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      The Ink Stain by Rene Bazin, by Rene Bazin
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ink-Stain, Complete, by Rene Bazin

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Title: The Ink-Stain, Complete

Author: Rene Bazin

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</pre>

    <h1>
      THE INK STAIN
    </h1>
    <h3>
      (Tache d&rsquo;Encre)
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Rene Bazin
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> RENE BAZIN </a><br /><br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>THE ACCIDENT <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>THE JUNIAN LATINS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>AN APOLOGY <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>THE STORY OF SYLVESTRE <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>A FRUITLESS SEARCH <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>THE FLOWER-SHOW <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>A WOODLAND SKETCH <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>JOY AND MADNESS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>A VISIT FROM MY UNCLE <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>A FAMILY BREACH <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>IN THE BEATEN PATH <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>I GO TO ITALY <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>STARTLING NEWS FROM SYLVESTRE
        <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>A SURPRISING
        ENCOUNTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> <b>BOOK 3.</b> </a> <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>BACK TO PARIS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND
        <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>PLEASURES OF
        EAVESDROPPING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. &nbsp;&nbsp;</a>A
        COOL RECEPTION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>JEANNE
        THE ENCHANTRESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>A
        HAPPY FAMILY <br /><br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RENE BAZIN
    </h2>
    <p>
      RENE-NICHOLAS-MARIE BAZIN was born at Angers, December 26, 1853. He
      studied for the bar, became a lawyer and professor of jurisprudence at the
      Catholic University in his native city, and early contributed to &lsquo;Le
      Correspondant, L&rsquo;Illustration, Journal des Debats, Revue du Deux Mondes,&rsquo; 
      etc. Although quietly writing fiction for the last fifteen years or so, he
      was not well known until the dawn of the twentieth century, when his moral
      studies of provincial life under the form of novels and romances became
      appreciated. He is a profound psychologist, a force in literature, and his
      style is very pure and attractive. He advocates resignation and the
      domestic virtues, yet his books are neither dull, nor tiresome, nor
      priggish; and as he has advanced in years and experience M. Bazin has
      shown an increasing ambition to deal with larger problems than are
      involved for instance, in the innocent love-affairs of &lsquo;Ma Tante Giron&rsquo; 
      (1886), a book which enraptured Ludovic Halevy. His novel, &lsquo;Une Tache
      d&rsquo;Encre&rsquo; (1888), a romance of scholarly life, was crowned by the French
      Academy, to which he was elected in 1903.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is safe to say that Bazin will never develop into an author dangerous
      to morals. His works may be put into the hands of cloistered virgins, and
      there are not, to my knowledge, many other contemporary French imaginative
      writers who could endure this stringent test. Some critics, indeed, while
      praising him, scoff at his chaste and surprising optimism; but it is
      refreshing to recommend to English readers, in these days of Realism and
      Naturalism, the works of a recent French writer which do not require
      maturity of years in the reader. &lsquo;Une Tache d&rsquo;Encre&rsquo;, as I have said, was
      crowned by the French Academy; and Bazin received from the same exalted
      body the &ldquo;Prix Vitet&rdquo; for the ensemble of his writings in 1896, being
      finally admitted a member of the Academy in June, 1903. He occupies the
      chair of Ernest Legouve.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bazin&rsquo;s first romance, &lsquo;Stephanette&rsquo;, was published under the pseudonym
      &ldquo;Bernard Seigny,&rdquo; in 1884; then followed &lsquo;Victor Pavie (1887); Noellet
      (1890); A l&rsquo;Aventure (1891) and Sicile (1892)&rsquo;, two books on Italy, of
      which the last mentioned was likewise crowned by the French Academy; &lsquo;La
      Legende de Sainte-Bega (1892); La Sarcelle Bleue (1892); Madame Corentine
      (1893); Les Italiens d&rsquo;aujourd&rsquo;hui (1894); Humble Amour (1894); En
      Province (1896); De toute son Ame (1897)&rsquo;, a realistic but moderate
      romance of a workingman&rsquo;s life; &lsquo;Les Contes de Perrette (1898); La Terre
      qui Meurt (1899); Le Guide de l&rsquo;Empereur (1901); Les Oberle (1902), a tale
      from Alsace of to-day, sketching the political situation, approximately
      correct, and lately adapted for the stage; &lsquo;Donatienne&rsquo; (1903).
    </p>
    <p>
      With Bazin literary life does not become a mirage obscuring the vision of
      real life. Before being an author Rene Bazin is a man, with a family
      attached to the country, rooted in the soil; a guaranty of the dignity of
      his work as well as of the writer, and a safeguard against many
      extravagances. He has remained faithful to his province. He lives in the
      attractive city of Angers. When he leaves it, it is for a little tour
      through France, or a rare journey-once to Sicily and once to Spain. He is
      seldom to be met on the Parisian boulevards. Not that he has any prejudice
      against Paris, or fails to appreciate the tone of its society, or the
      quality of its diversions; but he is conscious that he has nothing to gain
      from a residence in the capital, but, on the contrary, would run a risk of
      losing his intense originality and the freshness of his genius.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  E. LAVISSE
               de l&rsquo;Academie Francaise.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE INK-STAIN
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 1.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. THE ACCIDENT
    </h2>
    <p>
      All I have to record of the first twenty-three years of my life is the
      enumeration of them. A simple bead-roll is enough; it represents their
      family likeness and family monotony.
    </p>
    <p>
      I lost my parents when I was very young. I can hardly recall their faces;
      and I should keep no memories of La Chatre, our home, had I not been
      brought up quite close to it. It was sold, however, and lost to me, like
      all the rest. Yes, fate is hard, sometimes. I was born at La Chatre; the
      college of La Chatre absorbed eighteen years of my life. Our head master
      used to remark that college is a second home; whereby I have always
      fancied he did some injustice to the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      My school-days were hardly over when my uncle and guardian, M. Brutus
      Mouillard, solicitor, of Bourges, packed me off to Paris to go through my
      law course. I took three years over it: At the end of that time, just
      eighteen months ago, I became a licentiate, and &ldquo;in the said capacity&rdquo;&mdash;as
      my uncle would say took an oath that transformed me into a probationary
      barrister. Every Monday, regularly, I go to sign my name among many others
      on an attendance list, and thereby, it appears, I am establishing a claim
      upon the confidence of the widow and the orphan.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the intervals of my legal studies I have succeeded in taking my Arts
      Degree. At present I am seeking that of Doctor of Law. My examinations
      have been passed meritoriously, but without brilliance; my tastes run too
      much after letters. My professor, M. Flamaran, once told me the truth of
      the matter: &ldquo;Law, young man, is a jealous mistress; she allows no divided
      affection.&rdquo; Are my affections divided? I think not, and I certainly do not
      confess any such thing to M. Mouillard, who has not yet forgotten what he
      calls &ldquo;that freak&rdquo; of a Degree in Arts. He builds some hopes upon me, and,
      in return, it is natural that I should build a few upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Really, that sums up all my past: two certificates! A third diploma in
      prospect and an uncle to leave me his money&mdash;that is my future. Can
      anything more commonplace be imagined?
    </p>
    <p>
      I may add that I never felt any temptation at all to put these things on
      record until to-day, the tenth of December, 1884. Nothing had ever
      happened to me; my history was a blank. I might have died thus. But who
      can foresee life&rsquo;s sudden transformations? Who can foretell that the
      skein, hitherto so tranquilly unwound, will not suddenly become tangled?
      This afternoon a serious adventure befell me. It agitated me at the time,
      and it agitates me still more upon reflection. A voice within me whispers
      that this cause will have a series of effects, that I am on the threshold
      of an epoch, or, as the novelists say, a crisis in my existence. It has
      struck me that I owe it to myself to write my Memoirs, and that is the
      reason why I have just purchased this brown memorandum-book in the Odeon
      Arcade. I intend to make a detailed and particular entry of the event,
      and, as time goes on, of its consequences, if any should happen to flow
      from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Flow from it&rdquo; is just the phrase; for it has to do with a blot of ink.
    </p>
    <p>
      My blot of ink is hardly dry. It is a large one, too; of abnormal shape,
      and altogether monstrous, whether one considers it from the physical side
      or studies it in its moral bearings. It is very much more than an
      accident; it has something of the nature of an outrage. It was at the
      National Library that I perpetrated it, and upon&mdash;But I must not
      anticipate.
    </p>
    <p>
      I often work in the National Library; not in the main hall, but in that
      reserved for literary men who have a claim, and are provided with a
      ticket, to use it. I never enter it without a gentle thrill, in which
      respect is mingled with satisfied vanity. For not every one who chooses
      may walk in. I must pass before the office of the porter, who retains my
      umbrella, before I make my way to the solemn beadle who sits just inside
      the doorway&mdash;a double precaution, attesting to the majesty of the
      place. The beadle knows me. He no longer demands my ticket. To be sure, I
      am not yet one of those old acquaintances on whom he smiles; but I am no
      longer reckoned among those novices whose passport he exacts. An
      inclination of his head makes me free of the temple, and says, as plainly
      as words, &ldquo;You are one of us, albeit a trifle young. Walk in, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And in I walk, and admire on each occasion the vast proportions of the
      interior, the severe decoration of the walls, traced with broad foliated
      pattern and wainscoted with books of reference as high as hand can reach;
      the dread tribunal of librarians and keepers in session down yonder, on a
      kind of judgment-seat, at the end of the avenue whose carpet deadens all
      footsteps; and behind again, that holy of holies where work the doubly
      privileged&mdash;the men, I imagine, who are members of two or three
      academies. To right and left of this avenue are rows of tables and
      armchairs, where scatters, as caprice has chosen and habit consecrated,
      the learned population of the library. Men form the large majority. Viewed
      from the rear, as they bend over their work, they suggest reflections on
      the ravages wrought by study upon hair-clad cuticles. For every hirsute
      Southerner whose locks turn gray without dropping off, heavens, what a
      regiment of bald heads! Visitors who look in through the glass doors see
      only this aspect of devastation. It gives a wrong impression. Here and
      there, at haphazard, you may find a few women among these men. George Sand
      used to come here. I don&rsquo;t know the names of these successors of hers, nor
      their business; I have merely observed that they dress in sober colors,
      and that each carries a number of shawls and a thick veil. You feel that
      love is far from their thoughts. They have left it outside, perhaps&mdash;with
      the porter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several of these learned folk lift their heads as I pass, and follow me
      with the dulled eye of the student, an eye still occupied with the written
      thought and inattentive to what it looks on. Then, suddenly, remorse
      seizes them for their distraction, they are annoyed with me, a gloomy
      impatience kindles in their look, and each plunges anew into his open
      volume. But I have had time to guess their secret ejaculations: &ldquo;I am
      studying the Origin of Trade Guilds!&rdquo; &ldquo;I, the Reign of Louis the Twelfth!&rdquo;
       &ldquo;I, the Latin Dialects!&rdquo; &ldquo;I, the Civil Status of Women under Tiberius!&rdquo; &ldquo;I
      am elaborating a new translation of Horace!&rdquo; &ldquo;I am fulminating a seventh
      article, for the Gazette of Atheism and Anarchy, on the Russian Serfs!&rdquo;
       And each one seems to add, &ldquo;But what is thy business here, stripling? What
      canst thou write at thy age? Why troublest thou the peace of these
      hallowed precincts?&rdquo; My business, sirs? Alas! it is the thesis for my
      doctor&rsquo;s degree. My uncle and venerated guardian, M. Brutus Mouillard,
      solicitor, of Bourges, is urging me to finish it, demands my return to the
      country, grows impatient over the slow toil of composition. &ldquo;Have done
      with theories,&rdquo; he writes, &ldquo;and get to business! If you must strive for
      this degree, well and good; but what possessed you to choose such a
      subject?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I must own that the subject of my thesis in Roman law has been
      artistically chosen with a view to prolonging my stay in Paris: &ldquo;On the
      &lsquo;Latini Juniani.&rsquo;&rdquo; Yes, gentle reader, a new subject, almost incapable of
      elucidation, having no connection&mdash;not the remotest&mdash;with the
      exercise of any profession whatsoever, entirely devoid of practical
      utility. The trouble it gives me is beyond conception.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true that I intersperse my researches with some more attractive
      studies, and one or two visits to the picture-galleries, and more than an
      occasional evening at the theatre. My uncle knows nothing of this. To keep
      him soothed I am careful to get my reader&rsquo;s ticket renewed every month,
      and every month to send him the ticket just out of date, signed by M.
      Leopold Delisle. He has a box full of them; and in the simplicity of his
      heart Monsieur Mouillard has a lurking respect for this nephew, this
      modern young anchorite, who spends his days at the National Library, his
      nights with Gaius, wholly absorbed in the Junian Latins, and indifferent
      to whatsoever does not concern the Junian Latins in this Paris which my
      uncle still calls the Modern Babylon.
    </p>
    <p>
      I came down this morning in the most industrious mood, when the misfortune
      befell. Close by the sanctum where the librarians sit are two desks where
      you write down the list of the books you want. I was doing so at the
      right-hand desk, on which abuts the first row of tables. Hence all the
      mischief. Had I written at the left-hand desk, nothing would have
      happened. But no; I had just set down as legibly as possible the title,
      author, and size of a certain work on Roman Antiquities, when, in
      replacing the penholder, which is attached there by a small brass chain,
      some inattentiveness, some want of care, my ill-luck, in short, led me to
      set it down in unstable equilibrium on the edge of the desk. It tumbled-I
      heard the little chain rattle-it tumbled farther-then stopped short. The
      mischief was done. The sudden jerk, as it pulled up, had detached an
      enormous drop of ink from the point of the pen, and that drop&mdash;Ah! I
      can see him yet, as he rose from the shadow of the desk, that small,
      white-haired man, so thin and so very angry!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clumsy idiot! To blot an Early Text!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I leaned over and looked. Upon the page of folio, close to an illuminated
      capital, the black drop had flattened itself. Around the original sphere
      had been shed splashes of all conceivable shapes-rays, rockets, dotted
      lines, arrowheads, all the freakish impromptu of chaos. Next, the slope
      lending its aid, the channels had drained into one, and by this time a
      black rivulet was crawling downward to the margin. One or two readers near
      had risen, and now eyed me like examining magistrates. I waited for an
      outbreak, motionless, dazed, muttering words that did not mend the case at
      all. &ldquo;What a pity! Oh, I&rsquo;m so sorry! If I had only known&mdash;&rdquo; The
      student of the Early Text stood motionless as I. Together we watched the
      ink trickle. Suddenly, summoning his wits together, he burrowed with
      feverish haste in his morocco writing-case, pulled out a sheet of
      blotting-paper, and began to soak up the ink with the carefulness of a
      Sister of Mercy stanching a wound. I seized the opportunity to withdraw
      discreetly to the third row of tables, where the attendant had just
      deposited my books. Fear is so unreasoning. Very likely by saying no more
      about it, by making off and hiding my head in my hands, like a man crushed
      by the weight of his remorse, I might disarm this wrath. I tried to think
      so. But I knew well enough that there was more to come. I had hardly taken
      my seat when, looking up, I could see between my fingers the little man
      standing up and gesticulating beside one of the keepers. At one moment he
      rapped the damning page with his forefinger; the next, he turned sidewise
      and flung out a hand toward me; and I divined, without hearing a word, all
      the bitterness of his invective. The keeper appeared to take it seriously.
      I felt myself blushing. &ldquo;There must be,&rdquo; thought I, &ldquo;some law against
      ink-stains, some decree, some regulation, something drawn up for the
      protection of Early Texts. And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since
      it has been enacted by the learned; expulsion, no doubt, besides a fine&mdash;an
      enormous fine. They are getting ready over there to fleece me. That book
      of reference they are consulting is of course the catalogue of the sale
      where this treasure was purchased. I shall have to replace the Early Text!
      O Uncle Mouillard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I sat there, abandoned to my sad reflections, when one of the attendants,
      whom I had not seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The keeper wishes to speak to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I rose up and went. The terrible reader had gone back to his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the folio just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did not do so on purpose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most certainly not, sir! I am indeed sorry for he accident.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to be. The volume is almost unique; and the blot, too, for that
      matter. I never saw such a blot! Will you, please, leave me your Christian
      name, surname, profession, and address?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I wrote down, &ldquo;Fabien Jean Jacques Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de
      Rennes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, that is all for the present. But I warn you that Monsieur
      Charnot is exceedingly annoyed. It might be as well to offer him some
      apology.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Charnot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the Early
      Text.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Merciful Heavens!&rdquo; I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; &ldquo;this must be
      the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day! Monsieur Flamaran belongs
      to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the Institute
      of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres. Charnot? Yes, I have those two
      syllables in my ear. The very last time I saw Monsieur Flamaran he let
      fall &lsquo;my very good friend Charnot, of the &lsquo;Inscriptions.&rsquo; They are
      friends. And I am in a pretty situation; threatened with I don&rsquo;t know what
      by the Library&mdash;for the keeper told me positively that this was all
      &lsquo;for the present&rsquo;&mdash;but not for the future; threatened to be disgraced
      in my tutor&rsquo;s eyes; and all because this learned man&rsquo;s temper is upset.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must apologize. Let me see, what could I say to Monsieur Charnot? As a
      matter of fact, it&rsquo;s to the Early Text that I ought to apologize. I have
      spilled no ink over Monsieur Charnot. He is spotless, collar and cuffs;
      the blot, the splashes, all fell on the Text. I will say to him, &lsquo;Sir, I
      am exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so unfortunately in your
      learned studies! &lsquo;Learned studies&rsquo; will tickle his vanity, and should go
      far to appease him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was on the point of rising. M. Charnot anticipated me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grief is not always keenest when most recent. As he approached I saw he
      was more irritated and upset than at the moment of the accident. Above his
      pinched, cleanshaven chin his lips shot out with an angry twitch. The
      portfolio shook under his arm. He flung me a look full of tragedy and went
      on his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, well; go your way, M. Charnot! One doesn&rsquo;t offer apologies to a man
      in his wrath. You shall have them by-and-bye, when we meet again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. THE JUNIAN LATINS
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       December 28, 1884.
</pre>
    <p>
      This afternoon I paid M. Flamaran a visit. I had been thinking about it
      for the last week, as I wanted him to help my Junian Latins out of a mess.
      I am acquiring a passion for that interesting class of freedmen. And
      really it is only natural. These Junian Latins were poor slaves, whose
      liberation was not recognized by the strict and ancient laws of Rome,
      because their masters chose to liberate them otherwise than by &lsquo;vindicta,
      census, or testamentum&rsquo;. On this account they lost their privileges, poor
      victims of the legislative intolerance of the haughty city. You see, it
      begins to be touching, already. Then came on the scene Junius Norbanus,
      consul by rank, and a true democrat, who brought in a law, carried it, and
      gave them their freedom. In exchange, they gave him immortality.
      Henceforward, did a slave obtain a few kind words from his master over his
      wine? he was a Junian Latin. Was he described as &lsquo;filius meus&rsquo; in a public
      document? Junian Latin. Did he wear the cap of liberty, the pileus, at his
      master&rsquo;s funeral? Junian Latin. Did he disembowel his master&rsquo;s corpse?
      Junian Latin, once more, for his trouble.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a fine fellow this Norbanus must have been! What an eye for
      everything, down to the details of a funeral procession, in which he could
      find an excuse for emancipation! And that, too, in the midst of the wars
      of Marius and Sylla in which he took part. I can picture him seated before
      his tent, the evening after the battle. Pensive, he reclines upon his
      shield as he watches the slave who is grinding notches out of his sword.
      His eyes fill with tears, and he murmurs, &ldquo;When peace is made, my faithful
      Stychus, I shall have a pleasant surprise for you. You shall hear talk of
      the Lex Junia Norband, I promise you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Is not this a worthy subject for picture or statue in a competition for
      the Prix de Rome?
    </p>
    <p>
      A man so careful of details must have assigned a special dress to these
      special freedmen of his creation; for at Rome even freedom had its livery.
      What was this dress? Was there one at all? No authority that I know of
      throws any light on the subject. Still one hope remains: M. Flamaran. He
      knows so many things, he might even know this.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran comes from the south-Marseilles, I think. He is not a
      specialist in Roman law; but he is encyclopedic, which comes to the same
      thing. He became known while still young, and deservedly; few lawyers are
      so clear, so safe, so lucid. He is an excellent lecturer, and his opinions
      are in demand. Yet he owes much of his fame to the works which he has not
      written. Our fathers, in their day, used to whisper to one another in the
      passages of the Law School, &ldquo;Have you heard the news? Flamaran is going to
      bring out the second volume of his great work. He means to publish his
      lectures. He has in the press a treatise which will revolutionize the law
      of mortgages; he has been working twenty years at it; a masterpiece, I
      assure you.&rdquo; Day follows day; no book appears, no treatise is published,
      and all the while M. Flamaran grows in reputation. Strange phenomenon!
      like the aloe in the Botanical Gardens. The blossoming of the aloe is an
      event. &ldquo;Only think!&rdquo; says the gaping public, &ldquo;a flower which has taken
      twenty springs, twenty summers, twenty autumns, and twenty winters to make
      up its mind to open!&rdquo; And meanwhile the roses bloom unnoticed by the town.
      But M. Flamaran&rsquo;s case is still more strange. Every year it is whispered
      that he is about to bloom afresh; he never does bloom; and his reputation
      flourishes none the less. People make lists of the books he might have
      written. Lucky author!
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran is a professor of the old school, stern, and at examination a
      terror to the candidates. Clad in cap and gown, he would reject his own
      son. Nothing will serve. Recommendations defeat their object. An
      unquestioned Roumanian ancestry, an extraction indisputably Japanese, find
      no more favor in his eyes than an assumed stammer, a sham deafness, or a
      convalescent pallor put on for the occasion. East and west are alike in
      his sight. The retired registrar, the pensioned usher aspiring late in
      life to some petty magistrature, are powerless to touch his heart. For him
      in vain does the youthful volunteer allow his uniform to peep out beneath
      his student&rsquo;s gown: he will not profit by the patriotic indulgence he
      counted on inspiring. His sayings in the examination-room are famous, and
      among them are some ghastly pleasantries. Here is one, addressed to a
      victim: &ldquo;And you, sir, are a law student, while our farmers are in want of
      hands!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For my own part I won his favor under circumstances that I never shall
      forget. I was in for my first examination. We were discussing, or rather I
      was allowing him to lecture on, the law of wardship, and nodding my assent
      to his learned elucidations. Suddenly he broke off and asked, &ldquo;How many
      opinions have been formulated upon this subject?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One is absurd. Which? Beware how you give the wrong answer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I considered for three agonizing seconds, and hazarded a guess. &ldquo;The
      first, sir.&rdquo; I had guessed right. We were friends. At bottom the professor
      is a capital fellow; kindly, so long as the dignity of the Code is not in
      question, or the extent of one&rsquo;s legal knowledge; proverbially upright and
      honorable in his private life.
    </p>
    <p>
      At home he may be seen at his window tending his canaries, which, he says,
      is no change of occupation. To get to his house I have only to go by my
      favorite road through the Luxembourg. I am soon at his door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Monsieur Flamaran at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old servant who opened the door eyed me solemnly. So many young
      freshmen come and pester her master under the pretext of paying their
      respects. Their respects, indeed! They would bore him to death if he had
      to see them all. The old woman inferred, probably from my moustache, that
      I had taken at least my bachelor&rsquo;s degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was very much at home in his overheated study, where he sat wrapped up
      in a dressing-gown and keeping one eye shut to strengthen the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment&rsquo;s hesitation he recognized me, and held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my Junian Latin. How are you getting on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am all right, sir; it&rsquo;s my Junian Latins who are not getting on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so. We must look into that. But before we begin&mdash;I
      forget where you come from. I like to know where people come from.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From La Chatre. But I spend my vacations at Bourges with my Uncle
      Mouillard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, Mouillart with a t, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, with a d.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked, you know, because I once knew a General Mouillart who had been
      through the Crimea, a charming man. But he can not have been a relative,
      for his name ended with a t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My good tutor spoke with a delightful simplicity, evidently wishing to be
      pleasant and to show some interest in me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you married, young man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir; but I have no conscientious objections.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marry young. Marriage is the salvation of young men. There must be plenty
      of pretty heiresses in Bourges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heiresses, yes. As to their looks, at this distance&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I understand, at this distance of course you can&rsquo;t tell. You should
      do as I did; make inquiries, go and see. I went all the way to Forez
      myself to look for my wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Flamaran comes from Forez?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so; I stayed there a fortnight, fourteen days exactly, in the middle
      of term-time, and brought back Sidonie. Bourges is a nice town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in summer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty of trees. I remember a grand action I won there. One of my learned
      colleagues was against me. We had both written opinions, diametrically
      opposed, of course. But I beat him&mdash;my word, yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My boy, there was nothing left of him. Do you know the case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A magnificent case! My notes must be somewhere about; I will get them out
      for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good man beamed. Evidently he had not had a talk all day, and felt he
      must expand and let himself out to somebody. I appeared in the nick of
      time, and came in for all his honey. He rose, went to a bookcase, ran his
      eye along a shelf, took down a volume, and began, in a low tone:
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Cooperation is the mighty lever upon which an effete society relies to
      extricate itself from its swaddling-clothes and take a loftier flight.&rsquo; 
      Tut, tut! What stuff is this? I beg your pardon. I was reading from a work
      on moral philosophy. Where the deuce is my opinion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He found it and, text in hand, began a long account of the action, with
      names, dates, moments of excitement, and many quotations in extenso.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my young friend, two hundred and eighteen thousand francs did I win
      in that action for Monsieur Prebois, of Bourges; you know Prebois, the
      manufacturer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last he put the note-book back on its shelf, and deigned to remember
      that I had come about the Junian Latins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In which of the authorities do you find a difficulty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My difficulty lies in the want of authorities, sir, I wish to find out
      whether the Junian Latins had not a special dress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure.&rdquo; He scratched his head. &ldquo;Gaius says nothing on the point?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papinian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Justinian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I see only one resource.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to see Charnot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I felt myself growing pale, and stammered, with a piteous look:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Charnot, of the Acad&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Academy of Inscriptions; an intimate friend of mine, who will welcome
      you like a son, for he has none himself, poor man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But perhaps the question is hardly important enough for me to trouble him
      like this&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey? Not important enough? All new questions are important. Charnot
      specializes on coins. Coins and costumes are all one. I will write to tell
      him you are coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg, sir&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense; Nonsense; I&rsquo;ll write him this very evening. He will be
      delighted to see you. I know him well, you understand. He is like me; he
      likes industrious young men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-by, young man. Marry as soon as you have taken your degree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I did not recover from the shock till I was halfway across the Luxembourg
      Gardens, near the Tennis Court, when I sat down, overcome. See what comes
      of enthusiasm and going to call on your tutor! Ah, young three-and-twenty,
      when will you learn wisdom?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. AN APOLOGY
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                            9 P.M.
</pre>
    <p>
      I have made up my mind. I shall go to see M. Charnot. But before that I
      shall go to his publisher&rsquo;s and find out something about this famous man&rsquo;s
      works, of which I know nothing whatever.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         December 31st
</pre>
    <p>
      He lives in the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have called. I have seen him. I owe this to an accident, to the
      servant&rsquo;s forgetting her orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I entered, on the stroke of five, he was spinning a spiral twist of
      paper beneath the lamplight to amuse his daughter&mdash;he a member of the
      Institute, she a girl of eighteen. So that is how these big-wigs employ
      their leisure moments!
    </p>
    <p>
      The library where I found them was full of book cases-open bookcases,
      bookcases with glass doors, tall bookcases, dwarf bookcases, bookcases
      standing on legs, bookcases standing on the floor&mdash;of statuettes
      yellow with smoke, of desks crowded with paper-weights, paper-knives,
      pens, and inkstands of &ldquo;artistic&rdquo; pat terns. He was seated at the table,
      with his back to the fire, his arm lifted, and a hairpin between his
      finger and thumb&mdash;the pivot round which his paper twist was spinning
      briskly. Across the table stood his daughter, leaning forward with her
      chin on her hands and her white teeth showing as she laughed for
      laughing&rsquo;s sake, to give play to her young spirits and gladden her old
      father&rsquo;s heart as he gazed on her, delighted.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must confess it made a pretty picture; and M. Charnot at that moment was
      extremely unlike the M. Charnot who had confronted me from behind the
      desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was not left long to contemplate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment I lifted the &lsquo;portiere&rsquo; the girl jumped up briskly and regarded
      me with a touch of haughtiness, meant, I think, to hide a slight
      confusion. To compare small things with great, Diana must have worn
      something of that look at sight of Actaeon. M. Charnot did not rise, but
      hearing somebody enter, turned half-round in his armchair, while his eyes,
      still dazzled with the lamplight, sought the intruder in the partial
      shadow of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt myself doubly uneasy in the presence of this reader of the Early
      Text and of this laughing girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; I began, &ldquo;I owe you an apology&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He recognized me. The girl moved a step.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay, Jeanne, stay. We shall not take long. This gentleman has come to
      offer an apology.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a cruel beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thought so, too, perhaps, and withdrew discreetly into a dim corner,
      near the bookcase at the end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have felt deep regret, sir, for that accident the other day&mdash;I set
      down the penholder clumsily, in equilibrium&mdash;unstable equilibrium&mdash;besides,
      I had no notion there was a reader behind the desk. Of course, if I had
      been aware, I should&mdash;I should have acted differently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot allowed me to flounder on with the contemplative satisfaction
      of an angler who has got a fish at the end of his line. He seemed to find
      me so very stupid, that as a matter of fact I became stupid. And then,
      there was no answer&mdash;not a word. Silence, alas! is not the reproof of
      kings alone. It does pretty well for everybody. I stumbled on two or three
      more phrases quite as flatly infelicitous, and he received them with the
      same faint smile and the same silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      To escape from my embarrassment:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I came also to ask for a piece of information.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am at your service, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Flamaran has probably written to you on the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Flamaran?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, three days ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have received no letter; have I, Jeanne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is not the first time that my excellent colleague has promised to
      write a letter and has not written it. Never mind, sir; your own
      introduction is sufficient.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, I am about to take my doctor&rsquo;s degree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In arts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, in law; but I have a bachelor&rsquo;s degree in arts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will follow it up with a degree in medicine, no doubt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, sir&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;Why not, since you are collecting these things? You have, then,
      a bent toward literature?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I have been told.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pronounced inclination&mdash;hey? to scribble verse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old story; the family driving a lad into law; his heart leaning
      toward letters; the Digest open on the table, and the drawers stuffed with
      verses! Isn&rsquo;t that so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I bowed. He glanced toward his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, I confess to you that I don&rsquo;t understand&mdash;don&rsquo;t
      understand at all&mdash;this behavior of yours. Why not follow your
      natural bent? You youngsters nowadays&mdash;I mean no offence&mdash;you
      youngsters have no longer any mind of your own. Take my case; I was
      seventeen when I began to take an interest in numismatics. My family
      destined me for the Stamp Office; yes, sir, the Stamp Office. I had
      against me two grandfathers, two grandmothers, my father, my mother, and
      six uncles&mdash;all furious. I held out, and that has led me to the
      Institute. Hey, Jeanne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Jeanne had returned to the table, where she was standing when
      I entered, and seemed, after a moment, to busy herself in arranging the
      books scattered in disarray on the green cloth. But she had a secret
      object&mdash;to regain possession of the paper spiral that lay there
      neglected, its pin sticking up beside the lamp-stand. Her light hand,
      hovering hither and thither, had by a series of cunning manoeuvres got the
      offending object behind a pile of duodecimos, and was now withdrawing it
      stealthily among the inkstands and paperweights.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot interrupted this little stratagem.
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered very prettily, with a slight toss of the head:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, father, not everybody can be in the Institute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far from it, Jeanne. This gentleman, for instance, devotes himself to one
      method of inking parchment that never will make him my colleague. Doctor
      of Laws and Master of Arts,&mdash;I presume, sir, you are going to be a
      notary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, an advocate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sure of it. Jeanne, my dear, in country families it is a standing
      dilemma; if not a notary, then an advocate; if not an advocate, then a
      notary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot spoke with an exasperating half-smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      I ought to have laughed, to be sure; I ought to have shown sense enough at
      any rate to hold my tongue and not to answer the gibes of this vindictive
      man of learning. Instead, I was stupid enough to be nettled and to lose my
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; I retorted, &ldquo;I must have a paying profession. That one or another&mdash;what
      does it matter? Not everybody can belong to the Institute, as your
      daughter remarked; not everybody can afford himself the luxury of
      publishing, at his own expense, works that sell twenty-seven copies or
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I expected a thunderbolt, an explosion. Not a bit of it. M. Charnot smiled
      outright with an air of extreme geniality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceive, sir, that you are given to gossiping with the booksellers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes, sir, now and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a very pretty trait, at your age, to be already so strong in
      bibliography. You will permit me, nevertheless, to add something to your
      present stock of notions. A large sale is one thing to look at, but not
      the right thing. Twenty-seven copies of a book, when read by twenty-seven
      men of intelligence, outweigh a popular success. Would you believe that
      one of my friends had no more than eight copies printed of a mathematical
      treatise? Three of these he has given away. The other five are still
      unsold. And that man, sir, is the first mathematician in France!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Jeanne had taken it differently. With lifted chin and
      reddened cheek she shot this sentence at me from the edge of a lip
      disdainfully puckered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are such things as &lsquo;successes of esteem,&rsquo; sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas! I knew that well, and I had no need of this additional lesson to
      teach me the rudeness of my remark, to make me feel that I was a brute, an
      idiot, hopelessly lost in the opinion of M. Charnot and his daughter. It
      was cruel, all the same. Nothing was left for me but to hurry my
      departure. I got up to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said M. Charnot in the smoothest of tones, &ldquo;I do not think we have
      yet discussed the question that brought you here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should hesitate, sir, to trespass further on your time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind that. Your question concerns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The costume of the Latini Juniani.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Difficult to answer, like most questions of dress. Have you read the
      work, in seventeen volumes, by the German, Friedchenhausen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have read, at any rate, Smith, the Englishman, on ancient
      costume?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor that either. I only know Italian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, look through two or three treatises on numismatics, the
      &lsquo;Thesaurus Morellianus&rsquo;, or the &lsquo;Praestantiora Numismata&rsquo;, of Valliant, or
      Banduri, or Pembrock, or Pellerin. You may chance upon a scent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, thank you, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He saw me to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I turned to go I noticed that his daughter was standing motionless
      still, with the face of an angry Diana. She held between her fingers the
      recovered spiral.
    </p>
    <p>
      I found myself in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not have been more clumsy, more ill-bred, or more unfortunate. I
      had come to make an apology and had given further offence. Just like my
      luck! And the daughter, too&mdash;I had hurt her feelings. Still, she had
      stood up for me; she had said to her father, &ldquo;Not every one can be in the
      Institute,&rdquo; evidently meaning, &ldquo;Why are you torturing this poor young man?
      He is bashful and ill at ease. I feel sorry for him.&rdquo; Sorry&mdash;yes; no
      doubt she felt sorry for me at first. But then I came out with that
      impertinence about the twenty-seven copies, and by this time she hates me
      beyond a doubt. Yes, she hates me. It is too painful to think of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Charnot will probably remain but a stranger to me, a fugitive
      apparition in my path of life; yet her anger lies heavy upon me, and the
      thought of those disdainful lips pursues me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had rarely been more thoroughly disgusted with myself, and with all
      about me. I needed something to divert me, to distract me, to make me
      forget, and so I set off for home by the longest way, going down the Rue
      de Beaune to the Seine.
    </p>
    <p>
      I declare, we get some perfect winter days in Paris! Just now, the folks
      who sit indoors believe that the sun is down and have lighted their lamps;
      but outside, the sky&mdash;a pale, rain-washed blue&mdash;is streaked with
      broad rays of rose-pink. It is freezing, and the frost has sprinkled
      diamonds everywhere, on the trees, the roofs, the parapets, even on the
      cabmen&rsquo;s hats, that gather each a sparkling cockade as they pass along
      through the mist. The river is running in waves, white-capped here and
      there. On the penny steamers no one but the helmsman is visible. But what
      a crowd on the Pont de Carrousel! Fur cuffs and collars pass and repass on
      the pavements; the roadway trembles beneath the endless line of
      Batignolles&mdash;Clichy omnibuses and other vehicles. Every one seems in
      a hurry. The pedestrians are brisk, the drivers dexterous. Two lines of
      traffic meet, mingle without jostling, divide again into fresh lines and
      are gone like a column of smoke. Although slips are common in this crowd,
      its intelligent agility is all its own. Every face is ruddy, and almost
      all are young. The number of young men, young maidens, young wives, is
      beyond belief, Where are the aged? At home, no doubt, by the
      chimney-corner. All the city&rsquo;s youth is out of doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Its step is animated; that is the way of it. It is wide-eyed, and in its
      eyes is the sparkle of life. The looks of the young are always full of the
      future; they are sure of life. Each has settled his position, his career,
      his dream of commonplace well-being. They are all alike; and they might
      all be judges, so serious they appear about it. They walk in pairs, bolt
      upright, looking neither right nor left, talking little as they hurry
      along toward the old Louvre, and are soon swallowed out of sight in the
      gathering mist, out of which the gaslights glimmer faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      They are all on their way to dine on the right bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am going to dine on the left bank, at Carre&rsquo;s, where one sees many odd
      customers. Farewell, river! Good night, old Charnot! Blessings on you,
      Mademoiselle Jeanne!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. THE STORY OF SYLVESTRE
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                            8 P.M.
</pre>
    <p>
      I am back in my study. It is very cold; Madame Menin, my housekeeper, has
      let the fire out. Hallo! she has left her duster, too, lying on the
      manuscript of my essay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Is it an omen, a presage of that dust which awaits my still unfinished
      work? Who can fathom Dame Fortune&rsquo;s ironic humor?
    </p>
    <p>
      Eight o&rsquo;clock.... Counsellor Mouillard has finished his pleadings and must
      be sitting down to a game of whist with Counsellors Horlet and Hublette,
      of the Court of Bourges. They wait for me to make up the four. Perish the
      awful prospect!
    </p>
    <p>
      And M. Charnot? He, I suppose, is still spinning the paper spiral. How
      easily serious people are amused! Perhaps I am a serious person. The least
      thing amuses me. By the way, is Mademoiselle Jeanne fair or dark? Let me
      try to recollect. Why, fair, of course. I remember the glint of gold in
      the little curls about her temples, as she stood by the lamp. A pleasant
      face, too; not exactly classic, but rosy and frank; and then she has that
      animation which so many pretty women lack.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Menin has forgotten something else. She has forgotten to shut my
      window. She has designs upon my life!
    </p>
    <p>
      I have just shut the window. The night is calm, its stars twinkling
      through a haze. The year ends mournfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remember at school once waking suddenly on such a night as this, to find
      the moonlight streaming into my eyes. At such a moment it is always a
      little hard to collect one&rsquo;s scattered senses, and take in the midnight
      world around, so unhomely, so absolutely still. First I cast my eyes along
      the two rows of beds that stretched away down the dormitory&mdash;two
      parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled under their
      blankets in shapeless masses, gray or white according as they lay near or
      far from the windows; the smoky glimmer of the oil lamp half-way down the
      room; and at the end, in the deeper shadows, the enclosure of yellow
      curtains surrounding the usher&rsquo;s bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not a sound about me; all was still. But without, my ear, excited and
      almost feverishly awake, caught the sound of a strange call, very sweet,
      again and again repeated&mdash;fugitive notes breathing appeal, tender and
      troubled. Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no more than a phantom
      of sound; now they came near, passed over my head, and faded again into
      the distance. The moon&rsquo;s clear rays invited me to clear up the mystery. I
      sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the window. It was
      about eleven o&rsquo;clock. Together the keen night-air and the moonlight
      wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight. The large courtyard lay
      deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings. Here and there a
      grain of sand sparkled. I raised my eyes, and from one constellation to
      another I sought the deep blue of heaven in vain; not a shadow upon it,
      not one dark wing outlined. Yet all the while the same sad and gentle cry
      wandered and was lost in air, the chant of an invisible soul which seemed
      in want of me, and had perhaps awakened me.
    </p>
    <p>
      The thought came upon me that it was the soul of my mother calling to me&mdash;my
      mother, whose voice was soft and very musical.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am caring for thee,&rdquo; said the voice. &ldquo;I am caring for thee; I can see
      thee,&rdquo; it said, &ldquo;I can see thee. I love thee! I love thee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reveal thyself!&rdquo; I called back. &ldquo;Oh, mother, reveal thyself!&rdquo; And I
      strove feverishly to catch sight of her, following the voice as it swept
      around in circles; and seeing nothing, I burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly I was seized roughly by the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing here, you young rascal? Are you mad? The wind is
      blowing right on to my bed. Five hundred lines!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The usher, in nightdress and slippers, was rolling his angry eyes on me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; certainly, sir! But don&rsquo;t you hear her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked to see whether I were awake; cocked his head to one side and
      listened; then shut the window angrily and went off shrugging his
      shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only the plovers flying about the moon,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Five hundred
      lines!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I did my five hundred lines. They taught me that dreaming was illegal and
      dangerous, but they neither convinced nor cured me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I still believe that there are scattered up and down in nature voices that
      speak, but which few hear; just as there are millions of flowers that
      bloom unseen by man. It is sad for those who catch a hint of it. Perforce
      they come back and seek the hidden springs. They waste their youth and
      vigor upon empty dreams, and in return for the fleeting glimpses they have
      enjoyed, for the perfect phrase half caught and lost again, will have
      given up the intercourse of their kind, and even friendship itself. Yes,
      it is sad for the schoolboys who open their windows to gaze at the moon,
      and never drop the habit! They will find themselves, all too soon,
      solitaries in the midst of life, desolate as I am desolate tonight, beside
      my dead fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      No friend will come to knock at my door; not one. I have a few comrades to
      whom I give that name. We do not loathe one another. At need they would
      help me. But we seldom meet. What should they do here? Dreamers make no
      confidences; they shrivel up into themselves and are caught away on the
      four winds of heaven. Politics drive them mad; gossip fails to interest
      them; the sorrows they create have no remedy save the joys that they
      invent; they are natural only when alone, and talk well only to
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only man who can put up with this moody contrariety of mine is
      Sylvestre Lampron. He is nearly twenty years older than I. That explains
      his forbearance. Besides, between an artist like him and a dreamer like
      myself there is only the difference of handiwork. He translates his
      dreams. I waste mine; but both dream. Dear old Lampron! Kindly, stalwart
      heart! He has withstood that hardening of the moral and physical fibre
      which comes over so many men as they near their fortieth year. He shows a
      brave front to work and to life. He is cheerful, with the manly
      cheerfulness of a noble heart resigned to life&rsquo;s disillusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I enter his home, I nearly always find him sitting before a small
      ground-glass window in the corner of his studio, bent over some engraving.
      I have leave to enter at all hours. He is free not to stir from his work.
      &ldquo;Good-day,&rdquo; he calls out, without raising his head, without knowing for
      certain who has come in, and goes on with the engraving he has in hand. I
      settle down at the end of the room, on the sofa with the faded cover, and,
      until Lampron deigns to grant me audience, I am free to sleep, or smoke,
      or turn over the wonderful drawings that lean against the walls. Among
      them are treasures beyond price; for Lampron is a genius whose only
      mistake is to live and act with modesty, so that as yet people only say
      that he has &ldquo;immense talent.&rdquo; No painter or engraver of repute&mdash;and
      he is both&mdash;has served a more conscientious apprenticeship, or sets
      greater store on thoroughness in his art. His drawing is correct beyond
      reproach&mdash;a little stiff, like the early painters. You can guess from
      his works his partiality for the old masters&mdash;Perugino, Fra Angelico,
      Botticelli, Memling, Holbein&mdash;who, though not the masters in fashion,
      will always be masters in vigor of outline, directness, in simple grace,
      and genuine feeling. He has copied in oils, water-colors, pen, or pencil,
      nearly all the pictures of these masters in the Louvre, in Germany, in
      Holland, and especially in Italy, where he lived for many years. With
      tastes such as his came the habit, or rather the fixed determination,
      never to paint or engrave any but sacred subjects. Puffs and cliques are
      his abomination. His ideal is the archaic rendered by modern methods. An
      artist of this type can but obtain the half-grudging esteem of his own
      profession, and of the few critics who really understand something about
      art. Gladly, and with absolute disdain, he leaves to others the applause
      of the mob, the gilded patronage of American purchasers, and the right to
      wear lace cuffs. In short, in an age when the artist is often half a
      manufacturer and half a charlatan, he is an artist only.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now and then he is rich, but never for long. Half of his earnings goes in
      alms; half into the pockets of his mendicant brethren. They hear the gold
      jingle before it is counted, and run with outstretched palms. Each is in
      the depths of misfortune; on the eve of ascending the fatal slope; lost,
      unless the helpful hand of Lampron will provide, saved if he will lend
      wherewithal to buy a block of marble, to pay a model, to dine that
      evening. He lends&mdash;I should say gives; the words mean the same in
      many societies. Of all that he has gained, fame alone remains, and even
      this he tries to do without&mdash;modest, retiring, shunning all
      entertainments. I believe he would often be without the wherewithal to
      live were it not for his mother, whom he supports, and who does him the
      kindness to need something to live on. Madame Lampron does not hoard; she
      only fills the place of those dams of cut turf which the peasants build in
      the channels of the Berry in spring; the water passes over them, beneath
      them, even through them, but still a little is left for the great
      droughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      I love my friend Lampron, though fully aware of his superiority. His
      energy sets me up, his advice strengthens me, he peoples for me the vast
      solitude of Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suppose I go to see him? A lonely watch to-night would be gloomier than
      usual. The death of the year brings gloomy thoughts, the thirty-first of
      December, St. Sylvester&rsquo;s day&mdash;St. Sylvester! Why, that is his
      birthday! Ungrateful friend, to give no thought to it! Quick! my coat, my
      stick, my hat, and let me run to see these two early birds before they
      seek their roost.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I entered the studio, Lampron was so deep in his work that he did not
      hear me. The large room, lighted only in one corner, looked weird enough.
      Around me, and among the medley of pictures and casts and the piles of
      canvases stacked against the wall, the eye encountered only a series of
      cinder-gray tints and undetermined outlines casting long amorphous shadows
      half-way across the ceiling. A draped lay figure leaning against a door
      seemed to listen to the whistling of the wind outside; a large glass bay
      opened upon the night. Nothing was alive in this part of the room, nothing
      alight except a few rare glints upon the gold of the frames, and the
      blades of two crossed swords. Only in a corner, at the far end, at a
      distance exaggerated by the shadows, sat Lampron engraving, solitary,
      motionless, beneath the light of a lamp. His back was toward me. The
      lamp&rsquo;s rays threw a strong light on his delicate hand, on the workmanlike
      pose of his head, which it surrounded with a nimbus, and on a painting&mdash;a
      woman&rsquo;s head&mdash;which he was copying. He looked superb like that, and I
      thought how doubly tempted Rembrandt would have been by the deep
      significance as well as by the chiaroscuro of this interior.
    </p>
    <p>
      I stamped my foot. Lampron started, and turned half around, narrowing his
      eyes as he peered into the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s you,&rdquo; he said. He rose and came quickly toward me, as if to
      prevent me from approaching the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t wish me to look?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After all, why not?&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The copper plate was hardly marked with a few touches of the needle. He
      turned the reflector so as to throw all its rays upon the painting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Lampron, what a charming head!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed a lovely head; an Italian girl, three quarter face, painted
      after the manner of Leonardo, with firm but delicate touches, and lights
      and shades of infinite subtlety, and possessing, like all that master&rsquo;s
      portraits of women, a straightforward look that responds to the gazer&rsquo;s,
      but which he seeks to interrogate in vain. The hair, brown with golden
      lights, was dressed in smooth plaits above the temples. The neck, somewhat
      long, emerged from a dark robe broadly indicated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know this, Sylvestre?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it&rsquo;s an old thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A portrait, of course?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never did better; line, color, life, you have got them all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not tell me that! In one&rsquo;s young days, look you, there are
      moments of real inspiration, when some one whispers in the ear and guides
      the hand; a lightness of touch, the happy audacity of the beginner, a
      wealth of daring never met with again. Would you believe that I have tried
      ten times to reproduce that in etching without success?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you try?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is the question. Why? It&rsquo;s a bit foolish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never could find such a model again; that is one reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no, you are right. I never could find her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An Italian of rank? a princess, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something like it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has become of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no doubt what becomes of all princesses. Fabien, my young friend, you
      who still see life through fairy-tales, doubtless you imagine her happy in
      her lot&mdash;wealthy, spoiled, flattered, speaking with disdainful lips
      at nightfall, on the terrace of her villa among the great pines, of the
      barbarian from across the Alps who painted her portrait twenty years
      since; and, in the same sentence, of her&mdash;last new frock from Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see her so&mdash;still beautiful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are good at guessing, Fabien. She is dead, my friend, and that ideal
      beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him. He was
      contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed. I
      divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a
      sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;let that be; I come to wish you many happy returns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many happy returns? Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this morning;
      then I set to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you came. She would
      feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening with her.
      Let us go and find her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have brought no flowers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole
      basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, which
      you will. It is a yearly attention from an unhappy creditor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Debtor, you mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean what I say&mdash;a creditor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lifted the lamp. The shadows shifted and ran along the walls like huge
      spiders, the crossed swords flashed, the Venus of Milo threw us a lofty
      glance, Polyhymnia stood forth pensive and sank back into shadow. At the
      door I took the draped lay figure in my arms. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; I said as I
      moved it&mdash;and we left the studio for Madame Lampron&rsquo;s little
      sitting-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was seated near a small round table, knitting socks, her feet on a
      hot-water bottle. Her kind old rough and wrinkled face beamed upon us. She
      thrust her needles under the black lace cap she always wore, and drew them
      out again almost immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It needed your presence, Monsieur Mouillard,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;to drag him from
      his work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saint Sylvester&rsquo;s day, too. It is fearful! Love for his art has changed
      your son&rsquo;s nature, Madame Lampron.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave him a tender look, as on entering the room he bent over the fire
      and shook out his half-smoked pipe against the bars, a thing he never
      failed to do the moment he entered his mother&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear child!&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then turning to me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a good friend, Monsieur Fabien. Never have we celebrated a Saint
      Sylvester without you since you came to Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet this evening, Madame, I have failed in my traditions, I have no
      flowers. But Sylvestre tells me that you have just received flowers from
      the south, from an unfortunate creditor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My words produced an unusual effect upon her. She, who never stopped
      knitting to talk or to listen, laid her work upon her knees, and fixed her
      eyes upon me, filled with anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he told you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron who was poking the fire, his slippered feet stretched out toward
      the hearth, turned his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, mother, I merely told him that we had received a basket of flowers.
      Not much to confide. Yet why should he not know all? Surely he is our
      friend enough to know all. He should have known it long since were it not
      cruel to share between three a burden that two can well bear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no answer, and began again to twist the wool between her needles,
      but nervously and as if her thoughts were sad.
    </p>
    <p>
      To change the conversation I told them the story of my twofold mishap at
      the National Library and at M. Charnot&rsquo;s. I tried to be funny, and fancied
      I succeeded. The old lady smiled faintly. Lampron remained grave, and
      tossed his head impatiently. I summed my story thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Net gain: two enemies, one of them charming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, enemies!&rdquo; said Sylvestre, &ldquo;they spring up like weeds. One can not
      prevent them, and great sorrows do not come from them. Still, beware of
      charming enemies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She hates me, I swear. If you could have seen her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? She is nothing to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put the question gravely, without looking in my face, as he twisted a
      paper spill.
    </p>
    <p>
      I laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you to-day, misanthrope? I assure you that she is
      absolutely indifferent to me. But even were it otherwise, Sylvestre, where
      would be the wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wrong? No wrong at all; but I should be anxious for you; I should be
      afraid. See here, my friend. I know you well. You are a born man of
      letters, a dreamer, an artist in your way. You have to help you on
      entering the redoubtable lists of love neither foresight, nor a cool head,
      nor determination. You are guided solely by your impressions; by them you
      rise or fall. You are no more than a child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quite agree. What next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What next?&rdquo; He had risen, and was speaking with unusual vehemence. &ldquo;I
      once knew some one like you, whose first passion, rash, but deep as yours
      would be, broke his heart forever. The heart, my friend, is liable to
      break, and can not be mended like china.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron&rsquo;s mother interrupted him afresh, reproachfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He came to wish you a happy birthday, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One day, mother, is as good as another to listen to good advice. Besides,
      I am only talking of one of my friends. &lsquo;Tis but a short story, Fabien,
      and instructive. I will give it you in very few words. My friend was very
      young and enthusiastic. He was on his way through the galleries of Italy,
      brush in hand, his heart full of the ceaseless song of youth in holiday.
      The world never had played him false, nor balked him. He made the future
      bend to the fancy of his dreams. He seldom descended among common men from
      those loftier realms where the contemplation of endless masterpieces kept
      his spirit as on wings. He admired, copied, filled his soul with the
      glowing beauty of Italian landscape and Italian art. But one day, without
      reflection, without knowledge, without foresight, he was rash enough to
      fall in love with a girl of noble birth whose portrait he was painting; to
      speak to her and to win her love. He thought then, in the silly innocence
      of his youth, that art abridges all distance and that love effaces it.
      Crueller nonsense never was uttered, my poor Fabien. He soon found this;
      he tried to struggle against the parent&rsquo;s denial, against himself, against
      her, powerless in all alike, beaten at every point.... The end was&mdash;Do
      you care to learn the end? The girl was carried off, struck down by a
      brief illness, soon dead; the man, hurled out of heaven, bruised, a
      fugitive also, is still so weak in presence of his sorrow that even after
      these long years he can not think of it without weeping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron actually was weeping, he who was so seldom moved. Down his brown
      beard, tinged already with gray, a tear was trickling. I noticed that
      Madame Lampron was stooping lower and lower over her needles. He went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have kept the portrait, the one you saw, Fabien. They would like to
      have it over yonder. They are old folk by now. Every year they ask me for
      this relic of our common sorrow; every year they send me, about this time
      a basket of white flowers, chiefly lilacs, the dead girl&rsquo;s flower, and
      their meaning is, &lsquo;Give up to us what is left of her, the masterpiece
      built up of your youth and hers.&rsquo; But I am selfish, Fabien. I, like them,
      am jealous of all the sorrows this portrait recalls to me, and I deny
      them. Come, mother, where are the flowers? I have promised Fabien to show
      them to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But his old mother could not answer. Having no doubt bewept this sorrow
      too often to find fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with restless
      compassion. He, beside the window, was hunting among the chairs and
      lounges crowded in this corner of the little sitting-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      He brought us a box of white wood. &ldquo;See,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;&lsquo;tis my wedding
      bouquet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he emptied it on the table. Parma violets, lilacs, white camellias and
      moss rolled out in slightly faded bunches, spreading a sweet smell in
      which there breathed already a vague scent of death and corruption. A
      violet fell on my knees. I picked it up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked for a moment at the heap on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I keep none,&rdquo; said he: &ldquo;I have too many reminders without them. Cursed
      flowers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With one motion of his arm he swept them all up and cast them upon the
      coals in the hearth. They shrivelled, crackled, grew limp and discolored,
      and vanished in smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I am going back to my etching. Good-by, Fabien. Good-night, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without turning his head, he left the room and went back to his studio.
    </p>
    <p>
      I made a movement to follow him and bring him back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Lampron stopped me. &ldquo;I will go myself,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;later&mdash;much
      later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We sat awhile in silence. When she saw me somewhat recovered from the
      shock of my feelings she went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never have seen him like this, but I have seen it often. It is so
      hard! I knew her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he never hid
      anything from me. You can judge from her portrait whether hers was not the
      face to attract an artist like Sylvestre. I saw at once that it was a
      trial, in which I could do nothing. They were very great people; different
      from us, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They refused to let them marry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! Sylvestre did not ask; they never had the opportunity of
      refusing. No, no; it was I. I said to him: &lsquo;Sylvestre, this can never
      be-never!&rsquo; He was convinced against his will. Then she spoke to her
      parents on her own account. They carried her off, and there was an end of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He never saw her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never; he would not have wished it; and then she lived a very little
      time. I went back there two years later, when they wanted to buy the
      picture. We were still living in Italy. That was one of the hardest hours
      of my life. I was afraid of their reproaches, and I did not feel sure of
      myself. But no, they suffered for their daughter as I for my son, and that
      brought us together. Still, I did not give up the portrait; Sylvestre set
      too great store by it. He insists on keeping it, feeding his eyes on it,
      reopening his wound day by day. Poor child! Forget all this, Monsieur
      Fabien; you can do nothing to help. Be true to your youth, and tell us
      next time of Monsieur Charnot and Mademoiselle Jeanne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dear Madame Lampron! I tried to console her; but as I never knew my
      mother, I could find but little to say. All the same, she thanked me and
      assured me I had done her good.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. A FRUITLESS SEARCH
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       January 1, 1885.
</pre>
    <p>
      The first of January! When one is not yet an uncle and no longer a godson,
      if one is in no government employ and goes out very little, the number of
      one&rsquo;s calls on New Year&rsquo;s Day is limited. I shall make five or six this
      afternoon. It will be &ldquo;Not at home&rdquo; in each case; and that will be all my
      compliments of the season.
    </p>
    <p>
      No, I am wrong. I have received the compliments of the season. My porter&rsquo;s
      wife came up just now, wreathed in smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard, I wish you a Happy New Year, good health, and Heaven
      to end your days.&rdquo; She had just said the same to the tenants on the first,
      second, and third floors. My answer was the same as theirs. I slipped into
      her palm (with a &ldquo;Many thanks!&rdquo; of which she took no notice) a piece of
      gold, which brought another smile, a curtsey, and she is gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      This smile comes only once a year; it is not reproduced at any other
      period, but is a dividend payable in one instalment. This, and a tear on
      All Souls&rsquo; Day, when she has been to place a bunch of chrysanthemums on
      her baby&rsquo;s grave, are the only manifestations of sensibility that I have
      discovered in her. From the second of January to the second of November
      she is a human creature tied to a bell-rope, with an immovably stolid face
      and a monosyllabic vocabulary in which politer terms occur but sparsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      This morning, contrary to her habits, she has brought up by post two
      letters; one from my Uncle Mouillard (an answer), and the other&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t recognize the other. Let&rsquo;s open it first: big envelope, ill-written
      address, Paris postmark. Hallo! a smaller envelope inside, and on it:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          ANTOINE AND MARIE PLUMET.
</pre>
    <p>
      Poor souls! they have no visiting-cards. But kind hearts are more than
      pasteboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten months ago little Madame Plumet, then still unmarried, was in a
      terrible bother. I remember our first meeting, on a March day, at the
      corner of the Rue du Quatre-Septembre and the Rue Richelieu. I was walking
      along quickly, with a bundle of papers under my arm, on my way back to the
      office where I was head clerk. Suddenly a dressmaker&rsquo;s errand-girl set
      down her great oilcloth-covered box in my way. I nearly went head first
      over it, and was preparing to walk around it, when the little woman, red
      with haste and blushes, addressed me. &ldquo;Excuse me, sir, are you a lawyer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mademoiselle, not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, sir, you know some lawyers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure I do; my master, to begin with, Counsellor Boule. He is quite
      close, if you care to follow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in a terrible hurry, but I can spare a minute or two. Thank you very
      much, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And thus I found myself escorted by a small dressmaker and a box of
      fashions. I remember that I walked a little ahead for fear of being seen
      in such company by a fellow-clerk, which would have damaged my reputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      We got to the office. Down went the box again. The little dressmaker told
      me that she was engaged to M. Plumet, frame-maker. She told her tale very
      clearly; a little money put by, you see, out of ten years&rsquo; wages; one may
      be careful and yet be taken in; and, alas! all has been lent to a cousin
      in the cabinetmaking trade, who wanted to set up shop; and now he refuses
      to pay up. The dowry is in danger, and the marriage in suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle; we will summons this atrocious
      cabinet-maker, and get a judgment against him. We shall not let him go
      until he has disgorged, and you shall be Madame Plumet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We kept our word. Less than two months later&mdash;thanks to my efforts&mdash;the
      dowry was recovered; the banns were put up; and the little dressmaker paid
      a second visit to the office, this time with M. Plumet, who was even more
      embarrassed than she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See, Antoine! this is Monsieur Mouillard, who undertook our case! Thank
      you again and again, Monsieur Mouillard, you really have been too kind!
      What do I owe you for your trouble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must ask my master what his fees come to, Mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but you? What can I do for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole office, from the messenger to the clerk who came next to me, had
      their eyes upon me. I rose to the occasion, and in my uncle&rsquo;s best manner
      I replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be happy, Mademoiselle, and remember me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We laughed over it for a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      She has done better, she has remembered it after eight months. But she has
      not given her address. That is a pity. I should have liked to see them
      both again. These young married folk are like the birds; you hear their
      song, but that does not tell you the whereabouts of their nest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, uncle, it&rsquo;s your turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here it is again, your unfailing letter anticipated, like the return of
      the comets, but less difficult to analyze than the weird substance of
      which comets are composed. Every year I write to you on December 28th, and
      you answer me on the 31st in time for your letter to reach me on New
      Year&rsquo;s morning. You are punctual, dear uncle; you are even attentive;
      there is something affectionate in this precision. But I do not know why
      your letters leave me unmoved. The eighteen to twenty-five lines of which
      each is composed are from your head, rather than your heart. Why do you
      not tell me of my parents, whom you knew; of your daily life; of your old
      servant Madeleine, who nursed me as a baby; of the Angora cat almost as
      old as she; of the big garden, so green, so enticing, which you trim with
      so much care, and which rewards your attention with such luxuriance. It
      would be so nice, dear uncle, to be a shade more intimate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah, well! let us see what he writes:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  &ldquo;BOURGES, December 31, 1884.

   &ldquo;MY DEAR NEPHEW:

   &ldquo;The approach of the New Year does not find me with the same
   sentiments with which it leaves you. I make up my yearly accounts
   from July 31st, so the advent of the 31st of December finds me as
   indifferent as that of any other day of the said month. Your
   repinings appear to me the expressions of a dreamer.

   &ldquo;It would, however, not be amiss if you made a start in practical
   life. You come of a family not addicted to dreaming. Three
   Mouillards have, if I may say so, adorned the legal profession at
   Bourges. You will be the fourth.

   &ldquo;As soon as you have taken your doctor&rsquo;s degree-which I presume
   should not be long&mdash;I shall expect you the very next day, or the day
   after that at the furthest; and I shall place you under my
   supervision.

   &ldquo;The practice is not falling off, I can assure you. In spite of
   age, I still possess good eyes and good teeth, the chief
   qualifications for a lawyer. You will find everything ready and in
   good order here.

   &ldquo;I am obliged to you for your good wishes, which I entirely
   reciprocate.

        &ldquo;Your affectionate uncle,

                    &ldquo;BRUTUS MOUILLARD.&rdquo;
 
   &ldquo;P. S.&mdash;The Lorinet family have been to see me. Mademoiselle Berthe
   is really quite pretty. They have just inherited 751,351 francs.

   &ldquo;I was employed by them in an action relating thereto.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Yes, my dear uncle, you were employed, according to the formula, &ldquo;in
      virtue of these and subsequent engagements,&rdquo; and among the &ldquo;subsequent
      engagements&rdquo; you are kind enough to reckon one between Mademoiselle Berthe
      Lorinet, spinster, of no occupation, and M. Fabien Mouillard, lawyer.
      &ldquo;Fabien Mouillard, lawyer&rdquo;&mdash;that I may perhaps endure, but &ldquo;Fabien
      Mouillard, son-in-law of Lorinet,&rdquo; never! One pays too dear for these rich
      wives. Mademoiselle Berthe is half a foot taller than I, who am moderately
      tall, and she has breadth in proportion. Moreover, I have heard that her
      wit is got in proportion. I saw her when she was seventeen, in a short
      frock of staring blue; she was very thin then, and was escorted by a
      brother, squeezed inside a schoolboy&rsquo;s suit; they were out for their first
      walk alone, both red-faced, flurried, shuffling along the sidewalks of
      Bourges. That was enough. For me she will always wear that look, that
      frock, that clumsy gait. Recollections, my good uncle, are not unlike
      instantaneous photographs; and this one is a distinct negative to your
      designs.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    March 3d.
</pre>
    <p>
      The year is getting on. My essay is growing. The Junian Latin emerges from
      the fogs of Tiber.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have had to return to the National Library. My first visits were not
      made without trepidation. I fancied that the beadle was colder, and that
      the keepers were shadowing me like a political suspect. I thought it wise
      to change my side, so now I make out my list of books at the left-hand
      desk and occupy a seat on the left side of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot remains faithful to his post beneath the right-hand inkstand.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have been watching him. He is usually one of the first to arrive, with
      nimble, almost springy, step. His hair, which he wears rather long, is
      always carefully parted in the middle, and he is always freshly shaven.
      His habit of filling the pockets of his frock-coat with bundles of notes
      has made that garment swell out at the top into the shape of a basket. He
      puts on a pair of spectacles mounted in very thin gold, and reads
      determinedly, very few books it is true, but they are all bound in vellum,
      and that fixes their date. In his way of turning the leaves there is
      something sacerdotal. He seems popular with the servants. Some of the
      keepers worship him. He has very good manners toward every one. Me he
      avoids. Still I meet him, sometimes in the cloakroom, oftener in the Rue
      Richelieu on his way to the Seine. He stops, and so do I, near the
      Fontaine Moliere, to buy chestnuts. We have this taste in common. He buys
      two sous&rsquo; worth, I buy one; thus the distinctions of rank are preserved.
      If he arrives after me, I allow him the first turn to be served; if he is
      before me, I await my turn with a patience which betokens respect. Yet he
      never seems to notice it. Once or twice, certainly, I fancied I caught a
      smile at the corners of his mouth, and a sly twinkle in the corners of his
      eyes; but these old scholars smile so austerely.
    </p>
    <p>
      He must have guessed that I wish to meet him. For I can not deny it. I am
      looking out for an opportunity to repair my clumsy mistake and show myself
      in a less unfavorable light than I did at that ill-starred visit. And she
      is the reason why I haunt his path!
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever since M. Mouillard threatened me with Mademoiselle Berthe Lorinet,
      the graceful outlines of Mademoiselle Jeanne have haunted me with a
      persistence to which I have no objection.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not because I love her. It does not go as far as that. I am leaving
      her and leaving Paris forever in a few months. No; the height of my desire
      is to see her again&mdash;in the street, at the theatre, no matter where&mdash;to
      show her by my behavior and, if possible, by my words that I am sorry for
      the past, and implore her forgiveness. Then there will no longer be a gulf
      betwixt her and me, I shall be able to meet her without confusion, to
      invoke her image to put to flight that of Mademoiselle Lorinet without the
      vision of those disdainful lips to dash me. She will be for me at once the
      type of Parisian grace and of filial affection. I will carry off her image
      to the country like the remembered perfume of some rare flower; and if
      ever I sing &lsquo;Hymen Hymnaee&rsquo;! it shall be with one who recalls her face to
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not think my feelings overpass these bounds. Yet I am not quite sure.
      I watch for her with a keenness and determination which surprise me, and
      the disappointment which follows a fruitless search is a shade too lively
      to accord with cool reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      After all, perhaps my reason is not cool.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let me see, I will make up the account of my ventures.
    </p>
    <p>
      One January afternoon I walked up and down the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite eight
      times in succession, from No. 1 to No. 107, and from No. 107 to No. 1.
      Jeanne did not come out in spite of the brilliancy of the clear winter
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the nineteenth of the same month I went to see Andromache, although the
      classic writers, whom I swear by, are not the writers I most care to hear.
      I renewed this attempt on the twenty-seventh. Neither on the first nor on
      the second occasion did I see Mademoiselle Charnot.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet if the Institute does not escort its daughters in shoals to
      applaud Andromache, where on earth does it take them?
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps nowhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every time I cross the Tuileries Garden I run my eyes over the groups
      scattered among the chestnut-trees. I see children playing and falling
      about; nursemaids who leave them crying; mothers who pick them up again; a
      vagrant guardsman. No Jeanne.
    </p>
    <p>
      To wind up, yesterday I spent five hours at the Bon Marche.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spring show was on, one of the great occasions of the year; and I
      presumed, not without an apparent foundation of reason, that no young or
      pretty Parisian could fail to be there. When I arrived, about one o&rsquo;clock,
      the crowd already filled the vast bazaar. It was not easy to stand against
      certain currents that set toward the departments consecrated to spring
      novelties. Adrift like a floating spar I was swept away and driven ashore
      amid the baby-linen. There it flung me high and dry among the shop-girls,
      who laughed at the spectacle of an undergraduate shipwrecked among the
      necessaries of babyhood. I felt shy, and attaching myself to the fortunes
      of an Englishwoman, who worked her elbows with the vigor of her nation, I
      was borne around nearly twenty counters. At last, wearied, mazed, dusty as
      with a long summer walk, I took refuge in the reading-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor simpleton! I said to myself, you are too early; you might have known
      that. She can not come with her father before the National Library closes.
      Even supposing they take an omnibus, they will not get here before a
      quarter past four.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had to find something to fill up the somewhat long interval which
      separated me from that happy moment. I wrote a letter to my Uncle
      Mouillard, taking seven minutes over the address alone. I had not shown
      such penmanship since I was nine years old. When the last flourish was
      completed I looked for a paper; they were all engaged. The directory was
      free. I took it, and opened it at Ch. I discovered that there were many
      Charnots in Paris without counting mine: Charnot, grocer; Charnot,
      upholsterer; Charnot, surgical bandage-maker. I built up a whole family
      tree for the member of the Institute, choosing, of course, those persons
      of the name who appeared most worthy to adorn its branches. Of what
      followed I retain but a vague recollection. I only remember that I felt
      twice as if some inquisitive individual were looking over my shoulder. The
      third time I woke up with a start.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said a shopwalker, with the utmost politeness, &ldquo;a gentleman has
      been waiting three quarters of an hour for the directory. Would you kindly
      hand it to him if you have quite finished with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a quarter to six. I still waited a little while, and then I left,
      having wasted my day.
    </p>
    <p>
      O Jeanne! where do you hide yourself? Must I, to meet you, attend mass at
      St. Germain des Pres? Are you one of those early birds who, before the
      world is up, are out in the Champs Elysees catching the first rays of the
      morning, and the country breeze before it is lost in the smoke of Paris?
      Are you attending lectures at the Sorbonne? Are you learning to sing? and,
      if so, who is your teacher?
    </p>
    <p>
      You sing, Jeanne, of course. You remind me of a bird. You have all the
      quick and easy graces of the skylark. Why should you not have the
      skylark&rsquo;s voice?
    </p>
    <p>
      Fabien, you are dropping into poetry!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. THE FLOWER-SHOW
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         April 3d.
</pre>
    <p>
      For a month I have written nothing in this brown notebook. But to-day
      there is plenty to put down, and worth the trouble too.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let me begin with the first shock. This morning, my head crammed with
      passages from Latin authors, I leaned my brow against the pane of my
      window which looks on the garden. The garden is not mine, of course, since
      I live on the fourth floor; but I have a view of the big weeping-willow in
      the centre, the sanded path that runs around it, and the four walls lined
      with borders, one of which separates it from the huge premises of the
      Carmelites. It is an almost deserted garden. The first-floor tenant hardly
      ever walks there. His son, a schoolboy of seventeen, was there this
      morning. He stood two feet from the street wall, motionless, with head
      thrown back, whistling a monotonous air, which seemed to me like a signal.
      Before him, however, was nothing but the moss on the old wall gleaming
      like golden lights. People do not whistle to amuse stones nor yet moss.
      Farther off, on the other side of the street, the windows of the opposite
      houses stretched away in long straight lines, most of them standing open.
    </p>
    <p>
      I thought: &ldquo;The bird is somewhere there. Some small Abigail with her white
      cap will look out in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The suspicion was stupid and ill-natured. How rash are our lightest
      judgments! Suddenly the school-boy took one step forward, swept his hand
      quickly along the moss as if he were trying to catch a fly, and ran off to
      his mother triumphant, delighted, beside himself, with an innocent gray
      lizard on the tips of his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got him! I&rsquo;ve got him! He was basking in the sun and I charmed him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Basking in the sun!&rdquo; This was a revelation to me. I flung up the window.
      Yes, it was true. Warmth and light lay everywhere: on the roofs still
      glistening with last night&rsquo;s showers; across the sky, whose gay blue
      proclaimed that winter was done. I looked downward and saw what I had not
      seen before: the willow bursting into bud; the hepatica in flower at the
      foot of the camellias, which had ceased to bloom; the pear-trees in the
      Carmelites&rsquo; garden flushing red as the sap rose within them; and upon the
      dead trunk of a fig-tree was a blackbird, escaped from the Luxembourg,
      who, on tiptoe, with throat outstretched, drunk with delight, answered
      some far-off call that the wind brought to him, singing, as if in woodland
      depths, the rapturous song of the year&rsquo;s new birth. Then, oh! then, I
      could contain myself no longer. I ran down the stairs four at a time,
      cursing Paris and the Junian Latins who had been cheating me of the
      spring. What! live there cut off from the world which was created for me,
      tread an artificial earth of stone or asphalt, live with a horizon of
      chimneys, see only the sky chopped into irregular strips by roofs smirched
      with smoke, and allow this exquisite spring to fleet by without drinking
      in her bountiful delight, without renewing in her youthfulness our youth,
      always a little staled and overcast by winter! No, that can not be; I mean
      to see the spring.
    </p>
    <p>
      And I have seen it, in truth, though cut and tied into bouquets, for my
      aimless steps led me to the Place St. Sulpice, where the flower-sellers
      were. There were flowers in plenty, but very few people; it was already
      late. None the less did I enjoy the sight of all the plants arranged by
      height and kind, from the double hyacinths, dear to hall-porters, to the
      first carnations, scarcely in bud, whose pink or white tips just peeped
      from their green sheaths; then the bouquets, bundles of the same kinds and
      same shades of flowers wrapped up in paper: lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs,
      forget-me-nots, mignonette, which being grown under glass has guarded its
      honey from the bees to scent the air here. Everyone had a look of welcome
      for those exiles. The girls smiled at them without knowing the reason why.
      The cabdrivers in line along the sidewalk seemed to enjoy their
      neighborhood. I heard one of them, with a face like a halfripened
      strawberry, red, with a white nose, say to a comrade, &ldquo;Hallo, Francis!
      that smells good, doesn&rsquo;t it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was walking along slowly, looking into every stall, and when I came to
      the end I turned right about face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Great Heavens! Not ten feet off! M. Flamaran, M. Charnot, and Mademoiselle
      Jeanne!
    </p>
    <p>
      They had stopped before one of the stalls that I had just left. M.
      Flamaran was carrying under his arm a pot of cineraria, which made his
      stomach a perfect bower. M. Charnot was stooping, examining a superb pink
      carnation. Jeanne was hovering undecided between twenty bunches of
      flowers, bending her pretty head in its spring hat over each in turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which, father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whichever you like; but make up your mind soon; Flamaran is waiting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moment more, and the elective affinities carried the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This bunch of mignonette,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      I would have wagered on it. She was sure to choose the mignonette&mdash;a
      fair, well-bred, graceful plant like herself. Others choose their
      camellias and their hyacinths; Jeanne must have something more refined.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put down her money, caught up the bunch, looked at it for a moment,
      and held it close to her breast as a mother might hold her child, while
      all its golden locks drooped over her arm. Then off she ran after her
      father, who had only changed one carnation for another. They went on
      toward St. Sulpice&mdash;M. Flamaran on the right, M. Charnot in the
      middle, Jeanne on the left. She brushed past without seeing me. I followed
      them at a distance. All three were laughing. At what? I can guess; she
      because she was eighteen, they for joy to be with her. At the end of the
      marketplace they turned to the left, followed the railings of the church,
      and bent their steps toward the Rue St. Sulpice, doubtless to take home M.
      Flamaran, whose cineraria blazed amid the crowd. I was about to turn in
      the same direction when an omnibus of the Batignolles-Clichy line stopped
      my way. In an instant I was overwhelmed by the flood of passengers which
      it poured on the pavements.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, you here! How goes it? What are you staring at? My stovepipe?
      Observe it well, my dear fellow&mdash;the latest invention of Leon; the
      patent ventilating, anti-sudorific, and evaporating hat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Larive who had just climbed down from the knifeboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin&rsquo;s office. He is to be seen
      everywhere&mdash;a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and
      moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a
      tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as
      his own. If you believe him, he is at home in all the ministries, whatever
      party is in power; he has cards for every ball, and tickets for every
      first night. With all that he never misses a funeral, is a good lawyer,
      and as solemn when in court as a dozen old mandarins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Fabien, will you answer? What are you staring at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I see&mdash;pretty Mademoiselle Charnot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I do, and her father, too. A pretty little thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I blushed with pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a very pretty little thing; but wants style&mdash;dances poorly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An admirable defect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little big, too, for her eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her eyes are a little too small, you understand me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matters that if they are bright and loving?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter at all to me; but it seems to have some effect on you. Might
      you be related?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or connected by marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better&mdash;eh, my boy? And how&rsquo;s uncle? Still going
      strong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and longing to snatch me from this Babylon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean to succeed him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long hence as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had heard you were not enthusiastic. A small practice, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly. A matter of a thousand a year!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clear profit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s good enough. But in the country, my poor fellow, in the country!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be the death of you, wouldn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In forty-eight hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;However did you manage to be born there, Larive? I&rsquo;m surprised at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So am I. I often think about it. Good-by. I must be off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I caught him by the hand which he held out to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Larive, tell me where you have met Mademoiselle Charnot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come!&mdash;I see it&rsquo;s serious. My dear fellow, I am so sorry I did
      not tell you she was perfection. If I had only known!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not what I asked you. Where have you seen her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In society, of course. Where do you expect me to see young girls except
      in society? My dear Fabien!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went off laughing. When he was about ten yards off he turned, and
      making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, he shouted through them:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s perfection!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Larive is decidedly an ass. His jokes strike you as funny at first; but
      there&rsquo;s nothing in him, he&rsquo;s a mere hawker of stale puns; there&rsquo;s nothing
      but selfishness under his jesting exterior. I have no belief in him. Yet
      he is an old school friend; the only one of my twenty-eight classmates
      whose acquaintance I have kept up. Four are dead, twenty-three others are
      scattered about in obscure country places; lost for want of news, as they
      say at the private inquiry offices. Larive makes up the twenty-eight. I
      used to admire him, when we were low in the school, because of his long
      trousers, his lofty contempt of discipline, and his precocious intimacy
      with tobacco. I preferred him to the good, well-behaved boys. Whenever we
      had leave out I used to buy gum-arabic at the druggist&rsquo;s in La Chatre, and
      break it up with a small hammer at the far end of my room, away from
      prying eyes. I used there to distribute it into three bags ticketed
      respectively: &ldquo;large pieces,&rdquo; &ldquo;middle-sized pieces,&rdquo; &ldquo;small pieces.&rdquo; When
      I returned to school with the three bags in my pocket, I would draw out
      one or the other to offer them to my friends, according to the importance
      of the occasion, or the degrees of friendship. Larive always had the big
      bits, and plenty of them. Yet he was none the more grateful to me, and
      even did not mind chaffing me about these petty attentions by which he was
      the gainer. He used to make fun of everything, and I used to look up to
      him. He still makes fun of everything; but for me the age of gumarabic is
      past and my faith in Larive is gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he believes that he will disparage this charming girl in my eyes by
      telling me that she is a bad dancer, he is wrong. Of great importance it
      is to have a wife who dances well! She does not dance in her own house,
      nor with her husband from the wardrobe to the cradle, but at others&rsquo; 
      houses, and with other men. Besides, a young girl who dances much has a
      lot of nonsense talked to her. She may acquire a taste for Larive&rsquo;s
      buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp tongue. In that case what welcome
      can she give to simple, timid affection? She will only laugh at it. But
      you would not laugh, Jeanne, were I to tell you that I loved you. No, I am
      quite convinced that you would not laugh. And if you loved me, Jeanne, we
      should not go into society. That would just suit me. I should protect you,
      yet not hide you. We should have felicity at home instead of running after
      it to balls and crushes, where it is never to be found. You could not help
      being aware of the fascination you exert; but you would not squander it on
      a mob of dancers, and bring home only the last remnants of your good
      spirits, with the last remnants of your train. Jeanne, I am delighted to
      hear that you dance badly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither away? You are letting your
      imagination run away with you again. A hint from it, and off you go. Come,
      do use your reason a little. You have seen this young lady again, that is
      true. You admired her; that was for the second time. But she, whom you so
      calmly speak of as &ldquo;Jeanne,&rdquo; as if she were something to you, never even
      noticed you. You know nothing about her but what you suspect from her
      maiden grace and a dozen words from her lips. You do not know whether she
      is free, nor how she would welcome the notions you entertain if you gave
      them utterance, yet here you are saying, &ldquo;We should go here,&rdquo; &ldquo;We should
      do this and that.&rdquo; Keep to the singular, my poor fellow. The plural is far
      away, very far away, if not entirely beyond your reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. A WOODLAND SKETCH
    </h2>
    <h3>
      April 27th.
    </h3>
    <p>
      The end of April. Students, pack and be off! The first warm breezes burst
      the buds. Meudon is smiling; Clamart breaks into song; the air in the
      valley of Chevreuse is heavy with violets; the willows shower their
      catkins on the banks of the Yvette; and farther yet, over yonder beneath
      the green domes of the forest of Fontainebleau, the deer prick their ears
      at the sound of the first riding-parties. Off with you! Flowers line the
      pathways, the moors are pink with bloom, the undergrowth teems with
      darting wings. All the town troops out to see the country in its gala
      dress. The very poorest have a favorite nook, a recollection of the bygone
      year to be revived and renewed; a sheltered corner that invited sleep, a
      glade where the shade was grateful, a spot beside the river&rsquo;s brink where
      the fish used to bite. Each one says, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you remember?&rdquo; Each one seeks
      his nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still hold together? What
      havoc has been made by the winter&rsquo;s winds, and the rain, and the frost?
      Will it welcome us, as of old?
    </p>
    <p>
      I, too, said to Lampron, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you remember?&rdquo; for we, too, have our nest,
      and summer days that smile to us in memory. He was in the mood for work,
      and hesitated. I added in a whisper, &ldquo;The blackbird&rsquo;s pool!&rdquo; He smiled,
      and off we went.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again, as of old, our destination was St. Germain&mdash;not the town, nor
      the Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide
      over the Seine, the country dotted with villas, to Montmartre blue in the
      distance&mdash;not these, but the forest. &ldquo;Our forest,&rdquo; we call it; for we
      know all its young shoots, all its giant trees, all its paths where
      poachers and young lovers hide. With my eyes shut I could find the
      blackbird&rsquo;s pool, the way to which was first shown us by a deer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a pool&mdash;no, not a pool (the
      word is incorrect), nor yet a pond&mdash;but a fountain hollowed out by
      the removal of a giant oak. Since the death of this monarch the birches
      which its branches kept apart have never closed together, and the fountain
      forms the centre of a little clearing where the moss is thick at all
      seasons and starred in August with wild pinks. The water, though deep, is
      deliciously clear. At a depth of more than six feet you can distinguish
      the dead leaves at the bottom, the grass, the twigs, and here and there a
      stone&rsquo;s iridescent outline. They all lie asleep there, the waste of
      seasons gone by, soon to be covered by others in their turn. From time to
      time out of the depths of these submerged thickets an eft darts up. He
      comes circling up, quivering his yellowbanded tail, snatches a mouthful of
      air, and goes down again head first. Save for these alarms the pool is
      untroubled. It is guarded from the winds by a juniper, which an eglantine
      has chosen for its guardian and crowns each year with a wreath of roses.
      Each year, too, a blackbird makes his nest here. We keep his secret. He
      knows we shall not disturb him. And when I come back to this little nook
      in the woods, which custom has endeared to us, merely by looking in the
      water I feel my very heart refreshed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a spot to sleep in!&rdquo; cried Lampron. &ldquo;Keep sentry, Fabien; I am going
      to take a nap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We had walked fast. It was very hot. He took off his coat, rolled it into
      a pillow, and placed it beneath his head as he lay down on the grass. I
      stretched myself prone on a velvety carpet of moss, and gave myself up to
      a profound investigation of the one square foot of ground which lay
      beneath my eyes. The number of blades of grass was prodigious. A few,
      already awned, stood above their fellows, waving like palms-meadowgrass,
      fescue, foxtail, brome-grass&mdash;each slender stalk crowned with a tuft.
      Others were budding, only half unfolded, amid the darker mass of spongy
      moss which gave them sustenance. Amid the numberless shafts thus raised
      toward heaven a thousand paths crisscrossed, each full of obstacles-chips
      of bark, juniper-berries, beech-nuts, tangled roots, hills raised by
      burrowing insects, ravines formed by the draining off of the rains. Ants
      and beetles bustled along them, pressing up hill and down to some
      mysterious goal. Above them a cunning red spider was tying a blade of
      grass to an orchid leaf, the pillars it had chosen for its future web; and
      when the wind shook the leaves and the sun pierced through to this spot, I
      saw the delicate roof already mapped out.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know how long my contemplation lasted. The woods were still. Save
      for a swarm of gnats which hummed in a minor key around the sleeping
      Lampron, nothing stirred, not a leaf even. All nature was silent as it
      drank in the full sunshine.
    </p>
    <p>
      A murmur of distant voices stole on my ear. I rose, and crept through the
      birches and hazels to the edge of the glade.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the top of the slope, on the green margin of the glade, shaded by the
      tall trees, two pedestrians were slowly advancing. At the distance they
      still were I could distinguish very little except that the man wore a
      frock-coat, and that the girl was dressed in gray, and was young, to judge
      by the suppleness of her walk. Nevertheless I felt at once that it was
      she!
    </p>
    <p>
      I hid at they came near, and saw her pass on her father&rsquo;s arm, chatting in
      low tones, full of joy to have escaped from the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite. She
      was looking before her with wide-open eyes. M. Charnot kept his eyes on
      his daughter, more interested in her than in all the wealth of spring. He
      kept well to the right of the path as the sun ate away the edge of the
      shadows; and asked, from time to time:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you tired?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As soon as you are tired, my dear, we will sit down. I am not walking too
      fast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She answered &ldquo;No&rdquo; again, and laughed, and they went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon they left the avenue and were lost in a green alley. Then a sudden
      twilight seemed to have closed down on me, an infinite sadness swelled in
      my heart. I closed my eyes, and&mdash;God forgive my weakness, but the
      tears came.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo! What part do you intend me to play in all this?&rdquo; said Lampron
      behind me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What part&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It&rsquo;s an odd notion to invite me to your trysting-place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trysting-place? I haven&rsquo;t one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean to tell me, perhaps, that you came here by chance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And chanced upon the very moment and the spot where she was passing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want a proof? That young lady is Mademoiselle Charnot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I never have said another word to her since my one visit to her
      father; I have only seen her once, for a moment, in the street. You see
      there can be no question of trysting-places in this case. I was wondering
      at her appearance when you awoke. It is luck, or a friendly providence,
      that has used the beauty of the sunlight, the breeze, and all the sweets
      of April to bring her, as it brought us, to the forest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is what fetched the tears?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My full-grown baby, I will tell you. You are in love with her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Sylvestre, I believe you&rsquo;re right. I confess it frankly to you as
      to my best friend. It is an old story already; as old, perhaps, as the day
      I first met her. At first her figure would rise in my imagination, and I
      took pleasure in contemplating it. Soon this phantom ceased to satisfy; I
      longed to see her in person. I sought her in the streets, the shops, the
      theatre. I still blinded myself, and pretended that I only wanted to ask
      her pardon, so as to remove, before I left Paris, the unpleasant
      impression I had made at our first meeting. But now, Sylvestre, all these
      false reasons have disappeared, and the true one is clear. I love her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a doubt of it, my friend, not a doubt of it. I have been through it
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent, and his eyes wandered away to the faroff woods, perhaps
      back to those distant memories of his. A shadow rested on his strong face,
      but only for an instant. He shook off his depression, and his old smile
      came back as he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s serious, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, very serious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not surprised; she is a very pretty girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t she lovely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better than that, my friend; she is good. What do you know about her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only that she is a bad dancer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s something, to be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no. But never mind, find out the rest, speak to her, declare your
      passion, ask for her hand, and marry her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Sylvestre, you are going ahead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear fellow, that is the best and wisest plan; these vague idyls ought
      to be hurried on, either to a painless separation or an honorable end in
      wedlock. In your place I should begin to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s catch them up, and see her again at least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He began to laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run after young girls at my age! Well, well, it was my advice. Come
      along!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We crossed the avenue, and plunged into the forest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lampron had formerly acquired a reputation for tireless agility among the
      fox-hunters of the Roman Campagna. He still deserves it. In twenty strides
      he left me behind. I saw him jumping over the heather, knocking off with
      his cane the young shoots on the oaks, or turning his head to look at me
      as I struggled after, torn by brambles and pricked by gorse. A startled
      pheasant brought him to a halt. The bird rose under his feet and soared
      into the full light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it beautiful?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Look out, we must be more careful; we are
      scaring the game. We should come upon the path they took, about sixty
      yards ahead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes later he was signalling to me from behind the trunk of a
      great beech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne and M. Charnot were seated on a fallen trunk beside the path, which
      here was almost lost beneath the green boughs. Their backs were toward us.
      The old man, with his shoulders bent and his gold-knobbed cane stuck into
      the ground beside him, was reading out of a book which we could not see,
      while Jeanne, attentive, motionless, her face half turned toward him, was
      listening. Her profile was outlined against a strip of clear sky. The deep
      silence of the wood wrapped us round, and we could hear the old scholar&rsquo;s
      voice; it just reached us.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Straightway the godlike Odysseus spake these cunning words to the fair
      Nausicaa: &lsquo;Be thou goddess or mortal, O queen, I bow myself before thee!
      If thou art one of the deities who dwell in boundless heaven, by thy
      loveliness and grace and height I guess thee to be Artemis, daughter of
      high Zeus. If thou art a mortal dwelling upon earth, thrice blessed thy
      father and thy queenly mother, thrice blessed thy dear brothers! Surely
      their souls ever swell with gladness because of thee, when they see a
      maiden so lovely step into the circle of the dance. But far the most
      blessed of all is he who shall prevail on thee with presents and lead thee
      to his home!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I turned to Lampron, who had stopped a few steps in front of me, a little
      to the right. He had got out his sketch-book, and was drawing hurriedly.
      Presently he forgot all prudence, and came forth from the shelter of a
      beech to get nearer to his model. In vain I made sign upon sign, and tried
      to remind him that we were not thereto paint or sketch. It was useless;
      the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting down at the required
      distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with his work
      with no thought but for his art.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inevitable happened. Growing impatient over some difficulty in his
      sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves
      rustled-Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      What are the feelings of a young girl who in the middle of a forest
      suddenly discovers that two pairs of eyes are busy with her? A little
      fright at first; then&mdash;when the idea of robbers is dismissed, and a
      second glance has shown her that it is her beauty, not her life, they want&mdash;a
      touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, not unmixed with confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is exactly what we thought we saw. At first she slightly drew back,
      with brows knitted, on the verge of an exclamation; then her brows unbent,
      and the pleasure of finding herself admired, confusion at being taken
      unawares, the desire of appearing at ease, all appeared at once on her
      rosy cheeks and in her faintly troubled smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed. Sylvestre pulled off his cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot never stirred.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another squirrel?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two this time, I think, father,&rdquo; she answered, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;My guest,&rsquo; made answer the fair Nausicaa, &lsquo;for I call thee so since thou
      seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to men&mdash;&lsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne was no longer listening. She was thinking. Of what? Of several
      things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed it by
      the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the
      turf. I signalled to Lampron. We retired backward. Yet it was in vain; the
      charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave two coughs&mdash;musical little coughs, produced at will.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot broke off his reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are cold, Jeanne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no, father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, you&rsquo;re cold. Why did you not say so before? Lord, Lord, these
      children! Always the same&mdash;think of nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose without delay, put his book in his pocket, buttoned up his coat,
      and, leaning on his stick, glanced up a moment at the tree-tops. Then,
      side by side, they disappeared down the path, Jeanne stepping briskly,
      upright and supple, between the young branches which soon concealed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still Lampron continued to watch the turning in the path down which she
      had vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you thinking about?&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stroked his beard, where lurked a few gray hairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking, my friend, that youth leaves us in this same way, at the
      time when we love it most, with a faint smile, and without a word to tell
      us whither. Mine played me this trick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a good idea of yours to sketch them both. Let me see the sketch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It can scarcely be called a sketch; it&rsquo;s a mere scratch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show it, all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My good Fabien, you ought to know that when I am obstinate I have my
      reasons, like Balaam&rsquo;s ass. You will not see my sketch-book to-day, nor
      to-morrow, nor the day after.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I answered with foolish warmth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please yourself; I don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Really I was very much annoyed, and I was rather cool with Lampron when we
      parted on the platform.
    </p>
    <p>
      What has come to the fellow? To refuse to show me a sketch he had made
      before my eyes, and a sketch of Jeanne, too!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    April 28th, 9 A.M.
</pre>
    <p>
      Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or your
      pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne&rsquo;s image in my heart, and can see
      it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her!
    </p>
    <p>
      What is to become of her and of me I can not tell. I hope without knowing
      what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       9 P.M.
</pre>
    <p>
      This afternoon, at two o&rsquo;clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St. Michel.
      He was walking fast with a portfolio under his arm. I went up to him. He
      looked annoyed, and hardly seemed pleased when I offered to accompany him.
      I grew red and angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very well,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;good-by, then, since you don&rsquo;t care to be seen
      with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pondered a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, come along if you like; I am going to my framemaker&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A picture?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something of the kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that&rsquo;s all the mystery! Yesterday it was a sketch I mustn&rsquo;t look at;
      to-day it&rsquo;s a picture. It is not nice of you, Sylvestre; no, decidedly it
      is not nice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave me a look of friendly compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor little chap!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, in his usual clear, strong voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in a great hurry; but come if you like. I would rather it were four
      days later; but as it is, never mind; it is never too soon to be happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it is useless to ask him
      questions. I gave myself up to meditating on the words, &ldquo;It is never too
      soon to be happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We went down the boulevard, past the beer-houses. There is distinction in
      my friend&rsquo;s walk; he is not to be confused with the crowd through which he
      passes. You can tell, from the simple seriousness of the man, his
      indifference to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, that he is a
      stout and noble soul. Among the passers-by he is a somebody. I heard from
      a group of students seated before a cafe the following words, which
      Sylvestre did not seem to notice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, do you see the taller of those two there? That&rsquo;s Sylvestre
      Lampron.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prix du Salon two years ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great gun, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He looks it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the left,&rdquo; said Lampron.
    </p>
    <p>
      We turned to the left, and found ourselves in the Rue Hautefeuille, before
      a shabby house, within the porch of which hung notices of apartments to
      let; this was the framemaker&rsquo;s. The passage was dark, the walls were
      chipped by the innumerable removals of furniture they had witnessed. We
      went upstairs. On the fourth floor a smell of glue and sour paste on the
      landing announced the tenant&rsquo;s profession. To make quite certain there was
      a card nailed to the door with &ldquo;Plumet, Frame-Maker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plumet? A newly-married couple?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But already Madame Plumet is at the door. It is the same little woman who
      came to Boule&rsquo;s office. She recognizes me in the dim light of the
      staircase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Monsieur Lampron, do you know Monsieur Mouillard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you apparently do, too, Madame Plumet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes! I know him well; he won my action, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, to be sure-against the cabinet-maker. Is your husband in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, in the workshop. Plumet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Through the half-opened door giving access to an inner room we could
      see-in the midst of his molders, gilders, burnishers, and framers&mdash;a
      little dark man with a beard, who looked up and hurriedly undid the
      strings of his working-apron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Coming, Marie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Little Madame Plumet was a trifle upset at having to receive us in
      undress, before she had tidied up her rooms. I could see it by her blushes
      and by the instinctive movement she made to smooth her disordered curls.
    </p>
    <p>
      The husband had hardly answered her call before she left us and went off
      to the end of the room, into the obscure recesses of an alcove overcrowded
      with furniture. There she bent over an oblong object, which I could not
      quite see at first, and rocked it with her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard,&rdquo; said she, looking up to me&mdash;&ldquo;Monsieur
      Mouillard, this is my son, Pierre!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What tender pride in those words, and the smile which accompanied them!
      With a finger she drew one of the curtains aside. Under the blue muslin,
      between the pillow and the white coverlet, I discovered two little black
      eyes and a tuft of golden hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t he a little rogue!&rdquo; she went on, and began to caress the waking
      baby.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Sylvestre had been talking to Plumet at the other end of the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out of the question,&rdquo; said the frame-maker; &ldquo;we are up to our knees in
      arrears; twenty orders waiting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask you to oblige me as a friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I could oblige you, Monsieur Lampron; but if I made you a promise,
      I should not be able to keep it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pity! All was so well arranged, too. The sketch was to have been
      hung with my two engravings. Poor Fabien! I was saving up a surprise for
      you. Come and look here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I went across. Sylvestre opened his portfolio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you recognize it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At once I recognized them. M. Charnot&rsquo;s back; Jeanne&rsquo;s profile, exactly
      like her; a forest nook; the parasol on the ground; the cane stuck into
      the grass; a bit of genre, perfect in truth and execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did you do that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you want to exhibit it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the Salon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Sylvestre, it is too late to send in to the Salon. The Ides of March
      are long past.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, for that very reason I have had the devil of a time, intriguing all
      the morning. With a large picture I never should have succeeded; but with
      a bit of a sketch, six inches by nine&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bribery of officials, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Followed by substitution, which is strictly forbidden. I happened to have
      hung there between two engravings a little sketch of underwoods not unlike
      this; one comes down, the other is hung instead&mdash;a little bit of
      jobbery of which I am still ashamed. I risked it all for you, in the hope
      that she would come and recognize the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course she will recognize it, and understand; how on earth could she
      help it? My dear Sylvestre, how can I thank you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I seized my friend&rsquo;s hand and begged his forgiveness for my foolish haste
      of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      He, too, was a little touched and overcome by the pleasure his surprise
      had given me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Plumet,&rdquo; he said to the frame-maker, who had taken the sketch
      over to the light, and was studying it with a professional eye. &ldquo;This
      young man has even a greater interest than I in the matter. He is a suitor
      for the lady&rsquo;s hand, and you can be very useful to him. If you do not
      frame the picture his happiness is blighted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The frame-maker shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s see, Antoine,&rdquo; said a coaxing little voice, and Madame Plumet left
      the cradle to come to our aid.
    </p>
    <p>
      I considered our cause as won. Plumet repeated in vain, as he pulled his
      beard, that it was impossible; she declared it was not. He made a move for
      his workshop; she pulled him back by the sleeve, made him laugh and give
      his consent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Antoine,&rdquo; she insisted, &ldquo;we owe our marriage to Monsieur Mouillard; you
      must at least pay what you owe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was delighted. Still, a doubt seized me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvestre,&rdquo; I said to Lampron, who already had his hand upon the
      door-handle, &ldquo;do you really think she will come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so; but I will not answer for it. To make certain, some one must
      send word to her: &lsquo;Mademoiselle Jeanne, your portrait is at the Salon.&rsquo; If
      you know any one who would not mind taking this message to the Rue de
      l&rsquo;Universite&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid I don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on, then, and trust to luck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rue de l&rsquo;Universite, did you say?&rdquo; broke in little Madame Plumet, who
      certainly took the liveliest interest in my cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I have a friend in the neighborhood, and perhaps&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I risked giving her the number and name under the seal of secrecy; and it
      was a good thing I did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      In three minutes she had concocted a plan. It was like this: her friend
      lived near the hotel in the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite, a porter&rsquo;s wife of
      advanced years, and quite safe; by means of her it might be possible to
      hint to Mademoiselle Jeanne that her portrait, or something like it, was
      to be seen at the Salon&mdash;discreetly, of course, and as if it were the
      merest piece of news.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a plucky, clever little woman it is! Surely I was inspired when I did
      her that service. I never thought I should be repaid. And here I am repaid
      both capital and interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet I hesitated. She snatched my consent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;leave me to act. I promise you, Monsieur Mouillard,
      that she shall hear of it, and you, Monsieur Lampron, that the picture
      shall be framed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She showed us to the top of the stairs, did little Madame Plumet, pleased
      at having won over her husband, at having shown herself so cunning, and at
      being employed in a conspiracy of love. In the street Lampron shook me by
      the hand. &ldquo;Good-by, my friend,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;happy men don&rsquo;t need company.
      Four days hence, at noon, I shall come to fetch you, and we will pay our
      first visit to the Salon together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, I was a happy man! I walked fast, without seeing anything, my eyes
      lost in day dreams, my ears listening to celestial harmonies. I seemed to
      wear a halo. It abashed me somewhat; for there is something insolent in
      proclaiming on the housetops: &ldquo;Look up at me, my heart is full, Jeanne is
      going to love me!&rdquo; Decidedly, my brain was affected.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near the fountain in the Luxembourg, in front of the old palace where the
      senate sits, two little girls were playing. One pushed the other, who fell
      down crying,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naughty Jeanne, naughty girl!&rdquo; I rushed to pick her up, and kissed her
      before the eyes of her astonished nurse, saying, &ldquo;No, Mademoiselle, she is
      the most charming girl in the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And M. Legrand! I still blush when I think of my conversation with M.
      Legrand. He was standing in a dignified attitude at the door of his shop.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        &ldquo;ITALIAN WAREHOUSE; DRESSED PROVISIONS;
          SPECIALTY IN COLONIAL PRODUCE.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      He and I are upon good terms; I buy oranges, licorice from him, and rum
      when I want to make punch. But there are distinctions. Well, to-day I
      called him &ldquo;Dear Monsieur Legrand;&rdquo; I addressed him, though I had nothing
      to buy; I asked after his business; I remarked to him, &ldquo;What a heavenly
      day, Monsieur Legrand! We really have got fine weather at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked up to the top of the street, and looked down again at me, but
      refrained from differing, out of respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, as a matter of fact, I noticed afterward that there was a most
      unpleasant drizzle.
    </p>
    <p>
      To wind up with, just now as I was coming home after dinner, I passed a
      workman and his family in the Rue Bonaparte, and the man pointed after me,
      saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look! there goes a poet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was right. In me the lawyer&rsquo;s clerk is in abeyance, the lawyer of
      to-morrow has disappeared, only the poet is left&mdash;that is to say, the
      essence of youth freed from the parasitic growths of everyday life. I feel
      it roused and stirring. How sweet life is, and what wonderful instruments
      we are, that Hope can make us thus vibrate by a touch of her little
      finger!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 2.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. JOY AND MADNESS
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         May 1st.
</pre>
    <p>
      These four days have seemed as if they never would end&mdash;especially
      the last. But now it wants only two minutes of noon. In two minutes, if
      Lampron is not late&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Rat-a-tat-tat!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is twelve o&rsquo;clock, my friend; are you coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Lampron.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the last hour I had had my hat on my head, my stick between my legs,
      and had been turning over my essay with gloved hands. He laughed at me. I
      don&rsquo;t care. We walked, for the day was clear and warm. All the world was
      out and about. Who can stay indoors on May Day? As we neared the Chamber
      of Deputies, perambulators full of babies in white capes came pouring from
      all the neighboring streets, and made their resplendent way toward the
      Tuileries. Lampron was in a talkative mood. He was pleased with the
      hanging of his pictures, and his plan of campaign against Mademoiselle
      Jeanne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is sure to have heard of it, Fabien, and perhaps is there already.
      Who can tell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, cease your humbug! Yes, very possibly she is there before us. I have
      had a feeling that she would be for these last four days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have pictured her a score of times ascending the staircase on her
      father&rsquo;s arm. We are at the foot, lost in the crowd. Her noble, clear-cut
      profile stands out against the Gobelin tapestries which frame it with
      their embroidered flowers; one would say some maiden of bygone days had
      come to life, and stepped down from her tapestried panel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen!&rdquo; said Lampron, with a sweep of his arm which took in the whole
      of the Place de la Concorde, &ldquo;allow me to present to you the intending
      successor of Counsellor Mouillard, lawyer, of Bourges. Every inch of him a
      man of business!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We were getting near. Crowds were on their way to the exhibition from all
      sides, women in spring frocks, many of the men in white waistcoats, one
      hand in pocket, gayly flourishing their canes with the other, as much as
      to say, &ldquo;Look at me-well-to-do, jaunty, and out in fine weather.&rdquo; The
      turnstiles were crowded, but at last we got through. We made but one step
      across the gravel court, the realm of sculpture where antique gods in
      every posture formed a mythological circle round the modern busts in the
      central walk. There was no loitering here, for my heart was elsewhere. We
      cast a look at an old wounded Gaul, an ancestor unhonored by the crowd,
      and started up the staircase&mdash;no Jeanne to lead the way. We came to
      the first room of paintings. Sylvestre beamed like a man who feels at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick, Sylvestre, where is the sketch? Let&rsquo;s hurry to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he dragged me with him around several rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Have you ever experienced the intoxication of color which seizes the
      uninitiated at the door of a picture-gallery? So many staring hues impinge
      upon the eyes, so many ideas take confused shape and struggle together in
      the brain, that the eyes grow weary and the brain harassed. It hovers
      undecided like an insect in a meadow full of flowers. The buzzing remarks
      of the crowd add to the feeling of intoxication. They distract one&rsquo;s
      attention before it can settle anywhere, and carry it off to where some
      group is gathered before a great name, a costly frame, an enormous canvas,
      or an outrage on taste; twenty men on a gallows against a yellow sky, with
      twenty crows hovering over them, or an aged antediluvian, some mighty
      hunter, completely nude and with no property beyond a loaded club. One
      turns away, and the struggle begins again between the eye, attracted by a
      hundred subjects, and the brain, which would prefer to study one.
    </p>
    <p>
      With Lampron this danger has no existence; he takes in a room at a glance.
      He has the sportsman&rsquo;s eye which, in a covey of partridges, marks its bird
      at a glance. He never hesitates. &ldquo;That is the thing to make for,&rdquo; he says,
      &ldquo;come along&rdquo;&mdash;and we make for it. He plants himself right in front of
      the picture, with both hands in his overcoat pockets, and his chin sunk in
      his collar; says nothing, but is quite happy developing an idea which has
      occurred to him on his way to it; comparing the picture before him with
      some former work by the same artist which he remembers. His whole soul is
      concentrated on the picture. And when he considers that I have understood
      and penetrated the meaning of the work, he gives his opinion in few words,
      but always the right ones, summing up a long sequence of ideas which I
      must have shared with him, since I see exactly as he does.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way we halted before the &ldquo;Martyrdom of Saint Denis,&rdquo; by Bonnat,
      the two &ldquo;Adorations,&rdquo; by Bouguereau, a landscape of Bernier&rsquo;s, some other
      landscapes, sea pieces, and portraits.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last we left the oil paintings.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the open gallery, which runs around the inside of the huge oblong and
      looks on the court, the watercolors, engravings, and drawings slumbered,
      neglected. Lampron went straight to his works. I should have awarded them
      the medaille d&rsquo;honneur; an etching of a man&rsquo;s head, a large engraving of
      the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the Louvre, and the
      drawing which represents&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she&rsquo;s perfectly lovely; she will make a great
      mistake if she does not come and see herself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will come, my dear sir; but I shall not be there to see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I leave you to stalk your game; be patient, and do not forget to come and
      tell me the news this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Lampron vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      The drawing was hung about midway between two doorways draped with
      curtains, that opened into the big galleries. I leaned against the
      woodwork of one of them, and waited. On my left stretched a solitude
      seldom troubled by the few visitors who risk themselves in the realms of
      pen and pencil. These, too, only came to get fresh air, or to look down on
      the many-colored crowd moving among the white statues below.
    </p>
    <p>
      At my right, on the contrary, the battling currents of the crowd kept
      passing and repassing, the provincial element easily distinguished by its
      jaded demeanor. Stout, exhausted matrons, breathless fathers of families,
      crowded the sofas, raising discouraged glances to the walls, while around
      them turned and tripped, untiring as at a dance, legions of Parisiennes,
      at ease, on their high heels, equally attentive to the pictures, their own
      carriage, and their neighbors&rsquo; gowns.
    </p>
    <p>
      O peaceful functionaries, you whose business it is to keep an eye upon
      this ferment! unless the ceaseless flux of these human phenomena lull you
      to a trance, what a quantity of silly speeches you must hear! I picked up
      twenty in as many minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly there came a sound of little footsteps in the gallery. Two little
      girls had just come in, two sisters, doubtless, for both had the same
      black eyes, pink dresses, and white feathers in their hats. Hesitating,
      with outstretched necks, like fawns on the border of a glade, they seemed
      disappointed at the unexpected length of the gallery. They looked at each
      other and whispered. Then both smiled, and turning their backs on each
      other, they set off, one to the right, the other to the left, to examine
      the drawings which covered the walls. They made a rapid examination, with
      which art had obviously little to do; they were looking for something, and
      I thought it might be for Jeanne&rsquo;s portrait. And so it turned out; the one
      on my side soon came to a stop, pointed a finger to the wall, and gave a
      little cry. The other ran up; they clapped their hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo, bravo!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then off they went again through the farther door.
    </p>
    <p>
      I guessed what they were about to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      I trembled from head to foot, and hid myself farther behind the curtains.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not a minute elapsed before they were back, not two this time, but three,
      and the third was Jeanne, whom they were pulling along between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They brought her up to Lampron&rsquo;s sketch, and curtsied neatly to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne bent down, smiled, and seemed pleased. Then, a doubt seizing her,
      she turned her head and saw me. The smile died away; she blushed, a tear
      seemed ready to start to her eyes. Oh, rapture! Jeanne, you are touched;
      Jeanne, you understand!
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep joy surged across my soul, so deep that I never have felt its like.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! at that instant some one called, &ldquo;Jeanne!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood up, took the two little girls by the hand, and was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Far better had it been had I too fled, carrying with me that dream of
      delight!
    </p>
    <p>
      But no, I leaned forward to look after them. In the doorway beyond I saw
      M. Charnot. A young man was with him, who spoke to Jeanne. She answered
      him. Three words reached me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing, George.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The devil! She loves another!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         May 2d.
</pre>
    <p>
      In what a state of mind did I set out this morning to face my examiners!
      Downhearted, worn out by a night of misery, indifferent to all that might
      befall me, whether for good or for evil.
    </p>
    <p>
      I considered myself, and indeed I was, very wretched, but I never thought
      that I should return more wretched than I went.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was lovely weather when at half past eleven I started for the Law
      School with an annotated copy of my essay under my arm, thinking more of
      the regrets for the past and plans for the future with which I had
      wrestled all night, than of the ordeal I was about to undergo. I met in
      the Luxembourg the little girl whom I had kissed the week before. She
      stopped her hoop and stood in my way, staring with wideopen eyes and a
      coaxing, cunning look, which meant, &ldquo;I know you, I do!&rdquo; I passed by
      without noticing. She pouted her lip, and I saw that she was thinking,
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What was the matter? My poor little golden-locks, when you are grown a
      fair woman I trust you may know as little of it as you do to-day.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went up the Rue Soufliot, and entered the stuffy courtyard on the stroke
      of noon.
    </p>
    <p>
      The morning lectures were over. Beneath the arcades a few scattered
      students were walking up and down. I avoided them for fear of meeting a
      friend and having to talk. Several professors came running from their
      lunch, rather red in the face, at the summons of the secretary. These were
      my examiners.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was time to get into costume, for the candidate, like the criminal, has
      his costume. The old usher, who has dressed me up I don&rsquo;t know how many
      times in his hired gowns, saw that I was downcast, and thought I must be
      suffering from examination fever, a peculiar malady, which is like what a
      young soldier feels the first time he is under fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were alone in the dark robing-room; he walked round me, brushing and
      encouraging me; doctors of law have a moral right to this touch of the
      brush.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be all right, Monsieur Mouillard, never fear. No one has been
      refused a degree this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not afraid, Michu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I say &lsquo;no one,&rsquo; there was one refused&mdash;you never heard the
      like. Just imagine&mdash;a little to the right, please, Monsieur Mouillard&mdash;imagine,
      I say, a candidate who knew absolutely nothing. That is nothing
      extraordinary. But this fellow, after the examination was over,
      recommended himself to mercy. &lsquo;Have compassion on me, gentlemen,&rsquo; he said,
      &lsquo;I only wish to be a magistrate!&rsquo; Capital, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t seem to think so. You don&rsquo;t look like laughing this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Michu, every one has his bothers, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said to myself as I looked at you just now, Monsieur Mouillard has some
      bother. Button up all the way, if you please, for a doctor&rsquo;s essay;
      if-you-please. It&rsquo;s a heartache, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something of the kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shrugged his shoulders and went before me, struggling with an asthmatic
      chuckle, until we came to the room set apart for the examination.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the smallest and darkest of all, and borrowed its light from a
      street which had little enough to spare, and spared as little as it could.
      On the left against the wall is a raised desk for the candidate. At the
      end, on a platform before a bookcase, sit the six examiners in red robes,
      capes with three bands of ermine, and gold-laced caps. Between the
      candidate&rsquo;s desk and the door is a little enclosure for spectators, of
      whom there were about thirty when I entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      My performance, which had a chance of being brilliant, was only fair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three first examiners had read my essay, especially M. Flamaran, who
      knew it well and had enjoyed its novel and audacious propositions. He
      pursed up his mouth preparatory to putting the first question, like an
      epicure sucking a ripe fruit. And when at length he opened it, amid the
      general silence, it was to carry the discussion at once up to such heights
      of abstraction that a good number of the audience, not understanding a
      word of it, stealthily made for the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Each successive answer put fresh spirit into him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; he murmured, &ldquo;very good; let us carry it a step farther. Now
      supposing&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, the demon of logic at his heels, we both went off like inspired
      lunatics into a world of hypotheses where never man had set foot. He was
      examining no longer, he was inventing and intoxicating himself with
      deductions. No one was right or wrong. We were reasoning about chimeras,
      he radiant, I cool, before his gently tickled colleagues. I never realized
      till then what imagination a jurist&rsquo;s head could contain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perspiring freely, he set down a white mark, having exceeded by ten
      minutes the recognized time for examination.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second examiner was less enthusiastic. He made very few suppositions,
      and devoted all his art to convicting me of a contradiction between page
      seventeen and page seventy-nine. He kept repeating, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a serious
      matter, sir, very serious.&rdquo; But, nevertheless, he bestowed a second white
      mark on me. I only got half white from the third. The rest of the
      examination was taken up in matters extraneous to the subject of my essay,
      a commonplace trial of strength, in which I replied with threadbare
      arguments to outworn objections.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then it ended. Two hours had passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      I left the room while the examiners made up their minds.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few friends came up to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Congratulations, old man, I bet on six whites.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Larive! I never noticed you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quite believe you; you didn&rsquo;t notice anybody, you still look
      bewildered. Is it the emotion inseparable from&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The candidate is requested to return to the examination room!&rdquo; said the
      usher.
    </p>
    <p>
      And old Michu added, in a whisper, &ldquo;You have passed. I told you so. You
      won&rsquo;t forget old Michu, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran conferred my degree with a paternal smile, and a few kind
      words for &ldquo;this conscientious study, full of fresh ideas on a difficult
      subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I bowed to the examiners. Larive was waiting for me in the courtyard, and
      seized me by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle Mouillard will be pleased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better pleased than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s very likely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might easily be that. Upon my word I can&rsquo;t understand you. These two
      years you have been working like a gang of niggers for your degree, and
      now you have got it you don&rsquo;t seem to care a bit. You have won a smile
      from Flamaran and do not consider yourself a spoiled child of Fortune!
      What more did you want? Did you expect that Mademoiselle Charnot would
      come in person&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Larive&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To look on at your examination, and applaud your answers with her neatly
      gloved hands? Surely you know, my dear fellow, that that is no longer
      possible, and that she is going to be married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going to be married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t pretend you didn&rsquo;t know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have suspected as much since yesterday; I met her at the Salon, and saw
      a young man with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tall?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-looking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m&mdash;well&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dufilleul, old chap, friend Dufilleul. Don&rsquo;t you know Dufilleul?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes you do&mdash;a bit of a stockjobber, great at ecarte, studied law
      in our year, and is always to be seen at the Opera with little Tigra of
      the Bouffes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You pity her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s too awful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see an unhappy child married to a rake who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will not be the first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gambler!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there is that, to be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fool, as it seems, who, in exchange for her beauty, grace, and youth,
      can offer only an assortment of damaged goods! Yes, I do pity girls duped
      thus, deceived and sacrificed by the very purity that makes them believe
      in that of others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve some queer notions! It&rsquo;s the way of the world. If the innocent
      victims were only to marry males of equal innocence, under the
      guardianship of virtuous parents, the days of this world would be
      numbered, my boy. I assure you that Dufilleul is a good match, handsome
      for one thing&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s worth a deal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The deuce he is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then a name which can be divided.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Divided?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all the ease in the world. A very rare quality. At his marriage he
      describes himself as Monsieur du Filleul. A year later he is Baron du
      Filleul. At the death of his father, an old cad, he becomes Comte du
      Filleul. If the young wife is pretty and knows how to cajole her husband,
      she may even become a marquise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ugh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are out of spirits, my poor fellow; I will stand you an absinthe, the
      only beverage that will suit the bitterness of your heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I shall go home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-by, then. You don&rsquo;t take your degree cheerfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spun round on his heels and went down the Boulevard St. Michel.
    </p>
    <p>
      So all is over forever between her and me, and, saddest of all, she is
      even more to be pitied than I. Poor girl! I loved her deeply, but I did it
      awkwardly, as I do everything, and missed my chance of speaking. The mute
      declaration which I risked, or rather which a friend risked for me, found
      her already engaged to this beast who has brought more skill to the task,
      who has made no blots at the National Library, who has dared all when he
      had everything to fear&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I have allowed myself to be taken by her maiden witchery. All the fault,
      all the folly is mine. She has given me no encouragement, no sign of
      liking me. If she smiled at St. Germain it was because she was surprised
      and flattered. If she came near to tears at the Salon it was because she
      pitied me. I have not the shadow of a reproach to make her.
    </p>
    <p>
      That is all I shall ever get from her&mdash;a tear, a smile. That&rsquo;s all;
      never mind, I shall contrive to live on it. She has been my first love,
      and I shall keep her a place in my heart from which no other shall drive
      her. I shall now set to work to shut this poor heart which did so wrong to
      open.... I thought to be happy to-night, and I am full of sorrow.
      Henceforward I think I shall understand Sylvestre better. Our sorrows will
      bring us nearer. I will go to see him at once, and will tell him so.
    </p>
    <p>
      But first I must write to my uncle to tell him that his nephew is a Doctor
      of Law. All the rest, my plans, my whole future can be put off till
      to-morrow, or the day after, unless I get disgusted at the very thought of
      a future and decide to conjugate my life in the present indicative only.
      That is what I feel inclined to do.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       May 4th.
</pre>
    <p>
      Lampron has gone to the country to pass a fortnight in an out-of-the-way
      place with an old relative, where he goes into hiding when he wishes to
      finish an engraving.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Lampron was at home. After a little hesitation I told her all,
      and I am glad I did so. She found in her simple, womanly heart just the
      counsel that I needed. One feels that she is used to giving consolation.
      She possesses the secret of that feminine deftness which is the great
      set-off to feminine weakness. Weak? Yes, women perhaps are weak, yet less
      weak than we, the strong sex, for they can raise us to our feet. She
      called me, &ldquo;My dear Monsieur Fabien,&rdquo; and there was balm in the very way
      she said the words. I used to think she wanted refinement; she does not,
      she only lacks reading, and lack of reading may go with the most delicate
      and lofty feelings. No one ever taught her certain turns of expression
      which she used. &ldquo;If your mother was alive,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;this is what she
      would say.&rdquo; And then she spoke to me of God, who alone can determinate
      man&rsquo;s trials, either by the end He ordains, or the resignation He
      inspires. I felt myself carried with her into the regions where our
      sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens around them.
      And I remember she uttered this fine thought, &ldquo;See how my son has
      suffered! It makes one believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the elect of the
      earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones that crown the building
      are more deeply cut than their fellows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I returned from Madame Lampron&rsquo;s, softened, calmer, wiser.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. A VISIT FROM MY UNCLE
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         May 5th.
</pre>
    <p>
      A letter from M. Mouillard breathing fire and fury. Were I not so low
      spirited I could laugh at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He would have liked me, after taking my degree at two in the afternoon, to
      take the train for Bourges the same evening, where my uncle, his practice,
      and provincial bliss awaited me. M. Mouillard&rsquo;s friends had had due
      notice, and would have come to meet me at the station. In short, I am an
      ungrateful wretch. At least I might have fixed the hour of my imminent
      arrival, for I can not want to stop in Paris with nothing there to detain
      me. But no, not a sign, not a word of returning; simply the announcement
      that I have passed. This goes beyond the bounds of mere folly and
      carelessness. M. Mouillard, his most elementary notions of life shaken to
      their foundations, concludes in these words:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Fabien, I have long suspected it; some creature has you in bondage.
   I am coming to break the bonds!

                  &ldquo;BRUTUS MOUILLARD.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      I know him well; he will be here tomorrow.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  May 6th.
No uncle as yet.

                  May 7th.
No more uncle than yesterday.

                  May 8th.
Total eclipse continues. No news of M. Mouillard. This is very strange.

                  May 9th.
This evening at seven o&rsquo;clock, just as I was going out to dine, I saw,
a few yards away, a tall, broad-brimmed hat surmounting a head of lank
white hair, a long neck throttled in a white neckcloth, a frock-coat
flapping about a pair of attenuated legs. I lifted up my voice:
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened his arms to me and I fell into them. His first remark was:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust at least that you have not yet dined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Foyot&rsquo;s, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When you expect to meet a man in his wrath and get an invitation to
      dinner, you feel almost as if you had been taken in. You are heated, your
      arguments are at your fingers&rsquo; ends, your stock of petulance is ready for
      immediate use; and all have to be stored in bond.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I had recovered from my surprise, I said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected you sooner, from your letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your suppositions were correct. I have been two days here, at the Grand
      Hotel. I went there on account of the dining-room, for my friend Hublette
      (you remember Hublette at Bourges) told me: &lsquo;Mouillard, you must see that
      room before you retire from business.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have gone to see you there, uncle, if I had known it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would not have found me. Business before pleasure, Fabien. I had to
      see three barristers and five solicitors. You know that business of that
      kind can not wait. I saw them. Business over, I can indulge my feelings.
      Here I am. Does Foyot suit you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on, then nephew, quick, march! Paris, makes one feel quite young
      again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And really Uncle Mouillard did look quite young, almost as young as he
      looked provincial. His tall figure, and the countrified cut of his coat,
      made all who passed him turn to stare, accustomed as Parisians are to
      curiosities. He tapped the wood pavement with his stick, admired the
      effects of Wallace&rsquo;s philanthropy, stopped before the enamelled
      street-signs, and grew enthusiastic over the traffic in the Rue de
      Vaugirard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dinner was capital&mdash;just the kind a generous uncle will give to a
      blameless nephew. M. Mouillard, who has a long standing affection for
      chambertin, ordered two bottles to begin with. He drank the whole of one
      and half of the other, eating in proportion, and talked unceasingly and
      positively at the top of his voice, as his wont was. He told me the story
      of two of his best actions this year, a judicial separation&mdash;my uncle
      is very strong in judicial separations&mdash;and the abduction of a minor.
      At first I looked out for personal allusions. But no, he told the story
      from pure love of his art, without omitting an interlocutory judgment, or
      a judgment reserved, just as he would have told the story of Helen and
      Paris, if he had been employed in that well-known case. Not a word about
      myself. I waited, yet nothing came but the successive steps in the action.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the ice, M. Mouillard called for a cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Waiter, what cigars have you got?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales. Which
      would you like, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Emile displayed at the bottom of a box an object closely resembling a
      distaff with a straw through the middle, doubtless some relic of the last
      International Exhibition, abandoned by all, like the Great Eastern, on
      account of its dimensions. My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber
      mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lighted it, and under the pretext
      that you must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly, went out
      trailing behind him a cloud of smoke, like a gunboat at full speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      We &ldquo;did&rdquo; the arcades round the Odeon, where my uncle spent an eternity
      thumbing the books for sale. He took them all up one after another, from
      the poetry of the decedents to the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at the
      author&rsquo;s name, shrugged his shoulders, and always ended by turning to me
      with:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that writer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be quite a new author; I can&rsquo;t recall that name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard forgot that it was forty-five years since he had last visited
      the bookstalls under the Odeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought he was a student again, loafing along the arcades after dinner,
      eager for novelty, careless of draughts. Little by little he lost himself
      in dim reveries. His cigar never left his lips. The ash grew longer and
      longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the tip, dotted with
      little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a thin red band which
      alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long, that
      a young student&mdash;of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these
      twin phenomena. I saw him nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and,
      doffing his hat, accost my uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Might I trouble you for a light, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned slowly round, and bent two terrible
      eyes upon the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry gesture, and
      held out the ignited end at arm&rsquo;s length.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With pleasure, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he replaced the last book he had taken up&mdash;a copy of Musset&mdash;and
      called me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Fabien.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de Medicis along the railings of the
      Luxembourg.
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt the crisis approaching. My uncle has a pet saying: &ldquo;When a thing is
      not clear to me, I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ferret began to work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Fabien, about these bonds I mentioned? Did I guess right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my boy; but we must break your
      bonds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are broken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some days ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On your honor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s quite right. You&rsquo;d have done better to keep out of bondage. But
      there, you took your uncle&rsquo;s advice; you saw the abyss, and drew back from
      it. Quite right of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, I will not deceive you. Your letter arrived after the event. The
      cause of the rupture was quite apart from that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the cause was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sudden shattering of my illusions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Men still have illusions about these creatures?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a perfect creature, and worthy of all respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must ask you to believe me. I thought her affections free.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she was&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betrothed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really now, that&rsquo;s very funny!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not find it funny, uncle. I suffered bitterly, I assure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say, I dare say. The illusions you spoke of anyhow, it&rsquo;s all over
      now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that being the case, Fabien, I am ready to help you. Confess
      frankly to me. How much is required?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you want something, I dare say, to close the incident. You know what
      I mean, eh? to purchase what I might call the veil of oblivion. How much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, nothing at all, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid, Fabien; I&rsquo;ve got the money with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have quite mistaken the case, uncle; there is no question of money. I
      must tell you again that the young lady is of the highest respectability.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle stared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, uncle. I am speaking of Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The daughter of a member of the Institute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle gave a jump and stood still.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of Mademoiselle Charnot, whom I was in love with and wished to
      marry. Do you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He leaned against the railing and folded his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marry! Well, I never! A woman you wanted to marry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes; what&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To marry! How could I have imagined such a thing? Here were matters of
      the utmost importance going on, and I knew nothing about them. Marry! You
      might be announcing your betrothal to me at this moment if you&rsquo;d-Still you
      are quite sure she is betrothed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Larive told me so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s Larive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, so you have only heard it through a friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, uncle. Do you really think there may still be hope, that I still
      have a chance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; not the slightest. She is sure to be betrothed, very much
      betrothed. I tell you I am glad she is. The Mouillards do not come to
      Paris for their wives, Fabien&mdash;we do not want a Parisienne to carry
      on the traditions of the family, and the practice. A Parisienne! I shudder
      at the thought of it. Fabien, you will leave Paris with me to-morrow.
      That&rsquo;s understood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your reasons?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I can not leave my friends without saying goodby, and because I
      have need to reflect before definitely binding myself to the legal
      profession.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To reflect! You want to reflect before taking over a family practice,
      which has been destined for you since you were an infant, in view of which
      you have been working for five years, and which I have nursed for you, I,
      your uncle, as if you had been my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a fool! You can reflect at Bourges quite as well as here. Your
      object in staying here is to see her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To wander like a troubled spirit up and down her street. By the way,
      which is her street?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rue de l&rsquo;Universite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle took out his pocketbook and made a note, &ldquo;Charnot, Rue de
      l&rsquo;Universite.&rdquo; Then all his features expanded. He gave a snort, which I
      understood, for I had often heard it in court at Bourges, where it meant,
      &ldquo;There is no escape now. Old Mouillard has cornered his man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle replaced his pencil in its case, and his notebook in his pocket,
      and merely added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fabien, you&rsquo;re not yourself to-night. We&rsquo;ll talk of the matter another
      time. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.&rdquo; He was counting on his fingers.
      &ldquo;These return tickets are very convenient; I need not leave before
      to-morrow evening. And, what&rsquo;s more, you&rsquo;ll go with me, my boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard talked only on indifferent subjects during our brief walk
      from the Rue Soufflot to catch the omnibus at the Odeon. There he shook me
      by the hand and sprang nimbly into the first bus. A lady in black, with
      veil tightly drawn over a little turned up nose, seeing my uncle burst in
      like a bomb, and make for the seat beside her, hurriedly drew in the folds
      of her dress, which were spread over the seat. My uncle noticed her
      action, and, fearing he had been rude, bent over toward her with an
      affable expression. &ldquo;Do not disturb yourself, Madame. I am not going all
      the way to Batignolles; no farther, indeed, than the Boulevards. I shall
      inconvenience you for a few moments only, a very few moments, Madame.&rdquo; I
      had time to remark that the lady, after giving her neighbor a glance of
      Juno-like disdain, turned her back upon him, and proceeded to study the
      straps hanging from the roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brake was taken off, the conductor whistled, the three horses, their
      hoofs hammering the pavement, strained for an instant amid showers of
      sparks, and the long vehicle vanished down the Rue de Vaugirard, bearing
      with it Brutus and his fortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. A FAMILY BREACH
    </h2>
    <h3>
      May 10th.
    </h3>
    <p>
      It is an awful fate to be the nephew of M. Mouillard! I always knew he was
      obstinate, capable alike of guile and daring, but I little imagined what
      his intentions were when he left me!
    </p>
    <p>
      My refusal to start, and my prayer for a respite before embarking in his
      practice, drove him wild. He lost his head, and swore to drag me off, &lsquo;per
      fas et nefas&rsquo;. He has mentally begun a new action&mdash;Mouillard v.
      Mouillard, and is already tackling the brief; which is as much as to say
      that he is fierce, unbridled, heartless, and without remorse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some might have bent. I preferred to break.
    </p>
    <p>
      We are strangers for life. I have just seen him to the landing of my
      staircase.
    </p>
    <p>
      He came here about a quarter of an hour ago, proud, and, I may say,
      swaggering, as he does over his learned friends when he has found a flaw
      in one of their pleadings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, nephew?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, uncle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got some news for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard banged his hat down furiously upon my table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you know my maxim: when anything does not seem quite clear to me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ferret it out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so; I have always found it answer. Your business did not seem clear
      to me. Was Mademoiselle Charnot betrothed, or was she not? To what extent
      had she encouraged your attentions? You never would have told me the story
      correctly, and I never should have known. That being so, I put my maxim
      into practice, and went to see her father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been to see Monsieur Charnot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite. Wasn&rsquo;t it the simplest thing to do? Besides,
      I was not sorry to make the acquaintance of a member of the Institute. And
      I must admit that he behaved very nicely to me&mdash;not a bit stuck up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you told him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name to begin with: Brutus Mouillard. He reflected a bit, just a
      moment, and recalled your appearance: a shy youth, a bachelor of arts,
      wearing an eyeglass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that all his description?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he remembered seeing you at the National Library, and once at his
      house. I said to him, &lsquo;That is my nephew, Monsieur Charnot.&rsquo; He replied,
      &lsquo;I congratulate you, sir; he seems a youth of parts.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;That he is,
      but his heart is very inflammable.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;At his age, sir, who is not
      liable to take fire?&rsquo; That was how we began. Your friend Monsieur Charnot
      has a pretty wit. I did not want to be behindhand with him, so I answered,
      &lsquo;Well, sir, it caught fire in your house.&rsquo; He started with fright and
      looked all round the room. I was vastly amused. Then we came to
      explanations. I put the case before him, that you were in love with his
      daughter, without my consent, but with perfectly honorable intentions;
      that I had guessed it from your letters, from your unpardonable neglect of
      your duties to your family, and that I hurried hither from Bourges to take
      in the situation. With that I concluded, and waited for him to develop.
      There are occasions when you must let people develop. I could not jump
      down his throat with, &lsquo;Sir, would you kindly tell me whether your daughter
      is betrothed or not?&rsquo; You follow me? He thought, no doubt, I had come to
      ask for his daughter&rsquo;s hand, and passing one hand over his forehead, he
      replied, &lsquo;Sir, I feel greatly flattered by your proposal, and I should
      certainly give it my serious attention, were it not that my daughter&rsquo;s
      hand is already sought by the son of an old schoolfellow of mine, which
      circumstance, as you will readily understand, does not permit of my
      entertaining an offer which otherwise should have received the most mature
      consideration.&rsquo; I had learned what I came for without risking anything.
      Well, I didn&rsquo;t conceal from him that, so far as I was concerned, I would
      rather you took your wife from the country than that you brought home the
      most charming Parisienne; and that the Mouillards from father to son had
      always taken their wives from Bourges. He entered perfectly into my
      sentiments, and we parted the best of friends. Now, my boy, the facts are
      ascertained: Mademoiselle Charnot is another&rsquo;s; you must get your mourning
      over and start with me to-night. To-morrow morning we shall be in Bourges,
      and you&rsquo;ll soon be laughing over your Parisian delusions, I warrant you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I had heard my uncle out without interrupting him, though wrath,
      astonishment, and my habitual respect for M. Mouillard were struggling for
      the mastery within me. I needed all my strength of mind to answer, with
      apparent calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday, uncle, I had not made up my mind; today I have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are coming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not. Your action in this matter, uncle&mdash;I do not know if you
      are aware of it&mdash;has been perfectly unheard-of. I can not acknowledge
      your right to act thus. It puts between you and me two hundred miles of
      rail, and that forever. Do you understand me? You have taken the liberty
      of disclosing a secret which was not yours to tell; you have revealed a
      passion which, as it was hopeless, should not have been further mentioned,
      and certainly not exposed to such humiliation. You went to see Monsieur
      Charnot without reflecting whether you were not bringing trouble into his
      household; without reflecting, further, whether such conduct as yours,
      which may perhaps be usual among your business acquaintances, was likely
      to succeed with me. Perhaps you thought it would. You have merely
      completed an experiment, begun long ago, which proves that we do not
      understand life in the same way, and that it will be better for both of us
      if I continue to live in Paris, and you continue to live at Bourges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! that&rsquo;s how you take it, young man, is it? You refuse to come? you try
      to bully me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Consider carefully before you let me leave here alone. You know the
      amount of your fortune&mdash;fourteen hundred francs a year, which means
      poverty in Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, attend to what I am about to say. For years past I have been
      saving my practice for you&mdash;that is, an honorable and lucrative
      position all ready for you to step into. But I am tired at length of your
      fads and your fancies. If you do not take up your quarters at Bourges
      within a fortnight from now, the Mouillard practice will change its name
      within three weeks!&rdquo; My uncle sniffed with emotion as he looked at me,
      expecting to see me totter beneath his threats. I made no answer for a
      moment; but a thought which had been harassing me from the beginning of
      our interview compelled me to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only one thing to ask you, Monsieur Mouillard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Further respite, I suppose? Time to reflect and fool me again? No, a
      hundred times no! I&rsquo;ve had enough of you; a fortnight, not a day more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir; I do not ask for respite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better, for I should refuse it. What do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard, I trust that Jeanne was not present at the interview,
      that she heard none of it, that she was not forced to blush&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle sprang to his feet, seized his gloves, which lay spread out on
      the table, bundled them up, flung them passionately into his hat, clapped
      the whole on his head, and made for the door with angry strides.
    </p>
    <p>
      I followed him; he never looked back, never made answer to my &ldquo;Good-by,
      uncle.&rdquo; But, at the sixth step, just before turning the corner, he raised
      his stick, gave the banisters a blow fit to break them, and went on his
      way downstairs exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damnation!&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         May 20th.
</pre>
    <p>
      And so we have parted with an oath, my uncle and I! That is how I have
      broken with the only relative I possess. It is now ten days since then. I
      now have five left in which to mend the broken thread of the family
      tradition, and become a lawyer. But nothing points to such conversion. On
      the contrary, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, pleased to be free, to
      have no profession. I feel the thrill of pleasure that a fugitive from
      justice feels on clearing the frontier. Perhaps I was meant for a
      different course of life than the one I was forced to follow. As a child I
      was brought up to worship the Mouillard practice, with the fixed idea that
      this profession alone could suit me; heir apparent to a lawyer&rsquo;s stool&mdash;born
      to it, brought up to it, without any idea, at any rate for a long time,
      that I could possibly free myself from the traditions of the law&rsquo;s sacred
      jargon.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have quite got over that now. The courts, where I have been a frequent
      spectator, seem to me full of talented men who fine down and belittle
      their talents in the practice of law. Nothing uses up the nobler virtues
      more quickly than a practice at the bar. Generosity, enthusiasm,
      sensibility, true and ready sympathy&mdash;all are taken, leaving the man,
      in many instances nothing but a skilful actor, who apes all the emotions
      while feeling none. And the comedy is none the less repugnant to me
      because it is played through with a solemn face, and the actors are richly
      recompensed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lampron is not like this. He has given play to all the noble qualities of
      his nature. I envy him. I admire his disinterestedness, his broad views of
      life, his faith in good in spite of evil, his belief in poetry in spite of
      prose, his unspoiled capacity for receiving new impressions and illusions&mdash;a
      capacity which, amid the crowds that grow old in mind before they are old
      in body, keeps him still young and boyish. I think I might have been
      devoted to his profession, or to literature, or to anything but law.
    </p>
    <p>
      We shall see. For the present I have taken a plunge into the unknown. My
      time is all my own, my freedom is absolute, and I am enjoying it.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have hidden nothing from Lampron. As my friend he is pleased, I can see,
      at a resolve which keeps me in Paris; but his prudence cries out upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is easy enough to refuse a profession,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;harder to find
      another in its place. What do you intend to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear fellow, you seem to be trusting to luck. At sixteen that might be
      permissible, at twenty-four it&rsquo;s a mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the worse, for I shall make the mistake. If I have to live on
      little&mdash;well, you&rsquo;ve tried that before now; I shall only be following
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true; I have known want, and even now it attacks me sometimes;
      it&rsquo;s like influenza, which does not leave its victims all at once; but it
      is hard, I can tell you, to do without the necessaries of life; as for its
      luxuries&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course, no one can do without its luxuries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are incorrigible,&rdquo; he answered, with a laugh. Then he said no more.
      Lampron&rsquo;s silence is the only argument which struggles in my heart in
      favor of the Mouillard practice. Who can guess from what quarter the wind
      will blow?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. IN THE BEATEN PATH
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         June 5th.
</pre>
    <p>
      The die is cast; I will not be a lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tradition of the Mouillards is broken for good, Sylvestre is defeated
      for good, and I am free for good&mdash;and quite uncertain of my future.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have written my uncle a calm, polite, and clearly worded letter to
      confirm my decision. He has not answered it, nor did I expect an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      I expected, however, that he would be avenged by some faint regret on my
      part, by one of those light mists that so often arise and hang about our
      firmest resolutions. But no such mist has arisen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, Law has had her revenge. Abandoned at Bourges, she has recaptured
      me at Paris, for a time. I realized that it was impossible for me to live
      on an income of fourteen hundred francs. The friends whom I discreetly
      questioned, in behalf of an unnamed acquaintance, as to the means of
      earning money, gave me various answers. Here is a fairly complete list of
      their expedients:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your friend is at all clever, he should write a novel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he is not, there is the catalogue of the National Library: ten hours
      of indexing a day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he has ambition, let him become a wine-merchant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; &lsquo;Old Clo,&rsquo; and get his hats gratis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he is very plain, and has no voice, he can sing in the chorus at the
      opera.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shorthand writer in the Senate is a peaceful occupation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teacher of Volapuk is the profession of the future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try &lsquo;Hallo, are you there?&rsquo; in the telephones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wants to earn money? Advise him first not to lose any!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The most sensible one, who guessed the name of the acquaintance I was
      interested in, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been a managing clerk; go back to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as the situation chanced to be vacant, I went back to my old master. I
      took my old seat and den as managing clerk between the outer office and
      Counsellor Boule&rsquo;s glass cage. I correct the drafts of the inferior
      clerks; I see the clients and instruct them how to proceed. They often
      take me for the counsellor himself. I go to the courts nearly every day,
      and hang about chief clerks&rsquo; and judges&rsquo; chambers; and go to the theatre
      once a week with the &ldquo;paper&rdquo; supplied to the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      Do I call this a profession? No, merely a stop-gap which allows me to live
      and wait for something to turn up. I sometimes have forebodings that I
      shall go on like this forever, waiting for something which will never turn
      up; that this temporary occupation may become only too permanent.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is an old clerk in the office who has never had any other
      occupation, whose appearance is a kind of warning to me. He has a red face&mdash;the
      effect of the office stove, I think&mdash;straight, white hair, the
      expression when spoken to of a startled sheep-gentle, astonished, slightly
      flurried. His attenuated back is rounded off with a stoop between the neck
      and shoulders. He can hardly keep his hands from shaking. His signature is
      a work of art. He can stick at his desk for six hours without stirring.
      While we lunch at a restaurant, he consumes at the office some nondescript
      provisions which he brings in the morning in a paper bag. On Sundays he
      fishes, for a change; his rod takes the place of his pen, and his can of
      worms serves instead of inkstand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He and I have already one point of resemblance. The old clerk was once
      crossed in love with a flowergirl, one Mademoiselle Elodie. He has told me
      this one tragedy of his life. In days gone by I used to think this
      thirty-year-old love-story dull and commonplace; to-day I understand M.
      Jupille; I relish him even. He and I have become sympathetic. I no longer
      make him move from his seat by the fire when I want to ask him a question:
      I go to him. On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from
      the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon
      his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sport is not what it used to be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This date is always cropping up with him. Have we not all our own date, a
      few months, a few days, perhaps a single hour of full-hearted joy, for
      which half our life has been a preparation, and of which the other half
      must be a remembrance?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       June 5th.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard, here is an application for leave to sign judgment in
      a fresh matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, give it me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the President of the Civil Court:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Plumet, of 27 Rue Hauteville, in the city of Paris, by
      Counsellor Boule, his advocate, craves leave&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a proceeding against a refractory debtor, the commonest thing in
      the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Massinot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who brought these papers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very pretty little woman brought them this morning while you were out,
      sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Massinot, whether she was pretty or not, it is no business of
      yours to criticise the looks of the clients.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur Mouillard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have not offended me, but you have no business to talk of a &lsquo;pretty
      client.&rsquo; That epithet is not allowed in a pleading, that&rsquo;s all. The lady
      is coming back, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Little Madame Plumet soon called again, tricked out from head to foot in
      the latest fashion. She was a little flurried on entering a room full of
      jocular clerks. Escorted by Massinot, both of them with their eyes fixed
      on the ground, she reached my office. I closed the door after her. She
      recognized me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard! What a pleasant surprise!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held out her hand to me so frankly and gracefully that I gave her
      mine, and felt sure, from the firm, expressive way in which she clasped
      it, that Madame Plumet was really pleased to see me. Her ruddy cheeks and
      bright eyes recalled my first impression of her, the little dressmaker
      running from the workshop to the office, full of her love for M. Plumet
      and her grievances against the wicked cabinetmaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, you are back again with Counsellor Boule? I am surprised!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So am I, Madame Plumet, very much surprised. But such is life! How is
      Master Pierre progressing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite so well, poor darling, since I weaned him. I had to wean him,
      Monsieur Mouillard, because I have gone back to my old trade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dressmaking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, on my own account this time. I have taken the flat opposite to ours,
      on the same floor. Plumet makes frames, while I make gowns. I have already
      three workgirls, and enough customers to give me a start. I do not charge
      them very dear to begin with.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of my customers was a very nice young lady&mdash;you know who! I have
      not talked to her of you, but I have often wanted to. By the way, Monsieur
      Mouillard, did I do my errand well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What errand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The important one, about the portrait at the Salon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes; very well indeed. I must thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She came?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, with her father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She must have been pleased! The drawing was so pretty. Plumet, who is not
      much of a talker, is never tired of praising it. I tell you, he and I did
      not spare ourselves. He made a bit of a fuss before he would take the
      order; he was in a hurry&mdash;such a hurry; but when he saw that I was
      bent on it he gave in. And it is not the first time he has given in.
      Plumet is a good soul, Monsieur Mouillard. When you know him better you
      will see what a good soul he is. Well, while he was cutting out the frame,
      I went to the porter&rsquo;s wife. What a business it was! I am glad my errand
      was successful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was too good of you, Madame Plumet; but it was useless, alas! she is
      to marry another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marry another? Impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I thought Madame Plumet was about to faint. Had she heard that her son
      Pierre had the croup, she could not have been more upset. Her bosom
      heaved, she clasped her hands, and gazed at me with sorrowful compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Monsieur Mouillard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet&rsquo;s cheeks. I
      should have liked to catch them. They were the only tears that had been
      shed for me by a living soul since my mother died.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had to tell her all, every word, down to my rival&rsquo;s name. When she heard
      that it was Baron Dufilleul, her indignation knew no bounds. She exclaimed
      that the Baron was an awful man; that she knew all sorts of things about
      him! Know him? she should think so! That such a union was impossible, that
      it could never take place, that Plumet, she knew, would agree with her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Plumet,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;we have strayed some distance from the business
      which brought you here. Let us return to your affairs; mine are hopeless,
      and you can not remedy them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She got up trembling, her eyes red and her feelings a little hurt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My action? Oh, no! I can&rsquo;t attend to it to-day. I&rsquo;ve no heart to talk
      about my business. What you&rsquo;ve told me has made me too unhappy. Another
      day, Monsieur Mouillard, another day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She left me with a look of mystery, and a pressure of the hand which
      seemed to say: &ldquo;Rely on me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor woman!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. I GO TO ITALY
    </h2>
    <h3>
      June 10th.
    </h3>
    <p>
      In the train. We have passed the fortifications. The stuccoed houses of
      the suburbs, the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in the debatable
      land round Paris are so many points of sunshine in the far distance. The
      train is going at full speed. The fields of green or gold are being
      unrolled like ribbons before my eyes. Now and again a metallic sound and a
      glimpse of columns and advertisements show that we are rushing through a
      station in a whirlwind of dust. A flash of light across our path is a
      tributary of the river. I am off, well on my way, and no one can stop me&mdash;not
      Lampron, nor Counsellor Boule, nor yet Plumet. The dream of years is about
      to be realized. I am going to see Italy&mdash;merely a corner of it; but
      what a pleasure even that is, and what unlooked-for luck!
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days ago, Counsellor Boule called me into his office.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard, you speak Italian fluently, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo; &ldquo;Would you like a trip at a client&rsquo;s expense?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With pleasure, wherever you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Italy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With very great pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought so, and gave your name to the court without asking your
      consent. It&rsquo;s a commission to examine documents at Milan, to prove some
      copies of deeds and other papers, put in by a supposititious Italian heir
      to establish his rights to a rather large property. You remember the case
      of Zampini against Veldon and others?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Zampini&rsquo;s copies of the deeds on which he bases his claim which you
      will have to compare with the originals, with the help of a clerk from the
      Record Office and a sworn translator. You can go by Switzerland or by the
      Corniche route, as you please. You will be allowed six hundred francs and
      a fortnight&rsquo;s holiday. Does that suit you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then pack up and be off. You must be at Milan by the morning of the
      eighteenth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I ran to tell the news to Lampron, who was filled with surprise and not a
      little emotion at the mention of Italy. And here I am flying along in the
      Lyons express, without a regret for Paris. All my heart leaps forward
      toward Switzerland, where I shall be to-morrow. I have chosen this green
      route to take me to the land of blue skies. Up to the last moment I feared
      that some obstacle would arise, that the ill-luck which dogs my footsteps
      would keep me back, and I am quite surprised that it has let me off. True,
      I nearly lost the train, and the horse of cab No. 7382 must have been a
      retired racer to make up for the loss of time caused by M. Plumet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Counsellor Boule sent me on a business errand an hour before I started. On
      my way back, just as I was crossing the Place de l&rsquo;Opera in the aforesaid
      cab, a voice hailed me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I looked first to the right and then to the left, till, on a refuge, I
      caught sight of M. Plumet struggling to attract my attention. I stopped
      the cab, and a smile of satisfaction spread over M. Plumet&rsquo;s countenance.
      He stepped off the refuge. I opened the cab-door. But a brougham passed,
      and the horse pushed me back into the cab with his nose. I opened the door
      a second time; another brougham came by; then a third; finally two serried
      lines of traffic cut me off from M. Plumet, who kept shouting something to
      me which the noise of the wheels and the crowd prevented me from hearing.
      I signalled my despair to M. Plumet. He rose on tiptoe. I could not hear
      any better.
    </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes lost! Impossible to wait any longer! Besides, who could tell
      that it was not a trap to prevent my departure, though in friendly guise?
      I shuddered at the thought and shouted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gare de Lyon, cabby, as fast as you can drive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My orders were obeyed. We got to the station to find the train made up and
      ready to start, and I was the last to take a ticket.
    </p>
    <p>
      I suppose M. Plumet managed to escape from his refuge.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         GENEVA.
</pre>
    <p>
      On my arrival I found, keeping order on the way outside the station, the
      drollest policeman that ever stepped out of a comic opera. At home we
      should have had to protect him against the boys; here he protects others.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, it shows that I am really abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have only two hours to spare in this town. What shall I see? The
      country; that is always beautiful, whereas many so-called &ldquo;sights&rdquo; are
      not. I will make for the shores of the lake, for the spot where the Rhone
      leaves it, to flow toward France. The Rhone, which is so muddy at Avignon,
      is clean here; deep and clear as a creek of the sea. It rushes along in a
      narrow blue torrent compressed between a quay and a line of houses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The river draws me after it. We leave the town together, and I am soon in
      the midst of those market-gardens where the infant Topffer lost himself,
      and, overtaken by nightfall, fell to making his famous analysis of fear.
      The big pumping wheels still overtop the willows, and cast their shadows
      over the lettuce-fields. In the distance rise slopes of woodland, on
      Sundays the haunt of holiday-makers. The Rhone leaps and eddies, singing
      over its gravel beds. Two trout-fishers are taxing all their strength to
      pull a boat up stream beneath the shelter of the bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps I was wrong in not waiting to hear what M. Plumet had to tell me.
      He is not the kind of man to gesticulate wildly without good reason.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       ON THE LAKE.
</pre>
    <p>
      The steamer is gaining the open water and Geneva already lies far behind.
      Not a ripple on the blue water that shades into deep blue behind us. Ahead
      the scene melts into a milky haze. A little boat, with idle sails
      embroidered with sunlight, vanishes into it. On the right rise the
      mountains of Savoy, dotted with forests, veiled in clouds which cast their
      shadows on the broken slopes. The contrast is happy, and I can not help
      admiring Leman&rsquo;s lovely smile at the foot of these rugged mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the bend in the banks near St. Maurice-en-Valais, the wind catches us,
      quite a squall. The lake becomes a sea. At the first roll an Englishwoman
      becomes seasick. She casts an expiring glance upon Chillon, the ancient
      towers of which are being lashed by the foam. Her husband does not think
      it worth his while to cease reading his guide-book or focusing his
      field-glass for so trifling a matter.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    ON THE DILIGENCE
</pre>
    <p>
      I am crossing the Simplon at daybreak, with rosepink glaciers on every
      side. We are trotting down the Italian slope. How I have longed for the
      sight of Italy! Hardly had the diligence put on the brake, and begun
      bowling down the mountain-side, before I discovered a change on the face
      of all things. The sky turned to a brighter blue. At the very first glance
      I seemed to see the dust of long summers on the leaves of the firs, six
      thousand feet above the sea, in the virgin atmosphere of the
      mountain-tops: and I was very near taking the creaking of my loosely fixed
      seat for the southern melody of the first grasshopper.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       BAVENO
</pre>
    <p>
      No one could be mistaken; this shaven, obsequious, suavely jovial
      innkeeper is a Neapolitan. He takes his stand in his mosaic-paved hall,
      and is at the service of all who wish for information about Lago Maggiore,
      the list of its sights; in a word, the programme of the piece.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  ISOLA BELLA, ISOLA MADRE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Yes, they are scraped clean, carefully tended, pretty, all a-blowing and
      a-growing; but unreal. The palm trees are unhomely, the tropical plants
      seem to stand behind footlights. Restore them to their homes, or give me
      back Lake Leman, so simply grand.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    MENAGGIO.
</pre>
    <p>
      After the sky-blue of Maggiore and the vivid green of Lugano, comes the
      violet-blue of Como, with its luminous landscape, its banks covered with
      olives, Roman ruins, and modern villas. Never have I felt the air so
      clear. Here for the first time I said to myself: &ldquo;This is the spot where I
      would choose to dwell.&rdquo; I have even selected my house; it peeps out from a
      mass of pomegranates, evergreens, and citrons, on a peninsula around which
      the water swells with gentle murmur, and whence the view is perfect across
      lake, mountain, and sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      A nightingale is singing, and I can not help reflecting that his fellows
      here are put to death in thousands. Yes, the reapers, famed in poems and
      lithographs, are desperate bird-catchers. At the season of migration they
      capture thousands of these weary travellers with snares or limed twigs; on
      Maggiore alone sixty thousand meet their end. We have but those they
      choose to leave us to charm our summer nights.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps they will kill my nightingale in the Carmelite garden. The idea
      fills me with indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then my thoughts run back to my rooms in the Rue de Rennes, and I see
      Madame Menin, with a dejected air, dusting my slumbering furniture;
      Lampron at work, his mother knitting; the old clerk growing sleepy with
      the heat and lifting his pen as he fancies he has got a bite; Madame
      Plumet amid her covey of workgirls, and M. Plumet blowing away with
      impatient breath the gold dust which the gum has failed to fix on the
      mouldings of a newly finished frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Plumet is pensive. He is burdened with a secret. I am convinced I did
      wrong in not waiting longer on the Place de L&rsquo;Opera.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    MILAN.
</pre>
    <p>
      At last I am in Milan, an ancient city, but full of ideas and energy, my
      destination, and the cradle of the excellent Porfirio Zampini, suspected
      forger. The examination of documents does not begin till the day after
      to-morrow, so I am making the best of the time in seeing the sights.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are four sights to see at Milan if you are a musician, and three if
      you are not: the Duomo, &lsquo;vulgo&rsquo;, cathedral; &ldquo;The Marriage of the Virgin,&rdquo;
       by Raphael; &ldquo;The Last Supper,&rdquo; by Leonardo; and, if it suits your tastes,
      a performance at La Scala.
    </p>
    <p>
      I began with the Duomo, and on leaving it I received the news that still
      worries me.
    </p>
    <p>
      But first of all I must make a confession. When I ascended through the
      tropical heat to the marble roof of the cathedral, I expected so much that
      I was disappointed. Surprise goes for so much in what we admire. Neither
      this mountain of marble, nor the lacework and pinnacles which adorn the
      enormous mass, nor the amazing number of statues, nor the sight of men
      smaller than flies on the Piazza del Duomo, nor the vast stretch of flat
      country which spreads for miles on every side of the city&mdash;none of
      these sights kindled the spark of enthusiasm within me which has often
      glowed for much less. No, what pleased me was something quite different, a
      detail not noticed in the guide-books, I suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had come down from the roof and was wandering in the vast nave from
      pillar to pillar, when I found myself beneath the lantern. I raised my
      eyes, but the flood of golden light compelled me to close them. The
      sunlight passing through the yellow glass of the windows overhead
      encircled the mighty vault of the lantern with a fiery crown, and played
      around the walls of its cage in rays which, growing fainter as they fell,
      flooded the floor with their expiring flames, a mysterious dayspring, a
      diffused glory, through which litany and sacred chant winged their way up
      toward the Infinite.
    </p>
    <p>
      I left the cathedral tired out, dazed with weariness and sunlight, and
      fell asleep in a chair as soon as I got back to my room, on the fifth
      floor of the Albergo dell&rsquo; Agnello.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had been asleep for about an hour, perhaps, when I thought I heard a
      voice near me repeating &ldquo;Illustre Signore!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I did not wake. The voice continued with a murmur of sibilants:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Illustrissimo Signore!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This drew me from my sleep, for the human ear is very susceptible to
      superlatives.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A letter for your lordship. As it is marked &lsquo;Immediate,&rsquo; I thought I
      might take the liberty of disturbing your lordship&rsquo;s slumbers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did quite right, Tomaso.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You owe me eight sous, signore, which I paid for the postage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s half a franc, keep the change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He retired calling me Monsieur le Comte; and all for two sous&mdash;O
      fatherland of Brutus! The letter was from Lampron, who had forgotten to
      put a stamp on it.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;MY DEAR FRIEND:

   &ldquo;Madame Plumet, to whom I believe you have given no instructions so
   to do, is at present busying herself considerably about your
   affairs. I felt I ought to warn you, because she is all heart and
   no brains, and I have often seen before the trouble into which an
   overzealous friend may get one, especially if the friend be a woman.

   &ldquo;I fear some serious indiscretion has been committed, for the
   following reasons.

   &ldquo;Yesterday evening Monsieur Plumet came to see me, and stood pulling
   furiously at his beard, which I know from experience is his way of
   showing that the world is not going around the right way for him.
   By means of questions, I succeeded, after some difficulty, in
   dragging from him about half what he had to tell me. The only thing
   which he made quite clear was his distress on finding that Madame
   Plumet was a woman whom it was hard to silence or to convince by
   argument.

   &ldquo;It appears that she has gone back to her old trade of dress-making,
   and that one of her first customers&mdash;God knows how she got there!&mdash;
   was Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.

   &ldquo;Well, last Monday Mademoiselle Jeanne was selecting a hat. She was
   blithe as dawn, while the dressmaker was gloomy as night.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Is your little boy ill, Madame Plumet?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;No, Mademoiselle.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;You look so sad.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Then, according to her husband&rsquo;s words, Madame Plumet took her
   courage in her two hands, and looking her pretty customer in the
   face, said:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Mademoiselle, why are you marrying?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What a funny question! Why, because I am old enough; because I
   have had an offer; because all young girls marry, or else they go
   into convents, or become old maids. Well, Madame Plumet, I never
   have felt a religious vocation, and I never expected to become an
   old maid. Why do you ask such a question?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Because, Mademoiselle, married life may be very happy, but it may
   be quite the reverse!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;After giving expression to this excellent aphorism, Madame Plumet,
   unable to contain herself any longer, burst into tears.

   &ldquo;Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had been laughing before, was now amazed
   and presently grew rather anxious.

   &ldquo;Still, her pride kept her from asking any further questions, and
   Madame Plumet was too much frightened to add a word to her answer.
   But they will meet again the day after to-morrow, on account of the
   hat, as before.

   &ldquo;Here the story grew confused, and I understood no more of it.

   &ldquo;Clearly there is more behind this. Monsieur Plumet never would
   have gone out of his way merely to inform me that his wife had given
   him a taste of her tongue, nor would he have looked so upset about
   it. But you know the fellow&rsquo;s way; whenever it&rsquo;s important for him
   to make himself clear he loses what little power of speech he has,
   becomes worse than dumb-unintelligible. He sputtered inconsequent
   ejaculations at me in this fashion:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;To think of it, to-morrow, perhaps! And you know what a
   business! Oh, damnation! Anyhow, that must not be! Ah! Monsieur
   Lampron, how women do talk!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;And with this Monsieur Plumet left me.

   &ldquo;I must confess, old fellow, that I am not burning with desire to
   get mixed up in this mess, or to go and ask Madame Plumet for the
   explanation which her husband was unable to give me. I shall bide
   my time. If anything turns up to-morrow, they are sure to tell me,
   and I will write you word.

   &ldquo;My mother sends you her love, and begs you to wrap up warmly in the
   evening; she says the twilight is the winter of hot climates.

   &ldquo;The dear woman has been a little out of sorts for the last two
   days. Today she is keeping her bed. I trust it is nothing but a
   cold.

   &ldquo;Your affectionate friend,

                    &ldquo;SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. STARTLING NEWS FROM SYLVESTRE
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    MILAN, June 18th.
</pre>
    <p>
      The examination of documents began this morning. I never thought we should
      have such a heap to examine, nor papers of such a length. The first
      sitting passed almost entirely in classifying, in examining signatures, in
      skirmishes of all kinds around this main body.
    </p>
    <p>
      My colleagues and I are working in a room in the municipal Palazzo del
      Marino, a vast deserted building used, I believe, as a storehouse. Our
      leathern armchairs and the table on which the documents are arranged
      occupy the middle of the room. Along the walls are several cupboards,
      nests of registers and rats; a few pictures with their faces to the wall;
      some carved wood scutcheons, half a dozen flagstaffs and a triumphal arch
      in cardboard, now taken to pieces and rotting&mdash;gloomy apparatus of
      bygone festivals.
    </p>
    <p>
      The persons taking part in the examination besides the three Frenchmen,
      are, in the first place, a little Italian judge, with a mean face,
      wrinkled like a winter apple, whose eyelids always seem heavy with sleep;
      secondly, a clerk, shining with fat, his dress, hair, and countenance
      expressive of restrained jollity, as he dreams voluptuous dreams of the
      cool drinks he means to absorb through a straw when the hour of
      deliverance shall sound from the frightful cuckoo clock, a relic of the
      French occupation, which ticks at the end of the room; thirdly, a creature
      whose position is difficult to determine&mdash;I think he must be employed
      in some registry; he is here as a mere manual laborer. This third person
      gives me the idea of being very much interested in the fortunes of Signore
      Porfirio Zampini, for on each occasion, when his duties required him to
      bring us documents, he whispered in my ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you only knew, my lord, what a man Zampini is! what a noble heart,
      what a paladin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Take notice that this &ldquo;paladin&rdquo; is a macaroni-seller, strongly suspected
      of trying to hoodwink the French courts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid the awful heat which penetrated the windows, the doors, even the
      sun-baked walls, we had to listen to, read, and compare documents. Gnats
      of a ferocious kind, hatched by thousands in the hangings of this
      hothouse, flew around our perspiring heads. Their buzzing got the upper
      hand at intervals when the clerk&rsquo;s voice grew weary and, diminishing in
      volume, threatened to fade away into snores.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little judge rapped on the table with his paperknife and urged the
      reader afresh upon his wild career. My colleague from the Record Office
      showed no sign of weariness. Motionless, attentive, classing the smallest
      papers in his orderly mind, he did not even feel the&rsquo; gnats swooping upon
      the veins in his hands, stinging them, sucking them, and flying off red
      and distended with his blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sat, both literally and metaphorically, on hot coals. Just as I came
      into the room, the man from the Record Office handed me a letter which had
      arrived at the hotel while I was out at lunch. It was a letter from
      Lampron, in a large, bulky envelope. Clearly something important must have
      happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      My fate, perhaps, was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew it not.
      I tried to get it out of my inside pocket several times, for to me it was
      a far more interesting document than any that concerned Zampini&rsquo;s action.
      I pined to open it furtively, and read at least the first few lines. A
      moment would have sufficed for me to get at the point of this long
      communication. But at every attempt the judge&rsquo;s eyes turned slowly upon me
      between their half-closed lids, and made me desist. No&mdash;a thousand
      times no! This smooth-tongued, wily Italian shall have no excuse for
      proving that the French, who have already such a reputation for frivolity,
      are a nation without a conscience, incapable of fulfilling the mission
      with which they are charged.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet.... there came a moment when he turned his back and began to sort
      a fresh bundle with the man of records. Here was an unlooked-for
      opportunity. I cut open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and found eight
      pages! Still I began:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;MY DEAR FRIEND:

   &ldquo;In spite of my anxiety about my mother, and the care her illness
   demands (to-day it is found to be undoubted congestion of the
   lungs), I feel bound to tell you the story of what has happened in
   the Rue Hautefeuille, as it is very important&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Monsieur Mou-il-ard,&rdquo; said the little judge, half turning
      toward me, &ldquo;does the paper you have there happen to be number
      twenty-seven, which we are looking for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear, no; it&rsquo;s a private letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A private letter? I ask pardon for interrupting you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes to show his pity for such
      frivolity, and turned away again satisfied, while the other members of the
      Zampini Commission looked at me with interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter was important. So much the worse, I must finish it:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I will try to reconstruct the scene for you, from the details which
   I have gathered.

   &ldquo;The time is a quarter to ten in the morning. There is a knock at
   Monsieur Plumet&rsquo;s door. The door opposite is opened half-way and
   Madame Plumet looks out. She withdraws in a hurry, &lsquo;with her heart
   in her mouth,&rsquo; as she says; the plot she has formed is about to
   succeed or fail, the critical moment is at hand; the visitor is her
   enemy, your rival Dufilleul.

   &ldquo;He is full of self-confidence and comes in plump and flourishing,
   with light gloves, and a terrier at his heels.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;My portrait framed, Plumet?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, my lord-yes, to be sure.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Let&rsquo;s see it.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;I have seen the famous portrait: a miniature of the newly created
   baron, in fresh butter, I think, done cheap by some poor girl who
   gains her living by coloring photographs. It is intended for
   Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes. A delicate attention from
   Dufilleul, isn&rsquo;t it? While Jeanne in her innocence is dreaming of
   the words of love he has ventured to utter to her, and cherishes but
   one thought, one image in her heart, he is exerting his ingenuity to
   perpetuate the recollection of that image&rsquo;s adventures elsewhere.

   &ldquo;He is pleased with the elaborate and costly frame which Plumet has
   made for him.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Very nice. How much?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;One hundred and twenty francs.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Six louis? very dear.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;That&rsquo;s my price for this kind of work, my lord; I am very
   busy just now, my lord.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, let it be this once. I don&rsquo;t often have a picture framed;
   to tell the truth, I don&rsquo;t care for pictures.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in the vile portrait
   which he holds outstretched in his right hand, while his left hand
   feels in his purse. Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very unhappy,
   and very nervous. He evidently wants to get his customer off the
   premises.

   &ldquo;The rustling of skirts is heard on the staircase. Plumet turns
   pale, and glancing at the half-opened door, through which the
   terrier is pushing its nose, steps forward to close it. It is too
   late.

   &ldquo;Some one has noiselessly opened it, and on the threshold stands
   Mademoiselle Jeanne in walking-dress, looking, with bright eyes and
   her most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps back in a fright, and
   Dufilleul, who has not yet seen her.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, sir, and so I&rsquo;ve caught you!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches the portrait to his
   waistcoat.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Mademoiselle&mdash;No, really, you have come&mdash;?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;To see Madame Plumet. What wrong is there in that?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;None whatever&mdash;of course not.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Not the least in the world, eh? Ha, ha! What a trifle flurries
   you. Come now, collect yourself. There is nothing to be frightened
   at. As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his muzzle out; I
   guessed he was not alone, so I left my maid with Madame Plumet, and
   came in at the right-hand door instead of the left. Do you think it
   improper?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, no, Mademoiselle.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;However, I am inquisitive, and I should like to see what you are
   hiding there.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;It&rsquo;s a portrait.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Hand it to me.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;With pleasure; unfortunately it&rsquo;s only a portrait of myself.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Why unfortunately? On the contrary, it flatters you&mdash;the nose is
   not so long as the original; what do you say, Monsieur Plumet?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Do you think it good?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Very.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;How do you like the frame?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;It&rsquo;s very pretty.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Then I make you a present of it, Mademoiselle.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Why! wasn&rsquo;t it intended for me?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;I mean&mdash;well! to tell the truth, it wasn&rsquo;t; it&rsquo;s a wedding
   present, a souvenir&mdash;there&rsquo;s nothing extraordinary in that, is
   there?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Nothing whatever. You can tell me whom it&rsquo;s for, I suppose?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t you think that you are pushing your curiosity too far?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, really!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, I mean it.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Since you make such a secret of it, I shall ask Monsieur Plumet to
   tell me. Monsieur Plumet, for whom is this portrait?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Plumet, pale as death, fumbled at his workman&rsquo;s cap, like a naughty
   child.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Why, you see, Mademoiselle&mdash;I am only a poor framemaker.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Very well! I shall go to Madame Plumet, who is sure to know, and
   will not mind telling me.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Madame Plumet, who must have been listening at the door, came in at
   that moment, trembling like a leaf, and prepared to dare all.

   &ldquo;I beg you won&rsquo;t, Mademoiselle,&rsquo; broke in Dufilleul; &lsquo;there is no
   secret. I only wanted to tease you. The portrait is for a friend
   of mine who lives at Fontainebleau.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;His name?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Gonin&mdash;he&rsquo;s a solicitor.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;It was time you told me. How wretched you both looked. Another
   time tell me straight out, and frankly, anything you have no reason
   to conceal. Promise you won&rsquo;t act like this again.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;I promise.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Then, let us make peace.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;She held out her hand to him. Before he could grasp it, Madame
   Plumet broke in:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I can not have you deceived like this in
   my house. Mademoiselle, it is not true!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What is not true, Madame?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;That this portrait is for Monsieur Gonin, or anybody else at
   Fontainebleau.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Mademoiselle Charnot drew back in surprise.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;For whom, then?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;An actress.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Take care what you are saying, Madame.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;For Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Lies!&rsquo; cried Dufilleul. &lsquo;Prove it, Madame; prove your story,
   please!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Look at the back,&rsquo; answered Madame Plumet, quietly.

   &ldquo;Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had not put down the miniature, turned it
   over, read what was on the back, grew deathly pale, and handed it to
   her lover.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What does it say?&rsquo; said Dufilleul, stooping over it.

   &ldquo;It said: &lsquo;From Monsieur le Baron D&mdash;&mdash;-to Mademoiselle T&mdash;&mdash;-,
   Boulevard Haussmann. To be delivered on Thursday.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;You can see at once, Mademoiselle, that this is not my writing.
   It&rsquo;s an abominable conspiracy. Monsieur Plumet, I call upon you to
   give your wife the lie. She has written what is false; confess it!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;The frame-maker hid his face in his hands and made no reply.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What, Plumet, have you nothing to say for me?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Mademoiselle Charnot was leaving the room.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Where are you going, Mademoiselle? Stay, you will soon see that
   they lie!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;She was already half-way across the landing when Dufilleul caught
   her and seized her by the hand.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Stay, Jeanne, stay!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Let me go, sir!&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;&lsquo;No, hear me first; this is some horrible mistake. I swear&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;At this moment a high-pitched voice was heard on the staircase.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, George, how much longer are you going to keep me?&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;Dufilleul suddenly lost countenance and dropped Mademoiselle
   Charnot&rsquo;s hand.

   &ldquo;The young girl bent over the banisters, and saw, at the bottom of
   the staircase, exactly underneath her, a woman looking up, with head
   thrown back and mouth still half-opened. Their eyes met. Jeanne at
   once turned away her gaze.

   &ldquo;Then, turning to Madame Plumet, who leaned motionless against the
   wall:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Come, Madame,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;we must go and choose a hat.&rsquo; And she
   closed the dressmaker&rsquo;s door behind her.

   &ldquo;This, my friend, is the true account of what happened in the Rue
   Hautefeuille. I learned the details from Madame Plumet in person,
   who could not contain herself for joy as she described the success
   of her conspiracy, and how her little hand had guided old Dame
   Fortune&rsquo;s. For, as you will doubtless have guessed, the meeting
   between Jeanne and her lover, so dreaded by the framemaker, had been
   arranged by Madame Plumet unknown to all, and the damning
   inscription was also in her handwriting.

   &ldquo;I need not add that Mademoiselle Charnot, upset by the scene, had a
   momentary attack of faintness. However, she soon regained her usual
   firm and dignified demeanor, which seems to show that she is a woman
   of energy.

   &ldquo;But the interest of the story does not cease here. I think the
   betrothal is definitely at an end. A betrothal is always a
   difficult thing to renew, and after the publicity which attended the
   rupture of this one, I do not see how they can make it up again.
   One thing I feel sure of is, that Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot will
   never change her name to Madame Dufilleul.

   &ldquo;Do not, however, exaggerate your own chances. They will be less
   than you think for some time yet. I do not believe that a young
   girl who has thus been wounded and deceived can forget all at once.
   There is even the possibility of her never forgetting&mdash;of living
   with her sorrow, preferring certain peace of mind, and the simple
   joys of filial devotion, to all those dreams of married life by
   which so many simple-hearted girls have been cruelly taken in.

   &ldquo;In any case do not think of returning yet, for I know you are
   capable of any imprudence. Stay where you are, examine your
   documents, and wait.

   &ldquo;My mother and I are passing through a bitter trial. She is ill, I
   may say seriously ill. I would sooner bear the illness than my
   present anxiety.

             &ldquo;Your friend,

                    &ldquo;SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.

   &ldquo;P. S.&mdash;Just as I was about to fasten up this letter, I got a note
   from Madame Plumet to tell me that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot
   have left Paris. She does not know where they have gone.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      I became completely absorbed over this letter. Some passages I read a
      second time; and the state of agitation into which it threw me did not at
      once pass away. I remained for an indefinite time without a notion of what
      was going on around me, entirely wrapped up in the past or the future.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Italian attendant brought me back to the present with a jerk of his
      elbow. He was replacing the last register in the huge drawers of the
      table. He and I were alone. My colleagues had left, and our first sitting
      had come to an end without my assistance, though before my eyes. They
      could not have gone far, so, somewhat ashamed of my want of attention, I
      put on my hat, and went to find them and apologize. The little attendant
      caught me by the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at the letter which I
      was slipping into my pocketbook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;E d&rsquo;una donna?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it; a letter from a man would never take so long to read;
      and, &lsquo;per Bacco&rsquo;, you were a time about it! &lsquo;Oh, le donne, illustre
      signore, le downe!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough, thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I made for the door, but he threw himself nimbly in my way, grimacing,
      raising his eyebrows, one finger on his ribs. &ldquo;Listen, my lord, I can see
      you are a true scholar, a man whom fame alone can tempt. I could get your
      lordship such beautiful manuscripts&mdash;Italian, Latin, German
      manuscripts that never have been edited, my noble lord!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stolen, too!&rdquo; I replied, and pushed past him.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went out, and in the neighboring square, amicably seated at the same
      table, under the awning of a cafe, I found my French colleagues and the
      Italian judge. At a table a little apart the clerk was sucking something
      through a straw. And they all laughed as they saw me making my way toward
      them through the still scorching glare of the sun.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  MILAN, June 25th.
</pre>
    <p>
      Our mission was concluded to-day. Zampini is a mere rogue. Brought face to
      face with facts he could not escape from, he confessed that he had
      intended to &ldquo;have a lark&rdquo; with the French heirs by claiming to be the
      rightful heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of relationship to
      establish his claim.
    </p>
    <p>
      We explained to him that this little &ldquo;lark&rdquo; was a fraudulent act which
      exposed him at least to the consequence of having to pay the costs of the
      action. He accepted our opinion in the politest manner possible. I believe
      he is hopelessly insolvent. He will pay the usher in macaroni, and the
      barrister in jests.
    </p>
    <p>
      My colleagues, the record man and the translator, leave Milan to-morrow. I
      shall go with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. A SURPRISING ENCOUNTER
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    MILAN, June 26th.
</pre>
    <p>
      I have just had another letter from Sylvestre. My poor friend is very
      miserable; his mother is dead&mdash;a saint if ever there was one. I was
      very deeply touched by the news, although I knew this lovable woman very
      slightly&mdash;too slightly, indeed, not having been a son, or related in
      any way to her, but merely a passing stranger who found his way within the
      horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within which she spread abroad the
      treasures of her tenderness and wisdom. How terribly her son must feel her
      loss!
    </p>
    <p>
      He described in his letter her last moments, and the calmness with which
      she met death, and added:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;One thing, which perhaps you will not understand, is the remorse
   which is mingled with my sorrow. I lived with her forty years, and
   have some right to be called &lsquo;a good son.&rsquo; But, when I compare the
   proofs of affection I gave her with those she gave me, the
   sacrifices I made for her with those she made for me; when I think
   of the egoism which found its way into our common life, on which I
   founded my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness and sympathy
   with which she repaid a few walks on my arm, a few kind words, and
   of her really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the same roof
   with me&mdash;I feel that I was ungrateful, and not worthy of the
   happiness I enjoyed.

   &ldquo;I am tortured by the thought that it is impossible for me to repair
   all my neglect, to pay a debt the greatness of which I now recognize
   for the first time. She is gone. All is over. My prayers alone
   can reach her, can tell her that I loved her, that I worshipped her,
   that I might have been capable of doing all that I have left undone
   for her.

   &ldquo;Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I lost! I mean, at least,
   to fulfil her last wishes, and it is on account of one of them that
   I am writing to you.

   &ldquo;You know that my mother was never quite pleased at my keeping at
   home the portrait of her who was my first and only love. She would
   have preferred that my eyes did not recall so often to my heart the
   recollection of my long-past sorrows. I withstood her. On her
   death-bed she begged me to give up the picture to, those who should
   have had it long ago. &lsquo;So long as I was here to comfort you in the
   sorrows which the sight of it revived in you,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I did not
   press this upon you; but soon you will be left alone, with no one to
   raise you when your spirits fail you. They have often begged you to
   give up the picture to them. The time is come for you to grant
   their prayers.&rsquo; 

   &ldquo;I promised.

   &ldquo;And now, dear friend, help me to keep my promise. I do not wish to
   write to them. My hand would tremble, and they would tremble when
   they saw my writing. Go and see them.

   &ldquo;They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but
   beyond that town, close to the village of Desio. The villa is
   called Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be hidden among
   poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade. You must send
   in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine. They
   will receive you. Then you must break the news to them as you think
   best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron&rsquo;s
   mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the
   Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand.

   &ldquo;You may even tell them that it is on its way. I have just arranged
   with Plumet about packing it. He is a good workman, as you know.
   To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void.

   &ldquo;I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I count upon you to
   alleviate to some extent the hardships of such a method of
   consolation.

                    &ldquo;SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      When I got Lampron&rsquo;s letter, at ten in the morning, I went at once to see
      the landlord of the Albergo dell&rsquo; Agnello.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can get me a carriage for Desio, can&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to Desio? That is quite right. It is
      much more picturesque than going by train. A little way beyond Monza.
      Monza, sir, is one of our richest jewels; you will see there&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, &ldquo;the Villa
      Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the
      sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a decent
      carriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense, your
      lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of time to
      get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his
      word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not
      relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile
      country which is called the garden of Italy.
    </p>
    <p>
      After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman
      drew up his horses before the first house in Desio&mdash;an inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and of a
      road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few
      plane-trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet of
      vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves and
      the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters were
      closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the
      heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, go in; they&rsquo;ll wake up at once,&rdquo; said the coachman, who had divined
      my thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, without waiting for my answer, like a man familiar with the customs
      of the country, he took his horses down the road to the stable.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were buzzing like a whirlwind
      beneath the plane-trees; a frightened white hen ran cackling from her nest
      in the dust. No one appeared. I opened the door; still nobody was to be
      seen. Inside I found a passage, with rooms to right and left and a wooden
      staircase at the end. The house, having been kept well closed, was cool
      and fresh. As I stood on the threshold striving to accustom my eyes to the
      darkness of the interior, I heard the sound of voices to my right:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Picturesque as you please, but the journey has been a failure! These
      people are no better than savages; introductions, distinctions, and I may
      say even fame, had no effect upon them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think they have even read your letters?&rdquo; &ldquo;That would be still
      worse, to refuse to read letters addressed to them! No, I tell you,
      there&rsquo;s no excuse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have suffered great trouble, I hear, and that is some excuse for
      them, father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my dear, there is no possible excuse for their keeping hidden
      treasures of such scientific interest. I do not consider that even an
      Italian nobleman, were he orphan from his cradle, and thrice a widower,
      has any right to keep locked up from the investigation of scholars an
      unequalled collection of Roman coins, and a very presentable show of
      medallions and medals properly so-called. Are you aware that this boorish
      patrician has in his possession the eight types of medal of the gens
      Attilia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am certain of it, and he has the thirty-seven of the gens Cassia, one
      hundred and eighteen to one hundred and twenty-one of the gens Cornelia,
      the eleven Farsuleia, and dozens of Numitoria, Pompeia, and Scribonia, all
      in perfect condition, as if fresh from the die. Besides these, he has some
      large medals of the greatest rarity; the Marcus Aurelius with his son on
      the reverse side, Theodora bearing the globe, and above all the Annia
      Faustina with Heliogabalus on the reverse side, an incomparable treasure,
      of which there is only one other example, and that an imperfect one, in
      the world&mdash;a marvel which I would give a day of my life to see; yes,
      my dear, a day of my life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn as this!
    </p>
    <p>
      I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly to the right-hand door.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the darkened room, lighted only by a few rays filtered between the
      slats of the shutters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung upon a nail
      above her head; one arm rested on a wretched white wood table; her head
      was bent forward in mournful resignation. On the other side of the table,
      her father was leaning back in his chair against the whitewashed wall,
      with folded arms, heightened color, and every sign of extreme disgust.
      Both rose as I entered&mdash;Jeanne first, M. Charnot after her. They were
      astonished at seeing me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was no less astounded than they.
    </p>
    <p>
      We stood and stared at each other for some time, to make sure that we were
      not dreaming.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot was the first to break the silence. He did not seem altogether
      pleased at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, whose face had grown
      very red and yet rather chilling:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeanne, put your hat on; it is time to go to the station.&rdquo; Then he
      addressed me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall leave you the room to yourself, sir; and since the most
      extraordinary coincidence&rdquo;&mdash;he emphasized the words&mdash;&ldquo;has
      brought you to this damnable village, I hope you will enjoy your visit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been here long, Monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hours, Monsieur, two mortal hours in this inn, fried by the sun,
      bored to death, murdered piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want of
      hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lombardy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to be seen, and that is the
      reason why I came in here; I had no idea that I should have the honor of
      meeting you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God! I&rsquo;m not complaining of him! He&rsquo;s asleep in his barn over there.
      You can wake him up; he doesn&rsquo;t mind showing himself; he even makes
      himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer,
      Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the
      Villa Dannegianti?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his
      shoulders, and burst out laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Villa Dannegianti!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you may as well turn round and go home again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because there&rsquo;s no admission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have a letter of introduction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had two, Monsieur, without counting the initials after my name, which
      are worth something and have opened the doors of more than one foreign
      collection for me; yet they denied me admission! Think of it! The porter
      of that insolent family denied me admission! Do you expect to succeed
      after that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My words seemed to him the height of presumption.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Jeanne,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;let us leave this gentleman to his youthful
      illusions. They will soon be shattered&mdash;very soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave me an ironical smile and made for the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Monsieur,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would have
      said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her look
      displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form of
      speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it
      spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the
      sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if
      possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of
      fortune had brought me.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the wall
      of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I am sorry that you are obliged to return already to
      Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it
      would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due only
      to the stupidity of the servants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped; the stroke had told.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my
      letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what
      secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of news
      of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely private
      nature. They will be obliged to see me. My first care, when I had
      fulfilled my mission, would have been to mention your name. You would have
      been able to go over the house, and inspect a collection of medals which,
      I have heard, is a very fine one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unique, Monsieur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan
      myself, for Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been some time in Italy, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nearly a fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more
      friendly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you had just come. We have not been here so long,&rdquo; he added;
      &ldquo;my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us to
      travel for change of air. Paris is not healthful in this very hot
      weather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in. I replied,
      with an air of the utmost conviction, &ldquo;That is putting it mildly. Paris,
      in July, is uninhabitable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it. We soon
      made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our
      steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe. And
      you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should have
      been admitted to the villa?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am entrusted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot hesitated. He was probably thinking of the blot of ink, and
      certainly of M. Mouillard&rsquo;s visit. But he doubtless reflected that Jeanne
      knew nothing of the old lawyer&rsquo;s proceedings, that we were far from Paris,
      that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his passion for
      numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm and his
      scruples as a father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a later train at ten minutes to eight, father,&rdquo; said Jeanne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear, do you care to try your luck again, and return to the assault
      of that Annia Faustina?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please, father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We left the inn together by the by-road down the hill. I could not believe
      my eyes. This old man with refined features who walked on my left, leaning
      on his malacca cane, was M. Charnot. The same man who received me so
      discourteously the day after I made my blot was now relying on me to
      introduce him to an Italian nobleman; on me, a lawyer&rsquo;s clerk. I led him
      on with confidence, and both of us, carried away by our divers hopes, he
      dreaming of medals, I of the reopened horizon full of possibilities,
      conversed on indifferent subjects with a freedom hitherto unknown between
      us.
    </p>
    <p>
      And this charming Parisienne, whose presence I divined rather than saw,
      whom I dared not look in the face, who stepped along by her father&rsquo;s side,
      light of foot, her eyes seeking the vault of heaven, her ear attentive
      though her thoughts were elsewhere, catching her Parisian sunshade in the
      hawthorns of Desio, was Jeanne, Jeanne of the flower-market, Jeanne whom
      Lampron had sketched in the woods of St. Germain! It did not seem
      possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa
      Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning to
      refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so
      often used. But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the
      ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious
      risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter&mdash;Lampron&rsquo;s
      card in an envelope&mdash;to the Comtesse Dannegianti.
    </p>
    <p>
      From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any
      impression, nor even whether he had understood. He turned on his heel with
      his keys in one hand and the letter in the other, and went on his way
      through the shady avenue, rolling his broad back from side to side,
      attired in a jacket which might have fitted in front, but was all too
      short behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shady precincts of which Lampron wrote did not seem to have been
      pruned. The park was cool and green. At the end of the avenue of
      plane-trees, alternating with secular hawthorns cut into pyramids, we
      could see the square mass of the villa just peeping over the immense
      clumps of trees. Beyond it the tops and naked trunks of a group of
      umbrella pines stood silhouetted against the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      The porter returned, solemn and impassive. He opened the gate without a
      word. We all passed through&mdash;M. Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering
      under false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his
      head. Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had
      raised in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back a
      hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all in quick,
      deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its feathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot
      should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to visit
      the collections.
    </p>
    <p>
      I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large mosaic-paved
      hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled with mediocre
      frescoes on a very large scale. At the end of this hall was the Countess&rsquo;s
      room, which formed a striking contrast, being small, panelled with wood,
      and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it the look of a chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could have
      used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small. At first I
      could distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes. She looked at me like a
      prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the death of
      Lampron&rsquo;s mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She guessed
      something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I went on and
      told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way to her. Then she
      forgot everything&mdash;her age, her rank, and the mournful reserve which
      had hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart alone spoke within her;
      a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable gloom which was killing
      her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms, and I felt against my
      heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs. She thanked me in a flood of
      words which I did not catch. Then she drew back and gazed at me, seeking
      to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to her own, and her eyes, red
      and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned me more clearly than her
      words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How good are you, sir! and how generous is he! What life does he lead?
      Has he ever lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth here? Men forget
      more easily, happily for them. I had given up all hope of obtaining the
      portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which meant, &lsquo;Restore to us all
      that is left of our dead Rafaella.&rsquo; Perhaps it was unkind. I did reproach
      myself at times for it. But I was her mother, you know; the mother of that
      peerless girl! And the portrait is so good, so like! He has never altered
      it? tell me; never retouched it? Time has not marred the lifelike
      coloring? I shall now have the mournful consolation I have so long
      desired; I shall always have before me the counterpart of my lost darling,
      and can gaze upon that face which none could depict save he who loved her;
      for, dreadful though it be to think of, the image of the best beloved will
      change and fade away even in a mother&rsquo;s heart, and at times I doubt
      whether my old memory is still faithful, and recalls all her grace and
      beauty as clearly as it used to do when the wound was fresh in my heart
      and my eyes were still filled with the loveliness of her. Oh, Monsieur,
      Monsieur! to think that I shall see that face once more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She left me as quickly as she had come, and went to open a door on the
      left, into an adjoining room, whose red hangings threw a ruddy glow upon
      the polished floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cristoforo!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;Cristoforo! come and see a French gentleman who
      brings us great news. The portrait of our Rafaella, Cristoforo, the
      portrait we have so long desired, is at last to be given to us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I heard a chair move, and a slow footstep. Cristoforo appeared, with white
      hair and black moustache, his tall figure buttoned up in an old-fashioned
      frockcoat, the petrified, mummified remains of a once handsome man. He
      walked up to me, took both my hands and shook them ceremoniously. His face
      showed no traces of emotion; his eyes were dry, and he had not a word to
      say. Did he understand? I really do not know. He seemed to think the
      affair was an ordinary introduction. As I looked at him his wife&rsquo;s words
      came back to me, &ldquo;Men forget sooner.&rdquo; She gazed at him as if she would put
      blood into his veins, where it had long ceased to flow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cristoforo, I know this will be a great joy to you, and you will join
      with me in thanking Monsieur Lampron for his generosity. You, sir, will
      express to him all the Count&rsquo;s gratitude and my own, and also the sympathy
      we feel for him in his recent loss. Besides, we shall write to him. Is
      Monsieur Lampron rich?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had forgotten to tell you, Madame, that my friend will accept nothing
      but thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that is truly noble of him, is it not, Cristoforo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the answer the old Count made was to take my hands and shake them
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      I used the opportunity to put forward my request in behalf of M. Charnot.
      He listened attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will give orders. You shall see everything&mdash;everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, considering our interview at an end, he bowed and withdrew to his
      own apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      I looked for the Countess Dannegianti. She had sunk into her great
      armchair, and was weeping hot tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ten minutes later, M. Charnot and Jeanne entered with me into the
      jealously guarded museum.
    </p>
    <p>
      Museum was the only name to give to a collection of such artistic value,
      occupying, as it did, the whole of the ground floor to the right of the
      hall. Two rooms ran parallel to each other, filled with pictures, medals,
      and engravings, and were connected by a narrow gallery devoted to
      sculpture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly was the door opened when M. Charnot sought the famous medals with
      his eye. There they were in the middle of the room in two rows of cases.
      He was deeply moved. I thought he was about to make a raid upon them,
      attracted after his kind by the &lsquo;auri sacra fames&rsquo;, by the yellow gleam of
      those ancient coins, the names, family, obverse and reverse of which he
      knew by heart. But I little understood the enthusiast.
    </p>
    <p>
      He drew out his handkerchief and spectacles, and while he was wiping the
      glasses he gave a rapid and impatient glance at the works that adorned the
      walls. None of them could charm the numismatist&rsquo;s heart. After he had
      enjoyed the pleasure of proving how feeble in comparison were the charms
      of a Titian or a Veronese, then only did M. Charnot walk step by step to
      the first case and bend reverently over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy of such disdain. The pictures
      were few, but all were signed with great names, most of them Italian, a
      few Dutch, Flemish, or German. I began to work systematically through
      them, pleased at the want of a catalogue and the small number of
      inscriptions on the frames. To be your own guide doubles your pleasure;
      you can get your impression of a picture entirely at first hand; you are
      filled with admiration without any one having told you that you are bound
      to go into ecstasies. You can work out for yourself from a picture, by
      induction and comparison, its subject, its school, and its author, unless
      it proclaims, in every stroke of the brush, &ldquo;I am a Hobbema,&rdquo; &ldquo;a
      Perugino,&rdquo; or &ldquo;a Giotto.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was somewhat distracted, however, by the voice of the old numismatist,
      as he peered into the cases, and constrained his daughter to share in the
      exuberance of his learned enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeanne, look at this; crowned head of Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the
      reverse; in perfect condition, isn&rsquo;t it? See, an Italian &lsquo;as-Iguvium
      Umbriae&rsquo;, which my friend Pousselot has sought these thirty years! Oh, my
      dear, this is important: Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus, both as
      children, a rare example&mdash;yet not as rare as&mdash;Jeanne, you must
      engrave this gold medal in your heart, it is priceless: head of Augustus
      with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse. You ought to take an interest
      in her. Diana the fair huntress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This collection is heavenly! Wait a minute; we shall soon come to the
      Annia Faustina.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne made no objection, but smiled softly upon the Cleopatra, the
      Umbrian &lsquo;as&rsquo;, and the fair huntress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little her father&rsquo;s enthusiasm expanded over the vast collection
      of treasures. He took out his pocketbook and began to make notes. Jeanne
      raised her eyes to the walls, took one glance, then a second, and, not
      being called back to the medals, stepped softly up to the picture at which
      I had begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went quickly from one to another having evidently no more than a
      child&rsquo;s untutored taste for pictures. As I, on the contrary, was getting
      on very slowly, she was bound to overtake me. You may be sure I took no
      steps to prevent it, and so in a very short time we were both standing
      before the same picture, a portrait of Holbein the younger. A subject of
      conversation was ready to hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;do you like this Holbein?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must admit, sir, that the old gentleman is exceedingly plain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but the painting is exquisite. See how powerful is the drawing of
      the head, how clear and deep the colors remain after more than three
      hundred years. What a good likeness it must have been! The subject tells
      his own story: he must have been a nobleman of the court of Henry VIII, a
      Protestant in favor with the King, wily but illiterate, and wishing from
      the bottom of his heart that he were back with the companions of his youth
      at home in his country house, hunting and drinking at his ease. It is
      really the study of a man&rsquo;s character. Look at this Rubens beside it, a
      mere mass of flesh scarcely held together by a spirit, a style that is
      exuberantly material, all color and no expression. Here you have
      spirituality on one side and materialism on the other, unconscious,
      perhaps, but unmistakable. Compare, again, with these two pictures this
      little drawing, doubtless by Perugino, just a sketch of an angel for an
      Annunciation; notice the purity of outline, the ideal atmosphere in which
      the painter lives and with which he impregnates his work. You see he comes
      of a school of poets and mystics, gifted with a second sight which enabled
      them to beautify this world and raise themselves above it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was pleased with my little lecture, and so was Jeanne. I could tell it
      by her surprised expression, and by the looks she cast toward her father,
      who was still taking notes, to see whether she might go on with her first
      lesson in art.
    </p>
    <p>
      He smiled in a friendly way, which meant:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m happy here, my dear, thank you; &lsquo;va piano va sano&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was as good as permission. We went on our way, saluting, as we
      passed, Tintoretto and Titian, Veronese and Andrea Solari, old Cimabue,
      and a few early paintings of angular virgins on golden backgrounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne was no longer bored.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is this,&rdquo; she would say, &ldquo;another Venetian, or a Lombard, or a
      Florentine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We soon completed the round of the first room, and made our way into the
      gallery beyond, devoted to sculpture. The marble gods and goddesses, the
      lovely fragments of frieze or cornice from the excavations at Rome,
      Pompeii, or Greece, had but a moderate interest for Mademoiselle Charnot.
      She never gave more than one glance to each statue, to some none at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      We soon came to the end of the gallery, and the door which gave access
      into the second room of paintings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Jeanne gave an exclamation of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beneath the large and lofty window, fanned on the outside by leafy
      branches, a wooden panel, bearing an inscription, stood upright against
      the wall. The words were painted in black on a white ground, and arranged
      with considerable skill, after the style of the classic epitaphs which the
      Italians still cultivate.
    </p>
    <p>
      I drew aside the folds of a curtain:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is one of those memorial tablets, Mademoiselle, such as people hang up
      in this part of the country upon the church doors on the day of the
      funeral. It means:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To thee, Rafaella Dannegianti&mdash;who, aged twenty years and few months&mdash;having
      fully experienced the sorrows and illusions of this world&mdash;on January
      6&mdash;like an angel longing for its heavenly home&mdash;didst wing thy
      way to God in peace and happiness&mdash;the clergy of Desioand the
      laborers and artificers of the noble house of Dannegianti&mdash;tender
      these last solemn offices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This Rafaella, then, was the Count&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His only child, a girl lovely and gracious beyond rivalry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course, beyond rivalry. Are not all only daughters lovely and
      perfect when once they are dead?&rdquo; she replied with a bitter smile. &ldquo;They
      have their legend, their cult, and usually a flattering portrait. I am
      surprised that Rafaella&rsquo;s is not here. I imagine her portrait as
      representing a tall girl, with long, well-arched eyebrows, and brown eyes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Greenish-brown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Green, if you prefer it; a small nose, cherry lips, and a mass of light
      brown hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Golden brown would be more correct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen it, then? Is there one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mademoiselle, and it lacks no perfection that you could imagine, not
      even that smile of happy youth which was a falsehood ere the paint had yet
      dried on the canvas. Here, before this relic, which recalls it to my
      thoughts, I must confess that I am touched.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at me in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the portrait? Not here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is at Paris, in my friend Lampron&rsquo;s studio.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O&mdash;oh!&rdquo; She blushed slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mademoiselle, it is at once a masterpiece and a sad reminder. The
      story is very simple, and I am sure my friend would not mind my telling it
      to you&mdash;to you if to no other&mdash;before these relics of the past.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When Lampron was a young man travelling in Italy he fell in love with
      this young girl, whose portrait he was painting. He loved her, perhaps
      without confessing it to himself, certainly without avowing it to her.
      Such is the way of timid and humble men of heart, men whose love is nearly
      always misconstrued when it ceases to be unnoticed. My friend risked the
      happiness of his life, fearlessly, without calculation&mdash;and lost it.
      A day came when Rafaella Dannegianti was carried off by her parents, who
      shuddered at the thought of her stooping to a painter, even though he were
      a genius.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So she died?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A year later. He never got over it. Even while I speak to you, he in his
      loneliness is pondering and weeping over these very lines which you have
      just read without a suspicion of the depth of their bitterness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has known bereavement,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;I pity him with all my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes filled with tears. She repeated the words, whose meaning was now
      clear to her, &ldquo;A to Rafaella.&rdquo; Then she knelt down softly before the
      mournful inscription. I saw her bow her head. Jeanne was praying.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was touching to see the young girl, whom chance had placed before this
      simple testimony of a sorrow now long past, deeply moved by the sad tale
      of love, filled with tender pity for the dead Rafaella, her fellow in
      youth and beauty and perhaps in destiny, finding in her heart the tender
      impulse to kneel without a word, as if beside the grave of a friend. The
      daylight&rsquo;s last rays streaming in through the window illumined her bowed
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      I drew back, with a touch of awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went up to his daughter and tapped her on the shoulder. She rose with a
      blush.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing there?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he adjusted his glasses and read the Italian inscription.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You really take unnecessary trouble in kneeling down to decipher a thing
      like that. You can see at once that it&rsquo;s a modern panel, and of no value.
      Monsieur,&rdquo; he added, turning to me, &ldquo;I do not know what your plans are,
      but unless you intend to sleep at Desio, we must be off, for the night is
      falling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We left the villa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of doors it was still light, but with the afterglow. The sun was out
      of sight, but the earth was still enveloped, as it were, in a haze of
      luminous dust.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot pulled out his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seven minutes past eight. What time does the last train start, Jeanne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At ten minutes to eight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confusion! we are stranded in Desio! The mere thought of passing the
      night in that inn gives me the creeps. I see no way out of it unless
      Monsieur Mouillard can get us one of the Count&rsquo;s state coaches. There
      isn&rsquo;t a carriage to be got in this infernal village!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is mine, Monsieur, which luckily holds four, and is quite at your
      service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you. The drive by moonlight will
      be quite romantic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew near to Jeanne and whispered in her ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure you&rsquo;ve wraps enough? a shawl, or a cape, or some kind of
      pelisse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave a merry nod of assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry yourself, father; I am prepared for all emergencies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At half-past eight we left Desio together, and I silently blessed the host
      of the Albergo dell&rsquo; Agnello, who had assured me that the carriage road
      was &ldquo;so much more picturesque.&rdquo; I found it so, indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot and Jeanne faced the horses. I sat opposite to M. Charnot, who
      was in the best of spirits after all the medals he had seen. Comfortably
      settled in the cushions, careless of the accidents of the road, with
      graphic and untiring forefinger, he undertook to describe his travels in
      Greece, whither he had been sent on some learned enterprise by the
      Minister of Education, and had carried an imagination already prepossessed
      and dazzled with Homeric visions. He told his story well and with detail,
      combining the recollections of the scholar with the impressions of an
      artist. The pediment of the Parthenon, the oleanders of the Ilissus, the
      stream &ldquo;that runs in rain-time,&rdquo; the naked peak of Parnassus, the green
      slopes of Helicon, the blue gulf of Argus, the pine forest beside Alpheus,
      where the ancients worshipped &ldquo;Death the Gentle&rdquo;&mdash;all of them passed
      in recount upon his learned lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must acknowledge, to my shame, that I did not listen to all he said,
      but, in a favorite way I have, reserved some of my own freedom of thought,
      while I gave him complete freedom of speech. And I am bound to say he did
      not abuse it, but consented to pause at the frontiers of Thessaly. Then
      followed silence. I gave him room to stretch. Soon, lulled by the motion
      of the carriage, the stream of reminiscence ran more slowly&mdash;then ran
      dry. M. Charnot slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      We bowled at a good pace, without jolting, over the white road. A warm
      mist rose around us laden with the smell of vegetation, ripe corn, and
      clover from the overheated earth and the neighboring fields, which had
      drunk their full of sunlight. Now and again a breath of fresh air was
      blown to us from the mountains. As the darkness deepened the country grew
      to look like a vast chessboard, with dark and light squares of grass and
      corn land, melting at no great distance into a colorless and unbroken
      horizon. But as night blotted out the earth, the heaven lighted up its
      stars. Never have I seen them so lustrous nor in such number. Jeanne
      reclined with her eyes upturned toward those limitless fields of prayer
      and vision; and their radiance, benignly gentle, rested on her face. Was
      she tired or downcast, or merely dreaming? I knew not. But there was
      something so singularly poetic in her look and attitude that she seemed to
      me to epitomize in herself all the beauty of the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was afraid to speak. Her father&rsquo;s sleep, and our consequent isolation,
      made me ill at ease. She, too, seemed so careless of my presence, so far
      away in dreamland, that I had to await opportunity, or rather her leave,
      to recall her from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally she broke the silence herself. A little beyond Monza she drew
      closer her shawl, that the night wind had ruffled, and bent over toward
      me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must excuse my father; he is rather tired this evening, for he has
      been on his feet since five o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day has been so hot, too, Mademoiselle, and the medals &lsquo;came not in
      single spies, but in battalions&rsquo;; he has a right to sleep after the
      battle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear old father! You gave him a real treat, for which he will always be
      obliged to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust the recollection of to-day will efface that of the blot of ink,
      for which I am still filled with remorse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remorse is rather a serious word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mademoiselle, I really mean remorse, for I wounded the feelings of a
      gentleman who has every claim on my respect. I never have dared to speak
      of this before. But if you would be kind enough to tell Monsieur Charnot
      how sorry I have been for it, you would relieve me of a burden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I saw her eyes fixed upon me for a moment with a look of attention not
      previously granted to me. She seemed pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment&rsquo;s silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was this Rafaella, whose story you have told me, worthy of your friend&rsquo;s
      long regret?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must believe so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a very touching story. Are you fond of Monsieur Lampron?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beyond expression, Mademoiselle; he is so openhearted, so true a friend,
      he has the soul of the artist and the seer. I am sure you would rate him
      very highly if you knew him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I do know him, at least by his works. Where am I to be seen now, by
      the way? What has become of my portrait?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s at Lampron&rsquo;s house, in his mother&rsquo;s room, where Monsieur Charnot can
      go and see it if he likes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father does not know of its existence,&rdquo; she said, with a glance at the
      slumbering man of learning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he not seen it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron has
      kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sold! you did not think he would sell it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not work of that kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as much as any other kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would
      sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics,
      two precious reminiscences.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Charnot turned, without a reply, to look at the country which
      was flying past us in the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could just see her profile, and the nervous movement of her eyelids.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she made no attempt to speak, her silence emboldened me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mademoiselle, two similar relics, yet sometimes in my hours of
      madness&mdash;as to-day, for instance, here, with you near me&mdash;I dare
      to think that I might be less unfortunate than my friend&mdash;that his
      dream is gone forever&mdash;but that mine might return to me&mdash;if you
      were willing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She quickly turned toward me, and in the darkness I saw her eyes fixed on
      mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did the darkness deceive me as to the meaning of this mute response? Was I
      the victim of a fresh delusion? I fancied that Jeanne looked sad, that
      perhaps she was thinking of the oaths sworn only to be broken by her
      former lover, but that she was not quite displeased.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, it lasted only for a second. When she spoke, it was in a higher
      key:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think the breeze is very fresh this evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A long-drawn sigh came from the back part of the carriage. M. Charnot was
      waking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wished to prove that he had only been meditating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear, it&rsquo;s a charming evening,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;these Italian nights
      certainly keep up their reputation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ten minutes later the carriage drew up, and M. Charnot shook hands with me
      before the door of his hotel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many thanks, my dear young sir, for this delightful drive home! I hope we
      shall meet again. We are off to Florence to-morrow; is there anything I
      can do for you there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Charnot gave me a slight bow. I watched her mount the first
      few steps of the staircase, with one hand shading her eyes from the glare
      of the gaslights, and the other holding up her wraps, which had come
      unfolded and were falling around her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 3.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. BACK TO PARIS
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               MILAN, June 27th. Before daybreak.
</pre>
    <p>
      He asked me whether there was anything he could do for me at Florence.
      There is something, but he would refuse to do it; for I wish him to inform
      his charming daughter that my thoughts are all of her; that I have spent
      the night recalling yesterday&rsquo;s trip&mdash;now the roads of Desio and the
      galleries of the villa, now the drive back to Milan. M. Charnot only
      figured in my dreams as sleeping. I seemed to have found my tongue, and to
      be pouring forth a string of well-turned speeches which I never should
      have ready at real need. If I could only see her again now that all my
      plans are weighed and thought out and combined! Really, it is hard that
      one can not live one&rsquo;s life over twice&mdash;at least certain passages in
      it-this episode, for instance....
    </p>
    <p>
      What is her opinion of me? When her eyes fixed themselves on mine I
      thought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of
      surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florence
      bearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leaving by
      the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples&mdash;why
      not? Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss my cap
      over the mill for the second time. I will get money from somewhere. If I
      am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance, hidden in
      the crowd. At a pinch I will disguise myself&mdash;as a guide at Pompeii,
      a lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of fresh
      flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And at least I
      shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of gold about
      her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near even when I do
      not see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrust
      first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had recourse
      to a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would Lampron advise?
      And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face, and heard his
      answer: &ldquo;Come back, my dear boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       PARIS, July 2d.
</pre>
    <p>
      When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as it
      whirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in red
      steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every
      direction, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy it
      the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings of
      colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing,
      repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of
      expiring Bengal lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is in
      truth lighted for its nightly revel. Till one o&rsquo;clock in the morning it is
      alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the dawn is bleak enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field and
      hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris. You leave the train half-frozen,
      to find the porters red-eyed from their watch. The customs officials, in a
      kind of stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk. You get outside
      the station, to find a few scattered cabs, their drivers asleep inside,
      their lamps blinking in the mist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cabby, are you disengaged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Depends where you want to go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. 91 Rue de Rennes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jump in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blank streets stretch out interminably, gray and silent; the shops on
      either hand are shuttered; in the squares you will find only a dog or a
      scavenger; theatre bills hang in rags around the kiosks, the wind sweeps
      their tattered fragments along the asphalt in yesterday&rsquo;s dust, with here
      and there a bunch of faded flowers. The Seine washes around its motionless
      boats; two great-coated policemen patrol the bank and wake the echoes with
      their tramp. The fountains have ceased to play, and their basins are dry.
      The air is chilly, and sick with evil odors. The whole drive is like a bad
      dream. Such was my drive from the Gare de Lyon to my rooms. When I was
      once at home, installed in my own domains, this unpleasant impression
      gradually wore off. There was friendliness in my sticks of furniture. I
      examined those silent witnesses, my chair, my table, and my books. What
      had happened while I was away? Apparently nothing important. The furniture
      had a light coating of dust, which showed that no one had touched it, not
      even Madame Menin. It was funny, but I wished to see Madame Menin. A
      sound, and I heard my opposite neighbor getting to work. He is a
      hydrographer, and engraves maps for a neighboring publisher. I never could
      get up as early as he. The willow seemed to have made great progress
      during the summer. I flung up the window and said &ldquo;Good-morning!&rdquo; to the
      wallflowers, to the old wall of the Carmelites, and the old black tower.
      Then the sparrows began. What o&rsquo;clock could it be? They came all together
      with a rush, chirping, the hungry thieves, wheeling about, skirting the
      walls in their flight, quick as lightning, borne on their pointed wings.
      They had seen the sun&mdash;day had broken!
    </p>
    <p>
      And almost immediately I heard a cart pass, and a hawker crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ground-SEL! Groundsel for your dickey-birds!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To think that there are people who get up at that unearthly hour to buy
      groundsel for their canaries! I looked to see whether any one had called
      in my absence; their cards should be on my table. Two were there:
      &ldquo;Monsieur Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor, of
      Bourbonnoux-les-Bourges, deputy-magistrate&rdquo;; &ldquo;Madame Lorinet, nee
      Poupard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was surprised not to find a third card: &ldquo;Berthe Lorinet, of no
      occupation, anxious to change her name.&rdquo; Berthe will be difficult to get
      rid of. I presume she didn&rsquo;t dare to leave a card on a young man, it
      wouldn&rsquo;t have been proper. But I have no doubt she was here. I scent a
      trick of my uncle&rsquo;s, one of those Atlantic cables he takes for spider&rsquo;s
      threads and makes his snares of. The Lorinet family have been here, with
      the twofold intention of taking news of me to my &ldquo;dear good uncle,&rdquo; and
      discreetly recalling to my forgetful heart the charms of Berthe of the big
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-morning, Monsieur Mouillard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo! Madame Menin! Good-morning, Madame Menin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you are back at last, sir! How brown you have got&mdash;quite
      sunburnt. You are quite well, I hope, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, thank you; has any one been here in my absence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was going to tell you, sir; the plumber has been here, because the tap
      of your cistern came off in my hand. It wasn&rsquo;t my fault; there had been a
      heavy rain that morning. So&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, it&rsquo;s only a tap to pay for. We won&rsquo;t say any more about it.
      But did any one come to see me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, let me see&mdash;yes. A big gentleman, rather red-faced, with his
      wife, a fat lady, with a small voice; a fine woman, rather in my style,
      and their daughter&mdash;but perhaps you know her, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was
      away, and they said they were very sorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Especially the lady. She puffed and panted and sighed: &lsquo;Dear Monsieur
      Mouillard! How unlucky we are, Madame Menin; we have just come to Paris as
      he has gone to Italy. My husband and I would have liked so much to see
      him! You may think it fanciful, but I should like above all things to look
      round his rooms. A student&rsquo;s rooms must be so interesting. Stay there,
      Berthe, my child.&rsquo; I told them there was nothing very interesting, and
      that their daughter might just as well come in too, and then I showed them
      everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They didn&rsquo;t stay long, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite long enough. They were an age looking at your photograph album. I
      suppose they haven&rsquo;t got such things where they come from. Madame Lorinet
      couldn&rsquo;t tear herself away from it. &lsquo;Nothing but men,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;have you
      noticed that, Jules?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Well, Madame,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;that&rsquo;s just how it is
      here; except for me, and I don&rsquo;t count, only gentlemen come here. I&rsquo;ve
      kept house for bachelors where&mdash;well, there are not many&mdash;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too
      highly of me. Hasn&rsquo;t Lampron been here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; the day before yesterday. He was going off for a fortnight or
      three weeks into the country to paint a portrait of some priest&mdash;a
      bishop, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       July 15th.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Midi, roi des etes.&rdquo; I know by heart that poem by &ldquo;Monsieur le Comte de
      l&rsquo;Isle,&rdquo; as my Uncle Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my ears every
      day when I return from luncheon to the office I have left an hour before.
      Merciful heaven, how hot it is! I am just back from a hot climate, but it
      was nothing compared to Paris in July. The asphalt melts underfoot; the
      wood pavement is simmering in a viscous mess of tar; the ideal is forced
      to descend again and again to iced lager beer; the walls beat back the
      heat in your face; the dust in the public gardens, ground to atoms beneath
      the tread of many feet, rises in clouds from under the water-cart to fall,
      a little farther on, in white showers upon the passers-by. I wonder that,
      as a finishing stroke, the cannon in the Palais Royal does not detonate
      all day long.
    </p>
    <p>
      To complete my misery, all my acquaintances are out of town: the Boule
      family is bathing at Trouville; the second clerk has not returned from his
      holiday; the fourth only waited for my arrival to get away himself;
      Lampron, detained by my Lord Bishop and the forest shades, gives no sign
      of his existence; even Monsieur and Madame Plumet have locked up their
      flat and taken the train for Barbizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it happens that the old clerk Jupille and I have been thrown
      together. I enjoy his talk. He is a simplehearted, honorable man, with a
      philosophy that I am sure can not be in the least German, because I can
      understand it. I have gradually told him all my secrets. I felt the need
      of a confidant, for I was stifling, metaphorically as well as literally.
      Now, when he hands me a deed, instead of saying &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; as I used to,
      I say, &ldquo;Take a chair, Monsieur Jupille&rdquo;; I shut the door, and we talk. The
      clerks think we&rsquo;re talking law, but the clerks are mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yesterday, for instance, he whispered to me:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have come down the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite. They will soon be back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you learn that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw a man carrying coals into the house, and asked for whom they were,
      that&rsquo;s all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again, we had a talk, just now, which shows what progress I have made in
      the old clerk&rsquo;s heart. He had just submitted a draft to me. I had read it
      through and grunted my approval, yet M. Jupille did not go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything further, Monsieur Jupille?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something to ask of you&mdash;to do me a kindness, or, rather, an honor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s hear what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This weather, Monsieur Mouillard, is very good for fishing, though rather
      warm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather warm, Monsieur Jupille!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not too warm. It was much hotter than this in 1844, yet the fish
      bit, I can tell you! Will you join us next Sunday in a fishing expedition?
      I say &lsquo;us,&rsquo; because one of your friends is coming, a great amateur of the
      rod who honors me with his friendship, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A secret, Monsieur Mouillard, a little secret. You will be surprised. It
      is settled then&mdash;next Sunday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where shall I meet you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, the office-boy is listening. That boy is too sharp; I&rsquo;ll tell you
      some other time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please, Monsieur Jupille; I accept the invitation
      unconditionally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so glad you will come, Monsieur Mouillard. I only wish we could have
      a little storm between this and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen
      him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often as
      he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy, all
      his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of his
      desk.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       July 20th.
</pre>
    <p>
      I have seen Lampron once more. He bears his sorrow bravely. We spoke for a
      few moments of his mother. I spoke some praise of that humble soul for the
      good she had done me, which led him to enlarge upon her virtues.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you had only seen more of her! My dear fellow, if I am
      an honest man; if I have passed without failing through the trials of my
      life and my profession; if I have placed my ideal beyond worldly success;
      in a word, if I am worth anything in heart or brain, it is to her I owe
      it. We never had been parted before; this is our first separation, and it
      is the final one. I was not prepared for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he changed the subject brusquely:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about your love-affair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fresher than ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did it survive half an hour&rsquo;s conversation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It grew the stronger for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does she still detest you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and our conversation in the
      carriage, without omitting a detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened in silence. At the end he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Fabien, there must be no delay. She must hear your proposal
      within a week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Within a week! Who is to make it for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whoever you like. That&rsquo;s your business. I have been making inquiries
      while you were away; she seems a suitable match for you. Besides, your
      present position is ridiculous; you are without a profession; you have
      quarrelled, for no reason, with your only relative; you must get out of
      the situation with credit, and marriage will compel you to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND
    </h2>
    <h3>
      July 21st.
    </h3>
    <p>
      M. Jupille had written to tell me where I was to meet him on the Sunday,
      giving me the most minute directions. I might take the train to Massy, or
      to Bievres. However, I preferred to take the train to Sceaux and walk from
      there, leaving Chatenay on my left, striking across the woods of Verrieres
      toward the line of forts, coming out between Igny and Amblainvilliers, and
      finally reaching a spot where the Bievre broadens out between two wooded
      banks into a pool as clear as a spring and as full of fish as a
      nursery-pond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Above all things, tell nobody where it is!&rdquo; begged Jupille. &ldquo;It is our
      secret; I discovered it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When I left Sceaux to meet Jupille, who had started before daybreak, the
      sun was already high. There was not a cloud nor a breath of wind; the sway
      of summer lay over all things. But, though the heat was broiling, the walk
      was lovely. All about me was alive with voice or perfume. Clouds of
      linnets fluttered among the branches, golden beetles crawled upon the
      grass, thousands of tiny whirring wings beat the air&mdash;flies, gnats,
      gadflies, bees&mdash;all chorusing the life&mdash;giving warmth of the day
      and the sunshine that bathed and penetrated all nature. I halted from time
      to time in the parched glades to seek my way, and again pushed onward
      through the forest paths overarched with heavy-scented leafage, onward
      over the slippery moss up toward the heights, below which the Bievre stole
      into view.
    </p>
    <p>
      There it lay, at my feet, gliding between banks of verdure which seemed a
      season younger than the grass I stood on. I began to descend the slope,
      knowing that M. Jupille was awaiting me somewhere in the valley. I broke
      into a run. I heard the murmur of water in the hollows, and caught
      glimpses of forget-me-not tufts in low-lying grassy corners. Suddenly a
      rod outlined itself against the sky, between two trees. It was he, the old
      clerk; he nodded to me and laid down his line.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you never were coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That shows you don&rsquo;t know me. Any sport?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so loud! Yes, capital sport. I&rsquo;ll bait a line for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where is your friend, Monsieur Jupille?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Staring you in the face; can&rsquo;t you see him?&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon my word, I could see nobody, until he directed my gaze with his
      fishing-rod, when I perceived, ten yards away, a large back view of white
      trousers and brown, unbuckled waistcoat, a straw hat which seemed to
      conceal a head, and a pair of shirt-sleeves hanging over the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      This mass was motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must have got a bite,&rdquo; said Jupille, &ldquo;else he would have been here
      before now. Go and see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not knowing whom I was about to address, I gave a warning cough as I came
      near him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unknown drew a loud breath, like a man who wakes with a start.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you, Jupille?&rdquo; he said, turning a little way; &ldquo;are you out of bait?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my dear tutor, it is I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Mouillard, at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Flamaran! Jupille told the truth when he said I should be
      surprised. Are you fond of fishing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a passion with me. One must keep one or two for one&rsquo;s old age, young
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been having sport, I hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, this morning, between eight and nine, there were a few nibbles; but
      since then the sport has been very poor. However, I&rsquo;m very glad to see you
      again, Mouillard. That essay of yours was extremely good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The eminent professor had risen, displaying a face still red from his
      having slept with his head on his chest, but beaming with good-will. He
      grasped my hand with heartiness and vigor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s rod and line for you, Monsieur Mouillard, all ready baited,&rdquo; broke
      in Jupille. &ldquo;If you&rsquo;ll come with me I&rsquo;ll show you a good place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Jupille, I&rsquo;m going to keep him,&rdquo; answered M. Flamaran; &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t
      uttered a syllable for three hours. I must let myself out a little. We
      will fish side by side, and chat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please, Monsieur Flamaran; but I don&rsquo;t call that fishing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He handed me the implement, and sadly went his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran and I sat down together on the bank, our feet resting on the
      soft sand strewn with dead branches. Before us spread the little pool I
      have mentioned, a slight widening of the stream of the Bievre, once a
      watering-place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, massed the trees&rsquo; 
      shadow close around their trunks. The unbroken surface of the water
      reflected its rays back in our eyes. The current was barely indicated by
      the gentle oscillation of a few water-lily leaves. Two big blue
      dragonflies poised and quivered upon our floats, and not a fish seemed to
      care to disturb them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said M. Flamaran, &ldquo;so you are still managing clerk to Counsellor
      Boule?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not particularly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you waiting for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For something to turn up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And carry you back to Italy, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you know I have just been there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know all about it. Charnot told me of your meeting, and your romantic
      drive by moonlight. By the way, he&rsquo;s come back with a bad cold; did you
      know that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I assumed an air of sympathy:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor man! When did he get back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day before yesterday. Of course I was the first to hear of it, and we
      spent yesterday evening together. It may surprise you, Mouillard, and you
      may think I exaggerate, but I think Jeanne has come back prettier than she
      went.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really do. That southern sun&mdash;look out, my dear Mouillard, your
      line is half out of water&mdash;has brought back her roses (they&rsquo;re
      brighter than ever, I declare), and the good spirits she had lost, too,
      poor girl. She is cheerful again now, as she used to be. I was very
      anxious about her at one time. You know her sad story?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fellow was a scoundrel, my dear Mouillard, a regular scoundrel! I
      never was in favor of the match, myself. Charnot let himself be drawn into
      it by an old college friend. I told him over and over again, &lsquo;It&rsquo;s
      Jeanne&rsquo;s dowry he&rsquo;s after, Charnot&mdash;I&rsquo;m convinced of it. He&rsquo;ll treat
      Jeanne badly and make her miserable, mark my words.&rsquo; But I wasted my
      breath; he wouldn&rsquo;t listen to a word. Anyhow, it&rsquo;s quite off now. But it
      was no slight shock, I can tell you; and it gave me great pain to witness
      the poor child&rsquo;s sufferings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Flamaran!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not that, Mouillard; but I have known Jeanne ever since she was
      born. I watched her grow up, and I loved her when she was still a little
      mite; she&rsquo;s as good as my adoptive daughter. You understand me when I say
      adoptive. I do not mean that there exists between us that legal bond in
      imitation of nature which is permitted by our codes&mdash;&lsquo;adoptio
      imitatur naturam&rsquo;; not that, but that I love her like a daughter&mdash;Sidonie
      never having presented me with a daughter, nor with a son either, for that
      matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A cry from Jupille interrupted M. Flamaran:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you hear it rattle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good man was tearing to us, waving his arms like a madman, the folds
      of his trousers flapping about his thin legs like banners in the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      We leaped to our feet, and my first idea, an absurd one enough, was that a
      rattlesnake was hurrying through the grass to our attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was very far from the truth. The matter really was a new line, invented
      by M. Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary one, and rigged up
      with a float like a raft, carrying a little clapper. The fish rang their
      own knell as they took the hook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s rattling like mad!&rdquo; cried Jupille, &ldquo;and you don&rsquo;t stir! I couldn&rsquo;t
      have thought it of you, Monsieur Flamaran.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ran past us, brandishing a landing-net as a warrior his lance; he might
      have been a youth of twenty-five. We followed, less keen and also less
      confident than he. He was right, though; when he drew up his line, the
      float of which was disappearing in jerks, carrying the bell along with it
      beneath the water, he brought out a fair-sized jack, which he declared to
      be a giant.
    </p>
    <p>
      He let it run for some time, to tire it, and to prolong the pleasure of
      playing it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;it is cutting my finger off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A stroke from the landing-net laid the monster at our feet, its strength
      all spent. It weighed rather under four pounds. Jupille swore to six.
    </p>
    <p>
      My learned tutor and I sat down again side by side, but the thread of our
      conversation had been broken past mending. I tried to talk of her, but M.
      Flamaran insisted on talking of me, of Bourges, of his election as
      professor, and of the radically distinct characteristics by which you can
      tell the bite of a gudgeon from that of a stickleback.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter part of this lecture was, however, purely theoretical, for he
      got up two hours before sunset without having hooked a fish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good day, all the same,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good place, and the fish were
      biting this morning. We&rsquo;ll come here again some day, Jupille; with an east
      wind you ought to catch any quantity of gudgeons.&rdquo; He kept pace beside me
      on our way home, but wearied, no doubt, with long sitting, with the heat,
      and the glare from the water, fell into a reverie, from which the
      incidents of the walk were unable to rouse him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jupille trotted before us, carrying his rod in one hand, a luncheon-basket
      and a fish-bag in the other. He turned round and gave us a look at each
      cross-road, smiled beneath his heavy moustache, and went on faster than
      before. I felt sure that something out of the way was about to happen, and
      that the silent quill-driver was tasting a quiet joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not guessed the whole truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a turn of the road M. Flamaran suddenly pulled up, looked all around
      him, and drew a deep breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Jupille! My good sir, where are you taking us? If I can believe my
      eyes, this is the Chestnut Knoll, down yonder is Plessis Piquet, and we
      are two miles from the station and the seven o&rsquo;clock train!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no denying it. A donkey emerged from the wood, hung with tassels
      and bells, carrying in its panniers two little girls, whose parents toiled
      behind, goad in hand. The woods had become shrubberies, through which
      peeped the thatched roofs of rustic summerhouses, mazes, artificial
      waterfalls, grottoes, and ruins; all the dread handiwork of the rustic
      decorator burst, superabundant, upon our sight, with shy odors of beer and
      cooking. Broken bottles strewed the paths; the bushes all looked weary,
      harassed, and overworked; a confused murmur of voices and crackers floated
      toward us upon the breeze. I knew full well from these signs that we were
      nearing &ldquo;ROBINSON CRUSOE,&rdquo; the land of rustic inns. And, sure enough, here
      they all were: &ldquo;THE OLD ROBINSON,&rdquo; &ldquo;THE NEW ROBINSON,&rdquo; &ldquo;THE REAL ORIGINAL
      ROBINSON,&rdquo; &ldquo;THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON,&rdquo; &ldquo;ROBINSON&rsquo;s CHESTNUT GROVE,&rdquo;
       &ldquo;ROBINSON&rsquo;S PARADISE,&rdquo; each unique and each authentic. All alike have
      thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies lighted with petroleum
      lamps, tinsel stars, summerhouses, arrangements for open-air illumination
      and highly colored advertisements, in which are set forth all the
      component elements of a &ldquo;ROBINSON,&rdquo; such as shooting-galleries,
      bowling-alleys, swings, private arbors, Munich beer, and dinner in a tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jupille!&rdquo; exclaimed M. Flamaran, &ldquo;you have shipwrecked us! This is
      Crusoe&rsquo;s land; and what the dickens do you mean by it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which he
      always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled a
      face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word in
      his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word! Really, Jupille, what are you thinking of? And I a
      professor, too! Thirty years ago it would have been excusable, but to-day!
      Besides, Sidonie expects me home to dinner&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped for a moment, undecided, looking at his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jupille, who was eying him intently, saw his distinguished friend
      gradually relax his frown and burst into a hearty laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove! it&rsquo;s madness at my age, but I don&rsquo;t care. We&rsquo;ll renew our youth
      for an hour or so. My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered dinner for us
      here. Had I been consulted I should have chosen any other place. Yet
      what&rsquo;s to be done? Hunger, friendship, and the fact that I can&rsquo;t catch the
      train, combine to silence my scruples. What do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That we are in for it now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it, then.&rdquo; And led by Jupille, still carrying his catch, we entered
      THE ONLY GENUINE ROBINSON.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the clearings
      in the sgrubberies. I thought I heard stifled laughter behind the trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen,&rdquo; said the proprietor.
      &ldquo;Up these stairs, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk. Chestnut Number 3 is a
      fine old tree, a little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting a
      platform surrounded by a balustrade, six rotten wooden pillars, and a
      thatched roof, shaped like a cocked hat, to shelter the whole. All the
      neighboring trees contain similar constructions, which look from a little
      distance like enormous nests. They are greatly in demand at the dinner
      hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is brought up by a
      rope and pulley.
    </p>
    <p>
      When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and leaned
      with both hands on the railing to give a look around. The attitude
      suggested a public speaker. His big gray head was conspicuous in the light
      of the setting sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s going to make a speech!&rdquo; cried a voice. &ldquo;Bet you he isn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the signal. A rustling was heard among the leaves, and numbers of
      inquisitive faces peeped out from all corners of the garden. A general
      rattling of glasses announced that whole parties were leaving the tables
      to see what was up. The waiters stopped to stare at Chestnut Number 3. The
      whole population of Juan Fernandez was staring up at Flamaran without in
      the least knowing the reason why.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said a voice from an arbor, &ldquo;Professor Flamaran will now
      begin his lecture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A chorus of shouts and laughter rose around our tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hi, old boy, wait till we&rsquo;re gone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ladies, he will discourse to you on the law of husband and wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, on the foreclosure of mortgages!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, on the payment of debts!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you naughty old man! You ought to be shut up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran, though somewhat put out of countenance for the moment, was
      seized with a happy inspiration. He stretched out an arm to show that he
      was about to speak. He opened his broad mouth with a smile of fatherly
      humor, and the groves, attentive, heard him thunder forth these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boys, I promise to give you all white marks if you let me dine in peace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last words were lost in a roar of applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three cheers for old Flamaran!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Three cheers were given, followed by clapping of hands from various
      quarters, then all was silence, and no one took any further notice of our
      tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Flamaran left the railing and unfolded his napkin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be sure of my white marks, young men,&rdquo; he said, as he sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was delighted at his success as an orator, and laughed gayly. Jupille,
      on the other hand, was as pale as if he had been in a street riot, and
      seemed rooted to the spot where he stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all right, Jupille; it&rsquo;s all right, man! A little ready wit is all
      you need, dash my wig!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old clerk gradually regained his composure, and the dinner grew very
      merry. Flamaran&rsquo;s spirits, raised by this little incident, never flagged.
      He had a story for every glass of wine, and told them all with a quiet
      humor of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward the end of dinner, by the time the waiter came to offer us &ldquo;almonds
      and raisins, pears, peaches, preserves, meringues, brandy cherries,&rdquo; we
      had got upon the subject of Sidonie, the pearl of Forez. M. Flamaran
      narrated to us, with dates, how a friend of his one day depicted to him a
      young girl at Montbrison, of fresh and pleasing appearance, a good
      housekeeper, and of excellent family; and how he&mdash;M. Flamaran&mdash;had
      forthwith started off to find her, had recognized her before she was
      pointed out to him, fell in love with her at first sight, and was not long
      in obtaining her affection in return. The marriage had taken place at St.
      Galmier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear Mouillard,&rdquo; he added, as if pointing a moral, &ldquo;thirty years
      ago last May I became a happy man; when do you think of following my
      example?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point, Jupille suddenly found himself one too many, and vanished
      down the corkscrew stair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We once spoke of an heiress at Bourges,&rdquo; M. Flamaran went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apparently that&rsquo;s all off?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were within your rights; but now, why not a Parisienne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed; why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you are prejudiced in some way against Parisiennes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I? Not the least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to be, but I&rsquo;ve got over it now. They have a charm of their own, a
      certain style of dressing, walking, and laughing which you don&rsquo;t find
      outside the fortifications. For a long time I used to think that these
      qualities stood them in lieu of virtues. That was a slander; there are
      plenty of Parisiennes endowed with every virtue; I even know a few who are
      angels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point, M. Flamaran looked me straight in the eyes, and, as I made
      no reply, he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know one, at least: Jeanne Charnot. Are you listening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur Flamaran.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t she a paragon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As sensible as she is tender-hearted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as clever as she is sensible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is my opinion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, young man, if that&rsquo;s your opinion&mdash;excuse my burning my
      boats, all my boats&mdash;if that&rsquo;s your opinion, I don&rsquo;t understand why&mdash;Do
      you suppose she has no money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing about her means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make any mistake; she&rsquo;s a rich woman. Do you think you&rsquo;re too young
      to marry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you fancy, perhaps, that she is still bound by that unfortunate
      engagement?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust she is not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m quite sure she is not. She is free, I tell you, as free as you. Well,
      why don&rsquo;t you love her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I do love her, Monsieur Flamaran!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then, I congratulate you, my boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He leaned across the table and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. He was
      so agitated that he could not speak&mdash;choking with joyful emotion, as
      if he had been Jeanne&rsquo;s father, or mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a minute or so, he drew himself up in his chair, reached out, put a
      hand on each of my shoulders and kept it there as if he feared I might fly
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you love her, you love her! Good gracious, what a business I&rsquo;ve had to
      get you to say so! You are quite right to love her, of course, of course&mdash;I
      could not have understood your doing otherwise; but I must say this, my
      boy, that if you tarry too long, with her attractions, you know what will
      happen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I ought to ask for her at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure you ought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! Monsieur Flamaran, who is there that I can send on such a mission
      for me? You know that I am an orphan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have an uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have quarrelled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might make it up again, on an occasion like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates
      Parisiennes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn it all, then! send a friend&mdash;a friend will do under the
      circumstances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Lampron.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The painter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but he doesn&rsquo;t know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one stranger
      pleading for another. My chances would be small. What I want&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is a friend of both parties, isn&rsquo;t it? Well, what am I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The very man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. I undertake to ask for her hand! I shall ask for the hand of
      the charming Jeanne for both of us; for you, who will make her happy; and
      for myself, who will not entirely lose her if she marries one of my
      pupils, one of my favorite graduates&mdash;my friend, Fabien Mouillard.
      And I won&rsquo;t be refused&mdash;no, damme, I won&rsquo;t!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He brought down his fist upon the table with a tremendous blow which made
      the glasses ring and the decanters stagger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Coming!&rdquo; cried a waiter from below, thinking he was summoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, my good fellow!&rdquo; shouted M. Flamaran, leaning over the
      railings. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble. I don&rsquo;t want anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned again toward me, still filled with emotion, but somewhat calmer
      than he had been.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;let us talk, and do you tell me all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And we began a long and altogether delightful talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      A more genuine, a finer fellow never breathed than this professor let
      loose from school and giving his heart a holiday&mdash;a simple, tender
      heart, preserved beneath the science of the law like a grape in sawdust.
      Now he would smile as I sang Jeanne&rsquo;s praises; now he would sit and listen
      to my objections with a truculent air, tightening his lips till they broke
      forth in vehement denial. &ldquo;What! You dare to say! Young man, what are you
      afraid of?&rdquo; His overflowing kindness discharged itself in the sincerest
      and most solemn asseverations.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had left Juan Fernandez far behind us; we were both far away in that
      Utopia where mind penetrates mind, heart understands heart. We heard
      neither the squeaking of a swing beneath us, nor the shouts of laughter
      along the promenades, nor the sound of a band tuning up in a neighboring
      pavilion. Our eyes, raised to heaven, failed to see the night descending
      upon us, vast and silent, piercing the foliage with its first stars. Now
      and again a warm breath passed over us, blown from the woods; I tasted its
      strangely sweet perfume; I saw in glimpses the flying vision of a huge
      dark tulip, striped with gold, unfolding its petals on the moist bank of a
      dyke, and I asked myself whether a mysterious flower had really opened in
      the night, or whether it was but a new feeling, slowly budding, unfolding,
      blossoming within my heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. PLEASURES OF EAVESDROPPING
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       July 22d.
</pre>
    <p>
      At two o&rsquo;clock to-day I went to see Sylvestre, to tell him all the great
      events of yesterday. We sat down on the old covered sofa in the shadow of
      the movable curtain which divides the studio, as it were, into two rooms,
      among the lay figures, busts, varnish-bottles, and paint-boxes. Lampron
      likes this chiaroscuro. It rests his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one knocked at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay where you are,&rdquo; said Sylvestre; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a customer come for the
      background of an engraving. I&rsquo;ll be with you in two minutes. Come in!&rdquo; As
      he was speaking he drew the curtain in front of me, and through the thin
      stuff I could see him going toward the door, which had just opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Lampron?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am he, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t recognize me, Monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m surprised at that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so? I have never seen you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have taken my portrait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was watching Lampron, who was plainly angered at this brusque
      introduction. He left the chair which he had begun to push forward, let it
      stand in the middle of the studio, and went and sat down on his
      engraving-stool in the corner, with a somewhat haughty look, and a defiant
      smile lurking behind his beard. He rested his elbow on the table and began
      to drum with his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I have had the honor to inform you is the simple truth, Monsieur. I
      am Monsieur Charnot of the Institute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron gave a glance in my direction, and his frown melted away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Monsieur; I only know you by your back. Had you shown me that
      side of you I might perhaps have recognized&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not come here to listen to jokes, Monsieur; and I should have come
      sooner to demand an explanation, but that it was only this morning I heard
      of what I consider a deplorable abuse of your talents. But picture-shows
      are not in my line. I did not see myself there. My friend Flamaran had to
      tell me that I was to be seen at the last Salon, together with my
      daughter, sitting on a tree-trunk in the forest of Saint-Germain. Is it
      true, Monsieur, that you drew me sitting on a trunk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a trifle too rustic for a man who does not go outside of Paris
      three times a year. And my daughter you drew in profile&mdash;a good
      likeness, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was as like as I could make it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you confess that you drew both my daughter and myself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may not be so easy for you to explain by what right you did so; I
      await your explanation, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might very well give you no explanation whatever,&rdquo; replied Lampron, who
      was beginning to lose patience. &ldquo;I might also reply that I no more needed
      to ask your permission to sketch you than to ask that of the beeches,
      oaks, elms, and willows. I might tell you that you formed part of the
      landscape, that every artist who sketches a bit of underwood has the right
      to stick a figure in&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A figure, Monsieur! do you call me a figure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gentleman, I mean. Artists call it figure. Well, I might give you this
      reason, which is quite good enough for you, but it is not the real one. I
      prefer to tell you frankly what passed. You have a very beautiful
      daughter, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot made his customary bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of my friends is in love with her. He is shy, and dares not tell his
      love. We met you by chance in the wood, and I was seized with the idea of
      making a sketch of Mademoiselle Jeanne, so like that she could not mistake
      it, and then exhibiting it with the certainty of her seeing it and
      guessing its meaning. I trusted she would recall to her mind, not myself,
      for my youth is past, but a young friend of mine who is of the age and
      build of a lover. If this was a crime, Monsieur, I am ready to take the
      blame for it upon myself, for I alone committed it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It certainly was criminal, Monsieur; criminal in you, at any rate&mdash;you
      who are a man of weight, respected for your talent and your character&mdash;to
      aid and abet in a frivolous love-affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was the deepest and most honorable sentiment, Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A blaze of straw!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the sort!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell me! Your friend&rsquo;s a mere boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better for him, and for her, too! If you want a man of middle
      age for your son-in-law, just try one and see what they are worth. You may
      be sorry that you ever refused this boy, who, it is true, is only
      twenty-four, has little money, no decided calling, nor yet that gift of
      self-confidence which does instead of merit for so many people; but who is
      a brave and noble soul, whom I can answer for as for myself. Go, Monsieur,
      you will find your daughter great names, fat purses, gold lace, long
      beards, swelling waistbands, reputations, pretensions, justified or not,
      everything, in short, in which he is poor; but him you will never find
      again! That is all I have to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron had become animated and spoke with heat. There was the slightest
      flash of anger in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw M. Charnot get up, approach him, and hold out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not wish you to say anything else, Monsieur; that is enough for me.
      Flamaran asked my daughter&rsquo;s hand for your friend only this morning.
      Flamaran loses no time when charged with a commission. He, too, told me
      much that was good of your friend. I also questioned Counsellor Boule. But
      however flattering characters they might give him, I still needed another,
      that of a man who had lived in complete intimacy with Monsieur Mouillard,
      and I could find no one but you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron stared astonished at this little thin-lipped man who had just
      changed his tone and manner so unexpectedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Monsieur,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;you might have got his character from me
      with less trouble; there was no need to make a scene.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me. You say I should have got his character; that is exactly what
      I did not want; characters are always good. What I wanted was a cry from
      the heart of a friend outraged and brought to bay. That is what I got, and
      it satisfies me. I am much obliged to you, Monsieur, and beg you will
      excuse my conduct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, since we are talking sense at present, allow me to put you a
      question in my turn. I am not in the habit of going around the point. Is
      my friend&rsquo;s proposal likely to be accepted or not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Lampron, in these delicate matters I have decided for the future
      to leave my daughter entirely free. Although my happiness is at stake
      almost as entirely as hers, I shall not say a word save to advise. In
      accordance with this resolve I communicated Flamaran&rsquo;s proposal to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected she would refuse it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she said &lsquo;Yes&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did not say &lsquo;No;&rsquo; if she had, you can guess that I should not be
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this reply I quite lost my head, and was very near tearing aside the
      curtain, and bursting forth into the studio with a shout of gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      But M. Charnot added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be too sure, though. There are certain serious, and, perhaps,
      insurmountable obstacles. I must speak to my daughter again. I will let
      your friend know of our final decision as soon as I can. Good-by,
      Monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lampron saw him to the street, and I heard their steps grow distant in the
      passage. A moment later Sylvestre returned and held out both hands to me,
      saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, are you happy now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I am, to a certain extent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;To a certain extent&rsquo;! Why, she loves you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the obstacles, Sylvestre!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps insurmountable&mdash;those were his words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, obstacles are the salt of all our joys. What a deal you young men
      want before you can be called happy! You ask Life for certainties, as if
      she had any to give you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he began to discuss my fears, but could not quite disperse them, for
      neither of us could guess what the obstacles could be.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       August 2d.
</pre>
    <p>
      After ten days of waiting, during which I have employed Lampron and M.
      Flamaran to intercede for me, turn and turn about; ten days passed in
      hovering between mortal anguish and extravagant hopes, during which I have
      formed, destroyed, taken up again and abandoned more plans than I ever
      made in all my life before, yesterday, at five o&rsquo;clock, I got a note from
      M. Charnot, begging me to call upon him the same evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went there in a state of nervous collapse. He received me in his study,
      as he had done seven months before, at our first interview, but with a
      more solemn politeness; and I noticed that the paper-knife, which he had
      taken up from the table as he resumed his seat, shook between his fingers.
      I sat in the same chair in which I had felt so ill at ease. To tell the
      truth, I felt very much the same, yesterday. M. Charnot doubtless noticed
      it, and wished to reassure me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I receive you as a friend. Whatever may be the
      result of our interview, you may be assured of my esteem. Therefore do not
      fear to answer me frankly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put several questions to me concerning my family, my tastes, and my
      acquaintance in Paris. Then he requested me to tell the simple story of my
      boyhood and my youth, the recollections of my home, of the college at La
      Chatre, of my holidays at Bourges, and of my student life.
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened without interruption, playing with the ivory paperknife. When
      I reached the date&mdash;it was only last December&mdash;when I saw Jeanne
      for the first time&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s enough,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I know or guess the rest. Young man, I promised
      you an answer; this is it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the moment, I ceased to breathe; my very heart seemed to stop beating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughter,&rdquo; went on M. Charnot, &ldquo;has at this moment several proposals
      of marriage to choose from. You see I hide nothing from you. I have left
      her time to reflect; she has weighed and compared them all, and
      communicated to me yesterday the result of her reflections. To richer and
      more brilliant matches she prefers an honest man who loves her for
      herself, and you, Monsieur, are that honest man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, thank you, Monsieur!&rdquo; I cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a moment, there are two conditions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were there ten, I would accept them without question!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t hurry. You will see; one is my daughter&rsquo;s, the other comes from
      both of us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wish me to have some profession, perhaps?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s not it. Clearly my son-in-law will never sit idle. Besides, I
      have some views on that subject, which I will tell you later if I have the
      chance. No, the first condition exacted by my daughter, and dictated by a
      feeling which is very pleasant to me, is that you promise never to leave
      Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I swear to, with all the pleasure in life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? I feared you had some ties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or dislike for Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur; only a preference for Paris, with freedom to indulge it.
      Your second condition?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The second, to which my daughter and I both attach importance, is that
      you should make your peace with your uncle. Flamaran tells me you have
      quarrelled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope it is not a serious difference. A mere cloud, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unfortunately not. My uncle is very positive&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But at the same time his heart is in the right place, so far as I could
      judge from what I saw of him&mdash;in June, I think it was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mind taking the first step?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take as many as may be needed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was sure you would. You can not remain on bad terms with your father&rsquo;s
      brother, the only relative you have left. In our eyes this reconciliation
      is a duty, a necessity. You should desire it as much as, and even more
      than, we.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall use every effort, Monsieur, I promise you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in that case you will succeed, I feel sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot, who had grown very pale, held out his hand to me, and tried
      hard to smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite at one, and that the hour has
      come&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not finish the sentence, but rose and went to open a door between
      two bookcases at the end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeanne,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me.
    </p>
    <p>
      And I, who had risen trembling, I, who until then had lost my head at the
      mere thought of seeing her, I, who had many a time asked myself in terror
      what I should say on meeting her, if ever she were mine, I felt myself
      suddenly bold, and the words rushed to my lips to thank her, to express my
      joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      My happiness, however, was evident, and I might have spared my words.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first half-hour all three of us talked together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then M. Charnot pushed back his armchair, and we two were left to
      ourselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had taken up a newspaper, but I am pretty sure he held it upside down.
      In any case he must have been reading between the lines, for he did not
      turn the page the whole evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      He often cast a glance over the top of the paper, folded in four, to the
      corner where we were sitting, and from us his eyes travelled to a pretty
      miniature of Jeanne as a child, which hung over the mantelpiece.
    </p>
    <p>
      What comparisons, what memories, what regrets, what hopes were struggling
      in his mind? I know not, but I know he sighed, and had not we been there I
      believe he would have wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      To me Jeanne showed herself simple as a child, wise and thoughtful as a
      woman. A new feeling was growing every instant within me, of perfect rest
      of heart; the certainty of happiness for all my life to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, my happiness travelled beyond the present, as I looked into the
      future and saw along series of days passed by her side; and while she
      spoke to me, tranquil, confident, and happy too, I thought I saw the great
      wings of my dream closing over and enfolding us.
    </p>
    <p>
      We spoke in murmurs. The open window let in the warm evening air and the
      confused roar of the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am to be your friend and counsellor?&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You promise that you will ask my advice in all things, and that we shall
      act in concert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this very first evening I ask you for a proof of this, you won&rsquo;t be
      angry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, from what you have told me of your uncle, you seem to have accepted
      the second condition, of making up your quarrel, rather lightly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only promised to do my best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but my father counts upon your success. How do you intend to act?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t yet considered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I foresaw, and I thought it would perhaps be a good
      thing if we considered it together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle, I am listening; compose the plan of campaign, and I will
      criticise it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne clasped her hands over her knees and assumed a thoughtful look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you wrote to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is every chance that he would not answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reply paid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle, you are laughing; you are no counsellor any longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am. Let us be serious. Suppose you go to see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a better idea. He may perhaps receive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case you will capture him. If you can only get a man to listen&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not my uncle, Mademoiselle. He will listen, and do you know what his
      answer will be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, or something like it: &lsquo;My worthy nephew, you have come to tell me
      two things, have you not? First, that you are about to marry a Parisienne;
      secondly, that you renounce forever the family practice. You merely
      confirm and aggravate our difference. You have taken a step further
      backward. It was not worth while your coming out of your way to tell me
      this, and you may return as soon as you please.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You surprise me. There must be some way of getting at him, if he is
      really good-hearted, as you say. If I could see your uncle I should soon
      find out a way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you could see him! Yes, that would be the best way of all; it couldn&rsquo;t
      help succeeding. He imagines you as a flighty Parisienne; he is afraid of
      you; he is more angry with me for loving you than for refusing to carry on
      his practice. If he could only see you, he would soon forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think that if I were to look him in the face, as I now look at
      you, and to say to him: &lsquo;Monsieur Mouillard, will you not consent to my
      becoming your niece?&rsquo; do you think that then he would give in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! Mademoiselle, why can not it be tried?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It certainly is difficult, but I won&rsquo;t say it can not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We explained, or rather Jeanne explained, the case to M. Charnot, who is
      assuredly her earliest and most complete conquest. At first he cried out
      against the idea. He said it was entirely my business, a family matter in
      which he had no right to interfere. She insisted. She carried his scruples
      by storm. She boldly proposed a trip to Bourges, and a visit to M.
      Mouillard. She overflowed with reasons, some of them rather weak, but all
      so prettily urged! A trip to Bourges would be delightful&mdash;something
      so novel and refreshing! Had M. Charnot complained on the previous
      evening, or had he not, of having to stop in Paris in the heat of August?
      Yes, he had complained, and quite right too, for his colleagues did not
      hesitate to leave their work and rush off to the country. Then she cited
      examples: one off to the Vosges, another at Arcachon, yet another at
      Deauville. And she reminded him, too, that a certain old lady, one of his
      old friends of the Faubourg St. Germain, lived only a few miles out of
      Bourges, and had invited him to come and see her, she didn&rsquo;t know how many
      times, and that he had promised and promised and never kept his word. Now
      he could take the opportunity of going on from Bourges to her chateau.
      Finally, as M. Charnot continued to urge the singularity of such behavior,
      she replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear father! not at all; in visiting Monsieur Mouillard you will be
      only fulfilling a social duty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so, I should like to know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He paid you a visit, and you will be returning it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot tossed his head, like a father who, though he may not be
      convinced, yet admits that he is beaten.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for me, Jeanne, I&rsquo;m beginning to believe in the fairies again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. A COOL RECEPTION
    </h2>
    <h3>
      August 3d.
    </h3>
    <p>
      I have made another visit to the Rue de l&rsquo;Universite. They have decided to
      make the trip. I leave for Bourges tomorrow, a day in advance of M. and
      Mademoiselle Charnot, who will arrive on the following morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am sent on first to fulfil two duties: to engage comfortable rooms at
      the hotel&mdash;first floor with southern aspect&mdash;and then to see my
      uncle and prepare him for his visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am to prepare him without ruffling him. Jeanne has sketched my plan of
      campaign. I am to be the most affectionate of nephews, though he show
      himself the crustiest of uncles; to prevent him from recurring to the
      past, to speak soberly of the present, to confess that Mademoiselle
      Charnot is aware of my feelings for her, and shows herself not entirely
      insensible to them; but I am to avoid giving details, and must put off a
      full explanation until later, when we can study the situation together. M.
      Mouillard can not fail to be appeased by such deference, and to observe a
      truce while I hint at the possibility of a family council. Then, if these
      first advances are well received, I am to tell him that M. Charnot is
      actually travelling in the neighborhood, and, without giving it as
      certain, I may add that if he stops at Bourges he may like to return my
      uncle&rsquo;s visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      There my role ends. Jeanne and M. Charnot will do the rest. It is with
      Jeanne, by the light of her eyes and her smile, that M. Mouillard is &ldquo;to
      study the situation;&rdquo; he will have to struggle against the redoubtable
      arguments of her youth and beauty. Poor man!
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne is full of confidence. Her father, who has learned his lesson from
      her, feels sure that my uncle will give in. Even I, who can not entirely
      share this optimism, feel that I incline to the side of hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I reached home, the porter handed me two cards from Larive. On the
      first I read:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               CH. LARIVE,
              Managing Clerk.
                P. P. C.
</pre>
    <p>
      The second, on glazed cardboard, announced, likewise in initials, another
      piece of news:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               CH. LARIVE,
            Formerly Managing Clerk.
               P. F. P. M.
</pre>
    <p>
      So the Parisian who swore he could not exist two days in the country is
      leaving Paris. That was fated. He is about to be married; I&rsquo;m sure I don&rsquo;t
      object. The only consequence to me is that we never shall meet again, and
      I shall not weep over that.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    BOURGES, August 4th.
</pre>
    <p>
      If you have ever been in Bourges, you may have seen the little Rue
      Sous-les-Ceps, the Cours du Bat d&rsquo;Argent and de la Fleur-de-lys, the Rues
      de la Merede-Dieu, des Verts-Galants, Mausecret, du Moulin-le-Roi, the
      Quai Messire-Jacques, and other streets whose ancient names, preserved by
      a praiseworthy sentiment or instinctive conservatism, betoken an ancient
      city still inhabited by old-fashioned people, by which I mean people
      attached to the soil, strongly marked with the stamp of the provincial in
      manners as in language; people who understand all that a name is to a
      street&mdash;its honor, its spouse if you will, from which it must not be
      divorced.
    </p>
    <p>
      My Uncle Mouillard, most devoted and faithful citizen of Bourges,
      naturally lives in one of these old streets, the Rue du Four, within the
      shadow of the cathedral, beneath the swing of its chimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at Bourges I was pulling the
      deer&rsquo;s foot which hangs, depilated with long use, beside his door. It was
      five o&rsquo;clock, and I knew for certain that he would not be at home. When
      the courts rise, one of the clerks carries back his papers to the office,
      while he moves slowly off, his coat-tails flapping in the breeze, either
      to visit a few friends and clients, respectable dames who were his
      partners in the dance in the year 1840, or more often to take a
      &ldquo;constitutional&rdquo; along the banks of the Berry Canal, where, in the poplar
      shade, files of little gray donkeys are towing string after string of big
      barges.
    </p>
    <p>
      So I was sure not to meet him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine opened the door to me, and started as if shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Fabien!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Myself, Madeleine. My uncle is not at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur. Do you really mean to come in, Monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The master&rsquo;s so changed since his visit to Paris, Monsieur Fabien!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding up her apron, the other
      hanging, and gazed at me with reproachful anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must come in, Madeleine. I have a secret to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no answer, but turned and walked before me into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not thus that I used to be welcomed in days gone by! Then Madeleine
      used to meet me at the station. She used to kiss me, and tell me how well
      I looked, promising the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had invented
      for me. Hardly did I set foot in the hall before my uncle, who had given
      up his evening walk for my sake, would run out of his study, heart and
      cravat alike out of their usual order at seeing me&mdash;me, a poor,
      awkward, gaping schoolboy: Today that is ancient history. To-day I am
      afraid to meet my uncle, and Madeleine is afraid to let me in.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told me not a word of it, but I easily guessed that floods of tears
      had streamed from her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale as wax.
      Her face is quite transparent, and looks as if a tiny lamp were lighting
      it from within. There are strong feelings, too, beneath that impassive
      mask. Madeleine comes from Bayonne, and has Spanish blood in her. I have
      heard that she was lovely as a girl of twenty. With age her features have
      grown austere. She looks like a widow who is a widow indeed, and her heart
      is that of a grandmother.
    </p>
    <p>
      She glided before me in her slippers to that realm of peace and silence,
      her kitchen. I followed her in. Two things that never found entrance there
      are dust and noise. A lonely goldfinch hangs in a wicker cage from the
      rafters, and utters from time to time a little shrill call. His note and
      the metallic tick-tick of Madeleine&rsquo;s clock alone enliven the silent
      flight of time. She sat down in the low chair where she knits after
      dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madeleine, I am about to be married; did you know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She slowly shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in Paris, Monsieur Fabien; that&rsquo;s what makes the master so unhappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will soon see her whom I have chosen, Madeleine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think so, Monsieur Fabien.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, you will; and you will see that it is my uncle who is in the
      wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not often known him in the wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That has nothing to do with it. My marriage is fully decided upon, and
      all I want is to get my uncle&rsquo;s consent to it. Do you understand? I want
      to make friends with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine shook her head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t succeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Madeleine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur Fabien, you won&rsquo;t succeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be very much changed, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much that you could hardly believe it; so much that I can hardly keep
      myself from changing too. He, who had such a good appetite, now has
      nothing but fads. It&rsquo;s no good my cooking him dainties, or buying him
      early vegetables; he never notices them, but looks out of the window as I
      come in at the door with a surprise for him. In the evening he often
      forgets to go out in the garden, and sits at table, his elbows on his
      rumpled napkin, his head between his hands, and what he thinks of he keeps
      to himself. If I try to talk of you&mdash;and I have tried, Monsieur
      Fabien&mdash;he gets up in a rage, and forbids me to open my mouth on the
      subject. The house is not cheerful, Monsieur Fabien. Every one notices how
      he has changed; Monsieur Lorinet and his lady never enter the doors;
      Monsieur Hublette and Monsieur Horlet come and play dummy, looking all the
      time as if they had come for a funeral, thinking it will please the
      master. Even the clients say that the master treats them like dogs, and
      that he ought to sell his practice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it isn&rsquo;t sold?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet, but I think it will be before long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me, Madeleine; you have always been good and devoted to me; I
      am sure you still are fond of me; do me one last service. You must manage
      to put me up here without my uncle knowing it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without his knowing it, Monsieur Fabien!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, say in the library; he never goes in there. From there I can study
      him, and watch him, without his seeing me, since he is so irritable and so
      easily upset, and as soon as you see an opportunity I shall make use of
      it. A sign from you, and down I come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Monsieur Fabien&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be done, Madeleine; I must manage to speak to him before ten
      o&rsquo;clock to-morrow morning, for my bride is coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Parisienne? She coming here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, with her father, by the train which gets in at six minutes past nine
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God! is it possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see you, Madeleine; to see my uncle, to make my peace with him. Isn&rsquo;t
      it kind of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kind? Monsieur Fabien! I tremble to think of what will happen. All the
      same, I shall be glad to have a sight of your young lady, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so we settled that Madeleine was not to say a word to my uncle about
      my being in Bourges, within a few feet of him. If she perceived any break
      in the gloom which enveloped M. Mouillard, she was to let me know; if I
      were obliged to put off my interview to the morrow, and to pass the night
      on the sofa-bed in the library, she was to bring me something to eat, a
      rug, and &ldquo;the pillow you used in your holidays when you were a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was installed then in the big library on the first-floor, adjoining the
      drawing-room, its other door opening on the passage opposite M.
      Mouillard&rsquo;s door, and its two large windows on the garden. What a look of
      good antique middle-class comfort there was about it, from the floor of
      bees&rsquo;-waxed oak, with its inequalities of level, to the four bookcases
      with glass doors, surmounted by four bronzed busts of Herodotus, Homer,
      Socrates, and Marmontel! Nothing had been moved; the books were still in
      the places where I had known them for twenty years; Voltaire beside
      Rousseau, the Dictionary of Useful Knowledge, and Rollin&rsquo;s Ancient
      History, the slim, well bound octavos of the Meditations of St. Ignatius,
      side by side with an enormous quarto on veterinary surgery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The savage arrows, said to be poisoned, which always used to frighten me
      so much, were still arranged like a peacock&rsquo;s tail over the mantel-shelf,
      each end of which was adorned by the same familiar lumps of white coral.
      The musical-box, which I was not allowed to touch till I was eighteen,
      still stood in the left-hand corner, and on the writing-table, near the
      little blotting-book that held the note-paper, rose, still majestic, still
      turning obedient to the touch within its graduated belts, the terrestrial
      globe &ldquo;on which are marked the three voyages of Captain Cook, both outward
      and homeward.&rdquo; Ah, captain, how often have we sailed those voyages
      together! What grand headway we made as we scoured the tropics in the heel
      of the trade-wind, our ship threading archipelagoes whose virgin forests
      stared at us in wonder, all their strange flowers opening toward us,
      seeking to allure us and put us to sleep with their dangerous perfumes.
      But we always guessed the snare, we saw the points of the assegais
      gleaming amid the tall grasses; you gave the word in your full, deep
      voice, and our way lay infinite before us; we followed it, always on the
      track of new lands, new discoveries, until we reached the fatal isle of
      Owhyhee, the spot where this terrestrial globe is spotted with a tear&mdash;for
      I wept over you, my captain, at the age when tears unlock themselves and
      flow easily from a heart filled with enchantment!
    </p>
    <p>
      Seven o&rsquo;clock sounded from the cathedral; the garden door slammed to; my
      uncle was returning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw him coming down the winding path, hat in hand, with bowed head. He
      did not stop before his graftings; he passed the clump of petunias without
      giving them that all-embracing glance I know so well, the glance of the
      rewarded gardener. He gave no word of encouragement to the Chinese duck
      which waddled down the path in front of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine was right. The time was not ripe for reconciliation; and more,
      it would need a great deal of sun to ripen it. O Jeanne, if only you were
      here!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any one called while I&rsquo;ve been out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This, by the way, is the old formula to which my uncle has always been
      faithful. I heard Madeleine answer, with a quaver in her voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, nobody for you, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Someone for you, then? A lover, perhaps, my faithful Madeleine? The world
      is so foolish nowadays that even you might take it into your head to marry
      and leave me. Come, serve my dinner quickly, and if the gentleman with the
      decoration calls&mdash;you know whom I mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The tall, thin gentleman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Show him into the drawing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gentleman by himself into the drawing-room?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, no. The floor was waxed only yesterday, and the furniture&rsquo;s not
      yet in order.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! I&rsquo;ll see him in here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle went into the dining-room underneath me, and for twenty minutes I
      heard nothing more of him, save the ring of his wineglass as he struck on
      it to summon Madeleine.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had hardly finished dinner when there came a ring at the street door.
      Some one asked for M. Mouillard, the gentleman with the decoration, I
      suppose, for Madeleine showed him in, and I could tell by the noise of his
      chair that my uncle had risen to receive his visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sat down and entered into conversation. An indistinct murmur reached
      me through the ceiling. Occasionally a clearer sound struck my ear, and I
      thought I knew that high, resonant voice. It was no doubt delusion, still
      it beset me there in the silence of the library, haunting my thoughts as
      they wandered restlessly in search of occupation. I tried to recollect all
      the men with fluty voices that I had ever met in Bourges: a corn-factor
      from the Place St. Jean; Rollet, the sacristan; a fat manufacturer, who
      used to get my uncle to draw up petitions for him claiming relief from
      taxation. I hunted feverishly in my memory as the light died away from the
      windows, and the towers of St. Stephen&rsquo;s gradually lost the glowing
      aureole conferred on them by the setting sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      After about an hour the conversation grew heated.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle coughed, the flute became shrill. I caught these fragments of
      their dialogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the law?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is as I tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is tyranny!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then our business is at an end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Apparently it was not, though; for the conversation gradually sank down
      the scale to a monotonous murmur. A second hour passed, and yet a third.
      What could this interminable visit portend?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was near eleven o&rsquo;clock. A ray from the rising moon shone between the
      trees in the garden. A big black cat crept across the lawn, shaking its
      wet paws. In the darkness it looked like a tiger. In my mind&rsquo;s eye I saw
      Madeleine sitting with her eyes fixed on her dead hearth, telling her
      beads, her thoughts running with mine: &ldquo;It is years since Monsieur
      Mouillard was up at such an hour.&rdquo; Still she waited, for never had any
      hand but hers shot the bolt of the street door; the house would not be
      shut if shut by any other than herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the dining-room door opened. &ldquo;Let me show you a light; take care
      of the stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then followed the &ldquo;Good-nights&rdquo; of two weary voices, the squeaking of the
      big key turning in the lock, a light footstep dying away in the distance,
      and my uncle&rsquo;s heavy tread as he went up to his bedroom. The business was
      over.
    </p>
    <p>
      How slowly my uncle went upstairs! The burden of sorrow was no metaphor in
      his case. He, who used to be as active as a boy, could now hardly-support
      his own weight.
    </p>
    <p>
      He crossed the landing and went into his room. I thought of following,
      him; only a few feet lay between us. No doubt it was late, but his excited
      state might have predisposed him in my favor. Suddenly I heard a sigh&mdash;then
      a sob. He was weeping; I determined to risk all and rush to his
      assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But just as I was about to leave the library a skirt rustled against the
      wall, though I had heard no sound of footsteps preceding it. At the same
      instant a little bit of paper was slipped in under the door&mdash;a letter
      from the silent Madeleine. I unfolded the paper and saw the following
      words written across from one corner to the other, with a contempt for
      French spelling, which was thoroughly Spanish:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Ni allais pat ceux soire.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Very well, Madeleine, since that&rsquo;s your advice, I&rsquo;ll refrain.
    </p>
    <p>
      I lay down to sleep on the sofa. Yet I was very sorry for the delay. I
      hated to let the night go by without being reconciled to the poor old man,
      or without having attempted it at least. He was evidently very wretched to
      be affected to tears, for I had never known him to weep, even on occasions
      when my own tears had flowed freely. Yet I followed my old and faithful
      friend&rsquo;s advice, for I knew that she had the peace of the household as
      much at heart as I; but I felt that I should seek long and vainly before I
      could discover what this latest trouble was, and what part I had in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. JEANNE THE ENCHANTRESS
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    BOURGES, August 5th.
</pre>
    <p>
      I woke up at seven; my first thought was for M. Mouillard. Where could he
      be? I listened, but could hear no sound. I went to the window; the
      office-boy was lying flat on the lawn, feeding the goldfish in the
      fountain. This proved beyond a doubt that my uncle was not in.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went downstairs to the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Madeleine, has he gone out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He went at six o&rsquo;clock, Monsieur Fabien.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you wake me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I guess? Never, never does he go out before breakfast. I never
      have seen him like this before, not even when his wife died.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can be the matter with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it&rsquo;s the sale of the practice. He said to me last night, at the
      fool of the staircase: &lsquo;I am a brokenhearted man, Madeleine, a
      broken-hearted man. I might have got over it, but that monster of
      ingratitude, that cannibal&rsquo;&mdash;saving your presence, Monsieur Fabien&mdash;&lsquo;would
      not have it so. If I had him here I don&rsquo;t know what I should do to him.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t he tell you what he would do to the cannibal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. So I slipped a little note under your door when I went upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I am much obliged to you for it. Is he any calmer this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t look angry any longer, only I noticed that he had been
      weeping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know at all. Besides, you might as well try to catch up with a
      deer as with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true. I&rsquo;d better wait for him. When will he be in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not before ten. I can tell you that it&rsquo;s not once a year that he goes out
      like this in the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Madeleine, Jeanne will be here by ten!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is Jeanne her name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Monsieur Charnot will be here, too. And my uncle, whom I was to have
      prepared for their visit, will know nothing about it, nor even that I
      slept last night beneath his roof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell the truth, Monsieur Fabien, I don&rsquo;t think you&rsquo;ve managed well.
      Still, there is Dame Fortune, who often doesn&rsquo;t put in her word till the
      last moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Entreat her for me, Madeleine, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Dame Fortune was deaf to prayers. My uncle did not return, and I could
      find no fresh expedient. As I made my way, vexed and unhappy, to the
      station, I kept asking myself the question that I had been turning over in
      vain for the last hour:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have said nothing to Monsieur Mouillard. Had I better say anything now
      to Monsieur Charnot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My fears redoubled when I saw Jeanne and M. Charnot at the windows of the
      train, as it swept past me into the station.
    </p>
    <p>
      A minute later she stepped on to the platform, dressed all in gray, with
      roses in her cheeks, and a pair of gull&rsquo;s wings in her hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot shook me by the hand, thoroughly delighted at having escaped
      from the train and being able to shake himself and tread once more the
      solid earth. He asked after my uncle, and when I replied that he was in
      excellent health, he went to get his luggage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Jeanne. &ldquo;Is all arranged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, nothing is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you seen him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even that. I have been watching for a favorable opportunity without
      finding one. Yesterday evening he was busy with a visitor; this morning he
      went out at six. He doesn&rsquo;t even know that I am in Bourges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet you were in his house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I slept on a sofa in his library.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave me a look which was as much as to say, &ldquo;My poor boy, how very
      unpractical you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on doing nothing,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the best you can do. If my father
      didn&rsquo;t think he was expected he would beat a retreat at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this instant, M. Charnot came back to us, having seen his two trunks
      and a hatbox placed on top of the omnibus of the Hotel de France.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is where you have found rooms for us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is now twelve minutes past nine; tell Monsieur Mouillard that we shall
      call upon him at ten o&rsquo;clock precisely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I went a few steps with them, and saw them into the omnibus, which was
      whirled off at a fast trot by its two steeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I had lost them from my sight I cast a look around me, and noticed
      three people standing in line beneath the awning, and gazing upon me with
      interest. I recognized Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Lorinet. They
      were all smiling with the same look of contemptuous mockery. I bowed. The
      man alone returned my salute, raising his hat. By some strange freak of
      fate, Berthe was again wearing a blue dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went back in the direction of the Rue du Four, happy, though at my wits&rsquo; 
      end, forming projects that were mutually destructive; now expatiating in
      the seventh heaven, now loading myself with the most appalling curses. I
      slipped along the streets, concealed beneath my umbrella, for the rain was
      falling; a great storm-cloud had burst over Bourges, and I blessed the
      rain which gave me a chance to hide my face.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the banks of the Voizelle to the old quarter around the cathedral is
      a rather long walk. When I turned from the Rue Moyenne, the Boulevard des
      Italiens of Bourges, into the Rue du Four, a blazing sun was drying the
      rain on the roofs, and the cuckoo clock at M. Festuquet&rsquo;s&mdash;a neighbor
      of my uncle&mdash;was striking the hour of meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not been three minutes at the garden door, a key to which had been
      given me by Madeleine, when M. Charnot appeared with Jeanne on his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To think that I&rsquo;ve forgotten my overshoes, which I never fail to take
      with me to the country!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The country, father?&rdquo; said Jeanne, &ldquo;why, Bourges is a city!&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure&mdash;to be sure,&rdquo; answered M. Charnot, who feared he had hurt
      my feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      He put on his spectacles and began to study the old houses around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a city; really quite a city.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I do not remember what commonplace I stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little did I care for M. Charnot&rsquo;s overshoes or the honor of Bourges at
      that moment! On the other side of the wall, a few feet off, I felt the
      presence of M. Mouillard. I reflected that I should have to open the door
      and launch the Academician, without preface, into the presence of the
      lawyer, stake my life&rsquo;s happiness, perhaps, on my uncle&rsquo;s first
      impressions, play at any rate the decisive move in the game which had been
      so disastrously opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne, though she did her best to hide it, was extremely nervous. I felt
      her hand tremble in mine as I took it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trust in God!&rdquo; she whispered, and aloud: &ldquo;Open the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I turned the key in the lock. I had arranged that Madeleine should go at
      once to M. Mouillard and tell him that there were some strangers waiting
      in the garden. But either she was not on the lookout, or she did not at
      once perceive us, and we had to wait a few minutes at the bottom of the
      lawn before any one came.
    </p>
    <p>
      I hid myself behind the trees whose leafage concealed the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot was evidently pleased with the view before him, and turned from
      side to side, gently smacking his lips like an epicure. And, in truth, my
      uncle&rsquo;s garden was perfection; the leaves, washed by the rain, were
      glistening in the fulness of their verdure, great drops were falling from
      the trees with a silvery tinkle, the petunias in the beds were opening all
      their petals and wrapping us in their scent; the birds, who had been mute
      while the shower lasted, were now fluttering, twittering, and singing
      beneath the branches. I was like one bewitched, and thought these very
      birds were discussing us. The greenfinch said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old Mouillard, look! Here&rsquo;s Princess Goldenlocks at your garden gate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tomtit said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look out, old man, or she&rsquo;ll outwit you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blackbird said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard of her from my grandfather, who lived in the Champs Elysees.
      She was much admired there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The swallow said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jeanne will have your heart in the time it takes me to fly round the
      lawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rook, who was a bit of a lawyer, came swooping down from the cathedral
      tower, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caw, caw, caw! Let her show cause&mdash;cause!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And all took up the chorus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had our eyes, Monsieur Mouillard, you would see her looking at
      your study; if you had our ears, you would hear her sigh; if you had our
      wings, you would fly to Jeanne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No doubt it was this unwonted concert which attracted Madeleine&rsquo;s
      attention. We saw her making her way, stiffly and slowly, toward the
      study, which stood in the corner of the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard&rsquo;s tall figure appeared on the threshold, filling up the
      entire doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the garden, did you say? Whatever is your idea in showing clients into
      the garden? Why did you let them in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t let them in; they came in of themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the door can&rsquo;t have been shut. Nothing is shut here. I&rsquo;ll have them
      coming in next by the drawing-room chimney. What sort of people are they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a gentleman and a young lady whom I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A young lady whom you don&rsquo;t know&mdash;a judicial separation, I&rsquo;ll
      warrant&mdash;it&rsquo;s indecent, upon my word it is. To think that there are
      people who come to me about judicial separations and bring their young
      ladies with them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Madeleine fled before the storm and found shelter in her kitchen, my
      uncle smoothed back his white hair with both his hands&mdash;a surviving
      touch of personal vanity&mdash;and started down the walk around the
      grass-plot.
    </p>
    <p>
      I effaced myself behind the trees. M. Charnot, thinking I was just behind
      him, stepped forward with airy freedom.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle came down the path with a distracted air, like a man overwhelmed
      with business, only too pleased to snatch a moment&rsquo;s leisure between the
      parting and the coming client. He always loved to pass for being
      overwhelmed with work.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his way he flipped a rosebud covered with blight, kicked off a snail
      which was crawling on the path; then, halfway down the path, he suddenly
      raised his head and gave a look at his disturber.
    </p>
    <p>
      His bent brows grew smooth, his eyes round with the stress of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible? Monsieur Charnot of the Institute!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same, Monsieur Mouillard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is Mademoiselle Jeanne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so; she has come with me to repay your kind visit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, that&rsquo;s too good of you, much too good, to come such a way to see
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, the most natural thing in the world, considering what
      the young people are about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! is your daughter about to be married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, that&rsquo;s the idea,&rdquo; said M. Charnot, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I congratulate you, Mademoiselle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have brought her here to introduce her to you, Monsieur Mouillard, as
      is only right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Right! Excuse me, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, sir. Politeness is all very well in its way, but frankness is
      better. I went to Paris chiefly to get certain information which you were
      good enough to give me. But, really, it was not worth your while to come
      from Paris to Bourges to thank me, and to bring your daughter too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me in my turn! There are limits to modesty, Monsieur Mouillard,
      and as my daughter is to marry your nephew, and as my daughter was in
      Bourges, it was only natural that I should introduce her to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I have no longer a nephew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I never asked for your daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but you have received your nephew beneath your roof, and consequently&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Fabien has been in your house since yesterday; he told you we
      were coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have not seen him; I never should have received him! I tell you I
      no longer have a nephew! I am a broken man, a&mdash;a&mdash;a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His speech failed him, his face became purple, he staggered and fell
      heavily, first in a sitting posture, then on his back, and lay motionless
      on the sanded path.
    </p>
    <p>
      I rushed to the rescue.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I got up to him Jeanne had already returned from the little fountain
      with her handkerchief dripping, and was bathing his temples with fresh
      water. She was the only one who kept her wits about her. Madeleine had
      raised her master&rsquo;s head and was wailing aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s that dreadful colic he had ten years ago which has
      got him again. Dear heart! how ill he was! I remember how it came on, just
      like this, in the garden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I interrupted her lamentations by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Charnot, I think we had better take Monsieur Mouillard up to
      bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why don&rsquo;t you do it?&rdquo; shouted the numismatist, who had completely
      lost his temper. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t come here to act at an ambulance; but, since I
      must, do you take his head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I took his head, Madeleine walked in front, Jeanne behind. My uncle&rsquo;s vast
      proportions swayed between M. Charnot and myself. M. Charnot, who had
      skilfully gathered up the legs, looked like a hired pallbearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      As we met with some difficulty in getting upstairs, M. Charnot said, with
      clenched teeth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve managed this trip nicely, Monsieur Fabien; I congratulate you
      sincerely!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I saw that he intended to treat me to several variations on this theme.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was no time for talk. A moment later my uncle was laid, still
      unconscious, upon his bed, and Jeanne and Madeleine were preparing a
      mustard-plaster together, in perfect harmony. M. Charnot and I waited in
      silence for the doctor whom we had sent the office-boy to fetch. M.
      Charnot studied alternately my deceased aunt&rsquo;s wreath of orange-blossoms,
      preserved under a glass in the centre of the chimney-piece, and a painting
      of fruit and flowers for which it would have been hard to find a buyer at
      an auction. Our wait for the doctor lasted ten long minutes. We were very
      anxious, for M. Mouillard showed no sign of returning consciousness.
      Gradually, however, the remedies began to act upon him. The eyelids
      fluttered feebly; and just as the doctor opened the door, my uncle opened
      his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      We rushed to his bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My old friend,&rdquo; said the doctor, &ldquo;you have had plenty of people to look
      after you. Let me feel your pulse&mdash;rather weak; your tongue? Say a
      word or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A shock&mdash;rather sudden&mdash;&rdquo; said my uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, following the direction of the invalid&rsquo;s eyes, which were
      fixed on Jeanne, upright at the foot of the bed, bowed to the young girl,
      whom he had not at first noticed; turned to me, who blushed like an idiot;
      then looked again at my uncle, only to see two big tears running down his
      cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I understand; a pretty stiff shock, eh? At our age we should only be
      stirred by our recollections, emotions of bygone days, something we&rsquo;re
      used to; but our children take care to provide us with fresh ones, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard&rsquo;s breast heaved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, my dear fellow,&rdquo; proceeded the doctor; &ldquo;I give you leave to give
      your future niece one kiss, and that in my presence, that I may be quite
      sure you don&rsquo;t abuse the license. After that you must be left quite alone;
      no more excitement, perfect rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne came forward and raised the invalid&rsquo;s head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you give me a kiss, uncle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She offered him her rosy cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo; said my uncle as he kissed her; &ldquo;good girl&mdash;dear
      girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he melted into tears, and hid his face in his pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now we must be left alone,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      He came down himself in a moment, and gave us an encouraging account of
      the patient.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly had the street door closed behind him when we heard the lawyer&rsquo;s
      powerful voice thundering down the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charnot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old numismatist flew up the flight of stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you call me, Monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to invite you to dinner. I couldn&rsquo;t say the words just now, but it
      was in my mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very kind of you, but we leave at nine o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dine at seven; that&rsquo;s plenty of time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will tire you too much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tire me? Why, don&rsquo;t you think I dine everyday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise to come and inquire after you before leaving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can tell you at once that I am all right again. No, no, it shall never
      be said that you came all the way from Paris to Bourges only to see me
      faint. I count upon you and Mademoiselle Jeanne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On all three of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That makes three, with me; yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, four.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the fourth will have the sense to go and dine elsewhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Monsieur Mouillard; your nephew, your ward&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ceased to be his guardian four years ago, and his uncle three weeks
      ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He longs to put an end to this ill feeling&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to rest a little,&rdquo; said M. Mouillard, &ldquo;in order that I may be in
      a better condition to receive my guests.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lay down again, and showed clearly his intention of saying not another
      word on the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the conversation between M. Charnot and my uncle, to which we had
      listened from the foot of the staircase, Jeanne, who had a moment before
      been rejoicing over the completeness of the victory which she thought she
      had achieved, grew quite downhearted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought he had forgiven you when he kissed me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What can we
      do now? Can&rsquo;t you help us, Madeleine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine, whose heart was beginning to warm to Jeanne, sought vainly for
      an expedient, and shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ought he to go and see his uncle?&rdquo; asked Jeanne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Madeleine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, suppose you write to him, Fabien?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madeleine nodded approval, and drew from the depths of her cupboard a
      little glass inkstand, a rusty penholder, and a sheet of paper, at the top
      of which was a dove with a twig in its beak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My cousin at Romorantin died just before last New Year&rsquo;s Day,&rdquo; she
      explained; &ldquo;so I had one sheet more than I needed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I sat down at the kitchen table with Jeanne leaning over me, reading as I
      wrote. Madeleine stood upright and attentive beside the clock, forgetting
      all about her kitchen fire as she watched us with her black eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is what I wrote beneath the dove:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;MY DEAR UNCLE:

   &ldquo;I left Paris with the intention of putting an end to the
   misunderstanding between us, which has lasted only too long, and
   which has given me more pain than you can guess. I had no possible
   opportunity of speaking to you between five o&rsquo;clock yesterday
   afternoon, when I arrived here, and ten o&rsquo;clock this morning. If I
   had been able to speak with you, you would not have refused to
   restore me to your affection, which, I confess, I ought to have
   respected more than I have. You would have given your consent to
   my, union, on which depends your own happiness, my dear uncle, and
   that of your nephew,

                    &ldquo;FABIEN.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather too formal,&rdquo; said Jeanne. &ldquo;Now, let me try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the enchantress added, with ready pen:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is I, Monsieur Mouillard, who am chiefly in need of forgiveness. Mine
      is the greater fault by far. You forbade Monsieur Fabien to love me, and I
      took no steps to prevent his doing so. Even yesterday, when he came to
      your house, it was my doing. I had assured him that your kind heart would
      not be proof against his loving confession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was I really wrong in that?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The words that you spoke just now have led me to hope that I was not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if I was wrong, visit your anger on me alone. Forgive your nephew,
      invite him to dinner instead of us, and let me depart, regretting only
      that I was not judged worthy of calling you uncle, which would have been
      so pleasant and easy a name to speak.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       &ldquo;JEANNE.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      I read the two letters over aloud. Madeleine broke into sobs as she
      listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      A smile flickered about the corners of Jeanne&rsquo;s mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      We left the house, committing to Madeleine the task of choosing a
      favorable moment to hand M. Mouillard our joint entreaty.
    </p>
    <p>
      And here I may as well confess that from the instant we got out of the
      house, all through breakfast at the hotel, and for a quarter of an hour
      after it, M. Charnot treated me, in his best style, to the very hottest
      &ldquo;talking-to&rdquo; that I had experienced since my earliest youth. He ended with
      these words: &ldquo;If you have not made your peace with your uncle by nine
      o&rsquo;clock this evening, Monsieur, I withdraw my consent, and we shall return
      to Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I strove in vain to shake his decision. Jeanne made a little face at me,
      which warned me I was on the wrong track.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; I said to her, &ldquo;I leave the matter in your hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I leave it in the hands of God,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Be a man. If trouble
      awaits us, hope will at any rate steal us a happy hour or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We were just then in front of the gardens of the Archbishop&rsquo;s palace, so
      M. Charnot walked in. The current of his reflections was soon changed by
      the freshness of the air, the groups of children playing around their
      mothers&mdash;whom he studied ethnologically and with reference to the
      racial divisions of ancient Gaul&mdash;by the beauty of the landscape&mdash;its
      foreground of flowers, the Place St. Michel beyond, and further yet, above
      the barrack-roofs, the line of poplars lining the Auron. He ceased to be a
      father-in-law, and became a tourist again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne stepped with airy grace among the groups of strollers, and the
      murmurs which followed her path, though often envious, sounded none the
      less sweetly in my ears for that. I hoped to meet Mademoiselle Lorinet.
    </p>
    <p>
      After we had seen the gardens, we had to visit the Place Seraucourt, the
      Cours Chanzy, the cathedral, Saint-Pierrele-Guillard, and the house of
      Jacques-Coeur. It was six o&rsquo;clock by the time we got back to the Hotel de
      France.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter was waiting for us in the small and badly furnished entrance&mdash;hall.
      It was addressed to Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot.
    </p>
    <p>
      I recognized at once the ornate hand of M. Mouillard, and grew as white as
      the envelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot cried, excitedly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read it, Jeanne. Read it, can&rsquo;t you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne alone of us three kept a brave face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She read:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;MY DEAR CHILD:

   &ldquo;I treated you perhaps with undue familiarity this morning, at a
   moment when I was not quite myself. Nevertheless, now that I have
   regained my senses, I do not withdraw the expressions of which I
   made use&mdash;I love you with all my heart; you are a dear girl.

   &ldquo;You will not get an old stager like me to give up his prejudices
   against the capital. Let it suffice that I have surrendered to a
   Parisienne. My niece, I forgive him for your sake.

   &ldquo;Come this evening, all three of you.

   &ldquo;I have several things to tell you, and several questions to ask
   you. My news is not all good. But I trust that all regrets will be
   overwhelmed in the gladness you will bring to my old heart.

                       &ldquo;BRUTUS MOUILLARD.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      When we rang at M. Mouillard&rsquo;s door, it was opened to us by Baptiste, the
      office-boy, who waits at table on grand occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle received us in the large drawing-room, in full dress, with his
      whitest cravat and his most camphorous frock-coat: &ldquo;not a moth in ten
      years,&rdquo; is Madeleine&rsquo;s boast concerning this garment.
    </p>
    <p>
      He saluted us all solemnly, without his usual effusiveness; bearing
      himself with simple and touching dignity. Strong emotion, which excites
      most natures, only served to restrain his. He said not a word of the past,
      nor of our marriage. This, the decisive engagement, opened with polite
      formalities.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have often noticed this phenomenon; people meeting to &ldquo;have it out&rdquo;
       usually begin by saying nothing at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard offered his arm to Jeanne, to escort her to the dining-room.
      Jeanne was in high spirits. She asked him question after question about
      Bourges, its dances, fashions, manufactures, even about the procedure of
      its courts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure you know that well, uncle,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle&rdquo; smiled at each question, his face illumined with a glow like that
      upon a chimney-piece when someone is blowing the fire. He answered her
      questions, but presently fell into a state of dejection, which even his
      desire to do honor to his guests could not entirely conceal. His thoughts
      betrayed themselves in the looks he kept casting upon me, no longer of
      anger, but of suffering, almost pleading, affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Charnot, who was rather tired, and also absorbed in Madeleine&rsquo;s feats
      of cookery, cast disjointed remarks and ejaculations into the gaps in the
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      I knew my uncle well enough to feel sure that the end of the dinner would
      be quite unlike the beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was right. During dessert, just as the Academician was singing the
      praises of a native delicacy, &lsquo;la forestine&rsquo;, my uncle, who had been
      revolving a few drops of some notable growth of Medoc in his glass for the
      last minute or two, stopped suddenly, and put down his glass on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Monsieur Charnot,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I have a painful confession to make
      to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh? What? My dear friend, if it&rsquo;s painful to you, don&rsquo;t make it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fabien,&rdquo; my uncle went on, &ldquo;has behaved badly to me on certain occasions.
      But I say no more of it. His faults are forgotten. But I have not behaved
      to him altogether as I should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, uncle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! It is so, my dear child. My practice, the family practice, which I
      faithfully promised your father to keep for you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have sold it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My uncle buried his face in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last night, my poor child, only last night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was weak I listened to the prompting of anger; I have compromised your
      future. Fabien, forgive me in your turn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose from the table, and came and put a trembling hand on my shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, you&rsquo;ve not compromised anything, and I&rsquo;ve nothing to forgive
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t take the practice if I could still offer it to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon your word?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard drew himself up, beaming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Thank you for that speech, Fabien; you have relieved me of a great
      weight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With one corner of his napkin he wiped away two tears, which, having
      arisen in time of war, continued to flow in time of peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mademoiselle Jeanne, in addition to all her other perfections, brings
      you fortune, Fabien, if your future is assured&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Monsieur Mouillard,&rdquo; broke in the Academician with ill-concealed
      satisfaction. &ldquo;My colleagues call me rich. They slander me. Works on
      numismatics do not make a man rich. Monsieur Fabien, who made some
      investigations into the subject, can prove it to you. No; I possess no
      more than an honorable competence, which does not give me everything, but
      lets me lack nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aurea mediocritas,&rdquo; exclaimed my uncle, delighted with his quotation.
      &ldquo;Oh, that Horace! What a fellow he was!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was indeed. Well, as I was saying, our daily bread is assured; but
      that&rsquo;s no reason why my son-in-law should vegetate in idleness which I do
      not consider my due, even at my age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So he must work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what is he to work at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are other professions besides the law, Monsieur Mouillard. I have
      studied Fabien. His temperament is somewhat wayward. With special training
      he might have become an artist. Lacking that early moulding into shape, he
      never will be anything more than a dreamer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not have expressed it so well, but I have often thought the
      same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With a temperament like your nephew&rsquo;s,&rdquo; continued M. Charnot, &ldquo;the best
      he can do is to enter upon a career in which the ideal has some part; not
      a predominant, but a sufficient part, something between prose and poetry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him be a notary, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s wholly prose; he shall be a librarian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A librarian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur Mouillard; there are a few little libraries in Paris, which
      are as quiet as groves, and in which places are to be got that are as snug
      as nests. I have some influence in official circles, and that can do no
      harm, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will put our Fabien into one of those nests, where he will be
      protected against idleness by the little he will do, and against
      revolutions by the little he will be. It&rsquo;s a charming profession; the very
      smell of books is improving; merely by breathing it you live an
      intellectual life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An intellectual life!&rdquo; exclaimed my uncle with enthusiasm. &ldquo;Yes, an
      intellectual life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And cataloguing books, Monsieur Mouillard, looking through them,
      preserving them as far as possible from worms and readers. Don&rsquo;t you think
      that&rsquo;s an enviable lot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, more so than mine has been, or my successor&rsquo;s will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way, uncle, you haven&rsquo;t told us who your successor is to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I, really? Why, you know him; it&rsquo;s your friend Larive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! That explains a great deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a young man who takes life seriously.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very seriously, uncle. Isn&rsquo;t he about to be married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes; to a rich wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear boy, he is picking up all your leavings; he is going to marry
      Mademoiselle Lorinet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was always enterprising! But, uncle, it wasn&rsquo;t with him you were
      engaged yesterday evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You told Madeleine to admit a gentleman with a decoration.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Nicham Iftikar, if it please you.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [A Tunisian order, which can be obtained for a very moderate sum.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t displease me, uncle, and surprises me still less. Larive will
      die with his breast more thickly plastered with decorations than an Odd
      Fellow&rsquo;s; he will be a member of all the learned societies in the
      department, respected and respectable, the more thoroughly provincial for
      having been outrageously Parisian. Mothers will confide their anxieties to
      him, and fathers their interests; but when his old acquaintances pass this
      way they will take the liberty of smiling in his face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, jealous? Are you jealous of his bit of ribbon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, I regret nothing; not even Larive&rsquo;s good fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard fixed his eyes on the cloth, and began again, after a
      moment&rsquo;s silence:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, Fabien, do regret some things. It will be mournful at times, growing
      old alone here. Yet, after all, it will be some consolation to me to think
      that you others are satisfied with life, to welcome you here for your
      holidays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can do better than that,&rdquo; said M. Charnot. &ldquo;Come and grow old among
      us. Your years will be the lighter to bear, Monsieur Mouillard. Doubtless
      we must always bear them, and they weigh upon us and bend our backs. But
      youth, which carries its own burden so lightly, can always give us a
      little help in bearing ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I looked to hear my uncle break out with loud objections.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a fine night,&rdquo; he said, simply; &ldquo;let us go into the garden, and do
      you decide whether I can leave roses like mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Mouillard took us into the garden, pleased with himself, with me, with
      Jeanne, with everybody, and with the weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was too dark to see the roses, but we could smell them as we passed. I
      had taken Jeanne&rsquo;s arm in mine, and we went on in front, in the cool dusk,
      choosing all the little winding paths.
    </p>
    <p>
      The birds were all asleep. But the grasshoppers, crickets, and all manner
      of creeping things hidden in the grass, or in the moss on the trees, were
      singing and chattering in their stead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind us, at some distance&mdash;in fact, as far off as we could manage&mdash;the
      gravel crackled beneath the equal tread of the two elders, and in a murmur
      we could catch occasional scraps of sentences:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A granddaughter like Jeanne, Monsieur Charnot....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A grandson like Fabien, Monsieur Mouillard....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. A HAPPY FAMILY
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                    PARIS, September 18th.
</pre>
    <p>
      We are married. We are just back from the church. We have said good-by to
      all our friends, not without a quick touch or two of sadness, as quickly
      swallowed up in the joy which for the first time in the history of my
      heart is surging there at full tide, and widening to a limitless horizon.
      In the two hours I have to spare before starting for Italy, I am writing
      the last words in this brown diary, which I do not intend to take with me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne, my own Jeanne, is leaning upon me and reading over my shoulder,
      which distracts the flow of my recollections.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were crowds at the church. The papers had put us down among the
      fashionable marriages of the week. The Institute, the army, men of
      letters, public officials, had come out of respect for M. Charnot; lawyers
      of Bourges and Paris had come out of respect for my uncle. But the
      happiest, the most radiant, next to ourselves, were the people who came
      only for Jeanne&rsquo;s sake and mine; Sylvestre Lampron, painter-in-ordinary to
      Mademoiselle Charnot, bringing his pretty sketch as a wedding-present; M.
      Flamaran and Sidonie; Jupille, who wept as he used to &ldquo;thirty years ago;&rdquo;
       and M. and Madame Plumet, who took it in turns to carry their white-robed
      infant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne and I certainly shook hands with a good many persons, but not with
      nearly as many as M. Mouillard. Clean-shaven, his cravat tied with
      exquisite care, he spun round in the crowd like a top, always dragging
      with him some one who was to introduce him to some one else. &ldquo;One should
      make acquaintances immediately on arrival,&rdquo; he kept saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, Uncle Mouillard has just arrived in Paris; he has settled down near
      us on the Quai Malaquais, in a pretty set of rooms which Jeanne chose for
      him. He thinks them perfect because she thought they would do. The tastes
      and interests of old student days have suddenly reawakened within him, and
      will not be put to sleep again. He already knows the omnibus and tramway
      lines better than I; he talks of Bourges as if it were twenty years since
      he left it: &ldquo;When I used to live in the country, Fabien&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My father-in-law has found in him a whole-hearted admirer, perhaps even a
      future pupil in numismatics. Their friendship makes me think of that&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mind, Jeanne?&rdquo;
 
   &ldquo;Of course not, my dear; the brown diary is for our two selves
   alone.&rdquo; J.]
&mdash;of that of the town mouse and the country mouse. Just now, on their
way back to the house, they had a conversation, by turns pathetic and
jovial, in which their different temperaments met in the same feeling,
but at opposite ends of the scale of its shades.
</pre>
    <p>
      I caught this fragment of their talk:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Charnot, can you guess what I&rsquo;m thinking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t the least idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it is very queer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is queer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see a librarian begin his career with a blot of ink. For you can not
      deny that Fabien&rsquo;s marriage and situation, and my return to the capital,
      are all due to that. It must have been sympathetic ink&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Felix culpa&rsquo;, as you say, Monsieur Mouillard. There are some blunders
      that are lucky; but you can&rsquo;t tell which they are, and that&rsquo;s never any
      excuse for committing them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I could hardly get hold of Lampron for a moment in the crowd he so
      dislikes. He was more uncouth and more devoted than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, are you happy?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you&rsquo;re less happy, come and see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall always be just as happy as we are now,&rdquo; said Jeanne.
    </p>
    <p>
      And I think she is right.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lampron smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am quite happy, Sylvestre, and I owe my happiness to you, to her,
      and to others. I have done nothing myself to deserve happiness beyond
      letting myself drift on the current of life. Whenever I tried to row a
      stroke the boat nearly upset. Everything that others tried to do for me
      succeeded. I can&rsquo;t get over it. Just think of it yourself. I owed my
      introduction to Jeanne to Monsieur Flamaran, who drove me to call on her
      father; his friend; you courted her for me by painting her portrait;
      Madame Plumet told her you had done so, and also removed the obstacle in
      my path. I met her in Italy, thanks entirely to you; and you clinched the
      proposal which had been begun by Flamaran. To crown all, the very
      situation I desired has been obtained for me by my father-in-law. What
      have I had to do? I have loved, sorrowed, and suffered, nothing more; and
      now I tremble at the thought that I owe my happiness to every one I know
      except myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cease to tremble, my friend; don&rsquo;t be surprised at it, and don&rsquo;t alter
      your system in the least. Your happiness is your due; what matter how God
      chooses to grant it? Suppose it is an income for life paid to you by your
      relatives, your friends, the world in general, and the natural order of
      things? Well, draw your dividends, and don&rsquo;t bother about where they come
      from.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Since Lampron said so, and he is a philosopher, I think I had better
      follow his advice. If you don&rsquo;t mind, Jeanne, I will cherish no ambition
      beyond your love, and refrain from running after any increase in wealth or
      reputation which might prove a decrease in happiness. If you agree,
      Jeanne, we shall see little of society, and much of our friends; we shall
      not open our windows wide enough for Love, who is winged, to fly out of
      them. If such is your pleasure, Jeanne, you shall direct the household of
      your own sweet will&mdash;I should say, of your sweet wisdom; you shall be
      queen in all matters of domestic economy, you shall rule our goings-out
      and our comings-in, our visits, our travels. I shall leave you to guide
      me, as a child, along the joyous path in which I follow your footsteps. I
      am looking up at Jeanne. She has not said &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ETEXT EDITOR&rsquo;S BOOKMARKS:

     All that a name is to a street&mdash;its honor, its spouse
     Came not in single spies, but in battalions
     Distrust first impulse
     Felix culpa
     Happy men don&rsquo;t need company
     Hard that one can not live one&rsquo;s life over twice
     He always loved to pass for being overwhelmed with work
     I don&rsquo;t call that fishing
     If trouble awaits us, hope will steal us a happy hour or two
     Lends&mdash;I should say gives
     Men forget sooner
     Natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves
     Obstacles are the salt of all our joys
     One doesn&rsquo;t offer apologies to a man in his wrath
     People meeting to &ldquo;have it out&rdquo; usually say nothing at first
     Silence, alas! is not the reproof of kings alone
     Skilful actor, who apes all the emotions while feeling none
     Sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens
     Surprise goes for so much in what we admire
     The very smell of books is improving
     The looks of the young are always full of the future
     There are some blunders that are lucky; but you can&rsquo;t tell
     To be your own guide doubles your pleasure
     You a law student, while our farmers are in want of hands
     You must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly
     You ask Life for certainties, as if she had any to give you
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">



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