amazed + than any other human being. Here his character displayed itself; he was + more amazed than overcome. Made a judge, and the judge of an adored woman, + he found in his soul the equity of a judge as well as the inflexibility. A + lover still, he thought less of his own shattered life than of his wife’s + life; he listened, not to his own anguish, but to some far-off voice that + cried to him, “Clemence cannot lie! Why should she betray you?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said the baron, as he ended, “being absolutely certain of + having recognized in Monsieur de Funcal the same Ferragus whom the police + declared dead, I have put upon his traces an intelligent man. As I + returned that night I remembered, by a fortunate chance, the name of + Madame Meynardie, mentioned in that letter of Ida, the presumed mistress + of my persecutor. Supplied with this clue, my emissary will soon get to + the bottom of this horrible affair; for he is far more able to discover + the truth than the police themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” replied Desmarets, “I know not how to thank you for this + confidence. You say that you can obtain proofs and witnesses; I shall + await them. I shall seek the truth of this strange affair courageously; + but you must permit me to doubt everything until the evidence of the facts + you state is proved to me. In any case you shall have satisfaction, for, + as you will certainly understand, we both require it.” + </p> + <p> + Jules returned home. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Jules?” asked his wife, when she saw him. “You look + so pale you frighten me!” + </p> + <p> + “The day is cold,” he answered, walking with slow steps across the room + where all things spoke to him of love and happiness,—that room so + calm and peaceful where a deadly storm was gathering. + </p> + <p> + “Did you go out to-day?” he asked, as though mechanically. + </p> + <p> + He was impelled to ask the question by the last of a myriad of thoughts + which had gathered themselves together into a lucid meditation, though + jealousy was actively prompting them. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered, in a tone that was falsely candid. + </p> + <p> + At that instant Jules saw through the open door of the dressing-room the + velvet bonnet which his wife wore in the mornings; on it were drops of + rain. Jules was a passionate man, but he was also full of delicacy. It was + repugnant to him to bring his wife face to face with a lie. When such a + situation occurs, all has come to an end forever between certain beings. + And yet those drops of rain were like a flash tearing through his brain. + </p> + <p> + He left the room, went down to the porter’s lodge, and said to the porter, + after making sure that they were alone:— + </p> + <p> + “Fouguereau, a hundred crowns if you tell me the truth; dismissal if you + deceive me; and nothing at all if you ever speak of my question and your + answer.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped to examine the man’s face, leading him under the window. Then + he continued:— + </p> + <p> + “Did madame go out this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame went out at a quarter to three, and I think I saw her come in + about half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true, upon your honor?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “You will have the money; but if you speak of this, remember, you will + lose all.” + </p> + <p> + Jules returned to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Clemence,” he said, “I find I must put my accounts in order. Do not be + offended at the inquiry I am going to make. Have I not given you forty + thousand francs since the beginning of the year?” + </p> + <p> + “More,” she said,—“forty-seven.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you spent them?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly,” she replied. “In the first place, I had to pay several of our + last year’s bills—” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never find out anything in this way,” thought Jules. “I am not + taking the best course.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Jules’ own valet entered the room with a letter for his + master, who opened it indifferently, but as soon as his eyes had lighted + on the signature he read it eagerly. The letter was as follows:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Monsieur,—For the sake of your peace of mind as well as ours, I + take the course of writing you this letter without possessing the + advantage of being known to you; but my position, my age, and the + fear of some misfortune compel me to entreat you to show + indulgence in the trying circumstances under which our afflicted + family is placed. Monsieur Auguste de Maulincour has for the last + few days shown signs of mental derangement, and we fear that he + may trouble your happiness by fancies which he confided to + Monsieur le Vidame de Pamiers and myself during his first attack + of frenzy. We think it right, therefore, to warn you of his + malady, which is, we hope, curable; but it will have such serious + and important effects on the honor of our family and the career of + my grandson that we must rely, monsieur, on your entire + discretion. + + If Monsieur le Vidame or I could have gone to see you we would not + have written. But I make no doubt that you will regard this prayer + of a mother, who begs you to destroy this letter. + + Accept the assurance of my perfect consideration. +</pre> + <p> + Baronne de Maulincour, <i>nee</i> de Rieux. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what torture!” cried Jules. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? what is in your mind?” asked his wife, exhibiting the deepest + anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “I have come,” he answered, slowly, as he threw her the letter, “to ask + myself whether it can be you who have sent me that to avert my suspicions. + Judge, therefore, what I suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappy man!” said Madame Jules, letting fall the paper. “I pity him; + though he has done me great harm.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware that he has spoken to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! have you been to see him, in spite of your promise?” she cried in + terror. + </p> + <p> + “Clemence, our love is in danger of perishing; we stand outside of the + ordinary rules of life; let us lay aside all petty considerations in + presence of this great peril. Explain to me why you went out this morning. + Women think they have the right to tell us little falsehoods. Sometimes + they like to hide a pleasure they are preparing for us. Just now you said + a word to me, by mistake, no doubt, a no for a yes.” + </p> + <p> + He went into the dressing-room and brought out the bonnet. + </p> + <p> + “See,” he said, “your bonnet has betrayed you; these spots are raindrops. + You must, therefore, have gone out in a street cab, and these drops fell + upon it as you went to find one, or as you entered or left the house where + you went. But a woman can leave her own home for many innocent purposes, + even after she has told her husband that she did not mean to go out. There + are so many reasons for changing our plans! Caprices, whims, are they not + your right? Women are not required to be consistent with themselves. You + had forgotten something,—a service to render, a visit, some kind + action. But nothing hinders a woman from telling her husband what she + does. Can we ever blush on the breast of a friend? It is not a jealous + husband who speaks to you, my Clemence; it is your lover, your friend, + your brother.” He flung himself passionately at her feet. “Speak, not to + justify yourself, but to calm my horrible sufferings. I know that you went + out. Well—what did you do? where did you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I went out, Jules,” she answered in a strained voice, though her + face was calm. “But ask me nothing more. Wait; have confidence; without + which you will lay up for yourself terrible remorse. Jules, my Jules, + trust is the virtue of love. I owe to you that I am at this moment too + troubled to answer you: but I am not a false woman; I love you, and you + know it.” + </p> + <p> + “In the midst of all that can shake the faith of man and rouse his + jealousy, for I see I am not first in your heart, I am no longer thine own + self—well, Clemence, even so, I prefer to believe you, to believe + that voice, to believe those eyes. If you deceive me, you deserve—” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand deaths!” she cried, interrupting him. + </p> + <p> + “I have never hidden a thought from you, but you—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she said, “our happiness depends upon our mutual silence.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! I <i>will</i> know all!” he exclaimed, with sudden violence. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the cries of a woman were heard,—the yelping of a + shrill little voice came from the antechamber. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I will go in!” it cried. “Yes, I shall go in; I will see her! + I shall see her!” + </p> + <p> + Jules and Clemence both ran to the salon as the door from the antechamber + was violently burst open. A young woman entered hastily, followed by two + servants, who said to their master:— + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, this person would come in in spite of us. We told her that + madame was not at home. She answered that she knew very well madame had + been out, but she saw her come in. She threatened to stay at the door of + the house till she could speak to madame.” + </p> + <p> + “You can go,” said Monsieur Desmarets to the two men. “What do you want, + mademoiselle?” he added, turning to the strange woman. + </p> + <p> + This “demoiselle” was the type of a woman who is never to be met with + except in Paris. She is made in Paris, like the mud, like the pavement, + like the water of the Seine, such as it becomes in Paris before human + industry filters it ten times ere it enters the cut-glass decanters and + sparkles pure and bright from the filth it has been. She is therefore a + being who is truly original. Depicted scores of times by the painter’s + brush, the pencil of the caricaturist, the charcoal of the etcher, she + still escapes analysis, because she cannot be caught and rendered in all + her moods, like Nature, like this fantastic Paris itself. She holds to + vice by one thread only, and she breaks away from it at a thousand other + points of the social circumference. Besides, she lets only one trait of + her character be known, and that the only one which renders her blamable; + her noble virtues are hidden; she prefers to glory in her naive + libertinism. Most incompletely rendered in dramas and tales where she is + put upon the scene with all her poesy, she is nowhere really true but in + her garret; elsewhere she is invariably calumniated or over-praised. Rich, + she deteriorates; poor, she is misunderstood. She has too many vices, and + too many good qualities; she is too near to pathetic asphyxiation or to a + dissolute laugh; too beautiful and too hideous. She personifies Paris, to + which, in the long run, she supplies the toothless portresses, + washerwomen, street-sweepers, beggars, occasionally insolent countesses, + admired actresses, applauded singers; she has even given, in the olden + time, two quasi-queens to the monarchy. Who can grasp such a Proteus? She + is all woman, less than woman, more than woman. From this vast portrait + the painter of manners and morals can take but a feature here and there; + the <i>ensemble</i> is infinite. + </p> + <p> + She was a grisette of Paris; a grisette in all her glory; a grisette in a + hackney-coach,—happy, young, handsome, fresh, but a grisette; a + grisette with claws, scissors, impudent as a Spanish woman, snarling as a + prudish English woman proclaiming her conjugal rights, coquettish as a + great lady, though more frank, and ready for everything; a perfect <i>lionne</i> + in her way; issuing from the little apartment of which she had dreamed so + often, with its red-calico curtains, its Utrecht velvet furniture, its + tea-table, the cabinet of china with painted designs, the sofa, the little + moquette carpet, the alabaster clock and candlesticks (under glass cases), + the yellow bedroom, the eider-down quilt,—in short, all the domestic + joys of a grisette’s life; and in addition, the woman-of-all-work (a + former grisette herself, now the owner of a moustache), theatre-parties, + unlimited bonbons, silk dresses, bonnets to spoil,—in fact, all the + felicities coveted by the grisette heart except a carriage, which only + enters her imagination as a marshal’s baton into the dreams of a soldier. + Yes, this grisette had all these things in return for a true affection, or + in spite of a true affection, as some others obtain it for an hour a day,—a + sort of tax carelessly paid under the claws of an old man. + </p> + <p> + The young woman who now entered the presence of Monsieur and Madame Jules + had a pair of feet so little covered by her shoes that only a slim black + line was visible between the carpet and her white stockings. This peculiar + foot-gear, which Parisian caricaturists have well-rendered, is a special + attribute of the grisette of Paris; but she is even more distinctive to + the eyes of an observer by the care with which her garments are made to + adhere to her form, which they clearly define. On this occasion she was + trigly dressed in a green gown, with a white chemisette, which allowed the + beauty of her bust to be seen; her shawl, of Ternaux cashmere, had fallen + from her shoulders, and was held by its two corners, which were twisted + round her wrists. She had a delicate face, rosy cheeks, a white skin, + sparkling gray eyes, a round, very promising forehead, hair carefully + smoothed beneath her little bonnet, and heavy curls upon her neck. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Ida,” she said, “and if that’s Madame Jules to whom I have the + advantage of speaking, I’ve come to tell her all I have in my heart + against her. It is very wrong, when a woman is set up and in her + furniture, as you are here, to come and take from a poor girl a man with + whom I’m as good as married, morally, and who did talk of making it right + by marrying me before the municipality. There’s plenty of handsome young + men in the world—ain’t there, monsieur?—to take your fancy, + without going after a man of middle age, who makes my happiness. Yah! I + haven’t got a fine hotel like this, but I’ve got my love, I have. I hate + handsome men and money; I’m all heart, and—” + </p> + <p> + Madame Jules turned to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “You will allow me, monsieur, to hear no more of all this,” she said, + retreating to her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “If the lady lives with you, I’ve made a mess of it; but I can’t help + that,” resumed Ida. “Why does she come after Monsieur Ferragus every day?” + </p> + <p> + “You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” said Jules, stupefied; “my wife is + incapable—” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! so you’re married, you two,” said the grisette showing some surprise. + “Then it’s very wrong, monsieur,—isn’t it?—for a woman who has + the happiness of being married in legal marriage to have relations with a + man like Henri—” + </p> + <p> + “Henri! who is Henri?” said Jules, taking Ida by the arm and pulling her + into an adjoining room that his wife might hear no more. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Monsieur Ferragus.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is dead,” said Jules. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense; I went to Franconi’s with him last night, and he brought me + home—as he ought. Besides, your wife can tell you about him; didn’t + she go there this very afternoon at three o’clock? I know she did, for I + waited in the street, and saw her,—all because that good-natured + fellow, Monsieur Justin, whom you know perhaps,—a little old man + with jewelry who wears corsets,—told me that Madame Jules was my + rival. That name, monsieur, sounds mighty like a feigned one; but if it is + yours, excuse me. But this I say, if Madame Jules was a court duchess, + Henri is rich enough to satisfy all her fancies, and it is my business to + protect my property; I’ve a right to, for I love him, that I do. He is my + <i>first</i> inclination; my happiness and all my future fate depends on + it. I fear nothing, monsieur; I am honest; I never lied, or stole the + property of any living soul, no matter who. If an empress was my rival, + I’d go straight to her, empress as she was; because all pretty women are + equals, monsieur—” + </p> + <p> + “Enough! enough!” said Jules. “Where do you live?” + </p> + <p> + “Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, monsieur,—Ida Gruget, + corset-maker, at your service,—for we make lots of corsets for men.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does the man whom you call Ferragus live?” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said, pursing up her lips, “in the first place, he’s not a + man; he is a rich monsieur, much richer, perhaps, than you are. But why do + you ask me his address when your wife knows it? He told me not to give it. + Am I obliged to answer you? I’m not, thank God, in a confessional or a + police-court; I’m responsible only to myself.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were to offer you ten thousand francs to tell me where Monsieur + Ferragus lives, how then?” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! n, o, <i>no</i>, my little friend, and that ends the matter,” she + said, emphasizing this singular reply with a popular gesture. “There’s no + sum in the world could make me tell you. I have the honor to bid you + good-day. How do I get out of here?” + </p> + <p> + Jules, horror-struck, allowed her to go without further notice. The whole + world seemed to crumble beneath his feet, and above him the heavens were + falling with a crash. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur is served,” said his valet. + </p> + <p> + The valet and the footman waited in the dining-room a quarter of an hour + without seeing master or mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Madame will not dine to-day,” said the waiting-maid, coming in. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Josephine?” asked the valet. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she answered. “Madame is crying, and is going to bed. + Monsieur has no doubt got some love-affair on hand, and it has been + discovered at a very bad time. I wouldn’t answer for madame’s life. Men + are so clumsy; they’ll make you scenes without any precaution.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not so,” said the valet, in a low voice. “On the contrary, madame + is the one who—you understand? What times does monsieur have to go + after pleasures, he, who hasn’t slept out of madame’s room for five years, + who goes to his study at ten and never leaves it till breakfast, at + twelve. His life is all known, it is regular; whereas madame goes out + nearly every day at three o’clock, Heaven knows where.” + </p> + <p> + “And monsieur too,” said the maid, taking her mistress’s part. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he goes straight to the Bourse. I told him three times that + dinner was ready,” continued the valet, after a pause. “You might as well + talk to a post.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Jules entered the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Where is madame?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is going to bed; her head aches,” replied the maid, assuming an + air of importance. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Jules then said to the footmen composedly: “You can take away; I + shall go and sit with madame.” + </p> + <p> + He went to his wife’s room and found her weeping, but endeavoring to + smother her sobs with her handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you weep?” said Jules; “you need expect no violence and no + reproaches from me. Why should I avenge myself? If you have not been + faithful to my love, it is that you were never worthy of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not worthy?” The words were repeated amid her sobs and the accent in + which they were said would have moved any other man than Jules. + </p> + <p> + “To kill you, I must love more than perhaps I do love you,” he continued. + “But I should never have the courage; I would rather kill myself, leaving + you to your—happiness, and with—whom!—” + </p> + <p> + He did not end his sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Kill yourself!” she cried, flinging herself at his feet and clasping + them. + </p> + <p> + But he, wishing to escape the embrace, tried to shake her off, dragging + her in so doing toward the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Let me alone,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Jules!” she cried. “If you love me no longer I shall die. Do you + wish to know all?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He took her, grasped her violently, and sat down on the edge of the bed, + holding her between his legs. Then, looking at that beautiful face now red + as fire and furrowed with tears,— + </p> + <p> + “Speak,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Her sobs began again. + </p> + <p> + “No; it is a secret of life and death. If I tell it, I—No, I cannot. + Have mercy, Jules!” + </p> + <p> + “You have betrayed me—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Jules, you think so now, but soon you will know all.” + </p> + <p> + “But this Ferragus, this convict whom you go to see, a man enriched by + crime, if he does not belong to you, if you do not belong to him—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jules!” + </p> + <p> + “Speak! Is he your mysterious benefactor?—the man to whom we owe our + fortune, as persons have said already?” + </p> + <p> + “Who said that?” + </p> + <p> + “A man whom I killed in a duel.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, God! one death already!” + </p> + <p> + “If he is not your protector, if he does not give you money, if it is you, + on the contrary, who carry money to him, tell me, is he your brother?” + </p> + <p> + “What if he were?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Desmarets crossed his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Why should that have been concealed from me?” he said. “Then you and your + mother have both deceived me? Besides, does a woman go to see her brother + every day, or nearly every day?” + </p> + <p> + His wife had fainted at his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Dead,” he said. “And suppose I am mistaken?” + </p> + <p> + He sprang to the bell-rope; called Josephine, and lifted Clemence to the + bed. + </p> + <p> + “I shall die of this,” said Madame Jules, recovering consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Josephine,” cried Monsieur Desmarets. “Send for Monsieur Desplein; send + also to my brother and ask him to come here immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Why your brother?” asked Clemence. + </p> + <p> + But Jules had already left the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. WHERE GO TO DIE? + </h2> + <p> + For the first time in five years Madame Jules slept alone in her bed, and + was compelled to admit a physician into that sacred chamber. These in + themselves were two keen pangs. Desplein found Madame Jules very ill. + Never was a violent emotion more untimely. He would say nothing definite, + and postponed till the morrow giving any opinion, after leaving a few + directions, which were not executed, the emotions of the heart causing all + bodily cares to be forgotten. + </p> + <p> + When morning dawned, Clemence had not yet slept. Her mind was absorbed in + the low murmur of a conversation which lasted several hours between the + brothers; but the thickness of the walls allowed no word which could + betray the object of this long conference to reach her ears. Monsieur + Desmarets, the notary, went away at last. The stillness of the night, and + the singular activity of the senses given by powerful emotion, enabled + Clemence to distinguish the scratching of a pen and the involuntary + movements of a person engaged in writing. Those who are habitually up at + night, and who observe the different acoustic effects produced in absolute + silence, know that a slight echo can be readily perceived in the very + places where louder but more equable and continued murmurs are not + distinct. At four o’clock the sound ceased. Clemence rose, anxious and + trembling. Then, with bare feet and without a wrapper, forgetting her + illness and her moist condition, the poor woman opened the door softly + without noise and looked into the next room. She saw her husband sitting, + with a pen in his hand, asleep in his arm-chair. The candles had burned to + the sockets. She slowly advanced and read on an envelope, already sealed, + the words, “This is my will.” + </p> + <p> + She knelt down as if before an open grave and kissed her husband’s hand. + He woke instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Jules, my friend, they grant some days to criminals condemned to death,” + she said, looking at him with eyes that blazed with fever and with love. + “Your innocent wife asks only two. Leave me free for two days, and—wait! + After that, I shall die happy—at least, you will regret me.” + </p> + <p> + “Clemence, I grant them.” + </p> + <p> + Then, as she kissed her husband’s hands in the tender transport of her + heart, Jules, under the spell of that cry of innocence, took her in his + arms and kissed her forehead, though ashamed to feel himself still under + subjection to the power of that noble beauty. + </p> + <p> + On the morrow, after taking a few hours’ rest, Jules entered his wife’s + room, obeying mechanically his invariable custom of not leaving the house + without a word to her. Clemence was sleeping. A ray of light passing + through a chink in the upper blind of a window fell across the face of the + dejected woman. Already suffering had impaired her forehead and the + freshness of her lips. A lover’s eye could not fail to notice the + appearance of dark blotches, and a sickly pallor in place of the uniform + tone of the cheeks and the pure ivory whiteness of the skin,—two + points at which the sentiments of her noble soul were artlessly wont to + show themselves. + </p> + <p> + “She suffers,” thought Jules. “Poor Clemence! May God protect us!” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her very softly on the forehead. She woke, saw her husband, and + remembered all. Unable to speak, she took his hand, her eyes filling with + tears. + </p> + <p> + “I am innocent,” she said, ending her dream. + </p> + <p> + “You will not go out to-day, will you?” asked Jules. + </p> + <p> + “No, I feel too weak to leave my bed.” + </p> + <p> + “If you should change your mind, wait till I return,” said Jules. + </p> + <p> + Then he went down to the porter’s lodge. + </p> + <p> + “Fouguereau, you will watch the door yourself to-day. I wish to know + exactly who comes to the house, and who leaves it.” + </p> + <p> + Then he threw himself into a hackney-coach, and was driven to the hotel de + Maulincour, where he asked for the baron. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur is ill,” they told him. + </p> + <p> + Jules insisted on entering, and gave his name. If he could not see the + baron, he wished to see the vidame or the dowager. He waited some time in + the salon, where Madame de Maulincour finally came to him and told him + that her grandson was much too ill to receive him. + </p> + <p> + “I know, madame, the nature of his illness from the letter you did me the + honor to write, and I beg you to believe—” + </p> + <p> + “A letter to you, monsieur, written by me!” cried the dowager, + interrupting him. “I have written you no letter. What was I made to say in + that letter, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” replied Jules, “intending to see Monsieur de Maulincour to-day, + I thought it best to preserve the letter in spite of its injunction to + destroy it. There it is.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Maulincour put on her spectacles, and the moment she cast her + eyes on the paper she showed the utmost surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said, “my writing is so perfectly imitated that, if the + matter were not so recent, I might be deceived myself. My grandson is ill, + it is true; but his reason has never for a moment been affected. We are + the puppets of some evil-minded person or persons; and yet I cannot + imagine the object of a trick like this. You shall see my grandson, + monsieur, and you will at once perceive that he is perfectly sound in + mind.” + </p> + <p> + She rang the bell, and sent to ask if the baron felt able to receive + Monsieur Desmarets. The servant returned with an affirmative answer. Jules + went to the baron’s room, where he found him in an arm-chair near the + fire. Too feeble to move, the unfortunate man merely bowed his head with a + melancholy gesture. The Vidame de Pamiers was sitting with him. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur le baron,” said Jules, “I have something to say which makes it + desirable that I should see you alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” replied Auguste, “Monsieur le vidame knows about this affair; + you can speak fearlessly before him.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur le baron,” said Jules, in a grave voice, “you have troubled and + well-nigh destroyed my happiness without having any right to do so. Until + the moment when we can see clearly which of us should demand, or grant, + reparation to the other, you are bound to help me in following the dark + and mysterious path into which you have flung me. I have now come to + ascertain from you the present residence of the extraordinary being who + exercises such a baneful effect on your life and mine. On my return home + yesterday, after listening to your avowals, I received that letter.” + </p> + <p> + Jules gave him the forged letter. + </p> + <p> + “This Ferragus, this Bourignard, or this Monsieur de Funcal, is a demon!” + cried Maulincour, after having read it. “Oh, what a frightful maze I put + my foot into when I meddled in this matter! Where am I going? I did wrong, + monsieur,” he continued, looking at Jules; “but death is the greatest of + all expiations, and my death is now approaching. You can ask me whatever + you like; I am at your orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, you know, of course, where this man is living, and I must know + it if it costs me all my fortune to penetrate this mystery. In presence of + so cruel an enemy every moment is precious.” + </p> + <p> + “Justin shall tell you all,” replied the baron. + </p> + <p> + At these words the vidame fidgeted on his chair. Auguste rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Justin is not in the house!” cried the vidame, in a hasty manner that + told much. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said Auguste, excitedly, “the other servants must know where + he is; send a man on horseback to fetch him. Your valet is in Paris, isn’t + he? He can be found.” + </p> + <p> + The vidame was visibly distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Justin can’t come, my dear boy,” said the old man; “he is dead. I wanted + to conceal the accident from you, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” cried Monsieur de Maulincour,—“dead! When and how?” + </p> + <p> + “Last night. He had been supping with some old friends, and, I dare say, + was drunk; his friends—no doubt they were drunk, too—left him + lying in the street, and a heavy vehicle ran over him.” + </p> + <p> + “The convict did not miss <i>him</i>; at the first stroke he killed,” said + Auguste. “He has had less luck with me; it has taken four blows to put me + out of the way.” + </p> + <p> + Jules was gloomy and thoughtful. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to know nothing, then?” he cried, after a long pause. “Your valet + seems to have been justly punished. Did he not exceed your orders in + calumniating Madame Desmarets to a person named Ida, whose jealousy he + roused in order to turn her vindictiveness upon us?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, monsieur! in my anger I informed him about Madame Jules,” said + Auguste. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur!” cried the husband, keenly irritated. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, monsieur!” replied the baron, claiming silence by a gesture, “I am + prepared for all. You cannot tell me anything my own conscience has not + already told me. I am now expecting the most celebrated of all professors + of toxicology, in order to learn my fate. If I am destined to intolerable + suffering, my resolution is taken. I shall blow my brains out.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk like a child!” cried the vidame, horrified by the coolness with + which the baron said these words. “Your grandmother would die of grief.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, monsieur,” said Jules, “am I to understand that there exist no + means of discovering in what part of Paris this extraordinary man + resides?” + </p> + <p> + “I think, monsieur,” said the old vidame, “from what I have heard poor + Justin say, that Monsieur de Funcal lives at either the Portuguese or the + Brazilian embassy. Monsieur de Funcal is a nobleman belonging to both + those countries. As for the convict, he is dead and buried. Your + persecutor, whoever he is, seems to me so powerful that it would be well + to take no decisive measures until you are sure of some way of confounding + and crushing him. Act prudently and with caution, my dear monsieur. Had + Monsieur de Maulincour followed my advice, nothing of all this would have + happened.” + </p> + <p> + Jules coldly but politely withdrew. He was now at a total loss to know how + to reach Ferragus. As he passed into his own house, the porter told him + that Madame had just been out to throw a letter into the post box at the + head of the rue de Menars. Jules felt humiliated by this proof of the + insight with which the porter espoused his cause, and the cleverness by + which he guessed the way to serve him. The eagerness of servants, and + their shrewdness in compromising masters who compromised themselves, was + known to him, and he fully appreciated the danger of having them as + accomplices, no matter for what purpose. But he could not think of his + personal dignity until the moment when he found himself thus suddenly + degraded. What a triumph for the slave who could not raise himself to his + master, to compel his master to come down to his level! Jules was harsh + and hard to him. Another fault. But he suffered so deeply! His life till + then so upright, so pure, was becoming crafty; he was to scheme and lie. + Clemence was scheming and lying. This to him was a moment of horrible + disgust. Lost in a flood of bitter feelings, Jules stood motionless at the + door of his house. Yielding to despair, he thought of fleeing, of leaving + France forever, carrying with him the illusions of uncertainty. Then, + again, not doubting that the letter Clemence had just posted was addressed + to Ferragus, his mind searched for a means of obtaining the answer that + mysterious being was certain to send. Then his thoughts began to analyze + the singular good fortune of his life since his marriage, and he asked + himself whether the calumny for which he had taken such signal vengeance + was not a truth. Finally, reverting to the coming answer, he said to + himself:— + </p> + <p> + “But this man, so profoundly capable, so logical in his every act, who + sees and foresees, who calculates, and even divines, our very thoughts, is + he likely to make an answer? Will he not employ some other means more in + keeping with his power? He may send his answer by some beggar; or in a + carton brought by an honest man, who does not suspect what he brings; or + in some parcel of shoes, which a shop-girl may innocently deliver to my + wife. If Clemence and he have agreed upon such means—” + </p> + <p> + He distrusted all things; his mind ran over vast tracts and shoreless + oceans of conjecture. Then, after floating for a time among a thousand + contradictory ideas, he felt he was strongest in his own house, and he + resolved to watch it as the ant-lion watches his sandy labyrinth. + </p> + <p> + “Fouguereau,” he said to the porter, “I am not at home to any one who + comes to see me. If any one calls to see madame, or brings her anything, + ring twice. Bring all letters addressed here to me, no matter for whom + they are intended.” + </p> + <p> + “Thus,” thought he, as he entered his study, which was in the entresol, “I + forestall the schemes of this Ferragus. If he sends some one to ask for me + so as to find out if Clemence is alone, at least I shall not be tricked + like a fool.” + </p> + <p> + He stood by the window of his study, which looked upon the street, and + then a final scheme, inspired by jealousy, came into his mind. He resolved + to send his head-clerk in his own carriage to the Bourse with a letter to + another broker, explaining his sales and purchases and requesting him to + do his business for that day. He postponed his more delicate transactions + till the morrow, indifferent to the fall or rise of stocks or the debts of + all Europe. High privilege of love!—it crushes all things, all + interests fall before it: altar, throne, consols! + </p> + <p> + At half-past three, just the hour at which the Bourse is in full blast of + reports, monthly settlements, premiums, etc., Fouguereau entered the + study, quite radiant with his news. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, an old woman has come, but very cautiously; I think she’s a sly + one. She asked for monsieur, and seemed much annoyed when I told her he + was out; then she gave me a letter for madame, and here it is.” + </p> + <p> + Fevered with anxiety, Jules opened the letter; then he dropped into a + chair, exhausted. The letter was mere nonsense throughout, and needed a + key. It was virtually in cipher. + </p> + <p> + “Go away, Fouguereau.” The porter left him. “It is a mystery deeper than + the sea below the plummet line! Ah! it must be love; love only is so + sagacious, so inventive as this. Ah! I shall kill her.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment an idea flashed through his brain with such force that he + felt almost physically illuminated by it. In the days of his toilsome + poverty before his marriage, Jules had made for himself a true friend. The + extreme delicacy with which he had managed the susceptibilities of a man + both poor and modest; the respect with which he had surrounded him; the + ingenious cleverness he had employed to nobly compel him to share his + opulence without permitting it to make him blush, increased their + friendship. Jacquet continued faithful to Desmarets in spite of his + wealth. + </p> + <p> + Jacquet, a nobly upright man, a toiler, austere in his morals, had slowly + made his way in that particular ministry which develops both honesty and + knavery at the same time. A clerk in the ministry of Foreign Affairs, he + had charge of the most delicate division of its archives. Jacquet in that + office was like a glow-worm, casting his light upon those secret + correspondences, deciphering and classifying despatches. Ranking higher + than a mere <i>bourgeois</i>, his position at the ministry was superior to + that of the other subalterns. He lived obscurely, glad to feel that such + obscurity sheltered him from reverses and disappointments, and was + satisfied to humbly pay in the lowest coin his debt to the country. Thanks + to Jules, his position had been much ameliorated by a worthy marriage. An + unrecognized patriot, a minister in actual fact, he contented himself with + groaning in his chimney-corner at the course of the government. In his own + home, Jacquet was an easy-going king,—an umbrella-man, as they say, + who hired a carriage for his wife which he never entered himself. In + short, to end this sketch of a philosopher unknown to himself, he had + never suspected and never in all his life would suspect the advantages he + might have drawn from his position,—that of having for his intimate + friend a broker, and of knowing every morning all the secrets of the + State. This man, sublime after the manner of that nameless soldier who + died in saving Napoleon by a “qui vive,” lived at the ministry. + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes Jules was in his friend’s office. Jacquet gave him a chair, + laid aside methodically his green silk eye-shade, rubbed his hands, picked + up his snuff-box, rose, stretched himself till his shoulder-blades + cracked, swelled out his chest, and said:— + </p> + <p> + “What brings you here, Monsieur Desmarets? What do you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Jacquet, I want you to decipher a secret,—a secret of life and + death.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t concern politics?” + </p> + <p> + “If it did, I shouldn’t come to you for information,” said Jules. “No, it + is a family matter, about which I require you to be absolutely silent.” + </p> + <p> + “Claude-Joseph Jacquet, dumb by profession. Don’t you know me by this + time?” he said, laughing. “Discretion is my lot.” + </p> + <p> + Jules showed him the letter. + </p> + <p> + “You must read me this letter, addressed to my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! the deuce! a bad business!” said Jacquet, examining the letter + as a usurer examines a note to be negotiated. “Ha! that’s a gridiron + letter! Wait a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He left Jules alone for a moment, but returned immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Easy enough to read, my friend! It is written on the gridiron plan, used + by the Portuguese minister under Monsieur de Choiseul, at the time of the + dismissal of the Jesuits. Here, see!” + </p> + <p> + Jacquet placed upon the writing a piece of paper cut out in regular + squares, like the paper laces which confectioners wrap round their + sugarplums; and Jules then read with perfect ease the words that were + visible in the interstices. They were as follows:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Don’t be uneasy, my dear Clemence; our happiness cannot again be + troubled; and your husband will soon lay aside his suspicions. + However ill you may be, you must have the courage to come here + to-morrow; find strength in your love for me. Mine for you has + induced me to submit to a cruel operation, and I cannot leave my + bed. I have had the actual cautery applied to my back, and it was + necessary to burn it in a long time; you understand me? But I + thought of you, and I did not suffer. + + “To baffle Maulincour (who will not persecute us much longer), I + have left the protecting roof of the embassy, and am now safe from + all inquiry in the rue des Enfants-Rouges, number 12, with an old + woman, Madame Etienne Gruget, mother of that Ida, who shall pay + dear for her folly. Come to-morrow, at nine in the morning. I am + in a room which is reached only by an interior staircase. Ask for + Monsieur Camuset. Adieu; I kiss your forehead, my darling.” + </pre> + <p> + Jacquet looked at Jules with a sort of honest terror, the sign of a true + compassion, as he made his favorite exclamation in two separate and + distinct tones,— + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! the deuce!” + </p> + <p> + “That seems clear to you, doesn’t it?” said Jules. “Well, in the depths of + my heart there is a voice that pleads for my wife, and makes itself heard + above the pangs of jealousy. I must endure the worst of all agony until + to-morrow; but to-morrow, between nine and ten I shall know all; I shall + be happy or wretched for all my life. Think of me then, Jacquet.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be at your house to-morrow at eight o’clock. We will go together; + I’ll wait for you, if you like, in the street. You may run some danger, + and you ought to have near you some devoted person who’ll understand a + mere sign, and whom you can safely trust. Count on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Even to help me in killing some one?” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! the deuce!” said Jacquet, repeating, as it were, the same + musical note. “I have two children and a wife.” + </p> + <p> + Jules pressed his friend’s hand and went away; but returned immediately. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot the letter,” he said. “But that’s not all, I must reseal it.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! the deuce! you opened it without saving the seal; however, it + is still possible to restore it. Leave it with me and I’ll bring it to you + <i>secundum scripturam</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “At what time?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past five.” + </p> + <p> + “If I am not yet in, give it to the porter and tell him to send it up to + madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Adieu.” + </p> + <p> + Jules drove at once to the place de la Rotonde du Temple, where he left + his cabriolet and went on foot to the rue des Enfants-Rouges. He found the + house of Madame Etienne Gruget and examined it. There, the mystery on + which depended the fate of so many persons would be cleared up; there, at + this moment, was Ferragus, and to Ferragus all the threads of this strange + plot led. The Gordian knot of the drama, already so bloody, was surely in + a meeting between Madame Jules, her husband, and that man; and a blade + able to cut the closest of such knots would not be wanting. + </p> + <p> + The house was one of those which belong to the class called <i>cabajoutis</i>. + This significant name is given by the populace of Paris to houses which + are built, as it were, piecemeal. They are nearly always composed of + buildings originally separate but afterwards united according to the fancy + of the various proprietors who successively enlarge them; or else they are + houses begun, left unfinished, again built upon, and completed,—unfortunate + structures which have passed, like certain peoples, under many dynasties + of capricious masters. Neither the floors nor the windows have an <i>ensemble</i>,—to + borrow one of the most picturesque terms of the art of painting; all is + discord, even the external decoration. The <i>cabajoutis</i> is to + Parisian architecture what the <i>capharnaum</i> is to the apartment,—a + poke-hole, where the most heterogeneous articles are flung pell-mell. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Etienne?” asked Jules of the portress. + </p> + <p> + This portress had her lodge under the main entrance, in a sort of chicken + coop, or wooden house on rollers, not unlike those sentry-boxes which the + police have lately set up by the stands of hackney-coaches. + </p> + <p> + “Hein?” said the portress, without laying down the stocking she was + knitting. + </p> + <p> + In Paris the various component parts which make up the physiognomy of any + given portion of the monstrous city, are admirably in keeping with its + general character. Thus porter, concierge, or Suisse, whatever name may be + given to that essential muscle of the Parisian monster, is always in + conformity with the neighborhood of which he is a part; in fact, he is + often an epitome of it. The lazy porter of the faubourg Saint-Germain, + with lace on every seam of his coat, dabbles in stocks; he of the Chaussee + d’Antin takes his ease, reads the money-articles in the newspapers, and + has a business of his own in the faubourg Montmartre. The portress in the + quarter of prostitution was formerly a prostitute; in the Marais, she has + morals, is cross-grained, and full of crotchets. + </p> + <p> + On seeing Monsieur Jules this particular portress, holding her knitting in + one hand, took a knife and stirred the half-extinguished peat in her + foot-warmer; then she said:— + </p> + <p> + “You want Madame Etienne; do you mean Madame Etienne Gruget?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jules, assuming a vexed air. + </p> + <p> + “Who makes trimmings?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, monsieur,” she said, issuing from her cage, and laying her + hand on Jules’ arm and leading him to the end of a long passage-way, + vaulted like a cellar, “go up the second staircase at the end of the + court-yard—where you will see the windows with the pots of pinks; + that’s where Madame Etienne lives.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, madame. Do you think she is alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t she be alone? she’s a widow.” + </p> + <p> + Jules hastened up a dark stairway, the steps of which were knobby with + hardened mud left by the feet of those who came and went. On the second + floor he saw three doors but no signs of pinks. Fortunately, on one of the + doors, the oiliest and darkest of the three, he read these words, chalked + on a panel: “Ida will come to-night at nine o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “This is the place,” thought Jules. + </p> + <p> + He pulled an old bellrope, black with age, and heard the smothered sound + of a cracked bell and the barking of an asthmatic little dog. By the way + the sounds echoed from the interior he knew that the rooms were encumbered + with articles which left no space for reverberation,—a + characteristic feature of the homes of workmen and humble households, + where space and air are always lacking. + </p> + <p> + Jules looked out mechanically for the pinks, and found them on the outer + sill of a sash window between two filthy drain-pipes. So here were + flowers; here, a garden, two yards long and six inches wide; here, a + wheat-ear; here, a whole life epitomized; but here, too, all the miseries + of that life. A ray of light falling from heaven as if by special favor on + those puny flowers and the vigorous wheat-ear brought out in full relief + the dust, the grease, and that nameless color, peculiar to Parisian + squalor, made of dirt, which crusted and spotted the damp walls, the + worm-eaten balusters, the disjointed window-casings, and the door + originally red. Presently the cough of an old woman, and a heavy female + step, shuffling painfully in list slippers, announced the coming of the + mother of Ida Gruget. The creature opened the door and came out upon the + landing, looked up, and said:— + </p> + <p> + “Ah! is this Monsieur Bocquillon? Why, no? But perhaps you’re his brother. + What can I do for you? Come in, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Jules followed her into the first room, where he saw, huddled together, + cages, household utensils, ovens, furniture, little earthenware dishes + full of food or water for the dog and the cats, a wooden clock, + bed-quilts, engravings of Eisen, heaps of old iron, all these things + mingled and massed together in a way that produced a most grotesque + effect,—a true Parisian dusthole, in which were not lacking a few + old numbers of the “Constitutionel.” + </p> + <p> + Jules, impelled by a sense of prudence, paid no attention to the widow’s + invitation when she said civilly, showing him an inner room:— + </p> + <p> + “Come in here, monsieur, and warm yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Fearing to be overheard by Ferragus, Jules asked himself whether it were + not wisest to conclude the arrangement he had come to make with the old + woman in the crowded antechamber. A hen, which descended cackling from a + loft, roused him from this inward meditation. He came to a resolution, and + followed Ida’s mother into the inner room, whither they were accompanied + by the wheezy pug, a personage otherwise mute, who jumped upon a stool. + Madame Gruget showed the assumption of semi-pauperism when she invited her + visitor to warm himself. Her fire-pot contained, or rather concealed two + bits of sticks, which lay apart: the grating was on the ground, its handle + in the ashes. The mantel-shelf, adorned with a little wax Jesus under a + shade of squares of glass held together with blue paper, was piled with + wools, bobbins, and tools used in the making of gimps and trimmings. Jules + examined everything in the room with a curiosity that was full of + interest, and showed, in spite of himself, an inward satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Well, monsieur, tell me, do you want to buy any of my things?” said the + old woman, seating herself in a cane arm-chair, which appeared to be her + headquarters. In it she kept her handkerchief, snuffbox, knitting, + half-peeled vegetables, spectacles, calendar, a bit of livery gold lace + just begun, a greasy pack of cards, and two volumes of novels, all stuck + into the hollow of the back. This article of furniture, in which the old + creature was floating down the river of life, was not unlike the + encyclopedic bag which a woman carries with her when she travels; in which + may be found a compendium of her household belongings, from the portrait + of her husband to <i>eau de Melisse</i> for faintness, sugarplums for the + children, and English court-plaster in case of cuts. + </p> + <p> + Jules studied all. He looked attentively at Madame Gruget’s yellow visage, + at her gray eyes without either brows or lashes, her toothless mouth, her + wrinkles marked in black, her rusty cap, her still more rusty ruffles, her + cotton petticoat full of holes, her worn-out slippers, her disabled + fire-pot, her table heaped with dishes and silks and work begun or + finished, in wool or cotton, in the midst of which stood a bottle of wine. + Then he said to himself: “This old woman has some passion, some strong + liking or vice; I can make her do my will.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said aloud, with a private sign of intelligence, “I have come + to order some livery trimmings.” Then he lowered his voice. “I know,” he + continued, “that you have a lodger who has taken the name of Camuset.” The + old woman looked at him suddenly, but without any sign of astonishment. + “Now, tell me, can we come to an understanding? This is a question which + means fortune for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she replied, “speak out, and don’t be afraid. There’s no one + here. But if I had any one above, it would be impossible for him to hear + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! the sly old creature, she answers like a Norman,” thought Jules, “We + shall agree. Do not give yourself the trouble to tell falsehoods, madame,” + he resumed, “In the first place, let me tell you that I mean no harm + either to you or to your lodger who is suffering from cautery, or to your + daughter Ida, a stay-maker, the friend of Ferragus. You see, I know all + your affairs. Do not be uneasy; I am not a detective policeman, nor do I + desire anything that can hurt your conscience. A young lady will come here + to-morrow-morning at half-past nine o’clock, to talk with this lover of + your daughter. I want to be where I can see all and hear all, without + being seen or heard by them. If you will furnish me with the means of + doing so, I will reward that service with the gift of two thousand francs + and a yearly stipend of six hundred. My notary shall prepare a deed before + you this evening, and I will give him the money to hold; he will pay the + two thousand to you to-morrow after the conference at which I desire to be + present, as you will then have given proofs of your good faith.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it injure my daughter, my good monsieur?” she asked, casting a + cat-like glance of doubt and uneasiness upon him. + </p> + <p> + “In no way, madame. But, in any case, it seems to me that your daughter + does not treat you well. A girl who is loved by so rich a man as Ferragus + ought to make you more comfortable than you seem to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear monsieur, just think, not so much as one poor ticket to the + Ambigu, or the Gaiete, where she can go as much as she likes. It’s + shameful! A girl for whom I sold my silver forks and spoons! and now I + eat, at my age, with German metal,—and all to pay for her + apprenticeship, and give her a trade, where she could coin money if she + chose. As for that, she’s like me, clever as a witch; I must do her that + justice. But, I will say, she might give me her old silk gowns,—I, + who am so fond of wearing silk. But no! Monsieur, she dines at the + Cadran-Bleu at fifty francs a head, and rolls in her carriage as if she + were a princess, and despises her mother for a Colin-Lampon. Heavens and + earth! what heedless young ones we’ve brought into the world; we have + nothing to boast of there. A mother, monsieur, can’t be anything else but + a good mother; and I’ve concealed that girl’s ways, and kept her in my + bosom, to take the bread out of my mouth and cram everything into her own. + Well, well! and now she comes and fondles one a little, and says, ‘How + d’ye do, mother?’ And that’s all the duty she thinks of paying. But she’ll + have children one of these days, and then she’ll find out what it is to + have such baggage,—which one can’t help loving all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that she does nothing for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, nothing? No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; if she did nothing, that + would be a little too much. She gives me my rent and thirty-six francs a + month. But, monsieur, at my age,—and I’m fifty-two years old, with + eyes that feel the strain at night,—ought I to be working in this + way? Besides, why won’t she have me to live with her? I should shame her, + should I? Then let her say so. Faith, one ought to be buried out of the + way of such dogs of children, who forget you before they’ve even shut the + door.” + </p> + <p> + She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, and with it a lottery ticket + that dropped on the floor; but she hastily picked it up, saying, “Hi! + that’s the receipt for my taxes.” + </p> + <p> + Jules at once perceived the reason of the sagacious parsimony of which the + mother complained; and he was the more certain that the widow Gruget would + agree to the proposed bargain. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, madame,” he said, “accept what I offer you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you say two thousand francs in ready money, and six hundred annuity, + monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I’ve changed my mind; I will promise you only three hundred + annuity. This way seems more to my own interests. But I will give you five + thousand francs in ready money. Wouldn’t you like that as well?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, yes, monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get more comfort out of it; and you can go to the Ambigu and + Franconi’s at your ease in a coach.” + </p> + <p> + “As for Franconi, I don’t like that, for they don’t talk there. Monsieur, + if I accept, it is because it will be very advantageous for my child. I + sha’n’t be a drag on her any longer. Poor little thing! I’m glad she has + her pleasures, after all. Ah, monsieur, youth must be amused! And so, if + you assure me that no harm will come to anybody—” + </p> + <p> + “Not to anybody,” replied Jules. “But now, how will you manage it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, monsieur, if I give Monsieur Ferragus a little tea made of + poppy-heads to-night, he’ll sleep sound, the dear man; and he needs it, + too, because of his sufferings, for he does suffer, I can tell you, and + more’s the pity. But I’d like to know what a healthy man like him wants to + burn his back for, just to get rid of a tic douleureux which troubles him + once in two years. However, to come back to our business. I have my + neighbor’s key; her lodging is just above mine, and in it there’s a room + adjoining the one where Monsieur Ferragus is, with only a partition + between them. My neighbor is away in the country for ten days. Therefore, + if I make a hole to-night while Monsieur Ferragus is sound asleep, you can + see and hear them to-morrow at your ease. I’m on good terms with a + locksmith,—a very friendly man, who talks like an angel, and he’ll + do the work for me and say nothing about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then here’s a hundred francs for him. Come to-night to Monsieur + Desmaret’s office; he’s a notary, and here’s his address. At nine o’clock + the deed will be ready, but—silence!” + </p> + <p> + “Enough, monsieur; as you say—silence! Au revoir, monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + Jules went home, almost calmed by the certainty that he should know the + truth on the morrow. As he entered the house, the porter gave him the + letter properly resealed. + </p> + <p> + “How do you feel now?” he said to his wife, in spite of the coldness that + separated them. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well, Jules,” she answered in a coaxing voice, “do come and dine + beside me.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” he said, giving her the letter. “Here is something Fouguereau + gave me for you.” + </p> + <p> + Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she saw the letter, and + that sudden redness was a fresh blow to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of expectation?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the seal. + </p> + <p> + “I leave you now for a few moments.” + </p> + <p> + He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, giving him directions + about the payment to the widow Gruget. When he returned, he found his + dinner served on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine ready + to wait on him. + </p> + <p> + “If I were up how I should like to serve you myself,” said Clemence, when + Josephine had left them. “Oh, yes, on my knees!” she added, passing her + white hands through her husband’s hair. “Dear, noble heart, you were very + kind and gracious to me just now. You did me more good by showing me such + confidence than all the doctors on earth could do me with their + prescriptions. That feminine delicacy of yours—for you do know how + to love like a woman—well, it has shed a balm into my heart which + has almost cured me. There’s truce between us, Jules; lower your head, + that I may kiss it.” + </p> + <p> + Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that embrace. But it was not + without a feeling of remorse in his heart; he felt himself small before + this woman whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort of + melancholy joy possessed him. A tender hope shone on her features in spite + of their grieved expression. They both were equally unhappy in deceiving + each other; another caress, and, unable to resist their suffering, all + would then have been avowed. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow evening, Clemence.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; to-morrow morning, by twelve o’clock, you will know all, and + you’ll kneel down before your wife—Oh, no! you shall not be + humiliated; you are all forgiven now; you have done no wrong. Listen, + Jules; yesterday you did crush me—harshly; but perhaps my life would + not have been complete without that agony; it may be a shadow that will + make our coming days celestial.” + </p> + <p> + “You lay a spell upon me,” cried Jules; “you fill me with remorse.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor love! destiny is stronger than we, and I am not the accomplice of + mine. I shall go out to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “At what hour?” asked Jules. + </p> + <p> + “At half-past nine.” + </p> + <p> + “Clemence,” he said, “take every precaution; consult Doctor Desplein and + old Haudry.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall consult nothing but my heart and my courage.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall leave you free; you will not see me till twelve o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you keep me company this evening? I feel so much better.” + </p> + <p> + After attending to some business, Jules returned to his wife,—recalled + by her invincible attraction. His passion was stronger than his anguish. + </p> + <p> + The next day, at nine o’clock Jules left home, hurried to the rue des + Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and rang the bell of the widow Gruget’s + lodgings. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you’ve kept your word, as true as the dawn. Come in, monsieur,” said + the old woman when she saw him. “I’ve made you a cup of coffee with + cream,” she added, when the door was closed. “Oh! real cream; I saw it + milked myself at the dairy we have in this very street.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, no, madame, nothing. Take me at once—” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, monsieur. Follow me, this way.” + </p> + <p> + She led him up into the room above her own, where she showed him, + triumphantly, an opening about the size of a two-franc piece, made during + the night, in a place, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe. In order + to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain himself in rather a + fatiguing attitude, by standing on a step-ladder which the widow had been + careful to place there. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a gentleman with him,” she whispered, as she retired. + </p> + <p> + Jules then beheld a man employed in dressing a number of wounds on the + shoulders of Ferragus, whose head he recognized from the description given + to him by Monsieur de Maulincour. + </p> + <p> + “When do you think those wounds will heal?” asked Ferragus. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said the other man. “The doctors say those wounds will + require seven or eight more dressings.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, good-bye until to-night,” said Ferragus, holding out his hand + to the man, who had just replaced the bandage. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-night,” said the other, pressing his hand cordially. “I wish I + could see you past your sufferings.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal’s papers will be delivered to us, and Henri + Bourignard will be dead forever,” said Ferragus. “Those fatal marks which + have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become once more a social + being, a man among men, and more of a man than the sailor whom the fishes + are eating. God knows it is not for my own sake I have made myself a + Portuguese count!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Gratien!—you, the wisest of us all, our beloved brother, the + Benjamin of the band; as you very well know.” + </p> + <p> + “Adieu; keep an eye on Maulincour.” + </p> + <p> + “You can rest easy on that score.” + </p> + <p> + “Ho! stay, marquis,” cried the convict. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last night. If she should + throw herself into the river, I would not fish her out. She knows the + secret of my name, and she’ll keep it better there. But still, look after + her; for she is, in her way, a good girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules heard, with a feverish + shudder, the rustle of a silk gown, and almost recognized by their sound + the steps of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Well, father,” said Clemence, “my poor father, are you better? What + courage you have shown!” + </p> + <p> + “Come here, my child,” replied Ferragus, holding out his hand to her. + </p> + <p> + Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell me, what is the matter, my little girl? What are these new + troubles?” + </p> + <p> + “Troubles, father! it concerns the life or death of the daughter you have + loved so much. Indeed you must, as I wrote you yesterday, you <i>must</i> + find a way to see my poor Jules to-day. If you knew how good he has been + to me, in spite of all suspicions apparently so legitimate. Father, my + love is my very life. Would you see me die? Ah! I have suffered so much + that my life, I feel it! is in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “And all because of the curiosity of that miserable Parisian?” cried + Ferragus. “I’d burn Paris down if I lost you, my daughter. Ha! you may + know what a lover is, but you don’t yet know what a father can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Father, you frighten me when you look at me in that way. Don’t weigh such + different feelings in the same scales. I had a husband before I knew that + my father was living—” + </p> + <p> + “If your husband was the first to lay kisses on your forehead, I was the + first to drop tears upon it,” replied Ferragus. “But don’t feel + frightened, Clemence, speak to me frankly. I love you enough to rejoice in + the knowledge that you are happy, though I, your father, may have little + place in your heart, while you fill the whole of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! what good such words do me! You make me love you more and more, + though I seem to rob something from my Jules. But, my kind father, think + what his sufferings are. What may I tell him to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “My child, do you think I waited for your letter to save you from this + threatened danger? Do you know what will become of those who venture to + touch your happiness, or come between us? Have you never been aware that a + second providence was guarding your life? Twelve men of power and + intellect form a phalanx round your love and your existence,—ready + to do all things to protect you. Think of your father, who has risked + death to meet you in the public promenades, or see you asleep in your + little bed in your mother’s home, during the night-time. Could such a + father, to whom your innocent caresses give strength to live when a man of + honor ought to have died to escape his infamy, could <i>I</i>, in short, I + who breathe through your lips, and see with your eyes, and feel with your + heart, could I fail to defend with the claws of a lion and the soul of a + father, my only blessing, my life, my daughter? Since the death of that + angel, your mother, I have dreamed but of one thing,—the happiness + of pressing you to my heart in the face of the whole earth, of burying the + convict,—” He paused a moment, and then added: “—of giving you + a father, a father who could press without shame your husband’s hand, who + could live without fear in both your hearts, who could say to all the + world, ‘This is my daughter,’—in short, to be a happy father.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, father! father!” + </p> + <p> + “After infinite difficulty, after searching the whole globe,” continued + Ferragus, “my friends have found me the skin of a dead man in which to + take my place once more in social life. A few days hence, I shall be + Monsieur de Funcal, a Portuguese count. Ah! my dear child, there are few + men of my age who would have had the patience to learn Portuguese and + English, which were spoken fluently by that devil of a sailor, who was + drowned at sea.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear father—” + </p> + <p> + “All has been foreseen, and prepared. A few days hence, his Majesty John + VI., King of Portugal will be my accomplice. My child, you must have a + little patience where your father has had so much. But ah! what would I + not do to reward your devotion for the last three years,—coming + religiously to comfort your old father, at the risk of your own peace!” + </p> + <p> + “Father!” cried Clemence, taking his hands and kissing them. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my child, have courage still; keep my fatal secret a few days + longer, till the end is reached. Jules is not an ordinary man, I know; but + are we sure that his lofty character and his noble love may not impel him + to dislike the daughter of a—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Clemence, “you have read my heart; I have no other fear than + that. The very thought turns me to ice,” she added, in a heart-rending + tone. “But, father, think that I have promised him the truth in two + hours.” + </p> + <p> + “If so, my daughter, tell him to go to the Portuguese embassy and see the + Comte de Funcal, your father. I will be there.” + </p> + <p> + “But Monsieur de Maulincour has told him of Ferragus. Oh, father, what + torture, to deceive, deceive, deceive!” + </p> + <p> + “Need you say that to me? But only a few days more, and no living man will + be able to expose me. Besides, Monsieur de Maulincour is beyond the + faculty of remembering. Come, dry your tears, my silly child, and think—” + </p> + <p> + At this instant a terrible cry rang from the room in which Jules Desmarets + was stationed. + </p> + <p> + The clamor was heard by Madame Jules and Ferragus through the opening of + the wall, and struck them with terror. + </p> + <p> + “Go and see what it means, Clemence,” said her father. + </p> + <p> + Clemence ran rapidly down the little staircase, found the door into Madame + Gruget’s apartment wide open, heard the cries which echoed from the upper + floor, went up the stairs, guided by the noise of sobs, and caught these + words before she entered the fatal chamber:— + </p> + <p> + “You, monsieur, you, with your horrid inventions,—you are the cause + of her death!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, miserable woman!” replied Jules, putting his handkerchief on the + mouth of the old woman, who began at once to cry out, “Murder! help!” + </p> + <p> + At this instant Clemence entered, saw her husband, uttered a cry, and fled + away. + </p> + <p> + “Who will save my child?” cried the widow Gruget. “You have murdered her.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked Jules, mechanically, for he was horror-struck at being seen + by his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Read that,” said the old woman, giving him a letter. “Can money or + annuities console me for that?” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Farewell, mother! I bequeeth you what I have. I beg your pardon + for my forlts, and the last greef to which I put you by ending my + life in the river. Henry, who I love more than myself, says I have + made his misfortune, and as he has drifen me away, and I have lost + all my hops of merrying him, I am going to droun myself. I shall + go abov Neuilly, so that they can’t put me in the Morg. If Henry + does not hate me anny more after I am ded, ask him to berry a pore + girl whose hart beet for him only, and to forgif me, for I did + rong to meddle in what didn’t consern me. Tak care of his wounds. + How much he sufered, pore fellow! I shall have as much corage to + kill myself as he had to burn his bak. Carry home the corsets I + have finished. And pray God for your daughter. +</pre> + <p> + Ida. + </p> + <p> + “Take this letter to Monsieur de Funcal, who is upstairs,” said Jules. “He + alone can save your daughter, if there is still time.” + </p> + <p> + So saying he disappeared, running like a man who has committed a crime. + His legs trembled. The hot blood poured into his swelling heart in + torrents greater than at any other moment of his life, and left it again + with untold violence. Conflicting thoughts struggled in his mind, and yet + one thought predominated,—he had not been loyal to the being he + loved most. It was impossible for him to argue with his conscience, whose + voice, rising high with conviction, came like an echo of those inward + cries of his love during the cruel hours of doubt he had lately lived + through. + </p> + <p> + He spent the greater part of the day wandering about Paris, for he dared + not go home. This man of integrity and honor feared to meet the spotless + brow of the woman he had misjudged. We estimate wrongdoing in proportion + to the purity of our conscience; the deed which is scarcely a fault in + some hearts, takes the proportions of a crime in certain unsullied souls. + The slightest stain on the white garment of a virgin makes it a thing + ignoble as the rags of a mendicant. Between the two the difference lies in + the misfortune of the one, the wrong-doing of the other. God never + measures repentance; he never apportions it. As much is needed to efface a + spot as to obliterate the crimes of a lifetime. These reflections fell + with all their weight on Jules; passions, like human laws, will not + pardon, and their reasoning is more just; for are they not based upon a + conscience of their own as infallible as an instinct? + </p> + <p> + Jules finally came home pale, despondent, crushed beneath a sense of his + wrong-doing, and yet expressing in spite of himself the joy his wife’s + innocence had given him. He entered her room all throbbing with emotion; + she was in bed with a high fever. He took her hand, kissed it, and covered + it with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Dear angel,” he said, when they were alone, “it is repentance.” + </p> + <p> + “And for what?” she answered. + </p> + <p> + As she made that reply, she laid her head back upon the pillow, closed her + eyes, and remained motionless, keeping the secret of her sufferings that + she might not frighten her husband,—the tenderness of a mother, the + delicacy of an angel! All the woman was in her answer. + </p> + <p> + The silence lasted long. Jules, thinking her asleep, went to question + Josephine as to her mistress’s condition. + </p> + <p> + “Madame came home half-dead, monsieur. We sent at once for Monsieur + Haudry.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he come? What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said nothing, monsieur. He did not seem satisfied; gave orders that no + one should go near madame except the nurse, and said he should come back + this evening.” + </p> + <p> + Jules returned softly to his wife’s room and sat down in a chair before + the bed. There he remained, motionless, with his eyes fixed on those of + Clemence. When she raised her eyelids she saw him, and through those lids + passed a tender glance, full of passionate love, free from reproach and + bitterness,—a look which fell like a flame of fire upon the heart of + that husband, nobly absolved and forever loved by the being whom he had + killed. The presentiment of death struck both their minds with equal + force. Their looks were blended in one anguish, as their hearts had long + been blended in one love, felt equally by both, and shared equally. No + questions were uttered; a horrible certainty was there,—in the wife + an absolute generosity; in the husband an awful remorse; then, in both + souls the same vision of the end, the same conviction of fatality. + </p> + <p> + There came a moment when, thinking his wife asleep, Jules kissed her + softly on the forehead; then after long contemplation of that cherished + face, he said:— + </p> + <p> + “Oh God! leave me this angel still a little while that I may blot out my + wrong by love and adoration. As a daughter, she is sublime; as a wife, + what word can express her?” + </p> + <p> + Clemence raised her eyes; they were full of tears. + </p> + <p> + “You pain me,” she said, in a feeble voice. + </p> + <p> + It was getting late; Doctor Haudry came, and requested the husband to + withdraw during his visit. When the doctor left the sick-room Jules asked + him no question; one gesture was enough. + </p> + <p> + “Call in consultation any physician in whom you place confidence; I may be + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, tell me the truth. I am a man, and I can bear it. Besides, I have + the deepest interest in knowing it; I have certain affairs to settle.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Jules is dying,” said the physician. “There is some moral malady + which has made great progress, and it has complicated her physical + condition, which was already dangerous, and made still more so by her + great imprudence. To walk about barefooted at night! to go out when I + forbade it! on foot yesterday in the rain, to-day in a carriage! She must + have meant to kill herself. But still, my judgment is not final; she has + youth, and a most amazing nervous strength. It may be best to risk all to + win all by employing some violent reagent. But I will not take upon myself + to order it; nor will I advise it; in consultation I shall oppose it.” + </p> + <p> + Jules returned to his wife. For eleven days and eleven nights he remained + beside her bed, taking no sleep during the day when he laid his head upon + the foot of the bed. No man ever pushed the jealousy of care and the + craving for devotion to such an extreme as he. He could not endure that + the slightest service should be done by others for his wife. There were + days of uncertainty, false hopes, now a little better, then a crisis,—in + short, all the horrible mutations of death as it wavers, hesitates, and + finally strikes. Madame Jules always found strength to smile at her + husband. She pitied him, knowing that soon he would be alone. It was a + double death,—that of life, that of love; but life grew feebler, and + love grew mightier. One frightful night there was, when Clemence passed + through that delirium which precedes the death of youth. She talked of her + happy love, she talked of her father; she related her mother’s revelations + on her death-bed, and the obligations that mother had laid upon her. She + struggled, not for life, but for her love which she could not leave. + </p> + <p> + “Grant, O God!” she said, “that he may not know I want him to die with + me.” + </p> + <p> + Jules, unable to bear the scene, was at that moment in the adjoining room, + and did not hear the prayer, which he would doubtless have fulfilled. + </p> + <p> + When this crisis was over, Madame Jules recovered some strength. The next + day she was beautiful and tranquil; hope seemed to come to her; she + adorned herself, as the dying often do. Then she asked to be alone all + day, and sent away her husband with one of those entreaties made so + earnestly that they are granted as we grant the prayer of a little child. + </p> + <p> + Jules, indeed, had need of this day. He went to Monsieur de Maulincour to + demand the satisfaction agreed upon between them. It was not without great + difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the presence of the author of + these misfortunes; but the vidame, when he learned that the visit related + to an affair of honor, obeyed the precepts of his whole life, and himself + took Jules into the baron’s chamber. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Desmarets looked about him in search of his antagonist. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! that is really he,” said the vidame, motioning to a man who was + sitting in an arm-chair beside the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it? Jules?” said the dying man in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + Auguste had lost the only faculty that makes us live—memory. Jules + Desmarets recoiled with horror at this sight. He could not even recognize + the elegant young man in that thing without—as Bossuet said—a + name in any language. It was, in truth, a corpse with whitened hair, its + bones scarce covered with a wrinkled, blighted, withered skin,—a + corpse with white eyes motionless, mouth hideously gaping, like those of + idiots or vicious men killed by excesses. No trace of intelligence + remained upon that brow, nor in any feature; nor was there in that flabby + flesh either color or the faintest appearance of circulating blood. Here + was a shrunken, withered creature brought to the state of those monsters + we see preserved in museums, floating in alchohol. Jules fancied that he + saw above that face the terrible head of Ferragus, and his own anger was + silenced by such a vengeance. The husband found pity in his heart for the + vacant wreck of what was once a man. + </p> + <p> + “The duel has taken place,” said the vidame. + </p> + <p> + “But he has killed many,” answered Jules, sorrowfully. + </p> + <p> + “And many dear ones,” added the old man. “His grandmother is dying; and I + shall follow her soon into the grave.” + </p> + <p> + On the morrow of this day, Madame Jules grew worse from hour to hour. She + used a moment’s strength to take a letter from beneath her pillow, and + gave it eagerly to her husband with a sign that was easy to understand,—she + wished to give him, in a kiss, her last breath. He took it, and she died. + Jules fell half-dead himself and was taken to his brother’s house. There, + as he deplored in tears his absence of the day before, his brother told + him that this separation was eagerly desired by Clemence, who wished to + spare him the sight of the religious paraphernalia, so terrible to tender + imaginations, which the Church displays when conferring the last + sacraments upon the dying. + </p> + <p> + “You could not have borne it,” said his brother. “I could hardly bear the + sight myself, and all the servants wept. Clemence was like a saint. She + gathered strength to bid us all good-bye, and that voice, heard for the + last time, rent our hearts. When she asked pardon for the pain she might + unwillingly have caused her servants, there were cries and sobs and—” + </p> + <p> + “Enough! enough!” said Jules. + </p> + <p> + He wanted to be alone, that he might read the last words of the woman whom + all had loved, and who had passed away like a flower. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My beloved, this is my last will. Why should we not make wills + for the treasures of our hearts, as for our worldly property? Was + not my love my property, my all? I mean here to dispose of my + love: it was the only fortune of your Clemence, and it is all that + she can leave you in dying. Jules, you love me still, and I die + happy. The doctors may explain my death as they think best; I + alone know the true cause. I shall tell it to you, whatever pain + it may cause you. I cannot carry with me, in a heart all yours, a + secret which you do not share, although I die the victim of an + enforced silence. + + “Jules, I was nurtured and brought up in the deepest solitude, far + from the vices and the falsehoods of the world, by the loving + woman whom you knew. Society did justice to her conventional + charm, for that is what pleases society; but I knew secretly her + precious soul, I could cherish the mother who made my childhood a + joy without bitterness, and I knew why I cherished her. Was not + that to love doubly? Yes, I loved her, I feared her, I respected + her; yet nothing oppressed my heart, neither fear nor respect. I + was all in all to her; she was all in all to me. For nineteen + happy years, without a care, my soul, solitary amid the world + which muttered round me, reflected only her pure image; my heart + beat for her and through her. I was scrupulously pious; I found + pleasure in being innocent before God. My mother cultivated all + noble and self-respecting sentiments in me. Ah! it gives me + happiness to tell you, Jules, that I now know I was indeed a young + girl, and that I came to you virgin in heart. + + “When I left that absolute solitude, when, for the first time, I + braided my hair and crowned it with almond blossoms, when I added, + with delight, a few satin knots to my white dress, thinking of the + world I was to see, and which I was curious to see—Jules, that + innocent and modest coquetry was done for you! Yes, as I entered + the world, I saw <i>you</i> first of all. Your face, I remarked it; it + stood out from the rest; your person pleased me; your voice, your + manners all inspired me with pleasant presentiments. When you came + up, when you spoke to me, the color on your forehead, the tremble + in your voice,—that moment gave me memories with which I throb as + I now write to you, as I now, for the last time, think of them. + Our love was at first the keenest of sympathies, but it was soon + discovered by each of us and then, as speedily, shared; just as, + in after times, we have both equally felt and shared innumerable + happinesses. From that moment my mother was only second in my + heart. Next, I was yours, all yours. There is my life, and all my + life, dear husband. + + “And here is what remains for me to tell you. One evening, a few + days before my mother’s death, she revealed to me the secret of + her life,—not without burning tears. I have loved you better + since the day I learned from the priest as he absolved my mother + that there are passions condemned by the world and by the Church. + But surely God will not be severe when they are the sins of souls + as tender as that of my mother; only, that dear woman could never + bring herself to repent. She loved much, Jules; she was all love. + So I have prayed daily for her, but never judged her. + + “That night I learned the cause of her deep maternal tenderness; + then I also learned that there was in Paris a man whose life and + whose love centred on me; that your fortune was his doing, and + that he loved you. I learned also that he was exiled from society + and bore a tarnished name; but that he was more unhappy for me, + for us, than for himself. My mother was all his comfort; she was + dying, and I promised to take her place. With all the ardor of a + soul whose feelings had never been perverted, I saw only the + happiness of softening the bitterness of my mother’s last moments, + and I pledged myself to continue her work of secret charity,—the + charity of the heart. The first time that I saw my father was + beside the bed where my mother had just expired. When he raised + his tearful eyes, it was to see in me a revival of his dead hopes. + I had sworn, not to tell a lie, but to keep silence; and that + silence what woman could have broken it? + + “There is my fault, Jules,—a fault which I expiate by death. I + doubted you. But fear is so natural to a woman; above all, a woman + who knows what it is that she may lose. I trembled for our love. + My father’s secret seemed to me the death of my happiness; and the + more I loved, the more I feared. I dared not avow this feeling to + my father; it would have wounded him, and in his situation a wound + was agony. But, without a word from me, he shared my fears. That + fatherly heart trembled for my happiness as much as I trembled for + myself; but it dared not speak, obeying the same delicacy that + kept me mute. Yes, Jules, I believed that you could not love the + daughter of Gratien Bourignard as you loved your Clemence. Without + that terror could I have kept back anything from you,—you who + live in every fold of my heart? + + “The day when that odious, unfortunate young officer spoke to you, + I was forced to lie. That day, for the second time in my life, I + knew what pain was; that pain has steadily increased until this + moment, when I speak with you for the last time. What matters now + my father’s position? You know all. I could, by the help of my + love, have conquered my illness and borne its sufferings; but I + cannot stifle the voice of doubt. Is it not probable that my + origin would affect the purity of your love and weaken it, + diminish it? That fear nothing has been able to quench in me. + There, Jules, is the cause of my death. I cannot live fearing a + word, a look,—a word you may never say, a look you may never + give; but, I cannot help it, I fear them. I die beloved; there is + my consolation. + + “I have known, for the last three years, that my father and his + friends have well-nigh moved the world to deceive the world. That + I might have a station in life, they have bought a dead man, a + reputation, a fortune, so that a living man might live again, + restored; and all this for you, for us. We were never to have + known of it. Well, my death will save my father from that + falsehood, for he will not survive me. + + “Farewell, Jules, my heart is all here. To show you my love in its + agony of fear, is not that bequeathing my whole soul to you? I + could never have the strength to speak to you; I have only enough + to write. I have just confessed to God the sins of my life. I have + promised to fill my mind with the King of Heaven only; but I must + confess to him who is, for me, the whole of earth. Alas! shall I + not be pardoned for this last sigh between the life that was and + the life that shall be? Farewell, my Jules, my loved one! I go to + God, with whom is Love without a cloud, to whom you will follow + me. There, before his throne, united forever, we may love each + other throughout the ages. This hope alone can comfort me. If I am + worthy of being there at once, I will follow you through life. My + soul shall bear your company; it will wrap you about, for <i>you</i> + must stay here still,—ah! here below. Lead a holy life that you + may the more surely come to me. You can do such good upon this + earth! Is it not an angel’s mission for the suffering soul to shed + happiness about him,—to give to others that which he has not? I + bequeath you to the Unhappy. Their smiles, their tears, are the + only ones of which I cannot be jealous. We shall find a charm in + sweet beneficence. Can we not live together still if you would + join my name—your Clemence—in these good works? + + “After loving as we have loved, there is naught but God, Jules. + God does not lie; God never betrays. Adore him only, I charge you! + Lead those who suffer up to him; comfort the sorrowing members of + his Church. Farewell, dear soul that I have filled! I know you; + you will never love again. I may die happy in the thought that + makes all women happy. Yes, my grave will be your heart. After + this childhood I have just related, has not my life flowed on + within that heart? Dead, you will never drive me forth. I am proud + of that rare life! You will know me only in the flower of my + youth; I leave you regrets without disillusions. Jules, it is a + happy death. + + “You, who have so fully understood me, may I ask one thing more of + you,—superfluous request, perhaps, the fulfilment of a woman’s + fancy, the prayer of a jealousy we all must feel,—I pray you to + burn all that especially belonged to <i>us</i>, destroy our chamber, + annihilate all that is a memory of our happiness. + + “Once more, farewell,—the last farewell! It is all love, and so + will be my parting thought, my parting breath.” + </pre> + <p> + When Jules had read that letter there came into his heart one of those + wild frenzies of which it is impossible to describe the awful anguish. All + sorrows are individual; their effects are not subjected to any fixed rule. + Certain men will stop their ears to hear nothing; some women close their + eyes hoping never to see again; great and splendid souls are met with who + fling themselves into sorrow as into an abyss. In the matter of despair, + all is true. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. CONCLUSION + </h2> + <p> + Jules escaped from his brother’s house and returned home, wishing to pass + the night beside his wife, and see till the last moment that celestial + creature. As he walked along with an indifference to life known only to + those who have reached the last degree of wretchedness, he thought of how, + in India, the law ordained that widows should die; he longed to die. He + was not yet crushed; the fever of his grief was still upon him. He reached + his home and went up into the sacred chamber; he saw his Clemence on the + bed of death, beautiful, like a saint, her hair smoothly laid upon her + forehead, her hands joined, her body wrapped already in its shroud. Tapers + were lighted, a priest was praying, Josephine kneeling in a corner, wept, + and, near the bed, were two men. One was Ferragus. He stood erect, + motionless, gazing at his daughter with dry eyes; his head you might have + taken for bronze: he did not see Jules. + </p> + <p> + The other man was Jacquet,—Jacquet, to whom Madame Jules had been + ever kind. Jacquet felt for her one of those respectful friendships which + rejoice the untroubled heart; a gentle passion; love without its desires + and its storms. He had come to pay his debt of tears, to bid a long adieu + to the wife of his friend, to kiss, for the first time, the icy brow of + the woman he had tacitly made his sister. + </p> + <p> + All was silence. Here death was neither terrible as in the churches, nor + pompous as it makes its way along the streets; no, it was death in the + home, a tender death; here were pomps of the heart, tears drawn from the + eyes of all. Jules sat down beside Jacquet and pressed his hand; then, + without uttering a word, all these persons remained as they were till + morning. + </p> + <p> + When daylight paled the tapers, Jacquet, foreseeing the painful scenes + which would then take place, drew Jules away into another room. At this + moment the husband looked at the father, and Ferragus looked at Jules. The + two sorrows arraigned each other, measured each other, and comprehended + each other in that look. A flash of fury shone for an instant in the eyes + of Ferragus. + </p> + <p> + “You killed her,” thought he. + </p> + <p> + “Why was I distrusted?” seemed the answer of the husband. + </p> + <p> + The scene was one that might have passed between two tigers recognizing + the futility of a struggle and, after a moment’s hesitation, turning away, + without even a roar. + </p> + <p> + “Jacquet,” said Jules, “have you attended to everything?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to everything,” replied his friend, “but a man had forestalled me + who had ordered and paid for all.” + </p> + <p> + “He tears his daughter from me!” cried the husband, with the violence of + despair. + </p> + <p> + Jules rushed back to his wife’s room; but the father was there no longer. + Clemence had now been placed in a leaden coffin, and workmen were employed + in soldering the cover. Jules returned, horrified by the sight; the sound + of the hammers the men were using made him mechanically burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Jacquet,” he said, “out of this dreadful night one idea has come to me, + only one, but one I must make a reality at any price. I cannot let + Clemence stay in any cemetery in Paris. I wish to burn her,—to + gather her ashes and keep her with me. Say nothing of this, but manage on + my behalf to have it done. I am going to <i>her</i> chamber, where I shall + stay until the time has come to go. You alone may come in there to tell me + what you have done. Go, and spare nothing.” + </p> + <p> + During the morning, Madame Jules, after lying in a mortuary chapel at the + door of her house, was taken to Saint-Roch. The church was hung with black + throughout. The sort of luxury thus displayed had drawn a crowd; for in + Paris all things are sights, even true grief. There are people who stand + at their windows to see how a son deplores a mother as he follows her + body; there are others who hire commodious seats to see how a head is made + to fall. No people in the world have such insatiate eyes as the Parisians. + On this occasion, inquisitive minds were particularly surprised to see the + six lateral chapels at Saint-Roch also hung in black. Two men in mourning + were listening to a mortuary mass said in each chapel. In the chancel no + other persons but Monsieur Desmarets, the notary, and Jacquet were + present; the servants of the household were outside the screen. To church + loungers there was something inexplicable in so much pomp and so few + mourners. But Jules had been determined that no indifferent persons should + be present at the ceremony. + </p> + <p> + High mass was celebrated with the sombre magnificence of funeral services. + Beside the ministers in ordinary of Saint-Roch, thirteen priests from + other parishes were present. Perhaps never did the <i>Dies irae</i> + produce upon Christians, assembled by chance, by curiosity, and thirsting + for emotions, an effect so profound, so nervously glacial as that now + caused by this hymn when the eight voices of the precentors, accompanied + by the voices of the priests and the choir-boys, intoned it alternately. + From the six lateral chapels twelve other childish voices rose shrilly in + grief, mingling with the choir voices lamentably. From all parts of the + church this mourning issued; cries of anguish responded to the cries of + fear. That terrible music was the voice of sorrows hidden from the world, + of secret friendships weeping for the dead. Never, in any human religion, + have the terrors of the soul, violently torn from the body and stormily + shaken in presence of the fulminating majesty of God, been rendered with + such force. Before that clamor of clamors all artists and their most + passionate compositions must bow humiliated. No, nothing can stand beside + that hymn, which sums all human passions, gives them a galvanic life + beyond the coffin, and leaves them, palpitating still, before the living + and avenging God. These cries of childhood, mingling with the tones of + older voices, including thus in the Song of Death all human life and its + developments, recalling the sufferings of the cradle, swelling to the + griefs of other ages in the stronger male voices and the quavering of the + priests,—all this strident harmony, big with lightning and + thunderbolts, does it not speak with equal force to the daring + imagination, the coldest heart, nay, to philosophers themselves? As we + hear it, we think God speaks; the vaulted arches of no church are mere + material; they have a voice, they tremble, they scatter fear by the might + of their echoes. We think we see unnumbered dead arising and holding out + their hands. It is no more a father, a wife, a child,—humanity + itself is rising from its dust. + </p> + <p> + It is impossible to judge of the catholic, apostolic, and Roman faith, + unless the soul has known that deepest grief of mourning for a loved one + lying beneath the pall; unless it has felt the emotions that fill the + heart, uttered by that Hymn of Despair, by those cries that crush the + mind, by that sacred fear augmenting strophe by strophe, ascending + heavenward, which terrifies, belittles, and elevates the soul, and leaves + within our minds, as the last sound ceases, a consciousness of + immortality. We have met and struggled with the vast idea of the Infinite. + After that, all is silent in the church. No word is said; sceptics + themselves <i>know not what they are feeling</i>. Spanish genius alone was + able to bring this untold majesty to untold griefs. + </p> + <p> + When the solemn ceremony was over, twelve men came from the six chapels + and stood around the coffin to hear the song of hope which the Church + intones for the Christian soul before the human form is buried. Then, each + man entered alone a mourning-coach; Jacquet and Monsieur Desmarets took + the thirteenth; the servants followed on foot. An hour later, they were at + the summit of that cemetery popularly called Pere-Lachaise. The unknown + twelve men stood in a circle round the grave, where the coffin had been + laid in presence of a crowd of loiterers gathered from all parts of this + public garden. After a few short prayers the priest threw a handful of + earth on the remains of this woman, and the grave-diggers, having asked + for their fee, made haste to fill the grave in order to dig another. + </p> + <p> + Here this history seems to end; but perhaps it would be incomplete if, + after giving a rapid sketch of Parisian life, and following certain of its + capricious undulations, the effects of death were omitted. Death in Paris + is unlike death in any other capital; few persons know the trials of true + grief in its struggle with civilization, and the government of Paris. + Perhaps, also, Monsieur Jules and Ferragus XXIII. may have proved + sufficiently interesting to make a few words on their after life not + entirely out of place. Besides, some persons like to be told all, and + wish, as one of our cleverest critics has remarked, to know by what + chemical process oil was made to burn in Aladdin’s lamp. + </p> + <p> + Jacquet, being a government employee, naturally applied to the authorities + for permission to exhume the body of Madame Jules and burn it. He went to + see the prefect of police, under whose protection the dead sleep. That + functionary demanded a petition. The blank was brought that gives to + sorrow its proper administrative form; it was necessary to employ the + bureaucratic jargon to express the wishes of a man so crushed that words, + perhaps, were lacking to him, and it was also necessary to coldly and + briefly repeat on the margin the nature of the request, which was done in + these words: “The petitioner respectfully asks for the incineration of his + wife.” + </p> + <p> + When the official charged with making the report to the Councillor of + State and prefect of police read that marginal note, explaining the object + of the petition, and couched, as requested, in the plainest terms, he + said:— + </p> + <p> + “This is a serious matter! my report cannot be ready under eight days.” + </p> + <p> + Jules, to whom Jacquet was obliged to speak of this delay, comprehended + the words that Ferragus had said in his hearing, “I’ll burn Paris!” + Nothing seemed to him now more natural than to annihilate that receptacle + of monstrous things. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he said to Jacquet, “you must go to the minister of the Interior, + and get your minister to speak to him.” + </p> + <p> + Jacquet went to the minister of the Interior, and asked an audience; it + was granted, but the time appointed was two weeks later. Jacquet was a + persistent man. He travelled from bureau to bureau, and finally reached + the private secretary of the minister of the Interior, to whom he had made + the private secretary of his own minister say a word. These high + protectors aiding, he obtained for the morrow a second interview, in + which, being armed with a line from the autocrat of Foreign affairs to the + pacha of the Interior, Jacquet hoped to carry the matter by assault. He + was ready with reasons, and answers to peremptory questions,—in + short, he was armed at all points; but he failed. + </p> + <p> + “This matter does not concern me,” said the minister; “it belongs to the + prefect of police. Besides, there is no law giving a husband any legal + right to the body of his wife, nor to fathers those of their children. The + matter is serious. There are questions of public utility involved which + will have to be examined. The interests of the city of Paris might suffer. + Therefore if the matter depended on me, which it does not, I could not + decide <i>hic et nunc</i>; I should require a report.” + </p> + <p> + A <i>report</i> is to the present system of administration what limbo or + hades is to Christianity. Jacquet knew very well the mania for “reports”; + he had not waited until this occasion to groan at that bureaucratic + absurdity. He knew that since the invasion into public business of the <i>Report</i> + (an administrative revolution consummated in 1804) there was never known a + single minister who would take upon himself to have an opinion or to + decide the slightest matter, unless that opinion or matter had been + winnowed, sifted, and plucked to bits by the paper-spoilers, + quill-drivers, and splendid intellects of his particular bureau. Jacquet—he + was one of those who are worthy of Plutarch as biographer—saw that + he had made a mistake in his management of the affair, and had, in fact, + rendered it impossible by trying to proceed legally. The thing he should + have done was to have taken Madame Jules to one of Desmaret’s estates in + the country; and there, under the good-natured authority of some village + mayor to have gratified the sorrowful longing of his friend. Law, + constitutional and administrative, begets nothing; it is a barren monster + for peoples, for kings, and for private interests. But the peoples + decipher no principles but those that are writ in blood, and the evils of + legality will always be pacific; it flattens a nation down, that is all. + Jacquet, a man of modern liberty, returned home reflecting on the benefits + of arbitrary power. + </p> + <p> + When he went with his report to Jules, he found it necessary to deceive + him, for the unhappy man was in a high fever, unable to leave his bed. The + minister of the Interior mentioned, at a ministerial dinner that same + evening, the singular fancy of a Parisian in wishing to burn his wife + after the manner of the Romans. The clubs of Paris took up the subject, + and talked for a while of the burials of antiquity. Ancient things were + just then becoming a fashion, and some persons declared that it would be a + fine thing to re-establish, for distinguished persons, the funeral pyre. + This opinion had its defenders and its detractors. Some said that there + were too many such personages, and the price of wood would be enormously + increased by such a custom; moreover, it would be absurd to see our + ancestors in their urns in the procession at Longchamps. And if the urns + were valuable, they were likely some day to be sold at auction, full of + respectable ashes, or seized by creditors,—a race of men who + respected nothing. The other side made answer that our ancestors were much + safer in urns than at Pere-Lachaise, for before very long the city of + Paris would be compelled to order a Saint-Bartholomew against its dead, + who were invading the neighboring country, and threatening to invade the + territory of Brie. It was, in short, one of those futile but witty + discussions which sometimes cause deep and painful wounds. Happily for + Jules, he knew nothing of the conversations, the witty speeches, and + arguments which his sorrow had furnished to the tongues of Paris. + </p> + <p> + The prefect of police was indignant that Monsieur Jacquet had appealed to + a minister to avoid the wise delays of the commissioners of the public + highways; for the exhumation of Madame Jules was a question belonging to + that department. The police bureau was doing its best to reply promptly to + the petition; one appeal was quite sufficient to set the office in motion, + and once in motion matters would go far. But as for the administration, + that might take the case before the Council of state,—a machine very + difficult indeed to move. + </p> + <p> + After the second day Jacquet was obliged to tell his friend that he must + renounce his desire, because, in a city where the number of tears shed on + black draperies is tariffed, where the laws recognize seven classes of + funerals, where the scrap of ground to hold the dead is sold at its weight + in silver, where grief is worked for what it is worth, where the prayers + of the Church are costly, and the vestry claim payment for extra voices in + the <i>Dies irae</i>,—all attempt to get out of the rut prescribed + by the authorities for sorrow is useless and impossible. + </p> + <p> + “It would have been to me,” said Jules, “a comfort in my misery. I meant + to have died away from here, and I hoped to hold her in my arms in a + distant grave. I did not know that bureaucracy could send its claws into + our very coffins.” + </p> + <p> + He now wished to see if room had been left for him beside his wife. The + two friends went to the cemetery. When they reached it they found (as at + the doors of museums, galleries, and coach-offices) <i>ciceroni</i>, who + proposed to guide them through the labyrinth of Pere-Lachaise. Neither + Jules nor Jacquet could have found the spot where Clemence lay. Ah, + frightful anguish! They went to the lodge to consult the porter of the + cemetery. The dead have a porter, and there are hours when the dead are + “not receiving.” It is necessary to upset all the rules and regulations of + the upper and lower police to obtain permission to weep at night, in + silence and solitude, over the grave where a loved one lies. There’s a + rule for summer and a rule for winter about this. + </p> + <p> + Certainly, of all the porters in Paris, the porter of Pere-Lachaise is the + luckiest. In the first place, he has no gate-cord to pull; then, instead + of a lodge, he has a house,—an establishment which is not quite + ministerial, although a vast number of persons come under his + administration, and a good many employees. And this governor of the dead + has a salary, with emoluments, and acts under powers of which none + complain; he plays despot at his ease. His lodge is not a place of + business, though it has departments where the book-keeping of receipts, + expenses, and profits, is carried on. The man is not a <i>suisse</i>, nor + a concierge, nor actually a porter. The gate which admits the dead stands + wide open; and though there are monuments and buildings to be cared for, + he is not a care-taker. In short, he is an indefinable anomaly, an + authority which participates in all, and yet is nothing,—an + authority placed, like the dead on whom it is based, outside of all. + Nevertheless, this exceptional man grows out of the city of Paris,—that + chimerical creation like the ship which is its emblem, that creature of + reason moving on a thousand paws which are seldom unanimous in motion. + </p> + <p> + This guardian of the cemetery may be called a concierge who has reached + the condition of a functionary, not soluble by dissolution! His place is + far from being a sinecure. He does not allow any one to be buried without + a permit; he must count his dead. He points out to you in this vast field + the six feet square of earth where you will one day put all you love, or + all you hate, a mistress, or a cousin. Yes, remember this: all the + feelings and emotions of Paris come to end here, at this porter’s lodge, + where they are administrationized. This man has registers in which his + dead are booked; they are in their graves, and also on his records. He has + under him keepers, gardeners, grave-diggers, and their assistants. He is a + personage. Mourning hearts do not speak to him at first. He does not + appear at all except in serious cases, such as one corpse mistaken for + another, a murdered body, an exhumation, a dead man coming to life. The + bust of the reigning king is in his hall; possibly he keeps the late + royal, imperial, and quasi-royal busts in some cupboard,—a sort of + little Pere-Lachaise all ready for revolutions. In short, he is a public + man, an excellent man, good husband and good father,—epitaph apart. + But so many diverse sentiments have passed before him on biers; he has + seen so many tears, true and false; he has beheld sorrow under so many + aspects and on so many faces; he has heard such endless thousands of + eternal woes,—that to him sorrow has come to be nothing more than a + stone an inch thick, four feet long, and twenty-four inches wide. As for + regrets, they are the annoyances of his office; he neither breakfasts nor + dines without first wiping off the rain of an inconsolable affliction. He + is kind and tender to other feelings; he will weep over a stage-hero, over + Monsieur Germeuil in the “Auberge des Adrets,” the man with the + butter-colored breeches, murdered by Macaire; but his heart is ossified in + the matter of real dead men. Dead men are ciphers, numbers, to him; it is + his business to organize death. Yet he does meet, three times in a + century, perhaps, with an occasion when his part becomes sublime, and then + he <i>is</i> sublime through every hour of his day,—in times of + pestilence. + </p> + <p> + When Jacquet approached him this absolute monarch was evidently out of + temper. + </p> + <p> + “I told you,” he was saying, “to water the flowers from the rue Massena to + the place Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angely. You paid no attention to me! <i>Sac-a-papier</i>! + suppose the relations should take it into their heads to come here to-day + because the weather is fine, what would they say to me? They’d shriek as + if they were burned; they’d say horrid things of us, and calumniate us—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Jacquet, “we want to know where Madame Jules is buried.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Jules <i>who</i>?” he asked. “We’ve had three Madame Jules within + the last week. Ah,” he said, interrupting himself, “here comes the funeral + of Monsieur le Baron de Maulincour! A fine procession, that! He has soon + followed his grandmother. Some families, when they begin to go, rattle + down like a wager. Lots of bad blood in Parisians.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Jacquet, touching him on the arm, “the person I spoke of + is Madame Jules Desmarets, the wife of the broker of that name.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I know!” he replied, looking at Jacquet. “Wasn’t it a funeral with + thirteen mourning coaches, and only one mourner in the twelve first? It + was so droll we all noticed it—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, take care, Monsieur Desmarets is with me; he might hear you, + and what you say is not seemly.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon, monsieur! you are quite right. Excuse me, I took you for + heirs. Monsieur,” he continued, after consulting a plan of the cemetery, + “Madame Jules is in the rue Marechal Lefebre, alley No. 4, between + Mademoiselle Raucourt, of the Comedie-Francaise, and Monsieur + Moreau-Malvin, a butcher, for whom a handsome tomb in white marble has + been ordered, which will be one of the finest in the cemetery—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Jacquet, interrupting him, “that does not help us.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said the official, looking round him. “Jean,” he cried, to a man + whom he saw at a little distance, “conduct these gentlemen to the grave of + Madame Jules Desmarets, the broker’s wife. You know where it is,—near + to Mademoiselle Raucourt, the tomb where there’s a bust.” + </p> + <p> + The two friends followed the guide; but they did not reach the steep path + which leads to the upper part of the cemetery without having to pass + through a score of proposals and requests, made, with honied softness, by + the touts of marble-workers, iron-founders, and monumental sculptors. + </p> + <p> + “If monsieur would like to order <i>something</i>, we would do it on the + most reasonable terms.” + </p> + <p> + Jacquet was fortunate enough to be able to spare his friend the hearing of + these proposals so agonizing to bleeding hearts; and presently they + reached the resting-place. When Jules beheld the earth so recently dug, + into which the masons had stuck stakes to mark the place for the stone + posts required to support the iron railing, he turned, and leaned upon + Jacquet’s shoulder, raising himself now and again to cast long glances at + the clay mound where he was forced to leave the remains of the being in + and by whom he still lived. + </p> + <p> + “How miserably she lies there!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But she is not there,” said Jacquet, “she is in your memory. Come, let us + go; let us leave this odious cemetery, where the dead are adorned like + women for a ball.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we take her away?” + </p> + <p> + “Can it be done?” + </p> + <p> + “All things can be done!” cried Jules. “So, I shall lie there,” he added, + after a pause. “There is room enough.” + </p> + <p> + Jacquet finally succeeded in getting him to leave the great enclosure, + divided like a chessboard by iron railings and elegant compartments, in + which were tombs decorated with palms, inscriptions, and tears as cold as + the stones on which sorrowing hearts had caused to be carved their regrets + and coats of arms. Many good words are there engraved in black letters, + epigrams reproving the curious, <i>concetti</i>, wittily turned farewells, + rendezvous given at which only one side appears, pretentious biographies, + glitter, rubbish and tinsel. Here the floriated thyrsus, there a + lance-head, farther on Egyptian urns, now and then a few cannon; on all + sides the emblems of professions, and every style of art,—Moorish, + Greek, Gothic,—friezes, ovules, paintings, vases, guardian-angels, + temples, together with innumerable <i>immortelles</i>, and dead + rose-bushes. It is a forlorn comedy! It is another Paris, with its + streets, its signs, its industries, and its lodgings; but a Paris seen + through the diminishing end of an opera-glass, a microscopic Paris reduced + to the littleness of shadows, spectres, dead men, a human race which no + longer has anything great about it, except its vanity. There Jules saw at + his feet, in the long valley of the Seine, between the slopes of Vaugirard + and Meudon and those of Belleville and Montmartre, the real Paris, wrapped + in a misty blue veil produced by smoke, which the sunlight tendered at + that moment diaphanous. He glanced with a constrained eye at those forty + thousand houses, and said, pointing to the space comprised between the + column of the Place Vendome and the gilded cupola of the Invalides:— + </p> + <p> + “She was wrenched from me there by the fatal curiosity of that world which + excites itself and meddles solely for excitement and occupation.” + </p> + <p> + Twelve miles from where they were, on the banks of the Seine, in a modest + village lying on the slope of a hill of that long hilly basin the middle + of which great Paris stirs like a child in its cradle, a death scene was + taking place, far indeed removed from Parisian pomps, with no + accompaniment of torches or tapers or mourning-coaches, without prayers of + the Church, in short, a death in all simplicity. Here are the facts: The + body of a young girl was found early in the morning, stranded on the + river-bank in the slime and reeds of the Seine. Men employed in dredging + sand saw it as they were getting into their frail boat on their way to + their work. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tiens</i>! fifty francs earned!” said one of them. + </p> + <p> + “True,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + They approached the body. + </p> + <p> + “A handsome girl! We had better go and make our statement.” + </p> + <p> + And the two dredgers, after covering the body with their jackets, went to + the house of the village mayor, who was much embarrassed at having to make + out the legal papers necessitated by this discovery. + </p> + <p> + The news of this event spread with the telegraphic rapidity peculiar to + regions where social communications have no distractions, where gossip, + scandal, calumny, in short, the social tale which feasts the world has no + break of continuity from one boundary to another. Before long, persons + arriving at the mayor’s office released him from all embarrassment. They + were able to convert the <i>proces-verbal</i> into a mere certificate of + death, by recognizing the body as that of the Demoiselle Ida Gruget, + corset-maker, living rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14. The + judiciary police of Paris arrived, and the mother, bearing her daughter’s + last letter. Amid the mother’s moans, a doctor certified to death by + asphyxia, through the injection of black blood into the pulmonary system,—which + settled the matter. The inquest over, and the certificates signed, by six + o’clock the same evening authority was given to bury the grisette. The + rector of the parish, however, refused to receive her into the church or + to pray for her. Ida Gruget was therefore wrapped in a shroud by an old + peasant-woman, put into a common pine-coffin, and carried to the village + cemetery by four men, followed by a few inquisitive peasant-women, who + talked about the death with wonder mingled with some pity. + </p> + <p> + The widow Gruget was charitably taken in by an old lady who prevented her + from following the sad procession of her daughter’s funeral. A man of + triple functions, the bell-ringer, beadle, and grave-digger of the parish, + had dug a grave in the half-acre cemetery behind the church,—a + church well known, a classic church, with a square tower and pointed roof + covered with slate, supported on the outside by strong corner buttresses. + Behind the apse of the chancel, lay the cemetery, enclosed with a + dilapidated wall,—a little field full of hillocks; no marble + monuments, no visitors, but surely in every furrow, tears and true + regrets, which were lacking to Ida Gruget. She was cast into a corner full + of tall grass and brambles. After the coffin had been laid in this field, + so poetic in its simplicity, the grave-digger found himself alone, for + night was coming on. While filling the grave, he stopped now and then to + gaze over the wall along the road. He was standing thus, resting on his + spade, and looking at the Seine, which had brought him the body. + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” cried the voice of a man who suddenly appeared. + </p> + <p> + “How you made me jump, monsieur,” said the grave-digger. + </p> + <p> + “Was any service held over the body you are burying?” + </p> + <p> + “No, monsieur. Monsieur le cure wasn’t willing. This is the first person + buried here who didn’t belong to the parish. Everybody knows everybody + else in this place. Does monsieur—Why, he’s gone!” + </p> + <p> + Some days had elapsed when a man dressed in black called at the house of + Monsieur Jules Desmarets, and without asking to see him carried up to the + chamber of his wife a large porphyry vase, on which were inscribed the + words:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + INVITA LEGE + CONJUGI MOERENTI + FILIOLAE CINERES + RESTITUIT + AMICIS XII. JUVANTIBUS + MORIBUNDUS PATER. +</pre> + <p> + “What a man!” cried Jules, bursting into tears. + </p> + <p> + Eight days sufficed the husband to obey all the wishes of his wife, and to + arrange his own affairs. He sold his practice to a brother of Martin + Falleix, and left Paris while the authorities were still discussing + whether it was lawful for a citizen to dispose of the body of his wife. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Who has not encountered on the boulevards of Paris, at the turn of a + street, or beneath the arcades of the Palais-Royal, or in any part of the + world where chance may offer him the sight, a being, man or woman, at + whose aspect a thousand confused thoughts spring into his mind? At that + sight we are suddenly interested, either by features of some fantastic + conformation which reveal an agitated life, or by a singular effect of the + whole person, produced by gestures, air, gait, clothes; or by some deep, + intense look; or by other inexpressible signs which seize our minds + suddenly and forcibly without our being able to explain even to ourselves + the cause of our emotion. The next day other thoughts and other images + have carried out of sight that passing dream. But if we meet the same + personage again, either passing at some fixed hour, like the clerk of a + mayor’s office, or wandering about the public promenades, like those + individuals who seem to be a sort of furniture of the streets of Paris, + and who are always to be found in public places, at first representations + or noted restaurants,—then this being fastens himself or herself on + our memory, and remains there like the first volume of a novel the end of + which is lost. We are tempted to question this unknown person, and say, + “Who are you?” “Why are you lounging here?” “By what right do you wear + that pleated ruffle, that faded waistcoat, and carry that cane with an + ivory top; why those blue spectacles; for what reason do you cling to that + cravat of a dead and gone fashion?” Among these wandering creations some + belong to the species of the Greek Hermae; they say nothing to the soul; + <i>they are there</i>, and that is all. Why? is known to none. Such figure + are a type of those used by sculptors for the four Seasons, for Commerce, + for Plenty, etc. Some others—former lawyers, old merchants, elderly + generals—move and walk, and yet seem stationary. Like old trees that + are half uprooted by the current of a river, they seem never to take part + in the torrent of Paris, with its youthful, active crowd. It is impossible + to know if their friends have forgotten to bury them, or whether they have + escaped out of their coffins. At any rate, they have reached the condition + of semi-fossils. + </p> + <p> + One of these Parisian Melmoths had come within a few days into a + neighborhood of sober, quiet people, who, when the weather is fine, are + invariably to be found in the space which lies between the south entrance + of the Luxembourg and the north entrance of the Observatoire,—a + space without a name, the neutral space of Paris. There, Paris is no + longer; and there, Paris still lingers. The spot is a mingling of street, + square, boulevard, fortification, garden, avenue, high-road, province, and + metropolis; certainly, all of that is to be found there, and yet the place + is nothing of all that,—it is a desert. Around this spot without a + name stand the Foundling hospital, the Bourbe, the Cochin hospital, the + Capucines, the hospital La Rochefoucauld, the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, the + hospital of the Val-de-Grace; in short, all the vices and all the + misfortunes of Paris find their asylum there. And (that nothing may lack + in this philanthropic centre) Science there studies the tides and + longitudes, Monsieur de Chateaubriand has erected the Marie-Therese + Infirmary, and the Carmelites have founded a convent. The great events of + life are represented by bells which ring incessantly through this desert,—for + the mother giving birth, for the babe that is born, for the vice that + succumbs, for the toiler who dies, for the virgin who prays, for the old + man shaking with cold, for genius self-deluded. And a few steps off is the + cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, where, hour after hour, the sorry funerals of + the faubourg Saint-Marceau wend their way. This esplanade, which commands + a view of Paris, has been taken possession of by bowl-players; it is, in + fact, a sort of bowling green frequented by old gray faces, belonging to + kindly, worthy men, who seem to continue the race of our ancestors, whose + countenances must only be compared with those of their surroundings. + </p> + <p> + The man who had become, during the last few days, an inhabitant of this + desert region, proved an assiduous attendant at these games of bowls; and + must, undoubtedly, be considered the most striking creature of these + various groups, who (if it is permissible to liken Parisians to the + different orders of zoology) belonged to the genus mollusk. The new-comer + kept sympathetic step with the <i>cochonnet</i>,—the little bowl + which serves as a goal and on which the interest of the game must centre. + He leaned against a tree when the <i>cochonnet</i> stopped; then, with the + same attention that a dog gives to his master’s gestures, he looked at the + other bowls flying through the air, or rolling along the ground. You might + have taken him for the weird and watchful genii of the <i>cochonnet</i>. + He said nothing; and the bowl-players—the most fanatic men that can + be encountered among the sectarians of any faith—had never asked the + reason of his dogged silence; in fact, the most observing of them thought + him deaf and dumb. + </p> + <p> + When it happened that the distances between the bowls and the <i>cochonnet</i> + had to be measured, the cane of this silent being was used as a measure, + the players coming up and taking it from the icy hands of the old man and + returning it without a word or even a sign of friendliness. The loan of + his cane seemed a servitude to which he had negatively consented. When a + shower fell, he stayed near the <i>cochonnet</i>, the slave of the bowls, + and the guardian of the unfinished game. Rain affected him no more than + the fine weather did; he was, like the players themselves, an intermediary + species between a Parisian who has the lowest intellect of his kind and an + animal which has the highest. + </p> + <p> + In other respects, pallid and shrunken, indifferent to his own person, + vacant in mind, he often came bareheaded, showing his sparse white hair, + and his square, yellow, bald skull, like the knee of a beggar seen through + his tattered trousers. His mouth was half-open, no ideas were in his + glance, no precise object appeared in his movements; he never smiled; he + never raised his eyes to heaven, but kept them habitually on the ground, + where he seemed to be looking for something. At four o’clock an old woman + arrived, to take him Heaven knows where; which she did by towing him along + by the arm, as a young girl drags a wilful goat which still wants to + browse by the wayside. This old man was a horrible thing to see. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon of the day when Jules Desmarets left Paris, his + travelling-carriage, in which he was alone, passed rapidly through the rue + de l’Est, and came out upon the esplanade of the Observatoire at the + moment when the old man, leaning against a tree, had allowed his cane to + be taken from his hand amid the noisy vociferations of the players, + pacifically irritated. Jules, thinking that he recognized that face, felt + an impulse to stop, and at the same instant the carriage came to a + standstill; for the postilion, hemmed in by some handcarts, had too much + respect for the game to call upon the players to make way for him. + </p> + <p> + “It is he!” said Jules, beholding in that human wreck, Ferragus XXIII., + chief of the Devorants. Then, after a pause, he added, “How he loved her!—Go + on, postilion.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ADDENDUM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Note: Ferragus is the first part of a trilogy. Part two is + entitled The Duchesse de Langeais and part three is The Girl with + the Golden Eyes. In other addendum references all three stories + are usually combined under the title The Thirteen. +</pre> + <p> + The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bourignard, Gratien-Henri-Victor-Jean-Joseph + The Girl with the Golden Eyes + + Desmartes, Jules + Cesar Birotteau + + Desmartes, Madame Jules + Cesar Birotteau + + Desplein + The Atheist’s Mass + Cousin Pons + Lost Illusions + The Government Clerks + Pierrette + A Bachelor’s Establishment + The Seamy Side of History + Modeste Mignon + Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life + Honorine + + Gruget, Madame Etienne + The Government Clerks + A Bachelor’s Establishment + + Haudry (doctor) + Cesar Birotteau + A Bachelor’s Establishment + The Seamy Side of History + Cousin Pons + + Langeais, Duchesse Antoinette de + Father Goriot + The Duchesse of Langeais + + Marsay, Henri de + The Duchesse of Langeais + The Girl with the Golden Eyes + The Unconscious Humorists + Another Study of Woman + The Lily of the Valley + Father Goriot + Jealousies of a Country Town + Ursule Mirouet + A Marriage Settlement + Lost Illusions + A Distinguished Provincial at Paris + Letters of Two Brides + The Ball at Sceaux + Modeste Mignon + The Secrets of a Princess + The Gondreville Mystery + A Daughter of Eve + + Maulincour, Baronne de + A Marriage Settlement + + Meynardie, Madame + Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life + + Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de + Father Goriot + Eugenie Grandet + Cesar Birotteau + Melmoth Reconciled + Lost Illusions + A Distinguished Provincial at Paris + The Commission in Lunacy + Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life + Modeste Mignon + The Firm of Nucingen + Another Study of Woman + A Daughter of Eve + The Member for Arcis + + Pamiers, Vidame de + The Duchesse of Langeais + Jealousies of a Country Town + + Ronquerolles, Marquis de + The Imaginary Mistress + The Duchess of Langeais + The Girl with the Golden Eyes + The Peasantry + Ursule Mirouet + A Woman of Thirty + Another Study of Woman + The Member for Arcis + + Serizy, Comtesse de + A Start in Life + The Duchesse of Langeais + Ursule Mirouet + A Woman of Thirty + Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life + Another Study of Woman + The Imaginary Mistress +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ferragus, by Honore de Balzac + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FERRAGUS *** + +***** This file should be named 1649-h.htm or 1649-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/4/1649/ + +Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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